Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“Are you hungry, pig? Silly question—you’re always hungry. Let’s go.” St. Cloud lighted his candle and found his robe and new slippers. He also found where Pansy’d eaten her way out of the wicker basket. “At least that explains the crunching noises I heard.”

He piled two plates with leftovers from the kitchen and led the pig into his library, where he restarted the fire and settled back on the worn leather chair. Then he heard the noise, a tapping almost like Grandmother’s cane, although more regular. That must be Lady Fanny’s specter, he thought, getting up to stand closer to the fireplace, where the sound was loudest. There must be a squirrel in one of the disused chimneys, tapping to open a nut or something. Maybe an owl. The noise would carry through all the grates in the place, echoing eerily enough, he supposed, to spook his susceptible parent. He didn’t know why Uncle Harmon or the steward hadn’t just sent for the sweeps. He’d do it tomorrow.

No, damn it, tomorrow the servants did not work, and he would be busy shaking hands and listening to speeches. Blast. All he wanted to do was get on his fastest horse and ride to find Juneclaire. He wandered toward the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. The snow was still falling, though lightly. Lord, let her be safe and warm.

 

He was up at dawn, before most of the household except for Cook, who took one look at her kitchen and started screeching about Priory phantoms and the walking dead. Breakfast was going to be late that morning. St. Cloud and the pig strolled through melting snow toward the stables, where Pansy, at least, could find apples and oats. The earl found his man Foley up and ready to be sent on the hunt. Word had come down from the house last night that the missing female was no less than the future Lady St. Cloud. Foley would ride to hell and back to see his lordship settled, even if he couldn’t abide females personally.

“O’course I’m sure I can ride. I had my rest, didn’t I? And no, us stable men don’t put up with tomfoolery like them at the house, not doing their jobs ’cause it’s a holiday. Horses still has to be fed, don’t they? And we may as well exercise ’em on the way to somewheres as around a ring. Your message’ll be in London by now, my lord, so where else do you want us to look?”

The earl wanted someone to watch the departing coaches at Springdale and at Bramley, but he wanted Foley himself to head toward Farley’s Grange by way of Strasmere, making inquiries along the way. “Ask if anyone has seen her, but if not, keep going toward Stanton Hall. Snoop around there if you can, and find out what they’re saying about the Stantons’ niece. The servants must have some idea of what’s going on. I want you there because I know you won’t add any more to the gossip than there already is. Try not to use her name when you ask along the way, too. We’ve got to keep this as quiet as possible.”

Sure, then only
half
the county would know the Earl of St. Cloud had misplaced his fiancée.

 

Little Yerby made Juneclaire wait an hour for the snow to finish melting so her shoes wouldn’t get wet and ruined. Then he sent her off with three well-fed kittens, a jar of milk, a loaf of bread he could spare because Aggie was coming home soon, and hope.

There was a family of gentlefolk not a mile down the road, Little Yerby told her, with a sickly little girl. “Mayhap they need someone to teach the young’un her letters, if she lives that long.” He took a pull on his pipe, then coughed. “Else Mrs. Langbridge might want another lady round about. There’s no family that anyone sees. Mister’s a solicitor in Bramley. Tell them Little Yerby sent you.”

While St. Cloud prepared to greet his household staff and hand out their vails under Talbot’s supervision, Juneclaire prepared for her first interview. She shook Little Yerby’s flooring off her cloak, rebraided her hair, and kissed the old man good-bye.

 

Mrs. Langbridge met her at the door and tried to press a shilling into Juneclaire’s hand. “Oh, you’re not here for Boxing Day? Of course not. You’re not a—Oh, I am sorry. There’s just so much to do. Why did you say you had come?”

“Mr. Little Yerby sent me, ma’am, to ask after your little girl and to see if you might need a governess for her.”

“My poor Cynthia.” Mrs. Langbridge wiped her eyes with an already tear-dampened cloth.

“She hasn’t . . . ?”

“Oh, no, she is just distraught over the move.” Mrs. Langbridge waved a hand at trunks and bags waiting in the hallway. “She does not want to leave her friends, and her papa, of course, but the doctor thinks a healthier climate might . . . So we are going to Italy tomorrow, Cynthia, Nanny, a maid, and I. Mr. Langbridge cannot travel with us just yet, you see, so things are all at sixes and sevens, with packing and trying to leave the house in order, and Cynthia will fret so, which cannot be at all good for her. Do forgive me, Miss . . . ?”

“Beaumont, ma’am, and you must be wishing me to Jericho. I can see you do not need a governess and you do not need a stranger to keep you from your preparations. Please forgive me for the intrusion and accept my wishes for a safe journey and a swift recovery for your little girl.”

“No, Miss Beaumont, please forgive my manners, after you were kind enough to call, and I haven’t even offered you tea.” She tried to brush away another tear. “I am sorry, my mind is in pieces, what with leaving my Tom and Cynthia so inconsolable.”

“Mrs. Langbridge, you seem exhausted. Would you like me to sit with Cynthia for a bit while you catch your breath? It will be no bother, I assure you, for I am in no hurry to go home and only need get as far as Bramley this afternoon.”

“Would you, Miss Beaumont? How kind. I should like to spend some time with Tom before he has to go visit a client. Some old hag called him out today, of all days! He is getting ready now and could drive you to Bramley when he leaves.”

Juneclaire was removing her cloak. “That would be perfect. And could I make another forward suggestion? Don’t you think that Cynthia would be happier about the trip if she could take a friend of her own along?”

“A friend? But we cannot . . .”

Juneclaire reached into her satchel and pulled out a kitten. “Why not?”

 

“I’ll name her Holly,” the little girl announced, “so we both remember an English Christmas. Do you think they have holly in Italy, Miss Beaumont?”

“I have no idea, Cynthia. You shall just have to go and see, won’t you? Perhaps you shall write and tell me, so I’ll know for the future.” Juneclaire was pleased to see the hectic flush leave Cynthia’s cheeks, although the spots of color remained, betraying her illness. The child was calm now and had taken her medicine without complaint, too rapt in watching the three kittens tumbling on her bed covers. She chose the black kitten “because Papa says everyone in Italy wears black. But, Miss Beaumont, what if Holly isn’t a girl? Can a boy cat be called Holly?”

“I don’t see why not. Do you know Mr. Little Yerby?”

“Of course, everyone knows Little. He brings the milk twice a week, and sometimes he lets me ride his donkey.”

“Well, Mr. Little has one of Holly’s brothers or sisters, and he is going to call the kitten David, no matter what.”

“Oh, but if Little says his cat’s a boy, then that’s what it is. The animals always do what he says.”

 

While Juneclaire was spending the morning entertaining a sick child, St. Cloud was standing on the steps of the Priory’s porch, drinking wassail toasts with his tenants. By noon he was drunk as a lord, and so was the pig at his side, dressed in a ribbon-and-lace collar Aunt Florrie had stayed up all night sewing. None of his other relatives had made a showing yet, and none of his minions had reported back from the search. Two more hours of this, St. Cloud promised himself, and then he could ride to Bramley, if he could sit a horse.

 

Juneclaire stayed to watch Cynthia fall asleep for her nap with a smile on her thin face, and then she took luncheon with the Langbridges, at their insistence, although she did not want to intrude on one of their last moments together. They were all praise for her handling of their peevish child. “Oh, no, I cannot take any of the credit.” Juneclaire laughed. “Once I showed her the kittens she was a perfect darling.”

Mr. Thomas Langbridge was a pleasant-looking, sandy-haired gentleman with a worried frown. “I wish a kitten could work such magic on the client I have an appointment with this afternoon. I feel sorry for the old grande dame truly, because she is blind and has lost most of her family, but I wish she would not choose to change her dashed will every time her rackety grandson sneezes.”

“And today of all days,” his wife complained.

“Not even you, my dear, can accuse Lady St. Cloud of purposely selecting the day before your journey. She had no way of knowing. We must be thankful she waited past Christmas to send for me. And she keeps country hours at the Dower House, at any rate, so dinner will be early if I stay, and you know I must if she invites me, if I wish to retain her as my wealthiest client. I never understood why she did not take her business to any of the solicitors in Ayn-Jerome or even Thackford.”

“Most likely she turned them off in her previous tantrums.” Mrs. Langbridge was rearranging the food on her plate. Juneclaire had no such loss of appetite and busied herself with the turbot in oyster sauce.

“More likely she trusted my uncle. Try to show a little compassion for the old countess, my dear, even if she is a crusty beldam.”

While he enjoyed his mutton, Mr. Langbridge’s solicitor’s mind was busy chewing a different bone. Somewhere over the vanilla flan he presented his idea: “You know, Miss Beaumont, you might well apply for a position with Lady St. Cloud if you are seeking employment. We would take you on in a minute for Cynthia if the situation were different. You are patient and kind, refined and intelligent. That’s just what the old bat—ah, lady needs. I admit to having concerns about her, alone in the Dower House with just her old retainers looking after her. You and your kittens wrought such a miracle with Cynthia, I’d be happy to recommend you for the dowager’s companion.”

Juneclaire smiled and thanked him. “But I’m afraid you haven’t painted a very pretty picture of your employer. I think I should rather face my own family’s ill humors than someone else’s.”

“You can think about it on the way to Bramley. I am stopping by my office there to fetch copies of papers she wants to emend. You could drive out with me, and if you find you don’t suit or she is not interested, I shall simply bring you back to town on my return trip.”

 

While Juneclaire once more deliberated over her future on the way to Bramley, the Earl of St. Cloud was riding in the opposite direction, out of the little village. Vicar Broome was aghast to think that Miss Beaumont had not reached Springdale, but he was helpless to provide the earl with any other information. Poor fellow, he thought, the younger man was so smitten, he hadn’t even stayed to have a sip of Madeira. Mr. Broome sipped it himself, in celebration of the handsome donation the lovesick earl had made to start up the poor box after the day’s distribution. Reverend Broome wiped his spectacles and contemplated his own venality. Should he have reminded the mooncalf of his generous gift just the day before?

He wiped them again, then took them off altogether when the young lady in the rabbit-lined cloak walked into his study. “Miss, ah, Beaumont?” he mumbled, wishing his wife were there. He might know what to do with finances; affairs of the heart were Mrs. Broome’s venue. While he was deliberating whether to send a boy after the earl—but who in town could ride at that neck-or-nothing pace?—or after Mrs. Broome, Juneclaire was thrusting a striped kitten into his arms.

“Because you and your wife have been so kind to me,” she said, looking so sweet and innocent, he couldn’t tell her how cats made him sneeze. And itch. And weep at the eyes.

“How happy I am to see you, Miss Beaumont. There was a gentleman here asking for you. We were all concerned for your welfare.”

“A gentleman? Not a portly, middle-aged man who wears a bagwig? That would be my uncle Avery, and I never suspected he would make the least push to find me.”

“No, this gentleman was not, ah, portly. He gave his name as Mr. Jordan.”

“Oh, Merry!” Then she blushed. Her face was almost as red as the vicar’s was becoming from stroking the cat.

“Oh, dear, Mr., ah, Jordan did not insult you in any way, did he? That is, your blushes and . . .” He blew his nose. Oh, how he wished Mrs. Broome did not have to visit the almshouse this afternoon!

“Mr. Jordan? Never! You mustn’t think such a thing. He is a true gentleman.”

Well, that relieved Mr. Broome’s mind, if not his nose. “Have you decided not to go to London, then, Miss Beaumont?” he asked, changing the subject. “Mrs. Broome will be pleased.” More pleased than she was going to be about the cat. “May I tell her your, ah, alternate plans, then, so she does not worry?”

“Thank her for her concern, sir, but I am not sure what I will do.”

The vicar could feel a rash starting on his neck and the check for the poor box itching in his pocket. “My child, have you ever heard of St. Cloud Priory?”

Juneclaire looked startled. “Why, Mr. Langbridge just mentioned it, that I might find a position with the dowager countess there. After what he said about her, though . . .”

“Perfect!” Broome wouldn’t even have to consult his conscience about pitchforking this lovely young innocent into the arms of a hardened libertine. The old harridan would make sure nothing untoward took place, and if the young earl was as sincere as he seemed, Vicar Broome would be calling the banns next week, if his throat didn’t close right up with cat hair.

Now the minister might believe in the efficacy of prayer, but he also believed in giving his prayers a helping hand, or a shove in the right direction. “I’ll write a reference myself. I know the dowager has the reputation of being a holy terror, but I’ve seen worse reputations proved false, this very afternoon. She’s just old and lonely. She needs you. The Lord must have sent you to Langbridge for just that purpose.”