Her Heart's Captain (8 page)

Two tears that had managed to rise from her throat trickled down her cheeks. With a quick brush of the back of her hand she rubbed them away. How foolishly she was behaving! Such maudlin self-pitying thoughts were quire unlike her and wouldn't do at all. She would simply not indulge in them. This was merely a mood, an attack of the vapors, a slight aberration. She would not make too much of it. With a spurt of energetic determination, she jumped to her feet, put on a pleasant smile and went out to join her mother for tea.

Dulcie Allenby, Lady Rowcliffe, pacing about the sitting room of her lavish London townhouse, was also ready for her tea, but her son had not yet made his appearance. She'd been waiting for him for fully a quarter-hour and was growing impatient. Lady Rowcliffe was not a woman to suffer impatience for very long. With a grunt of decision she turned on her heel, strode to the door, marched down the long hallway to the library and burst in without knocking. There, reclining on the sofa—his booted feet callously resting on the striped satin cushion—was her negligent son, engrossed in one of the dozens of newspapers that were piled in stacks on the floor beside him. “Must you put your boots up on my loveliest sofa?” she asked in mock annoyance.

“Sorry, Mama,” Captain Allenby said with a sheepish grin, swinging his legs to the floor and sitting upright. “I'm so accustomed to reading in a bunk bed that I forget myself.”

“And did you also forget about tea? I've been waiting for you for an age.”

“Have you? I
am
a beast.” He put the paper down and got to his feet. “Are you completely put out with me?”

“I should be,” his mother muttered.

He strolled over to her, leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You're wishing me back on shipboard, I shouldn't wonder. It's better having me at sea than lounging about in your library, upsetting the schedules and muddying up the upholstery, isn't it?”

“Rubbish!” She thumped him affectionately on the chest. Only a bit over five feet tall, she barely came up to his shoulder. “I
love
having you home, and you know it. You're probably put out with
me
for interrupting your perusal of the news.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I'm not,” he admitted, stretching out his arms and yawning. “There's devilish little news worth reading in these sheets. Much too much debate about your eccentric Lord Byron's self-exile, and too much fuss about the Regent's desire to erect a monument to the Stuarts in Rome. I'm more interested in plans for the new docks, about which I can find nothing, and in what Parliament is doing about repealing the Corn Laws, about which there is precious little. Why don't the papers stir up some concern about the general distress of the population over the price of grain? There's very little printed in these tittle-tattle pages about
that
.”

His mother frowned at him, all the while adjusting his neckcloth and smoothing his hair (which was just beginning to show a touch of grey at the sides) by standing on tiptoe and reaching up as high as she could. “You sound like a reformist Whig, my love, interested only in the plight of the poor. We rich have our heartaches, too, you know. And ‘my' Lord Byron is as worthy of your sympathy as any indigent farm worker.”

Having made her son presentable, she pushed him to the door. He obediently started down the hall, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully over the dubious logic of her last remark. “I can't agree with you, Mama. Lord Byron has a flock of soft-hearted, sentimental admirers to weep over his plight, but only a handful—those few you call reformist Whigs—show any concern over the indigent farm workers. Must a man be beautiful, romantical and poetical before you women will weep for him?”

Lady Rowcliffe shook her head in wry amusement. “I suppose so. It's quite difficult for me to become emotional about some theoretical ‘common man' whom I've never met, whereas I feel quite keenly for someone like Byron, whom I've known for years. He
is
quite beautiful, you know, and much of his poetry is marvelous. I'm completely put out that all this dreadful gossip has driven him out of his own country.”

“Nevertheless,” her son said, settling himself on an easy chair before the sitting-room fire and stretching out his legs on the hearth, “I find it irritating to read the details over and over in the papers.”

“Well, you
did
ask me to save them for you while you were gone, so you have only yourself to blame,” his mother muttered, pouring the tea.

“I suppose I do. But one must catch up with the world's happenings when one returns from a voyage. We hear nothing of the rest of the world when we're at sea. The world over the horizon shrinks away, and our little vessel takes on the semblance of a whole world in itself. It's quite appalling, really. I have to read the old papers on my return just to readjust myself to the larger reality.”

His mother brought him a brimming cup. Then, pouring one for herself, she perched on a chair beside him. “Are you happy at sea, Tris?
Really
happy?” she asked, looking at him closely from beneath lowered lids.

“I suppose so. I can't imagine myself spending my days in any other way. Why do you ask?”

“Because I'm your mother, you great oaf. I worry over you. I would prefer to see you settled down in one place, with a wife at your side and little children at your feet. Dash it, Tris, I'm sixty years old and have not
one grandchild
! Your brother in Scotland is too reclusive ever to marry, I fear, so you are my only hope.”

Tris stirred his tea silently for a moment. “My being a sailor needn't dash your hopes, Mama. There are many of us who have wives and families. It may not always be an easy life for a woman, but I know of several who are quite content.”

“Then why haven't you married?”

“I've been occupied with other matters. There was a war, you know. But I am thinking about marriage now.”

“Are you?” She put down her cup and leaned forward. “You've given no sign of it to me. I've thrust at least three perfectly suitable females at you since you've been home without noting a spark of interest in your eyes.”

“If you're speaking of that creature with the orange hair—”

“Yes, she's one of them. Miss Hazelton. And her hair is
not
orange, it's Titian. Most gentlemen fall into transports over it.”

Tris snorted. “That must be very pleasant for Miss Hazelton. If she has so many admirers, she will not be crushed by my indifference.”

“Indifference is exactly what you showed her, you cawker. I'll admit that Miss Hazelton's appearance is somewhat … er …”

“Garish?” her son supplied.

Lady Rowcliffe tried to hide her grin. “Very well, garish. But one couldn't call Miss Daubney garish, yet you showed the same indifference toward her.”

“Is Miss Daubney the young lady with the startled eyes? Good God, Mama, I've never met anyone so nervous. The sound of the dinner gong startled her, the music startled her, a raucous laugh from behind us startled her. Can you picture her on board a ship? The first strong wind would overset her for the rest of the voyage.”

“Very well, I'll grant that Miss Daubney's sensibilities are too tender—”

Tris grinned at his mother appreciatively. “What a very nice way to put it, Mama,” he taunted.

She ignored the interruption. “—but Miss Kingsbury is neither garish nor nervous. What about Miss Kingsbury?”

“The dark one? She's a very pretty girl.”

Her eyebrows rose with a barely perceptible touch of eagerness. “Do you think so? I do, too. And quite a sensible sort, as you would learn for yourself if you would take her riding tomorrow.”

Tris pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the tea table. “Let be, Mama,” he said, his voice softly firm. “I'm thirty-five years old and don't need wet-nursing.” He refilled his cup and turned back to his mother, fixing her with an unsmiling, pointed look. “I'm quite capable of pursuing a female without motherly guidance.”

“You don't say,” his mother muttered, putting up her chin defiantly. “Is that how you reprimand your crew? With that cold stare and threatening voice? But you can't terrorize
me
with that trick. I knew you as a child. Having in the past often wiped your runny nose and swaddled your naked bottom, I find it difficult, now, to feel awestruck.”

A reluctant laugh burst out of him. “I can't be formidable to my mother, eh? How disappointing. Then I'm quite defenseless.” He returned to his chair. “Nevertheless, ma'am, I can do without your motherly matchmaking.”

“No, you can't. You may be thirty-five, but you don't know
the first thing
about finding a wife. If you did, you'd realize that the search requires time and effort. You've spent more than a week dawdling about the house reading your newspapers. The only times you've left the premises were those few afternoons you visited with your cronies at the admiralty and the three occasions when I dragged you out with me. And on
those
occasions you were cool and indifferent toward every female who passed by. I know because I watched you.”

“Serves you right. You shouldn't have watched.”

“But my dear, how can you pretend to be interested in marriage when you are unwilling to
do
anything about it? You've wasted all this time already, and in a little more than a fortnight you want to go off to the country—heaven knows why!—where the females are bound to be far less presentable than the ones I can introduce to you here in London.”

“Are you sure of that, Mama?”

“What?” She'd been warming up to her thesis concerning the proper manner of pursuing a female, and she was distracted by his interruption. She'd been about to suggest that they write to her brother to cancel their plans to spend the month of December at Wyndham. She couldn't see the sense of it. Instead of burying themselves in a rural backwater for weeks, she was ready to urge Tris to remain with her in town, where they could concentrate on finding a lady suitable for him to wed. But he'd broken into her train of thought with this strange question. “What do you mean, am I sure?” she asked, blinking.

“Are you sure that country girls are less presentable than those in town? Isn't that a rather prejudiced view?”

“It's a view formed by years of experience and observation,” his mother stated unequivocally. “I suppose that beauty and charm
can
appear occasionally in the wilds, but they can best be bred and schooled right here in town. It is only here that you'll find your cultivated, perfected, refined beauties.”

He took a sip of tea. “I'd prefer someone
un
schooled, I think. Someone whose charm is more natural and … unspoiled.”

“Hmmmph! his mother grunted in disgust. “All you men dream about is unspoiled beauties. They don't
exist
.”

“I hope you're mistaken about that, Mama.”

“Even if I am, you'll not find your unspoiled beauty at your uncle's place. Your cousin Andrea is considered to be the reigning belle of Wyndham, and she couldn't hold a candle to Miss Kingsbury.”

“My cousin Andrea?” Tris stared at his mother in considerable surprise. “The belle of the whole district? Are you sure?”

“Well, that's what I've been given to understand. Why does that surprise you so?”

“It's just that I would have supposed …” His voice died, and he shook his head. “The bumpkins of Wyndham probably haven't sufficiently discriminating eyes.”

“What
are
you babbling about, Tris?”

“Nothing, Mama. Pay me no mind.”

She stared at him with dawning comprehension. “Good God!” she gasped suddenly. “There's a young lady in
Wyndham
who's caught your eye! That's
it
, isn't it? I should have guessed. For what other reason would you wish to rusticate at Clement Hall for an entire month?” She jumped up from her chair in girlish eagerness. “Who
is
she, Tris? Where did you meet her? Shall I like her? What a silly question … of
course
I shall! Oh, I am quite beside myself! This, news has completely altered my mood.” She ran to the door and shouted into the corridor, “Lockhurst! Lockhurst, bring a bottle of champagne. The Pinot Chardonnay, I think.”

Tris raised an amused eyebrow. “Mama, really! Champagne?”

“Of course champagne. One can't celebrate such news by drinking
tea
!”

“But there really isn't any news to celebrate,” he cautioned, frowning. “You're getting a bit ahead of yourself, my dear.”

“Nonsense. You've no idea how long I've waited to hear you say something like that. I
must
celebrate. You know, I wasn't looking forward to leaving London, but now I can't
wait
to start for the country.”

Tris started to make an objection to his mother's effusions, but Lockhurst, the butler, came in with the wine and a pair of glasses on a tray. Conversation was halted while he opened the bottle with expert precision and poured. As soon as he withdrew, however, Tris took the glass from his mother's hand. “Your wish to celebrate, Mama, is much too premature. You're leaping to a great number of conclusions without any substantiating facts. It seems to me that you ought to haul sail and slacken speed, or you'll find yourself on the shoals.”

Lady Rowcliffe laughed. “Very well, Captain, I'll slow down. But let me have my wine and give me what ‘substantiating facts' there are. I'm not mistaken about my basic premise, am I? There
is
a girl in Wyndham, I take it.”

“Yes, there is. But I've only met her once, so it wouldn't be advisable for you to begin counting your grandchildren just yet,” he said, handing the glass back to her.

“But this is too exciting for words!” she exclaimed delightedly, sinking down on the hearth and sipping her drink. “Tell me all about it. Where did you meet her? It couldn't have been at Wyndham, for you haven't visited there since childhood.”