Amanda Scott (11 page)

“I hope my presence here won’t keep you from visiting my mother,” he said rather stiffly. “She enjoys your company.”

“Tell her I will come tomorrow,” Sylvia said.

He nodded and stepped back, and she touched the mare with her spur, feeling a sense of relief to be away from him again. Something about him overwhelmed her senses. It was clear that he hadn’t forgiven her yet, that he meant to punish her just a little more. Or was that it at all? Was it perhaps merely that he had little to say to her? She was not of his world, after all. Oh, her breeding was perfectly acceptable—the niece of a marquess might go where she liked—but she was not well-acquainted with rakes, and Greyfalcon was clearly that. How long would his duties at Greyfalcon Park hold his interest? How long would it be before he felt the pull of the London gaming tables again, the pull of the light-skirts, the wine, and the friends who bore him company in such pursuits?

There were splashes of orange and yellow where marsh marigolds bloomed in the water meadows along the Thames. The sunlight on the water was particularly cheerful today, and a pair of lapwings, taking flight from a nearby hay meadow, showed their bright white undersides like flags flying on the breeze. Following the path between two hedgerows, tall enough in some places to block most of the view to either side, she rode in peaceful solitude with only the sounds of nature to keep her company. Birds called to one another, and in the distance she could hear the low murmuring of a herd of sheep. It was a fine day.

All too soon she reached the manor house, its yellow-stone walls and red-tiled roof looming at her out of a grove of beech trees as she approached it from the southwest. There was no long view here, no lake, and no great sweeping lawn, but there was charm and much history. For a time, the house had served as a dower house to the Marchionesses of Lechlade. The third marchioness had not got on well with her daughter-in-law, and the fourth marquess had caused the house to be built many miles from Lechlade Abbey, his principal seat, in order to bring peace into his life. The property was unentailed, and the seventh marquess had deeded it to his fourth son upon the occasion of his marriage. Sylvia had known no other home.

Sunshine needed no urging to seek her stable, and after giving the mare a handful of oats, Sylvia knew she could delay no longer. There were duties to be attended to, and although she had been away but two days, she knew her absence had been felt.

Changing back into her frock, she hurried to the kitchen to confer with Mrs. Hardy, better known as Cook, who informed her that she had come by a nice bit of lemon sole for the master’s supper. Since Lord Arthur would have considered more than one course to be sinfully extravagant, Sylvia felt she could leave that matter in Cook’s hands, and she went to oversee the turning out of the linen cupboards on the upper floors, with Sadie and one of the other maids to assist her.

She did not see her father until suppertime, for Lord Arthur took no luncheon and preferred the solitude of his library and the company of his books to any other. At table he greeted her politely, but his attitude was still stiff, and when she told him she had been to Greyfalcon Park, he merely nodded, as though he had expected nothing less. Hesitantly, she mentioned that Greyfalcon had decided to stay to look after the estates, but if she had expected to gain anything by this gambit, she found she had mistaken her man. He only grunted.

“Papa, please, can you not forgive me? He is back, and he is taking his responsibilities in hand. Is that not worth something?”

“Something, maybe, but it hardly serves as vindication for your behavior, daughter.”

She gave it up and finished the meal in silence. Regardless of his opinion, she felt justified now in what she had done. She had accomplished what she had set out to accomplish, and if the consequences were more than she had expected them to be, well, one took the rough with the smooth.

In the days that followed, she visited often at the park, for the one person who could be counted upon to express approval of her actions was Lady Greyfalcon. The dowager countess was very grateful to have her son at home again, and if she still did not see as much of him as she felt was her due, at least he was not off in London, gambling away the family fortune. And if he could not be wound around her finger, at least he was seeing to the estate, and it was to him that her tenants now took their complaints.

“For that, if for no other reason, one must be thankful for his presence,” she told Sylvia one afternoon during the following week. “I am not strong enough to listen to complaint after complaint, and MacMusker
would
send them to me rather than deal with them himself.”

“That was too bad of him,” said Sylvia dutifully.

“Well, it was scarcely his fault, you know, for Greyfalcon’s papa would never let him make a single decision. He has not got the habit of it, don’t you see?”

Sylvia nodded. No one at Greyfalcon Park had got the habit of it while old Greyfalcon had lived, for the old earl had made all the decisions himself, and although the roofs were indeed kept in good repair and fences were mended, he had begrudged every penny spent and had made no secret of the fact. Indeed, he and Lord Arthur had that much in common, although Lord Arthur could be depended upon not to stint himself when it came to his books. Both men were notoriously parsimonious where it concerned others. Perhaps, she thought now, that trait, rather than her father’s intellectual capacities, had been what had caused the late earl to name him trustee for his son’s interests.

“I am sorry Francis is not here today,” said the countess, breaking into this train of thought. “He has ridden out to look over the northern fields and may even ride as far as Oxford, he said, for old times’ sake.”

“’Tis of no consequence, ma’am. I came merely to visit with you.” If she felt a pang of disappointment, Sylvia ignored it. She had seen Greyfalcon rather often over the past week, and there had been moments when she had thought they might become friendly, but each time she had decided afterward that it was mere wishful thinking on her part, for he had continued to be aloof and even a touch disapproving in his manner toward her. And, to her great disgust, he still managed from time to time to treat her as though she were still a child. More than once she had thought she would like to teach him a lesson for that alone, teach him to treat her with more respect, but she had not been able to think of any way in which this might be accomplished.

Taking her leave of the countess a half-hour later, she mounted Sunshine at the front steps and took her usual route along the water meadows. The late afternoon was golden after a day of fog, and the change cheered her. Indeed, she felt like giving Sunshine her head. She could not do so, of course, for the way was uncertain unless she kept to the path, and this she did not wish to do. Accordingly, she turned the mare into the meadow itself, and Sunshine responded with a gay skip and broke into a trot, seeming to like the feel of the marshy ground beneath her hooves. There had been no rain for more than a week, and the footing was not as slushy as it could be. After a time enjoying the splashing and squishing as much as the mare seemed to, Sylvia urged her to greater speed, keeping near enough to the higher ground of the path not to worry overmuch about unseen holes or tangling weeds that could trip an unwary mount.

When she drew the mare up several moments later, just before the point where she would pass through the gate and into the hedgerow, she paused to wave to two men on a passing barge, and heard her name called out before she turned again.

Greyfalcon was riding toward her on a large chestnut gelding. She waited politely for him to draw up alongside of her, wondering what she had done now to bring such a frown to his face.

“Good afternoon, my lord.”

He drew his watch from his pocket and made a point of opening the case and looking at the time. “Rather late for you to be out riding, is it not?”

“I often ride at this hour,” she said. “I see you retrieved your watch.” Maybe that was why he was out of sorts, she thought, the watch no doubt bringing back memories that annoyed him.

He ignored her second statement, however. “I thought you visited my mother only in the mornings.”

“I visit when I have time to visit, sir. We have begun our spring cleaning at the manor house, and today was the buttery. We had to do it in the morning so as to have it done before Cook began preparations for supper. There was naught but a cold collation to serve as a nuncheon, since Papa does not eat at noon, so I came to your mama, knowing I should get tea if I did. Your people serve an excellent tea.”

“I daresay.” He glanced around as though searching for words, and his gaze was caught by the barge drifting downstream with the current. “Do you know those men?”

She looked at the barge. “No, of course not. Why should you think so?”

“Are you accustomed to waving at strangers?”

“We have always waved at the river people. You did so yourself, as I remember.”

He shrugged. “You were a child then. It was not so unseemly. You ought not to be out by yourself, Sylvia. Don’t you have a groom?”

“No, and if I did, I certainly shouldn’t drag him to Greyfalcon Park and back whenever I choose to visit your mama. How absurd, sir. Whatever will you think of next?”

“I shall visit your father this evening, I think. There are matters I wish to discuss with him. Though he has given the reins into my hands, there are still papers he must sign.”

“Look here, my lord,” she said hastily, “you are not thinking of telling Papa he must restrict my movements. He would never do such a thing, I assure you, and he would wonder what business it is of yours to suggest that he do so.”

She wished she could be as certain as she sounded. In her father’s present mood, he might listen to anything Greyfalcon suggested to him. She was not a child who needed looking after. She was a grown woman with responsibilities and good sense. She wouldn’t allow anyone to dictate her movements.

Greyfalcon met her glare with a bland look, saying evenly, “I should prefer to have your word that you will not be so foolish in future, that you will have a care for your safety and your reputation. It would be better, I think, if you were to be sure to leave the park soon enough that you not run the risk of being out after dark.”

“After dark! For heaven’s sake, sir, ’tis no later than half-past four, and the days are getting longer, not shorter.”

“Nonetheless, if your mare were to come up lame, you might well be caught by darkness. I mean it, Sylvia. You will make me this promise or I shall speak to Lord Arthur.”

“I cannot believe you would behave so shabbily,” she muttered, still glaring at him. He did not look away, but he did smile then, making her angrier than ever. “Oh, very well, so you would behave so. I shall do as you say, sir, but not because I believe you would convince my father. I do so only to save you an embarrassing confrontation with him.”

“You are very kind,” he said sweetly, “and for that, I shall escort you home.”

“It is not at all necessary, sir, I assure you.”

“Oh, but it is. I have delayed you now, and you might well be overtaken by darkness. Besides, I can as well speak to your father now as later. I do,” he added when she opened her mouth in protest, “have several matters of business to lay before him.”

There was nothing more to be said after that, and if she hoped he would meet with rebuff from her father, she was disappointed. So long as Greyfalcon was willing to lift the burden of responsibility from Lord Arthur’s shoulders, Lord Arthur was quite willing to place himself at the younger man’s disposal whenever he wished. Indeed, he magnanimously invited his guest to remain for supper.

At table, Sylvia watched the earl carefully for signs of displeasure at being served only one course, and only fish and a platter of spring vegetables at that, but again she was disappointed. Greyfalcon complimented the cooking in the manner of the very best guest, and when she left the men to indulge themselves in a glass of port afterward, they both seemed mellow and content.

Their mood did nothing to improve her own. Greyfalcon had behaved like a doting uncle from the moment of their arrival, and his attitude had galled her throughout the meal. Her father treated her like one of the servants, though he was somewhat more polite to her than it was his wont to be with them. Between the two of them, she had been brought to the screaming point. Something simply must be done to teach his lordship, at least, a lesson.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY HER
opportunity arrived. At first Sylvia did not recognize it as such and was mildly annoyed when Sadie informed her that Miss Mayfield had come to call. She was in the midst of turning out the gabled bedrooms on the upper floor, and her apron and mob cap made her look more like a servant than the mistress. Moreover, she felt dusty and hot.

“Tell her I shall be with her in just a few moments,” she told Sadie, pulling the mob cap from her hair with one hand while undoing her apron strings with the other. Clean water and a hairbrush achieved all that civility would allow on such short notice, and she joined her guest in the parlor less than ten minutes later.

Miss Lavender Mayfield was buxom of person but only two inches taller than Sylvia. Today she was charmingly attired in a violet afternoon gown, with a chip-straw hat perched becomingly upon her auburn curls, its violet ribbons tied in a frivolous bow beneath her right ear. As she rose to greet her hostess, she pulled off her white net gloves and held out both plump hands to clasp Sylvia’s tightly. Managing to conceal her dislike of such effusiveness, Sylvia allowed herself to be kissed upon both cheeks as Miss Mayfield gushed her greeting.

“We expected you to be longer in London,” that young lady added, taking her seat again. “Such a fast trip, and I hear you returned with Greyfalcon himself. How very romantic that must have been!”

“We made the journey in a single day, Lavvie, so tiresome is a more exact description. I felt bruised and battered and filthy when we arrived. Not the least bit romantic, I’m sorry to say.”