The Lie and the Lady (6 page)

Of course, during all this, Miss Margaret Babcock did not make an appearance.

“It's a quarter past,” Leticia said, spying Sir Barty checking the mantel clock again.

“Silly standing on this formality,” Sir Barty grumbled, but she could tell by the pink of his cheeks and the direction of his gaze (downward) that he was embarrassed. “It's just family, after all.”

“Family should dine together, don't you think, darling?” Leticia replied softly but firmly.

“She likely was never informed—or she forgot. She's a forgetful girl, her mind on other matters.”

“She was informed, dearest. I did it myself.”

He looked up at that, his bushy eyebrows climbing up to his hairline. “Oh. So you—”

“Yes, I met Margaret earlier. But only briefly.” She watched as Sir Barty pinked with embarrassment. “Still, even for an absentminded person, a new stepmother is not something you simply forget.”

She would let Sir Barty wallow in his shame for a little bit. Not too long, but enough to realize his mistake in not giving either Margaret or Leticia fair warning about the other.

Leticia rose and cross the room to the terrace doors—thrown open to allow some of the lovely summer breeze in. She was about to subject herself to the garden again and go tramping out into the twilight to where she could see the glow of a lamp in the greenhouse—when suddenly the lamp went out and the young woman herself emerged.

“There, you see?” Sir Barty said from behind Leticia, the relief palatable in his voice. “She's on her way now.”

As she crossed the lawn, Leticia could see that Margaret could be quite pretty, in the right light. Her features were proportional and her complexion was that of the English rose, typified by lovely country girls. Which was a relief, because her height made her mannish enough, and the braid swinging behind her like a cat's tail indicated her level of fury. Which at the moment was quite high.

She also was still wearing the dirt-covered dress and apron from before. However, in deference to either the company or the night breeze, she had untied the gown from the knees and let it drape to its full length—which was just to the girl's ankles.

Leticia's lips pressed into a thin line of their own volition before she forced them into a more serene, welcoming expression.

She would not have the first thing Margaret Babcock saw of her tonight be displeasure.

However, it seemed that Margaret Babcock would barely see Leticia at all. When she did appear in the doorway off the terrace, oh, she gave the proper curtsy of course, but her gaze pointedly did not even flit over Leticia's face. Instead she remained utterly focused on her father.

“Hello, Father,” she said, her chin out in stubborn defiance. He held his arms open, but the girl crossed hers over her chest, unmoved. Sir Barty lowered his arms with a heartbroken little sigh, then held out a hand to Leticia.

“Margaret, I understand you have met Lady Churzy,” Sir Barty said carefully. “We are going to be married.”

Margaret's eyes stayed firmly on her father's, refusing to even acknowledge Leticia was in the room.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Margaret,” Leticia said. “Properly, this time. I do hope that we shall be great friends.”

“I had thought she was joking.” Margaret raised her quizzical brow to her father.

“Now, Margaret . . .” her father said.

Leticia kept her expression neutral, although rarely had she heard such rudeness. Even when she had been a miller's daughter trying to make a good match in London, the cuts she heard then were not comparable to the tongue of Miss Margaret Babcock.

“I thought it was a joke, because my mother is barely cold in the ground,” she went on.

“Margaret, it has been two years,” Sir Barty admonished harshly, but wearily. Either they'd had this fight before or they'd been afraid of having it. Both options were exhausting.

“Fourteen months,” she shot back. “It's been fourteen months.”

Leticia's eyes went wide. And that ball of pity began to well up in her again. For Margaret, the death of her mother must be still quite raw. But then she looked at Sir Barty's face. He was ashamed, and tired, and unsure of himself for the first time since Leticia had met him. She knew she had to wade into the fray, and that she was better served siding with her fiancé.

“I assure you, it is not a joke,” she said serenely, coming over to take Sir Barty's arm, looking up at him with admiration and support. “We are quite happy.”

That forced Margaret to look at Leticia.

“Well, I'm sure you are,” Margaret replied, her chin wobbling. But she quelled it. “Should we get supper over with? I would like to get back to the greenhouse—I have to dissect the rhododendron roots tonight.”

“Wouldn't you like to change first?” Leticia couldn't help but say.

“Why? I am going to be working again directly after, I'd much rather keep my work clothes on,” Margaret replied. “Besides, it's only Father. And . . . you.”

“Supper, even eaten in family, should have standards,” Leticia replied gently.

Margaret shot a look to her father, and while he did not say anything, he did give a stern nod. Margaret's braid swished in consternation, but she said nothing, just simply crossed the room and headed for the stairs—presumably to change into a dress more appropriate for supper.

Although Leticia couldn't be certain. She had a feeling that where Margaret Babcock was involved, there would always be a question as to motives and actions.

At nineteen, a young lady's character should be established and steady. After all, Leticia had been married at nineteen. She'd moved from her father's home to her sister's home to her own home. What she did not do was act like she was a ten-year-old spoiled brat when faced with adversity.

At least, she hoped she hadn't.

“She'll come around.” Sir Barty said, and squeezed her shoulder. “I think you'll be just the thing for her, m'dear,”

“I think so too.” Leticia smiled at him. As long as she could figure out her opponent, she would have no problem winning this battle.

As it turned out, Margaret had gone upstairs to change, coming back down in a few short minutes' time in a simple day frock (Leticia was not about to quibble that it was far too much a morning dress for the evening meal), her face and hands wiped clean of dirt and her hair neatly smoothed and rebraided. (Again, Leticia was not about to quibble that her hair was not dressed appropriately for a young lady of nineteen, let alone for supper. She was much too hungry for that.)

They went into the dining room and seated themselves before a repast that Leticia was certain had been prepared in a fury.

“When Mrs. Dillon showed me the kitchens this afternoon, I had no idea that this marvelous meal would be produced from there in only a matter of hours,” Leticia said, smiling at one of the serving men. “Please let Cook know that I am impressed.”

“Why?” Margaret asked.

“Why?” Leticia echoed.

“Why did you have no idea? It's a kitchen; it produces food on a daily basis. Either you have little experience with kitchen staffs or you are simply trying to flatter Cook.”

Leticia glanced at Sir Barty. He avoided her eyes by shoveling some meat pie into his mouth.

“It's the same food we've had here for years. Nothing special.” Margaret turned to the manservant. “Correct?”

The servant, shocked out of his position at the wall, nodded and bowed.

“Still,” Leticia said, maintaining her composure. “The food is new to me, and I would like Cook to know how much I am enjoying it.”

Margaret shrugged—an inelegant motion for someone of her size. Leticia was certain she must have no idea how she looked, else she would never be so awkward.

Her petulance did not help, of course.

“I gather you are quite the horticulturalist,” Leticia tried again as she took a bite of her own meat pie (pork, naturally). “I have only heard of rhododendrons, never seen them. I believe they hail from the Orient?”

Margaret gave that awkward shrug again. “They do,” was all she would say.

“Well . . . perhaps you would show me your specimen. In daylight,” Leticia added. Perhaps rhododendrons were the one plant that wouldn't affect her nose.

“If you like.”

“The last time I was in London, I was told there was a fascinating display of foreign plants and flowers, grown by the Horticultural Society.”

She shrugged again.

“Ladies are invited to tour their grounds. If you'd like to see it, perhaps we can arrange a short trip to London—”

“I don't think so,” Margaret replied, cutting Leticia off.

“But they have excellent flower shows . . . and we could combine the trip with some shopping.”

If a trip to the best London warehouses did not spur a nineteen-year-old girl's interest, nothing would, Leticia thought confidently.

As it was, an eyebrow went up, but instead of reacting with interest, she cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes.

“I have no wish to go to London at the moment. I am in the middle of my work,” Margaret said. “But if you wish to go, by all means do so. In fact, I think it an excellent idea.”

Stay away as long as you like. It was unspoken, but echoed across the dining table.

Leticia shot a smile at Sir Barty. “I wouldn't dream of it,” she purred, hoping he believed her. “I only mention shopping in London because I must purchase a wedding trousseau. It is the only place to find anything worth wearing for a wedding, I'm afraid.” She turned back to Margaret, serenely confident. “And I thought perhaps you would like a new gown for the occasion too.”

Margaret flushed, and then turned white. Aha! thought Leticia. So she does have a care for her appearance. Even if what she cares about is looking like she doesn't care.

“I like the gowns that I have. I'm sure one will do.”

Leticia took one calming breath, then two. It was infuriating dealing with someone whose bluntness put cudgels to shame. But she would not rise to the bait. No, she was the bigger—if not taller—person.

“I'm sure you are right,” Leticia said, demurring. “We will find something appropriate.”

Margaret's gaze shot to her father. “May I be dismissed?”

Sir Barty looked up from his mouthful of pork-based pie. “Hmm?”

“I've finished eating, I have work to return to. May I be dismissed?”

“I suppose,” Sir Barty grunted over his food.

“Darling,” Leticia began, but Margaret was out of her chair and out the door without so much as a curtsy before she could finish her thought, let alone her sentence.

“I had hoped to have some conversation after supper with her,” Leticia said. “Listen to her play pianoforte, or what not.”

“Margaret doesn't play pianoforte.”

“Cards, then.”

“Not much for cards either,” Sir Barty replied, wiping his mouth.

“Nor is she much for conversation it seems—at least, not with me. Darling, I know you wish me to have some good influence over the girl, but I cannot if—”

“Now, now,” Sir Barty interrupted, much like his daughter. “You two will find your way to an understanding. I'm certain of it.”

“But—”

“Heavens, is that the time?” He glanced at the mantel clock. “I'll have to excuse myself, m'dear. We have traveled so far today, and I'm badly in need of one of Mrs. Dillon's poultices for my foot.”

“Sir Barty!” Leticia exclaimed, shocked.

“Now, if I don't attend to my foot, I will wake with it swollen, and then we shan't be able to attend church in the morning. Which we need to do to have the banns read proper like.” He stood—with a modicum of difficulty—travel really was very hard on his gout—and came over and kissed the top of Leticia's head. “I must beg you excuse me, m'dear. Give Cook my praise for supper—always enjoy her meat pies. I will see you in the morning.”

And with that, he retrieved his cane from one of the manservants and exited in the same direction as his daughter.

Abandoning Leticia at the dining room table with enough food to feed a small army and enough worries to keep her awake and fitful all night.

Even though she hardly slept well, she was alert and at her ruthless best next morning. Today she would not allow herself to be seen at any disadvantage.

Because today, she would be meeting the village of Helmsley.

There was a very fine line one had to walk when being introduced to new surroundings. One wished to be seen as approachable, but as the Countess of Churzy, commanding a certain level of awe was expected. Indeed, some might be disappointed if she wasn't sufficiently grand—how often does one meet a real, live countess in a tiny market town off the Lincolnshire Wolds?

She chose her deep, curry-colored cambric gown—it brought out the hints of gold in her dark eyes, and paired with a gorgeous Indian shawl prompted thoughts of luxury . . . and hid the fact that the cut of the gown was a season or two behind the times. She pinned a straw hat to the top of her head—not a bonnet, no. Bonnets and their attendant fripperies hid her long neck, which was one of her best features. There were little clusters of cherries decorating the hat—just a pop of color, bringing out the red hints in the shawl and invoking the idea of warmth. Of vibrancy and humanity.

And to remind everyone that this vibrant, warm human was in fact a countess, Leticia dug deep into her trunk and pulled out the only thing she had left from that time. Her sapphire wedding ring—saved from being hawked only by Sir Barty's well-timed arrival in Paris. She put it on her right hand, polished it against her shawl, and let it sparkle.

Konrad had left her with so little, but she would now make the most of all of it.

She was downstairs ten minutes before anyone else. Ready to conquer the day and the town.