Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (35 page)

As soon as grace was spoken, Squire raised his glass in a toast, to good food, good friends, and good news. “For Colonel Halsey has brought tidings of great import to our little neighborhood. Yes, and the Naysmiths have confirmed it. Lord Whittendale is coming home to White Oaks for Christmas.”

“And about time,” Aunt Minerva seconded, taking a healthy swig of her wine for such a febrile female.

Viscount Whittendale being Mr. Merriweather’s patron, as well as a distant cousin, Evan would never say anything derogatory about the man. There was, however, no denying that Randolph Whitmore was a feckless, reckless here-and-thereian. Bad enough he callously let St. Cecilia’s collapse, and the neighboring economy with it, but the viscount was a libertine, a known womanizer, an extravagant gambler, a devil-may-care chaser after the moment’s pleasure. For the life of him, Evan could not think why anyone would be in alt to have such a one in their midst.

Sensing Evan’s disapproval, the squire explained, “Good for business, don’t you see? White Oaks is already ordering goods from the Mercantile, for the house party he’ll be bringing with him.”

More like an orgy, from what Evan knew of the viscount, but he refrained from comment as Mr. Naysmith raised his own glass. “Linens and toweling, soaps and candles. And his steward is adding on staff.”

“And we heard he might hold a ball.” Mrs. Naysmith beamed at the Prescott ladies, visions of dress lengths and lace dancing in her eyes.

“Yes, I can see where that can help put some money in local pockets,” Evan admitted, “but Lower Winfrey needs more than a fortnight of revelry.”

Squire slurped at his soup. “Who’s to say Whittendale will be gone after Twelfth Night?”

“Lord Whittendale himself. He told me he despised ruralizing, the one time I met him when I interviewed for this position. He said he hadn’t been here in a donkey’s age, and didn’t intend to visit any time soon.” He had not bothered to reply to Evan’s pleas for him to visit, to see conditions for himself. “I confess I should like a few moments of my lord’s time, but doubt he’ll stay even that long.”

Prescott waved his spoon in the air, sending droplets of soup toward the centerpiece. Evan decided to forgo the fruit. “Idle chitchat,” Squire said, dismissing the vicar’s misgivings. “No, word is that Lord Whittendale is ready to settle down.”

“About time,” Aunt Minerva repeated.

Even Squire’s wife looked dubious. She read the London gossip columns as often as her husband. The
on dits
reached Sussex a few days late, but not
that
late.

“Just think,” Prescott said around a slab of meat. “The man is thirty if he is a day. Long past time he starts setting up his nursery. He’s sown his wild oats, aye, more than his fair share, but he knows what’s due his name and his title.
Noblesse oblige
and all that. Asides, all that rushing from party to party and staying out all night grows tiresome. Mark my words, our viscount is coming to look over the country seat, with an eye toward rusticating.”

“I hope you may be right, for St. Cecilia’s sake, as well as for the rest of the community.” Perhaps Evan would even get to ask the viscount for a raise in his salary. While the others speculated on the size and social standing of the viscount’s house party, Reverend Merriweather let his mind wander to the size of increase he’d request. His thoughts traveled further afield on paths of gold and landed, as usual, on Alice Prescott—who was looking right at him.

She smiled as if she could see inside his mind and said, “I think we must all benefit from Lord Whittendale’s visit, no matter how short.”

“Quite right, puss. And I daresay if you play your cards right, you can be a viscountess one day.”

Everyone turned to stare at Mr. Merriweather as his fork clattered onto his plate, then skittered to the floor. Mortified, Evan bent to pick it up, bumping his head on the mahogany table. Alice caught her father’s attention to cover the vicar’s awkwardness. “What fustian nonsense, Papa. As if I ever aspired to such lofty estate.”

“And why not, I want to know?” her doting father asked. “You’re wellborn enough. Wasn’t your mama’s grandfather a duke? And I paid enough for that fancy finishing academy to please the highest sticklers. Besides, you’re a devilishly pretty chit, if I have to say so myself who shouldn’t. Image of your mother at that age, don’t you know. And she had beaux swarming at her feet. Could have had an earl, by George, but she chose me.” Squire gazed fondly at his wife, the tender sentiments marred only by the gravy dripping down his chin.

“Yes, dearest,” Mrs. Prescott said. “But the viscount is so…so sophisticated.”

“So? Our gal had her London Season. I turned down plenty of offers on her behalf, too. Not like she’s some chit fresh out of the schoolroom. Puss mightn’t be a dasher, but she’ll do, if Whittendale knows what’s good for him.”

“Doing it too brown, Papa. You know the viscount would never look at me when he has all those elegant females to choose from.”

“Now who’s talking gammon? A man don’t want some pretty wigeon to be mother to his children and to run his household. When he’s ready to take on leg shackles, he wants a sensible female, not an ornament. You’re a good girl, my Alice, and Whittendale is bound to see that. If he doesn’t, I’ll bring it to his attention.”

Blushing rosily, Alice took a hasty sip of wine. “You’ll do nothing of the kind, Papa. Didn’t you say that Lady Farnham was to be of the party? Her name was linked with that of the viscount last spring, when we went to London.”

“Aye, Farnham’s widow is coming along, for all the good it’ll do her. A man don’t marry his mistress, puss.” Now Evan was blushing, as well as Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Naysmith. Only Aunt Minerva, used to the freer morals of an earlier age, was unaffected by Squire’s bluntness. The colonel harumphed. “Ladies present, I say.”

Ladies were supposed to be conveniently deaf, dumb, and blind to the existence of such creatures, Evan knew, even when their husbands paraded their convenients through the park or at the Opera. That was the kind of marriage Squire wished for his daughter?

It appeared so. “Tender sensibilities be blasted,” Squire Prescott said, reaching across the table with his knife to spear another boiled potato. “Everyone knows it’s due. A fellow might light on any number of full-blown roses, but he’s going to wed the unopened bud.”

A virgin, Evan thought. Squire was back to sacrificing virgins on the altar of ambition, like some pot-valiant pagan.

Aunt Minerva was nodding her agreement. “Unless he’s dicked in the nob, and no one ever called little Randy Whitmore a slowtop.”

Squire passed her the dish of eels in aspic, as reward for agreeing with him. “Right. A chap don’t want to worry over his wife’s morals, or what cuckoo bird is landing in his nest, especially not the toffs with their generations of blue blood to preserve. He don’t want his sons’ noses bloodied defending their mum, and he don’t want to be forever dueling over rumors of her misconduct, either. There has never been a shred of gossip about my girl, and never will be, do you hear?”

Evan heard the warning, and could only wonder. Did Squire Prescott think
he
would cast dishonor on Alice’s name? He’d sooner see his own tongue pickled in that aspic. “Of course not. Miss Prescott is the embodiment of virtue. A perfect lady. More so than many with the title before their names, I daresay.”

“Just think, our dear Miss Prescott will be Lady Whittendale.” Mrs. Naysmith was already calculating the cachet of having a titled lady as patron.

“My little girl, a viscountess,” Mrs. Prescott said with a contented sigh.

Alice was sputtering, trying to topple her parents’ air castles before they collapsed around her. She might as well have tried to hold back the tide, for Mrs. Prescott was already wondering where they should hold the wedding ceremony. “Not at St. Cecilia’s, that’s for certain, not with half the county and all those elegant London guests coming. Perhaps the viscount would prefer to be married in the City after all. I’m sure his town house can easily accommodate the wedding breakfast.”

“Mama, there will be no—”

Squire turned to Evan. “So what do you
think,
eh, Reverend?”

Evan thought the mutton in his mouth tasted like masonry.

3

“I wish you would reconsider your notion to approach Lord Whittendale about a match with Miss Prescott, sir.”

“I’ll just bet you do, Merriweather. I’ll just bet you do.” Squire puffed on his cigar, filling the dining room with a blue haze. The ladies had departed for the withdrawing room, and Mr. Naysmith and the colonel had stepped out to use the necessary.

Evan did not want to t
hink
of the meaning behind Squire’s words. Did everyone know of his calf-love for Alice? Had he been that obvious in his admiration? Evan brushed that dreadful thought aside with a sweep of his hand to clear the smoke. Maybe he could sweep away the fog in his brain box, too, for it was imperative that he think clearly now. Alice’s entire future depended on
him
.

“As…as spiritual advisor to your family, I beg you to reexamine your heart. Do you truly think that Lord Whittendale will make your daughter a good husband?”

Squire blew a smoke ring. “As good as any. I never heard of Whittendale being the brutal sort. He’ll not lay a hand on her, not with her papa next door.”

“Good grief, I never meant to imply otherwise. I was thinking of her happiness.”

“Of course she’ll be happy as Viscountess Whittendale. She can have all the pretty dresses she desires, and she can enjoy herself in Town now and again, with invites that would never come her way as some country gentleman’s offspring. She’ll want for nothing. Rest assured I’ll make sure the settlements are generous.”

“Those are material things. What of peace of mind? Miss Prescott and my lord have neither interests, experiences, nor friends in common. Heavens, what will they even talk about?”

“The weather, for all I care.” Squire’s cheeks were getting red again, behind the blue smoke. “Dash it, they’ll make friends, learn new interests, same as every married couple. That’s what leg shackles are all about, don’t you know. No, of course you don’t.”

Evan bravely persevered. “I know that a couple needs more than a license to make a go of a marriage, sir. You and Mrs. Prescott share a fine affection. Would you wish less for your daughter?”

The squire thought for a moment, swirling his brandy in its glass. “They can ride together, that’s what. It’s a start. Alice is a notable horsewoman, and Whittendale is renowned for his prowess.”

The viscount was known for his neck-or-nothing style of riding. Surely Mr. Prescott did not intend for Alice to take up Lord Whittendale’s daredevil ways. Evan’s stomach lurched at the thought of gentle Alice riding hell-for-leather through the woods of White Oaks. She’d be tossed, or left behind at the first too-high hedge. He gulped a swallow of the brandy, knowing he’d have a headache later. He already had a heartache, so what was the difference? “He’ll abandon her here in the country as soon as she is breeding. You know Lord Whittendale will not give up the pleasures of the City.”

“Aye, and her mother will be thrilled to have the infants nearby to spoil. I won’t mind dandling a little lordling on my knee either. Wonder if Whittendale has any courtesy titles lying around for his firstborn? Aunt Minerva will know.”

Evan almost shouted in desperation. “But what of Alice?”

“She loves children. Always has. Says she wants a bunch of the little blighters. What comes of being an only child, I suppose. Not that Mrs. Prescott and I didn’t try, a’course.”

“No, I mean, what of Alice’s wants and desires?”

“As lady of White Oaks, my gal will be the first female of the neighborhood. She can do all the good deeds she wants. Why, she might just be able to put in a word for you with his lordship, get you a raise in living and fix up the church so folks won’t be afraid the roof’ll collapse on them.”

Evan gave up. “Perhaps his lordship will not be interested,” he muttered under his breath. Perhaps pigs would fly, too.

Squire’s hearing must have been better than his comprehension. “He’ll be interested, by Jupiter. He’s not fool enough to turn down the chance to get Prescott Manor when I toddle off.”

“Lord Whittendale does not seem terribly concerned with increasing his holdings. He could make White Oaks a more profitable estate, with better management.”

“No matter. Once he takes a gander at my Alice, he’ll see all the advantages.”

That’s what Evan feared, too. How could any man resist her sweet charms? He sighed.

The squire heard that, too. “It’s not as though her heart is given to another eligible gentleman, you know. I wouldn’t stand in the way if Alice showed a partiality, long as the chap was in a position to make her a decent offer. I don’t aim to see my puss living hand to mouth in some ramshackle cottage, you understand.”

Evan understood all too well.

“Take a bloke like yourself, hard-working and with a good head on your shoulders. Nice, steady fellow, righteous, even. But you haven’t got a pot to piss in, have you?” Only a chipped, battered bowl, which was how Evan was feeling at this moment.

“No, I’ve got to look out for my little chick, I do. Asides, you mightn’t live past Christmas Eve, what with the day being a tad unhealthy for the vicars of St. Cecilia’s, you might say.”