How to Impress a Gentleman (20 page)

Lindsay’s mind pricked at the odd conversation but she did as she was bid. Dosing his patient with laudanum, Dr. Matthews set the bone and braced it. “Bernard has sustained a compound fracture to his ulna. It is the outer bone of his left arm. It is essential that he keep this arm immobile for the next few weeks.

The laceration on his forehead, however, has been well stitched, and, if kept clean, should not fester. I see no evidence of head trauma. If you see signs of nausea, fainting, or confusion, however, fetch me right away. He is to do no manual labor for the next six weeks and I will need to return to check on his progress in three week’s time. Keep his wounds washed and apply fresh dressings daily. He is to remain in bed for the next several days.”

After quitting Bernard’s sick bed, John too was checked over and given a clean bill of health.

Walking Doctor Matthews to the door, Lindsay inquired, “So, Mr. Bullworth will recover?”

“Oh, aye, as long as he is given time to heal. The break was clean. He’ll mend just fine.”

“Thank you, Doctor. My husband will pay you. Simply send us your bill.”

“Yes, My Lady. Good day.”

“Good day.”

The moment the good doctor vacated the entrance, Linnie rushed to the sick room.

“Betsy, please help me move my trunk to the master bed chamber.”

Immediately, Lindsay began putting her clothing in the trunk. “How is John?”

“He is as well as might be expected. He is asleep, at present...Whatever are you doing, M’Lady?”

“I am packing, Betsy. I cannot stay in my chamber while Bernard needs it to recuperate and I refuse to stay in the master chamber with Sir Charles. Please, might I stay with you, in the cottage?”

“Why ever are you that distraught M’Lady? What has gotten ye so out of sorts that ye can’t face yer own husband?”

“I have come to see my station clearly, for once, and I would simply like to establish the reality of where I stand in this household.”

“Betsy humphed and quirked a brow, but bent to straighten the lining of a gown within the trunk. She knew melodramatic nonsense when she heard it but, she also knew better than to question a lady about her sensibilities. Like as not, Lindsay would be back in this very room by nightfall. Knowing Sir Charles, he’d not stand for her poppy cock, but far be it from her to tell Miss Lindsay so.

Lindsay finished packing except for her brush, mirror, and night rail. She could easily fit them in her carpet bag. Looking about the room for any forgotten items, she latched the trunk’s lid with a resounding, ‘Click.’

Having watched an exhausted Bobby and David lug the heavy trunk from her room, Lindsay turned to inspect the completed master bedroom one last time. A tiny tear escaped Lindsay’s eye and ran down her sun burnt cheek. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she thought of how hard she had worked to make this chamber, this house, a home for them.

Every moment that he had been away, that she had been scalding her hands in laundry water or straining her back, bending over the vegetable garden, he had been running around with that woman. All the pieces were falling into place, his long absences, his unwillingness to share his deepest feelings; it was all clear now and Lindsay suddenly felt on the outside, looking in.

Trailing David and Bobby across the yard to Betsy’s cottage, Lindsay steeled her resolve. She would rather live as a servant than continue to live a lie.

Settled on a palette beside Betsy’s bed, Lindsay rolled about until she was quite twisted in her blanket. “Betsy, do you know of the Bonneville family?”

“Aye, M’Lady. They are but four miles off, up yonder.”

“Do they have any children?”

“Aye. They have a grown daughter. She must be over twenty by now. Widowed, she is. She moved back home just over a year ago, seein’ as how her husband’s estates were entailed.”

“I think I might have met her today. Is she tall and thin, with blonde hair?”

“Aye, that is her, exactly. What makes ye ask?”

“Curiosity, I suppose.”

Betsy would bet her best laying hen that Lady Donovan was fighting with the green eyed monster. No woman leaves her husband’s bed unless she feels he has done something to deserve it. And bedding the comely widow would certainly mean he deserved it.

~ ~ ~

Bernard slept fitfully. Lindsay set a cool cloth on his head and his eyes opened suspiciously. “Is that you, Betsy? Have they found us out?”

“Found
you
out, you mean?” Lindsay retorted, suspecting Bernard hid a well-born secret.

Squinting past the fog of laudanum, Bernard tried to sit up and called out in pain. “Calm yourself, Sir. I do not wish to distress you.”

“Oh, tis you, M’Lady. Of what do you accuse me?”

“Of hiding a secret. You are a man accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. Your uneducated intonations fall off when you are unawares. Who are you, Bernard?”

“If I told you, your husband would be disinherited and all of my plans would go to waste.”

“What if I tell you my secret, and then you tell me yours?”

“Allow me to determine if your secret is as heavy as mine, before I commit.”

Nodding, Lindsay divulged her shameful tale. “My husband is at this very moment consorting with another woman-the Bonneville heiress, no less.”

“Oh, Mistress Lindsay,” Bernard rasped, reaching across his splinted arm to grasp her right hand in his. “whatever would make you suspect such a thing? I have never heard tale of the Master being anything but a gentleman. He would surely not dishonor you in this way.”

“It is true, Bernard. I saw them together yesterday. They were kissing, smiling, laughing. They entered the hotel. When I went back I did not see them in the dining room. What else might I think?”

“I see. And how do you plan on responding to this...misconduct?”

“I have moved myself in with Betsy, for the time being.” Plucking at the bed covers, distractedly, Lindsay sighed. “I have shared with you my heavy tale, Bernard, won’t you burden me with yours?”

“My secret is one that I must swear you to keep.”

“If it involves no harm to any one, then I swear to keep your secret. Since my husband and I will be separated, I have no constraints upon my loyalty to you.”

“Very well. The truth is that Bernard Bullworth is dead. I am, in truth, Sir Alexander Donovan, the rightful Master of this manor.” As shocked dismay drained Linnie’s face of color, Donovan hurried to explain his deceit.

“The house was deteriorating about us. I had run out of funds and, being a recluse, out of connections as well. When my butler died, I realized that I would have to call a physician. The doctor in town, Dr. Matthews, was new and we had not yet met. I persuaded Betsy to help me set Bernard in the master chamber and claim him as Sir Alexander Donovan. Quickly, I penned a note to the effect that the two remaining servants should be kept on in the house indefinitely, a last wish of the dying lord.

“In this way, I knew Charles would take over Braxton Manor. From the inquiries I had made about my heir, I knew that his connections and character were dependable.”

Noting Lindsay’s stony silence and the way her knuckles turned white with the ferocity in which she clutched her skirts, he continued to appeal to her sense of compassion.

“Can you see my predicament, Lindsay? We would have starved! I had to do something.”

“So, you are the baronet Donovan, not Charles?”

“No! I am Bernard. Sir Alexander is legally dead and Charles is legally the heir. There is no real risk to him in being disinherited, I promise you that. You must never tell Charles. His sense of ethics would not allow him to take charge otherwise. I am happy as things are. Please, Lindsay, be a friend.”

Fingering the miniature in her pocket, Lindsay processed the information. “I will make you this pact. I will keep your secret. In return, you will council Charles to be discreet with his affair. My sister is to have her coming out this winter and I cannot abide any scandal to affect her aspirations.”

Grasping his arm as the pain seared through his shoulder, Donovan offered warily, “I accept your pact with one stipulation. That is that I shall be most eager to see you reinstalled in this home, as Charles’ wife. You have become dear to me in a short time, Linnie. I would like to grow old with a family about me. If this cannot be, then I will accept the alternative. I am still unconvinced of Charles’ adultery. I will endeavor to seek out the details of his relationship with this widow.”

“Thank you, Bernard. I must go see to the repairs of the barnyard fence, now. Please take it easy. I should never forgive myself should anything happen to you, as a result of my neglect.”

With that, Lindsay slipped from the room

Bobby, I am afraid that I must inconvenience you to help David repair the barnyard fence before starting on the roof. I want to make certain that there are pens for the animals, when they arrive.

“Honestly, M’Lady, the repairs should better wait until tomorrow afternoon, when I can enlist aid from a couple of my kin. The hole is now large enough to require a skilled roofer. My cousin, Paul, can help.

“If you agree to it, Mistress, I can go fetch him in the carriage, after mending the fence. We should be able to get the worst of it patched by t’morrow night.”

“Yes, Bobby, that should suit well.”

“Thus much and more, and yet thou lov'st me not,

And never wilt, Love dwells not in our will

Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot

To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.”

~Lord Byron, 18th Century British Poet

The fateful day of the roof collapse, that dark and morbid Monday that pulled Sir Charles’ household low, saw the man himself looking up. That mystical Monday afternoon, Charles finished meeting with his banker and decided to enjoy a leisurely stroll down the main street of Bakersville. Taken by a whim, he entered the small dress shop that had gifted Lindsay with Dorothy’s blessed assistance.

I shall buy her a gift, some pretty, superfluous bauble. Her life has become much too practical. Lindsay is, perhaps, not a hot house flower, but neither is she a hearty daisy. She is like the lemon blossom-delicate and beautiful, full of a potential, she can only give forth fruitfully when cared for gently.

I have neglected her
, he thought.
After today, little shall impair my care of my delicate bloom. And, if I am lucky, in time, she will bear fruit.

Charles laughed at himself for his whimsical thoughts. It had been memories of Lindsay that had kept him through that long, dark night of his impressment. It should stand to reason that he would feel this strongly for her now that the full reality of her presence had been realized in his life.

The shop bell tinkled, admitting none other than his day’s main project-Lady Cynthia Parton. Her impressively tall wig turned this way and that as she surveyed the shop’s displays. “I shall return,” he told himself, and choosing an offensive tactic, moved to intercept her.

“Lady Parton, what a pleasant surprise,” he greeted her, his monotone giving away the sarcasm of his words.

“I should think not, seeing as how we last parted, Charles. What brings you into a lady’s dress shop?”

“I was hoping to find a suitable gift for my bride. Have you any suggestions?” Charles bit his tongue, as he realized the unintentional goading in his words.

“Most of the merchandise here is sub-par. However, I have found that they employ a most skilled glove maker. His goat skin gloves are excellent for riding. They would make a fine gift for a horse woman. How does your wife ride, My Lord?” The disdain in her tone was thinly veiled. It was clear she did not think much of his bride, although they had never met.

Charles immediately took to Lindsay’s defense. “I should say she is a most competent and beguiling rider. Though her choice of steed may, some say, leave something to be desired, I find her sweet loyalty to the animal and her devoted ministrations most compelling.”

Having approached and correctly interpreted the sexual innuendo within the pair’s conversation, the redheaded shop keeper flushed to a purplish hue and departed to the back of the stock to continue her inventory. Completely ignoring the woman, Cynthia continued.

“I see that she is not a veteran at the sport. Never mind the gloves, then. I should think a bonnet might suit. How are her looks? Has she a bonny face?”

“You ask the wrong man. For me, knowing her from a tiny child, she is the standard of beauty. Yes, bonnie describes her most accurately. She stands just below my chin, where I like to rest my cheek upon her silky black locks. Her hair is full and bounces about her vibrant face and gleaming blue eyes. Whether she is laughing or glaring, her cheeks are full of color and her eyes are flashing and engaging. She draws men as wolves, pulled to the light of the moon. She is full of life, love, fun. Aye, bonny she is.”

“Hmmm, too bonny, it seems, to be hidden by one of these gaudy bonnets. Charles, I dare say such a loyal, loving lady carries a passionate heart, one that needs great affection to sustain it. Your gift must show your adoration and devotion. You have come to the wrong shop. Follow me.”

Charles wondered just what Cynthia was about. As she placed her arm in his, he guarded himself against her manipulations. He had planned to meet her at five for tea in the inn’s private dining room. There he would express his commitment to his wife, his regard for Lord Bonneville, and his plan to satiate Cynthia.

Now this lioness had come to him in one of her many reincarnations. This demur, purring lady beside him was daunting. Her cat green eyes were slightly hooded, concealing her intent. He did not like that she had taken the lead in this negotiation. He felt unsure of his next step.

Entering a jeweler’s boutique, Cynthia immediately directed Charles to a tall glass case of lockets. “Here,” she stated emphatically, “this is what your new bride needs.” The genuine smile on her face threw him. What was she after?

“A locket?” he asked.

“Not just any locket, a locket with your portrait and an inscription from you. When you are away, and Charles, you are often away, your bonny sweet will have an ever present reminder of her lover’s devotion. That is a gift most valuable.”

“She hasn’t any images of me. I suppose it will do.” Thus decided, Charles paid the man and paced impatiently while the artist was fetched. Sitting for the miniature, Charles tried to avoid watching Cynthia. He did not wish his bitter thoughts to sour his expression.

Instead, he thought of his dear wife and all of their escapades: racing, swimming, picking locks, dancing. He realized that he had yet to hold his wife in his arms and waltz her about a dance floor. Charles smiled at the unexpected pleasure of anticipation. Linnie and he had a long history of experiences and a longer list of new ones to explore. He reconsidered this bride groom’s gift to his wife, his young visage. Yes, it would be a most fitting token.

In spite of himself, Sir Charles turned his eyes to Lady Parton and grinned. Surprisingly, her smile was wan and a bit sad. She did not give him her typical feline grin. The blood thirsty smirk was no where to be found in that piteous countenance. Just what was she about? In half an hour’s time, the image was captured, his inscription noted and an appointment for pick up set for six that evening.

Departing, Cynthia chuckled. “I had intended to purchase a sun bonnet and gloves. Will you accompany me on my errand, Charles? I do hope I can still call you Charles. I know that my behavior has not endeared you to me.”

“You are right, Cynthia. Your behavior has tried my patience and strained my relationship with your father. We have, perhaps, not treated one another well over the years, despite our numerous charades of civility. Are you proposing a truce, or are you simply making your next strategic move?”

“As I am sure you are aware, my father has made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that I am to make nice with you. I, however, have not completely conceded to his whim. My surrender will depend upon your intentions toward me, Charles. Are your plans for my benefit or yours?”

“Both, I should think, our mutual benefit, our mutual happiness. They do not, therefore, involve us being together, either as a married couple, or as lovers.”

“I do not see how this benefits me, although I have decided to leave off pursuing you, I am still left in a predicament. Without an escort, I haven’t as much freedom to do and go where I please.”

“Wait until tea, Cynthia. I would much rather discuss this matter in private. For now, I will escort you upon your errands, as I have completed mine. You have two hours in which to complete your shopping.”

At five O’clock they strolled toward the Yellow Sheep Inn. Cynthia held Charles’ arm, squeezing it warmly. A new camaraderie had developed between them and she was enjoying his company. Leaning in, she planted an affectionate kiss upon his cheek. Charles peered at her, at once engaged and pricked by her bold liberties.

“Cynthia,” he chastised drolly, “I fear you shall never be tamed. A wild cat you shall always be.”

“Aye, this is so,” she sighed. Cynthia could not be more unapologetic for her manner, but she had to admit, she was discouraged by the reality that few men dare to take a creature of claws and teeth to wife.

The pair entered the inn and proceeded to the private dining area without ever realizing that Lindsay watched, stomach aching, and heart breaking.

~ ~ ~

Charles pulled out a chair for Cynthia and sat opposite her. This back room boasted a window open to a small plot of gardenia bushes. Their pleasing scent, coupled with the soothing breeze, calmed Charles’ nerves, clearing his head and guiding his thoughts on a straight path.

Once the buxom server had left them to their repast, Charles began his pitch. “Cynthia, you are unhappy. Your unhappiness has often spilled over, affecting those you care about in its caustic, grasping need.”

“Spare me the lecture, Charlie. You are neither my father, nor my consort.”

“Yes, yes, I know. This is not a lecture. This is my introduction to a proposal.” At her quirked eyebrow he quickly elaborated, “A plan, I should say, that I am proposing you follow.”

“And this benefits you, how?”

“I will get to that, in due course. May I please proceed? You are ruining the flow of my presentation.”

Laughing delightedly, Cynthia leaned back in her chair, signaling him to continue, fully enjoying her role as chairman of the board.

“You are unhappy because your life has proved unfulfilling. In trying to find something to fill this void, you create turmoil. This is, I believe, because your desires are completely mismatched for a society lady. You require real activities and responsibilities. You are bored. You have no household to run, no one to boss, no greater purpose.

“What, Cynthia, will make you happy?”

“I have never really thought of happiness so much as power. I hoped that my marriage to Lord Parton would give me that. It did not. I was young and unable to garner the respect of those around me. Not even the servants took much heed of my presence. I was displaced at my husband’s death. It is a piteous lot, being a woman.”

“I agree. Your father, having only one female child, is in dire need of a son.

“Has he told you he is disappointed that I was not a son? I knew it was so, even though he oft denies it.”

“How can you blame him? He requires a son to take over the running of the estate, the monitoring of its manager, the direction of its tenants and staff. Without such a son, he has looked to me. By me marrying you, you are well aware, he hoped to attain that son.”

“But I am more than capable of accomplishing all of those things! Why can he not see that?”

“This is your malcontent, I believe, Cynthia. For, despite your femininity, you are imminently qualified to fulfill your father’s wishes. And yet, you have been stifled, disallowed to pursue this sphere, due to your sex.”

“What are you getting at, Donovan?”

“You are the son your father has needed. He has overlooked the fact that you possess the qualities to run the estate. You need not marry another to supplant you, Cindy. Take up the manager’s position. Your father will accept your authority.”

“Cynthia’s eyes flared brightly, then resumed their cool, jade exterior. “Charles, you jest. My father would never trust a mere woman with his livelihood.”

“No, Cynthia, but he would trust you.”

“And how does this benefit you?”

“I haven’t the time to see to two country estates, Cynthia. I am tired and strained. I miss my wife. I need to make my land turn a profit. I would like to establish our relationship firmly as neighboring land owners, business partners, perhaps, and nothing more sundry.”

He quickly added as her eyebrows raised, “I would breathe easier knowing your wiles and schemes were engaged in a constructive manner. I will no longer feel responsible for your father. Are these reasons substantial enough for you?”

Nodding her head, she conceded his points. “The estate is entailed. What shall I do, if,” she corrected herself, “when my father passes on? My freedom shall again be curtailed.”

“It seems to me you have two choices. You might use your growing wealth to establish a second home in London or the country, as you please, one that will always be your own. You might also choose to marry a man that pleases you. Not for his money, connections, or abilities to run an estate, mind you, but for love or mutual affection. If this union should bear a son, then you would insure that the manor estate stayed in the family.”

“It seems so simple. How had I not seen this possibility?”

“You knew not of your father’s faith in you, Cynthia. And, Cindy?”

“Yes?” she looked up at his caramel eyes, refocusing them upon the face in front of her.

“If you do remarry, marry for love and mutual respect. Do not marry a man you can bully. You shall grow bored again. Marry a man like your father, who can soften your sharp edges, as you protect his assets.”

“I will think on that, Charles. I suppose I should embrace my nature and invest myself in better pursuits. I shall meet with my father upon returning home, so that he might introduce me to the books.”

“Oh,” Charles responded dumbly, “Cynthia, your father hasn’t your head for figures. I thought you knew.”

“What do you mean? He has left the books to you, without so much as cursory monitoring?”

“Cynthia, your father cannot read numbers. He is dependent upon his estate manager and family to monitor his finances. It is essential that he have someone he can trust completely.”

“Why did I not know?”

“Perhaps he did not want you to feel confined to marry, based upon his need. He loves you and wishes only for your happiness.”

“It is clear, now, that I shall have to marry. I would like to marry. Now, I have an excuse to wed the man I love. I happen to be very much attached to my late husband’s man of business. He is gentry, fallen on hard times, forced to work for a living. He, of course, has no idea of my affections. I believe, and I am never wrong about these things, that he harbors a tendre for me. I shall renew our acquaintance.” She paused and her expression grew soft for a moment. “We would breed brilliant little lords and ladies, I believe.