Miss Determined, page 17
“Jerome was dodging Trevor’s letters, and for some reason, he didn’t want the countess to be able to contact the head of his family. I do believe Jerome managed to die before he grew up.”
Rye crossed his legs at the knee. He was not an elegant man to appearances—he was too scarred, craggy, and worn for that—but he was mannerly, tidy, and at ease with himself in a way Jeanette associated with Frenchmen.
Sycamore had some of the same quality, as did—oddly—Trevor.
“Perhaps,” Rye said, “Jerome did not want Trevor telling the countess the old stories, about that time Jerome lost his first pony in a schoolyard bet, or that time Jerome had to catch a ride out of London on a fishmonger’s cart, or that time Jerome lost his membership in some club. If the countess was in love with Jerome, he might have wanted to keep that joy private for a time.”
Jeanette studied the letter, though penmanship told her nothing. “She loved Jerome. That’s good. He was charming and shrewd, and I’m sure Trevor will grieve at his passing. Trevor perfected the art of being friendly without forming friendships, and I think Jerome was a sort of exception to that rule.”
“Trevor is no longer a schoolboy longing for a basket from home, Jeanette.”
“He liked school. I had to argue with his father that twelve was old enough to risk the rigors of public school, particularly when Trevor had already conquered the entire curriculum. He was bored at university, and—he never said this, he was too damned polite—disgusted by the debauchery he saw there. He called it boredom, but I used to know my step-son well. University boys reminded him too much of his father.”
“And he was unimpressed with London Society,” Rye observed. “But when word of Jerome’s death gets out, the matchmakers will swarm Tavistock like bees searching for a new hive.”
“Why couldn’t Jerome die after Tavistock has taken a bride?” Jeanette tried to find labels for her feelings. Sadness for Jerome’s sisters, who’d been fond of him, but who’d never crossed the Channel to visit him on the Continent. Worry for Trevor. Sadness for Jerome, though he apparently had not suffered and had died in the company of a woman who loved him.
Nowhere, though, among those feelings could she find shock or dismay. Jerome had always been a rascal and a wastrel. That he hadn’t been sent to his reward by frustrated creditors or some young lady’s furious family was the real surprise.
“Jerome is dead,” Rye said, “and I doubt you can keep the news quiet for long. Somebody should warn Tavistock—in person—that his cousin and heir has passed away. Don’t trust the information to the post. No black-banded epistles to get the staff talking or the posting inn taking notice.”
Rye had been a fine strategist and still was. “I’ll send Sycamore out to Berkshire. He had no excuse to linger in Crosspatch, but I can tell he’s itching to see how matters for Trevor are progressing.”
“You are itching to see how matters are progressing. More brandy?” Rye rose and collected her glass.
“No, thank you. The right marchioness could do much to brighten Trevor’s days. He was self-possessed, even solitary, at the age of eight. He was nine when I married his father, and in some ways, Trevor was already more adult than the marquess. It took me years to earn my step-son’s trust, and I never felt I had the whole of it.”
“The right wife,” Rye said, finishing his drink and setting the glasses on the sideboard, “could do much to brighten his lordship’s days and nights. If he can find that wife among Society’s belles and diamonds, I will be surprised.”
“Sycamore says there’s hope, though the situation in Crosspatch is a tad complicated. Tavistock told nobody there of his title, and by doing the equivalent of listening at keyholes, he’s heard nothing but bad about himself.”
“According to Sycamore,” Rye said, “Trevor has made a complete shambles of his first attempt at wooing a lady. Perhaps I should go myself.”
Sycamore and Rye had a complicated relationship. Sometimes they were brothers-by-marriage, other times they were employer and agent. Occasionally, they were partners in mischief, and sometimes they were friends. Jeanette didn’t pry, and she didn’t take sides, and neither her brother nor her husband put her in a position where she had to.
“Sycamore,” Jeanette said, rising, “was amazingly adept at wooing me, and he counseled Tavistock to confess his duplicity at the first opportunity. His lordship is stubborn, though, and stubborn men seldom heed the best advice.”
“A hit,” Rye said, smiling the roguish smile he usually saved for Ann. “You haven’t lost your touch, sister mine. Send your loyal vassal, and we will somehow muddle on at the Coventry in Sycamore’s absence. If he leaves in the next hour and gets good horses at the changes, he can be in Crosspatch before sundown.”
Chapter Twelve
The past three days had been the realization of every ridiculous girlish fantasy Lissa had ever denied herself. Sweet hours with Trevor, sweet dreams of Trevor, sweet moments thinking of Trevor and when Lissa would next see him.
They’d taken to riding out at midmorning, trysting in the gatehouse, and picnicking by the river. Trevor had come for supper the previous evening, and Grandmama had most certainly not fallen asleep. Even Mama was losing some of the pinched, distracted quality that had haunted her for the past two years.
And yet, life went on too. As Lissa made her way along the bridle paths to Lark’s Nest, the Twid burbled by, the birds chattered, the sun brought a hint of warmth to the air.
“Spring is here,” Lissa murmured, patting Jacques’s neck. “Or as good as.”
She handed her mount off to a groom and rapped on Phillip’s door.
“No change,” Phillip said, stepping back and smiling. Lissa had only recently noticed how unrelentingly plain Phillip’s attire was. Unstarched cravat, creased boots, worn breeches. He was always tidy, always fastidious, but it was as if he’d decided to wear the same costume—contented country squire—for every scene.
“I went down to check on the mares at first light,” he said. “They toy with us, and when our backs are turned for an instant, we’ll have a pasture full of foals. Do come in. You can watch me finish my breakfast.”
“I’ll join you,” Lissa said. “I left Twidboro before my sisters came down to eat. Mr. Dorning joined us for supper last night, and Diana and Caroline outdid themselves trying to be grown up.” And they’d done that for Lissa’s sake, a touching display of support from an unexpected quarter.
“He’s bold, your Mr. Dorning.” Phillip ushered Lissa into his dining parlor and passed her a plate at the sideboard. Trevor would have filled that plate for her, which was neither here nor there.
Trevor absolutely was Lissa’s Mr. Dorning. “Bold, because he accepted a dinner invitation? If I thought you’d accept, I’d send you one, but we can’t even get you to dance at the assemblies on the rare occasions when you attend them.”
Phillip gestured to the sliced ham, indicating that his guest should help herself first. “Not every lady would be enthusiastic about taking my hand, Lissa, and I’m not sure what a lot of linked arms and hands-held-high would do to my shoulder.”
“That’s why you never dance?” She speared a slice of meat and felt like a fool. “You worry about your arm?” They never discussed a weakness that, as far as Lissa knew, had been present since Phillip’s birth. What else had Phillip been keeping to himself?
“I worry about my shoulder, but I also don’t know the steps. I’ve watched them enough times, but watching, or studying a diagram on a page, and capering about are different undertakings.”
Well, blast and botheration. “Phillip, you could have asked me to show you the movements.”
He became absorbed in heaping eggs onto his plate. “And then we would have needed an accompanist, and another couple to form a square, and somebody to call the tune, and soon half the shire is watching me fall on my arse.”
He’d certainly thought about learning to dance. “Half of London watched me fall on mine.”
That apparently wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. A slow smile spread upward from his lips to his cheeks to his eyes, and for the first time in her life, Lissa saw Phillip not as her friend, not as a pleasant and reliable fixture in her life, but as a handsome fellow with depths she’d never guessed at.
“You did not fall on your… your backside, Lissa DeWitt. We would have heard about that, even out here.”
“Leave me some eggs. What Crosspatch heard was that I did not take, I was not popular, I received no offers. At my age, and with my infamously generous settlements, that amounts to the same thing as going top over tail at Almack’s.”
They took their seats at the table, Lissa at Phillip’s right hand. Trevor would have somehow found a way to hold her chair, though Lissa managed easily enough.
“Why go back there again?” Phillip asked, sprinkling a pinch of salt on his eggs. “Why give them the satisfaction of an encore?”
“This year will be different.” Lissa shoved a bite of ham into her mouth rather than explain to Phillip why this year—why the rest of her life—would be different in the best possible way. She was kinder, happier, and more full of hope and joy for having become Trevor Dorning’s intended. They were not officially betrothed, which was even better than if she’d been sporting an engagement ring.
Trevor would propose at the perfect moment, after wooing her for the duration of the perfect courtship. The feelings he inspired, with his combination of private passion and public rectitude, were so different from what Lissa had felt with her near misses.
Titus buttoning up his falls, consulting his watch, and expecting Lissa to precede him from the library. “Ladies first.” Meaning she took the risk of discovery while he restored his hair to its coiffure à la Brutus.
Charles touching a mere finger to his hat brim in the park, while he urged his horse to all but gallop past her.
“That is an alarming smile, Lissa,” Phillip said, passing her the salt dish. “Determined and somewhat lupine.”
“I made a mistake thinking I had to deal with polite society as if a shopkeeper’s granddaughter had no place in Mayfair. I have as much right to turn down the room in my pretty frocks, or to sit up at night with a restless mare, or to while away an afternoon reading sonnets as the next woman. My home is here in Crosspatch, and it’s the opinions of our good neighbors that matter to me.”
Phillip paused in the midst of demolishing his eggs. “I’d say it’s your opinion of yourself that should matter most. I have found you magnificent, if a bit overwhelming, should you be planning to inquire. I’d rather have you for a friend than an enemy. Might you pass the butter?”
That comment was surprisingly personal, even for plainspoken Phillip. “Has something changed for you, Phillip?” Lissa buttered two slices of toast and passed over the dish.
He scraped butter onto his toast, then drizzled honey over the butter. Such was Phillip’s inherent sense of focus that when he was done, a perfect spiral of sweetness adorned the bread. He spread the honey evenly before taking a bite.
“Something has changed,” he said, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “Perhaps I have changed. I offered you a loan, and you thanked me kindly, probably believing that I could spare the equivalent of a summer’s egg money.”
“You were very generous, regardless. Thank you for the gesture.”
He glowered at her over a forkful of eggs. “Not a gesture. Never that.” He downed the eggs and took a sip of tea. “Dorning and I got to talking, about hops and barley and the best cooperage and so forth, and I realized… I am a good farmer, Lissa.”
“You are a very good farmer. A walking almanac. You know farming better than Vicar knows his gospels, better than Dabney knows his farriery.” But not better than I know the feel of Trevor Dorning in my arms.
“I should be a good farmer. I’ve done little else, and the subject lends itself to endless study and experimentation. Dorning has set his cap for you. He’s taken Roland in hand. He dreams of possibilities at Miller’s Lament I never imagined. He toured this house, asking me about this deal table or that painting, and I realized I am not attending to my own life. I’m drifting, a rudderless skiff bobbing along on the tide of changing seasons, not a man pursuing worthy ambitions.”
The words were simple and honest and, from Phillip, profound. “Is that why your foyer smells of beeswax, lemon, and camphor? You see your dwelling with new eyes as well?”
“I’ve turned the housekeeper loose on the spring cleaning early, authorized her to hire as many village ladies as necessary to scrub the place from eaves to foundation. We’re going through the attics room by room, I’m considering adding a conservatory, and I might even have Mrs. Peeksgill make me up a new suit or two.”
“Have her make you a new wardrobe, Phillip. Tell Vicar you’d like his company on a jaunt into Reading. Visit a mercer’s and take your time choosing the fabric.”
Phillip grimaced. “Reading.” His tone implied a large cache of putrid eggs immediately upwind.
“I’m not suggesting you go on a market day,” Lissa went on, “but neither should you allow Crosspatch to hold you captive forever.” Why had she taken so long to tell him that?
But Lissa knew why: She’d liked having Phillip on the next property over, a dependable, if shy, knowledgeable neighbor. Phillip had been a comfort, in his way, and Lissa hoped he’d say the same about her.
He finished his toast. “Are you a captive here?”
“I felt more like a prisoner in London.” A prisoner to Papa’s ambitions, Society’s games, Gavin’s absence, Mama’s schemes… Did Trevor ever feel like that, as the illegitimate son of a lofty peer?
“But now you are free?” Phillip asked. “Do I conclude Mr. Dorning has been the agent of your liberation?”
“You conclude I don’t answer rude questions.” She spoiled her scold with a smile.
“I like him,” Phillip said, finishing his tea. “Dorning is busy up here.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “A fashionable gent to appearances, but he pays attention.”
That last was said while Phillip peered into the dregs of his tea cup. He swirled the cup, and something about the gesture struck Lissa as familiar. She’d seen Phillip make the same gesture previously, of course, and examining tea leaves was more than a metaphor, but still…
“Phillip, how did you come to be at Lark’s Nest?”
He set down his tea cup. “In the usual fashion. I was born here, by all accounts. My mother’s health was delicate, and she did not want to compound the challenges of childbed with the ordeal of London in summertime. Lark’s Nest was suited to the purpose.”
“What happened to your mother?”
He rose, though Lissa still had a piece of toast to finish. “Died, I’m afraid. Her health was never robust, though she apparently had a lively mind. Granny Jones recalls Mama fondly, as do I. Will you and Mr. Dorning be riding out again today?”
Lissa stood and took her last piece of toast with her. “Have you been spying, Phillip?”
“I’ve heard laughter drifting up from the path along the Twid. I’ve seen evidence of two riders passing by Lark’s Nest side by side. I know Roland’s particular whinny, and he does greet the mares when he’s in the vicinity.”
“Are we that obvious?”
Phillip paused in the dining room doorway. “Methinks you are that besotted, but if Dorning ever gives you cause to regret his acquaintance, you can count on me to hold him accountable. I am a dead shot, in case he has a need to inquire.”
“I suspect he is, too, and not only with an antique fowling piece.”
“Details.”
Lissa munched her toast as Phillip led her through the public rooms, explaining his plans for new curtains here, a reupholstered love seat there. In the parlor, he’d taken down the portrait of the blond lady and propped it against the sideboard. Another painting rested on the mantel, not yet properly hung.
“The same woman,” Lissa said. “The late marchioness?” And a solemn little blond boy standing beside her. “Is that the heir?”
“I suppose so. Mrs. Peeksgill thought an informal portrait ought to grace the informal parlor, but I’ve asked her to give the painting a cleaning and find someplace else to hang it.”
Phillip had spoken sharply, for him. “Someplace like the cow byre?” Lissa studied the boy, who was past the age of breeching, but not by much. Such a serious little lad, and for the second time in an hour, she had a sense of elusive familiarity. “That would be the present marquess?”
“I know not who he is, but he’s too superior for my parlor.”
Not superior, the lad looked… stoic, beyond the patience demanded of a child holding a pose for a portraitist. That boy had already learned some of life’s harder lessons and was resigned to learning more.
“A proper little man,” she murmured, moving closer. The child’s attire was exquisitely made for such a small person, right down to a tricorn hat trimmed with gold braid and silver buckles on his Sunday shoes. “His mother loved him.”
The lady had a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and her expression was the epitome of maternal devotion. Pride, joy, a touch of worry, and tremendous fondness. The child’s expression, by contrast, was devoid of emotion.
Sad little creature. Lissa looked for a signature. “Good God, this is a Reynolds, and it has been gathering dust in your lumber room?”
“I didn’t commission it, for pity’s sake,” Phillip said, pacing for the door. “Haven’t you a handsome swain to meet by the mill?”
“We meet at the Arms, in broad daylight for all of Crosspatch to see.”
“And you kiss by the mill.”
Among other places. Lissa grinned. “You’ve seen us?”
“Tansy Pevinger has made a few comments that suggest she might have. Be careful, Lissa. Dorning is apparently a lovely fellow, but we aren’t all who we seem to be.”
“Precisely,” she said, turning her back on the mother and child. “Polite society says I seem to be a shopkeeper’s uppish granddaughter with more settlements than refinement. Little do they know that I am the belle of Crosspatch Corners.”
