Lady Bountiful Read online

  LADY BOUNTIFUL

  Laura Matthews

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  Enacting her version of a young lady fainting, the irrepressible Drucilla Carruthers fell back against her chair, her listless hand allowing the distressing letter to flutter to the floor amidst the feathers. Her companion and former governess, Miss Script, shook her graying head with vigorous disapproval.

  "It is no laughing matter, Drucilla," she protested. "You know very well why Lord Meacham is coming, despite his sweetly couched phrases of concern for your father. He's heard what's going forward here, no doubt from Sir Lawrence's attorney."

  "Yes, he must have been severely provoked if he's willing to travel two hundred miles this close to Christmas," Drucilla said thoughtfully as she retrieved the boldly penned missive from the worn Axminster carpet and tucked it carelessly into the second volume of the novel she was currently reading.

  "He can bring the matter up before a magistrate," Miss Script warned, her thin hands nervously gripping the pillowcase in her lap.

  Drucilla's smile made her blue eyes dance. "Fortunately, it is Sir Edward who would have to act, and I believe him gone to visit his son in Somerset for the Christmas holidays. I should be very surprised if Lord Meacham were able to accomplish much before the next assizes. But really, it was too bad of Mr. Wicker to have told him."

  Miss Script, however, could not agree, since she was well aware of the tactics Drucilla had used to divert the elderly solicitor. From the time Drucilla was a small child, fair and angelic looking with her blond curls and wide azure eyes, she had been perfectly capable of disturbing Miss Script's nice sense of propriety.

  "I'm sure Mr. Wicker only saw it as his duty, Drucilla. He has, after all, like his father before him, been the solicitor for the baronets of Tarnlea for close to fifty years. My understanding of solicitors is that they are constitutionally suspicious men. Mr. Wicker has been urging you for three years to make plain the situation here, and you've managed to avoid every query. You must have known he would eventually relate everything to Lord Meacham."

  "Certainly I did. I only hoped that I would be able to prevent him doing so until the work was completely finished. Still, we've accomplished a great deal these last years, May, haven't we?"

  Her companion stretched the muslin pillowcase she was stuffing from a sack of clean goose down and feathers. "I worry that you've taken too much upon yourself. Not that your father's tenants don't deserve it!" she hastened to add. "But you have surely invited trouble upon yourself. Lord Meacham will hardly be complaisant about the expense."

  "It did turn out to cost considerably more than I'd anticipated," Drucilla admitted. "But the necessity was surely there. My father..." With a sigh she shrugged and said only, "I won't have anyone disrupting his peace, or making him a byword in the neighborhood."

  "Lord Meacham may have some legitimate complaints, though, since he is heir to Tarnlea."

  Drucilla's nose wrinkled in distaste. "I daresay. I remember meeting him once as a child. It was just after my mother's death, so I must have been five and he couldn't have been less than twelve at the time. What does that make him now—twenty-eight? He was already a very stuffy fellow."

  "When a boy must take over his father's dignities at a young age, I believe he usually has a tendency to be stiff and over-responsible. You know it was true of Lady Nibthwaite's son."

  "Heavens, yes," Drucilla agreed, her dimples peeking out. None of her acquaintance was more officious than Lord Nibthwaite. "I recall thinking Lord Meacham was full of his own consequence. Odious boy. It would serve him right if I bankrupted Tarnlea. He has sufficient property of his own."

  Miss Script, though the most amiable of companions, was not just at present prepared to hear her former charge discourse on the inequities of fate with particular regard to the inheritance practices of the British Isles. "I'm sure you are very well provided for under your dear mama's will, though it will indeed mean wrenching yourself from the only home you've known when the time comes. But pray recall that young ladies who marry do so all the time."

  "Which just proves what milk-and-water misses they are!"

  "Never mind that now," Miss Script admonished. "We must consider how best to prepare for Lord Meacham's arrival. When does he come?"

  Drucilla did not need to consult the short letter. "He should be here in a matter of hours. He seemed to think the letter would reach us yesterday."

  "Hours!" squeaked the poor woman opposite, hastily rising from her chair. "Today? He's coming today?"

  "So he says." Drucilla staunchly retained her seat. "We are to make no preparation for him, he insists. He was very clear about that, May. Let him find us exactly as we are every day. That is precisely what he wishes."

  "Well, he may wish it, but we most certainly cannot allow it. To find us here stuffing feathers into pillowcases as though we were pinched for pennies. And look at what you're wearing! Quickly. Upstairs! Change into the blue muslin with the golden ribbons. It's very attractive and just the sort of thing you might have been wearing, if, for instance, we'd been expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea."

  "But we weren't expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea and I have no intention of changing," retorted the recalcitrant young lady.

  "But, my dear, the only reason you're wearing that washed-out sprig muslin is because we were working with the feathers. It's not what you would ordinarily wear."

  Drucilla dismissed her companion's patient reasoning. "What does it matter? Come, May, let's not make a fuss. People probably fawn over his lordship all the time; we will be a refreshing change, treating him as just another member of the family."

  "You're purposely being contrary, Drucilla. There is also the matter of showing the proper respect for one of his position."

  "Oh, very well. But not the blue gown. Lady Nibthwaite is coming to tea tomorrow and I plan to wear it then. Lord Meacham can wait a day to see my very best day dress."

  As Drucilla rose to follow Miss Script out of the room, there was the sound of horses drawing a light vehicle on the gravel outside the parlor window.

  Drucilla grinned at her companion. "Too late. His lordship has obviously made very good time."

  Curious, she moved quickly to a slight gap in the heavy winter draperies where she could not be seen by their visitor. The two horses, astonishingly well matched grays, were being deftly pulled to a plunging stop. Gravel flew from under their hooves and the gleaming black curricle with its red trim and gold crest slid to an abrupt halt. Drucilla might have faulted his lordship's driving, except for her witnessing the cause of the emergency stoppage—a loose goat had wandered across the courtyard.

  Chagrined, she turned to Miss Script to say, "Teddy's managed to get loose again and nearly had herself run over. It's probably frightened the wits out of her and now the milk will be curdled and Papa will take one of his pets."

  "Oh, dear, how awkward. Perhaps we should say that your father is indisposed and can't be visited until tomorrow."

  "I doubt his lordship would accept such a rebuff, since he has clearly come this distance to ascertain my father's condition. A curse on all solicitors. We could have used another few weeks."

  A peremptory knocking on the entry door reminded Drucilla that she hadn't actually prepared the staff for Lord Meacham's visit. Not that he'd given her the time. She hurried to the parlor door and hastily peeped out into the hall, hissing to the venerable Hastings that he should put on his very best face, for it would be Lord Meacham come for a visit.

  The butler Hastings regarded her with astonishment, but only for a moment. There had, after all, been any number of surprises for him during his tenure at Tarnlea, and he had grown accustomed to them. With a stolid dig
nity he said, "Yes, miss. I will direct that a bedchamber be prepared for him."

  Drucilla drew back into the room and shook her head at Miss Script's attempts to tidy the disorganized scene. Perhaps stuffing pillows in the winter parlor had not, after all, been such a fine idea. Though the pillowcases which had already been filled looked plump and inviting, the feathers for the remainder had gotten a bit out of hand. White bits of fluff decorated the carpet, the furniture, and even the clothing of the two women.

  Drucilla shrugged and regained her seat. "Let it be, May," she urged. "There's not a thing we can do that will make the place look presentable. It's his own fault for giving so little notice."

  Miss Script's lips tightened, as they did when she was distressed, but she did as she was bid. She said gloomily, "The whole was bound to be discovered eventually. I'm sure I should have given you more guidance these two years past."

  Drucilla heard the sounds of voices in the hall, and the stamp of booted feet. "Pooh! We've done no more nor less than our duty. And you would not have been able to dissuade me from my course, no matter how persuasive you might have been."

  "I am well aware of it," her companion sighed.

  There was a discreet tap on the door and Hastings entered to say, "Lord Meacham has arrived, Miss Carruthers."

  "Please show him in, Hastings."

  The man who strode through the meager portal seemed to dwarf it, and Drucilla could scarcely connect him with the skinny twelve-year-old she'd had in her mind for sixteen years. Though he had been driving an open carriage, his many-caped driving coat had been removed to display a flawless appearance, as though he had just left the hands of his valet. His thick black hair curled close to his head in an elegant if unfashionable cut; his cravat fell in pristine white folds; his boots gleamed with a high polish; his coat and pantaloons fit superbly. But the feature that most struck Drucilla was his eyes. From a distance they appeared almost black, so dark were their indecipherable depths. They suggested a keen intelligence, which she had not expected.

  "Miss Carruthers? I'm your cousin Julian Winslow. I doubt you remember me from our one short encounter so long ago. I must beg your pardon for only a day's warning, but my time is constrained. I am due within a sennight at Meacham Court."

  Drucilla made a gentle curtsy to him, which caused Miss Script to stare at her in astonishment. "We're honored to have you here. Your room has not as yet been prepared, because your letter reached us scarce half an hour ago."

  Lord Meacham's brows rose. "How is this? It should have been here yesterday. You've hardly had time to accustom yourselves to the idea of my visit. I do apologize."

  "There's no necessity," she assured him. "Please let me make you known to my companion, Miss Script."

  "How do you do, ma'am?" He offered a polite bow in Miss Script's direction, but he seemed slightly taken aback by the condition of the room around her. "I'm afraid I've interrupted some... domestic chore."

  Drucilla laughed. "Just the stuffing of some pillows for Boxing Day gifts to various needy parishioners. Miss Script and I do it every year at this time, don't we, May?"

  "Why, yes, but never before in the winter parlor. His lordship must think us a ramshackle lot with feathers floating about in this distracting way." One had just landed on Meacham's hair, but he had yet to realize it. "Why don't I see to a fire being laid in the salon? We can sit there in great comfort."

  As Miss Script rose, Drucilla said, "And perhaps you would bespeak us a luncheon as well, my dear. I imagine my cousin must be famished after his long drive."

  Miss Script hurried from the room and his lordship was left facing his cousin in her worn muslin gown dotted with feathers. He wore an expression of interest and perhaps the shadow of amusement in his eyes.

  "Please, have a seat," she urged. "Though I'm afraid you'll get feathers on your clothing."

  "I have brought my valet, Fallot, who will be vastly diverted. He was not at all certain we had missed that goat and fully expected to be cleaning goat hair from my driving coat." Without inspecting his chair for escaped feathers, he calmly seated himself opposite her and said kindly, "I trust I find you well, Miss Carruthers."

  "Perfectly well, thank you."

  "And your father? I understand he is somewhat indisposed."

  "Physically, there is nothing so very much the matter with him. It's his mind that suffers. He's not able to concentrate, and often his memory is very poor."

  "I am distressed to hear it. He is not well enough, then, to welcome visitors?"

  Drucilla bit her lip. "No, I fear not. He spends all his time in his room, with an attendant to care for his needs. He's entirely comfortable, you understand, when his routine is not interrupted."

  "I should like very much to see him, to speak with him."

  "Certainly. Directly after luncheon I will take you to him, but you must not expect him to recognize you."

  "I could hardly expect him to do so after sixteen years."

  "Well," she said hesitantly, "that is not precisely what I meant. If he had been introduced to you this morning, he would not likely recall who you were."

  The viscount regarded her curiously. "You are describing a very distressed man, Miss Carruthers. I don't perfectly understand how he has been able to manage Tarnlea, suffering under such a handicap."

  "He has excellent assistance in our estate manager, John Thomas. And I myself understand Papa's wishes on most matters."

  "Do you? That is fortunate."

  Drucilla's pointed chin came up a little. "Yes, I believe it is."

  "But it must be very difficult for you."

  "Not at all. I have John Thomas's guidance, and the encouragement of our local vicar, and the affection and cooperation of our Tarnlea staff."

  The viscount nodded, but said, "I don't doubt you've risen to the challenge of your father's illness most admirably, Miss Carruthers. I am all admiration."

  Lord Meacham actually offered a lazy smile, and shifted one long leg over the other. "However, according to his note, Sir Lawrence's solicitor has not been consulted. Perhaps you had some reason for not including Mr. Wicker in your circle of advisors?"

  Drucilla dusted a feather from the skirt of her old muslin gown. "Mr. Wicker's advice was not sought because I felt it would put him in an awkward situation. His responsibility regarding the entailment of the estate, and to you as heir, might have caused him to recommend ignoring matters that would have been an expense to the estate. And yet, as you will see, those expenses were very necessary. My other advisors had no such conflict of interest."

  "Sometimes, however," he said diffidently, "we are not given the best advice when we are faced with difficult choices. Others often have a different and, shall we say, more self-interested agenda."

  "Lord Meacham, I can assure you that everyone who surrounds my father has his very best interests, and those of Tarnlea, at heart. Perhaps you have been misled."

  The viscount was pensive for a moment, toying with a quizzing glass he had removed from his pocket. "It is remotely possible, I suppose. Mr. Wicker sent me an account of the situation as he understands it, begging for my intervention on behalf of the estate. I am, as you have said, your father's heir."

  "Oh, yes, I have always known. You told me yourself when I was five."

  "I did? How very impertinent of me. And it cannot have been quite true, either. Your father might yet have produced a male heir."

  Drucilla regarded him with almost ingenuous eyes. "Well, you did mention at the time that he might marry again."

  "When your mother had just died? I do beg your pardon, Miss Carruthers. I was, I fear, a bit of a prig when I was that age. I trust you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

  There was something whimsically hopeful in the depths of his dark eyes as he framed his apology. Drucilla was not proof against the viscount's abashed charm. "Of course, my lord. If you wish it."

  "I do wish it. I wish, in fact, that I had visited Tarnlea quite some time ago. I
have been most remiss."

  "Not at all. We had no expectation of your concerning yourself with our affairs."

  Lord Meacham watched his quizzing glass spin at the end of its black ribbon. "Though your father is alive, he is apparently unable to fulfill his position as head of the family. As his nearest male relative, I must certainly concern myself. I regret that I am, because we are so distantly related, a virtual stranger to you, but believe me that I have come to offer any assistance in my power."

  "Did Mr. Wicker suggest that my father should be legally declared incompetent?"

  Lord Meacham said dryly, "Mr. Wicker is not satisfied that matters are being handled appropriately in the absence of Sir Lawrence's hands on the reins. He feels there is some urgency, though he did just mention that this state of affairs had existed for 'quite some time.'"

  "Much he knows," Drucilla muttered darkly, not meeting the viscount's lifted gaze.

  "He seemed to think that you, ma'am, had been attempting to conceal from him the extent of your father's mental deterioration. I believe he has not actually visited your father for some little time—put off with excuses and distractions."

  Drucilla could not resist, with a decided sparkle in her eyes, admitting that this was true. "For two years."

  "Two years? My dear girl, you must be extraordinarily inventive."

  At that moment Miss Script hastened into the room, clasping her hands tightly together at her spare bosom. "The fire has been laid in the salon and Hastings informs me that Lord Meacham's chamber is ready. Perhaps, sir, you would prefer to be shown to your room before luncheon."

  Having risen when Miss Script entered, Meacham bowed in acknowledgment of her offer. Brushing a feather from the sleeve of his coat, he said, "Yes, I think that would be wise. I've been on the road for several hours." He bent on Drucilla a decidedly rueful look. "I trust there will be nothing to keep us from visiting your father directly after our meal."

  "I'll let his man know that we're coming."

  "Does your father always know you?"

  "So far he has."