The Perfect Rose Page 9

  Brodie began kicking at Justin's shin and Mr. Pickwick knew he had to let Torie go. “I look forward to it, then.” He stared long after Justin gallantly helped Torie into the dogcart and it drove away bound for Lairdscroft.

  When Torie arrived back at the stately manor house there was no sign of his lordship. Not that this was unusual, but as the day wore on and Torie changed into a Scottish plaid skirt, etched with white lace for dinner, and there was still no summons, she began to worry. Was she invited to eat with the church officials?

  It was as she was struggling with Brodie's stiff suit of dinner clothes that she got an answer. Brodie it seemed had grown and the suit was a tad too tight. Not too short mind you, just too tight and would not button. Torie was puzzled. The suit had fit fine the week prior.

  It took only a look to Justin's smirking countenance to guess something was afoot. Brodie began an uncontrollable fit of giggles before Torie stripped him out of the offending frock coat and off with the white frilled shirt. Sure enough, a bed linen was wrapped around and around Brodie's middle, making him a stout little man. Brodie caught Torie's exasperated look. “Justin made me do it!"

  Justin cut in. “I did not, you little frog!"

  Torie shook her head. “Do you think I am addled? Brodie is too small to have bandaged himself so evenly. Nay, I am inclined to propose that you had a hand in this, Master Justin. And, he could not have accomplished the task if you did not stand absolutely still, young Master Brodie. Furthermore, I heard no outcry from your lofty lungs. Nay, I am inclined to believe it was a mutual effort. I wonder that I should take this up with your father?” It was Torie's turn to tease.

  Justin's dark eyes, so like his father's, were large, round, blue saucers. “Say you won't! Please! You know he will chastise us till we are old men. Or worse, he will not say anything, but will look as if we have disappointed him. I cannot bear that!"

  Brodie did not seem to care one way or the other. It was all good fun to him. Torie realized how much pressure Justin was under to fit the mold of the young Lord of Lairdscroft. “Do not worry, Justin. Have I left such a poor impression on you that you think I would run to your father over a trick? I am not void of humor. It was a neat lark."

  Justin was appeased. “Thank you. We would have told you before much longer, even if you had not found out."

  "That is obliging of you, considering I was going to ask your father for new clothes for Brodie and a word with cook on cutting back his sweets."

  Now Brodie was worried. “No! I'm just a skinny kid. I need my tarts and frosted crumpets. I really do!"

  "Yes, now I can see that. Do get dressed. Your father will send for you soon."

  "No, he won't.” Justin volunteered. “He hasn't come back yet."

  "What? The churchmen will be arriving soon!"

  "I don't know about that.” Justin looked truly sorry. “I just know I went to ask if I could borrow a cravat from him, as mine are too short now. I met his valet Thorns and he said father was not back yet."

  "All-right. Let's go on down and make the best of it till he arrives.” Torie nearly suffocated Brodie in her haste to dress him quickly then doused him by mistake, when the pitcher of water she dampened his cowlick with slipped, and water ran onto the lad's head.

  "I say Brodie, you look as if you're wearing pomade!” Justin taunted, flaunting his own thick locks, which were tied back in the fashion of his father.

  "Don't get him fussing, Justin. I haven't the time to referee your fight.” Torie gave both boys a push towards the door. Once downstairs, Torie told the boys to stay with her and not go dashing off havey-cavey. Thankfully, there was no sign of any guests. What about dinner? Had cook had the presence of mind to prepare it without Lord Lairdscroft's instructions? This could be most embarrassing!

  Torie went to the kitchens. There were heavenly smells floating through the air. Thank heavens! The solid housekeeper, Torie now knew was Mrs. Tewksbury, ambled past. Torie called to her. “Mrs. Tewksbury! A word if I may?"

  "Yes.” The older woman did not dislike Torie. The truth was she liked her more than most. It was just Mrs. Tewksbury did not care too much for folk, any folk.

  "Might I inquire if dinner will be served as usual to the church group?"

  "Of course, just as his lordship instructed this morning."

  "This morning? Then Lord Lairdscroft anticipated being absent this eve?"

  "I do not know about that. I simply know my job. Milord told me to serve capon, roasted and smothered in broth, and served last. He was most specific it be served last. Oh, and he said Miss Beauclaire would officiate if he was not returned."

  "I?” Torie was dumfounded, then outraged. What trick was this to give her no warning? She, a governess, to suddenly act the role of hostess? Her temper flared. How dare he! Just because he bought her a few gowns, now he dictated her life?

  But now was not the time for moral outrage. She had pride enough to want to make the evening a success. After all, it was the community's religious leaders that would be present. With sudden, vindictive thought Torie mused; maybe Rhionne was a heathen after all. Maybe it ran in the family. Was the entire male lineage adverse to godliness on Sunday? The boys were rowdier than usual and with the example set by their father, it was no wonder. Well, it was a good thing she was in residence to keep the boys on an even keel. If only she could do as much for their errant parent!

  The priest from Chesterfield arrived, unusually early and sober. It seemed he was abstaining on the basis the bishop had taken him in hand and sternly chastised his passion for the fruit of the vine. Next, the two Pickwicks arrived. The elder looked about, his long face wondering inquisitively at the absence of Lord Lairdscroft; the younger only had eyes for Torie. Lastly, the vociferous bishop and his somber retinue arrived. The bishop had prepared a long sermon, a veritable tirade of sin versus purity. His hawk-like eyes swept the Long Drawing room as if to find Lord Lairdscroft hiding in a corner.

  When Torie made her hastily concocted speech of his lordship's detainment on political business, the disappointment around the room was obvious, except by the younger Mr. Pickwick. Torie wisely decided to hurry the pre-dinner chatter along. The bishop could not very well preach sin to a lady in the household of Torie's caliber, especially with children present. And since preaching was his forte, he was unusually silent. The younger Pickwick wished they would all go away so he might monopolize Torie's time.

  It seemed no one that night was destined to attain their goals; except perhaps Justin and Brodie. If they had mischief on their minds they were soon fulfilling destiny by running about the room playing tag; ducking behind the churchmen, as if they were trees to shield from being tagged by one another. Torie turned a pleading eye on the young rascals but they paid no heed. She had half a mind to send them upstairs with no dinner, but the alternative of dining alone with the church officials kept her temper in check. Once more she reserved her ire for the absent lord.

  The donations were foremost in all the clergy's minds, but Torie was impotent on this issue. She stamped her foot twice, the signal the footmen were to throw open the doors to the dining room. The dinner bell rang. An audible sigh came from the drawing room. Torie was not sure who had uttered it.

  The seating arrangements were not assigned. Nor did the men care where they sat. Usually there was a wish for one of the two choice seats next to his lordship, who of course presided at the head of the table. But as this seat was vacant, it mattered not where anyone sat. The room waited for Torie to take a chair, then all followed suit, with the younger Mr. Pickwick to Torie's left and Brodie then Justin to her right. If it would not have caused a scene Torie would have liked to separate the siblings. The vision of food being flung and furtive kicks under the table made her uneasy. But there was no help for it.

  Delectable sweetmeats were served with apricot glaze, along with cheese and crumpets. Kidney pies and roasted dove hearts followed. Between dishes light conversation was attempted, but an argument broke
out over religious merits. Only Torie and the younger Mr. Pickwick were able to converse amiably about light topics. Then the roasted capon arrived. It required fingers instead of utensils to partake of and all hands vigorously attacked the fowl, stripping the bones and leaving greasy lips and fingers reaching for the large napkins, folded next to the plates.

  It was then that the religious men present received a pleasant surprise. Under each napkin was a plump packet. Inside were the weekly donations. The conversation took a turn on the bantering side and all devout leaders were appeased. Even the squeal Justin let out when Brodie pinched his leg went unheeded except for a few raised eyebrows. Torie's reward was—without the head of household present—there would be no after-dinner cigars and brandy in the salon. Therefore, after the dinner coffee and gooseberry torte was consumed, she was free to bid all adieu. This she did readily enough, excusing the boys to go up to bed.

  Torie saw no harm in asking the younger Pickwick to stay and join her in the salon. After all, he was a man of the cloth and no chaperon would be socially required. This the parson agreed to, sending his father home ahead. It was what he had dared dream of. A moment in time with the beautiful governess all to himself!

  They sat a comfortable distance from the fire, sipping brandy-spiced tea. The plain dressed and plainer of face parson watched Torie with open admiration. “My dear Miss Beauclaire, may I say you fill the position of hostess admirably. It's almost as if you were born to it."

  Torie bowed her head, acknowledging the compliment. “It is a role most women play quite naturally, I hazard a guess."

  "Then you do not pine for an establishment of your own?"

  "Perhaps in time, but it is unlikely a woman in my position will be financially secure enough to even hope to set up an establishment of her own."

  Torie's outlook was practical and practicality was an aphrodisiac to the parson. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was not an eloquent man. A servant came in and stoked the fire into a blaze. Mr. Pickwick prudently waited until the faithful man was gone to reply. “But a woman of your beauty should not worry of security. Have you no thought to marriage?"

  Torie blushed. “It is gallant of you to remark. Perhaps in time."

  The usually shy parson was bold beyond imagination. “I pray I may be present at the time."

  To Torie's surprise he reached over, fervently grasping her hand and pressed a kiss to its smooth softness. At that moment the door swung open and the thump of riding boots on bare floor reverberated through the room.

  Rhionne McLairdin's countenance surveyed the scene before him, as without so much as a cough to excuse the intrusion, he continued to walk into the room. “I beg your pardon's. I did not know the room was occupied. I merely came in to warm myself. Deuced chilly it has become outside. As I have only just arrived back, I apologize for my appearance.” His riding breeches and superbly cut broadcloth coat had the look of travel about them, but this was not unappealing to Torie's eyes. His lordship ensconced himself in front of the fire and seemed to consider the situation before him. “I trust you will not begrudge my presence?"

  It was then Torie realized that her hand was still held by Mr. Pickwick. Hastily she withdrew it. “My lord, we were not expecting you."

  A sardonic smile curved the generous lips. “Obviously. I trust the dinner went well?"

  Mr. Pickwick rose. “It was a tribute to the hostess. I should get back to the parsonage or father will worry."

  Torie made to rise, but Rhionne raised a brow and she held her seat as he replied. “I will see you to the door.” He was not gone long when Torie heard his boots returning. He took the parson's vacant chair, propping his leg on top of the other, in total contrast to the demeanor of the previous occupant. He seemed to consider Torie a moment. “I hope the evening was not too trying?"

  In light of the situation moments before Torie lost her resolve to give him a set-down on abandoning his duty as host. She could only nod her head in denial.

  "I see you made the best of the situation."

  Torie was not sure what he meant by this and stared hard at him. For once there was no sardonic smile. No teasing in his eyes. Instead they were cold, slate blue.

  He did not seem to find amusement in the situation now that the parson was gone. “Miss Beauclaire, you are not young enough to be so naive as to believe it is acceptable to entertain without supervision."

  Torie spoke, shocked. “Surely you jest! He is a parson!"

  "He is a man,” he reminded her. “And I do not approve of his presence in this room alone with you."

  "You don't approve?” Torie was over her embarrassment. “May I remind you sir, it was you who went off to run with the hounds, thrusting me in the unwanted position of hostess? It is scarcely the post I was hired for!"

  "Touché, Miss Beauclaire, you make a point. I should have known you would not be able to handle a position you are unsuited for. It is fortunate I arrived when I did, as I believe the good man of the cloth was about to make love to you!"

  Torie rose. “Do you think I am so green I cannot fend off the sweet protestation's of a parson! You sir, take too much upon yourself! I am going to bed!"

  His lordship would have the last word. “An excellent suggestion. May your dreams be as sweet as your evening.” He waited till she was out of the room before muttering a sharp oath unfit for a lady's ears. Why did the girl affect him so? It was unacceptable for her to do as she did, but equally ill mannered of him to remark on it in so crass of terms. Bah! He was tired and hungry. It was enough to make any man out of sorts. What was the girl to him but a mere servant? He would think no more of it.

  * * * *

  Torie had little contact with his lordship for the next few days. It seemed he avoided her as much as she did him. Meals were somber affairs. The boys, as if sensing the tension, kept unusually quiet, only speaking when spoken to. Torie felt bad for them. It was not their fault she and their father were not on speaking terms. Torie wore her new gowns becomingly, but her pleasure was lost when she remembered whose generosity had furnished them. It was Wednesday before everything changed with the arrival of an unexpected regal visitor.

  The elder Duke of Gaunlin was a tall, thin figure; whose heavy lidded eyes gave the impression he was perpetually bored. He wore his iron gray hair in the clubbed fashion of another century—a wig to be sure but worn with such pomp, no one would view it as anything but the latest kick of fashion.

  His clothes bespoke the gentleman; an excellently cut frock coat over a pale striped waistcoat and immaculate white knee breeches. No trousers for this stickler of tradition! His top boots were polished to a mirror-like finish that would have made a dandy gasp. Absent were the fripperies of the new generation. He wore a single watch and fob and kept his shirt points to a reasonable level.

  His Achilles was snuff. Oh, no, it was not the vice he craved but rather the ornate, enameled boxes that held the fragrant mix. To be sure he dipped as often as the next man, but the jeweled encrusted works of art he collected by the hundreds. His other treasured possession was of the flesh and blood ilk, his cherished son Everett. The Duke had not been visited by fatherhood till late in life, therefore he was of an age where spending the evening in front of a warm hearth was more satisfying than a frivolous romp or a gala rout. That is—except where his only son was concerned.

  When it came to Everett, the elder duke resembled a bird of prey looking about for anything that might endanger his offspring. His age fell away as if he wore it as a mantle, to be cast off when the situation merited. Under this mantle was a proud man, known for stern discipline and family honor. He was of old blood and meant to see the blood stayed pure and untainted.

  It was for this reason he arrived at Lairdscroft, without prior appointment. Being who he was, it was acceptable and only a fool would have turned away the formidable Duke. And Rhionne McLairdin was no fool. He met with the Duke in his study, serving the best brandy of the house, painstakingly aged in oak casks
and imported in limited quantities. Rhionne saved it for special occasions and since he had not had the privilege of entertaining the Duke for almost two years—this was just such an occasion.

  Both men held mutual respect for each other. They were not close, as their ages were apart and a generation of thinking separated them. In truth, the old Duke had been best of friends with Rhionne's father, Padraic McLairdin, the former Lord of Lairdscroft now deceased. As such, each man could talk freely without fear of offending the other, even if they disagreed on issues. Except politics. The Duke was known to be staunch in his views and Rhionne's work for the government was a thorn in his side.

  Therefore, the talk was general at first. Discussion of tenants and property values and so on. From under heavy lids the elegantly regal Duke took in the study. “Deuced fine brandy, Rhionne. You must share the name of your supplier. Remarkable how the new brandy can taste so foul, while this is superb! Nothing quite like old tradition to flavor life. Don't you agree?"

  "Your Grace is correct. Brandy is best when properly aged. However, some things are improved through change.” Rhionne spoke judiciously.

  The Duke expostulated, “Bah! You are alluding to politics and government issues. Don't get me started, you young scamp! Mark my words, we'll all go to hell in a hand basket if your generation keeps up this negotiable attitude. Why, in my day, if another country disagreed, we gave them little time before giving them an ultimatum! You must show who is boss! None of this stuff and nonsense!"

  Rhionne would give no quarter. “You must acknowledge your way cost us dearly in lives. Your own son is of prime age to serve. Only his status and title would exclude him. Knowing Everett as I do, I fear that would not keep him from being first in line to enlist. Nay, I think you'll agree negotiation is best and war is to be avoided if possible."