The Rake to Reveal Her

After Wilton had served the guests, he turned to the Squire, hoping his explanation would prove briefer. ‘Won’t you acquaint me with the matter?’

‘Certainly,’ the Squire said. ‘Two days ago, Mr Scarsdale, the solicitor in Hadwell, mentioned to me that Thornfield Place, which abuts your southern boundaries, had been let by a Theo Branwell. He then informed me that this man, already in residence, intends to approach you about renting the old stone barn your father once planned to turn into a cloth manufactory. For the purpose of setting up a home for soldiers’ orphans.’

‘A terrible prospect!’ Lady Wentworth cried, seizing hold of the conversation. ‘Having been with the army, Mr Ransleigh, you know better than we how rough a life it is! Lord Wellington himself referred to the common soldiery as “the dregs of the earth”. Only consider the offspring of such persons, growing up around vulgarity, drunkenness, and the company of...’ With a glance at her daughter, she leaned closer to whisper, ‘Camp-following women!’

Settling herself back, she continued in normal tones. ‘They could not help but have been corrupted since birth. I’m sure you understand our horror at the prospect that such children might be lodged nearby. Unthinkable enough that gently raised folk be subjected to their presence! Only consider how much more injurious association with them would be for the orphaned poor, with their innate bent to depravity. As head of a society devoted to their well-being, I felt it my Duty to speak with you at once about this nefarious scheme. Doubtless, this Mr Branwell means to play upon your sympathies as a former soldier. But as a gentleman of wit and discernment, I’m sure you could not wish to lend yourself to such an enterprise.’

In truth, Dom didn’t wish to lend himself to anything, particularly not to the lady whose strident voice was intensifying the pounding in his head. Knowing that responding would encourage her to embellish, likely at enough length that he got a good eyeful of her beauteous daughter’s neatly turned ankles, he meant to give her no excuse to prolong the interview.

‘I understand your concern, Lady Wentworth, and yours, Squire Marlowe. I assure you, when and if I’m approached by Mr Branwell, I will give the matter my most careful consideration. After such a long wait, I’m sure you must be pressed to return to other engagements. I myself am overdue to consult with my steward,’ he lied smoothly. ‘So you must excuse me, but do finish your tea before you depart.’

He rose as he spoke, continuing quickly. ‘Squire, a pleasure to see you again. Miss Wentworth, I wish you well on your Season, and best of luck with your society, Lady Wentworth.’

Deaf to their expressions of gratitude and protestations that they were in no hurry, Dom bowed and left the parlour.

Retreating to his chamber with as much speed as he could muster, he barely made it to the bed before his legs crumpled under him. Bracing himself with his good arm, he sank face-down on to the blessedly soft, flat surface and fell instantly to sleep.

* * *

With dim memories of having awakened in the dark to glug down a glass of the laudanum-laced brandy at his bedside, Dom pulled himself from sleep late the next morning, groggy and aching. He took another quick swallow of the brandy, thinking as he sank back against the pillows that he’d not indulged in strong spirits before breakfast since his salad days at Oxford.

After a few moments, the liquor soothing the sharp edges off his ever-present pain, Dom felt human enough to ring for his batman. Hot coffee and a hot bath would dispel the grogginess, after which he could dress and ready himself...for what?

Once, he would have headed for the barns to check on his horses. How he’d prided himself on his reputation for finding the most spirited yearlings with jumping promise and bending the difficult horses to his will, schooling them to jump obstacles they’d rather avoid. Gloried in the excitement of sitting astride a ton of barely controlled wildness while galloping through woods, fields and meadows, jumping streams, brush and fences.

There’d be no more of that, as yesterday had demonstrated with painful clarity.

He should go to his study, check the London papers and the current prices for prime hunters at Tatt’s. Or write to some hunting enthusiasts, asking if they were interested in purchasing any of his horses.

His spirits, already at a low ebb, sank even more at the prospect.

No, he couldn’t face that today. He’d go poke about in the library, which was as respectably large and well filled a room as he remembered. The pleasure of reading, a pastime often indulged while in winter quarters on the Peninsula, had been restricted by the dearth of books available. The single bright spot in his decision to retreat to Bildenstone was having access to the wealth of volumes his grandfather had accumulated.

Finding something intriguing would distract him from his misfortunes and raise his spirits, he told himself. Maybe he’d wander outside to read, see if the gazebo in his mother’s garden was still a pleasant place to sit.

He needed to start figuring out his future...but not yet. Once the additional aches of yesterday’s disastrous episode faded, he’d be in a better frame of mind to move forward.

* * *

An hour later, fed, dressed and feeling marginally better, Dom walked towards the library. Encountering the butler on the way reminded him of the previous day’s meeting, and he paused.

‘Wilton, I don’t wish to receive any more visitors. I mean no one, not even if God Himself turns up on my doorstep!’

Looking pained at that sacrilege, Wilton nodded. ‘As you wish, Mr Ransleigh.’

‘That’s what I wish,’ he muttered, and continued to the library.

After browsing through Caesar’s Commentaries, lamenting his inattention during Latin studies, Dom settled on a volume of Herodotus. The day having turned cloudy, he abandoned thoughts of the garden and settled in a wing chair before a snug fire.

As he’d hoped, the discussion of the struggle between Xerxes and the Spartans soon absorbed his attention.

* * *

When Wilton bowed himself into the room later, he realised enough time had passed that he was hungry.

Unwilling to leave the comfortable chair, he said, ‘Would you ask Cook to prepare some of the ham and cheese from last night, and bring it here to the library?’

‘Of course, Mr Ransleigh. But first...’ the butler hesitated, an anxious expression on his face ‘...I’m afraid I must tell you that...that a young lady has called. I explained that you weren’t receiving anyone, under any circumstances, but she said the matter was urgent and she would not leave until she saw you.’

Yet another lady on an urgent errand that would not keep? Who might it be now?

Though he’d happily tilled his way through fields of accommodating beauties before getting himself engaged, he’d always been careful; he had no fears that some dimly remembered female stood on his doorstep with a petit paquet in arms.

Curiosity was soon submerged by a lingering irritation over yesterday’s unwelcome visitors. ‘You didn’t admit her, did you?’

‘No, sir. Following your instructions, I closed the door—in her face, as she refused to move, a thing I’ve never done in my life, sir!’

‘Sounds like problem solved,’ Dom said. ‘Eventually, she’ll tire of waiting and go home. Will you have that tray brought up, and some more coffee, please?’

The butler lingered, looking even more distressed. ‘You see, sir, as the young lady arrived at just past eight this morning, while you were still abed, I felt no hesitation in refusing her. But it’s now nearly two of the clock and...and she’s still waiting.’

Annoyed as he was to have yet another person try to intrude upon his solitude, Dom felt a revival of curiosity which, as he reluctantly reviewed the situation, intensified.

He hadn’t mingled with society here for years, and only a few knew he’d returned to Suffolk. He had no idea who the woman might be, or what matter could be compelling enough to prompt her to come alone and wait for hours to consult him.

Arguing with himself that he would do better to ignore the caller, and losing, he finally said, ‘Who is it? Not the girl from yesterday, surely.’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ Wilton said, sounding scandalised. ‘Miss Wentworth’s mama would never allow her to call alone on a single gentleman. The Young Person didn’t give me her name, saying it wouldn’t be known to you anyway.’

It would be scandalous for an unmarried girl to call on him, Dom belatedly realised. He’d been out of England so long, he’d initially forgotten the strict rules governing the behaviour of gently born maidens.

Maybe she wasn’t so gently born.

There might be possibilities here, he thought, his body now taking an interest. Not that he was sure he was yet healed enough that such pleasant exercise wouldn’t cause him more agony than ecstasy. ‘You called her a “young lady”, though. Why, after such brazen behaviour?’

‘Well, she is young, and in speech and dress, she appears to be a lady, however improper it might be for her to come here.’

‘Alone, you said.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What has she been doing all this time?’

‘When I last glanced out, she’d seated herself on the brick wall at the end of the courtyard. She appeared to be reading, sir.’

‘She hasn’t knocked again?’

‘No, sir. I suppose, sitting where she is, she knows the household must be aware of her presence.’