No Man's Mistress (15 page)

No, not even then, she thought, writing, “Dearest Mama, Claire, and Maria,” with a flourish across the top of a blank sheet of paper. She forced her attention onto her letter.

He had
not
been drunk, she thought after writing five words. She had tasted ale on his tongue, it was true, but he had not been drunk. And he had told her that he had not been bent on seducing her, that she was quite safe with him. Worse, she had
believed
him. Still did.

No, she would not be distracted, she thought, writing doggedly on. And she would
not
allow herself to like him.

But later that afternoon she knew there was no danger of that at all. He was, in fact, quite the most contemptible man she had ever known.

It had been her idea, more than a year before, to begin a sewing circle for the women of the village and neighborhood. There were several places and events to bring the men together, but very few for the women. They had met weekly in the church hall ever since. But Viola had hit upon the happy idea two days ago of inviting the
group to meet in Pinewood's drawing room instead. There could surely be nothing, she had thought then, more calculated to send a town tulip hastening back to London than to discover a few dozen women gathered over their needlework and conversation in the drawing room he considered his property.

“This is really a remarkably good idea of yours, Miss Thornhill,” Mrs. Codaire said as she spread her embroidery threads about her. “Even apart from your main motive, this is a far more convenient meeting place than the church hall. No offense to you, Mrs. Prewitt.”

“None taken, Eleanor,” the vicar's wife assured her graciously.

“I must say, though,” Mrs. Codaire added, “that his lordship seemed a perfectly amiable gentleman when I called here with Mr. Codaire and the girls yesterday.”

“He insisted upon escorting me home after choir practice last evening,” Miss Prudence Merrywether said breathlessly. “I would have preferred to walk alone, for I could not think of a single intelligent thing to say to a duke's brother and would have been quite tongue-tied if he had not asked me to explain what soil is best for planting roses in. But it was very obliging of him to consider my safety, even though it is quite absurd to think of
not
being safe in Trellick. And who would think of assaulting me, anyway, when I am neither young nor beautiful nor rich?”

“It was just his cunning, Prudence,” her sister said firmly, to Viola's satisfaction. “He wants us all to
like
him. I have no intention of falling for his charms.”

“Quite right too, Miss Merrywether,” Mrs. Claypole said. “No proper gentleman would insist upon living at Pinewood before Miss Thornhill has had a chance to
move out. It is quite scandalous, and I blame him entirely. He is not a man of breeding.”

“He flatly refused to allow me to stay here as dear Viola's chaperon two evenings ago,” Bertha added. “He was remarkably rude.”

“He smiles too much,” Mrs. Warner said. “I noticed that at the village during the fête.”

“Though it
is
a lovely smile,” Miss Prudence said, and blushed.

Miss Merrywether, better organized than most of them, was already hard at work. “If Lord Ferdinand Dudley does not like having us here today, Miss Thornhill,” she said, “and comes in here and orders us to leave, we will inform him that we are here to chaperon our friend and intend to remain for the better part of the afternoon.”

“You always were braver than I, Faith,” Miss Prudence said with a sigh. “But you are right. You are always right. Never fear, Miss Thornhill. If Lord Ferdinand chooses to scold you in our hearing—well, we will scold right back. Oh, dear, if only we dare.”

They all settled to their work after that, and half an hour passed while the room hummed with the usual feminine conversational topics—the weather, everyone's health, household tips, the newest fashions as displayed in fashion plates received from London itself, the next assembly.

Then the drawing room door opened and Lord Ferdinand stepped inside. He was looking quite immaculate, Viola saw when she glanced up from the bridal kneeler she had undertaken, dressed in a green superfine coat of expert cut with buff-colored pantaloons and tas-seled, highly polished Hessian boots and his usual white linen. His hair had been freshly brushed and looked thick
and shiny. He must have been warned, she
realized
. But instead of hiding away until all the ladies had left, he had gone upstairs to change and had come back down to make his entrance with all the appearance of easy good humor.

“Ah.” He included everyone in his graceful bow. “Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Pinewood for those of you I did not meet here yesterday.”

Viola set her work aside and rose to her feet. “The ladies' sewing circle is meeting here this week,” she explained. “When one is privileged enough to own a manor of this size, you see, one must be prepared to use it for the common good and give up some of one's privacy.”

He turned his eyes—his
laughing
eyes—on her. “Quite so,” he agreed.

“I believe,” she said pointedly, “the library is
free.”

“It is,” he said. “I have just been in there finding a book of which I have heard many good opinions.”

He was holding a book in one hand, Viola noticed for the first time.

“It is called
Pride and Prejudice
,” he said. “Has anyone heard of it?”

“I have,” Mrs. Codaire admitted. “But I have not read it.”

Viola had—more than once. She thought it easily the best book she had ever read. Lord Ferdinand strolled farther into the room and smiled about him with easy charm.

“Shall I read some of it aloud,” he asked, “while you ladies sew? We men are not nearly as diligent or as skilled with our hands, you see, but perhaps we are good for something after all.”

Viola glared indignantly at him. How dare he bring his charm into this female preserve instead of slinking
about outside working himself into a temper as any decent man would?

“That would be very kind of you, I am sure, Lord Ferdinand,” Miss Prudence Merrywether said. “Our papa used to read to us, particularly on dark evenings when time might otherwise have hung heavily on our hands. Do you remember, Faith, dear?”

He did not need further encouragement. He seated himself on the only remaining seat, an ottoman almost at Viola's feet, smiled about him once more as the ladies settled back to their work, opened the book, and began to read:

“ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' ”

Three or four of the women laughed, and he read on—surely knowing that more than three or four of them were thinking of how that opening statement of the novel applied to him. Not that he had a good fortune in all probability. But he had Pinewood. And she, Viola, had made it prosperous. She gazed bitterly down at him for a few minutes before resuming her work.

He read well. Not only did he do so clearly and with good pacing and expression, but he also looked up at frequent intervals to reveal his reactions to the narrative with his facial expressions. He was enjoying both the book and his audience, his manner said—and his audience was enjoying
him
. A glance about the room assured Viola of that.

How she hated him!

He stayed after he had read for half an hour to discuss the book with the ladies and to take tea with them and examine and admire their work. By the time the sewing group dispersed for another week, he had all but the
strong-minded few veritably eating out of his hand. He even accompanied Viola out onto the terrace to see them all on their way. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still loomed gray and cheerless overhead.

Viola could have cried, and perhaps would have done so except that she was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had bested her—again.

“What a charming group of ladies,” he said, turning to her when they were alone on the terrace. “I must see to it that they are invited to meet here each week.”

“So must I.” Viola turned sharply away and hurried back into the house, leaving him standing on the terrace.

F
erdinand would have enjoyed the following week if it had not been for Viola Thornhill. He had not anticipated the intense sense of belonging he felt at Pinewood. He had considered several careers after university—the army, the church, the diplomatic service—but nothing had appealed to him. But the result of doing nothing had been inevitable boredom and involvement in all sorts of madcap escapades and a general sense of purposelessness. He had not even realized it until he came to Pinewood and discovered that the life of a country landowner fit him like a glove.

But there was Viola Thornhill. He assiduously avoided any further encounter like the one the night he broke the urn. He even more firmly avoided all thoughts of matrimony. That would be a solution bought at too dear a price. And so they continued to inhabit Pinewood together.

He began to return his neighbors' calls. He continued to make friends of them and tried not to admit to himself that he was disappointed to discover how easy it was
in most cases. They ought to have been more loyal to Miss Thornhill. He heartily disliked the tedious, pompous Claypoles and believed he would have disliked them under any circumstances. But their stiff, cold civility won his respect. Claypole fancied himself to be Miss Thornhill's suitor, Miss Claypole was her friend, and Mrs. Claypole doted on her children. To them Lord Ferdinand Dudley was simply the enemy.

He set about familiarizing himself with the workings of his estate. He had little knowledge and no experience, having never expected to be a landowner. But he was determined to learn rather than leave everything to a steward. Besides, he might soon be without a steward. Paxton was Miss Thornhill's loyal employee. He made that clear when Ferdinand called on him at his office over the stable block one morning, the estate book tucked under one arm.

“The books are very well kept,” Ferdinand said after exchanging greetings with the steward.

“She keeps them herself,” William Paxton said curtly.

Ferdinand was surprised, though he might have guessed that the small, neat handwriting was a woman's. It was not a pleasant surprise, though, to know that she had had a direct part in the running of the estate. Worse was to come.

“You have done remarkably well,” he said. “I have noticed how everything has changed for the better during the last two years.”

“She
has done well,” the steward replied, passion vibrating in his voice.
“She
has performed the miracle. She tells me what to do and I do it. She often asks my advice, and she usually takes it when I offer it, but she does not need it. She could have done it all without me. She has as good a head on her shoulders as any man I have ever
known. If she goes from here, I go too, I am here to tell you right now. I'll not stay to see the place go to wrack and ruin again.”

“But why should it?” Ferdinand asked.

“We all saw you betting recklessly on almost certain failure in the village,” Paxton said, not even trying to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “And we all know how you acquired Pinewood through another wild wager.”

“But I did not fail,” Ferdinand pointed out, “at either venture. I do not deal in failure. I find it too depressing.”

But Paxton was launched on mutiny. “You promised all sorts of things the other morning when we went to the home farm,” he said. “The estate cannot afford them yet.
She
understands that. She does things gradually.”

“The laborers need new cottages, not just repairs upon repairs,” Ferdinand said. “The estate will not pay for them. I will.”

Paxton looked at him suspiciously. Doubtless with the label of gambling wastrel put upon his person went that of impoverished aristocrat, Ferdinand thought.

“However,” he added, “I will need the advice and assistance of a good steward. Was it Bamber who hired you?”

“The old earl,” Paxton said, nodding. “He sent me here, but he made it clear to me that I would be
her
employee, that Pinewood was hers, not his.”

Viola Thornhill was not the only one who had been given that impression, then? The late earl really had intended that the property be hers.

Paxton, like the Claypoles, was someone he came to respect during that week.

He involved himself with other neighborhood concerns. The church choir was one. The school was another. The roof of the schoolhouse leaked during wet weather, he learned during a visit to the schoolmaster.
There was still not enough money in the village fund to have it replaced, even though Miss Thornhill had made a generous donation. Ferdinand put in what remained to be raised, and immediate arrangements were made for the job to be done. So that classes would not have to be interrupted, he offered Pinewood as a temporary school-house for the appointed day. He told Viola Thornhill about it at dinner.

“But how can it be done?” she asked. “There is not enough money. I was hoping that within the next three or four months—” But she clamped her lips together and did not complete her sentence.