Then there was the issue of her not going out into society. As soon as word reached Northampshire, however, local society came to her. At first all the old biddies came, paying respects to the new bride, they said. Checking to see if she was increasing, more likely. She couldn’t let the gossip-mongers ruin her good name, or Smoky’s, she wrote him, by hiding and acting as if she had something to be ashamed about. She didn’t, and wouldn’t, so she had to be seen at the local assemblies. Furthermore, he wouldn’t want her to be rude to the neighborhood gentry by refusing their company, so she had to accept dinner engagements and invitations to private parties, and then she had to repay the calls and hospitality, didn’t she? It was good practice for his sister, too.
And do you know what?
she wrote to Smoky.
Everyone seems to like me. I suppose that’s what comes of being a
rich, titled married lady. Even Squire Kimball has forgiven us for the orchard incident, and Vicar has not mentioned the ant colonies in at least a month. So you needn’t be concerned that I am not fit for polite company.
Finally, there was the money. She was not about to live like a pauper anymore, not when she was a wealthy young woman. Her old home was turning into a crumbling mausoleum through lack of funds and attention; her new one would not follow suit. No more cheeseparing, no more dilapidated furnishings or cold and damp accommodations. But new carpets made the draperies look faded, and new, bright hangings showed how threadbare the upholstery had become. Simply taking charge of the household showed how the china was chipped, mice had gotten into the pantries, the linens were darned past redemption, and the servants needed new livery, especially if they were to be inundated with callers eager to find fault with the new mistress of Stockton Manor.
Coming out of mourning, Emilyann also needed an entire new wardrobe, since her schoolgirlish frocks were hardly suited to a countess, or her still slim but more mature figure. She could not spend days shopping and being fitted without taking her new sister-in-law, who knew more about fashions than Em ever would, or would care to, or dear silly Aunt Adelaide, who was so pleased to hand over the managing of the place. Of course those ladies needed new outfits, too.
Then there was the estate, and Geoff’s pigs. She read his journals with more enthusiasm than she read Nadine’s
La Belle Assemblée
and came to agree that hogs and turnips were indeed the crops of the future. Geoff came to learn not to let her make pets of the piglets, or he’d never get any to market. As for the tenant farmers, Emilyann believed with all her heart that those old friends who shared their lemonade and fresh bread with a hobbledehoy little tomboy deserved better conditions now that hers were so improved.
She also decided to reestablish her father’s racing stud at Stockton, as an investment. Breeding mares, proven stallions, and likely young colts all took money, men to care for them, and decent stabling conditions. Of course she had Jake to advise her, and he knew all there was to know about horses, as she wrote to Stokely, so there was sure to be a profit in a few years.
Smoky wrote a letter back, forbidding her to do any such thing as pour a fortune into four-footed gluttons, no matter how fast. Unfortunately, she replied, the mails were so slow, two mares were already in foal. Did he have any preferences for names?
Wife,
he wrote,
I
have received letters from my bank, my man of business, and my brother Thornton. What in hell are you doing?
What she was doing was having the time of her life. She had a family and friends and looked better than she had in years. She kept busy using her head and time and money, all for good purposes, doing what she was born and bred to do, and coincidentally proving to Smoky that she could manage. Repent the hasty marriage? Not on your life.
* * * *
“Repent, ye sinners! Repent your evil ways before your souls burn in eternity. Repent, I say!”
Hell and damnation, indeed. What in bloody hell was Morgan Arcott doing sitting on a deuced hard pew at one of the Reverend Brother Blessed’s spiritual meetings? Trying to turn his wife up sweet again, that was what. Might as well try to teach a cow to sing. He repented, all right. He repented that damned marriage, letting the chit slip through his fingers that way. His sources of credit had dried as fast as the ink on the wedding lines, forcing him back to Ingrid, who was fool enough to give his niece her blessings—and a damned pricy tea service.
“Renounce the temptations of the flesh; that way lies perdition.” Hah! The last time Ingrid was tempted by the flesh she had another serving of roast beef. With her hair scraped back from her sharp features, and her perpetual mourning clothes shaped like sacks, not even Old Nick would be lured by her.
“Reject the devil-worship of greed, money, and ambition. Repent! Repent!” Now, that was more like it, Morgan decided. Maybe Ingrid would begin to see the evil of her ways and feel the urge to share some of her wealth. Give to the needy, sister, and one of the neediest was sitting beside her. Clutch-fisted old bat could line Brother Blessed’s pockets and let her own husband punt on tick. Damn! And double damn his brother. Now, there was a soul he’d like to see writhe in Satan’s grasp. Repent, hell, Morgan wanted revenge!
He wanted the money, he wanted the heir, and he could not see his way to either of them now. At least his miserable niece wasn’t breeding—his spies in Arstock kept him well informed—so there was no immediate danger from her. Those threats from Stokely held his hand from any thoughts of danger to her, especially since Emilyann’s money would only go into the Stockton coffers now anyway. Besides, with any luck, and the Lord knew Morgan was due for some luck, that rackety hero of hers would get himself killed in the wars. No, his only hope was Ingrid, or getting rid of her.
“The true jewels of life are piety and purity; do not seek the false gems of earthly trappings.”
Now, how did the fellow know Ingrid’s diamonds were paste? Morgan had been selling off the Arcott jewels one by one, after having copies of the entailed heirlooms made for the vaults. Never mind hell, he’d go straight to Newgate for that if old Baxley got wind of it.
“Elevate your mind to the Almighty! Divorce yourself from the bondage of the body!”
Well, there was always divorce. It took time and a lot of money and made a scandal, none of which mattered if he had any grounds for getting rid of the sanctimonious albatross legally. Barrenness was legitimate, but there was the evidence, albeit weak, of Bobo. Adultery? Not even Golden Ball had enough blunt to hire some poor blighter to seduce her, for a crim. con. case.
“The devil reads your mind. You cannot hide your evil thoughts. Get them from you. Banish them. Cleanse yourself in a spiritual rebirth!”
A new wife, that was it. Morgan knew he was virile enough for a fruitful young bride if only he were free. Unfortunately, he was a coward. Just enough of Ingrid’s preachings had roosted in the tiniest corner of his shriveled heart, just enough to cause a niggling, nagging fear of that eternal hell she was so sure of. The fear wasn’t enough to keep him from shaving the cards, of course. A fellow had to get by, you know. But it did stop him short of killing his wife.
“And the Lord helps those who help themselves.” So bad oysters and loose saddlegirths didn’t count. “Let us bow our heads and pray for salvation that we may leave this mortal coil for a better life.” Morgan’s
amen
was the loudest in the room.
* * * *
Lady Ingrid Aylesbury returned to Arcott Hall in Northampshire for her health. She felt her life’s work was in the city, where evil abounded, and Brother Blessed was there to give spiritual guidance, but even the staunchest warrior in the battle against sin had to rest from his wounds occasionally. She never did find out how those wild mushrooms got into her stuffed capon, or why the fireplace in her bedroom should be stuffed with rags. Perhaps it was all part of a divine plan to bring spiritual fulfillment to the ignorant masses in the countryside.
She burned every pack of cards in the house, those devil’s hymnals, and threw Emilyann’s collection of novels out in the trash bin, where the maids retrieved them and had the housekeeper read aloud about the Masked Marquis and Dimquith the Demon. The girls trembled in their cots at night and went stumbling to Ingrid’s prayer meetings in the morning.
It was Ingrid’s mission to spread righteousness, and her right as the highest-ranking lady in the vicinity to oversee the morals of the neighborhood. The path to salvation may have started at home, but it led straight to her niece’s door.
There were to be no more social at-homes on Sunday, no gambling, no waltz lessons. Emilyann’s bodices were to start no lower than the collarbone and her hair, in that deplorable crop, must be covered by a cap. She must stop riding about the countryside giving orders; that was man’s work.
“And I’ll wager I shouldn’t dampen my skirts, either,” Emilyann said, just to see her aunt’s lips move in silent prayer. Not that Lady Stokely’s elegant new muslins and silks needed any artifice, nor would she be goosish enough to want clammy fabric draped to her legs, but Aunt Ingrid was so easy to send into the boughs. Ingrid had never approved of her niece, Emilyann knew, thinking her a wayward chit, not good enough for her precious Beauregard. But cropped hair indeed! One of the most expensive coiffeurs in London had come here to style Em’s shorn locks into a halo of white-gold curls. Monsieur had gone into raptures; even Geoff had acknowledged it was better than that flyaway mop she used to wear. No matter, she nodded politely at her aunt, agreeing to anything that might shorten her aunt’s visit. Then she could return to practicing the dances, for after the card party she was giving next week.
Ingrid’s lips trembled, but she knew her duty, especially now that Bobo was safe. There was no one else to see the motherless child through the rocky shoals of marriage. “You poor neglected orphan,” she told Emilyann, who looked around her elegant new morning room, searching for a destitute tot. Nanny was over in the corner with her mending, scowling. At least she hadn’t fled like Nadine and Aunt Adelaide, at Ingrid’s all-to-frequent visits of enlightenment.
“I always told Morgan you were not to blame for growing like a wild weed instead of a tender blossom. Never knowing a mother’s care, it was too easy to fall into headstrong ways. Now that you are married, you need the guidance of an older woman. There are certain—”
“Too kind, dear Aunt Ingrid,” Emilyann hurriedly interrupted before her aunt could start a lecture on wifely duties, as if her marriage to Uncle Morgan were an example of heavenly bliss. “But you really need not worry. My lord writes that he is quite pleased with me and all my domestic accomplishments.”
That was not quite true. What Smoky wrote in his last letter was that he was happy Mr. Offitt was not threatening to sue him anymore over her last investment, and thank you for the socks, or were they mittens?
Aunt Ingrid was relieved, both that Stokely was not disgusted with the girl yet, and that she would not have to explain certain delicate matters. “Fine, fine. And you must consider yourself fortunate as a young bride, with your husband a soldier abroad, not having to put up with all that.”
“ ‘All that’?”
“You know, what we were talking about.”
Mittens?
“Of course you’ll be denied the joys of motherhood.”
Oh,
that
.
“Yes, the ultimate fulfillment for a woman, if she lives through it, of course. There was your mother, and Morgan’s first wife, and Stokely’s stepmama and ...”
Emilyann suddenly decided to put “all that” off as long as possible.
“Nevertheless, I pray for the captain’s safe return nightly.”
“Thank you, Aunt. So do I.”
Dear Smoky,
she wrote,
you are in our thoughts and our prayers. The fire at the granary was not extensive. Please don’t feel you have to hurry home on my account.
“I don’t see why we cannot go to London like everyone else,” Nadine whined. She was sitting in the morning room, nibbling macaroons and practicing flirtatious looks over the top of her new chicken-skin fan.
Emilyann looked up from the journal she was reading, considering new designs—for plowshares, not gowns. “What was that?”
Nadine screwed up her face. “You heard very well, you just think you can ignore me. For the hundredth time, why can’t we go to London for the Peace Celebrations?”
“For the hundredth time, we cannot go because Smoky specifically told us not to.”
“Oh, pooh, you know he specifically told you not to invest in that shipping venture, either.”
“That was simply because he did not have all the information to hand. When I explained how I made the captain’s personal acquaintance and found the other investors to be very astute businessmen, Smoky agreed.”
“After you had already made a handsome profit, you mean. And what about the fox hunt? You know Stokely told you that you could not forbid the hunt to pass through Stockton lands without offending the local gentry.”
“He also told me not to hand-rear those fox kits, a full month after I had them weaned—and released into the home woods. What was I supposed to do? Let Squire ride down two half-tamed innocents waiting for a handout? Squire would have looked foolish. Besides, Smoky was not familiar with the hogs, and how upset they would have been with the horses riding past.”
“Like when he told you to fix the drains first and then the thatch on the old cottages by the mill?”
“It was simply a matter of timing. You know very well his letter came after the matchers were already at work.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Smoky understood.”
“Gammon. You just don’t want to go to London because you’re too content to wallow here with Geoff’s pigs. Either that or you’re afraid you won’t take.”
“Nadine Stockton, what a nasty, spiteful thing to say. Has anyone told you lately what a spoiled child you’ve become?”
“Yes, Thornton does all the time and your Nanny nags, too, and you are beginning to sound just like them! Even Aunt Ingrid is beginning to approve of you. Bobo says—”