Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (14 page)

Penelope
snorted and blew her nose. “I know running the Blackthorne estate is not fun.
And you don’t think it is either, so do not lie to me.”

“You love
being a duchess,” Celine hedged.

“I do, but only
because I am married to the duke. I appreciate your help, Celine, I truly do,
but I wish you could have some fun as well. You should be visiting the famous
London shops, gardens and theatres. If the duke was not so busy, I would have
insisted that he take you out.”

Celine
paused, “Well,” she began slowly, “perhaps I will take a long walk today. You
will be resting at four and I can use that time to stroll through the orchards.
The grounds here are lovely, and I haven’t had a chance to discover them yet.”

“Not just
today. You should go walking every single day. Get some fresh air. It will do
you good. Knowing you are getting a few hours just to yourself will make me
happy.”

Celine
nodded surprised at how things had neatly fallen into place. She could go hunting
for her poet with Lord Elmer every evening, and her naughty maid could easily
be bribed to say she had accompanied her on long walks instead. Now all she
needed was for Lord Elmer to appear and keep his promise.

The moment
Penelope waddled back to her room for her nap, Celine leaped off the chair and
raced outside. “Perkins, have your seen Lord Elmer anywhere?”

“I am
here,” George said from behind her.

She whirled
around, and the sight of him killed the question on her lips, “You are
drenched. Perkins, get some hot tea and something to eat for Lord Elmer.” She
turned to George, “I think you should go change, Lord Elmer. I will wait for
you here,” she said indicating the Blue Room.

He nodded
and with a loud miserable sneeze departed.

He arrived
just as the tea was brought in. She waited until he had finished a cup before
asking him, “Where were you?”

“I went to
a few stationary shops. I wanted to see if I could figure out where the paper
was procured from on which Hilbert wrote the poems—”

“Philbert.”

“Yes, him.
If I could learn where the paper was bought, then perhaps his location would be
easier to discover. He seemed to have used the same sort of stationary for all
his works. I gathered that he had taken a fancy to them. They are unusual—”

“Yes, with
the paisley print blue border. That is because he bought them at our local
stationary shop. Lord Elmer, I told you he left those letters on my doorstep.”

He scowled,
“Pardon me for trying to find Gilbert for you. I spent the entire day in the
rain sweet talking shop keepers for what has turned out to be no good reason.”

Celine
couldn’t help it, she laughed at his disgruntled face. “Next time just ask me
before rushing off. I may have the answer. You just have to ask the right
questions. Here, this cake is delicious. Have a slice.”

After being
stuffed with food, he looked happier.

She smiled
indulgently. Her father was the same, irritable when hungry.

He
swallowed the last bite and leaned back in his seat. “I wonder what he wrote in
those letters that your mother enthusiastically burnt to a crisp.”

“More
poems,” Celine said with certainty.

“What if he
wanted to call it all off? What if he wrote to tell you about how he had found
a beautiful miss who appreciated his rosy cheeks more than you ever could?”

“Or he
could have asked me to marry him.”

“The
proposal,” he said cheerfully, “would have arrived in the form of a painting, a
painting depicting roses and everlasting love, which you would have interpreted
as a portrait of Sir John Barleycorn. I think the two of you will run around in
everlasting circles destined never to hold hands.”

“Snicker
all you want. I think he would have stolen me away in a gilded carriage to
Gretna Green. No need for pretty words. He is a man of action.”

“You forget
his destitute state. He cannot afford a gilded carriage.”

“Fine, the
carriage is not gilded but covered with wild flowers that he has plucked all by
himself.”

“I see. He
arrives in this carriage covered with flowers looking like a complete sapskull
and then proceeds to climb the ivy—”

“The ivy
wouldn’t hold him. He is too fa—” She bit her tongue.

“Fat,” he
completed for her with a grin. “My dear, I doubt he is in some seedy inn
dreaming of your lovely brown locks and beautiful dark eyes. I think he is
selling bawdy songs, drinking tankards of ale and bouncing wenches on his
dimpled knees.” His eyes glazed and a faraway expression graced his features.
“That vision almost made me green with envy. Goodness, his blubber cheeks are
darned lucky … He was just kissed by the lusty barmaid.”

“He is not
being kissed by barmaids, Lord Elmer, because …” Here she paused.

“Because?”
he encouraged.

“I already
told you. He is not handsome.”

He looked
sceptical. “It is fashionable to say that so and so is not handsome and yet I
love him. Take the duke for instance. He wears a constant brooding expression,
and I have yet to see him smile. And my friend, a fellow called Lord Crawley
with his bushy eyebrows and scarred left cheek, is supposed to be positively
hideous. But you have women falling in love with these two men like besotted
flies falling into a honey pot because in all honesty these men are not ugly
but, in fact, handsome. Women just like to say they are ugly because women like
being obscure.”

“Philbert
looks like a short pig,” she said flatly.

A small
silence filled the room.

Finally he
cleared his throat and said, “I see now how you would not expect him to find a
woman. A piggish fellow who is an impoverished poet, and from his poetry I can
guess a highly morbid individual.” He paused to eye her sympathetically, “A fat
poet is in itself unnatural, but to add to that he is called Gilbert Goodbead.
Yes, I can see how you can be so certain he has not found anyone. You are an
odd sort of woman to fall for such an odd sort of man.”

“I admire
the man within. His heart is good.”

“His head
is definitely not good. His heart better be or I will begin to worry for you. I
think what you need is a poodle and not a poet. I suspect your maternal
instincts have taken over your otherwise rational brain—”

“Thank you,
Lord Elmer for trying to help,” Celine said standing up on trembling legs. “I
think I can take care of my life and my choices. Perhaps it is best that you do
not interfere any longer.”

“I have a
lead. A source tells me that he knows a man that knows where the poet may be.
The man, not the poet, can be found at the poet’s corner, and he is willing to
meet us to tell us more.”

Celine lost
her steam and collapsed back into the seat, “Truly?”

“Are you
ready to leave? I have the carriage waiting outside. We can go and find out
right this moment.”

“Now?” she
squeaked. “I don’t think I can. It is too soon. My dress …”

“You look
charming, my dear,” he said yanking her up by the elbow. “What is your maid’s
name?”

“Gwerful,”
she replied tugging her arm trying to escape him. “Why?”

He didn’t
reply. Instead, he addressed Perkins outside in the corridor. “Miss Fairweather
here wants to go for a walk. Please ask Gwerful to fetch a parasol. Anything
else?”

“My
reticule, but—”

“Reticule,
coat … and gloves? Right, gloves as well, Perkins, and ask her to bring
anything else she thinks her mistress will need on a long leisurely walk. That
is all.” His hold on her was gentle yet firm. “It is like drinking a nasty
tonic. The more you delay it, the more difficult it becomes to drink it. You
cannot spend too long thinking about it or you will lose your courage. We will
go, enquire and leave.”

“I have to
bring an abigail ….”

“We shall
bribe her and send her off to the stables to flirt.”

“Someone
may recognize me.”

“I have
purchased a veil for you which is currently lying in my pocket.”

“I am not
ready.”

“You don’t
have to meet him until you are ready. You can flatten your delightful nose on
the grimy inn window and ascertain that he has been found and then leave. At
least we will know where your poet is. I am starting to think that he is a
figment of your imagination, and that, my dear, is a blood curdling thought.”

Gwerful
came racing down the stairs and skidded to a halt.

Lord Elmer
plucked the things from her hand and expertly slipped a few coins into her
pleased palm. A finger to the lips was all the signal the highly philosophical
maid needed.

With a nod
she disappeared for the rest of the day.

“Put them
on in the carriage” he whispered to Celine. “We don’t have much time. The place
is a good half an hour away. We have to be back before dinner or someone will
come looking for you. We cannot have that.”

Celine
jammed the bonnet on her head, her hands busy tying the strings. Her mouth was
full of gloves so she could not answer.

The
carriage was well hidden behind a group of large fat trees huddled together
like gossiping old men.

“It is a
hired coach,” Lord Elmer informed her. “Don’t call me Lord Elmer. I told the
driver that my name is Mr Grey. Remember that.”

Celine was
speedily attaching the veil now. It was hard work without a mirror or a maid.

He stopped
and impatiently tilted her chin up. Quickly he clipped the veil to the rim of
her bonnet. “Beautiful. I cannot see even a bit of your face. Now you are Mrs
Grey.”

“I shall
not be Mrs Grey. I am Miss Brown.”

“Miss
Brown? A young unmarried lady off in a carriage with an unmarried male—”

“Fine, I am
Mrs Grey.”

The
triumphant slap of his cane on the ground was the only indication that he was
pleased with his victory.

Celine
rolled her eyes and entered the carriage.

Lord Elmer
rapped the carriage walls, and they were off on their very first adventure.

“Your
flashing eyes will soon fall upon the poet’s sweaty face. Are you afraid?”
George asked, draping a relaxed arm over the back of the seat.

Celine kept
her eyes glued to the scenery outside. She refused to answer him.

“Is your
heart throbbing? Are you thrilled? Is the vein in your forehead pulsing in
excitement?” George continued.

“Lord
Elmer,” she finally faced him, “My heart, as you say, is not throbbing, nor is
my vein pulsing or my eyes flashing. If you cannot help, then stay silent.”

“I want to
help.”

“My nerves
feel as if they are stretching under my skin trying to escape, and I fear at
any moment they will break free and run away.”

“I cannot
help.”

“Sing a
song,” she suggested, rubbing her temples.

“I cannot
sing unless I am foxed, but I can hum. I hum very well.”

“Please by
all means hum away.”

And George did
just that. He hummed away a delightful tune for the rest of the journey.

Half an
hour later the carriage halted outside the poet’s corner, which turned out to
be a seedy inn called ‘In the Soup’. It was a place where impoverished poets
met other impoverished poets to discuss the mediocrity of the poems written by
all the wealthy poets.

Celine
stepped out, her cold hands clasping Lord Elmer’s elbow in a painful grip. She
entered the inn on trembling legs ….

Ten minutes
later Celine walked back towards the carriage, her hands once more clasping
Lord Elmer’s elbow. This time the grip was even more painful.

“That was
an utter disaster,” she said through gritted teeth. “How could you forget that
his name is Philbert Woodbead and not Gilbert Goodbead? I thought you were
pretending to mix up his name every time you spoke to me because you derived
some childish pleasure in doing so. And I cannot believe that in this world a
man truly exists by the name of Gilbert Goodbead. If I didn’t know better, I
would be convinced you set that whole thing up.”

“I confess,
I am not good at remembering names.”

“You
remember Amy without any difficulty.”

“I don’t
have trouble recalling names of beautiful women. Just men.”

Celine
tensed, her heart skipping a beat.

She asked
with a quiver in her voice, “You think I am beautiful?”

“Stunning
when angry,” he replied banging the carriage door shut.

The answer
had come too quick.

She tossed
her head in annoyance and her eyes fell on the window.

She froze.

A small,
wrinkled head with a missing tooth was peering into the carriage.

Her mouth
dropped open, the skeletal face making her flesh creep.

She
remained entranced unable to move as she watched the stranger examine the back
of George’s curly head.

It was her
heart that started up first.

It gave a
weak flutter, and when that didn’t get any reaction from her brain, it began
banging away in her chest with all its might.

A small
mewling sound escaped her.

George
jerked his head around to see what the matter was. He raised an eyebrow at her
green face.

She
swallowed and then ever so slowly poked him in the shoulder and pointed at the
face outside the window.

George
scrutinised the face.

His worried
countenance underwent a rapid change. A series of emotions paraded across his
features until he settled on blooming cheeriness.

“How are
you old Tim?” he exclaimed in delight.

Tim
grinned, showing two more missing teeth. “Arr,” he said and raised his arms.

George
stopped smiling.

Celine
snuffled.

And the very
air in the carriage stopped swishing around momentarily, for Tim held a bow
with the arrow aimed right at George’s aristocratic nose.

George’s
nose was now the centre of attention.

Everyone
focused their attention on this beautifully shaped nose. Even George stared at
it in a cross-eyed fashion.

The nose
unused to such consideration started to itch.

George did
not dare to move and scratch that itch.

Oh, how it
itched.

And while
George’s nose was itching, Celine’s nose also started itching. Itches are like
that, the mere thought of itches makes everyone itch. Hence, now even Tim was
itchy but on his back and not his nose. It is another one of those
idiosyncrasies of itches. Itches like to travel through air and around the
body.

Tim’s hand
started to sweat and tremble as he tried to forget about his itchy back, the
arrow quivering in his grip.

Celine
clutched her skirts and thought of England.

George was
doing remarkably well. He almost forgot about his need to claw at his face and
scratch that blasted itchy spot but, alas, his nose that everyone had almost
forgotten about gave up the valiant battle and it … twitched.

Tim snapped
to attention and drew back the arrow.

George
ducked.

The arrow
hit the unlit lantern hanging on a hook with a clang.

Celine’s breath
whooshed out in relief and George rapped the walls.

Tim placed
another arrow in the bow and took aim.

Celine’s
breath was once again caught in her throat.

The
carriage gave a lurch and Tim released the arrow.

Hearts
froze.

The
carriage started rolling.

Tim’s arrow
flew in from one window and out the other taking with it a single ostrich
feather.

George’s
nose lived to smell another day, and hearts and lungs eagerly went back to work
once more.

***

Sitting at
the bottom of the carriage Celine asked, “Who was that?”

“One Legged
Tim. He was on the pirate ship. The same ship I stole the recipe from. This is
a disaster. He has found out that I am still in London.”

“That story
was true?”

“You
doubted my word?”

“It is hard
to tell when you are being honest and when jesting.” After a moment, she asked,
“Did he want to kill you?”

He shook
his head, “No, he wanted to discuss how lovely the weather was and then he
invited me to a ball. He went on to ask me to save a dance for him. Shall I
wear my white silk French gown with touches of amber lace, ribbons and silver
buttons?”

“Yes, you
will look delightful. I will even lend you my maid. She is a genius with
hairdos,” Celine grinned.

“I will
look pretty with a bow stuck in my curls, won’t I?” he asked, turning his
profile for her to admire.

She
admired, blushed and fell silent.

He caught
the blush. His eyes gleamed. “Handsome am I?” he asked raising a brow.

She ignored
his mirth and instead asked in a serious tone, “Do you think Tim will follow
us? Wouldn’t that put Penelope in danger?”

“No, I had
already planned for such a situation. Nithercott is up front with the driver.
He would have bribed the driver by now, and we should be taking a slight
detour. Hopefully will lose him on the way.” He took a quick look outside the
window, “We are definitely being followed, and it appears there are more of
them.” He turned back around to find Celine rummaging around in her reticule.

He watched
her for a whole minute before asking reverently, “Celine, are you knitting?”

“An
accomplished lady is never idle.
Mrs Beatle’s book for accomplished English
ladies
has three whole chapters on it.”

“Yes, but
we are hurtling away in a carriage being chased by blood thirsty pirates. I am not
sure if knitting is the appropriate occupation at such a time.”

She
finished counting the stiches and looked up. “A lady must use her superior
talents for the greater good. If I die, then at least I would have died making
a bootee for some poor orphan child.”

“Your entry
into heaven is guaranteed. Clever, very clever.”

She moved
on to a purl stitch, “What else am I supposed to do? This could take an hour. I
cannot drive the carriage, and sitting here trembling like a leaf, stomach
churning, cold with dread will do no good.”

He stared
at her in awe, “I am slowly understanding why the duchess says that you are a
sensible sort of a creature.”

After that,
for the next forty minutes Lord Elmer sat plotting escape routes and bargaining
with the almighty for his life.

Celine,
during the same time, managed to do something more constructive. She finished
making a green bootee and tied the final knot. When she looked up next, it was
to find that the carriage had slowed down.

“Lucky
day,” Nithercott shouted back into the carriage. “It was only old Tim and two
of his cronies. We lost him easily enough, my lord.”

Celine
stuffed her knitting back into her reticule, “Good, we shall be home in time
for dinner.”

Lord Elmer
smiled weakly and whispered, “Remarkable”.

Twice.

And that
for some reason made her feel ridiculously pleased.

“Is
everything alright, Penny?” Celine asked.

Penelope
swallowed the porridge and said, “No, this morning the duke and I had an
argument.”

Celine made
the usual comforting noises.

Penelope
took those noises as encouragement to proceed. “We fought about the fact that
he is keeping a mistress.”

Celine spat
out the coffee. “I am so sorry. I never would have imagined. He seems so in
love.”

The duke slammed
the fork down. “I am here. Please don’t talk as if I have left the room. And I
am not having an affair.”

“I saw
you,” Penelope growled.

Celine
frowned in confusion. Penny had her meals in the dining room and slept in the
Yellow Room. The duke was not likely to romance a woman on this very floor.
Surely he was smarter than that. He could have taken his mistress to the
stables ….

The duke
closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. “Penny, your sister is
glaring at me. Can you quickly tell her where you saw me and with whom? I am
afraid Celine is very close to poking my eye out with the butter knife.”

“I saw him
with Lady Lydia. The one he was engaged to before our marriage. The same Lady
Lydia that creates frozen droplets on the tips of my hair every time she
speaks. They were kissing,” Penelope announced.

“Terrible,
and here your wife is carrying your child. Insensitive I say,” George piped up.

Celine
dropped the butter knife and took hold of Penelope’s hand in concern. “Penny,
are you alright? Lydia has not entered this mansion, at least not while I have
been here.”

“She did
too. In my dreams. I saw him kiss her and then we argued.” Penelope insisted.

Celine
gaped, “You mean you are stewing because the duke had an affair and argued with
you in your dream. All this happened in your head and you know this, and yet
you are angry with him? I don’t understand.”

The duke
dabbed his mouth and stood up. He went around the table and soundly kissed his
wife. “You can argue with me some more in your head, my love. I am afraid I
have work to do and I cannot participate. But my dream self is all yours. Do
what you like with him.”

Penny’s
mouth trembled watching him leave. She picked up the jam pot and flung it at
the door. “I hate him.”

“No you
don’t, you love him,” Celine said smiling.

Penelope’s
head turned in her direction.

The teapot
was lying very close to Penelope. Her hand inched towards the pot, but before
she had reached it both Lord Elmer and Celine disappeared from the room.

***

“It is a
lovely day,” Celine said strolling down the garden path. She carefully
circumvented the statue of a smiling Phoebe with a half-moon crown on her head.
Sir Henry in his younger days had commissioned the marble statue for guests
that particularly annoyed him. It was engineered in such a way that whenever
someone walked under it, they triggered a hidden mechanism that caused jets of
water to gush out of the crown of the statue instantly drenching the
unsuspecting creature.

“Blast,”
Lord Elmer exclaimed, “I am drenched. Did you know this bloody thing was a
fountain in disguise?”

“No,”
Celine replied, batting her lashes innocently.

He smiled,
“I wish I could understand you. Are you a sensible girl who refuses to be
called by a sensible name like Amy, a good girl with sparks of mischief, a
delicate young thing who barely blinks at the sign of danger, or a
well-mannered young lady who has had the audacity to fall in love with a fat
poet called Cuthbert. You, my dear Amy, are a contradiction.”