A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance (15 page)

“No, Lizzie. I assume you heard me tell Miss Leticia Brampton, I have no intention of going to London.”

Miguel, his broom-horse abandoned, accompanied by Princess, came into the parlor and sat on Katherine’s lap. Lizzie moved to the floor beside the tea table and selected another biscuit, sharing it generously with Princess.

“I think that lady was mean to you, Miss Brampton. I think your gowns are just fine.”

“Thank you, Lizzie.”

Katherine bit her cheeks to keep from laughing.
There you have it, Leticia,
she thought.
You might quarrel with my sense of fashion, but Miss Lizzie Dracott finds my gowns to be “just fine.”

“Are you going to marry Sir Clive?”

Katherine froze. Just how much had Lizzie heard?

“That is an impertinent question, Miss Elizabeth Dracott.”

Katherine had no difficulty making her voice stern.

“You must promise me never again to eavesdrop on grown-ups’ conversations!”

“But what if I cannot help it, Miss Brampton? What if I promise never again to listen to grown-ups’ conversations, then I need to hear something really, truly important? So if I promise,

I might do
two
bad things: break my promise to you
and
listen to grown-ups talking.”

Katherine was lost for an answer. It was satisfying to know that Lord Henry Dracott would be struggling with Lizzie’s finely honed reasoning for years to come.

“I know Princess is really happy here,” Lizzie said while stroking the spaniel,
who
was waiting patiently for another bite of biscuit. “I wish I could have given her to Papa after Trinket died, but I understand it would not have been kind, taking Princess away from her home. That’s what Papa says. But I think Papa misses Trinket. I don’t think he’s very happy these days. Where do you think Trinket is, Miss Brampton? Did she go to heaven like my mama and my baby brother and my grandpapa and grandmamma?”

Katherine’s heart contracted at the thought of the losses Lizzie had suffered in her young life. She thought she knew the accepted answer to Lizzie’s question, but she could not bring herself to give it.

“You must ask the vicar, Mr. Wharton,” she suggested. “He is the authority on such matters.”

Katherine hoped that fate would be kind and permit her to overhear
that
conversation.

“ I
know she has a grave. I heard Papa tell Cook that he had buried her in their favorite place.”

Lizzie had the good grace to look a bit chagrined at confessing to another instance of eavesdropping on a grown-up conversation.

“Have you never visited Trinket’s grave?”

Lizzie shook her head.

“I wanted to, but I didn’t want to bother Papa. Make him sadder.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Oh yes, Miss Brampton.
More than anything!”

*****

It took some effort walking with Lizzie, Miguel, and Princess from the Dower House to the place just above the fishing hole on Dray Stream where Trinket was buried. Katherine, remembering her promise, brought a packet of forget-me-not seeds that she had saved from last year’s garden. Lizzie was ecstatic over the prospect of planting them on Trinket’s grave. Princess, as was her want, raced ahead, barking and chasing any small animal that had the misfortune of being near the lane. Lizzie and Miguel paused from time to time to examine a particularly interesting stone or discover if a wildflower had any fragrance.

When they arrived at the clearing beside the stream where Trinket was buried, they discovered that small weeds had taken root on her grave. Katherine pulled on the old gloves she used for such
tasks,
and before long both Lizzie and Miguel were gently pulling the weeds and smoothing the earth over Trinket’s grave.

Then came planting the forget-me-not seeds.
Again, both children worked intensely, patting the seeds into the damp soil.

“Will we have to do this every year, Miss Brampton?”

“No, Lizzie. That’s the beauty of forget-me-nots. They self-seed. So year after year, when we visit Trinket in the spring, forget-me-nots will be blooming here.”

“Is there another sort of flower we can plant that will bloom after the forget-me-nots?”

Before Katherine could answer Lizzie, they heard pathetic whimpering coming from beneath a nearby shrub. As all three of the little party gazed in horror, Princess dragged herself from beneath the shrub, scarcely able to move because she was covered in sharp burrs.

“What is the matter with Princess, Miss Brampton?”

Lizzie’s eyes filled with tears and Katherine realized she had never before seen the girl cry. Miguel’s lower lip trembled.

“It looks as if she found a pile of burrs left over from last autumn. They must have been blown under that shrub, protected from the weather. Poor Princess! I will just have to pull them out. It is going to be a long task, so I want you to stay close and away from the stream.”

Katherine need not have worried about Lizzie and Miguel wandering off. Both children’s attention was riveted on the spaniel. They stood silently observing as Katherine began the painstaking task of removing burrs from the dog’s long, silky coat.

Initially, Katherine kept her gloves on in an attempt to protect her own fingers. But she quickly learned that gloves prevented her from holding the small burrs tightly enough to pull them out. Resigned, she removed the gloves. She could grasp the burrs barehanded, but they were almost as likely to lodge in her fingers as they were in the spaniel’s coat.  Katherine’s fingers began to bleed and Princess continued to yip and squirm in pain.

“Whatever is going on here?”

“Papa!” cried Lizzie.

Lord Henry Dracott.

“Princess is all covered in stickers and Miss Brampton is trying to get them out, but it is really hard,” Lizzie explained.

Lord Dracott sat opposite Katherine on the other side of Princess.

He lifted Katherine’s right hand in a calloused grip.

“This is no task for a lady, Miss Brampton, but I’ll need your assistance. I see you have been clearing the neck area. That’s a good start. Try to hold the dog about the neck, loosely, and I shall work down the body. We’ll clean up the face and muzzle last. That’s the most sensitive part.”

Lord Dracott proceeded efficiently, removing burrs from Princess’s silky coat, sometimes humming tunelessly under his breath, sometimes admonishing the suffering dog to quiet down.

His large hands were remarkably gentle, pulling at burrs and stroking the frightened Princess when she reacted in pain.

“We are making excellent progress here, Miss Brampton.”

He added another burr to a growing pile beside him.

“What brought you here?”

“I wanted to see Trinket’s grave, Papa, and Miss Brampton had some forget-me-not seeds we planted on it.”

“That was extraordinarily kind of you, Miss Brampton.”

“I
had
promised, Lord Dracott.”

He looked up from his task and gave Katherine a half smile.

Princess squirmed and brought Katherine’s attention back to her assignment of holding the spaniel still.

“Now, Miss Brampton, I believe we are ready for her underside.”

Lord Dracott gently turned Princess on her back, and Katherine gripped the dog’s sides, just above her back legs.

“Perfect, Miss Brampton. Now hold firmly. I fear Princess will not like this.”

Lizzie and Miguel hovered closely, intently observing the painstaking procedure.

“And now her head.
Better hold firmly, Miss Brampton. This is the most sensitive part.”

Katherine held Princess as tightly as she could. The spaniel whimpered as each burr was pulled from around her eyes and mouth. Finally, the last burr was removed. Lord Dracott quickly ran his hands once more over the silky coat, checking for any burrs he might have missed. Katherine released her hold on Princess, remembering the effect that Lord
Dracott’s
touch could have on her.

He patted the spaniel’s head.

“You may be a dizzy creature, but you’ve got grit.”

Princess rewarded him with a lick on the nose. Lizzie laughed. Katherine and Lord Dracott joined in.

He tucked Princess under his arm and offered Katherine a hand up.

“Here you are, Miss Brampton. I give Princess into your care. Perhaps it would be best if you carried her back to the Dower House. I suspect if there are any more burrs left over from autumn in the vicinity, she will find them.

“I believe you are right, Lord Dracott. And, thank you for rescuing her—rescuing all of us.”

Katherine smiled up into his golden-flecked brown eyes and knew she loved him. Whatever was she to do?

If Harry’s thoughts had not wandered to a pair of smiling green eyes whenever there was a pause in the conversation, he would have been completely at peace with the world. Whether Paris would surrender without a battle was uncertain. But according to all reports, allied armies surrounded the city and Napoleon’s fate was sealed. It would be a shame if one more life were sacrificed to
Boney’s
ambitions, but the last life in jeopardy that Harry cared about personally was alive and beyond the reach of the Corsican’s armies. Captain Charles Hamilton had returned from France, and was even now enjoying Harry’s best brandy—-laid down before the embargo—and a cheroot. Charlie, Gus, and Harry were ensconced in Harry’s library, having partaken of Cook’s best efforts, having visited the stables to assess Dracott cattle, and once more having found Gus to be unbeatable in billiards or cards.

Their conversation had been of times long past: times of school pranks and holiday mischief; times before marriage, soldiering, and death—death in childbirth and battle. Strangely, Charlie’s appearance could almost convince Harry that the carefree days of youth had never passed. In spite of almost five years of combat in the harshest conditions, Charlie remained unscarred physically and, apparently, mentally.

But now the store of youthful exploits was exhausted and the three friends smoked and sipped in silence until Gus asked the obvious question.

“Are you
back
permanently? Going to help the squire with the running of Dray Meadows?”

“Not just yet. Colonel
Bridgerton
requested that I escort his wife to London, and visit Tattersall’s for a new mount for him. Seems that the colonel and his lady are planning to make an impression in Paris, and Mrs.
Bridgerton
felt the need to refurbish her wardrobe. Then the colonel got to thinking that his most recent army-purchased replacement for the most recent horse shot from beneath him—I swear he holds the record—would not do for his grand entrance into the French capital. So I deposited Mrs.
Bridgerton
with her daughter and son-in-law in London, purchased a handsome chestnut gelding for the colonel, and had it sent to the son-in-law’s stables.

“I’ll have to go back to London for the civilian wardrobe I ordered. I plan to sell out. I’ve no stomach for fighting the American colonists, no matter how much they need to be taught a lesson.

“Sometime I need to go up to Bath to check in on Janie. Can’t for the life of me figure what is going on with
her.
Aunt Sophie writes that Janie is about to make a brilliant match and Janie writes that Bath is duller than Sussex.
Hints at coming home.
Suppose I should
suss
the situation myself.”

Charlie tossed the stub of his cheroot in the fireplace and lit another with a spill.

“Actually, though, I would not mind staying home. Saw a handsome widow on my way through the village.”

Harry and Gus exchanged puzzled looks.

“Did you sustain a head injury you have neglected to mention, Hamilton, or have you developed a taste for older ladies? I admit that Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton is well preserved, but…”

Harry laughed at his own wit.

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Dracott! Between you and Wharton, I’m guessing that one of you has made a very close acquaintance with her.”

Harry started to protest, but Gus silenced him with a look.

“Perhaps you could describe the widow in question, Hamilton.”

“Statuesque with ginger hair
peaking
out from under of a wreck of a bonnet.
She was supervising a small lad feeding ducks in the pond on the village green.”

Harry coughed to cover choking.

Gus cast an inquiring glance at Harry before correcting Charlie’s mistaken impression.

“The lady is no widow, Hamilton. She is Richard Brampton’s sister, Katherine.”

Charlie Hamilton closed his eyes.

“Who would have thought that skinny wraith could become…”

“Happens all the time, Hamilton.
The Almighty’s joke on our poor sex.”

Harry lifted his glass in agreement with Gus. The memory of Katherine Brampton’s glowing smile as he placed that silly spaniel in her arms returned. How pathetic. He was jealous of a dog that was too dumb to stay out of a patch of burrs.

“Who did she marry?”

“You are in luck, Hamilton. The lady is unwed.”

Harry did not like the sound of that. Was Gus trying to make a match of Charlie and Katherine Brampton? Harry grasped the first distraction that came to mind.

“Actually, according to no less an authority than Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton, Miss Brampton was promised to her cousin Clive—you remember him, don’t you, Hamilton?
Always turned out to a fare-thee-well.”

Harry absently rubbed a stain on his sleeve.

“Banns were read, and Miss Brampton declared she would not have him. Surely you have heard that story, Wharton,” Harry appealed to Gus, who had gone strangely silent.

“If Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton is your source, it must be true,” Gus affirmed before refreshing his glass.

“What is wrong with you, Wharton, your neck cloth choking you? Surely you’ve heard the stories about Miss Brampton discovering Clive in some compromising position just days before the wedding, and running to old
Tramell
and crying off?”

“So the story goes,” Gus confirmed before busying himself with a fresh cheroot.

“That must make for a cozy household at Oak End,” Charlie Hamilton observed. “Clive Brampton did inherit when Richard fell at Vitoria, did he not?”

Harry stifled a sigh. He wanted to get off the subject of Katherine Brampton.

“Clive did inherit. Make that Sir Clive. Heaven help you if you forget. But my kindly sire, evidently being privy to Miss Brampton’s dislike of the new baronet, agreed to lease the Dower House to her and her great-aunt, Miss Summersville. The place had not been inhabited since my grandmother died, so I suppose it made sense to have someone living there.
At least as much sense as his other major decision just before his death—making Wharton vicar of St. Chrysostom’s.
Now
that
decision, I assure you, is still the talk of the parish.”

Harry was pleased that he had been able to change the subject so naturally. Of course, they had spoken earlier of Gus Wharton’s remarkable change since Charlie Hamilton had last seen him, but Harry was confident that the topic had not been exhausted.

He poured himself another glass of brandy.

“But who was the child with her?
The young boy?”

Harry swallowed a mouthful of brandy too quickly. When had Charlie Hamilton become so tenacious? Perhaps they should escort Charlie to the Dower House, let him propose marriage to Katherine Brampton, and be done with it.

“I suppose the entire parish would like to know the answer to that question.”

Gus set his glass down on the table beside his chair and picked up his cheroot.

“A trooper’s widow newly arrived from Spain deposited him with Miss Brampton last autumn, saying that he was Richard’s son. No one could convince Miss Brampton otherwise, so she has taken him on. One must admire her generosity, but the project is even more daunting than usual. The child has yet to say one word.”

Gus was sympathetic. But sentiment had never clouded his rationality.

Harry decided to discover just what Charlie Hamilton’s intentions were.

“So if you are considering making the fetching Miss Brampton an offer, Hamilton, you should factor in the education and launching of a mute lad of uncertain paternity. Miss Brampton will expect no less.”

Charlie stood, frowning, paced to the hearth, toed an andiron, and turned, hands on hips.

“The child might be Richard Brampton’s son?”

“Or any other British soldier’s,” Harry asserted. “The boy
does
have green eyes. Of course, there are full-blooded Spaniards with green eyes, but the trait is more common among our ranks.”

“Miss Brampton’s eyes are green.”

Thank you, Wharton, for reminding me of that fact,
Harry thought.

“She puts great store by that trait in accepting the boy as her nephew,” Gus continued.

“Yes, yes. And Richard’s eyes were green, we all can attest to that,” Charlie said impatiently. “But that is not the main point. It is just—what is it called? Corroborating evidence? Is that what it is called in a court of law?”

“What difference does it make what it is called,” Harry said, puzzled. “The child—Miguel is his name—that Miss Brampton has accepted as her nephew is, in all probability, the natural child of some British soldier fighting on the Peninsula. That question is hardly likely to be raised in a court of law.”

“Unless, of course, he is Richard Brampton’s legitimate son.”

Charlie Hamilton’s handsome face was as stern as a judge’s.

“You are not claiming that Richard Brampton was married.”

Harry’s mind refused to accept such an idea.

“I am not
claiming
, I am
saying
. Affirming, attesting, whatever the proper word is. I am telling you that Richard Brampton was married—to a Spanish lady. I know because I was a witness.”

Charlie Hamilton collapsed in his chair and gulped down the contents of his glass. Harry and Gus looked at each other, speechless.

“Of course, that fact does not necessarily mean…” Gus began.

“We had best hear the entire story, Hamilton.
As much as you can remember.”

Harry hated murky situations, and this had every indication of being particularly murky.

Charlie rubbed his eyes, as if trying to clear his vision. He stood and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back, pausing now and then in his recitation.

“It goes back to our earliest days on the Peninsula, Richard’s and mine. Richard and I arrived in Portugal, joining with the army assigned to retake the Peninsula. It was the spring of ’09, March or April, I believe, and Lisbon was just about the only city secure from the French. Not only was it filled with British troops, there were also many Spanish civilians who opposed Napoleon and had fled to Lisbon for safety. Highborn, lowborn, rich,
poor,
all mixed in a very crowded city.

“I cannot remember seeing much of Richard during that time. He had his interests. I had mine. But, as I later learned, Richard met a very young, very beautiful, very willful Spanish lady at a ball given for British officers by the wife of a Spanish general. Elena was the young lady’s name. Her father had sent her to Lisbon to protect her from the French,
whose
reputation for respecting Spanish ladies—as you well know, Dracott—was not good.

“It must have been love at first sight—for Doña Elena, at least. I was never that certain about Richard. He did not mention her when we were beginning the march from Oporto to Talavera. That would have been late spring, early summer.

“Then, one day, a very young and imperious Spanish lady came riding into camp on as fine a horse as one could wish. No maid. No duenna. She was looking for ‘El Capitan Ricardo Brampton.’ After a spirited discussion in his broken Spanish and her broken English while we all tried our best to make ourselves scarce, Richard went in search of a chaplain. Doña Elena’s fingers were impossibly small for his ring, so she removed one from her own hand, gave it to him, and he returned it to her during the ceremony.

“There can be no doubt: Richard Brampton and Doña Elena were married by the rite of the Church of England. I signed as a witness.

“I never asked why he bothered to marry her. She was alone, acting as no well-bred lady would act. But he must have understood that he was not dealing with any ordinary lady from any ordinary family, as we learned a day’s march from Talavera.

“Her father, the epitome of a Spanish grandee, appeared. I have no doubt that if Doña Elena had not shown the autocratic gentleman her wedding lines, Richard would have died that afternoon. As it was, a Roman priest was produced, and the couple was remarried according to the Roman rite. Then, Doña Elena’s father explained that he was taking charge of his daughter pending the removal of the French from Spain.