Chapter Thirteen
Bertie arrived at Heyford Abbey with a sense of relief. Though he had enjoyed his time with Lady Catherine, home was his preferred place in the winter months. This season had been colder than most, and a layer of snow covered the gentle hills. As he rode up the drive to the house, he was struck by the fact that, though it could probably not compare in any way with Westbury Castle, it was his home, and he loved it. The original abbey was only a ruin now, but his great-grandfather, Sir George Backman, had built a Palladian-style mansion out of Cotswold stone from the abbey. It had an abundance of windows.
At the sound of the Hermes’s hooves, Bertie’s ten-year-old niece, Marguerite, ran out the front door to greet him, along with his golden retrievers, Sally and Sam. He leaned down, and Gweet jumped, enabling him to pull her up and set her before him on the saddle.
“Gweet! You little minx! I swear you have grown a furlong!”
Giggling happily, she said, “You have been gone ever such a long time, Uncle Bertie! Mama said you were in London.”
“Yes, and I have brought you a gift.”
“Oh! May I see?”
“You must wait till we get to the stable. It is in my saddlebag.”
Gweet was entranced by the porcelain-faced doll with the white lace dress. “Oh, Uncle Bertie, she is beautiful. I must run and show Warrie!” With no further use for her uncle, she ran off to find her beloved twin.
Bertie was greeted warmly by his dogs. Sally already had her stick, which he cheerfully threw out into the stable yard. As the dog chased it, Bertie’s sister, Marianne, walked out to meet him in the stables.
“Oh, Bertie, whatever took you to London at this time of year? We have all missed you badly.”
“It was an obligation. But now I am fixed here for the rest of the winter.” Out of his saddlebag, he produced a brocade pouch.
His sister opened it eagerly, pulling out a string of white jade beads. “Oh! So lovely, Bertie. I guess I can forgive you for going to London.”
Pulling out another paper parcel for Warrie, he accompanied his sister to the house and through the kitchen quarters, where he greeted , his cook, who said, “You go settle by the fire in your sitting room, sir, and I’ll be bringing you your tea. Cold through, you must be. I just happen to have made your favorite lemon biscuits. Get on with you now, out of my kitchen.”
Because he had known the cook since he was a child, he knew not to take offense at her informal address. “Tea sounds just right,” he said.
Warrie and Gweet were clambering down the main staircase into the hall.
“Welcome home, sir,” said Warrie. “We have missed you.”
Since his father’s death of typhoid in Africa the year before, Warrie had been a formal, withdrawn child, unlike his twin.
“I’m sorry,” Bertie said. “I brought you something for your collection.”
The boy’s eyes lit as he handed him the paper parcel. Taking it upstairs to their afternoon sitting room, he sat down before the fire. Only then did he open it. Inside were a dozen lead soldiers in uniforms of the light cavalry, together with their horses.
“Oh, Uncle Bertie! These are as cunning as can be. Thank you.” Shedding his sober demeanor, he said to his twin, “Let’s go up to the nursery and lay out a battle!”
In a few moments, they were gone, leaving him to enjoy a quiet tea with Marianne. She had little news to report. One of the tenants had given birth to her fifth child, a boy. The squire’s daughter was engaged to be married. Old Mrs. Thomas was said to be close to drawing her last breath. Birth, marriage, death—the usual triumvirate of village life.
“How are the Strangewayses and the Wellinghams?” she asked.
“All well. They send their best, of course. The Strangewayses are settled in Kent till the Season begins. Wellinghams are gone to Somerset for a few weeks.”
“What was your business in London?”
“Trying to catch some smugglers who do their business in Lord Ogletree’s neighborhood in Dorset. We followed them to London. No luck. The Home Office is pursuing the investigation.”
Of course, Marianne had to hear the tale of the Gentleman Smuggler, but he left out any specific reference to Lady Catherine. After all, the association was bound to go nowhere due to their difference in social status and her brother’s disapproval. The thought had troubled him all the way from London. After the intimacy of holding her hand in Lady Clarice’s drawing room, he did not know exactly where he stood with the lady. All he knew for certain was that he was going to miss her more than he could say.
After tea, Bertie adjourned to his library, where his post awaited. To his surprise, he found a letter from Lady Catherine.
Westbury Castle
Somerset
Dear Sir Bertie,
We did not encounter any highwaymen along the road to Somerset, so fortunately the footmen were not called upon to defend my life and honor. That was a good thing, because they are very old. My brother should have accompanied me, of course, but he would not leave his beloved Prince.
My father was very glad to see me. We have been pottering about together in the succession houses, where he is trying to grow a new strain of wheat. You would like my papa, I think. He is very clearheaded, despite his age, and always has a new project. I do not think he has ever suffered ennui in his life.
I have decided not to tell him about the smugglers, as I do not want him fretting. I had enough to deal with before leaving London. Lord William Cumberwell called on me again. He was overly solicitous. I would not have him concerned about me; I would just have him leave me alone.
Papa has decided we must have a winter ball in celebration of my being home. This will keep me busy in the next three weeks, which is, I think, what he had in mind. There is quite a bit of gentry about. I shall invite the Wellinghams, which shall give me pleasure.
I hope you found all well upon your return home. It was excessively kind of you to go to London on my behalf. I imagine your family missed your company. When you write back, you must tell me about them.
Very sincerely yours,
Lady C.
The letter gave him a great deal of satisfaction but further confused him. Would a well-bred young lady write such an informal missive to someone she didn’t care about?