Carla Kelly (14 page)

“And so I shall, Lady Bushnell,” she replied. “From the top again?”

Without even looking at the widow, she could tell that her response had startled her. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a chuckle so low as to be almost unheard. It might have been imagined; it probably was, in fact, as her own stomach was beginning to growl. Take that and that, Lady B, she thought grimly as she slowly crawled up the scale, and then down again. She felt so good about it that she played a C-major chord with all the aplomb of a pianist finishing a concerto. She looked at Lady Bushnell and could not resist the laughter inside her. To her amazement, the widow began to laugh, too. It did not last long, but at least she did not attempt to hide her amusement this time.

“You are a scamp, Miss Hampton! I would say that you have done everything that could possibly be done to a C-major scale except turn the page sideways and dump the notes on the floor. Tomorrow it will be G-major. Now, wipe that smirk off your face and go away for a while!”

Only a day ago, Susan would have cringed at her words. Instead, she smiled at her employer, and realized, with a twinge close to pleasure, that she was beginning to understand Lady Bushnell. “Very well, Lady Bushnell. I will hobble off and soak my ankles,” she said. She paused and leaned against the open door. “You won’t object if I practice in here again right after lunch?”

“I recommend it!” she replied. “However, you should practice on the harpsichord instead. Our good vicar Mr. Hepworth wrote me that he is making an afternoon call. I will, of course, receive him in the best sitting room, but the piano, I fear, would be too noisy, even this far away. We cannot have him thinking that I am doing injury to caged wildlife or recalcitrant servants! He is less likely to hear the pain you might inflict upon a harpsichord.”

It was all said with a faint twinkle in Lady Bushnell’s green eyes, one that invited comment. “He will never know I am there, punishing piano or harpsichord, my lady,” Susan agreed.

“Then we understand each other,” Lady Bushnell replied. “I must admit I wonder why he is coming. He already knows what I think about God, and I rather thought that would discourage him.” She seemed to be almost speaking to herself as she rose and went to the window. She turned back to glare at Susan. “I informed Mr. Hepworth several years ago that God is an untidy ditherer who leaves too many loose ends, and he has not bothered me since. Neither Mr. Hepworth nor the Lord.”

“My lady, you didn’t!” Susan burst out, her eyes wide.

“I did!” she said, coming toward Susan now. “I also told him that if Regent and Parliament oversaw the realm the way God looks after the universe, Napoleon would be scratching his ass in the House of Lords right now.”

She spoke with conviction and a firmness of spirit that belied her years, a fearless woman completely sure of herself. I could see you leaping off your horse and throwing yourself in front of a whip and a dying man, Susan thought as she watched her employer’s slow but graceful passage to the door. You were meant for a much wider stage than this.

Lady Bushnell stood close to Susan now, and from her height advantage looked down on her. “Correct me if I am wrong, but do I have
you
to blame for this sudden clerical interest in Quilling Manor, Miss Hampton?”

“Oh, surely no . . . Well, perhaps,” Susan amended, deeply aware of the silliness of attempting to argue with Lady Bushnell. “The bailiff did introduce us yesterday. But I am sure it is you he is interested in, my lady.”

They regarded each other, eye to eye, and neither looked away. “That may be the largest pile of verbal horse manure you have ever uttered, Miss Hampton,” Lady Bushnell said finally. “Who will be next? Our bachelor landowners? The physician? The constable? Every widower between here and the Bristol Channel?”

“I haven’t met them yet!” Susan protested, unable to keep the laughter from her voice. “It is only the vicar.”

Lady Bushnell nodded, her eyes still bright. “Lord Bushnell always said I was prone to vast exaggeration, but wouldn’t you agree, Miss Hampton, that the vicar looks rather like a marsh bird?”

My thoughts precisely, Susan reflected as she nodded. “He does appear to be all elbows and angles, my lady.”

“We are agreed upon that, then,” Lady Bushnell said as she stood aside for Susan to open the door wider. “I should think a young woman would prefer a man with more substance to him. Miss Hampton, do you have an opinion on the subject?”

“No, my lady,” she said and blushed.

“Then why do you blush?” Lady Bushnell demanded. “I should hope a woman your age would have some opinion on what pleases her in a man!”

“It’s not really a subject that ladies today speak about, Lady Bushnell,” she said, mentally kicking herself for her condescension. But I
am
thinking about it, and it is making me decidedly warm again. I am wondering quite a lot what the bailiff would be likely to attempt after such a kiss. I am wondering how it would feel, and whether I would like it. And I stand here, the world’s biggest hypocrite, and assure you that I have no interest in such things.

“And that is one of the reasons I was happy to incarcerate myself here, Miss Hampton,” Lady Bushnell continued. “After-dinner conversation among women is not nearly so entertaining as it used to be.” She banged her cane on the parquet floor for emphasis. “Now we speak of dresses, colic, and mustard plasters. Would it embarrass you to know that fifty-five years ago my sisters and I used to listen at our parent’s bedchamber door when they thought we were asleep? Miss Hampton, ladies live in a dull world today!”

As she watched Lady Bushnell make her stately way down the hall toward the stairs, it suddenly occurred to her that here was someone who could talk to her about the bailiff. If only I dared, she thought. And I do not.

After a thoughtful luncheon in which she only uttered monosyllables to Mrs. Skerlong, and at least had the good sense not to look about in expectation of the absent bailiff, Susan returned to the library and the harpsichord. She found the instrument much more to her size and taste, the tinkling of the plucked strings soothing and orderly. She heard the vicar’s voice in the hallway, and smiled to herself. I wonder if he will make some excuse to visit the library, she thought, and played even more softly.

Looking at the mantel clock, she timed the vicar, allowing him half an hour for the socially correct visit. She found one of Haydn’s music box pieces and set it before her. “A long-suffering man is the vicar, Mr. Haydn,” she said, her eyes on the notes. “A half hour closeted with a woman who thinks God is a flibbertigibbet must seem an eternity.” Still, she was pleased that he would come, and flattered herself that it was because of her that he came to soften up Lady Bushnell. And there was the bailiff, playing matchmaker in the church. Oh, what
is
your game, David Wiggins?

She played a few notes, but the bailiff remained on her mind like a tune heard before breakfast and then hummed all day. If he was ever all elbows or angles, it was a long time ago. She wondered why he had not been present for lunch, then decided that he was feeling shy, too, or at least reconsidering his late-night attentions. She played a few more notes. I believe I will write to Mr. Steinman tonight, she told herself. He will eventually find me another position, and that will be that.

She waited until a respectable time had passed for the vicar to have taken his leave, then picked up
Emma
and went to the best sitting room. She knocked and entered, then stepped back in dismay. The vicar was still there, and looking at her with something close to devotion in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean . . . I thought . . .” she stammered. “I can come back later.”

Lady Bushnell shook her head. “You are just in time, Miss Hampton. Won’t you join us for tea?”

“Tea? You want me to join you for tea?” she gasped.

“I believe it is a common practice in the afternoon, Miss Hampton,” the widow said, her voice serene but her eyes wicked. “We would like you to pour.”

This must be a dream, she thought as she sat down at the tea table. I am having tea with Lady Bushnell. She deftly poured a cup for the widow, then turned her attention to the vicar. “Mr. Hepworth, will you have sugar and cream? Isn’t this lovely weather we are having? Do tell me when the birds come back to this valley. Spring is my favorite time of year.”

Chapter Twelve

I am babbling, she thought desperately. I hope no one notices. She managed a glance at the vicar, and saw, to her amazement, that he was regarding her seriously, as though she were speaking the greatest wisdom since Solomon. The bailiff would be laughing to my face, she thought as she smiled at Mr. Hepworth.

Her store of idle chatter seemed endless, and she could only thank generations of Hamptons who had probably small-talked their way from Hastings to the present. What’s bred in the bone will come out of the mouth, she decided grimly as she gave the vicar the advantage of her dimple, tried not to catch Lady Bushnell’s much-too-observant eyes, and spouted magnificent nonsensicals worthy even of Sir Rodney.

So help me, Mr. Hepworth, you could toss in the idle comment here and there, she thought later as the visit wore on and she found herself reaching an end to her store of trivia. To her dismay, the vicar appeared to bask in her prattle as he ate one macaroon after another and held out his cup for more tea. There was no help from Lady Bushnell, who sipped her tea and seemed content to gaze out the window, particularly at such times when her shoulders began to shake.

Susan was considering prayer for divine intervention when she glanced at the clock. She set down her cup. “Mr. Hepworth, haven’t you Evensong in an hour?” she asked, grateful as never before for the practices of her church.

“Oh, my!” he exclaimed, setting down his cup with a click that made her wince. He scrambled to his feet and looked about in confusion for his hat, reminding Susan more than ever of a marsh bird. Lady Bushnell had by now devoted her entire attention to the view outside the window, and was making small sounds vaguely incompatible with her customary dignity.

It was a small matter to see him to the door, accept his profoundest farewells, and focus her attention on the chandelier when he nearly tripped over the design in the carpet. Only when the vicar was on his horse and galloping toward Quilling as though pursued by revenue men did Susan dare return to the sitting room and Lady Bushnell.

The widow sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, but her eyes gave her away. In another moment her hand went to her mouth as she motioned to Susan to shut the door. She began to laugh first, a hearty, come-from-the-toes, infectious kind of laugh that Susan was powerless to resist, even had she wanted to. She joined in, laughing until she had to wipe her eyes and clutch her middle, complaining of too-vigorous lacing.

“Lady Bushnell, I had no idea that taking tea with you would be so perilous to my sorry store of clever chitchat,” she said finally, when she could speak.

“And
I
had no idea that one man could drink so much tea, eat so many macaroons, and gaze with such adoration,” Lady Bushnell retorted. “I daresay Evensong will be brief, considering all that tea he consumed,” she said and started to laugh again. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed finally as she accepted a handkerchief from Susan. “Miss Hampton, our vicar is profoundly lovestruck. Does this mean more such visits? Can it be that my peace was less disturbed when my lady’s companions were stealing apostle spoons, pressing Bible tracts on me, and attempting to roger my bailiff?”

If it bothered Lady Bushnell, the agitation didn’t show, Susan considered. And why on earth wouldn’t any red-blooded woman want to roger him? she thought, and didn’t bother to blush this time. “I don’t mean to be trouble, my lady,” she said, her voice light. “Blame the bailiff for introducing Mr. Hepworth yesterday.”

“I could hardly blame the bailiff for dark eyes and a pretty face,” Lady Bushnell insisted. “Miss Hampton, you are going to be a great deal of trouble for me, I suspect. Not only must I teach you to play the piano, and attempt to eradicate your more regrettable Hamptonisms, but now I suppose I must chaperon the vicar, and any other stray bachelor that David Wiggins drags home! My own daughter was less exertion, and I did not employ her!”

“I shall warn the bailiff not to introduce any more single gentlemen to me,” Susan replied, matching Lady Bushnell’s teasing tone. She watched Lady Bushnell, noting how bright the color was in her cheeks, and how young the voice. If any of this silliness keeps you from dismay at your own solitude, or worry about your independence, I think I shall create lots of trouble just for you, she thought.

The daily reading of
Emma
lasted through only one chapter, as one or the other or both of them would think of the vicar and begin to laugh all over again. “Tomorrow, Miss Hampton, tomorrow,” said the widow as she dabbed at her eyes. “Miss Austen deserves our undivided attention. That will do for now.” She looked at Susan over the handkerchief and her expression turned thoughtful. “Miss Hampton, if I had not already discerned that you were as clear as glass, I would begin to suspect that you were planning all these diversions.”

“I would never!” Susan replied, smiling as she replaced the bookmark and rose to leave. “If you need me . . .”

“I do not,” Lady Bushnell replied, but without that brusque tone of yesterday. “Remember, Miss Hampton, the G-major scale tomorrow. And I will sharpen my cane.”

She was laughing as Susan closed the door. No, I am not clever enough to plan diversions for you, Lady Bushnell, she considered, but I know someone who is, someone who knows you much better than I.

***

She deliberated the merits of accosting the bailiff, and decided honestly that there were none. I simply must not be shy to meet him, she decided. After all, we have agreed that this whole kissing business was just something that happened. At least, I think that is what we decided, although I cannot recall the precise conversation.

In the long run, it did not matter. The bailiff was away from the manor, and so Mrs. Skerlong told Susan, without any subterfuge to find out on her part. “He has gone to the sheepfold,” the housekeeper explained as she set places for three instead of four. “I can always depend upon Ben Rich to occupy him through the supper hour,” she said.

“The sheepfold?” Susan asked, striving for a certain vague disinterest that signaled nothing more than idle curiosity. “We were there only yesterday.”

“Aye, and he’ll be spending more and more time there, until the lambing is done. And soon they’ll be letting the rams and yearlings out to more distant meadows. A busy time of year is spring, Susan.”

“And then the bailiff will plant his Waterloo wheat?” she asked, taking the plates and cups from the housekeeper and arranging them on the table.

Mrs. Skerlong nodded, then directed her attention to the Rumford again. “He’s been planning that crop of wheat for five years now, I’m thinking.” She shrugged. “What the good of it is, I don’t know. Everyone else just saves wheat back from the harvest and plants that the next year. Why this is better, I couldn’t say.” She removed a pot from the stove and dipped soup into their bowls.

“He thinks his strain will produce better wheat,” Susan said, thinking of the wheat in the succession house, force-grown and lovely as it swayed in the artificial breeze of the furnaces.

The housekeeper cut off several slices of roast beef from the pan warming on the hob and put them on a platter. She called Cora from the laundry room, and the three of them sat down to dinner. “I wondered why he did all that,” commented the housekeeper as she swabbed at the meat juice with a chunk of bread. “Then one day I was redding up his funny stand-up desk in the succession house, and there was a piece of paper with ‘Quilling Seed Farm, David Wiggins, Proprietor,’ written as fancy as you please!” The Skerlongs looked at each other and laughed, as though it was an old joke.

“You think he can’t do that?” Susan asked, ready to spring to the bailiff’s defense.

“It seems a broad dream for a poacher on the run from Wales who knew more about the end of a gun than a stalk of wheat when he came here,” she said, chewing placidly, her words a mild reproof of Susan’s quick statement.

Susan nodded, for form’s sake, and addressed herself to the roast in front of her. People change, she thought. I have changed since the wind and snow blew me into Mr. Steinman’s agency. Others can change, too. She thought of Lady Bushnell and her fierce desire to maintain her independence, and sighed. Sometimes we have to change, even when we don’t want to.

Mrs. Skerlong looked at her with a smile in her eyes. “That sigh came from your toes, I’m thinking.” She leaned forward across the table. “Don’t worry; David Wiggins always finds his way home.”

Susan regarded the housekeeper with amusement. A month ago, I would have taken such affront at your presumption, she thought, but no longer. “Actually, Mrs. Skerlong, I was thinking of Lady Bushnell,” she replied, leaning forward, grateful that it was the truth. “What happens if Lady B becomes ill and her daughter-in-law really does step in?”

There was a long pause. “None of us like to think of it.”

“But she’s sixty-five.”

“And she’s spent years and years marching with regiments, following the drum from India to Spain,” Cora chimed in softly. “I think it would kill her to be forced to leave her independence behind and go to her daughter-in-law.”

Susan nodded again. “And all in the name of kindness. How sad.”

The three of them sat quietly for long minutes, with only the sound of soup bubbling on the stove to compete with the silence. Finally the housekeeper heaved herself up from the table. “Well, we are glum gussies,” she said, “and why borrow trouble from tomorrow?” She looked at Cora, then Susan. “Cora, did we forget to mention to Susan about tonight?”

“It’s the third Wesnesday,” Cora said, as if that explained it all. She must have observed Susan’s blank look. “Mum and I go to Quilling to listen to the bell ringers.” She blushed and looked at her mother. “Timothy Rudge plays the bells,” she said, as if that explained everything.

It did. “And he also sings tenor?” Susan asked.

Cora nodded, quite rosy now. “We stay overnight with Mum’s sister and come back by early morning.”

“But how do you get there?”

Mrs. Skerlong rose and gathered the dishes toward her. “We take the gig. David rode the saddle horse to the sheepfold. And now if you won’t mind helping with the dishes, I can get Lady B’s dinner ready and in front of her and still be on time.”

***

She saw them off from the back steps, two women well bundled against the night air clamping down cold and hard, with warming boxes at their feet and bell ringers on Cora’s mind, at least. Susan stayed where she was for a long moment, hugging her arms close to her body, admiring the brittle sunset. How beautiful this will be in summer, she thought as the cold defeated her and she stepped inside. I wonder where he will plant the wheat? She remembered the perfection of summer nights on Papa’s estate when they still owned it, and the pleasure of rustling her way through the rye and the barley before they were too tall.

She stood by the window in the kitchen, trying to imagine the sight of wheat in June fields on a long, sloping hillside in Belgium, just before it all turned into mud and blood. “I think it would be a sight not soon forgotten,” she said, writing “David Wiggins, Sergeant” on the frosty pane this time. “It must have been the last good memory for many.”

With the cat in her lap, she dozed in front of the stove until she heard Lady Bushnell’s bell. She hurried to the breakfast room to retrieve the remains of dinner, arranging cup and plate on the tray in the empty room. Lady Bushnell had already left; Susan heard the sitting room door close quietly as she picked up the tray and started for the kitchen.

She stopped in the hall. Setting the tray on a side table, she went quietly to the sitting room door and knocked. “Lady Bushnell?” she asked. “May I come in?”

“Yes.”

She entered the room, cheery now with the light of several lamps and a fire which Mrs. Skerlong must have nurtured before she left. Susan drew the curtains closed and hesitated at the window. Lady Bushnell sat in her usual chair, the yellowing letters on her lap and beside her on a small table. Several had fallen to the floor.

“Let me help you.” Susan knelt and gathered up the pages, the ink pale with age now. She placed them on the table, wishing she had an excuse to stay. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, knowing those were hated words to her employer, but unsure of what else to say.

“I have already told you that I can manage,” Lady Bushnell said, her voice firm, as though she spoke to a slow child. She indicated the letters in her lap. “I like to read these in the evenings.”

How can you manage? Susan wanted to ask. I can hardly read them, with the ink so faded. “Very well,” she replied, when the widow said nothing more. “But if you need me . . .”

“I won’t.”

“If you do,” Susan continued, “I am close by. Good night, Lady Bushnell.”

She washed the dishes in the kitchen, feeling heavy as the solitude of the manor descended on her shoulders. At home I would be playing whist with Aunt Louisa and my cousins, she thought. And perhaps Papa would return from a successful turn at the tables and favor me with idle chat about his plans. She set her lips firmly together. But I am
not
homesick, and Papa’s plans are my ruination.

With a sigh of exasperation, she took Mrs. Skerlong’s shawl from the peg by the door and swung it around her shoulders. I will weed strawberries in the succession house, she told herself with an impatient twitch of her shoulders. It ought to remind me that there is no going back to London and Aunt Louisa’s house.

Tim the cowman must have lit the lamps and stoked the furnaces, because the room was bright and warm enough for moisture to condense on the glass. She sniffed the air, appreciating the fragrance of leaves and loam when all outside was still patchy with snow and suspicious of more. “This is more like it,” she announced, sitting at the drafting table to admire the wheat.

She soaked in the sight before her and was acutely mindful of its calming effect. I wonder if it is the wheat, or the man who tends it so faithfully, she thought, feeling at peace with herself again. I should leave him a little note and tell him that Lady B asked me to take tea today, she thought as she looked about on the ledge under the table for paper.