Chapter Eight
Several weeks passed, each day was very much like the last. The only visitors her father received were the widow, Mrs. Thompson, and her sister, Alice, and self-appointed organizers of all matters relating to the church. They took great delight in discussing the fascinating new member of the parish. Hetty suffered through their fulsome praise of Lord Fortescue, how charming he was, and how he’d granted a substantial endowment for improvements to the rectory.
To fill the long days, Hetty wrote letters, played the piano, and read, but even Byron’s poetry failed to captivate her for long. Her own attempts at verse were uninspired. She organized the maids in their duties and began to embroider a new sampler, but, after pricking her finger for the third time, threw it down in disgust.
It was hardly gardening weather. Undaunted, she forked the frost-hardened soil in the vegetable patch to prepare it for spring. It was a pastime she usually enjoyed, but she found herself furiously attacking the dirt with the garden fork as if a highwayman hid there.
Hetty made daily requests for her father to accompany her on a ride and tried to quell her temper when he usually refused. She hated to see The General shuffling in his stall, but it was too cold to put him in the paddock.
Her father, perhaps tired of her low spirits, suggested an outing to the village for afternoon tea. He would invite Lady Kemble to join them. Hetty seized on the offering even though it meant coming under the scrutiny of Fanny’s mother. She wore her smart moss-green wool beneath her pelisse. Although the weather remained chilly, there seemed little chance of snow.
The carriage rattled along through hills of oak and thorn, following the curve of the valley which led to the River Mimram. They passed the gray-stone church with the two cedars of Lebanon planted by Capability Brown last century, and then the rectory, with the Monks Walk and grove of sweet chestnuts. “Is this not God’s country?” Papa asked.
She glanced out to where sheep dotted the rolling green hillocks and sheltered beneath spreading oaks. “Digswell is very pleasing to the eye.”
“Would you really want to leave it for the teaming metropolis?”
“The city would offer a very different life,” she said cautiously.
Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Mr. Oakley.”
Her heart sank to her half-boots. She’d begun to hope that her father had given up on Frederick Oakley. He hadn’t called since Lady Kemble’s dinner party.
“Oakley’s a decent man, Horatia.”
“Yes, he is.”
Her father drew the rug up farther over his knees. “With a fine property and a decent income.”
“That’s true.”
He studied her. “You might sound more enthusiastic.”
“I don’t love him, Papa,” she said, distracted by the image of a pair of blue eyes.
“Marriage to a good man counts for a lot.”
“You loved Mama.”
His eyes turned sad, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Our mutual regard grew into love after we married.”
As the vehicle swayed over the road, Hetty smoothed the fur trim on her sleeve. “Father, I could never love Mr. Oakley. We are too different in our sensibilities.”
He sighed heavily. “He dislikes poetry?”
She gave a small laugh. “He has no sense of humor.”
“Oh, very well, then. I shall not insist, although some fathers might do so.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “You are two-and-twenty, most women of your age are long wed.”
“Don’t you like me living with you?”
He sighed. “That is the trouble, I’m growing to like it too much.
“Oh Papa!” Filled with compassion and a sense of helplessness, she kissed his cheek.
“And I suffer some guilt that you cannot go to London.”
“Aunt Emily is more than willing to sponsor me.”
“I tremble at the thought of what sort of life you would live there. Much as I love my sister, she is not in the ordinary way. When a fox got into the hen house, she was so distracted with her poems he ate several of our chickens before she shooed him out.”
Did Papa liken Hetty to a chicken and fear that Aunt Emily would let the foxes in? Hetty sighed. She would never go to London.
The carriage pulled up outside the Duck and Cockerel, a wattle and daub building in the high street.
“Well, here we are,” her father said with relief in his voice.
Hetty alighted with the hope that their afternoon would rise above tedious subjects such as an effective treatment for chilblains, recipes for the vegetables in season, when best to prune the roses and of course, when the wintry weather would finally abate. She yearned to learn what was happening in the world beyond Digswell, but she seemed the only person interested.
Frederick Oakley waited for them on the footpath. He bustled forward in his lanky gait to bow over Hetty’s hand.
“How good to see you, Mr. Oakley,” her father said, looking pleased. He hadn’t quite given up on Frederick as a son-in-law it seemed. Had he encouraged this meeting? “We are about to take tea. Will you join us?”
Frederick kept hold of her hand rather too long. “Delighted.” He smiled at her. Out of the corner of Hetty’s eye, a tall, dark-haired man emerged from the general store. Guy crossed the road toward them. She pulled her hand from Frederick’s, her gaze resting on Guy’s face. He raised an inquiring eyebrow as he removed his hat.
After their greetings, her father issued an invitation to Guy, which caused an unattractive scowl on Frederick’s face.
While they waited for two tables to be joined and the seating arrangements to be organized, Guy bent his head to her and spoke in an undertone. “Eustace has told the shopkeeper that he plans to remain here.”
“Do you mind?”
“No. The house is big enough, I just wish things were better between us.”
“Have you discussed your misgivings about his running of the estate?”
“I’ve not been able to talk to him. He’s returned to his sickbed.”
Hetty inhaled. “Is he very ill?”
Guy looked frustrated, his lips thinning. “I suspect it’s a means to avoid me.”
“You cannot be sure of that.” She thought Guy unsympathetic. “I shall call on him when he rises from his bed.”
“Have you two forgotten your manners?” Her father tapped her shoulder. “Look who’s arrived.”
Fanny, Lady Kemble, and Mrs. Illingworth entered the room. Mrs. Crimpton, who ran the establishment with her husband, promised them currant cake and gingerbread before rushing off to the kitchen.
Frederick held out a chair for Hetty and took the one beside her. “I have been hoping for a chance to talk to you, Miss Cavendish,” he said with an earnest expression. “I have had remarkable success developing a new variety of squash. It is far bigger and a finer green than any I have seen. I intend to enter it in the village fair. The flesh is whiter…” Hetty caught Guy’s eye over Frederick’s shoulder. An enigmatic smile played on his lips before he turned his attention to Fanny.
Hetty set her teeth in frustration. She wanted to discuss Guy’s problem with Eustace further, to try to help matters between them. It might be quite a while before she could visit Eustace, and the rift might widen and became impossible to mend. Especially, after Guy left for London.
It was an entirely unsatisfactory afternoon. Frederick discussed his successes in his garden in detail while Fanny giggled at Guy’s droll remarks. Her father talked to the widow, Mrs. Illingworth. He spoke warmly of the lady’s sound, good sense in the carriage on their way home. She’d invited him to visit the following afternoon to advise her on her investments.
If she hadn’t been so distracted, Hetty would have shown more interest in this latest development. Was it possible this new friendship could lead to marriage? She had taken immediately to Mrs. Illingworth, a calm, fair-haired lady of some forty-five years, who always seemed to measure her words before speaking.
Hetty arrived home with a throbbing head.
The next afternoon, her father dressed in his best coat. He was quite effusive as he said goodbye. A fledgling hope sparked in Hetty’s breast. She would write to Aunt Emily at once. If an invitation arrived, her father might agree to allow her to go to London while his attention was caught by Mrs. Illingworth.
In the library, Hetty sat at her father’s desk. She drew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and trimmed a pen. Then, dipping the pen in the inkwell, she began, Dear Aunt Emily, then paused, thinking of her conversation with Guy about Eustace. She would not wait to hear if Eustace had risen from his sickbed. The letter forgotten, she went down to the kitchen to ask Cook for some treats to tempt Eustace’s appetite. She would visit him tomorrow.
*
Guy walked back to the house from the stables. He’d spent the morning making himself known to his tenants, ensuring they had a plentiful supply of coal. He was disturbed by their primitive living conditions and promised to effect immediate improvements. Their children were thin and undernourished, their livestock in poor condition, and some of their roofs needed rethatching. The peasants were starving in France, but he had expected more from Rosecroft Hall. The estate manager had painted a grim picture, blaming the high price of bread on the Corn Laws last year. He’d complained about the decline of English trade owing to the war and Napoleon’s Continental System, high unemployment, and high taxes. Despite the overwhelming obstacles, Guy remained determined to put all to rights here at Rosecroft. He would employ more staff as soon as possible, even if it meant traveling to London to find them.
He stood admiring the architecture of the old house when a vehicle rattled its way up the carriage drive. As it grew closer, he saw it was Simon driving a gig with Hetty seated beside him.
Guy helped her down. Hetty wore a green pelisse with a fur collar the color of her hair, and a pretty bonnet lined with amber silk. The breeze toyed with the hem of her skirts, revealing a slim ankle, as he considered what delights might lie beneath.
“Good day, Simon,” Guy said with a smile. “I’m sure Williams will be glad of a chinwag.”
“As will I. Thank you, my lord.” With a bow, Simon slapped the reins and drove toward the stables.
“How ravishing you look today.” Pleased to see her in a pretty dress, Guy took her basket and carried it. “What have you here?”
She nodded her thanks. “Cook has made some afternoon tea for Eustace. Is he still in bed?”
It wasn’t the warmest of greetings. “No, he seeks the sun in the conservatory.”
“That is good news.”
“I hope you find him more talkative than I.” Guy followed Hetty indoors, waiting while Hammond took her coat and bonnet.
She patted her hair into place, her big expressive eyes filled with doubt. “Perhaps he’s not happy here.”
“Not happy?” His shoulders tightened with a prickle of annoyance. He escorted her along the passage. “Eustace has been happy here for the best part of thirty-five years.”
“Perhaps he feels you want him to leave.”
Guy tightened his jaw. “I’ve made it perfectly plain he is welcome. The hall is large enough for several families to live in and seldom meet.”
“That’s not the point.”
He took her arm and turned her to face him. “Do you think I’m being unreasonable to want the man to explain a few things to me?”
She gave him a quizzical glance. “I should think it would depend on your manner. Are you too forceful?”
Her lack of faith in him affected him far more than he would have thought possible. Perhaps because it was so unfair. “Forceful? I’ve held off on asking any direct questions that might upset him. I’ve assured him he may remain for the rest of his days. What more do you suggest? Shall I offer to rub his back?”
She narrowed her eyes and took the basket from him. “You are talking nonsense. Perhaps all he wants is your friendship.”
Rather difficult when the man is as frosty as the weather, Guy thought. And then there were those unexplained attacks of which he was reluctant to accuse the man, not without proof at least. And perhaps because he doubted Eustace lay behind them. He exuded lassitude rather than menace. “I’m willing to be on good terms, but he must also make the effort. I shall learn what has occurred here even at the risk of upsetting him.”
Having escorted her to the door of the conservatory, he bowed. “And I shall have it straightened out before one of us leaves for London.” He left her and strode away.
If she couldn’t understand his point of view, so be it. But when his outrage drained away, he felt decidedly flat. He made his way to the library and returned to his study of the estate books and articles on modern methods of farming. He had much to learn.