Lord Greywell's Dilemma Read online

  "You seem to keep quite busy,” he remarked as he added cream to his coffee.

  "Oh, there's always more to be done than there's time for,” she said, giving him one of her half-hearted smiles. “The rector is a great one for putting idle hands to work. Things run so smoothly at Lyndhurst I rarely have to spend more than an hour or two a day on my household duties. I'm afraid we didn't give you much of a treat last night,” she apologized, remembering the rumpsteak-and-kidney pudding, and the curried fowl. “If you'll stay over another night I'll plan something special—fricasseed sweetbreads or savory rissoles, with a second course of sirloin of beef and roast partridges. Papa didn't expect you until today."

  "Can't stay, I'm afraid, my dear. I have business in London, and then I must go off to Kent as soon as may be. I long for my own bed, and my own things around me. You must understand how it is."

  "Well, no,” she admitted. “Actually, I've seldom been away from Lyndhurst since I was a child. The only times I've spent a night other than in my own bed were when I was nursing a sick child elsewhere, or was forced by inclement weather to spend the night at a neighbor's."

  "Would you like to travel a bit?"

  Elspeth looked surprised. “Travel? How should I do that? No, no, there is no chance of it, and I'm content to do my wanderings in the books I read. I'm needed in the parish, you know. These are difficult times for the poor folk. They make so little for their piecework, with the manufactories producing so much at such low cost. Not that I approve of how they treat their workers! You mustn't think that. The conditions and the hours are quite appalling. I hear of the hardships. Whole families have moved to Manchester and Birmingham in hopes of making a better living, and they find themselves little if any better off than they were in the village. Often worse.” She sighed and set down the remaining bite of her muffin. “We have so much compared to them."

  "Yes, well, that's only to be expected, isn't it?” Hampden asked rhetorically. Such discussions made him uncomfortable.

  "But we live in complete idleness and comfort while these people work and starve,” Elspeth protested. About to let herself get carried away, she noticed that his expression was pained, and she abruptly reined in her enthusiasm. Too often that glazed look had come into her father's eyes, indicating the hopelessness of further expostulation. She picked up the last bite of muffin and asked, “Will there be decent hunting in Kent this winter?"

  Relieved, Hampden set down his coffee cup to eye her with approval. Smart woman, to know when she'd gone past the bounds of pleasing. While he extolled the merits of his pack of foxhounds and his various hunters, he was turning over in his mind the possibility that Edward's plan might not be so farfetched after all.

  Elspeth was a good listener, asking the right questions, and making the right comments. Her sympathy with the downtrodden was evidence of her kind heart, and if there was one thing David needed just at the moment, it was someone with a concern for the weak. Maybe he would just write that letter before he set off for London after all. What harm could it do?

  * * * *

  "Too bad Hampden couldn't stay longer,” Sir Edward muttered as he watched the traveling carriage disappear at the end of the drive. “We don't see much of him these days."

  "No,” Elspeth said absently. “A pity. Maybe you could visit him in Kent sometime. I gather he was only up this way to see his nephew."

  Edward studied her face as she rearranged the candlesticks on a hall table. “Poor fellow, Greywell. I suppose Hampden told you about his misfortunes."

  "About his wife's dying in childbirth? Yes. How dreadfully sad."

  "And he mentioned the baby, and how sickly it is?"

  "Yes. I told him he should write his nephew and suggest a different wet nurse. Sometimes one's milk won't agree with the child."

  Edward didn't want to think about things like that. The thought of childbirth and nursing babies was almost (but not quite) enough to put him off lovemaking for good. “I'm sure it's more than that. The child obviously needs constant care, and no village girl is going to know how to give the proper attention. Certainly Lord Greywell doesn't know a thing about it. He needs someone capable to come in and take charge for him."

  His insistence on the topic caused Elspeth to glance at him sharply. “If he wants the child to live, I'm sure he'll think of that."

  "How could he not want the child to live?” demanded her father. “It's his heir, for God's sake. He's the fourth viscount, and he's not going to want to see the title lost after his time."

  "I dare say,” Elspeth rejoined indifferently. “If you'll excuse me, Papa, I should check the kitchen garden. There's going to be a frost tonight."

  "Don't you care if the child dies? You who spend your entire life fussing over those ... children in the village? Doesn't Greywell's plight affect you in the least?"

  Elspeth paused at the doorway, frowning slightly. “But there's nothing I can do about it, Papa. It's very sad, of course, and I shall remember the poor child in my prayers. Don't forget you promised you'd go around to Mr. Knowle's this afternoon to see the gray mare.” With a slight nod, she disappeared through the door.

  * * * *

  The kitchen garden was protected by a stone wall covered with deep-red ivy at this time of year, as were all the buildings at Lyndhurst. Elspeth grew various herbs there, for cooking and medicinal purposes, and she planned to gather any lingering growth before the first real frost rendered the plants useless. It was only an excuse, though, to leave her father. She could have picked them at any time during the day, and even if she'd forgotten, there wouldn't have been much lost.

  Why had Sir Edward suddenly taken an interest in Hampden Winterbourne's nephew and his sickly child? Her father, charming but callous, had never shown the least concern for his own love children, sick or well, and she was highly suspicious of this sudden charity in him. Elspeth speculated that he might want her to go off to Coventry and take care of the child, leaving him in peace, but he must know as well as she did that such a scheme was totally ineligible. With no relationship between them, she couldn't very well live in the same house with Greywell, even if he had a dozen housekeepers to chaperon them. Besides, she didn't know the viscount, had never met him in her life.

  As she mused over this mystery, the garden gate swung open to admit the Reverend Mr. Blockley, smiling in that fatuous way he had. “Beeton told me I'd find you here,” he intoned in his deep, dramatic voice. That was perhaps Blockley's only really appealing quality, his voice. And issuing from his cadaverous body it had more a melancholy tint than one of holy reverence. Still, he was dramatic enough in appearance to hold the villagers’ attention during services on Sundays, though his learning was slight and his breath often bad.

  Mr. Blockley had recently latched onto the idea that Elspeth had conceived a passion for him, and had coyly courted her for several months before she put a stop to his absurd declaration. Though things had been awkward between them for a few weeks, Elspeth hoped she had weathered his scowls and attempts to find fault with her parish endeavors. She was by now accustomed to the moods of men, and had developed a sort of pious blanket which their barbs could not penetrate without greater malevolence than most of them were willing to expend on her.

  "You look charming,” he said, quite untruthfully, since he didn't approve of her low-necked gray wool gown, though it was worn with a lace tucker.

  The dress was actually one of Elspeth's best daytime gowns. She had worn it expressly because Hampden Winterbourne was visiting and seemed to merit some special effort on her part. Unaware that he thought it dowdy, she was even less interested in Blockley's opinion, which she rightly guessed to be quite opposite from his remark. “We've had a visitor,” she said, wandering over to the herbs and beginning to pluck and put them in her basket. “An old friend of my parents'. He's just left. He only stopped over on his way back to London."

  "You didn't mention expecting anyone. I'd have been happy to call."

  "He o
nly spent the night. I wasn't expecting him until today, actually. There was no need for you to call."

  Mr. Blockley was offended. Only on account of Elspeth's visitor's taking such a very short stay was he able to forgive her for not notifying him of the occasion. The fact that her visitor had come a day early was totally irrelevant.

  The few sprigs left in the garden found their way to her basket, and Elspeth realized she had no option but to invite Mr. Blockley to tea with her. He invariably acted as though there were some unspoken significance in the gesture. “Won't you join me for tea?” she asked now, already heading toward the house. “Papa may still be here, though he's supposed to go to the Knowles’ this afternoon."

  "I'd be honored,” the rector replied, a smirk twisting his lips. “If Sir Edward is still at home, of course I'd wish to pay my respects to him."

  But Sir Edward had left, or at any event had hidden himself so well Beeton was unable to locate him, and Elspeth led Mr. Blockley to the Gold Saloon resigned to entertaining him by herself. She was careful to choose one of the Queen Anne chairs, because if she sat on the sofa he would certainly place his emaciated body as close to hers as he dared.

  Until the tea tray was brought in, his eyes wandered about the room, lighting on those objects he most admired—the sleigh-shaped settee in the corner, the pair of rosewood card tables inlaid with brass marquetry, the ormolu clock depicting a boat navigated by Time and Youth, the pair of French candelabra in the form of Cupid drawing a bow, the half-dozen famille rose Chinese vases. Elspeth herself found little to admire in the room besides the Queen Anne chairs. Her taste was much less ornate than that of either her late mother or her father, and she would have been content to consign most of the elaborate pieces to the attics, or donated them to one of the church fetes as prizes.

  "Mrs. Beeton has done herself proud,” Mr. Blockley announced, eagerly eyeing the plates piled with cakes and biscuits. “I wonder if she knew who it was who was joining you."

  "I'm sure she must have,” Elspeth said, “since Beeton himself carried word to her when he carried my basket to the kitchen."

  "Lord Knedlington swears he wouldn't have a woman cook in his house. I'm sure I've heard him say it half a dozen times."

  "Yes, Lord Knedlington does have a habit of repeating himself,” Elspeth agreed. “The meals I've partaken at Mundham haven't been anything out of the ordinary, however. Mrs. Beeton does very well for our purposes."

  "Quite, quite.” He downed one of the small cakes in two bites and wiped his fingers fastidiously on a napkin. “Sir Edward is not fond of entertaining, I believe."

  "Only when I urge the necessity on him,” Elspeth said, wondering how many times they'd covered this ground. Mr. Blockley was not an outstanding conversationalist. His interests were narrow and his opinions were legion.

  "I came by today especially to speak with you,” he said now, drawing his chair a little nearer to hers. “It has come to my attention that you've spoken with Jane Berwick, promising to give her support for her child. Really, Miss Parkstone, it won't do!"

  Elspeth stared at him in surprise. “Why ever not? You know I've made similar arrangements with several ... others in the neighborhood. Since my father doesn't see fit to do so, I have no choice but to attend to the matter myself."

  "But Jane Berwick isn't a member of the church, my dear! One can't be doling out charity to a heathen. It's quite obvious she isn't properly penitent."

  "I see. She and her babe are to starve because they don't fall within your purview. I've never heard such nonsense, Mr. Blockley,” she declared, setting down her teacup and frowning at him. “Perhaps you think my father is penitent? If there is error here, it is as much on his side as hers, and I certainly can't recall when last he attended church. Really, I'm surprised at you."

  His sunken cheeks swelled with indignation. “My dear Miss Parkstone, you are no judge of the matters involved here. Do you presume to tell me how to conduct the spiritual business of this parish? Sir Edward's behavior is not for you to criticize. I thought I had made that perfectly clear to you years ago. He is your father, and you owe him a proper respect. I am the rector of your church, and you owe me no less. These are concerns in which I am highly educated, ordained to carry out for the Church of England. No one has ever questioned my authority in the parish, least of all a woman of your age. I think you owe me an apology."

  Elspeth considered his mottled face for a few moments before rising from her chair to pace about the room. “I don't question your authority in spiritual matters, Mr. Blockley,” she murmured with her back to him. “But I question anyone's right to allow a woman and child to starve for any reason, least of all a Christian one. My father got Jane Berwick with child, and—"

  "Ah, but he didn't,” the rector interrupted triumphantly. “Or if he did, it was the merest chance. Everyone knows the Berwick woman had been keeping company with that n'er-do-well Odiham, who was forever throwing himself on the parish to support. Well, he's in the workhouse now, having refused to marry her, and she's simply looking for someone to support her.

  "What an easy mark you proved! How foolish you will look supporting her and her child, when everyone knows the babe is not Sir Edward's. She's a loose woman, Miss Parkstone, with an eye for any advantage to herself. How your neighbors will laugh at you! And when I come to warn you of the disaster, you rip up at me like the veriest shrew!"

  He straightened his neckcloth with a smugness that grated on Elspeth's nerves, and when he lifted one eyebrow to state, “It is most fortunate you and I never formed a closer connection,” she almost walked from the room.

  "Most fortunate,” she said in a flat voice. Her interview with Jane Berwick had been almost as trying as this one, and she had only agreed to provide for the woman and her child out of a sense of duty, and because the woman's full-blown figure was just the sort that seemed most to attract Sir Edward.

  If what Blockley said were true ... well, it wouldn't really have mattered, since the parish was in no position to take care of the woman, and she really couldn't be allowed to starve, could she? It was true Jane had spent a great deal of time with the man Odiham, and it had made Elspeth wonder, but there had seemed nothing else she could do. She had been firm in not allowing the woman to bargain for more money than Elspeth ordinarily awarded to Sir Edward's love children.

  "You will, of course, excuse me,” Mr. Blockley said now, rising and smoothing down his sleeves. “I think this must be a good lesson to you, Miss Parkstone, on the errors of self-conceit. It does not become a young woman to think so highly of herself that she sets herself in opposition to her father and her pastor. Good day."

  There were a great many things Elspeth would have liked to say to him, but she didn't. She was not a docile woman by nature, and his goading infuriated her so she could scarce sit down when he had withdrawn from the room. Instead she grabbed up a queen cake remaining on the plate (there was only one left, since he had eaten four of them) and ran with it to the window overlooking the drive he must ride down as he took his departure.

  Years had passed since she had aimed a projectile at anything, least of all a man's hat, but she silently opened the window and waited for his tall, lean figure to pass beneath her on horseback. Taking careful aim, she sailed the cake downward at the beaver he wore, and felt a great deal of satisfaction as it smacked the hat from his greasy black locks. She quickly hid behind the draperies to one side of the window and listened to the very ungenteel language he spouted.

  "Where are you, scoundrel?” he yelled. “How dare you knock the hat from a man of the cloth? Have you no respect? Demme, you have not heard the last of this.” There were sounds of scuffling on the drive, and Elspeth peeked out to see him attempting to regain his horse, which was loath to stand still while Mr. Blockley tried to put his foot in the stirrup. His hat, already muddy from its first fall, tumbled from his head again and was trampled under the horse's hooves and permanently ruined. With another muffled oath the rector gra
bbed hold of the reins with a violent tug, and the bay balked, releasing himself, and cantered off down the drive.

  Mr. Blockley stared after his horse and then threw one last, scathing glance about him to discover the perpetrator of this foul deed. It did not occur to him for even a moment that it was Elspeth Parkstone. The queen cake had disintegrated on impact. Any urchin might have done it, he decided. Possibly one of the stable lads whom he'd reproved for their laziness when he'd left his horse before joining Miss Parkstone in the kitchen garden.

  As he stomped down the drive, meditating on the two-mile walk he had ahead of him, Elspeth stood at the window and made a face at his retreating back. It was the first time she'd behaved in such a fashion since her mother's death, and she felt surprisingly good about it, all things considered.

  Chapter Two

  David Foxcott, Fourth Viscount Greywell, read Hampton Winterbourne's letter with mounting astonishment. His uncle had always seemed a sensible, if rather prosaic, gentleman, and his kindness in coming to stay with Greywell during the last few months had been more than welcome. There was great relief in having someone lift him even temporarily out of his solitary self. That his Uncle Hampden had been unable to provide him with any answers to his dilemma was only expected. To have him suddenly propose a most outrageous solution was enough to make Greywell toss the letter angrily from him onto the growing pile of condolence letters.

  The draperies had been drawn against the gathering gloom outside and a lamp burned at the corner of his desk, but he closed his eyes against even the flickering images of the furniture around him. He was still in his riding clothes, his topboots dusty from the long, exhausting gallop he'd made that afternoon. Always he hoped for some cessation of the pain he felt, hardly believing that this nightmare wouldn't end and everything be as it had four months previously.