Lord Clayborne's Fancy (19 page)

He distractedly ran a hand through his carefully combed hair and paced about the room, lifting an object here and there only to replace it again. “You could stay at Gray Oaks and I would live on one of the other estates, if you wish to live apart from me.”

“No, for Gray Oaks is your home and I will not deprive you of it. I do not wish to go to Farthington Hall, either, for I would simply be an embarrassment to my parents. Frankly, I doubt they would allow it. No, I must have an establishment of my own and be independent there.”

“And why should I pay for on establishment of yours when I have a home to offer you right here?” he asked bitterly.

“I have not asked you to pay for it, and I do not intend to. My allowance will be sufficient, I assure you. I do not intend more than a modest cottage, you understand.”

“And what of your stable?” he retorted.

“We have not discussed that. Constance was so struck by the idea that she spoke without thinking. Perhaps with her grandmother’s inheritance she will even be able to keep a horse. I’m sure I don’t know.”

“And you? Shall you not miss your rides?”

“It is a sacrifice I am willing to make,” she answered softly.

“I take it no sacrifice is too great to be away from me.”

“Please don’t distress yourself, Jason. Perhaps my allowance will even run to keeping a horse.”

“And where is this cottage you are to let?”

“I have not as yet found one. And when I do I think I should prefer that you didn’t know where it was.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will be better if we break all ties. Perhaps you could yet get an annulment. You spoke of it once,” she reminded him, paling at the memory of that scene.

“I was angry then.”

“You are angry still. I would consider it, Jason, for though it would cause some talk, you would be able to remarry and have a family to inherit Gray Oaks.”

“I will not consider it!”

“Please yourself. I shall not stand in your way.”

Clayborne angrily clenched and unclenched his hands. He finally blurted in desperation, “Was it this Thomas Burns? Only admit it, Rebecca, and I will never say another word!”

Rebecca’s eyes blazed with an anger he had never seen there before. Her cheeks burned with color and her bosom heaved beneath the light night dress. “Leave my room this instant, Clayborne, and do not enter it again.”

“Forgive me! I should not have asked you that, but I needed to know,” he said, his eyes distraught and his face pale.

“Get out!”

With a helpless gesture he strode from the room. It was many hours before he slept that night, uselessly calling himself a clumsy, stupid idiot, amongst other choice names he had picked up in his rambunctious youth.

He arose early, totally unrefreshed and with shadows about his eyes. An early ride brought him no peace of mind, nor did the news that Rebecca planned an excursion to Chichester with Miss Exton. The party expanded to include George, who some days before had been promised the treat of seeing the toys in a shop there, and his father decided to join them as well. Meg and Mary had plans of their own, and Miss Turnpeck, though she did not admit it, was in the middle of a novel she did not wish to be parted from for even a few hours.

Rebecca began the journey cheerfully enough, though Constance did not miss the drawn look about her face. Soon, however, Rebecca became inattentive, preoccupied with the previous night’s exchange with Clayborne, and it was left to Constance to maintain a conversation with Mott and answer George’s questions.

When they reached town Rebecca instructed the coachman to let them down at a shop in which George would be interested and excused herself on some private business. Mott watched perplexedly as she walked down the street, and Constance bustled George into the shop so that his father would follow. Soon intrigued by a set of wooden blocks on display, George was torn between them and a wooden soldier with arms that moved. While he was deciding Constance asked to see some ribbons and took an inordinate amount of time to choose between the yellow cross-grain and the lemon silk.

Eventually Rebecca joined them; nothing was said of her mission while they ambled into shops and procured items from Mrs. Lambert’s list. When they stopped for refreshment at the local inn, Constance again assumed the role of hostess, as Rebecca tended to look startled when someone addressed her.

“George is becoming rather proficient at riding, Mr. Mott. Perhaps you will want to ride out with him and Mary this afternoon,” Constance suggested.

“Would you, Papa? You will see that Bessie is quite a goer,” George said proudly. “I have learned to make her go whichever way I want, and Miss Mary is teaching me to stop her without being hard on her mouth,” he explained knowledgeably.

“I am eager to see your progress, George, but we shall have to ask Miss Mary if she’s free.”

“Oh, she shall be. She rides with me every afternoon for an hour or so.”

“Would you accompany us, too?” Mott asked Rebecca and Constance.

Rebecca did not hear the question, so Constance smiled and said, “I would be pleased to, but I cannot answer for Rebecca, and I fear she is unaware of the invitation.”

Mott laughed, his smile banishing the sadness from his eyes, as it did when he regarded his son. “We shall ask her again later.”

Unaware of this exchange, Rebecca came out of her abstraction to suggest that they be on their way home, though she had barely touched her tea and biscuits. Mott and Constance shared a rueful grin, agreed and helped George to pack away his toys from the table. When they reached Gray Oaks, Rebecca asked Constance to join her in the small parlor.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” Constance asked in exasperation. “Mr. Mott must have found you very uncivil, for you were completely unaware of all the stimulating conversation he provided us on the return journey.”

“Did he? He seems quite a pleasant man, don’t you think? I shall try to make amends for my inattention later on.       I’m sorry.”

“Where did you go this morning? Or am I not to know?” Constance quizzed her.

“No, that’s why I brought you here. I have decided that the quickest way for us to obtain a cottage in the Cotswolds is to retain the estate agent in Chichester to look into the matter for us, and he has agreed to do so.”

“Is there some hurry, Rebecca?” Constance asked unhappily.

“I have told Clayborne of our plans and I am sure it would be best to carry them out as soon as possible. The estate agent says it will be a matter of a week or so before he can get back to me, though. He’ll go to Gloucester himself. It will cost a bit more, but it will be faster this way.

“It’s my fault. I should have been more careful of my tongue at dinner.”

“Do not blame yourself. He would have known sooner or later.”

“Was he very angry, Rebecca?”

“I suppose so. It led to some hasty words I am sure he regrets. But they merely point to the impossibility of the situation.” She twisted her hat in her hands. “Don’t look so troubled, Constance. It will be better for both of us if I go. Now I must see Mrs. Lambert for a moment.”

Constance remained in the small parlor for a while before joining Meg and Miss Turnpeck for a walk in the topiary. Rebecca, on her way to the housekeeper, was so absorbed in thought that she literally ran into Clayborne coming out of his study. He steadied her with a hand on her arm and stayed her when she made a move to pass him, firmly propelling her into the study. “I wish to apologize for my... rash words last evening. I beg you will disregard them,” he asked anxiously.

“Of course. I do not wish to speak of it again. May I be excused?”

Clayborne regarded her bowed head for a moment, before lifting, her chin with his finger and forcing her to look at him. “I seem to cause you nothing but pain, Rebecca. Believe me, it is not my intention. You must do what will make you happy. I shall supplement your allowance so that you may live more comfortably and maintain Firely at your cottage.” He stooped and gently kissed her brow.

Rebecca gulped back a sob, whispered, “Thank you, Jason,” and fled the room.

Chapter Fourteen

Mary was delighted to show Mott her pupil’s progress, and joined the riding party with alacrity. She engaged Mott in an intelligent conversation on both horses and the appropriate stages of learning to ride. Bouncing along on his fat pony, George exhibited his ability to make Bessie do everything but stop gracefully.

While his father complimented him and suggested some pointers, Mary and Constance took the opportunity to race to an old oak; Mary won easily but assured her companion that she had a fine seat indeed for one who was not overmuch around horses.

“I was raised around them, you know, and Charles has a fine stable, though I could wish to be able to use it more often. Rebecca has been telling me that you’re learning to drive a pair and are coming along well,” Constance remarked.

“It’s really bang-up fun. But if I were a man I should learn to drive four-in-hand and I would be a stagecoach driver,” she proclaimed. “It’s too bad to be a female for there are so many things I should like to do which I cannot. Did Rebecca tell you of our adventure in London?” Mary asked, her eyes sparkling.

“No,” Constance laughed, “and you had better not either. If it was something I should know I am sure she would have told me!”

“Well, ask her just in case. I would never tell Meg, of course, but you’re not poor-spirited as she is, always so proper and meek.”

When Mott and George joined them she rode ahead with Mott, laughing and at ease, telling him of her early experiences on horseback and the havoc she had wreaked at Farthington Hall.

“For there was not a decent riding horse in the whole stable, since Papa had forbidden us the hunters. I did occasionally bribe a groom to let me ride one, though I was too young to handle them. I’m sure I could manage now, of course, but Papa has threatened any groom with dismissal who allows me on one of his hunters. It’s too provoking.”

Mott laughed and expressed his sympathy. “I’m sure you find Jason’s stables much more interesting.”

“Oh, yes, for Jason has a marvelous eye for horses. Have you seen Rebecca’s Firely? Quite a prime goer she is, and Rebecca says I may ride her as often as I please. I had her out this morning while you were in Chichester. I don’t understand how you can bear to be shut up in a carriage for such a ride!”

“It is trying indeed,” he agreed with a grin. “I hear you’ve been learning to drive a pair. My wife Caroline was taught by her brother and she could drive to an inch. I understand Jason has been teaching you as well.”

“Several times he has allowed me to drive that splendid pair of his, though I doubt I could do so when they were fresh,” she admitted. “No doubt it will come to me in time, for he says I’m better already.”

Mott smiled at her and assured her he did not doubt it. “Shall you be staying long at Gray Oaks?”

“As to that, I’m not sure. Meg is getting lonely for her Will and talks of going home in a week or so, but I had rather stay, you know. Turnip is a dreadful bore.”

“Turnip?”

“Miss Turnpeck, our governess. She will prose on and on about my ‘Willful Ways’ until I cannot bear to be in the same room with her. And although Meg does not say anything, she is forever looking shocked at me. You see, I do not do needlework or play an instrument or care if the linens are stored in a properly dry place. I cannot watercolor and learning stuffy old historical facts bores me. I can sing, though, and when we all sing together—Becka, Meg and I—it’s rather fun.”

“I hope we shall hear you sing one evening then,” he urged, and turned in his saddle to question Constance.

“Do you sing, too? I’ve not enjoyed a musical evening for some time.”

“We shall have to make up for that. I do sing and Meg is delightful on the pianoforte. Perhaps this evening we could have our own little concert, Mary.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she allowed. “You play the harpsichord, don’t you, Constance?”

“Yes,” she laughed, “but it did not seem necessary to bring it to Gray Oaks.”

“I have a horn,” George piped in. “And I have it with me. Can I play with you?”

“For a short while perhaps, George,” his father granted, “if we have our concert directly after dinner. Then it will be your bedtime.”

“Do you suppose Miss Mary sings like an angel, too?” George whispered to his father, quite loud enough for the others to hear.

“I have no doubt of it,” Mott chuckled.

When Meg and Rebecca were advised of the proposed musical evening they set about selecting pieces which would be most enjoyable, and kindly vetoed Miss Turnpeck’s suggestions, as they inclined to heavy, lengthy numbers.

Mary made a discovery of her own from Clayborne, and went off to the attic on a dusty hunt, returning triumphantly with several footmen in tow who carried a beautiful if slightly dirty harpsichord. “His mother played it,” she explained, “and I have found a toy drum for George as well, though perhaps I should not give it to him or we shall never hear the end of it!”

This concern notwithstanding, George was brought into the Blue Saloon and instructed in the proper use of the drum to accompany the ladies in their songs. While Constance tuned and requilled the harpsichord, George ran off to find his horn, which he returned tooting gleefully. He was rather cast down when the ladies advised him that it was not acceptable to play the drum and the horn at the same time, but he overcame his disappointment and trotted off to the nursery for his dinner, elated at the prospect of an evening with the adults.

After dinner the party assembled in the Blue Saloon in good spirits, and the entertainment proceeded. Little George pounded out a pronounced beat on his drum while the ladies all sang some of Thomas Moore’s recent verses. After accompanying them for another two songs, the boy was whisked off to bed, tired but happy as he assured them in a sleepy voice that Miss Mary did indeed sing like an angel.

In an effort to promote harmony between her host and hostess, Constance urged them to sing a duet, a gay little melody in which his baritone set off her soprano nicely. Even Mott agreed to sing with Mary and Constance, though he insisted he had not sung for years. The ladies chose the hauntingly beautiful “Robin Adair,” which Clayborne remembered his sister Caroline had sung; he watched Mott for any sign of reluctance or withdrawal, but could see none. Mott joined in with evident enjoyment, perhaps even relief. After that Constance played a Scarlatti sonata so brilliantly they were left spellbound. There was a pause when she finished, then they broke into spontaneous applause, and she flushed happily.