Page 31 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
Chapter twenty-two
Wedding
T rue to his word, as soon as the New Year came, Harold Brownlee took the necessary steps to have Charles Morrison declared dead, and at that official pronouncement, a little piece of Bel’s heart died inside of her.
For the first three months, she kept to the house, avoiding all social gatherings and talking with no one but Aunt Lucy.
She dressed all in black, a long overdue final mourning for the brother who had already been missed for seven years.
Amid her grief, she rescinded her agreement to allow Horace Townsend to call on her. Conversation with Mr. Townsend could be challenging under the best of circumstances, and in her present state, she could not guarantee civility.
Mr. Brownlee stopped by to offer condolences, batting insinuations at her like cricket balls, saying that she would feel better if she just talked to the vicar.
But Bel remained firm. Instead of visiting in person, Mr. Townsend sent her a cordial letter informing her that, “ It is better to go to a house of mourning than a house of feasting .” He encouraged her to remain steadfast in good works and assured her that he would resume calling on her when she was out of mourning.
In the meantime, he planned to establish himself more fully in his parish duties.
The Duke of Warrenton sent a note of condolence to the Morrison ladies but made no attempt to call himself.
Indeed, some said that he had vacated the neighbourhood entirely, for he was not sighted at the church or the Jester’s Arms for weeks on end.
Bel, who had Magpie to observe, knew better.
Whenever the cat disappeared for a few days and came back looking fat, sleek, and utterly pleased with herself, she knew that she had been trespassing at Audeley House, keeping Nigel Lymington company and eating like a queen.
She never went looking for the cat, however.
That was too dangerous. For she had a strong suspicion that if she saw Nigel Lymington, dark hair ruffled, sleeves rolled up, sleeping in an armchair with her cat on his lap, she would be utterly undone.
The endearing domesticity of such a picture would awaken desires in her that needed to remain dormant until the duke could reform his way of living and fix what was broken.
In February of the new year, rumour had it that Gyles Audeley had returned to Derbyshire. But like his prestigious houseguest, he must have been keeping close to his house and his garden, for there were no sightings of him in Upper Cross.
Mr. Townsend, once again, had the honour of knowing coveted news first; at the next Sunday service he announced the banns for Gyles Audeley and Louisa Lymington.
A gasp went up from Mrs. Brownlee and several other members of the congregation.
“Yes, that’s why the duke’s been visiting Audeley House,” said Harold Brownlee authoritatively, as if he had known the news all along. “He’s Gyles’ future uncle.”
“First his mother becomes a countess,” said Mrs. White in disbelief, “and next he marries the niece of a duke?” She looked to those sitting nearby for confirmation of her envious inclinations.
“’Pon rep! It’s unbelievable. One would think that the Audeleys lead a charmed life.
And wasn’t Rose Audeley’s father a mere solicitor? ”
Before the third reading of those banns, however, another announcement upended the settled social circle of their Derbyshire village even further.
Bel had given up mourning dress for one day to put on trousers and fix a broken gate.
When she re-entered the house at teatime, she saw that Aunt Lucy was not alone in the parlour.
No, indeed. Her dear aunt was sitting on the sofa next to Jack Ferris, much closer than propriety allowed, her cap horrendously askew and her cheeks as pink as sunset.
“What’s this?” asked Bel. She took off the wool cap covering her pinned-up hair and slapped it against her leg. “Do I need to demand your intentions toward my aunt, Mr. Ferris?”
Jack’s eyes twinkled. “Only if I need to ask your permission to marry your aunt. After all, you appear to wear the trousers in the family.”
“Oh, Bel!” wailed Aunt Lucy, finally noticing her niece’s unfortunate clothing. “How could you appear like that in the parlour in front of a guest?”
“I’m not a guest anymore,” said Jack, holding up a hand that was firmly attached to Lucy’s. “That is, if Bel will allow me to be her uncle.”
“I’ll allow it,” said Bel, and her face which had been sombre for the last eight weeks split into a genuine smile .
Jack stood up from the sofa and helped Lucy to her feet. “Well, my darling girls, it’s all settled then. You must name the date for our departure for London.”
“London!” cried Aunt Lucy and Bel in unison.
“Aye, London,” said Jack. “I know how you love the place, Lulu. And you’ll be wanting to buy your trousseau.”
“M-my trousseau?” echoed Aunt Lucy, her face taking on a look of beatific joy.
Bel suspected that after fifty years of spinsterhood, she had imagined the ship of matrimony had sailed and would never come back to port.
But Jack was determined that Lucy would miss out on none of the gaieties that betrothed brides enjoyed.
“I’ll take a house near Green Park for you ladies to lay down your heads, and I’ll find a hotel on Piccadilly for James and myself—very proper, Miss Bel. Nothing for anyone to complain about. And we’ll see the sights and do some shopping and come back to Derbyshire in April for the wedding.”
“Oh, Mr. Ferris!” said Lucy, her eyes shining. “You make me the happiest person in the world.”
“Impossible,” said Jack, lifting her wrinkled hand with his gnarled one in a courtly salute, “for my own happiness cannot be surpassed.” He began to laugh.
“I haven’t told James yet—I daresay he’ll complain I stole a march on him.
But there’s always Miss Bel still unmarried, eh? Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”
Nigel spent the first few weeks of the new year in a black sulk of self-recrimination.
Fix it? How could he fix it? He couldn’t even return to London without skulking in the shadows—and it was in the shadows where Solomon Digby’s men were always lurking.
Where could he get two thousand pounds, plus interest, to pay the man back?
But as January wore on, he began to cudgel his brain for what gains he could effect while keeping away from London.
Availing himself of Lady Kendall’s stationery, he wrote a letter to his steward in Lincolnshire, asking for a brief accounting of the estate’s holdings.
Embarrassingly, he could not remember the man’s name, so he was forced to address him merely by his title.
Then, encouraged by the completion of the first letter, he wrote a second one to his solicitor Mr. Childers in London, asking the man to sell all the furniture in his town house—from the billiards table where he had once played with Solomon Digby to the black-lacquered chinoiserie that his brother had accumulated.
Without furniture or inmates, there was no need for an army of servants to carry on cleaning the house, so Nigel instructed the solicitor to write them letters of recommendation and let them go.
Now his townhouse would be as empty as his bank box at Hoare’s.
By February, his letters had received replies, one from Mr. Childers confirming the closing of the townhouse and one from a Mr. Jonathan Billings, whom he rightly assumed must be his steward.
With furrowed brow he read through a list of crops and yields from the previous year, unsure whether they were profitable or paltry.
At some point, however, it occurred to him that Gyles Audeley was a gardener.
There ought to be some books about agriculture in the library.
But a gardener, it turned out, was not the same as a farmer.
The botanical journals that Gyles kept on the library shelves were all ornamental in nature.
Nigel sent a second letter to Mr. Childers, asking him to use some of the money from the furniture to procure for him the most recent encyclopaedia of agricultural practices and to use the rest to remit his debts to any London tradesmen he owed.
A week and half later it arrived, twelve heavy volumes in a leather-bound trunk.
Staggered by the size of it, Nigel took three days to gather up the courage to open it.
But when he did, he discovered that his natural curiosity had only atrophied over the past two years and not died completely.
He began to exercise his muscles of mental acuity and was soon discerning the difference between winter and spring barley and the benefits of four-field crop rotation.
It was in this state of affairs that an unexpected carriage arrived at Audeley House.
Archie was the first to meet the new arrivals.
Nigel could hear his astonished voice in the hallway and the name Audeley wafting through the open door of the library.
When he came out into the hallway to see who it was, he found not only Gyles Audeley in the entryway but also his golden-haired niece, Louisa.
The fear in her eyes was palpable—after all, the last time she had seen him, he had threatened to keep her under lock and key until she married Solomon Digby. She held tightly to Gyles’ arm and remained wary as a songbird with hawks circling its nest. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“That,” said Nigel, “is a long story. Perhaps we should sit down in the parlour so I can explain?”