Page 19 of Lady Impatience (A Series of Senseless Complications #3)

The day of their departure for the Dales had dawned, and as was beginning to feel usual, the innkeeper could hardly hide his glee over shortly being rid of the duke and his party. The man even went so far as to help the footmen load the trunks into the luggage carriage. It was probably well he did so, as the footmen both looked exceedingly under the weather and not capable of much. Marcus had overheard the duke’s valet warn them that if they dared vomit in one of the duke’s carriages, they would find themselves walking back to the Dales.

The journey to the duke’s estate had been one he would forever remember. Despite the housekeeper deliberately infesting his house with case moths over a perceived slight, she was rather liberal with her supervision of her charge. The lady either slept, or pretended to sleep, most of the way there.

Eventually, they left civilization behind and traveled the well-worn tracks of the moors. It was such an expansive countryside, with rises that provided views for miles and miles. Not like his own neighborhood of flat ground hemmed in by old trees and broken up by plowed fields. It was also such an isolated countryside. It struck Marcus that if he had been so isolated with his own parents, he would have felt trapped, he would have gone mad.

But here was a happy, jolly family who liked nothing better than their own company. There were foibles galore regarding the sisters, but they seemed to pay little mind to them. Each were permitted to be just as they were.

It was a model he intended to adopt. After all, why should society’s rules be so rigid? Why was everyone expected to act just the same, despite differences in temperament? He’d never questioned it, but he questioned it now.

“There,” Patience said, “just at the top of that hill. There is our house.”

Marcus leaned out the window. It was a colossus of a house made of local Yorkstone and sitting atop a rise like a sentry overseeing its sparse neighborhood. There were cottages peppered round the property for those in the duke’s employ.

The village was half a mile off. It was small, just a few lanes of houses, a few shops, and a church. There could not be a more remote place in England. Of course, it did explain the duke’s unique way of going on. He had no close neighbors who pursed lips or frowned or shook their head to guide him on the ways of society. Nobody had been able to convince him that society’s rules must be followed. Rather, he did just what he liked with nobody but an ineffectual vicar to counsel him.

“Ah, it is so good to be home,” Patience said.

Marcus smiled. Those particular words had never been uttered by him, but they would be in future. Very soon, home would be a welcome place.

What an idea.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mrs. Right could not be more pleased. She had returned to her real home, the Dales, sans Lady Marchfield’s latest attempt at a butler. She hoped Mr. Grimsby was making out well with his haberdashery and she hoped Lady Marchfield was still steaming over it. She never knew how, exactly, she would rid the house of a butler, each case requiring its own strategy. But rid the house she did. It was rather a challenge she had begun to enjoy, and this year had ended, as had the other years, in a job well done.

If she had anything at all to regret, it might be sending the case moths into Lord Stanford’s house. But what was a poor housekeeper with no real power in the world, a poor woman, to do when one of her own was injured? What else could one do but lash out in a fury and attempt to ruin the perpetrator’s life?

In any case, it had been a mistake, but that was all water under the bridge now. Fortunately, he did not seem to be absolutely certain who had sent that damning letter that had come along with Valor’s letter. She hoped to keep it that way now that he was to wed her Patience.

Lord Stanford had been installed into the gardener’s cottage and everything done there to make him comfortable. The sheets and blankets had been changed to the finer ones from the house, as had the pillows. His small kitchen had been well stocked with things he could prepare for himself—tea, coffee, breads and biscuits from the duke’s kitchens, plentiful bottles of wine and a variety of fruits and cheeses. Despite being well-supplied, he never spent much time there. He would rise and arrive in time for breakfast, and then spend the day with Patience, and then dine with them at night.

The vicar, as was to be expected, approached the duke about the seemliness of the situation. Lord Stanford and Patience had even been spotted in the village, holding hands. One of his elderly women of the congregation had even claimed that Lord Stanford was seen kissing Lady Patience on the cheek, though her eyesight was very bad so that was not definitely confirmed.

Fortunately, Valor had been eavesdropping as was her habit. She marched into the library to tell the vicar that her papa had dressed as him going up in flames from the devil for a masque and it was very funny. If the devil was coming for him, it was probably because of all the screaming murdered ladies on the moors. Though, she did not have personal conversations with the devil, that was just what Mrs. Wendover thought.

The duke had laughed uproariously and did not correct the idea. The vicar staggered out of the house and back to his vicarage.

Really, at some point the man must notice that every time he brought a problem to the duke he ended staggering out of the house. She did not know why he went on with it.

She supposed the vicar was very like Lady Marchfield—on a sinking ship and refusing to get on a life raft like any sensible person would do.

Mrs. Right sighed in contentment. She must conclude that the season had gone very well indeed. Now, she was back to her roots and the staff had settled comfortably under her lax management, doing just enough but not too much. All was right with the world.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patience was delighted with her new circumstances. What a glorious month in the Dales it had been. Patience and Stanford had been together for almost all hours of the day. If they were not walking the countryside or riding over the moors, they were hiding away in one of the duke’s endless and rarely used public rooms.

They did have to hide, too, as Valor was always intent on finding them. It seemed she would never run out of embarrassing questions to pose to her betrothed. Occasionally, Valor seemed to notice she’d gone too far and would inquire into Stanford’s views about the weather.

When they were all together with the family, they might play Fact or Fib or just enjoy each other’s company. She noticed at those times that Stanford was very observant of all that went on. He admitted to her that he had no frame of reference regarding a genial household and was keen to take it all in.

During one of those nights in the drawing room, Stanford inquired if his lady-love might indulge them all and play the crwth. Naturally, he could not understand why the request sent the entire family into paroxysms of laughter. At least, not until Patience explained that she did not own one, could not play one, could not play any instrument at all, and had made the whole thing up. Neither she nor her father could have imagined that Lady Jenner would have owned that item. Fortunately, the duke thought of pretending he had injured Patience hand so that she could not play. Now the only thing to do was either to never go to Lady Jenner’s house lest the lady bring out the crwth, or always go with a bandaged hand.

Her fiancé took the news of his future wife having no musical talent whatsoever with surprising equanimity. As it happened, his mother had played the pianoforte and used that instrument to shout out her moods. All in the house would know there was trouble on the horizon when she took to violently banging on the keys. He had not liked it.

Stanford also ended up getting on famously with the duke. Both gentlemen agreed that it was a sensible thing to bring the port and brandy into the drawing room, rather than sit in the dining room after the ladies had departed. Stanford said that though the duke was forever crossing the lines society had set up, the crossing was often anchored in good sense. If one stopped to really examine it. At least, most of it.

For a few days, there had been talk of a wedding in London, St. George’s being the place it was most favorably done. That did not hold though. Stanford wrote to the archbishop to allow them to dispense with the banns, really only because the duke had riled so many people over the years that one never knew if an injured party might wish to stir up some trouble for him. They would marry in the duke’s local church with little fanfare.

The vicar, as was entirely expected, had been rather shaken over the responsibility. He was given a few weeks to settle into the idea though, as invitations to the blessed event had gone out to the most important people in their lives and those people would need time to make arrangements to travel to the Dales.

It was not to be thought that Lady Monroe could make such a trip, but she kindly sent a whole box of Lord Monroe’s things as a wedding present. They were promptly donated to the church so that somebody might make use of them.

As for Lady Marchfield, Patience had been torn. She thought she ought to invite the lady, and she also thought she did not wish for cold water thrown on her happiness. In the end, she did invite her aunt, despite her father gamely listing dozens of reasons why she should not.

Felicity would necessarily miss the wedding, as her baby was far too young to travel that far. Mr. Stratton had experienced some sort of mental collapse when it was suggested they leave the baby with a nursemaid. He was a doting father who carried round his infant girl as if she were made of porcelain and might break at any moment. Felicity was adoring of it, especially since she said her little miss was a rather sturdy baby.

Grace and Dashlend did come though, with their young son in tow. It was well that the duke was an indulgent grandfather not overly concerned with his possessions, considering how many of them were broken by the little terror. Never was there a toddler who swiped at things far more than he picked them up. Never was there a toddler who seemed delighted to get into the cold ash of any fireplace he could get to before somebody caught up to him. It did not help that Nelson had made a game of running ahead of the boy and only giving it up when he tripped, fell, and sent up a whopping scream over it that could only be soothed by biscuits.

Lord Kendrickson came with Lady Alice on his arm, the new bride and groom both looking pleased as Punch with one another. Patience had a long and confidential conversation with Lady Alice regarding the mistake about the fan. Both of them agreed that no fan in England had ever caused so much trouble. After the air was cleared between them, their friendship blossomed.

Lord Radler fairly tiptoed into the house, rather surprised he’d been invited at all, considering his unhelpful participation in the courtship. He was not quite certain if he’d been forgiven or whether he was being lured to the house for a proper pounding. He was instantly reassured that, while he was an idiot of epic proportions, he was entirely forgiven. Though, Marcus did point out that had things not ended well, he probably would have given his friend a proper pounding.

Lord Jeffries, Marcus’ father’s elderly cousin, was duly invited but a flare-up of gout prevented him from making the trip. He did send along a letter though, to be given to his staff and used as an admission into his house in Wales if it was wanted.

At the wedding in their small village church, Valor acted as flower girl, as she claimed she had dreamed of it her whole life though this was the first anybody had heard of it. She proudly walked down the aisle clutching white roses and taking in admiring glances. She’d dragged Mrs. Wendover along for the occasion as she said the lady could not bear to be left behind at such a moment.

Nelson apparently could not bear to be left behind either. Finding himself quite alone in the house, he’d visited every room, determined to display his dissatisfaction with the situation. He pulled a plate of chops off the cook’s counters and ate them, leaving the bones and broken crockery behind as a comment. He had a rather violent argument with one of the duke’s books, the torn pages indicating who had won and who had lost. He dragged blankets off beds and chewed up a few pillows. As a final rebuke, he pulled a pair of curtains down in the drawing room and relieved himself on them. Then he made his escape upon finding a window cracked open. He pushed on it and leapt out, heading toward the village as fast as his three legs could carry him.

Fortunately for him, the window was on the ground floor, else he might have found himself down another leg, or worse. He crashed into the ceremony and tipped over a standing pot of flowers. Finally, he took his proper place in the wedding party.

The vicar was clearly irate about a dog in his church, but as the duke was laughing over it and the bride did not seem to mind, there was not much he could do.

The wedding breakfast was a jolly affair. Much wine and champagne was poured and the people in the village came to the duke’s door and sang a wedding song of their own making. It was rather dreadful, having been put together hastily and raucously referring to the joys Lord Stanford would soon enjoy. One might expect a father to be rather irate about such a hint, but the duke pretended he did not hear that part of it. He invited them all in and poured them wine himself.

Lady Marchfield was, not surprisingly, not very approving of bringing the people of the village into the house and not at all willing to pretend she did not hear their outrageous song. However, Lord Marchfield worked hard and kept her views under wraps as much as possible.

It did eventually become impossible for her lord to mask Lady Marchfield’s views, as the villagers took full advantage of the duke’s generosity and drank down half his wine cellar. That sort of situation will always very reliably lead to an array of vulgarities as men were freed from whatever manners they might usually employ or whatever respect they might hold for rank.

Lady Marchfield was shocked to her shoes to be pinched in a nether region by a very scruffy individual who perhaps was not as acquainted with soap and water as he should have been. She stalked up the stairs after that same individual asked her if she wanted to be escorted to his barn for a confidential tryst. He claimed they could slip out the servants’ entrance with her lord none the wiser. It is to be supposed that it was just as well that Lord Marchfield was none the wiser regarding that proposition. He was easygoing and liberal, but that likely would have been a step too far. By the time he was informed of it the following day, the scruffy individual had long taken himself off to the moors with his sheep herd.

None of that was at all disturbing to Patience and Stanford, as they had made an early escape to the gardener’s cottage. Stanford had made arrangements beforehand, and Patience arrived to find a bright fire burning to fend off the chill of the moors, bottles of champagne, and platters of such edibles as would sustain them until morning.

She found herself not the least interested in food though. Patience locked the door, threw the curtains closed, and threw off her wedding dress, the buttons coming loose and skittering across the stone floor.

While Stanford might have been very good regarding self-control over the many weeks of severe temptation, this was rather too much. He picked her up and carried her into the lone small bedchamber. They fell into bed and did not get out of it for some hours.

Stanford found his bride far more enthusiastic than he had been led to believe a bride of elevated station generally was. It seemed his future happiness was not to be contained only in the drawing room.

As for Patience, she’d been well prepared for what was to come after the wedding, as both Grace and Felicity had given her rather graphic and detailed descriptions. Felicity had even drawn pictures and filled in any gaps she might not know, her knowledge mostly coming from observing farm animals. Her impatience overrode any shyness or worry over it. As both Grace and Felicity had pointed out that relations between man and woman were interesting in the beginning and then improved markedly as one went on, she did not give Stanford very much rest that first night.

He was delighted to oblige.

As the dawn broke, they drank champagne and watched the mist over the moors play its usual game of slipping away imperceptibly until it seemed impossible it had ever been there at all.

Patience brushed his hair to the side, admiring of its rich sable tones, and situated herself in the crook of his arm. His lovely strong arm.

“I have an idea for a wedding trip,” Stanford said. “We might leave directly from here, though it will be a journey.”

“That’s all right,” Patience said, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Only if you like it, I will not take you anywhere you do not wish to go. Lord Jeffries, a relation, has a house a few miles outside of Holyhead in Wales. He tells me it is not large, but it overlooks the sea and is devoid of close neighbors. He says the staff retreat to their own houses by the late afternoon, but for a watchman who can be sent away. Jeffries says one can be free to swim in the sea without worry of onlookers.”

“Oh, I see! Without clothes, you mean.”

“I believe that is what Jeffries meant by it.”

“We must go then,” Patience said, all enthusiasm for the idea. “How often does a lady get the opportunity to swim naked in the sea?”

Stanford laughed. “Not often, I’d imagine.”

“It will be lovely. I have heard if one goes to Brighton, one must enter an unwieldy bathing machine. It sounds like an unnecessary palaver just to get wet. We do not do so here, we just swim in our underthings while Mrs. Right keeps a lookout for anybody coming along. But naked, well that would really be something.”

“Then we are off to Wales. Jeffries says we can stay as long as we like.”

They set off the very next day, leaving their wedding guests to be entertained for a week by the duke. At least, they were entertained except for Lady Marchfield. That lady had several conferences with the vicar to commiserate with one another regarding the deplorable habits of the duke. Unfortunately, they did not come to any firm conclusions about what to do about it. Lady Marchfield had all but given up on her brother and had decided she would not even bother to attempt another placement of a butler in his London house.

The vicar, perhaps looking out for a relation or perhaps spotting an opportunity to confound the duke, urged the lady to persevere in it. He recommended a cousin who’d been meant for the clergy but had failed to secure a living. Mr. Cremble had, out of necessity, turned to a position in service. Though he had not made a career in the church, he was as pious a man as ever was. The viscount he served had died and the new viscount was profligate in his ways and had given his pious cousin notice of his dismissal due to certain frowns that had been noticed.

Lady Marchfield found herself very cheered by the thought of a pious butler. After all, anybody daring to attempt to run the duke’s household with a semblance of regularity would do well to call upon godly assistance.

Marcus and Patience spent three days traveling to their destination. Fortunately, they traveled in a direction the duke had never taken, so they did not encounter any resentful and bitter innkeepers. They may have encountered two shocked innkeepers, though, as they rose exceedingly late, and it was no mystery to anybody what caused it.

Toward the end of the third day, they made their way to Clyd Cartref, or Cosy Home, as Lord Jeffries had named it. It turned out that the good gentleman had sent a letter to his steward, alerting him that there was the remote possibility that Lord Stanford and his bride might descend upon them.

As the Welsh never like to be caught out short on the hosting front, they had prepared extensively. This had the further benefit of supplying themselves with all sorts of good things to eat and drink should the lord not turn up after all.

The house was the most charming thing Patience had ever come upon. One story, made of whitewashed rubble stone topped by a heavy thatch roof, it sat atop a dune overlooking a flat sandy beach and the sea. Stanford had written ahead that they would be arriving and they were greeted by the steward, the cook, and a maid of all work.

They were led inside the house to a large room that seemed to be used for near everything. There was a stone fireplace, already burning brightly against the setting sun, a sofa in front of it, a bookcase well-stocked, and a few chairs round a dining table. A bow window looked out upon the sea and a short corridor led to the only bedchamber.

The dining table had been set with a hearty stew, Welsh cakes, and Glamorgan sausages, a pitcher of ale, several bottles of wine, and a bottle of whiskey.

The staff having done their duty and the watchman delighted to be sent away, Patience and Marcus listened to their chatter down the lane until it faded away and the only sounds were of the waves gently breaking out of doors.

While it was not their first night together, it was somehow different. The cottage was so removed from any other person on earth that it felt different. Patience could not put her finger on it until Stanford said, “This is it, is it not? This is our family.”

Patience had nodded. “For now, anyway. I am well aware that I must deliver you an heir. My chief wifely duty to carry on the line.”

Stanford had pulled her close. “Actually, we will be fine either way—let the title go to my idiot cousin if that is what fate has in store. If we are blessed, that is well too. The point is, here we are, just now and just here, a complete family.”

Patience of course understood that her lord’s feelings were deep-rooted and reflected his own early family life. She said, “Are you worried that you might be as your father was? You will not be, of that I am sure.”

Stanford let out a little breath, as if that particular point was one he needed to hear from someone else. “No, I suppose not.” He laughed and said, “I do wonder though if I can reach the heights of indulgence your father has achieved.”

“I will show you how it’s done. We will be the most ridiculously indulgent mother and father who ever were, and our children will adore us for it. Now, they might come out strange and toe-tap and claim to play the crwth, but we will love them all the same.”

And so, Patience’s prediction did come to pass. It was not all a smooth road to get there though. When Stanford was informed that his bride was with child, he did behave as if she were the first and only lady to fall prey to that condition. He was positively convinced that her chances of dying were exceedingly high. He blamed himself and Patience had a time of it trying to convince him that she had played her own part and all would be well.

As he was convinced that she would probably die, it made for a rather uncomfortable journey toward motherhood. Any time Patience even rose from a chair or did anything else deemed dangerous, Stanford had her by the arm. There were times when she woke in the night and found him wide awake and staring at her.

An army of midwives and physicians were sternly interviewed by the lord, though really, he knew so little about what was required. He finally settled on three midwives and four physicians, but he ended with only one of each since he insisted those people move into the house a full month before any expected arrivals of the baby variety.

On the momentous day, Patience was not clear on who was in more distress. She, from the physical pain, or her lord wildly shouting in the corridor.

Still, all such moments do have an end. This particular end brought into the world a baby girl with an entirely silly tuft of brown hair atop her head. She was named Lily and promptly wrapped her father round her fingers as soon as she could get them working properly. Lily was followed by two boys and it might be thought, as boys were such forceful little personalities, that even though Lily was the eldest she must be bossed about by her brothers. That was not at all the case.

Lily, being a rather shrewd young lady, was very observant. She took those observations and used them to her advantage. Should one of her brothers misbehave, Lily would sigh and say, “Gracious, must I go to father and tell him you are creating a troublesome family life? Must I weep and tell him how upset I am?”

Everybody connected to him knew Lord Stanford wished for peace in his household and the boys were promptly put back in line. Those two young gentlemen, Marcus and Charles, were in their late teens before their sister’s manipulations finally dawned on them and by then it was rather too late to do anything about it.

They were not too terribly put out, as they had experienced a rather jolly time of it in the house. Their mother looked upon them all as if they were geniuses and the best children living. Their father followed their mother’s opinions on anything to do with family and so they grew up feeling very much admired. Other households in the neighborhood who held rather more strict views on children were perplexed over how these indulged children were not spoiled and selfish. They very naturally missed the fact that children will watch how their parents move through the world and act accordingly.

As for Stanford himself, he’d begun with an inordinate amount of caution and had developed the habit of slowly and methodically weighing options. He did not entirely give up his inclination to turn over a question far longer than anybody else in the world before coming to a decision. However, he did realize it drove his wife positively mad.

Therefore, he took on the habit of posing a question to Patience only after he’d given it due consideration. He might examine the question of purchasing a new carriage for months. Once he’d decided to go forward, he might say, “What do you think of purchasing a new carriage?” Patience would say, “Lovely idea.” He’d say, “Consider it done.” Patience liked to think she’d been a good influence on him as it seemed he did not foot-drag half so long as he used to.

But then, was that not what a good marriage was? Was it not making those little adjustments that made one’s partner more comfortable? Whether they were true or not seemed beside the point.

Before all that was to be, Patience and Stanford spent a full month in Wales. Their routine was rather glorious. The staff turned up in the morning. They prepared breakfast and then, before setting off in the early afternoon, made a dinner to leave behind. Patience and Stanford walked the beach and, if it was a fine day and the staff were gone, stripped down and ran into the sea. There was a small area that was hemmed in by rocks and filled by a high tide that Patience called the bathing tub. The water was clear and still and warmed in the sun. They spent many an afternoon lazing in it.

One day, they were walking the beach and were visited by a lovely little brown terrier. She was a female and her low belly hinted that she’d brought puppies into the world sometime recently. Her owner could be spotted far down the beach chasing after the naughty thing. As Patience gave the dog a good pet, the boy finally did catch up to his dog.

“Magda,” the boy said scoldingly.

The dog, now having been introduced as Magda, wagged her tail as if to say her running off was all in good fun.

The boy tipped his cap and said, “I’m sorry she’s come to bother ya. She likes to shirk her responsibilities though I told her over and over, you’ve got young ones to look out for.”

“She is not a bother at all, she’s lovely,” Patience said.

The boy seemed to take her measure. “As it happens, I still got three pups lookin’ for a place to call home. It’s a mighty task, as near everybody round here already has one of Magda’s pups. You wouldn’t care to have one? Or two?”

Patience looked toward her husband. He laughed and said, “It cannot be worse than Nelson, I suppose.”

“We will take one, then,” Patience said. “Two might lead to a lot of trouble, but I am certain we can manage one little dog between us.”

The boy tipped his cap and said, “I’ll run home and back as fast as I can. Come on, Magda, you scoundrel.”

The boy set off and, as he had promised, he did not delay in returning. By that time, Patience and Stanford were back in the cottage with a tea tray. He had a pup in either hand and said, “I brought the two best so you can choose between them.”

Patience thought the boy a cunning little person. He would have thought she’d set eyes on them, be unable to choose, and take both. And he was right.

They were now the proud owners of two Welsh terriers and of course if one knows anything about terriers, it is that one is ambitious and two are terrifying in their energy and zest for life. Carwyn and Cecil, as those were the names the boy had given them in honor of his two grandfathers, would prove to be quite the handful on the journey home. It seemed they deemed the inside of the carriage as if it were the outdoors and there was not one day they did not descend from that vehicle covered in paw prints.

After a month of walking and reading and bathing in the sea, and of course other things, Stanford received a letter from his butler. It seemed Mrs. Crumdek had been successful in waging war against the case moths. There had been ramifications to her treatments, as some of the furniture and all of the linens had been thrown out and the house smelled like a cedar forest. They would return to London to rectify things and then close up the house and ready it for the next season.

The next would find Serenity stepping into the light and taking her turn in society. Stanford had already been warned that they would need to be on hand. All manner of things could, and would, cause Serenity to weep. The extended family would need to surround Serenity and act as a soothing and calming influence.

Whether a certain Roland Garner, the Marquess of Thorpe, was prepared to take on a lady who might sink to the ground and lament over a dead bee in the garden was yet to be seen. But perhaps that stiff and reserved marquess had his own problems in the weeping department.

The End.