Page 4 of Lady Impatience (A Series of Senseless Complications #3)

Patience had been determined to discover the reason for Lord Stanford’s hesitation in putting his name down on her card. And, she had discovered it. He’d wished to dance with Lady Alice. People had recommended it. He’d only put himself down for Patience because he’d not been able to refuse the Duchess of Devonshire.

She would really like to despise him for that. However, she could not do it. He was fascinating to look at, for one. For another, his taking her hand in the dance had set something off in her. Her hands had touched various gentlemen this evening, but she’d not felt this particular feeling she could not put a name to. And for another, there was something of a challenge in him that got her blood up.

She’d been struck by him the moment she’d set eyes on him. Was she to be defeated by this Lady Alice individual? Or the people who pushed that lady forward? No, that did not sound very like Patience Nicolet.

La Boulangere had come to an end and Lord Stanford led her into the supper room to two empty chairs. He signaled to a footman and they were brought tea and dry cake.

“This is the extent of the offerings, unless you care for sour lemonade or stale bread,” Lord Stanford said.

“My father warned me sufficiently,” Patience said. “I ate a whopping big dinner before I came.”

This seemed to catch Lord Stanford off guard. He laughed and said, “Most ladies would not admit to ever in their lives eating a whopping big dinner.”

“Would they not?” Patience asked. “Well, I suppose I do not know such things as my mother died when I was young and our estate is very remote. We do not have close neighbors with the exception of a few farmers, and they are known for their whopping dinners.”

“I am very sorry to hear that you lost your mother young.”

Patience nodded. “Though, my papa did a marvelous job of it raising us. Just think, he was more wrecked over losing my mama than anybody and he was left to face seven motherless daughters, one of them an infant.”

“Oh, well, I assume he had the help of nurses and a governess,” Lord Stanford said.

“Nurses came and went, our housekeeper was, and still is, the steady presence. We only had a governess for a short time, actually. Miss Pynchon was not very suited to us; she did not understand us. For instance, I kept my mother’s sable coat in my room and put it on sometimes to smell her perfume. Miss Pynchon was against it and took it from me. My papa raised the roof over it and I got it back.”

“I see, so the governess thought you ought not wallow in grief.”

“I do not know what she thought, but she did not feel very much as far as I could tell. She had no sentimentality. She departed one early morning, leaving behind a note.” Patience laughed and said, “It only said one word—goodbye. She scrawled it across a sheet of paper. We still laugh about that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, of course we do. Who leaves their employment with such a note? We think she must have been overwhelmed, at there were so many of us. At least, she often mentioned that she did not understand why there were so many of us. In any case, the duke is an absolute dear of a father. It is just that so many seem not to understand him.”

“He strikes one as an interesting personality,” the lord said.

“That is a very good word for it,” Patience said, pleased. “You see, he does not care a whit for societies’ constraints. He tells the truth as he sees it. He is also very funny. He always teases us that he cannot wait to get us all out of the house. Mind you, I don’t believe him and if anybody attempts to hurt one of his family, he is a beast about it. I really cannot imagine anybody better.”

Lord Stanford seemed to take on a pensive expression. Patience thought perhaps he could imagine better.

She said, “Of course, it is only what I know. I suppose your parents were cracking good.”

This seemed to strike the lord even harder.

Perhaps they were not cracking good? Or good at all?

“May I enquire into your hobbies, Lady Patience?”

As he had changed the subject of the conversation so abruptly, Patience suspected that his home life as a child had not in fact been cracking good. She should have known not to drift into such personal territory. One never knew what another’s situation was. She was determined to turn to more usual topics of conversation.

As the lord had asked about her hobbies, she said, “Well, I love my horse. Her name is Penny and she is a Dales pony. You would have seen her in the park.”

“Indeed, I did. Along with some others.”

“Yes, those were my sisters—Winsome, Verity, and Serenity. We all have ponies from the same breeder. Penny has given me some lovely rides across the moors. She is very surefooted, as they all are. And then I like to sketch, I sketched out all my dresses for the season well ahead of time. I do like to be organized and prepared and do a thing the most efficient way possible. Quite the challenge with my sisters holding things up all the time.”

“They are not as organized?”

Patience laughed. “They are not at all organized. They cannot seem to ever come to a quick decision. They are not decisive.”

“But you are decisive?”

“Very. I cannot bear to hem and haw over a thing. Why does anybody do it? It’s maddening.”

“I suppose another sort of temperament might call it careful consideration?”

Patience shrugged. “I call it not knowing one’s own mind. When I consider any matter, my mind instantly informs me of its opinion and I go forward with it. I have begun to feel that not knowing one’s own mind must just be a lack of confidence in it.”

“Perhaps for more serious and consequential endeavors, slow and careful analysis might convey some benefit,” Lord Stanford said.

“I am not so certain that it does, though. It seems like it should, but have you noticed that when people go all round the world on a decision, they almost always circle back to the first idea they had? It’s almost as if they so little trust their own mind that they must consider all possible decisions before acknowledging that the first one was right all along.”

Considering the lord’s expression, Patience wondered if she’d gone too far in expressing her long-held and rather strong opinions on the matter. Lady Marchfield often commented that she did. Lord Stanford appeared positively gobsmacked.

“Do not you fear you may make a mistake if you hurry a decision?” Lord Stanford asked, staring at his untouched plate.

Patience shrugged. “Our housekeeper says that most mistakes will not kill a person, so I do not suppose I ought to spend much time afraid of them.”

“Well, my girl,” the duke said behind her chair, “you’ll never guess—my flask has run dry. How did that happen? Well, I supposed I played a significant part in it. That makes me think the moment has arrived for us to make our way out of this cathedral of stuffiness. Stanford, I invite you to dinner on Tuesday next and I assure you that you will get more than bread and weak tea.”

“That is very kind, Your Grace. Allow me to check my calendar.”

Patience stared at him. Check his calendar?

“Check away, send me a note on the morrow,” the duke said.

Patience rose and curtsied to Lord Stanford, doing her best not to appear too frowny. They made their way out to the carriage and once inside, Patience said, “Check his calendar? It feels… insulting. What if there is something on his calendar? Why would he not drop it to come to us?”

The duke laughed. “Stanford strikes me as a fellow who does not jump into the lake without testing the temperature. He’ll want to consider it.”

“I do not like it.”

“I see, you’ve made up your mind on him already, have you?”

“No.”

Her father folded his arms and smiled. He could always see right through his daughters.

“Well, perhaps I do feel some inclination,” she said.

“Give him a minute. I do believe he will accept for dinner. Then we’ll subject him to Fact or Fib afterward and we’ll see what he’s made of. Oh, and I’ve invited Lord Radler too—he’s Stanford’s houseguest, didn’t seem right to leave him out.”

Patience would very much like to see what Lord Stanford was made of. She certainly hoped he was made of stuff that would accept an invitation without unnecessary delay. He’d already hesitated in putting his name down on her card, was he to hesitate long before accepting a dinner invitation? Was he a hesitating sort of person?

She hoped not, as there was something arresting about him. Her decisive mind was telling her that he was of the highest interest, and her mind generally knew which way the wind was blowing.

Further, there was the consideration that people had been pushing forward Lady Alice to Lord Stanford. Should she not see with her own eyes if there was anything going on in that direction? Her mind told her there should not be, but she must see it confirmed. Since people had raised the question with Lord Stanford.

“Papa, can I extend an invitation to dine to Lady Alice?”

“Invite anybody you like, but for Lady Misery. And this time round, do not let my sister know that there is to be a dinner at all. The last time she found out was rather harrowing. Hilarious, but harrowing.”

“Oh goodness, yes. That was when Mr. Button made his dramatic exit from the house. My aunt says he does well for himself these days.”

“Good for him,” the duke said. “As to the dinner, Felicity and Grace should be in Town by then—we’ll have a regular family party.”

Patience nodded. It seemed ages since she’d seen her two married sisters. As for Lady Alice, Patience would call on her and make the invitation. She’d only been briefly introduced to the lady when Lord Radler had taken her to the floor, but that must be sufficient to call.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marcus found himself still in his drawing room in the early morning hours. Radler was already staying with him and had dragged Kendrickson along for brandy. They both said it was desperately needed, as they’d had nothing of the sort at Almack’s.

“Well, Kendrickson,” Radler said, “you’ve met several ladies with heavy purses, the only one of note not present this evening was Miss Richards. Her money comes from trade, of course. Though her mother is the daughter of a viscount, so that must weigh in her favor.”

“Her money will be as good as anybody else’s, I reckon,” Kendrickson said. “Though we’ll never set eyes on her at Almack’s.”

“But of those you did meet?” Radner pressed on. “Was there anything hopeful in it?”

Kendrickson downed his brandy and Radner helpfully refilled it. “I liked at least two of the ladies, but I have not the first idea what they thought of me. That will be the trick of it.”

“Which two, though?” Radler asked.

Marcus sighed. They were like two old women talking together.

“I would have to say that Lady Alice and Lady Patience both stood out for me.”

Marcus set his brandy down. He found he did not like that idea, though he had not the least cause to be against it. He had no claim on either lady. He did not wish to have a claim on any lady so soon in the season.

It was just that Lady Alice had been made out to be someone well suited to him and Lady Patience, well, she was very alive and difficult to turn away from.

“Lady Patience seems to understand my circumstances without fanning herself over it,” Kendrickson said.

Yes, Marcus supposed that would be the case. He could not imagine Lady Patience fanning herself over much. She seemed a rather stalwart personality. He did not suppose he’d ever encountered a lady who was not afraid of mistakes because they probably would not kill her.

“And then, Lady Alice. She is more serious than I would generally like. I knew it, and tried to match it as best I could. That is not ideal, but I do like her looks exceedingly. I have a weakness for black hair and blue eyes—you don’t see it much.”

“I suppose both ladies will attend Lady Jenner’s musical evening on the morrow,” Radler said. “A lady does not like to be left behind in showing off her musical ability.”

“Lady Patience’s duke invited me to dinner on Tuesday next,” Marcus blurted out, apropos of absolutely nothing.

Both gentlemen turned to him. “Lucky,” Kendrickson said.

“Excellent, we are going, then. I supposed we would. The duke invited me as well,” Radner said. “I told him I’d have to check with my host. Meaning you.”

“I said I’d have to check my calendar and would let him know,” Marcus said.

“Are you daft?” Radner said. “The only thing of note on the calendar Tuesday next is Mrs. Henning’s rout. It will be the usual stupid crush of uninteresting people.”

“Surely you will accept,” Kendrickson said, eyeing him as if he had two heads.

“Hmm, well, if it is just the rout…”

He found himself playing for time, though he did not know why. It was only a dinner. Probably a very large dinner, as it was a duke hosting it. The man likely just needed to fill two last seats with gentlemen. He should not read any more into it than that.

“I swear your mental paralysis will be the death of me,” Radler said.

“My mind is not paralyzed,” Marcus said with some asperity. Although, it did feel a little paralyzed. Perhaps he noticed it more because of everything Lady Patience had said on the subject of decisiveness.

He did not wish to view himself as indecisive. It seemed…weak. Surely there was a sensible balance between careful planning and indecisiveness. Of course there was.

“How long will you take to decide?” Kendrickson said. “He is a duke, he might become offended if you take too long.”

“I have not taken long at all. As there is nothing compelling on the calendar for that evening, I have decided. I will accept.”

There. He’d said it. Now he supposed he must do it. Even if he’d not come to any firm conclusions regarding the wisdom of it.

Since he had committed himself, he supposed he could allow himself to look forward to seeing Lady Patience again. And perhaps seeing her tomorrow night too.

After all, there was that particular something about her and it was perfectly fine to admire the lady. There was no danger in that whatsoever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mrs. Right thought Mr. Grimsby was having a time of it. Her staff were so clever at carrying out her instructions. Mr. Grimsby, as it turned out, had very specific ways of doing things. That was exceedingly helpful to their plans.

He would lay out precise instructions on how to do a thing and Charlie and Thomas would do it another way. In the dining room, Mr. Grimsby wanted chargers and plates down, then the silver, then the glasses. The footmen would go willy-nilly with glasses first, then silver, then plates. They would purposefully forget the chargers and have to upset the whole thing and start again. That particular maneuver was done as slowly as possible until the minutes ticked down and Cook raved for someone to come and get his platters.

Service was to the left and clearing to the right? The footmen served right and cleared left, though they knew perfectly well it was wrong. When Mr. Grimsby passed by them and hissed in their ears to correct it, Charlie and Thomas made a great show of bumping into each other and dripping things on the carpet.

A footman was meant to stand ramrod straight at all times? Thomas had slumped so far over while attending the drawing room that Valor had asked him if he was sick and told him he should go to bed.

And what was Mr. Grimsby to do about all of this? He’d made one tentative foray into the duke’s library to air his complaints and had come out of it white as new laundered linen.

Mrs. Right did not know what the duke had said, but she knew that gentleman well enough to know it had been appalling to Mr. Grimsby and another visit was not likely to be tried.

Who else could the butler turn to? She supposed he could go running to Lady Marchfield, just as the last one had. No matter, Mrs. Agnes Right was well prepared to do battle with Lady Misery.

As Mrs. Right made her way to her room to change her fichu, which had got a stain on it somehow, she heard quiet weeping from the direction of the men’s quarters. Very much fearing it was either Thomas downhearted over how long it would take to save up for his tavern or Cook having his last nerve snapped by an incompetent grocer, and having no idea of anywhere in the house being off-limits to her, she followed the sound.

She paused in the corridor. The weeping came from Mr. Grimsby’s room. Of course, she knew perfectly well it was the room he had been assigned, as it had been purposefully done. It was the hottest in hot weather and coldest in cold weather, had creaky floors, and a window so small it did not deserve the name. Charlie and Thomas called it the little box of hell on earth.

Could this be the moment? Had they broken him and now he would flee the house, proving Lady Marchfield wrong for a third time?

It certainly sounded like it. Though, she had to be certain. And help him along with it if that was needed.

She knocked softly.

The weeping paused. There were sniffles. A clearing of the throat. Then the door opened.

Mr. Grimsby staggered back to see her there. “Mrs. Right! This is the gentlemen’s end of the corridor!”

“Aye, don’t you think I know that,” she said, pushing past him. “Now I suppose all this blubbering is on account of you leaving soon?”

“I only wish I could! This house is a shambles, I have never worked with such degenerates in all my life!”

“Dales people aren’t for everybody, I reckon. Best you found it out now before you were trapped all remote-like on the estate with no way to escape.”

Mr. Grimsby placed a hand over his heart. “Do you actually imagine that I would travel to Yorkshire with this circus?”

“I hadn’t imagined, actually. It is well we have the same views on it though.” Mrs. Right paused. “Wait a moment. What did you mean when you said ‘I only wish I could.’ What’s holding you up? If it’s pride, I’d say that’s a mannish and foolish reason. Get packing, get going, and forget you were ever here.”

Mr. Grimsby paced the small and rather dim room, his footsteps creaking the floorboards. “That is just it, I cannot leave! Not this soon. Oh, what am I to do? I feel I am wrecked, I am just a shell of the man I was when I arrived. I cannot bear another minute, but I have no choice! What is to be the end of it?”

“Why aren’t you to have a choice, though? Lady Marchfield got the last one a new situation, Mr. Button was his name. I’ll wager she’ll do the same for you.”

“No she certainly will not. If I do not last a month, she washes her hands of me. That is our agreement. After one month, she hands over fifty pounds. My seed money to open my own haberdashery. She does not know of the shop, of course. She believes that if I can last a month, I can last forever.”

“Does she, now,” Mrs. Right said thoughtfully. This was indeed interesting information. It seemed Mr. Grimsby was planning to cross Lady Marchfield by lasting a month and then making off with her fifty pounds.

Mrs. Right had the inclination to help him do it. Not only would he be out of the house, but Lady Misery would be entirely stymied to be out a pile of pounds. Satisfactory on all counts.

“I believe we can come to some sort of genial agreement, Mr. Grimsby. Your whole problem is that you care how the house is run. What’s say you stop caring? Then you can relax and ride out the month. Stay up here all day and read books if you like—I’ll even put you in a better room. Take turns in the garden. Do whatever strikes you. Then, collect your money and be off.”

Mrs. Right was pleased to see a glimmer of hope in Mr. Grimsby’s eye.

“Yes, I could do that, I suppose. Yes, of course I could. What do I care how this house is run? Nobody else does! Should I care if that dinner on Tuesday is a shambles? I was caring very much, but why was I doing it?”

“Now you’re catching on to it.”

Mr. Grimsby straightened his coat. “Consider me disengaged, Mrs. Right. I believe I will go for a walk in the square and everybody can do what they like about tea. If Thomas attends the drawing room slouched like he’s broken in half, that’s not my concern. He can fall asleep and fall over on the floor for all I care about it!”