No Man's Mistress (12 page)

“His lordship demanded to see the estate books and then wanted to know who kept them so neat and precise, ma'am,” Mr. Jarvey said. “Mr. Paxton told me he asked a number of questions that were more intelligent than what Mr. Paxton had expected. His lordship took the books upstairs with him when he left. He said he wanted to study them more closely. And then instead of having all those people sent into the library one by one, he took a chair out into the middle of the hall, his lordship did, and sat down and talked to everyone at once. I was there, ma'am, and you will be pleased to hear that he doesn't seem to know the first thing about farming. He is a downright ignoramus, in fact.”

“Indeed?” Viola said, vexed that Lord Ferdinand had thought of a way of saving himself from being overwhelmed
by numbers, but also pleased that his presence in the hall had allowed the butler to be witness to all his inadequacies and embarrassment.

“Yes, indeed, ma'am,” the butler said. “But he does know how to listen, he does, and he knew just exactly what questions to ask. He can tell a joke too. He had everyone laughing more than once. Even I almost smiled at the one about the town rake and the country parson. It seems that—”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvey,” Viola said firmly. “I am not really in the mood for jokes.”

“No, ma'am.” Mr. Jarvey retreated into his more normal poker-faced manner as he cleared away her empty soup bowl.

Viola felt guilty then for being so surly. But really! Was he winning everyone over? Could not everyone see that he was a practiced charmer, who would do anything to cut the support from under her feet so that she would have no choice but to leave?

The thought destroyed the little appetite she had.

Perhaps he would stay late at the inn tonight and get obnoxiously drunk. Perhaps he would make a spectacle of himself and show himself in his true colors. Perhaps she would even hear a commotion from the direction of the Boar's Head when she came out of the church after choir practice this evening. How very satisfying that would be. All the other choir members would hear it too.

But that faint, uncharitable hope was dashed an hour later when Viola left the horse and gig at the vicarage stables and walked into the church. She was almost late. Every other member of the choir was already present.

So was Lord Ferdinand Dudley.

I
t had not taken Ferdinand long to understand what was going on. His day had been planned for him with meticulous care, beginning with the cockerel crowing at the very crack of dawn. It was probably intended to end with the world's worst dinner at Pinewood. If his breakfast was any indication of the cook's ingenuity in serving up culinary stomach-churners, he would be better off eating at the Boar's Head, even if he was not exactly welcome there either.

The strange thing was, he thought as he ate his steak and kidney pie in a private parlor at the inn, that he had almost enjoyed the day. Almost, but not quite. There was Viola Thornhill, the thorn in his conscience, to spoil his fun. But the morning horseplay had been entertaining once he had adjusted his mind and body to being up even before the proverbial lark. And he had found his talk with Paxton and his cursory perusal of the estate books interesting. He looked forward to learning more. It was already evident to him that in two years the estate had developed from a run-down, slovenly kept, unprosperous
business to just the opposite. Paxton was obviously an able steward.

He had enjoyed talking with the estate laborers and tenants, distinguishing real problems from petty complaints, observing the various personalities, picking out those who were leaders, those who were followers. He had enjoyed joking with them and watching their initial hostility begin to thaw. Paxton, of course, had not been so easily swayed. He was loyal to Miss Thornhill.

Afternoon visits had always been something to avoid. But today's had been vastly amusing, especially since each caller had come with the express purpose of boring his head off.

The thing was, though, that he had long been fascinated with new developments in road construction. And talk of cattle could easily be turned into talk about horses, one of Ferdinand's favorite topics. Ladies who formed sewing circles were naturally interested to learn that the infant Lord Ferdinand had once talked his nurse into teaching him to knit and that within a week he had produced a scarf that had grown progressively narrower as he gradually dropped stitches but that had stretched the whole length of the nursery when laid flat on the floor after he had finished it. As for the pupil at the village school who had asked the schoolmaster for Latin lessons—well, Ferdinand had graduated from Oxford with a degree in Latin and Greek. Perhaps he could offer his services as a teacher.

All the people he had met today, of course, had been determined not to like him. Many probably still did not and perhaps never would. Their hostility was a tribute to Viola Thornhill, who appeared to have won everyone's respect and even affection in the two years she had been at Pinewood. But Ferdinand did not despair. He had
never had difficulty relating to all kinds of people, and he had always been gregarious.

He rather thought he was going to enjoy life in the country.

The vicar had said there was to be a practice for the church choir tonight. His wife had even invited Ferdinand to join them, though she had said it in such a way that he knew she did not expect him to accept. But why not? he thought, pushing away half the suet pudding he had been brought for dessert. He did not want to return to Pinewood yet. That would mean either making conversation with Miss Thornhill in the drawing room or slinking off to hide in a room where she was not—and he had never been a slinker. Neither did he want to spend another whole evening drinking in the taproom.

The choir practice it would be, then.

The practice was not in the church itself, he discovered as soon as he opened the door and stepped inside. But he could hear the sound of a pianoforte being thumped upon and followed it down a steep flight of stone steps to the church hall below, a gloomy apartment with a few windows high on three of the four walls. There were fifteen or twenty people gathered in groups, talking. None of them was taking any notice of the pianist, a thin woman of indeterminate age and faded, frizzed fair hair, who was peering at the music propped before her through small wire-framed spectacles. She was one of the spinster sisters who had called during the afternoon with the vicar and his wife, Ferdinand recalled—Merryfield? Merryheart?
Merrywether—
that was it. While her sister had talked at great, droning length about the growing of prize blooms, this one had apologized whenever she had been able to work a word into the conversation, assuring Lord Ferdinand Dudley that he could not possibly be interested
in such rural concerns but must be simply longing to return to town.

“It is in four parts,” she was saying to no one in particular but with every appearance of extreme anxiety as Ferdinand's eyes alighted on her. “Oh, dear, can we manage four parts?”

Perhaps someone would have answered her had not everyone at the same moment noticed the new arrival and fallen silent.

“I have accepted my invitation, you see, sir,” Ferdinand said, singling out the vicar and striding toward him, his right hand outstretched.

The Reverend Prewitt appeared slightly flustered, but gratified. “That is very obliging of you, I am sure, my lord,” he said. “Do you sing?”

But Ferdinand had no chance to answer. There was a slight stir among the choir members, whose eyes had all moved from Ferdinand himself to some point beyond his left shoulder. He turned to see Viola Thornhill coming down the stairs, a look of pure astonishment on her face. She was part of the choir too?

He bowed as he looked up at her—and something snatched at the edges of his memory again. Damn, but he had seen her somewhere. She was looking rather regal, her chin raised, her face a mask of controlled dignity—a far cry from the laughing lass of the maypole.

“Lord Ferdinand,” she said, stepping down onto the stone floor of the hall, “I did not expect to
find you
here.”

“I trust you had a pleasant day, ma'am,” he said. “The vicar's wife was kind enough to invite me to choir practice.”

She looked at the clergyman with what might have been silent reproach, and Ferdinand turned away to address the pianist.

“You were saying as I came in, Miss Merrywether,” he said, “that the piece of music before you is in four parts. It that a problem?”

“Oh, not
a.problem
, exactly, my lord,” she assured him, her voice breathless with apology for bothering him with such a slight concern. “But Mr. Worthington is our only tenor, you see. Not that I am saying he does not have a fine voice, for he does. Very fine indeed. It is just that-well, he does not like to sing alone, and I do not blame him, I am sure. I would certainly not wish to do it. Not that I have a tenor voice, of course, being a woman, but—”

“He is easily distracted by the basses and sings along with them,” a round woman Ferdinand had not encountered before said more bluntly.

There was general laughter.

“We have never claimed to be professional singers,” the vicar added. “But what we lack in musicality we make up for in enthusiasm.”

“And volume,” someone else added, to the accompaniment of more laughter.

“All we can ask of ourselves,” the vicar said genially, “is that we make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

“You would not enjoy listening to us,” Viola Thornhill told Ferdinand.

Smiling into her eyes, he offered his services. “I sing tenor,” he said quite truthfully. He had sung with a university choir and enjoyed the experience enormously. “No one has ever accused me of having extraordinary talent, but I have never noticed particularly pained expressions on the faces of those within earshot of my singing voice either. Shall Worthington and I put our heads and our voices together and see if we can hold our own against the basses?” Worthington, a balding, freckled
redhead, was one of the tenant farmers who had camped out in his hall during the morning, he recalled.

“We would not put you to so much trouble, my lord,” Miss Thornhill said firmly. “You surely wish to—”

He did not wait to hear what it was he would wish.

“But it is no trouble at all,” he assured everyone. “I love nothing better than an evening of music, especially when I may be a participant rather than a mere listener. However, I must ask if I am being presumptuous—are there auditions?”

That question drew a burst of hilarity from most of the choir members. Even Miss Merrywether tittered.

“No one with a desire to sing with us has ever been turned away, my lord,” the vicar assured him. “We should get started, then.”

It was certainly not a particularly musical group. Someone who was nominally a contralto was tone deaf but sang heartily nevertheless, one of the sopranos sang with a shrill vibrato, the bass section proceeded under the apparent assumption that it was their primary function to drown out the rest of the choir, and Mr. Worthington did indeed display a tendency to join forces with them when he was not inventing a tune all of his own. Miss Merrywether was heavy-handed on the pianoforte, and the conductor slowed or speeded up the rhythm with bewildering and unpredictable frequency.

But despite it all, music was created.

Ferdinand amused himself by imagining the reactions of his friends if they could see him now. They would bundle him up and cart him off to Bedlam as a raving lunatic. Tresham would fix him with one of his famous black stares. No—perhaps not. Tresham had been playing the pianoforte again during the past few years—since his marriage, in fact—instead of smothering his
talent as he had done most of his life. Their father had brought them up to the belief that the most deadly of all sins for a Dudley male was anything that hinted at effeminacy. Music, art, an overindulgence in intellectual pursuits—all had been ruthlessly stamped out, with the aid of that infamous birch cane when necessary.

Ferdinand had enjoyed both the singing and the company. And obviously he had cooled the hostility of at least a few of the neighbors with whom he was going to have to consort during future years. It was the habit of several of the male members of the choir, it seemed, to take a glass of ale at the Boar's Head on choir evenings. Worthington suggested that he join them.

“Singing dries the throat,” he added by way of explanation and excuse.

“It does indeed, and I would be delighted,” Ferdinand replied. “But Miss Thornhill, did you walk here? May I escort you home in my curricle first?”

“I brought the gig, thank you, my lord,” she said, and he could tell from the stiffness of her voice that she was furious. She must feel let down by her friends, who were not repulsing him as they ought.

And so he went off to drink with six other male choristers and the realization that country life was very different from town life. More egalitarian. More genial. More to his taste—a strange thought, considering the fact that he had spent the years since Oxford kicking up every lark that fell his way and generally leading a fast, wild existence in London.