The Waltzing Widow/Smith (3 page)

On the day appointed for the arrival of the ladies, Lord Bigelow was at Chenely. Still hoping to cajole his uncle into relenting on the rattan curricle, he was on his best behavior. He offered to drive down to Rose Cottage to see if there was anything the ladies required. Lady Sara was the only one of the family with any real interest in seeing the tenants, but she stood too high on her dignity as an earl’s daughter and deacon’s wife to call on a mere officer’s family—at least until she heard an account of them.

“Take note of what sort of carriage they drive, Tony. See how many servants they bring, and how they dress, and so on,” she ordered.

“Dash it, Sal, I can’t remember all that stuff. I’ll tell you whether they’re pretty.”

Avedon scowled and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “You’d best go with him, Sal. He won’t give us a notion what they’re like. I hope it wasn’t a mistake to rent Rose Cottage.”

“It was a mistake for me,” Tony complained. “I didn’t get to see a groat of the five hundred.”

“You will if the ladies like the cottage,” Avedon said. “I won’t cash their check till they’ve looked the place over and seen if it suits.”

“They will consider themselves on calling terms if I go,” Lady Sara pointed out.

“You will soon disabuse them of that idea if you wish,” her brother parried. “Let us not prejudge them. They may be perfectly respectable, in which case you will enjoy their company.”

“I could mention the ass’s milk,” Lady Sara said consideringly, half looking for an excuse to go. “We might provide them with butter and eggs and greens, too,” she added. Her brother gave her a knowing look. She did not consider it pilfering to pocket the gains of these transactions. “The servants take what is left over out the back door, and you do not keep an eye on them as you should, Adrian,” she scolded. “What you need is a sharp wife. Lady Beatrice was saying just the other day—”

“I have no need of a sharp wife with
you
in the house, Sal.” This leveler was received with a satisfied smile. Lady Sara took no offense at being termed sharp. She was proud of her wits.

“I’ll go, then, just to please you,” she decided, and went off to get her cherry-trimmed bonnet, to impress the tenants.

Lady Sara never went more than ten yards on foot. For a jog a half a mile down the lane she required the full dignity of her brother’s crested carriage and a liveried footman, besides the groom. Tony spurned such an antiquated form of travel and galloped across the meadow on his high-bred mount. He was already seated in the parlor of Rose Cottage when Lady Sara arrived, making himself very agreeable when he discovered his new tenant to be a ravishing young lady with chestnut-brown hair done up in the first style of fashion.

It was not her flashing brown eyes that struck Lady Sara, but the fashionable gown of finest lawn muslin, whose price she pegged to within a shilling. Her practiced eye also cast a glance on a mountain of expensive luggage and the number of servants scampering about. She had already remarked the well-sprung carriage standing in the driveway. She entered with a smile on her wide face, and her hand, encased in lemon kid, extended to greet the tentatively acceptable tenants.

“I am Lady Sara, dear Lord Bigelow’s auntie, come to make you welcome. I hope you find everything to your satisfaction?”

As Tony had seen fit to introduce himself as Bigelow, Lucy had to adjust her opinion of the lank gentleman who stood before her. That she had wandered into a hive of nobility had not entered her head till that very moment. Her affair with Pewter had kept her removed from higher society during her one season, and she began to feel a little out of her depth. She said what she felt to be correct, introduced her husband’s sister, Miss Percy, and sat down. “I am sorry we cannot offer you some refreshment, Lady Sara, but as you can see, we just arrived five minutes ago.”

“It is not to be thought of.” Lady Sara laughed it away, while her eyes made a darting examination of the room before returning to Lucy. She began to notice at about that moment that the fine lawn gown encased a rather good figure. “Just the veriest dash of a visit, to make you welcome, and let you know if you want anything, Chenely will be closer than dear Tony’s place. Chenely is my family home—you may have remarked the stone mansion up on the hill? I am visiting my brother, the Earl of Avedon.”

Lucy was confused trying to figure out so many new names and connections. It seemed odd that the nearer neighbor was not her landlord. “Where do you live, Lord Bigelow? she asked.

Lady Sara undertook to answer the question not put to her, as she frequently did when she wished to impress her hearer. “Lord Bigelow lives quite three miles away, at Milhaven. It is the larger of his two estates,” she added rather unnecessarily. “He is my elder sister’s son. We are all connected hereabouts.”

“I see. And you live in the lovely old mansion on the hill, Lady Sara?”

“I was raised at Chenely—the name goes back to our Norman forebears. Something to do with the oak trees in the park, I believe. I was raised there but am presently living with my husband, Deacon Rutledge, in Hampshire.” She rattled on with the names and ages of her children.

Lucy’s mind was reeling, but she noticed that her chaperon was nodding her head in the corner, getting the whole of it off by heart. Mrs. Percy was the sort of lady who understood such arcane matters as second cousins once removed and would never say relative when she meant connection.

“We were sorry to learn your lungs have been bothering you,” Lady Sara continued, playing the gracious lady. “So fortunate for you that we have an ass in milk at Chenely, and no one requires the milk at the moment. We will be happy to let you have it.”

She realized that this sounded dangerously like a gift, when she meant it was for sale. She rectified it by adding, “In fact, you will perhaps want to purchase your other dairy products and greens from us, too. We have chickens and eggs fresh daily as well. No trouble at all to drop off, for Avedon sends some down to the gatekeeper’s wife, not a quarter of a mile out of the way.”

“Thank you. You are very kind,” Lucy said. “Certainly we will be happy for the milk and greens, though I do not care for ass’s milk.”

“But my dear, it is the very thing for weak lungs.”

“It doesn’t agree with me,” Lucy said simply. She had never tasted it, but the idea was repulsive.

It was a pity to lose out on the sale of the ass’s milk, but with such a quantity of servants to be fed milk and chicken and eggs, Lady Sara looked forward to a good profit.

Lord Bigelow was not happy to have the beauty’s attention diverted from himself and said, “Your husband is in the army, I understand, Mrs. Percy?”

“Yes, Captain Percy is in the Peninsula,” Lucy replied.

Lady Sara nodded with satisfaction. Then, remembering that no refreshments were to be forthcoming, she rose to take her leave. She had decided to continue the association and said, “I am giving a garden party on Thursday. I hope you and Miss Percy will do me the honor to attend. It begins at two, but we shall be in touch again before that.”

“We shall be very happy to come,” Lucy agreed. She accompanied her caller to the door, and her eyes widened at the elegant black chaise, with the crest emblazoned on the door.

She was beginning to realize that life in the country had more to offer than peace and quiet. Bigelow could not bear to be apart from the incomparable and followed her to the door. The baron, a mere stripling, was not attractive, but he was a titled gentleman and must have interesting friends. Lucy regretted that she had made herself a wife, and in the twinkling of a bedpost, she killed off
her husband and became a widow. A memory of the past brought to mind the necessity for mourning, and she pushed her husband’s death back two years, to leave herself free for any merriment the place might offer. The only problem now was to inform her aunt of her changed status, before she made some revealing statement to Lord Bigelow.

No sooner was Lady Sara out the door than Bigelow returned conveniently to the topic of her husband. “What regiment is Captain Percy in?” he inquired.

“My husband was in the Light Dragoons,” she said, with a slight drooping of the lips. “He was killed at Salamanca.”

In Bigelow’s breast joy wrestled with the need for displaying sorrow and won. “Oh, I say, I’m dreadfully sorry.” He beamed. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but Sal said you were a soldier’s wife.”

They returned, chatting, to the parlor. “No, I am a widow,” Lucy replied firmly, with a meaningful stare at her aunt, who glared but did not deny it.

Bigelow’s smile stretched to a grin as the full wonder of this state of affairs washed over him. By Jove, a dasher of the first water right on his doorstep.
In his house,
in fact. A million excuses to be calling on her ten times a day. He soon bethought himself of something better than calling on her.

“I say, I’ve just had an idea,” he announced, jumping to his feet. “Come to Milhaven for lunch.”

“No, really we could not impose on you,” Lucy said politely, but with interest peeping from her eyes.

“But you have no food here. It will take a dog’s age for your servants to get to the village and shop and cook you up something.”

“We planned to eat at the local inn,” Mrs. Percy said.

“You would hate it. The place is full of farmers and cits. Do come home with me. I’d love to have you.”

“Your mother will not be expecting us,” Lucy demurred, yet the offer did not seem inappropriate. She looked to her aunt for guidance.

“She ain’t home,” Bigelow said. “She’s visiting Cousin Morton, and I shall have to eat my mutton alone if you don’t come with me. Dash it, don’t make me eat alone.” He included the aunt in his eager invitation, and as Lucy saw no reluctance there, she accepted for them both.

Within half an hour of arriving at their new house, the ladies were off again in their traveling carriage for lunch with Lord Bigelow. Milhaven, while not touching Chenely in size and magnificence, was a handsome brick residence surrounded by park land. The meal provided was indifferent, as Bigelow usually took lunch with his uncle during his mother’s absence. But it was enjoyable for all that.

He set out to make himself agreeable to the charming young widow and had no little success. Lucy recognized him at once for a fool, but such an amiable one, and so clearly infatuated with her, that the summer promised to be amusing. He would not let them away till he had shown them all over Milhaven, with heavy emphasis on the stables. When they finally left in order to get their own house set to rights before dark, he trotted alongside the carriage with a besotted smile on his face.

After escorting them to their door and promising to see them again very soon, Bigelow took the idea of going to tell his uncle about the mix-up in the tenant’s marital status. No worry clouded his simple mind that Adrian would be anything but as delighted as he was himself at the circumstance.

Avedon was out when his sister returned from Rose Cottage, but they met at tea, and he listened with mixed feelings to her account. He was happy to learn the women were respectable. That they were apparently well-to-do was a matter of indifference to him, though it was what impressed Lady Sara. When Mrs. Percy began to emerge in the tale as “so very charming,” “really quite youthful,” and finally “extremely attractive,” his heart sank.

“How did Tony behave himself?” he asked with foreboding.

“Oh, very polite. Distant, you know. The husband is a captain, by the way, and he must be youngish, which means he
bought
his commission, so there is clearly money in the family somewhere.”

“If there were real money, they would not be renting up a little cottage; they’d have an estate to go to.”

Lady Sara ignored the comment. “I counted at least six servants, four women and the groom and a footman. Or perhaps he was a butler.”

“Living beyond their means,” Avedon scoffed. “Are they to take Jinny’s milk, by the way?” he asked, wondering if success in that quarter colored his sister’s account.

“No, it does not agree with her, but she wants dairy products and vegetables. I daresay she will be happy for some chickens and eggs as well.”

“You speak as though there was only one woman.”

“The chaperon was there, too. An elderly lady, a respectable dame, certainly. There is nothing to fear there.”

It was at this point that Bigelow sauntered in, smiling from ear to ear in a besotted way that announced he was in love. “Oh, God!” Avedon moaned. “I hope you haven’t been making up to a married woman all afternoon, Tony!”

“No, to a widow,” he answered, “so there is no need to be looking at me in that disparaging way, as if I was a lame nag.”

Avedon jumped to his feet. “Is that Lacey creature back here?”

“Lacey?” Bigelow could hardly remember his former love. “No, you sent her to Tunbridge Wells.”

“What widow has got that imbecilic smirk on your phiz?” Avedon demanded.

“Widow Percy,” he replied promptly. “Mrs. Percy ain’t married at all. That is to say, she
was
married. The husband’s dead. Ain’t that a stroke of luck, Uncle?”

Avedon looked in alarm to his sister. “Sal, is this true?”

Lady Sara looked alert but not worried. “It cannot be. She said her husband is a captain. I’m sure that is what she said. And the letter, you recall, said, ‘My husband
is
in the Peninsula with Wellington.’ Might she have meant he is
buried
in the Peninsula? Oh, dear!”

“That’s the way it is,” Tony informed them, beaming with pleasure at this fortunate stroke.

“Did you not mention her wearing something pink, Sal?” Avedon inquired. “An odd way for a respectable widow to be dressing.”

“She wore a lovely pink lawn gown, which was very inappropriate for travel, now I think of it. Only it is warm today, of course, and that might account for it.”

“The husband’s been dead for years. She ain’t mourning in the least,” Tony assured them.

Lady Sara was never slow to find fault and was soon reassessing her first generous opinion of the ladies. “That was a very lively bonnet I saw perched on the stairpost in the hall, now that I think of it,” she said.
“Très gai
for a widow. Almost garish, in fact, with a surfeit of primroses.”