The Last of Lady Lansdown (10 page)

Jane burst into laughter. “Granny, how could anyone ignore you?”

“Cartland didn’t. That’s why I like the man.”

“He has a terrible reputation.”

“That’s another thing wrong with our society. You need to judge for yourself, not go by what others think.”

First Douglas, now Granny. This was the second time today the society in which she lived had been insulted. Maybe they were right. She would give it more thought later, when she had time. “I told you what I think. In another week or two, when I know I’m not with child, I shall be perfectly content to live in my little dower house by the river. I certainly won’t want to wait months and months like Sir Archibald said. That’s ridiculous. Let Beatrice have Chatfield Court. I’ll be content in the dower house with you, Mama and Millicent, as long as they want to stay. And Beauty, of course. No one else, ever.”

The door burst open. Beatrice entered the drawing room. She nodded briefly, her perennial smile more forced than ever. She seated herself stiffly, regarding Jane with humorless eyes. “Well, any news yet?”

She could mean only one thing. “Nothing has happened. But it’s early, and I’m sure in another week—”

Her sister-in-law’s lips thinned with displeasure. “This is so ridiculous. There is no way in the world Arthur could have left an heir, yet we must go through all this rigmarole. The laws should be changed.”

Why argue? “I suppose you’re right.”

Beatrice nailed her with an icy stare. “Where are the Lansdown jewels?”

“I have no idea.” How annoying. Beatrice had already asked her twice.

“When did you see them last?”

Resentment welled within her. Her sister-in-law so obviously suspected her of taking the jewels and concealing them. “I already told you. I wore the pearl and amber necklace at dinner the night Arthur died. He often wanted me to wear the jewels, as you very well know. He always brought them to me, or had Griggs deliver them. I never knew where he kept them. I didn’t want to know.”

“I see.” Beatrice’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “Then I shall just have to keep looking, won’t I? I
will
find them.” She arose abruptly and left, closing the door behind her with a heavy hand.

Jane turned to Granny. “I would give them to her in a minute if I knew where they were.”

“I suggest you do no such thing.” Granny gave a firm bob of her lace-capped head. “She’s not the Countess of Lansdown yet. Who knows what might happen?”

Later, after Granny had left and Jane was about to vacate the drawing room, the chambermaid she had noticed earlier called, “May I have a word, your ladyship?”

“Of course. Your name is Meg, isn’t it?” She vaguely recalled Mrs. Stanhope mentioning Meg was one of the few servants who did not live in. She came from a farm on the other side of the river and walked to work every day.

The girl got up from her knees, the polishing rag still clutched in her hand. Even in her lace cap and starched white apron, she looked like what she was—a sturdy farm girl with strong arms and shoulders, rosy cheeks and a pleasant, round face. “Yes, ma’am, my name is Meg.” She approached with hesitation, as if she expected to be chastised at any moment. Well she might. Griggs and Mrs. Stanhope, both stern disciplinarians, insisted none of the staff should ever speak directly to their superiors unless addressed first.

Jane smiled, hoping to put the girl at ease. “Do speak up. I won’t bite.”

“Well, Your Ladyship, I couldn’t help hearing your conversation and I just wanted ...” She stopped and cleared her throat.

Would she ask a favor? Make a complaint? “Do go on, Meg.”

“I just wanted to tell you how glad I am you got your horse back.”

After Meg’s words sank in, Jane returned an appreciative smile. “Why, how very kind of you.”

Meg nodded eagerly. “It’s just that I remember when his lordship ... when Beauty got sold. I felt so sad for you. We all did.”

Jane was reminded once again that with servants around, nothing in her life was sacred. “I felt sad, too. Now it’s wonderful to have her back.”

“I have a horse, too.”

A servant girl with a horse? Unheard of. “How nice. Do you ride?”

“Yes, I do. That is, when he isn’t working in the fields, I do.”

“So he’s a plow horse?”

“Oh, no! Jupiter’s much more than a plow horse. He’s the fastest of steeds—a Pegasus without wings—you should see him when he gallops. He fairly flies.”

Meg intrigued her. Never had she heard a maid so poetic, and with such imagination. “Do you ever ride the river trail?”

“Me and my family live on the other side of the river. I don’t take the river trail because Jupiter don’t like to cross that wooden bridge.”

Jane nodded. “Beauty’s exactly the same. She acts up every time her hoofs hit wood. She just hates that noise. I have to coax her across.”

“Horses can be so skittish, and another thing Jupiter does—”

“Meg! What are you doing?” Mrs. Stanhope’s sharp voice resonated throughout the room.

Meg cringed. “Sorry, ma’am, I was just ... just ...”

“I was giving her some instructions, Mrs. Stanhope.” Jane assumed her lofty countess voice, the one she hardly ever used. “I was most concerned the andirons weren’t ... uh, shiny enough, so I was telling Meg she must give them a bit of extra polish.”

“Very well, madam.” The housekeeper made no attempt to hide the skeptical look in her eyes. She knew very well Jane didn’t give a fig how shiny the andirons were, but what could she say?

“You may get back to your polishing.” Jane maintained her lofty tone. She turned to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanhope. Keep up the good work.” She swept from the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

What an extraordinary chambermaid
. She had enjoyed talking to the girl. In fact, there was a moment there when she’d forgotten she was a countess and Meg the humble servant. It seemed more as if they were two young women who loved horses, chatting together.

The reality was quite different, of course. They lived in different worlds, and that was too bad. She liked Meg very much. She would have enjoyed having the servant girl as a friend.

Chapter 7

Jane visited the stables in the early morning for the next three days. Despite her vow not to do anything but visit Beauty, she could not resist and took her for a short ride each time. At that hour, who would see her? Even if her mother found out, she was prepared to take a stand. After all, she was the countess and certainly not under Mama’s thumb.

Because everyone else still lay abed, she refused to wear her ugly mourning clothes. Bruta bristled with disapproval. “You must wear the black, madam. You are in mourning.”

“I don’t care. Who’s going to see me except Timothy and the horses?”

Thank goodness she had saved her colorful riding habits. No ugly black until later in the morning. She wasn’t all that proud of herself. If she really had the courage, she would cease wearing black altogether. What a furor she would create. Would she ever have the nerve to flaunt society’s rules to such an extent? It was fun just to envision the look on Mama’s face should she appear at dinner in her bright pink satin.

The fourth morning after Beauty came home, Jane strolled down the path to the stables wearing her favorite habit—a blue, close-fitting jacket worn over a cambric shirt, a blue riding hat decorated with two high-standing feathers and a matching riding skirt, extra full, long enough to completely cover her shoes when she sat sidesaddle. She carried a riding crop, too, knowing she looked extra elegant when Timothy gave her a boost and she settled into the sidesaddle. The minute she did, she felt better. The problems that had plagued her of late slipped away like drops of quicksilver. On even the shortest of rides through the peaceful countryside, a feeling of well-being overtook her. She forgot about horrible Beatrice, Mama’s stress over a nonexistent baby, poor, heartbroken Millicent, the missing jewels, the future state of her finances—which, if what Sir Archibald said was true, was about to change disastrously.

Over the past few days, she had ridden over parts of the estate she had never seen before. Today, though, she chose the familiar river trail. It really was the best and had a long, straight stretch where she could let her horse full out. She walked Beauty to the trail, gave her a nudge, and off they went at a gallop. Instantly, her mind cleared of all the hassles and frustrations. She could concentrate on the trail, the horse ... and Douglas Cartland. What was the matter with her? Since the day he caressed her foot, she could not stop thinking about him. He was totally unsuitable. Everyone thought so, and she thought so, too. She should never see him again. The problem was, ever since they went riding, the image of his laughing face danced in her head, and she could not get rid of it. No matter. If she met him on the trail, she would give him a polite hello then be on her way.

She saw a speck of something in the distance. As she drew closer, she saw it was a horse and rider. Closer still, her heart jumped. Speak of the devil. Douglas Cartland.

They drew parallel and reined their horses. “Good morning, Countess.” Like last time, he was dressed informally in a white shirt open at the neck, breeches and Hessian boots. He scanned her critically and beamed approval. “No mourning today? What happened? Don’t tell me they brought the old boy back to life.”

“You are absolutely blasphemous.” She was not the least perturbed. Now was the time to bid him good day and move on, but she couldn’t. She smoothed her blue velvet skirt, grateful that she looked her best. “You were right about the black. It is so unbecoming. I cannot bear to wear it unless I absolutely must. I do apologize. I can see how properly shocked you are that I’ve broken the rules.”

“Shocked, indeed.” With a careless laugh, he circled his horse around hers so they faced the same direction. “Let’s ride together, shall we? We’ll go back to where we had our picnic.” He touched one of his saddle bags. “I trust you haven’t eaten. Mrs. Groton has fixed us a marvelous breakfast of Bolognese sausage, hard-boiled eggs, bread, cheese, and a bit of Russian caviar and brandy to wash it down.”

She wanted to ask why he was so sure he would meet her on the trail but thought better of it. “Actually, I haven’t had my breakfast yet, so, yes, I accept your offer. If you think I’m going to drink brandy at this hour of the morning, you are sadly mistaken.”

The brandy slid down her throat like velvet. Her stomach full, Jane leaned back against the big oak tree, just as satisfied and comfortable as before. Once again she found herself under the spell of that scoundrel, Douglas Cartland. He had been gone a few days to oversee the work on Lord Rennie’s canal, his return having been delayed by many problems.

“Forgive me, but I cannot see what is so difficult about building a canal. Isn’t it simply a matter of digging a ditch? Why do we need canals in the first place? England is full of rivers.”

He might have laughed at what she sensed was a foolish question, but instead he grew serious. “Not many of the rivers are navigable, whereas canals are built to haul all manner of goods, from coal to cabbage, as well as people. There are profits to be made, which is why Rennie hired me to engineer his Berkferd Canal. It runs only fifteen miles, between the Rivers Clearsy and Hulm, but it requires twenty locks and a tunnel, not a small engineering feat, I assure you.”

“What is a lock?”

“Let’s take a look.” Cartland picked up a stick and drew a line in the dirt, then another line beside it. “Let’s say these are two rivers, twenty miles apart. England is not a flat country. There are hills in-between, so what do you think the chances are the two rivers would be at exactly the same elevation?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but practically none.”

“Exactly. One is bound to be higher than the other. That’s where the locks come in. Picture long boxes.” He continued scratching diagrams with the stick. “The boat sails into the box and a gate shuts behind it. Then the box is filled with water. The ship rises with the water until it gets to the top, then sails out the other end to a new, higher level. Reverse that, of course, the other way.”

While Cartland talked, Jane perceived an entirely new side of him. Up to now, she had not seen much depth, just his amusing, slightly cynical side. Now she saw a man whose eyes glowed with enthusiasm while he earnestly described his work. Obviously, he loved what he did with a passion. Odd, really. A true gentleman wasn’t supposed to work. But then, as he had said earlier, he was no gentleman.

The thought occurred to her, too, that no man had ever talked to her this way before. Most of the men she knew treated her like she did not have a brain in her head and would not have the least interest in anything as complex as the construction of a canal.

Aside from all that, she enjoyed watching him. She liked the way that lock of his dark, curly hair fell over his forehead, and how, with his body stretched out as it was now, she could see every well-muscled inch of him. Most of all, she liked his face—his determined jaw, generous mouth, and those brown eyes usually sparkling with amusement.

He looked up from his diagram. “Stop me if I’m boring you. Get me on the subject of water and I’ll go on for hours.”

“You’re positively not boring me.” She looked out over the river, so shallow one could walk across. “I see what you mean. A boat could never navigate the River Hulm.”

“Not at this time of year, but you never know. There have been some bad floods in the Midlands when there’s too much rain. Water flows off the moors and into the rivers, sometimes becoming a raging torrent. Actually, you have a disaster waiting to happen right here.” He pointed up the river toward the north, where mountains loomed in the distance. “Do you see that steep, narrow canyon? I would hate to think what would happen to the village of Sudberry and all that’s between should torrential rains pile up in that canyon. You would get a wall of water that could—” He caught himself, as if not wanting to worry her with predictions of gloom. “I’ve said enough. The chances of such a disaster occurring are remote, but it happened once before, back in the fourteenth century.”