The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) (19 page)

“You have compromised her,” Mrs. Bidding said, not one to mince words. “In her mother’s stead, I must demand that you do the honorable thing by her.”

Lucy’s eyes widened, and she gaped at Mrs. Bidding. Surely she was not suggesting the earl make an offer of marriage for her. Good gracious! Lucy could not expose Lord Drayson now or Mrs. Bidding would surely insist on a wedding.

Feeling an urgent need to protect Lord Drayson, Lucy forced her tone to remain calm. “Would you have my coachman propose, Mrs. Bidding? As much as I appreciate you for looking after me in Mother’s absence, I don’t believe she would be in favor of such an alliance.”

“I am your butler first, not coachman,” the earl inserted, as though that should help matters, which he knew perfectly well it wouldn’t.

“Your butler!” Mrs. Bidding had never looked so appalled. Her face became quite purple, which, oddly enough, had a relaxing effect on Lucy’s nerves. That, or the sight of the earl’s twitching lips. A serious situation suddenly became quite humorous, and Lucy had to battle the urge to laugh.

“You are a much better coachman than butler,” Lucy said to the earl, “so I think that is what you shall be from here on out.”

“Your mother hired a coachman?” Mrs. Bidding was obviously trying to make sense of the situation. “Why have I heard nothing of this until now?”

“I hired him,” said Lucy. “Or, to be more specific, Georgy and I found him injured in the road, so we took him in as any good Christian would do. When he awoke, he could not recall his name, so I made him our coachman while we waited for his memory to return. I could see no reason for all those fine muscles to go to waste.” Lucy quickly clamped her mouth shut, knowing she’d gone a trifle too far. It didn’t help that the earl’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

Mrs. Bidding’s eyes grew very round indeed. “Lucy, I want you to go inside and pack your trunk this instant. I am taking you home with me and posting a letter to your mother directly. As for you . . .” She glared at the earl, waiting for him to supply his name.

“Collins,” he answered, meeting Mrs. Bidding’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Collins,” she spat his name as though he were nothing more than a chimney sweep. “You shall leave this house immediately. I never want to see your person anywhere near Miss Beresford—or Askern—again. Have I made myself clear?”

The earl’s expression lost all of its humor. “Quite,” he said. Then, bowing to Lucy, he added, “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Beresford. I do hope we shall meet again one day.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” seethed Mrs. Bidding, taking Lucy by the arm and dragging her away.

Lucy panicked. The earl could not leave without knowing the truth. Where would he go? What would he do? When would his memory return? Lucy could not allow him to go away with no explanation, but what else could she do?

Lucy dug in her heels and attempted one last plea on the earl’s behalf. “Mrs. Bidding, if I am to go with you, surely Collins can be allowed to stay—at least until his memory or my mother returns. You cannot, in good conscience, turn him away when he is still in need of our help.”

“I can and I will,” she answered firmly. “He has helped himself to a great deal too much from you and has brought disgrace upon you and your family. If word of this gets out you will be ruined. Do you not see that? I can only hope my coachman has more honor than this man. He should be grateful I haven’t sent for the constable yet.”

“But—” Lucy thought frantically, not knowing what more she could do. Mrs. Bidding was dragging her toward the house again, lengthening the distance between Lucy and Lord Drayson. All too soon, she was pulled inside.

Georgina came out of the kitchen, her brows furrowed in concern. “Is summit the matter, Miss Lucy?” she asked.

Lucy snatched her arm from Mrs. Bidding’s, cast the woman a warning glance, and drew in a deep breath before facing her maid. “Will you help me pack my things, Georgy? It seems I am to go with Mrs. Bidding until Mama returns.”

Georgina nodded and followed her mistress up the stairs. Mrs. Bidding brought up the rear, standing on the threshold of Lucy’s bedchamber like a rigid sentinel while the two women packed. Lucy had hoped for a few minutes alone with her maid, but it was not to be.

With the help of Mrs. Bidding’s groom, the trunk was carried downstairs and mounted on the back of the waiting carriage. Lucy glanced at the stables, but the earl was no longer there. Before she climbed into the carriage and sacrificed her freedom, she threw her arms around Georgina in a dramatic show of goodbye and whispered in her ear, “Lord Drayson’s clothes and personal effects can be found in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe. Please see that he gets them and show him the way to Mr. Shepherd’s, would you? He can explain everything.” Georgina could explain as well, but Lucy did not wish to put that weighty responsibility on her sweet maid, not when Mr. Shepherd could do the job with greater ease and eloquence.

Georgina nodded, appearing relieved and yet worried as well. Lucy climbed into the carriage with heavy steps, praying everything would turn out all right. As the horses pulled Mrs. Bidding’s coach down the path, Lucy peered back at an empty stable yard with far too many regrets.

If only Lord Drayson hadn’t fallen from his horse. If only she hadn’t told that lie. If only her heart had remained locked tight.

The day following Lucy’s forced removal from her home, Mr. Shepherd sent a note to Lucy that read:

You may cease your fretting. All is well.

—Mr. Shepherd

Lucy frowned at the note. What did it mean, exactly? That Lord Drayson had finally been made aware of his true identity or that the Beresfords could remain in the dower house for the time being? Was Georgina busy packing while Lucy remained confined in this room?

For a scholar who loved to read lengthy works, Mr. Shepherd apparently didn’t enjoy writing detailed missives. It was no wonder he had never written a book of his own.

Lucy asked Mrs. Bidding if they could call on Mr. Shepherd so that she might question him further, but Mrs. Bidding would not allow it. Nor would she allow Lucy to write a letter in return.

“You are not to have any communications with anyone outside this home until your mother returns and can oversee them,” was the final word.

So Lucy had tossed Mr. Shepherd’s note into the fire and flopped down on her bed, feeling like a prisoner. Although the room Mrs. Bidding had deposited her in was grander than her own, Lucy despised the way it enshrouded her, cutting her off from the rest of the world.

Lucy was allowed to eat meals with the family and spend time in the drawing room with Mrs. Bidding, listening to lectures on proper etiquette while bettering her needlepoint and calligraphy skills, but Lucy preferred the silence of her bedchamber and remained there much of the time.

Three days into her imprisonment, Lucy was ready to escape out her window and scale down the stone wall. She had been studying the bumps and ridges beneath her window and had determined it would be possible, if not a tad dangerous, to do exactly that. So it was with great relief that she was summoned to the drawing room the morning of her fourth day. Her mother had finally arrived, and Lucy had never been so glad to see anyone.

The dark circles around Mrs. Beresford’s eyes showed her weariness, but her traveling dress and bonnet looked as though she’d only just put them on. Other than a few strands of mahogany hair escaping her neat bun, she was as put-together as always.

Apparently Mrs. Bidding had taken it upon herself to enlighten Mrs. Beresford about the deplorable behavior of her only daughter, for her expression was quite grim. Lucy tried not to be annoyed that she had not been allowed to do her own confessing. Mrs. Bidding did not know the half of it, and Lucy could only imagine the embellished—and undoubtedly disparaging—rendition her mother had been made to listen to.

Mrs. Beresford sat stiffly in an armchair looking thinner than she had when she left. She eyed her daughter sternly. “We shall talk when we get home, Lucille. Please thank Mrs. Bidding for looking after you and collect your things.”

Lucy obediently curtsied to her hostess. “Thank you, Mrs. Bidding. I shall be forever in your debt.” She hoped it sounded more sincere than it felt. Then she picked up her skirts and practically ran from the room. Her mother would undoubtedly impart many lectures of her own, but Lucy couldn’t deny that she was thrilled to go home.

Once they were seated in the carriage and moving in the direction of home, Lucy asked, “How is Aunt Beth and the new baby?”

Her mother sighed. “She finally gave birth to the boy they have desperately wanted and is healing nicely.”

“That’s happy news,” said Lucy, mustering her most cheerful tone.

“If only I could have arrived home to equally happy news.” Her mother eyed her with a look that said,
I had better like your version of events more than Mrs. Bidding’s, or you will find yourself locked in another tower.

Lucy swallowed and stared out the window, knowing her mother would not find much to like in Lucy’s version either. She felt every rut and bump during the long ride home. Georgina greeted them on the doorstep, helped to lug in Lucy’s trunk, and said she had some tea and scones ready if they would like some refreshment.

With her hand on the banister, Mrs. Beresford drew in a deep breath. “I should like to clean up first, Georgy. I need to cleanse my body and my mind before I partake of your wonderful tea with my daughter.”

Her daughter. Mrs. Beresford couldn’t even bring herself to use Lucy’s name.

“I’ll keep it warm for ya, Mrs. Beresford,” said Georgy. “Do ya need any assistance?”

“I can manage on my own, thank you.” Without even glancing at
her daughter
, Mrs. Beresford walked upstairs, her movements slow and heavy. Lucy felt immediately penitent. Her mother had spent nearly two weeks helping a sister in need, only to be greeted with worse troubles at home, and all because Mrs. Beresford had made the mistake of trusting her fully-grown daughter.

Lucy looked at Georgina in a solemn way. “Well, Georgy, it seems my plan to save us was an utter failure in every way. I should have listened to you.”

Georgina offered a look of sympathy, then nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen. “I baked a cake to celebrate your and Mrs. Beresford’s return. It’s been awful quiet ’round ’ere. Want a slice?”

Lucy answered with a forced smile of her own. “Is it lemon?”

“Is there any ovver kind?”

“If there is, there should not be.” Lucy’s smile felt more genuine now. “I would love a slice, Georgy. A big one.”

Georgina led the way, cutting Lucy a large slice and herself a small one when Lucy insisted she join her.

“Tell me what happened with Lord Drayson,” said Lucy, savoring the rich flavor of Georgina’s wonderful lemon cake while trying not to appear too anxious for news of the man.

Georgina frowned. “I don’t kna much. I gave ’im ’is things and showed ’im the path through the woods ter Mr. Shepherd’s. I ’aven’t seen ’im since. Is there any news from Knottin’ Tree?”

“Only a short note saying, ‘All is well.’”

“All is well?” Georgina asked. “Wot does ’e mean by that?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion,” said Lucy. “It is perplexing, is it not?”

Georgina nodded, appearing disappointed as well, and no wonder. Lord Drayson had become a friend to both of them, and Georgina had probably been as anxious for news as Lucy.

“As soon as I am able, I will pay a visit to Mr. Shepherd,” Lucy promised. “I take it you’ve received no notice of eviction as of yet?”

“Eviction?” said a voice from behind. “What on earth are you talking about, Lucy?”

Lucy’s body froze, and Georgina hopped up and began to clear away the dishes. “Would ya loike some cake wif your tea, Mrs. Beresford?” she asked, giving Lucy a few moments to compose herself.

Lucy’s mother ignored Georgina, directing a hard look at her daughter instead. “Lucy, it is time for you to explain yourself. I must know what has occurred in my absence.”

Lucy blew out a breath and nodded before slowly pushing herself to her feet. The positive effects of the lemon cake faded in an instant. The time for reckoning had come. “Let’s adjourn to the yellow room, Mother. Georgy can bring us some tea, and we can . . . talk.”

And talk they did. Seated in the room that had once been covered in ash and soot, Lucy told her mother all, beginning with the moment the earl had arrived on her doorstep and ending with the high-handed way Mrs. Bidding had carted her off, treating her like a misbehaving child. As with her rendition to Mr. Shepherd, the only elements Lucy kept to herself were the two kisses. One did not speak of such things to one’s mother, especially if one’s mother was the widow of a vicar.

“I know you will likely never trust me again, Mother, and I do not blame you, but . . . well, there are no buts, really. I simply appreciate that you listened to the full account. Mrs. Bidding did not ask, not that I would have told her if she had.”

Throughout it all, she had shown no sign of emotion, not even when Lucy had mentioned the fact that they would be without a home soon. Her mother had merely sat erect and sipped her tea. Her biscuits and slice of cake remained untouched on her plate.