Lady Bountiful Read online

  Drucilla watched as he strode unhurriedly from the room. With a tsk of annoyance, more at herself for being disarmed by the viscount's diverting manners than at the inconvenience of his unexpected visit, she said to Miss Script, "I am very much afraid his lordship is not going to be so easily managed as Mr. Wicker."

  "No, my dear, I think not. For all his pleasant address, he strikes me as a determined young man who expects affairs to be conducted very much as he wishes them. I shall be surprised if he doesn't press for an immediate competency hearing, and place himself in charge of your father's estate."

  Drucilla pursed her lips in a thoughtful grimace. "And yet there is something about him that is not what I expected. He's a handsome devil, isn't he?"

  "The Winslows are said to be uncommonly handsome."

  "Perhaps I could cozen him just a bit."

  "I'm not at all sure it would be wise to do so, even if you could, which I doubt. He surely has a greater knowledge of the world than you, my dear."

  "Well, I shall flirt just a trifle with him, as the London ladies must do." Drucilla fluttered her eyelashes in what she considered an imitation of a practiced debutante. At Miss Script's disapproving frown, she said, "I am quite sure that is how Caroline Russell does it."

  "But Miss Russell is sixteen and not out of the schoolroom, Drucilla. You are one-and-twenty and have taken it upon yourself to rectify an injustice. Which is all very well, but you have placed yourself in an awkward position. Lord Meacham may hold you very much at fault."

  Drucilla found this somehow a lowering thought. She rose from her chair and said bracingly, "Never mind. I shall change into something more appropriate before luncheon, and you will speak to him with your usual good sense. We cannot fail to convince him that we are totally unexceptionable."

  * * * *

  Lord Meacham came away from their light repast with the impression that his distant cousin was something of an original. No doubt it could be laid to the fact that she had spent her entire life tucked away in the country. For all its beauty, the Lake District did not necessarily expose her to a great deal of society. Surely there had been money enough, and the right connections, for her to be presented in polite London circles at the proper age. He wondered why she had not been.

  In fact, as Meacham followed his hostess up the branching main stairway of Tarnlea, he found a variety of inconsistencies surrounding him. Although the house was clean and the servants well trained, there was no exhibit of the wealth to which Sir Lawrence could surely lay claim. The furnishings were well kept, but hardly new, and had it been his own home, the viscount would have considered a deal of remodeling in store, to say nothing of the replacement of aging carpets and draperies.

  Meacham understood that the baronet's passion had been hunting, even in this indifferent country, and he directed a question to his guide. "Are there still hunters in the stables, and kennels with hounds?"

  Drucilla shook her head sadly. "No. Most of them have been sold. It's been years since Papa was able to hunt."

  She led the way down a long corridor untouched by the day's wintry sun, to a room far removed from the main body of the house.

  "This is surely not the master suite," Meacham commented in surprise.

  "No, but it is the suite of rooms my father prefers because of its view of Buttermere Lake."

  Meacham was mulling the possibility that Sir Lawrence had prematurely been stripped of his dignities when the door was opened before him into a large space that could have been a schoolroom, except for the grand four-poster bed in a far corner. There were toys scattered about the room, and several tables and chairs in various states of disorder.

  Sir Lawrence himself was seated in a large chair, rocking back and forth, his gaze on the rugged hills and the rippled gray lake in the distant view. He was chortling to himself and pounding one fist on the arm of his chair in a rhythmical way that Meacham found rather discomposing.

  His companion walked over to the chair and laid a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "Papa, I have brought you a visitor, Julian Winslow, Lord Meacham."

  Meacham stepped forward, making a bow to the baronet. "Sir Lawrence, I'm pleased to see you again."

  The baronet, who had looked up but not spoken when his daughter addressed him, turned a frowning gaze on Meacham. "Julian, bouillon, cotillion, vermilion," he said.

  Meacham regarded him gravely. "Sir? Can you understand me?"

  Sir Lawrence turned agitated eyes to his daughter. "Where's Nelson?" he demanded in a querulous voice.

  "He'll be back in a minute, Papa," she promised.

  Meacham studied the lined face and the alarmed eyes, which were a lighter blue than his daughter's. "Can I get you something, sir. Perhaps a blanket?"

  "Blanket? Blanket? Is it winter, then?"

  "Yes, it's December, and quite cold out, sir. Do you see the snow on the hills around Buttermere? This room is a little chilly. Shall I ring to have the fire built up, or bring you the blanket from the bottom of the bed?"

  Sir Lawrence merely looked confused. "Fire. Dangerous. I used to have a pipe," he said hopefully. "Is my pipe there?"

  Drucilla shook her head at Meacham while she straightened her father's disordered hair with capable fingers.

  "I'm afraid there's no pipe, Sir Lawrence."

  Sir Lawrence had already forgotten the pipe, but he frowned at Meacham. "I don't approve of servants wearing starched collar points of that height," he said sternly.

  Drucilla flushed. "You must forgive my father. He is often confused."

  Sir Lawrence had turned his attention to the view once again, and Meacham said, "Is he ever perfectly lucid?"

  "He always recognizes me and often calls me by name, but sometimes he thinks I'm my mother, or even his own mother."

  "So your father is not capable of making any real decisions with regard to the estate."

  Drucilla continued to stroke her father's head, which seemed to calm his agitation. "No," she admitted.

  Miss Carruthers, Meacham realized, had been responsible for Tarnlea, the house and the estate, for her father and herself, for the staff, for everything, for a very long time. What could a girl of her age and situation know of estate management? It seemed perfectly plausible to the viscount that one of the people on whom she relied for advice was taking advantage of her. The estate agent might be lining his pockets, or the local vicar urging excessive good works on her. Mr. Wicker had certainly hinted at an alarming outgo of capital.

  "I think we needn't trouble your father any further this afternoon," Meacham said. "But you and I should talk."

  Mutely, Drucilla nodded. She kissed the top of her father's head and he awkwardly patted her hand. "I shall come again later, Papa."

  As she closed the door behind them, she said, "If you would give me an hour to see to some household matters, I would be grateful. Everything is a bit topsy-turvy because of your arrival."

  "Of course."

  * * * *

  Drucilla took care of her more pressing concerns before joining her companion, who was comfortably ensconced in the salon, a fire blazing on the grate. Miss Script was doing her fine filigree needlework, but she looked up at her former charge's entrance to ask, "Has Lord Meacham been to see your father?"

  Drucilla seated herself at the small cherrywood desk by the window. "Yes, and I believe he now has a good grasp of my father's mental condition. There is nothing amiss with the viscount's understanding."

  "Was he distressed by Sir Lawrence's condition?"

  "Distressed? It was hard to tell. He was gentle with Papa, and merely said he and I must talk." Drucilla looked worried, but set herself to ordering the menus for the viscount's stay. She quickly decided to replace the simple boiled neck of mutton and vegetables with a crimped cod in oyster sauce as well as a fricasseed chicken.

  "Do you suppose Lord Meacham would like a cabinet pudding?" she asked Miss Script.

  Her companion looked up from her needlework and pondered the qu
estion. "I believe gentlemen generally prefer mince pies or apple tarts. And of course plum pudding at this time of year. Mrs. Kamidge will have several plum puddings soaked with Sir Lawrence's good brandy."

  "Yes, it has been a real joy to dip into the best of his cellar," Drucilla admitted with sparkling eyes.

  The door from the hall was behind her and she had not heard it open to admit the viscount. "Whose cellar?" Meacham inquired in a lazy drawl.

  "My father's," she responded readily enough. "He laid down a remarkable collection of spirits and wines. You shall of course sample some of them during your stay, Lord Meacham. My father is no longer much interested in such refreshment, and the doctor does not believe it is beneficial for him, in any case. His pipe has been taken away because he tends to burn holes in his clothes."

  Miss Script, seeing the determination in Meacham's eyes, immediately excused herself. His lordship moved to stand by the fire, leaning his broad shoulders against the high mantel and bending a quizzical look upon Drucilla. "Your father is in much worse case than I had suspected. Since he is not capable of even the least decision regarding his own fate or that of his estate, I assume the full burden has fallen to you."

  "I have had help, and we contrive as best we can," Drucilla replied, setting down her quill. "My father is still the baronet, after all, and his responsibilities must be carried out."

  "How long has he been as bad as this?"

  "About two years."

  Meacham shook his head in wonder. "That is quite a lengthy period, Miss Carruthers."

  "Well," Drucilla confessed, "he hasn't been perfectly all right for five years, but at first it was merely gaps in his memory. Now he is..." She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "... as you see."

  "But in these last few years, according to Mr. Wicker, there have been very large expenses to the estate. I wonder if perhaps your agent has not taken advantage of you, Miss Carruthers."

  Drucilla looked amused. "John Thomas? Oh, no, I don't think so, Lord Meacham."

  "I shall just have a word with him."

  "As you please, of course."

  As the estate agent was not on the premises, Meacham sent word that he would meet with John Thomas the next day. He enjoyed a sociable dinner and evening with Miss Carruthers and her companion. They played a few hands of cards and sang Christmas carols, accompanied by the young lady on her pianoforte.

  Miss Carruthers, her fair curls framing an animated face, made a charming hostess, full of questions about his home and family, open in her answers to his questions. She directed their conversation in a lively fashion, discussing their neighbors ("You will meet Lady Nibthwaite, the most delightful woman. She once asked Miss Script if she had ever stolen anything.") and staff ("Nelson was formerly a blacksmith's assistant and, though I cannot at all fathom why, has suited the position of attendant to my father admirably.") in such a delightful way that he could not resist its humor.

  After the ladies had retired for the night, he sampled the baronet's mellow old brandy and relaxed into an almost soporific state before the blazing fire, watching snowflakes drift down outside the window. There was a peacefulness at Tarnlea that lulled him into perfect charity with the world. And if his mind drifted from time to time to the memory of Miss Carruthers seated on the sofa, that wicked gleam of laughter in her vivid blue eyes, well, who could blame him?

  But early the next morning he made himself known to John Thomas, a much younger man than he had expected, and sat down with the estate books for the last five years. He was not actually in the habit of going over his own estate books, having several individuals, including a young man just down from Oxford as his secretary, whose business it was to just bring the salient points to his attention.

  Indicating a chair beside the desk, he said apologetically, "If you would go over these with me, I would be most grateful, Mr. Thomas. You must excuse my ignorance of the proper columns for income and outgo. I fear it will be necessary for you to explain the expenses in some detail as we work our way through."

  "Certainly, my lord." John Thomas tapped a finger on the second of the ledgers. "Four years ago is when I began, but I'm familiar with the books for some period before that."

  "Was Sir Lawrence perfectly rational when you began work here?"

  "Not perfectly, but much better than he is today. Or so I understand. He hasn't actually visited the estate office for a couple of years."

  The viscount regarded him with keen interest. "From whom do you take your direction, then? Mr. Wicker?"

  John Thomas looked perplexed. "No, sir. Miss Carruthers gives me my instructions. She's very knowledgeable about the estate."

  "And if Sir Lawrence's signature should be required on some document?"

  "She is always able to procure it."

  "I see. And has she run the estate in the way Sir Lawrence did when you first began?"

  The estate agent looked uncomfortable, inserting a finger between his neckcloth and his neck. "Perhaps I could show you, my lord?"

  "Please do."

  It was an instructive two hours. Meacham would have given a great deal to have had William, his admirable secretary, there to alleviate the tedium of the work, but John Thomas, if more earnest and painstaking than Meacham's own estate manager, was more than capable of clarifying any issue that remained obscure to him. The long and short of it was that John Thomas was not lining his pockets. But it became quite clear that the previous estate manager had most certainly done so.

  John Thomas would point to an expense—a new roof for a barn, for instance—and say with a frown, "You will recall that this particular roof was supposed to have been repaired five years ago. Nevertheless, last year it was found to be leaking badly and there was nothing for it but to replace it again."

  Time and again they were forced to search in even older ledgers, and there could be no doubt that the cost of repairs then had undoubtedly been false entries. Though this was just as obviously the work of Mr. Thomas's predecessor, Meacham's expression became grim.

  "You will forgive my conjecture, Mr. Thomas, but it seems clear to me that this drain from the estate was going on long before Sir Lawrence's illness. In fact, it is so obvious that I fail to understand how the baronet, even with the smallest oversight of these books, could have neglected to discover it."

  The young man rubbed a hand vigorously across his face in an attempt to sharpen his wits. Picking his words carefully, John Thomas said, "Sir Lawrence was not in the habit, apparently, of taking particular interest in the estate. I believe he trusted his estate manager and allowed him full discretion in the matter of outlay. It was not until Sir Lawrence's illness became obvious and Miss Carruthers began to involve herself with these matters that she discovered the problem."

  "How long had this been going on?"

  John Thomas was not deceived by the placid tone of the viscount's voice. He had watched Lord Meacham over the past two hours and knew precisely how quickly his companion had discovered the carefully hidden fraud. "For quite some time, my lord," he admitted.

  Meacham was disturbed by the picture this gave him of Sir Lawrence, but there were other matters of just as pressing concern. Especially in recent years, the ledgers showed expenses to have risen in an alarming fashion. The amounts spent on repairs of tenant farms and cottages were startling.

  But Lord Meacham seldom allowed his concern to taint his air of calm acceptance. "I wish you would make these expenses clear to me, Mr. Thomas. They seem, shall we say, excessive."

  "Because of the length of time no repairs had actually taken place to the cottages and farms, they were little more than hovels, with inadequate water supplies and unsanitary conditions. As the baronet became sicker and Miss Carruthers took over the reins of management, she deemed it necessary to correct these conditions. In the last two years we have done a great deal of work that should have been accomplished over a long period of time. Unfortunately, it's expensive work."

  "As you say. And I feel certain that
you do not make any profit from the construction."

  John Thomas looked shocked. "Certainly not. Miss Carruthers has involved herself in the choosing of the laborers and the overseer. They're neighborhood people, much in need of the occupation and the income. I would find it difficult to believe that anyone has so much as overcharged us a guinea."

  "I think perhaps I should like to see these repaired cottages. Could you take me this afternoon?"

  Mr. Thomas bowed slightly. "Of course, Lord Meacham."

  But at luncheon, when John Thomas remarked that he would be taking the viscount on a tour of the newly reconstructed cottages, Drucilla protested. "Really, Lord Meacham, John Thomas has more than enough to do this afternoon after spending the morning closeted with you. And we are expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea. I particularly wish to present you to her. If you would be good enough to join us, I promise to show you the improvements tomorrow myself. I am thoroughly knowledgeable about them, am I not, John Thomas?"

  "Indeed you are, ma'am," the agent agreed with a rueful smile.

  The viscount was pleased to be offered the opportunity to spend time with Miss Carruthers. He would be able to assess for himself whether her knowledge of estate matter was adequate, or exaggerated by her well-wishers, which seemed to him the more likely possibility. She was, after all, only one-and-twenty, and had been deeply involved in managing Tarnlea for several years already.

  "Very well, ma'am. I shall look forward to it."

  Lady Nibthwaite was a thriving dowager of fifty-odd years whose more than ordinary interest in Tarnlea and its occupants had long been accepted by them. Since she had stood as second mother to Drucilla, she was well aware of the circumstances that had led to the present situation there, and though given to outrageous speech when in high flight was not likely to bruit about anything that Miss Carruthers would rather not have known by the viscount.

  Her son, Lord Nibthwaite, had recently married, and the Dowager Lady Nibthwaite had retired to the dower house, a pretty little manor two miles from his estate. This move had not distressed the elder Lady Nibthwaite in the least. "For there will be children," she had explained to Drucilla, "and if there is one thing I cannot bear in my advancing years, it is the clutter and noise of very small children."