Second Season (12 page)

“Yes, I must agree,” Lady Stanwood said slowly, “but for his sake rather than Emily. I thought him a pleasant riding companion for you. Your father finds him conversable, we know him to be lonely with his relatives. Mrs. Ixton is deeply grateful that he has some young society—but I am sorry for it. It was not kind to be exposing him to the unattainable.”

“It’s even less kind to expose Emily.”

Here Lady Stanwood differed. “Do not be matchmaking, Charlotte. It never answers,” she warned, “and often addles a hatching egg. If his grace has an interest, nothing could more certainly delay his declaration than a suspicion that it is expected ... and if Emily’s heart is touched by anyone at the moment, it is more than I engage for, I assure you! You may safely leave Emily’s matrimonial future in the hands of her parents.”

Sharlie winced and hung her head—exaggeratedly. “Oh, WHAT a set-down,” she mourned. “What a complete hand you are, mama!”

“That,” said Lady Stanwood austerely, “is a whisker!”

Nevertheless she was perturbed, and the outing at Bascombe increased her alarm.

The Duke of Imbrie’s guests left London at ten in the morning by Lady Inverclyde’s dictate. “I’ve no mind to drive out, turn around and drive back,” she stated. “I will start at ten, and if there’s anyone too finicking to eat her breakfast at nine-thirty, she’ll find herself left at the post.”

It was a goodly company that set forth on Monday with her ladyship’s postillion blowing up for the toll at Reisgate before the turn to the Sevenoaks road. With little traffic to interfere at such an hour, the coaches moved along at a spanking pace and were entering the grounds of Bascombe by half after eleven. Sharlie looked about eagerly, admiring the stately elms fining the curved drive and exclaiming at the glimpses of flowers and rolling park land. A stream meandered through an oak woods in the most natural manner possible, with a wide shady walk following along beyond mossy banks. “How lovely it is!”

“Yes, I consider this the most charming of Imbrie’s properties. Rickaby is too far out of the way, and Calydon Towers,” Mr. Brummell shuddered delicately, “there can be no more uncomfortable pile in all England! Scotland, perhaps—but nowhere in England.”

“Of course—I had forgot, but you must often have been coming here.”

“In college days,” the Beau nodded, “but it must be quite seven years since I’ve seen the place. It is not vast, Miss Stanwood. What one sees is nearly all there is; the rest is farmland, although I believe that is fairly extensive. The house is comfortable, but too small for permanent residence. You will get the full view when we top this rise, if I remember correctly. Yes,” reining in while the carriages were making their way forward, “now you have a perspective.”

From their position, the building was seen to be snugly placed in a slight dip, surrounded by modest lawns and somewhat confined by the nearness of the stream. It was of Tudor design, well hung with ivy that was trimmed away from the windows, and Charlotte judged there could not be more than ten chambers, if so many. They would be disastrously low-ceilinged, too. “What a pity,” she said regretfully. “It is quite charming, and so conveniently placed with respect to London, but to remodel or enlarge would be a monumental task. All the stables and succession houses would have to be moved, and there is the question of whether that would even be possible because of the rocky outcrops.”

“The stream prevents expansion to the side, too, and an attempt to divert into a new channel is not like to succeed. Water is stubbornly determined to go where it will, particularly here. As you see, it runs extremely free; it probably rises in higher ground. Yet it would be a pity to dam it entirely, for the stream is quite half the beauty of the place. Do you not agree?”

“Absolutely.” Mr. Brummell eyed her inscrutably. “You speak very authoritatively. I collect you are well versed in country matters?”

Charlotte colored faintly. “Must I confess? My father entrusts most of the small estate details to me. It relieves the bailiff of petty problems, and I enjoy it. I fear I am a milkmaid at heart, Mr. Brummell,” she said valiantly, “and you are at liberty to despise me.”

“On the contrary, I applaud your competence,” he returned gravely. “I wish I shared it, for the proper management of land is always praiseworthy. Unfortunately, the opportunity has not come in my way. You see, I have no estates.” He rose slightly in his stirrups and gestured with his crop. “Our host is waiting to welcome us, looking anxious.”

Julian was indeed anxious when he’d bowed formally over the feminine hands extended by one after another of his guests, and turned them over to Mrs. Witchett for removal of cloaks and bonnets, while the carriages drew away to the stableyard. By the time Lady Stanwood was descending, his grace merely sketched his bow before asking, “Miss Stanwood is not with your ladyship?”

“She chose to ride with Mr. Brummell. I fancy they may have stopped to admire the prospect,” Lady Stanwood said with outward placidity and inward glee.
Hah, I was right: it’s Sharlie he wants.
She was confirmed by the duke’s quick glance to the road, the untensing of his shoulders at Mr. Brummell’s wave. He certainly smiled as he bent over Emily’s hand, but nothing indicated more than kindliness. His grace was entirely willing to relinquish her to Eustace and Viscount Pelham, who had flagrantly abandoned Lady Jersey in favor of hastening to Miss Emily’s other elbow. She was looking quite distractingly pretty, too, in a flowered muslin the color of wild hedge roses—but the duke’s eyes were turned to Sharlie, cantering forward with the Beau beside her.

For Julian, the day began at that moment. The demands of a good host made it impossible to stay for long at her side, but as he moved around among his guests he was conscious of contentment. However ill-assorted they might have seemed at the outset, the company blended swiftly with the local families. The older ladies were comfortably established beneath shady trees; their husbands paid ponderous compliments to Lady Jersey, who flirted outrageously with all of them, and after five minutes of shyness, Miss Emily was absorbed into the schoolroom group, “where she belongs,” his grace said to himself amusedly, noting the bewilderment of Eustace and the Viscount.

“All the same, I never liked her so well as today,” he told the Beau privately. “You see? She’s an Incomparable, she’s two attentive beaux from London beside the eagle eye of Mr. Brummell—but does she care what you might say to the
ton?
Not a fig!”

“Neither does her sister,” but the duke had turned away to Princess Esterhazy without hearing, and the Beau continued to stroll from group to group with lazy politeness. It was far removed from his usual taste in social gatherings: bucolic squires and florid-faced knights, over-plump wives and adolescents in all the agony of ill-tied cravats. There was even—good God!—the vicar and his helpmeet, but Mr. Brummell found more interest in Julian’s “divertissement” than anticipated.

He was not the only one to observe how frequently his grace had a smile or a word for Miss Stanwood.

Julian’s unobtrusive but expert removal of Sharlie while the guests were engaged with digestion of Mrs. Witchett’s monumental luncheon was not lost on Lady Inverclyde. “Where’s he takin’ Sharlie?” she demanded abruptly.

“To the greenhouses, I fancy. I collect there are exotic plants from his travels which he promised to show her,” Lady Stanwood returned composedly.

Lady Inverclyde watched their disappearance into the conservatories in silence. “Hmmm, she’s a good girl. I like her. Think she’ll get him?”

There was never any use in feinting with Lady Inverclyde. “I’ve no idea, although I believe it to be not in her mind,” Lady Stanwood looked squarely at the old lady, “and I beg you will not suggest it to her, Flora.”

Lady Inverclyde stared a bit haughtily, and suddenly cackled. “Lud, I’d not stir the omelet, Nelly. You know me better.” Her face became reflective. “It’d be a good thing, Nelly,” she said after a few minutes. “There’s sound blood in you and Robert, she’s got a respectable dowry—not that Imbrie lacks money. It’s time he stopped wandering. Yes,” with a decided nod, “I hope you pull it off.”

“I am not trying.”

“Let nature take its course?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph! What’ll you do with the other one? I suppose you’ve had offers?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Lady Stanwood shrugged. “Robert considers her too young to settle this season, unless she should show a decided preference. So far she has not.”

“She never will, she’s a pea-goose, Nelly. Get rid of her as soon as you can,” Lady Inverclyde stated.

“Sharlie, now—if Imbrie don’t come up to scratch, she’ll hold for another year or two, and be twice as well worth a major title. She’s young enough to gamble on how she matures. I suppose she’s shown no preference?”

Lady Stanwood shook her head. “I sometimes think, with only a twelvemonth between her and Geoffrey—that is, they were more close than the others. It causes her to treat young men ... not that Charlotte ever passes the bounds of propriety,” she inserted hastily.

“No, but she ain’t coquettish, either, Nelly. Well, I won’t say that mightn’t be the very thing to catch Imbrie.”

His grace was not thinking quite so analytically in the tour of the conservatories, but he did find it rewarding. Miss Stanwood lost no time in getting on terms with Cargill. Before the duke’s incredulous eyes, she had twined the dour Scot around her finger and was briskly discussing the merits of chicken versus cow droppings for plant feeding! This was a completely new and different Miss Stanwood from any Julian had hitherto encountered. Wandering through his succession houses in Sharlie’s wake, Julian thought that
if
he were not so content with bachelordom, he might be in danger of succumbing to her pretty spontaneity.

She had forgotten him entirely, he thought with wry amusement. He was merely the owner of these superb greenhouses, with a gardener from whom she could learn. Occasionally she threw a comment over her shoulder, as one might toss a titbit to a pet ... but each attested her memory, her interest in what he’d told of his travels. “Are these the orchids from Mexico or from Brazil, Duke?” or “The red blossoms—are they the jasmine or the hibiscus?” It was very disarming,
but began
to be tiresome. Apparently Sharlie meant to examine each individual plant in all four of the houses, and the duke owed attention to his other guests. “If you would excuse me, Miss Stanwood? You’re in expert hands with Cargill, and I should see that all is well with the rest of the party.”

“Yes, of course,” she said absently. “You must not be lingering here. I am persuaded you are bored already, and Cargill can tell me all I want to know.”

“I am sure he can—and will.” Julian’s lips twitched at her dismissal. “Cargill, you will give Miss Stanwood whatever she fancies, and perhaps,” he added courteously, “when you have completed this inspection, you may like to ride a short way along the fields and pasturage? I will return in a while.”

“That would be delightful,” her voice was still absent. “What is that odd purple-leaved plant on the farther bench, Cargill?”

Sic transit opulens,
Julian said to himself as he closed the conservatory door. He was torn between faint annoyance to be so expendable to Miss Stanwood—any other young lady would have been flattered and fluttered to be personally escorted by Imbrie—and an amused admiration for her single-mindedness. Striding back to the lawn, he encountered the Beau.

“Why the heavy frown? Don’t tell me you’ve received a set-down?”

“No, no, for I didn’t ask anything,” Julian replied impatiently. “Merely—oh, devil take it,” he snorted ruefully, “I did! Miss Stanwood prefers my gardener, if you please, and is not at all heart-thumped to be asked to ride out for a view of the pasturage.”

“Oh, a decided leveller!” Brummell drawled. “Well, it is a successful outing, Julian. Everybody likes everybody else. The children have gone down the lane in search of wild strawberries and daisies. Sally and the Princess are ruralizing with your local bucks on the paths beside the stream, the other ladies are gossiping comfortably on the woodland benches, and Lady Inverclyde is enjoying a cat nap with her odious pug snoring in the grass at her feet.”

“We won’t disturb her.” Julian led the Beau on a circuitous route to reach the bridge across the stream. After a half hour of courtesies, he thought Sharlie must have exhausted the possibilities of the greenhouses, and turned back. “George, will you come with us?”

“Good God, no! And for the Lord’s sake, don’t overtire her horse. We’ve still to get back to London.”

“I’ll mount her on one of mine.”

He had timed it perfectly, Sharlie was just taking leave of Cargill and turned to Julian with sparkling eyes. “Have I teased you by delay? But it was so delightful, I could not bear to cut short. Besides, now I shall appreciate a ride the more for being able to observe Cargill’s new strain of wheat—and I hope you will not mind?” she looked at him hopefully, “but Cargill means to send us some for a trial. We are not certain it will do as well at Stanbury because of the different climate, but MacLean will like to experiment.” “Of course you may have it,” Julian smiled. “I see you have completely conquered Cargill, which is no mean achievement.”

“I’m fully sensible,” she laughed, “but there is a peculiar fraternity among
gardeners,
as opposed to competitors. I daresay he would not mention his wheat to MacLean, nor give him so much as a mignonette seed, but when he saw I was knowledgeable, all was different ... and if Cargill’s wheat survives in Northhamptonshire, he will be odiously above himself, I promise you!”