The Notorious Lord Havergal (2 page)

“Mr. Norton will like that,” Violet said coyly.

“Oh, as to Mr. Norton, it is you who ought to be buying a new shawl. I’m sure it is you he comes to see.”

This joke was nearly as fatigued as Violet’s calling her friend “Mr. Beddoes.” For five years Mr. Norton had been dangling after Lettie, and for five years Lettie had been trying unsuccessfully to divert his interest to Miss FitzSimmons. Violet, she suspected, would not dislike the diversion.

There was a time within living memory when Mr. Norton had been only a yeoman farmer, but when some relative died and left him the largest hop farm in the neighborhood, he suddenly became a gentleman. He remained true to his first love—pigs—and true also to his second—Letitia. It was not his low origins that displeased her in his role as suitor. It was his age: four and forty was a trifle long in the tooth for her.

As well as the two large properties, he also had a good character, a jolly temperament, and the staying power of Job. He kept coming back after every rebuff, smiling, joking, and showering her with hams, suckling pigs, and tales of the barnyard, till she didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

The drive of three miles into Ashford was beautiful in late April. The fruit trees were just coming into bloom. They looked like large balls of cotton, swaying gently in the breeze. The hops, a feature of the countryside, were in bloom, too, hanging in yellow clusters from their training poles. The pointed cowls of oasthouses for drying the hops were another distinctive feature of the landscape.

Mr. Norton had removed from his more modest pig farm to Norton Knoll, the hop farm, when he became a gentleman. The ladies passed it en route. The house, one of the oldest in the area, was built of stone brought from France by the Normans and erected in the Norman style. It was in all the tour books. Yet its impressive size and interesting architectural features failed to enchant Lettie. Mr. Norton must inevitably accompany the house. Not even Norton Knoll was worth that sacrifice.

It was Violet whose head skewed to the right to search the estate for a sign of him as the carriage sped past. She apparently didn’t spot him, for she didn’t say anything.

“How much are you going to send Tom for the waistcoats?” she asked when they were beyond the boundaries of Mr. Norton’s land, and any hope of seeing him had diminished.

“Three guineas. That should buy him two waistcoats.”

“I shall send him one as well, for sugarplums. Tom does love his sugarplums.”

“Tom is no longer a boy, Violet. He’ll probably buy wine with it. The scholars are allowed to keep their own wine at the college.”

“If the others do it, we wouldn’t want him to be without,” she said apologetically.

“Indeed no. It is kind of you, and I shall thank you as it is by no means sure Tom will remember to.”

They exchanged a forgiving smile at Tom’s thoughtless ways. It did not occur to either of them that a young man needs some discipline. Tom had had plenty of that when his papa was alive, and now he was at Oxford, beyond their daily supervision. Lettie had assumed he would return to Laurel Hall and set up as a squire when he graduated, but he had recently informed her that he meant to establish himself in London instead and take up politics.

They were exceedingly proud of him and agreed that it was only a matter of time till he was a member of the Cabinet, possibly even the prime minister. The only disappointment was that they would see so little of Tom. Still, they would have the pleasure of reading about him in the journals, entertaining his company when he came to the hall, and of course visiting him in London.

One incidental effect of Tom’s decision was that Lettie was no longer concerned about making a match. Her ten-thousand-pound dowry did not permit her to set up and run a creditable establishment. She had not liked to think of living with Tom and his wife, when Tom married, but now she would continue to be mistress of Laurel Hall indefinitely.

They drove into Ashford and did their business at the bank, then spent a very enjoyable hour selecting a shawl and a few gewgaws for the spring assembly. Lettie had planned to have new white kid gloves as well, but Tom’s waistcoats took precedence. The gloves would be reduced in price after the assembly, and she would have new ones for the autumn assembly instead. They rounded off the visit by taking lunch at the Royal Crown and enjoying a stroll through its famous gardens before returning home.

A week passed, bringing neither thanks from Tom for the gift nor further requests from Lord Havergal for money, but bringing a ten-pound leg of pork from Mr. Norton and, most importantly of all, bringing the spring assembly a week closer. Only two days away now, it colored every hour of every day. The days were not long enough for all the unguents Violet and Lettie wished to apply to their faces, the new hairdos to be tried, the washing of stockings, and the pressing of gowns.

They had other important matters to fill their hours as well. It was the custom at Laurel Hall to entertain a small party to dinner before the assembly. Due to Mr. Beddoes’s death, the custom had lapsed last year, but this year Lettie was reinstituting it. To leave every servant free for the grand affair on Friday, she moved washing day up to Wednesday. On that Wednesday afternoon, Violet and Lettie sat in the gold saloon, fatigued at four o’clock from the exertions of preparing for the dinner party and checking up on the washing.

The washing was nominally in Cook’s charge, who took all household matters under her capable hands. Mrs. Siddons (wife of the butler) ought, by rights, to be called a housekeeper, but as she ruled from the kitchen and refused to dress for the grander role, she maintained her more humble title of Cook. Up to her elbows in advance preparations for the dinner party, she told Lettie she would be serving cold ham and bread pudding for dinner. Lettie told her that was fine.

Emboldened by success, Cook next informed her mistress that she must keep an eye on Bess with the laundry, and Miss Beddoes did as she was told. It was best not to vex this irreplaceable jewel, especially when her cooperation was required for the important dinner party. Lettie had made half a dozen trips downstairs to see Bess wasn’t letting the new washing dolly “eat” her sheets and tablecloths. This new cannibal contrivance possessed two sturdy wooden paddles, which Bess moved by an attached handle. If she was not careful, the laundry wedged its way under the paddles and was stirred into rags.

Lettie had just returned to the saloon when there was a rattle of wheels on the driveway. “Mr. Norton!” Violet exclaimed, patting her brown curls in pleasure. Lettie arranged a lukewarm smile to greet him. Before Siddons could shuffle to the door, the knock came, loud and importunate. “He sounds strangely perturbed,” Violet said. “I hope nothing is amiss.”

“Oh Lord, I hope his pigs haven’t got into the roadway again. They upset a dung cart last time.”

Siddons was surprised at the vehemence of the knocker, too, and shuffled faster to open the door.

Into the waiting silence came the sound of a young male voice, full of authority and self-consequence. “Lord Havergal,” the voice said. “I am here to see Mr. Beddoes. Is he in?”

“He doesn’t live here,” Siddons said. He was perfectly familiar with Lord Havergal’s name but unaware of the identity of the current Mr. Beddoes.

“What the devil are you talking about? I had a letter from him yesterday. I told him I was coming.”

“But he’s at Oxford—a student.”

“Ah, that explains the error. I wish to see his father.”

“He’s dead.”

“Now listen, my good man,” the voice continued, rising in impatience now, but still good natured. “Dead men don’t write letters, do they? Quit joshing me, and tell Beddoes I am here.”

There darted into Lettie’s head an image of the latest cartoon of Lord Havergal, and she felt very much inclined to swoon. Lord Havergal, and he wanted to see her! Her next futile thought was of escape, but that arrogant voice was adamant. It would find her if she ran and hid in a trunk in the attic. She rose on shaking knees and went to the door. “Pray show Lord Havergal in, Siddons,” she said, peering to see the owner of that arrogant voice.

The breath caught in her lungs, and she found herself staring like any country bumpkin. The cartoons had not done him justice, but they had caught the essence of Lord Havergal. The jaw was not quite so ludicrously large and square, the shoulders not quite as broad as a barn door, but the overall effect was of an exceedingly well-built, handsome, elegant gentleman. And here was she, in her shabbiest gown, with her hair falling about her ears, haggard from running upstairs and downstairs to check the laundry. It was not losing his admiration that galled her, but that he should see her in such tawdry disarray. Had she had a choice, she would have been wearing her most daunting and matronly gown.

The vision stepped forward, handing Siddons his curled beaver and shucking off his drab driving coat to reveal a jacket of blue Bath cloth that fit so well, it seemed like a second skin. Beneath it he wore a flowered waistcoat. A pair of dancing blue eyes met Lettie’s glance, and a spontaneous smile flashed out to devastate her. No mere mortal had such a smile. The man was either devil or angel. Havergal advanced, hand extended to grip hers in a firm shake.

“There is some mistake obviously,” he said with a charming bow. “Is this not Laurel Hall?”

“It is,” she said weakly, and pulled her hand away.

He advanced toward the gold saloon door. “Your butler is addlepated. He must have got into the wine,” he said, but with no air of accusation. She let this calumny against her abstemious butler pass without a word. “I have come to see Mr. Beddoes,” he announced, and waited for her reply.

“There is—that is—I—am Mr. Beddoes,” she said, and felt a pink flush suffuse her cheeks. On the sofa Violet emitted a squeak not unlike that of a cornered mouse.

Into the silence came the slight squawk of a poorly oiled hinge as Siddons closed the front door. Havergal stared at her, speechless. His questioning glance suggested this was some kind of hoax or joke. His handsome features soon eased into a smile as he decided to jolly her along. She might have influence with old Beddoes, he thought. Who could she be? A lady, certainly, though not the sort of lady
I
am accustomed to. He raked her in quick scrutiny from head to toe and said, “One would never guess it to look at you, Mr. Beddoes.” He smiled and glanced at Violet. “And this would be your—brother?” he asked archly.

It was at that moment that Violet fell in love with Lord Havergal. His blue eyes looked deeply into hers, seeming to share some joke. She
did
like a man with a sense of humor, which just goes to prove the old saw that opposites attract. She tittered coyly and looked at Lettie.

“My companion, Miss FitzSimmons,” she said stiffly. “Pray, have a seat, Lord Havergal.” He went to the sofa and sat beside Violet, who later told Miss Beddoes that she felt a tremor in her heart at the proximity.

Again those blue eyes directed a beam at Lettie, asking for some explanation. “You haven’t told me your name, ma’am,” he said.

“I am Miss Beddoes.”

“Ah, then my guardian is your father, I take it?”

“He—he was. Papa passed away a year ago. I succeeded him in the will as testamentary guardian in the trust.”

He blinked twice. “But you’re a
lady!”
he said, stunned.

“Yes.”

“This can’t be legal!” A bright gleam of hope flashed in his eyes. He suspected there was something havey-cavey afoot here. It was unusual for a lady to be guardian to a grown man—even illegal, or why try to hide it? Immediately it darted into his head that he could upset the trust and get his whole twenty-five thousand.

“I assure you it is perfectly legal,” she said firmly. “The solicitors examined the matter thoroughly.” She spoke with the confidence of knowledge, hoping that the proud set of her head left no doubt about it.

Havergal was much inclined to argue, but caution suggested keeping on good terms till he had a word with his own solicitor. “Well, it is very strange,” he said, frowning.

“Yes, but not unheard of for mothers or aunts to be guardians of children.” He bristled. “Not that I mean to say you are a child!” she added hastily.

He examined her face for signs of age. The lady was no spring lamb, but she didn’t look forty or anything like it. Her flesh was still firm, and her eyes were clear. “Not quite so—mature as yourself perhaps,” he said ingratiatingly, and was rewarded with a gimlet shot from a pair of angry gray eyes. Thirty-five, he decided, old enough to be tender about her years. “But perfectly competent, I’m sure,” he added.

“Kind of you to say so. Your cousin Horace did not think me
incompetent
at least.”

“Was it his idea for you to pretend you were a man?” he asked in confusion.

“No indeed. I never pretended I was. I signed my letters L. A. Beddoes. It was yourself who assumed I was a man.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was apologizing. The witch had led him astray on purpose all these months.

Miss Beddoes nodded her absolution. “Were you just in the neighborhood, Lord Havergal, or did you come on purpose to visit me?”

“Did you not have my note?” he asked, surprised.

“Not a word since your request for an advance. You
did
receive my reply?”

“Yes, but I wrote you again that I would come in person.”

“When did you write this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Then I expect I shall receive it tomorrow morning. The post is not so fast as your carriage, it seems.”

He disliked the condescension of that speech but held in his annoyance. “Another matter has come up—a business matter that I would like to discuss with you—though I daresay a lady wouldn’t appreciate the
marvelous
opportunity. It seems a shame to lose out on it when the money is just sitting there.”

She leveled a cool look at him. “A pity Hamlet let you down, or you might have used the thousand pounds you lost on that race in Green Park.”