
Enacting her version of a young lady fainting, the irrepressible Drucilla Carruthers fell back against her chair, her listless hand allowing the distressing letter to flutter to the floor amidst the feathers. Her companion and former governess, Miss Script, shook her graying head with vigorous disapproval.
"It is no laughing matter, Drucilla," she protested. "You know very well why Lord Meacham is coming, despite his sweetly couched phrases of concern for your father. He's heard what's going forward here, no doubt from Sir Lawrence's attorney."
"Yes, he must have been severely provoked if he's willing to travel two hundred miles this close to Christmas," Drucilla said thoughtfully as she retrieved the boldly penned missive from the worn Axminster carpet and tucked it carelessly into the second volume of the novel she was currently reading.
"He can bring the matter up before a magistrate," Miss Script warned, her thin hands nervously gripping the pillowcase in her lap.
Drucilla's smile made her blue eyes dance. "Fortunately, it is Sir Edward who would have to act, and I believe him gone to visit his son in Somerset for the Christmas holidays. I should be very surprised if Lord Meacham were able to accomplish much before the next assizes. But really, it was too bad of Mr. Wicker to have told him."
Miss Script, however, could not agree, since she was well aware of the tactics Drucilla had used to divert the elderly solicitor. From the time Drucilla was a small child, fair and angelic looking with her blond curls and wide azure eyes, she had been perfectly capable of disturbing Miss Script's nice sense of propriety.
"I'm sure Mr. Wicker only saw it as his duty, Drucilla. He has, after all, like his father before him, been the solicitor for the baronets of Tarnlea for close to fifty years. My understanding of solicitors is that they are constitutionally suspicious men. Mr. Wicker has been urging you for three years to make plain the situation here, and you've managed to avoid every query. You must have known he would eventually relate everything to Lord Meacham."
"Certainly I did. I only hoped that I would be able to prevent him doing so until the work was completely finished. Still, we've accomplished a great deal these last years, May, haven't we?"
Her companion stretched the muslin pillowcase she was stuffing from a sack of clean goose down and feathers. "I worry that you've taken too much upon yourself. Not that your father's tenants don't deserve it!" she hastened to add. "But you have surely invited trouble upon yourself. Lord Meacham will hardly be complaisant about the expense."
"It did turn out to cost considerably more than I'd anticipated," Drucilla admitted. "But the necessity was surely there. My father..." With a sigh she shrugged and said only, "I won't have anyone disrupting his peace, or making him a byword in the neighborhood."
"Lord Meacham may have some legitimate complaints, though, since he is heir to Tarnlea."
Drucilla's nose wrinkled in distaste. "I daresay. I remember meeting him once as a child. It was just after my mother's death, so I must have been five and he couldn't have been less than twelve at the time. What does that make him now---twenty-eight? He was already a very stuffy fellow."
"When a boy must take over his father's dignities at a young age, I believe he usually has a tendency to be stiff and over-responsible. You know it was true of Lady Nibthwaite's son."
"Heavens, yes," Drucilla agreed, her dimples peeking out. None of her acquaintance was more officious than Lord Nibthwaite. "I recall thinking Lord Meacham was full of his own consequence. Odious boy. It would serve him right if I bankrupted Tarnlea. He has sufficient property of his own."
Miss Script, though the most amiable of companions, was not just at present prepared to hear her former charge discourse on the inequities of fate with particular regard to the inheritance practices of the British Isles. "I'm sure you are very well provided for under your dear mama's will, though it will indeed mean wrenching yourself from the only home you've known when the time comes. But pray recall that young ladies who marry do so all the time."
"Which just proves what milk-and-water misses they are!"
"Never mind that now," Miss Script admonished. "We must consider how best to prepare for Lord Meacham's arrival. When does he come?"
Drucilla did not need to consult the short letter. "He should be here in a matter of hours. He seemed to think the letter would reach us yesterday."
"Hours!" squeaked the poor woman opposite, hastily rising from her chair. "Today? He's coming today?"
"So he says." Drucilla staunchly retained her seat. "We are to make no preparation for him, he insists. He was very clear about that, May. Let him find us exactly as we are every day. That is precisely what he wishes."
"Well, he may wish it, but we most certainly cannot allow it. To find us here stuffing feathers into pillowcases as though we were pinched for pennies. And look at what you're wearing! Quickly. Upstairs! Change into the blue muslin with the golden ribbons. It's very attractive and just the sort of thing you might have been wearing, if, for instance, we'd been expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea."
"But we weren't expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea and I have no intention of changing," retorted the recalcitrant young lady.
"But, my dear, the only reason you're wearing that washed-out sprig muslin is because we were working with the feathers. It's not what you would ordinarily wear."
Drucilla dismissed her companion's patient reasoning. "What does it matter? Come, May, let's not make a fuss. People probably fawn over his lordship all the time; we will be a refreshing change, treating him as just another member of the family."
"You're purposely being contrary, Drucilla. There is also the matter of showing the proper respect for one of his position."
"Oh, very well. But not the blue gown. Lady Nibthwaite is coming to tea tomorrow and I plan to wear it then. Lord Meacham can wait a day to see my very best day dress."
As Drucilla rose to follow Miss Script out of the room, there was the sound of horses drawing a light vehicle on the gravel outside the parlor window.
Drucilla grinned at her companion. "Too late. His lordship has obviously made very good time."
Curious, she moved quickly to a slight gap in the heavy winter draperies where she could not be seen by their visitor. The two horses, astonishingly well matched grays, were being deftly pulled to a plunging stop. Gravel flew from under their hooves and the gleaming black curricle with its red trim and gold crest slid to an abrupt halt. Drucilla might have faulted his lordship's driving, except for her witnessing the cause of the emergency stoppage---a loose goat had wandered across the courtyard.
Chagrined, she turned to Miss Script to say, "Teddy's managed to get loose again and nearly had herself run over. It's probably frightened the wits out of her and now the milk will be curdled and Papa will take one of his pets."
"Oh, dear, how awkward. Perhaps we should say that your father is indisposed and can't be visited until tomorrow."
"I doubt his lordship would accept such a rebuff, since he has clearly come this distance to ascertain my father's condition. A curse on all solicitors. We could have used another few weeks."
A peremptory knocking on the entry door reminded Drucilla that she hadn't actually prepared the staff for Lord Meacham's visit. Not that he'd given her the time. She hurried to the parlor door and hastily peeped out into the hall, hissing to the venerable Hastings that he should put on his very best face, for it would be Lord Meacham come for a visit.
The butler Hastings regarded her with astonishment, but only for a moment. There had, after all, been any number of surprises for him during his tenure at Tarnlea, and he had grown accustomed to them. With a stolid dignity he said, "Yes, miss. I will direct that a bedchamber be prepared for him."
Drucilla drew back into the room and shook her head at Miss Script's attempts to tidy the disorganized scene. Perhaps stuffing pillows in the winter parlor had not, after all, been such a fine idea. Though the pillowcases which had already been filled looked plump and inviting, the feathers for the remainder had gotten a bit out of hand. White bits of fluff decorated the carpet, the furniture, and even the clothing of the two women.
Drucilla shrugged and regained her seat. "Let it be, May," she urged. "There's not a thing we can do that will make the place look presentable. It's his own fault for giving so little notice."
Miss Script's lips tightened, as they did when she was distressed, but she did as she was bid. She said gloomily, "The whole was bound to be discovered eventually. I'm sure I should have given you more guidance these two years past."
Drucilla heard the sounds of voices in the hall, and the stamp of booted feet. "Pooh! We've done no more nor less than our duty. And you would not have been able to dissuade me from my course, no matter how persuasive you might have been."
"I am well aware of it," her companion sighed.
There was a discreet tap on the door and Hastings entered to say, "Lord Meacham has arrived, Miss Carruthers."
"Please show him in, Hastings."
The man who strode through the meager portal seemed to dwarf it, and Drucilla could scarcely connect him with the skinny twelve-year-old she'd had in her mind for sixteen years. Though he had been driving an open carriage, his many-caped driving coat had been removed to display a flawless appearance, as though he had just left the hands of his valet. His thick black hair curled close to his head in an elegant if unfashionable cut; his cravat fell in pristine white folds; his boots gleamed with a high polish; his coat and pantaloons fit superbly. But the feature that most struck Drucilla was his eyes. From a distance they appeared almost black, so dark were their indecipherable depths. They suggested a keen intelligence, which she had not expected.
"Miss Carruthers? I'm your cousin Julian Winslow. I doubt you remember me from our one short encounter so long ago. I must beg your pardon for only a day's warning, but my time is constrained. I am due within a sennight at Meacham Court."
Drucilla made a gentle curtsy to him, which caused Miss Script to stare at her in astonishment. "We're honored to have you here. Your room has not as yet been prepared, because your letter reached us scarce half an hour ago."
Lord Meacham's brows rose. "How is this? It should have been here yesterday. You've hardly had time to accustom yourselves to the idea of my visit. I do apologize."
"There's no necessity," she assured him. "Please let me make you known to my companion, Miss Script."
"How do you do, ma'am?" He offered a polite bow in Miss Script's direction, but he seemed slightly taken aback by the condition of the room around her. "I'm afraid I've interrupted some... domestic chore."
Drucilla laughed. "Just the stuffing of some pillows for Boxing Day gifts to various needy parishioners. Miss Script and I do it every year at this time, don't we, May?"
"Why, yes, but never before in the winter parlor. His lordship must think us a ramshackle lot with feathers floating about in this distracting way." One had just landed on Meacham's hair, but he had yet to realize it. "Why don't I see to a fire being laid in the salon? We can sit there in great comfort."
As Miss Script rose, Drucilla said, "And perhaps you would bespeak us a luncheon as well, my dear. I imagine my cousin must be famished after his long drive."
Miss Script hurried from the room and his lordship was left facing his cousin in her worn muslin gown dotted with feathers. He wore an expression of interest and perhaps the shadow of amusement in his eyes.
"Please, have a seat," she urged. "Though I'm afraid you'll get feathers on your clothing."
"I have brought my valet, Fallot, who will be vastly diverted. He was not at all certain we had missed that goat and fully expected to be cleaning goat hair from my driving coat." Without inspecting his chair for escaped feathers, he calmly seated himself opposite her and said kindly, "I trust I find you well, Miss Carruthers."
"Perfectly well, thank you."
"And your father? I understand he is somewhat indisposed."
"Physically, there is nothing so very much the matter with him. It's his mind that suffers. He's not able to concentrate, and often his memory is very poor."
"I am distressed to hear it. He is not well enough, then, to welcome visitors?"
Drucilla bit her lip. "No, I fear not. He spends all his time in his room, with an attendant to care for his needs. He's entirely comfortable, you understand, when his routine is not interrupted."
"I should like very much to see him, to speak with him."
"Certainly. Directly after luncheon I will take you to him, but you must not expect him to recognize you."
"I could hardly expect him to do so after sixteen years."
"Well," she said hesitantly, "that is not precisely what I meant. If he had been introduced to you this morning, he would not likely recall who you were."
The viscount regarded her curiously. "You are describing a very distressed man, Miss Carruthers. I don't perfectly understand how he has been able to manage Tarnlea, suffering under such a handicap."
"He has excellent assistance in our estate manager, John Thomas. And I myself understand Papa's wishes on most matters."
"Do you? That is fortunate."
Drucilla's pointed chin came up a little. "Yes, I believe it is."
"But it must be very difficult for you."
"Not at all. I have John Thomas's guidance, and the encouragement of our local vicar, and the affection and cooperation of our Tarnlea staff."
The viscount nodded, but said, "I don't doubt you've risen to the challenge of your father's illness most admirably, Miss Carruthers. I am all admiration."
Lord Meacham actually offered a lazy smile, and shifted one long leg over the other. "However, according to his note, Sir Lawrence's solicitor has not been consulted. Perhaps you had some reason for not including Mr. Wicker in your circle of advisors?"
Drucilla dusted a feather from the skirt of her old muslin gown. "Mr. Wicker's advice was not sought because I felt it would put him in an awkward situation. His responsibility regarding the entailment of the estate, and to you as heir, might have caused him to recommend ignoring matters that would have been an expense to the estate. And yet, as you will see, those expenses were very necessary. My other advisors had no such conflict of interest."
"Sometimes, however," he said diffidently, "we are not given the best advice when we are faced with difficult choices. Others often have a different and, shall we say, more self-interested agenda."
"Lord Meacham, I can assure you that everyone who surrounds my father has his very best interests, and those of Tarnlea, at heart. Perhaps you have been misled."
The viscount was pensive for a moment, toying with a quizzing glass he had removed from his pocket. "It is remotely possible, I suppose. Mr. Wicker sent me an account of the situation as he understands it, begging for my intervention on behalf of the estate. I am, as you have said, your father's heir."
"Oh, yes, I have always known. You told me yourself when I was five."
"I did? How very impertinent of me. And it cannot have been quite true, either. Your father might yet have produced a male heir."
Drucilla regarded him with almost ingenuous eyes. "Well, you did mention at the time that he might marry again."
"When your mother had just died? I do beg your pardon, Miss Carruthers. I was, I fear, a bit of a prig when I was that age. I trust you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
There was something whimsically hopeful in the depths of his dark eyes as he framed his apology. Drucilla was not proof against the viscount's abashed charm. "Of course, my lord. If you wish it."
"I do wish it. I wish, in fact, that I had visited Tarnlea quite some time ago. I have been most remiss."
"Not at all. We had no expectation of your concerning yourself with our affairs."
Lord Meacham watched his quizzing glass spin at the end of its black ribbon. "Though your father is alive, he is apparently unable to fulfill his position as head of the family. As his nearest male relative, I must certainly concern myself. I regret that I am, because we are so distantly related, a virtual stranger to you, but believe me that I have come to offer any assistance in my power."
"Did Mr. Wicker suggest that my father should be legally declared incompetent?"
Lord Meacham said dryly, "Mr. Wicker is not satisfied that matters are being handled appropriately in the absence of Sir Lawrence's hands on the reins. He feels there is some urgency, though he did just mention that this state of affairs had existed for 'quite some time.'"
"Much he knows," Drucilla muttered darkly, not meeting the viscount's lifted gaze.
"He seemed to think that you, ma'am, had been attempting to conceal from him the extent of your father's mental deterioration. I believe he has not actually visited your father for some little time---put off with excuses and distractions."
Drucilla could not resist, with a decided sparkle in her eyes, admitting that this was true. "For two years."
"Two years? My dear girl, you must be extraordinarily inventive."
At that moment Miss Script hastened into the room, clasping her hands tightly together at her spare bosom. "The fire has been laid in the salon and Hastings informs me that Lord Meacham's chamber is ready. Perhaps, sir, you would prefer to be shown to your room before luncheon."
Having risen when Miss Script entered, Meacham bowed in acknowledgment of her offer. Brushing a feather from the sleeve of his coat, he said, "Yes, I think that would be wise. I've been on the road for several hours." He bent on Drucilla a decidedly rueful look. "I trust there will be nothing to keep us from visiting your father directly after our meal."
"I'll let his man know that we're coming."
"Does your father always know you?"
"So far he has."
Drucilla watched as he strode unhurriedly from the room. With a tsk of annoyance, more at herself for being disarmed by the viscount's diverting manners than at the inconvenience of his unexpected visit, she said to Miss Script, "I am very much afraid his lordship is not going to be so easily managed as Mr. Wicker."
"No, my dear, I think not. For all his pleasant address, he strikes me as a determined young man who expects affairs to be conducted very much as he wishes them. I shall be surprised if he doesn't press for an immediate competency hearing, and place himself in charge of your father's estate."
Drucilla pursed her lips in a thoughtful grimace. "And yet there is something about him that is not what I expected. He's a handsome devil, isn't he?"
"The Winslows are said to be uncommonly handsome."
"Perhaps I could cozen him just a bit."
"I'm not at all sure it would be wise to do so, even if you could, which I doubt. He surely has a greater knowledge of the world than you, my dear."
"Well, I shall flirt just a trifle with him, as the London ladies must do." Drucilla fluttered her eyelashes in what she considered an imitation of a practiced debutante. At Miss Script's disapproving frown, she said, "I am quite sure that is how Caroline Russell does it."
"But Miss Russell is sixteen and not out of the schoolroom, Drucilla. You are one-and-twenty and have taken it upon yourself to rectify an injustice. Which is all very well, but you have placed yourself in an awkward position. Lord Meacham may hold you very much at fault."
Drucilla found this somehow a lowering thought. She rose from her chair and said bracingly, "Never mind. I shall change into something more appropriate before luncheon, and you will speak to him with your usual good sense. We cannot fail to convince him that we are totally unexceptionable."
Lord Meacham came away from their light repast with the impression that his distant cousin was something of an original. No doubt it could be laid to the fact that she had spent her entire life tucked away in the country. For all its beauty, the Lake District did not necessarily expose her to a great deal of society. Surely there had been money enough, and the right connections, for her to be presented in polite London circles at the proper age. He wondered why she had not been.
In fact, as Meacham followed his hostess up the branching main stairway of Tarnlea, he found a variety of inconsistencies surrounding him. Although the house was clean and the servants well trained, there was no exhibit of the wealth to which Sir Lawrence could surely lay claim. The furnishings were well kept, but hardly new, and had it been his own home, the viscount would have considered a deal of remodeling in store, to say nothing of the replacement of aging carpets and draperies.
Meacham understood that the baronet's passion had been hunting, even in this indifferent country, and he directed a question to his guide. "Are there still hunters in the stables, and kennels with hounds?"
Drucilla shook her head sadly. "No. Most of them have been sold. It's been years since Papa was able to hunt."
She led the way down a long corridor untouched by the day's wintry sun, to a room far removed from the main body of the house.
"This is surely not the master suite," Meacham commented in surprise.
"No, but it is the suite of rooms my father prefers because of its view of Buttermere Lake."
Meacham was mulling the possibility that Sir Lawrence had prematurely been stripped of his dignities when the door was opened before him into a large space that could have been a schoolroom, except for the grand four-poster bed in a far corner. There were toys scattered about the room, and several tables and chairs in various states of disorder.
Sir Lawrence himself was seated in a large chair, rocking back and forth, his gaze on the rugged hills and the rippled gray lake in the distant view. He was chortling to himself and pounding one fist on the arm of his chair in a rhythmical way that Meacham found rather discomposing.
His companion walked over to the chair and laid a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "Papa, I have brought you a visitor, Julian Winslow, Lord Meacham."
Meacham stepped forward, making a bow to the baronet. "Sir Lawrence, I'm pleased to see you again."
The baronet, who had looked up but not spoken when his daughter addressed him, turned a frowning gaze on Meacham. "Julian, bouillon, cotillion, vermilion," he said.
Meacham regarded him gravely. "Sir? Can you understand me?"
Sir Lawrence turned agitated eyes to his daughter. "Where's Nelson?" he demanded in a querulous voice.
"He'll be back in a minute, Papa," she promised.
Meacham studied the lined face and the alarmed eyes, which were a lighter blue than his daughter's. "Can I get you something, sir. Perhaps a blanket?"
"Blanket? Blanket? Is it winter, then?"
"Yes, it's December, and quite cold out, sir. Do you see the snow on the hills around Buttermere? This room is a little chilly. Shall I ring to have the fire built up, or bring you the blanket from the bottom of the bed?"
Sir Lawrence merely looked confused. "Fire. Dangerous. I used to have a pipe," he said hopefully. "Is my pipe there?"
Drucilla shook her head at Meacham while she straightened her father's disordered hair with capable fingers.
"I'm afraid there's no pipe, Sir Lawrence."
Sir Lawrence had already forgotten the pipe, but he frowned at Meacham. "I don't approve of servants wearing starched collar points of that height," he said sternly.
Drucilla flushed. "You must forgive my father. He is often confused."
Sir Lawrence had turned his attention to the view once again, and Meacham said, "Is he ever perfectly lucid?"
"He always recognizes me and often calls me by name, but sometimes he thinks I'm my mother, or even his own mother."
"So your father is not capable of making any real decisions with regard to the estate."
Drucilla continued to stroke her father's head, which seemed to calm his agitation. "No," she admitted.
Miss Carruthers, Meacham realized, had been responsible for Tarnlea, the house and the estate, for her father and herself, for the staff, for everything, for a very long time. What could a girl of her age and situation know of estate management? It seemed perfectly plausible to the viscount that one of the people on whom she relied for advice was taking advantage of her. The estate agent might be lining his pockets, or the local vicar urging excessive good works on her. Mr. Wicker had certainly hinted at an alarming outgo of capital.
"I think we needn't trouble your father any further this afternoon," Meacham said. "But you and I should talk."
Mutely, Drucilla nodded. She kissed the top of her father's head and he awkwardly patted her hand. "I shall come again later, Papa."
As she closed the door behind them, she said, "If you would give me an hour to see to some household matters, I would be grateful. Everything is a bit topsy-turvy because of your arrival."
"Of course."
Drucilla took care of her more pressing concerns before joining her companion, who was comfortably ensconced in the salon, a fire blazing on the grate. Miss Script was doing her fine filigree needlework, but she looked up at her former charge's entrance to ask, "Has Lord Meacham been to see your father?"
Drucilla seated herself at the small cherrywood desk by the window. "Yes, and I believe he now has a good grasp of my father's mental condition. There is nothing amiss with the viscount's understanding."
"Was he distressed by Sir Lawrence's condition?"
"Distressed? It was hard to tell. He was gentle with Papa, and merely said he and I must talk." Drucilla looked worried, but set herself to ordering the menus for the viscount's stay. She quickly decided to replace the simple boiled neck of mutton and vegetables with a crimped cod in oyster sauce as well as a fricasseed chicken.
"Do you suppose Lord Meacham would like a cabinet pudding?" she asked Miss Script.
Her companion looked up from her needlework and pondered the question. "I believe gentlemen generally prefer mince pies or apple tarts. And of course plum pudding at this time of year. Mrs. Kamidge will have several plum puddings soaked with Sir Lawrence's good brandy."
"Yes, it has been a real joy to dip into the best of his cellar," Drucilla admitted with sparkling eyes.
The door from the hall was behind her and she had not heard it open to admit the viscount. "Whose cellar?" Meacham inquired in a lazy drawl.
"My father's," she responded readily enough. "He laid down a remarkable collection of spirits and wines. You shall of course sample some of them during your stay, Lord Meacham. My father is no longer much interested in such refreshment, and the doctor does not believe it is beneficial for him, in any case. His pipe has been taken away because he tends to burn holes in his clothes."
Miss Script, seeing the determination in Meacham's eyes, immediately excused herself. His lordship moved to stand by the fire, leaning his broad shoulders against the high mantel and bending a quizzical look upon Drucilla. "Your father is in much worse case than I had suspected. Since he is not capable of even the least decision regarding his own fate or that of his estate, I assume the full burden has fallen to you."
"I have had help, and we contrive as best we can," Drucilla replied, setting down her quill. "My father is still the baronet, after all, and his responsibilities must be carried out."
"How long has he been as bad as this?"
"About two years."
Meacham shook his head in wonder. "That is quite a lengthy period, Miss Carruthers."
"Well," Drucilla confessed, "he hasn't been perfectly all right for five years, but at first it was merely gaps in his memory. Now he is..." She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "... as you see."
"But in these last few years, according to Mr. Wicker, there have been very large expenses to the estate. I wonder if perhaps your agent has not taken advantage of you, Miss Carruthers."
Drucilla looked amused. "John Thomas? Oh, no, I don't think so, Lord Meacham."
"I shall just have a word with him."
"As you please, of course."
As the estate agent was not on the premises, Meacham sent word that he would meet with John Thomas the next day. He enjoyed a sociable dinner and evening with Miss Carruthers and her companion. They played a few hands of cards and sang Christmas carols, accompanied by the young lady on her pianoforte.
Miss Carruthers, her fair curls framing an animated face, made a charming hostess, full of questions about his home and family, open in her answers to his questions. She directed their conversation in a lively fashion, discussing their neighbors ("You will meet Lady Nibthwaite, the most delightful woman. She once asked Miss Script if she had ever stolen anything.") and staff ("Nelson was formerly a blacksmith's assistant and, though I cannot at all fathom why, has suited the position of attendant to my father admirably.") in such a delightful way that he could not resist its humor.
After the ladies had retired for the night, he sampled the baronet's mellow old brandy and relaxed into an almost soporific state before the blazing fire, watching snowflakes drift down outside the window. There was a peacefulness at Tarnlea that lulled him into perfect charity with the world. And if his mind drifted from time to time to the memory of Miss Carruthers seated on the sofa, that wicked gleam of laughter in her vivid blue eyes, well, who could blame him?
But early the next morning he made himself known to John Thomas, a much younger man than he had expected, and sat down with the estate books for the last five years. He was not actually in the habit of going over his own estate books, having several individuals, including a young man just down from Oxford as his secretary, whose business it was to just bring the salient points to his attention.
Indicating a chair beside the desk, he said apologetically, "If you would go over these with me, I would be most grateful, Mr. Thomas. You must excuse my ignorance of the proper columns for income and outgo. I fear it will be necessary for you to explain the expenses in some detail as we work our way through."
"Certainly, my lord." John Thomas tapped a finger on the second of the ledgers. "Four years ago is when I began, but I'm familiar with the books for some period before that."
"Was Sir Lawrence perfectly rational when you began work here?"
"Not perfectly, but much better than he is today. Or so I understand. He hasn't actually visited the estate office for a couple of years."
The viscount regarded him with keen interest. "From whom do you take your direction, then? Mr. Wicker?"
John Thomas looked perplexed. "No, sir. Miss Carruthers gives me my instructions. She's very knowledgeable about the estate."
"And if Sir Lawrence's signature should be required on some document?"
"She is always able to procure it."
"I see. And has she run the estate in the way Sir Lawrence did when you first began?"
The estate agent looked uncomfortable, inserting a finger between his neckcloth and his neck. "Perhaps I could show you, my lord?"
"Please do."
It was an instructive two hours. Meacham would have given a great deal to have had William, his admirable secretary, there to alleviate the tedium of the work, but John Thomas, if more earnest and painstaking than Meacham's own estate manager, was more than capable of clarifying any issue that remained obscure to him. The long and short of it was that John Thomas was not lining his pockets. But it became quite clear that the previous estate manager had most certainly done so.
John Thomas would point to an expense---a new roof for a barn, for instance---and say with a frown, "You will recall that this particular roof was supposed to have been repaired five years ago. Nevertheless, last year it was found to be leaking badly and there was nothing for it but to replace it again."
Time and again they were forced to search in even older ledgers, and there could be no doubt that the cost of repairs then had undoubtedly been false entries. Though this was just as obviously the work of Mr. Thomas's predecessor, Meacham's expression became grim.
"You will forgive my conjecture, Mr. Thomas, but it seems clear to me that this drain from the estate was going on long before Sir Lawrence's illness. In fact, it is so obvious that I fail to understand how the baronet, even with the smallest oversight of these books, could have neglected to discover it."
The young man rubbed a hand vigorously across his face in an attempt to sharpen his wits. Picking his words carefully, John Thomas said, "Sir Lawrence was not in the habit, apparently, of taking particular interest in the estate. I believe he trusted his estate manager and allowed him full discretion in the matter of outlay. It was not until Sir Lawrence's illness became obvious and Miss Carruthers began to involve herself with these matters that she discovered the problem."
"How long had this been going on?"
John Thomas was not deceived by the placid tone of the viscount's voice. He had watched Lord Meacham over the past two hours and knew precisely how quickly his companion had discovered the carefully hidden fraud. "For quite some time, my lord," he admitted.
Meacham was disturbed by the picture this gave him of Sir Lawrence, but there were other matters of just as pressing concern. Especially in recent years, the ledgers showed expenses to have risen in an alarming fashion. The amounts spent on repairs of tenant farms and cottages were startling.
But Lord Meacham seldom allowed his concern to taint his air of calm acceptance. "I wish you would make these expenses clear to me, Mr. Thomas. They seem, shall we say, excessive."
"Because of the length of time no repairs had actually taken place to the cottages and farms, they were little more than hovels, with inadequate water supplies and unsanitary conditions. As the baronet became sicker and Miss Carruthers took over the reins of management, she deemed it necessary to correct these conditions. In the last two years we have done a great deal of work that should have been accomplished over a long period of time. Unfortunately, it's expensive work."
"As you say. And I feel certain that you do not make any profit from the construction."
John Thomas looked shocked. "Certainly not. Miss Carruthers has involved herself in the choosing of the laborers and the overseer. They're neighborhood people, much in need of the occupation and the income. I would find it difficult to believe that anyone has so much as overcharged us a guinea."
"I think perhaps I should like to see these repaired cottages. Could you take me this afternoon?"
Mr. Thomas bowed slightly. "Of course, Lord Meacham."
But at luncheon, when John Thomas remarked that he would be taking the viscount on a tour of the newly reconstructed cottages, Drucilla protested. "Really, Lord Meacham, John Thomas has more than enough to do this afternoon after spending the morning closeted with you. And we are expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea. I particularly wish to present you to her. If you would be good enough to join us, I promise to show you the improvements tomorrow myself. I am thoroughly knowledgeable about them, am I not, John Thomas?"
"Indeed you are, ma'am," the agent agreed with a rueful smile.
The viscount was pleased to be offered the opportunity to spend time with Miss Carruthers. He would be able to assess for himself whether her knowledge of estate matter was adequate, or exaggerated by her well-wishers, which seemed to him the more likely possibility. She was, after all, only one-and-twenty, and had been deeply involved in managing Tarnlea for several years already.
"Very well, ma'am. I shall look forward to it."
Lady Nibthwaite was a thriving dowager of fifty-odd years whose more than ordinary interest in Tarnlea and its occupants had long been accepted by them. Since she had stood as second mother to Drucilla, she was well aware of the circumstances that had led to the present situation there, and though given to outrageous speech when in high flight was not likely to bruit about anything that Miss Carruthers would rather not have known by the viscount.
Her son, Lord Nibthwaite, had recently married, and the Dowager Lady Nibthwaite had retired to the dower house, a pretty little manor two miles from his estate. This move had not distressed the elder Lady Nibthwaite in the least. "For there will be children," she had explained to Drucilla, "and if there is one thing I cannot bear in my advancing years, it is the clutter and noise of very small children."
And indeed she seemed perfectly content with her new home. She had a handsome jointure and particularly devoted servants, so that her days were given over to her first love---minding the business of all the county, and especially the happenings at Tarnlea. If she had not already been invited to tea before the advent of Lord Meacham, she would surely have managed a morning call as soon as she was informed of his arrival. Mere gossip was not her intent, for she was a shrewd woman not at all reticent in passing along her very bracing advice and original wisdom.
She found it unconscionable that such a delightful young lady as Drucilla---so fashionably fair and pretty!---should be relegated to the country without hope of discovering an eligible match. Lady Nibthwaite had done her best to introduce to Drucilla's notice any eligible gentleman who happened to wander through the Lake District for business, pleasure, or family obligations. She could not, however, blame that young lady for her lack of interest in anyone presented thus far.
Lady Nibthwaite's first impression of the viscount was favorable. Her astute gaze took him in all at a glance, and she judged him to be quite an eligible parti for her dear Drucilla. She could not tell from the way they behaved toward each other whether this possibility had occurred to either of them, and she considered it her duty to make certain that it did. She set about acquiring the necessary information.
"Have you left your wife at Meacham Court?" she asked as she helped herself to one of the macaroons for which Mrs. Kamidge was famous.
He answered politely, if with a trace of dryness, "I am not married, ma'am."
"At your age? The girls in your district must be backward indeed! And do you never go to London?"
"Several times a year, Lady Nibthwaite. And in my younger days, I lived there for long periods. You must excuse me if I mistake the issue, but I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you there."
"As to that, I never go. Though I would have done," she said, turning her gaze toward Drucilla, "had my wishes been given due consideration."
"It was not to be, ma'am, as you well know." Drucilla poured tea into a fragile cup and passed it to Lord Meacham. "Besides, it would have been the blind leading the blind. You knew nothing of London society."
"We would have managed."
Meacham, realizing that doubtless this discussion had occurred before, asked, "Is your home nearby, Lady Nibthwaite?"
"No more than three miles. In winter it can be a difficult drive, with the snow so very likely to make a hazard of the roads, but I will most always venture forth to see my dear Miss Carruthers and Miss Script."
Drucilla passed the biscuits to Miss Script, saying, "And we're obliged to you, ma'am. We would become quite secluded here in December were it not for seeing neighbors such as yourself. Do you go to your son for Christmas?"
"Yes, for Caroline has just made a very interesting announcement." There was a sly twinkle in Lady Nibthwaite's eyes. "By next Christmas we are to have a new member of the family. Did I not tell you that children would come soon? How very forward-thinking of me to have settled into the dower house in good time, was it not?"
"Indeed it was," Drucilla agreed.
Lady Nibthwaite, pursuing another avenue that had been traversed any number of times, expostulated, "The nonsensical boy would look for a wife amongst the Russells---you must understand, Lord Meacham, that their land marches with his---and Caroline is undoubtedly the finest of the five girls. I have nothing to say against her, but when he could have aligned himself with Miss Carruthers! I could scarcely bear to see the direction of his affections. As if Caroline Russell could hold a candle to Drucilla!"
"Really, ma'am, you put me to the blush," Drucilla protested. "I can think of no couple better suited to each other than your son and his bride."
The dowager laughed with real amusement. "You have the right of it, of course. Such a very dull man as he has become! I don't think he inherited it from my side of the family, but there, who is to comprehend these matters? Have you brothers and sisters, Lord Meacham?"
"Two sisters, ma'am, both married and settled in Gloucester."
"That is fortunate for you, if you like them."
He acknowledged this truth with a whimsical smile. "I do. And I am in rather a push to return to Gloucester to spend the holidays with them and their families."
Drucilla said, "You must not let us hold you here, Lord Meacham. Once you have seen the cottages and satisfied yourself as to their appropriateness, I believe you may feel perfectly safe in driving off again."
Meacham regarded her with pensive eyes. "You wouldn't be trying to hasten my departure, would you, Miss Carruthers?"
"Certainly not! But we do very little in the way of Christmas celebration here, you must understand, because of my father's condition and the exp---, the thinness of company at this time of year. The longer you stay here, the more danger you court of being outflanked by the weather. We very often have storms at this time of year that make the roads impassable."
Lady Nibthwaite regarded her with astonishment.
"But, my dear, that has only happened once in the last score of years! I feel certain we have no fear of heavier weather in the next week. His lordship will surely find no difficulty in returning to his home after he has spent a decent amount of time making your acquaintance. And as to the thinness of company at this time of year, you know you are always included in our plans for Christmas dinner if you would but come."
"I do know," Drucilla said sincerely, pressing the dowager's hand. "You are all kindness, ma'am. Perhaps this year Miss Script and I will allow ourselves to be persuaded."
But there was a hesitancy in her voice that made this seem unlikely. Whether it was because she wished to remain at home with her father, or not to intrude on another's family circle, or for some other reason entirely, was unclear to Meacham.
When Lady Nibthwaite rose to leave, he accompanied her to her carriage, an older but comfortable-looking conveyance that had been brought round by her coachman. Miss Carruthers and Miss Script had said their good-byes in the warm salon, so Meacham stood alone with her on the front stairs, even though he was dressed only for indoors in coat and pantaloons.
"I recognize your partiality to Miss Carruthers, Lady Nibthwaite, so I think you may be the very person to answer a question for me. Do you not think the running of Tarnlea, both the house and the lands, along with the management of her father's health, too great a burden for such a young person?"
"Too great a burden?" that august woman ejaculated. "My dear fellow, Drucilla is the most capable woman I know to be doing precisely what she is."
"Oh, I don't doubt that. But she has been to a deal of trouble over the state of the farms and cottages these last few years."
"So I should think, the condition they were in! Quite shameful it was. Not that I wish to speak ill of those who can no longer defend themselves, but there it is."
Lady Nibthwaite had moved toward her carriage as she spoke. The door was being held open for her by a servant, and as she appeared ready to be handed in, Meacham elegantly provided this service, but could not restrain himself from asking, before the door was closed upon her, "Would you be able to advise me as to why Sir Lawrence neglected his tenants even before he became ill?"
The dowager settled a blanket over her legs. "The past no longer concerns me, sir. It is the future---Drucilla's future---that is of the utmost importance."
"I am not here to make Miss Carruthers's life more difficult, ma'am. It seems to me that I may very well be able to alleviate some its... tedium."
"I believe you could." Lady Nibthwaite regarded him with keen eyes. "Understand that though I believe Drucilla perfectly capable of the tasks she has undertaken, the onerous charge has severely limited her life, and will continue to do so if changes are not made. But any rearrangement of the situation at Tarnlea must take into account her sincere affection for her father and her need to see past neglect corrected."
Meacham bowed in acknowledgment of her assessment and stepped back. She gave an imperious tap on the ceiling of her carriage, and the coachman urged the horses forward. The viscount, frowning slightly, watched until the vehicle had disappeared around the bend in the carriage drive.
Coming back into the warmth of the house, he could not help but picture the two Tarnlea ladies alone in the large dining room on Christmas, with no outward sign of its being a day different from any other. A distinct melancholy gripped his mind. Miss Carruthers, Meacham felt, was not meant to dwindle away in obscurity in the country. Without a doubt she was meant to be the laughing, delightful hostess of some large family party of her own.
Meacham wondered briefly if perhaps one of his sisters could present Miss Carruthers in London, even at this late date, but his common sense acknowledged the impossibility of the scheme. Miss Carruthers was not likely to leave Tarnlea, with her father mentally deranged and the burden of both the household and estate management on her shoulders. There was a great deal more to be set right at Tarnlea than he had suspected when he began the two-hundred-mile drive there, and very little time in which to do it.
The following afternoon Drucilla took the precaution of donning her most fetching riding habit and bonnet, which were a deep shade of blue she knew to be flattering to her fair looks. The viscount had been gone for the entire morning and had arrived back at Tarnlea only in time for lunch. There had been a number of parcels in his curricle, the disposal of which he had arranged for with Hastings in a murmured discussion in the entry hall.
Drucilla was extremely curious as to what Lord Meacham might have bought, but she could not feel it would be polite to ask him straight out, and her efforts to be circumspect at luncheon had failed entirely to produce the slightest clue.
Lord Meacham smiled appreciatively at her riding costume, and handed her up onto her mare with a grave gallantry. This was in every way the opposite of that gauche twelve-year-old she'd met so many years ago. As was his capability with a horse. He had chosen to ride her father's favorite horse, a large roan stallion that only the most competent of the stable boys even attempted to exercise.
Sir Lawrence, by some quirk of mind, had continued to ask after the horse, Standish, and Drucilla liked having him exercised where her father could watch from his window. She looked up now to see the baronet's white head pressed against the glass, and she waved a cheerful hand at him as she said, "I trust the lads have warned you about Standish, Lord Meacham. He's a bit of a handful."
"So I'm told."
Drucilla's own horse, a small gray mare, was well behaved and wonderfully smooth-gaited. Since Meacham held back his horse so that she could lead the way over the lightly snow-covered ground, she had a chance to witness his superb control of his animal. Standish did not like following other horses and champed at the bit to be off with his rider. Meacham handled his prancing and sidling with a firm hand and neither annoyance nor alarm.
Once in the pasture, Drucilla allowed Glory to stretch out into a canter and then, with an encouraging look from Meacham, into a gallop. Standish could have outdistanced the little mare easily, but Meacham held him in check, side by side with the gray mare.
"Oh, let him out," Drucilla urged. "My father will love to see him run for all he's worth. I'll meet you at the home wood."
Following at a distance, Drucilla acknowledged that Meacham and Standish were a magnificent sight. Sir Lawrence had been a masterful rider, but without any of the viscount's grace. When Meacham rode, there was an air of excitement, even exhilaration, about him that Drucilla had not previously detected. Standish seemed to sense it as well, and lengthened his stride until he almost appeared to be flying. Even the gray mare flicked her ears at the sight of them.
When at last she came up with them, Meacham's face wore a wry grin. "Lord, I'd love to own this horse," he said.
"In time you will," she reminded him, her dimples peeking out.
"That was not my meaning, Miss Carruthers. I should like to purchase him from Sir Lawrence."
"My father still has an affection for Standish. He continues to ask about him and he loves to see him ridden. It would be wrong to take that pleasure away from him.
"Besides, how would we manage such a sale? You don't believe my father capable of any business dealings, and you don't approve of my conducting them."
Meacham raised his brows. "Surely I haven't been so rude as to say any such thing."
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "No, but you have thought it. And I have no doubt that you have resolved on having my father declared incompetent at the next quarter sessions. Which would place you in charge of Tarnlea."
"Your conclusions are somewhat premature, my dear. Shall we just take one step at a time?"
Drucilla could only nod and bite her lip.
Within ten minutes they had reached the first of the tenant cottages. Smoke drifted from each of the chimneys, giving a snug aspect to the snowy scene. There were three groups of them on the estate, of five cottages each, and it had taken her the last two years to bring all of them into acceptable condition.
A number of tasks remained to be accomplished, but Drucilla was grateful that at least the major work had been completed. As the solicitor, Mr. Wicker, had become more and more uncomfortable with the estate expenses, she had attempted to push the renovation schedule forward, but winter was not a time when a great deal of construction could take place.
"Two years ago these were ramshackle buildings with open fires in them that blackened everything in sight," Drucilla explained as Meacham helped her down from the gray mare. "There was no water within easy reach and no privies for proper sanitation. Each cottage had only one large room, no matter how numerous a family occupied it. Now there are several divisions in each building, and often a loft above. And there is a pump for water indoors."
The viscount was contemplating the neat cottages with interest. "Not everyone would have thought a pump necessary for the cottagers, Miss Carruthers," he remarked, though with no disapproval in his tone.
"It was a simple enough matter to arrange when we were doing such extensive work. These poor people had suffered for many years with inadequate facilities. I cannot think it will spoil them to have a decent living space."
"Why was it that their quarters were so deficient even before Sir Lawrence became so ill?" he inquired as he tied their horses to a railing, giving Standish an encouraging pat.
Miss Carruthers, no more than John Thomas or Lady Nibthwaite, vouchsafed him an answer to this query. "Shall we go in?" Drucilla suggested. "I've brought some treats for the children, which will provide an excuse. And, of course, the Brewsters will be pleased to meet you."
The family seemed less pleased than curious, perhaps, but held wide their door to Miss Carruthers. Mrs. Brewster curtsied to Meacham and bid him welcome, while her husband asked after Sir Lawrence's health. Two children peeked shyly from behind a doorway.
While the couple toured his lordship over their small kingdom, Drucilla beckoned to the children. When they came hesitantly to join her by the fire, she handed each a foil-wrapped confection that she had brought with her. The little girl dropped a sweet curtsy and the younger boy said, "Thank you, miss," with an adorable lisp that made Drucilla want to hug them.
Before they left, she promised that she and Miss Script would be bringing pillows for the children's cots for Boxing Day. "We've had goose down and goose feathers all over the winter parlor," she admitted, laughing. "But we're almost finished."
As Meacham handed her up onto her horse, Drucilla noted his puzzled frown. "You make a very gracious Lady Bountiful," he said, not unkindly, "but I cannot think that is the motivation behind all this renovation."
"I have explained that the cottages were not fit to be occupied, sir."
"Yes, but neither you nor anyone else has explained to me why you have taken such a demanding task upon yourself," he persisted as he swung himself onto Standish.
"It is my firm belief that the cottagers and their children will be healthier and happier because of their improved living conditions. And if they are healthier and happier, they will be more productive."
Meacham regarded her with a reproachful gaze. "What is it you are so afraid of telling me, Miss Carruthers? Do you think I will be censorious? John Thomas has already shown me that the previous estate manager defrauded the estate. Come, is there something worse?"
"You cannot like it that your inheritance has been depleted."
"My dear lady, I have more than enough property for any man. I'm not so concerned with the expenses as with the condition of the estate. I would have done no less than you have, had I found the tenant conditions at Tarnlea so deplorable as you say. And I certainly don't hold you responsible for the previous situation. Are you trying to protect your father?"
"He's a good man."
"I don't doubt that he is. Yet you are obviously embarrassed by the deterioration he allowed even before his illness."
"It was not his fault."
The viscount's brows rose. "If not his, then whose?"
Drucilla nudged Glory forward, and the viscount fell in beside her. "He should have paid more attention to the estate, but he trusted his estate manager," she said, not looking at him. "That was imprudent of him, of course. Would that I had been older at the time and more aware of what was going on!"
"You had more than enough responsibility at such a young age, taking care of household matters. How could you be expected to recognize that problems were developing with the estate?"
This view held little consolation for Drucilla. "How could I not have noticed such misery as the cottagers suffered? The children were forever sick. I brought them soups and gruels from our kitchen, but I considered it not at all out of the ordinary. And yet I was never sick as a child, living in that big house with a fire any time I wanted one, and more than enough food to sustain me."
"We are all guilty of being blind to the suffering of others from time to time, dear lady. You have done more than most to remedy any unconscious fault."
"You're good to say so, but I have sat for years at church listening to our vicar, Mr. Sampson, urge those of us who can well afford it to do our duty by those less fortunate, and yet I did nothing for so very long. I believe we have an obligation to the people who depend on us, don't you, Lord Meacham?"
There was something she could not identify in the viscount's indecipherable eyes, but he merely nodded. Drucilla continued, "I don't come into my inheritance from my mother for another six months, so I have been forced to use funds from Tarnlea. But Miss Script and I have lived in a frugal fashion in order to do our part."
"I wish you had not," he protested. "The burden has always rested with the estate. I beg you won't give another thought to any such claim on your own resources."
Drucilla sighed and urged her mare to a faster pace. "Do you wish to see another set of cottages or the tenant farms?"
"Another day, perhaps. Let's head back to Tarnlea."
"Then let Standish out again, Lord Meacham, if you would. He needs the exercise." And, Drucilla realized, she would very much enjoy watching the viscount's expert horsemanship again.
His horsemanship, however, was not the only thing she was aware of as man and beast swept across the barren fields. Meacham's handsome profile, the solid set of his shoulders, the athletic firmness of his legs---Drucilla could not remember feeling this odd sensation about any man of her acquaintance, and she was not at all sure she wished to feel it about Julian Winslow, Viscount Meacham.
Meacham's valet helped him into a new coat of blue superfine that fit so exquisitely his services were definitely required in the donning of it. Meacham's pale buff pantaloons were unexceptionable and his neckcloth tied in a restrained but fashionable style. He regarded himself critically in the cheval glass, then turned away.
The viscount was, in the ordinary course of affairs, indifferent to what he wore and allowed Fallot to discuss such matters only under duress. Certainly here in the country, dining only with Miss Carruthers and her companion, there could be no particular reason to pay heed to his appearance. And yet he brushed off a speck of dust from one sleeve and adjusted his solitary fob before he left his bedchamber.
The two ladies were already awaiting him in the salon, Miss Script in a discreet pastel gown, her former charge in something quite out of the ordinary. Miss Carruthers looked perfectly charming in a gown of such a deliciously rich shade of green that it made her blue eyes startlingly bright.
Meacham reminded himself that he was at Tarnlea to accomplish a specific purpose that had nothing to do with being attracted to an intriguing young woman. He would be wise to pay no heed to the artless curls that framed her face, or the sparkling animation that constantly lit her eyes. If her figure was both elegant and captivating, surely it could be nothing to him. They were to be reacquainted but briefly.
But Meacham could not resist complimenting her on her gown. "I would have no doubt of its origins, but you have not, I believe, ever been to London."
"Never."
He studied her thoughtfully. "But your father would not have completely succumbed to his illness by the time you were seventeen. I'm surprised he didn't insist upon a Season for you. He could have applied to my mother to act as your chaperone and introduction to society. She was familiar with the routine," he said, a rueful smile curving his lips, "having successfully launched two daughters of her own."
Miss Carruthers said placidly, "London is not to everyone's taste, Lord Meacham. Do you keep a house there?"
Meacham suspected that Miss Carruthers would have enjoyed London very much indeed, with her lively disposition and her quick understanding, but he refrained from saying so. "Yes, I have a house in Grosvenor Square, though it has not been much used these two years since my mother died. Occasionally I let it for the Season to a suitable family."
Without at all meaning to, he added, "I would be more than pleased for you to make use of it if, for instance, Lady Nibthwaite were to bundle you off there for a few weeks' entertainment. I think you would like London---once you grew accustomed to the noise and the bustle. There are wonderful shops, and delightful entertainments, and fascinating people."
"I'm needed at Tarnlea," she said somewhat defiantly. Then with a more conciliating air, she added, "I have only country manners, sir, and am used to a freedom not allowed a young lady in the city. I can scarce imagine not being able to ride where I wish, or not walking alone along the pavements."
"For every disadvantage, there is a compensating advantage."
"Well, as it is unlikely I shall go there, it cannot matter." Her abstracted gaze became wistful and she admitted, "Though I should dearly love to see a play at Drury Lane, or watch the equestrian events at Astley's Amphitheater. Miss Script and I have read of them in books and journals, and sometimes I can almost picture myself there."
With very little effort, Meacham, too, could picture her there, all eagerness and ingenuous delight. Her open manners would attract the sort of people she would like, though certainly there would be those who frowned on them. What could it matter that the highest of sticklers would find her too unpolished and forward? She would not care for them at all.
If Hastings had not arrived then to announce dinner, Meacham might have described some of London's more intriguing pastimes. But the butler nodded conspiratorially at him as the ladies gathered up their skirts and rose. Meacham offered an arm to each lady, his eyes full of a surprising playfulness that made Drucilla cock her head at him and ask, "What is it? Have I said something I ought not?"
"Not at all. It is I who have taken a liberty with your home for which I beg you will forgive me. In the spirit of the season, however, I found I could not resist."
A beaming Hastings threw open the door to the dining room, and Drucilla gasped at the sight. The room was aglow with candlelight, wax tapers marched the length of the table and perched in the windows and on the side tables. Boughs of greenery were hung along the walls, decorated with red bows and gold ribbon and silver bells. The silver shone, the glass globes twinkled, the crystal chandelier above the table reflected light merrily over all. The chamber was redolent of evergreens and roast goose, with a hint of mince pies to come.
Miss Script, her eyes moist with nostalgia, said, "Oh, it's just like Christmas used to be, Drucilla. Look, they have found the bells and the wonderful Italian angel your mama brought from her home when she came here as a bride. It's like a fairyland."
At first sight of the room Drucilla had felt close to tears herself. It was impossible not to remember the many years she and her companion had tried to recreate the festive holiday atmosphere her mother had once lavished on the whole of Tarnlea. But it was some time now since they had attempted even a minimal effort at celebrating the season, what with her father ill and their attempt to trim household expenses.
Drucilla raised glowing eyes to Meacham. "It's magical. I've never seen it look more beautiful. You have indeed invaded my territory, sir, but how could I not forgive you? It was incredibly kind of you! And you have gotten all the servants in on it as well, I see."
Hastings stood beaming at the door, the housekeeper beside him with her hands folded in obvious satisfaction. Behind them were others, their faces wreathed with pleasure. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you all."
When Drucilla returned her gaze to Meacham, she found him observing her in a way that made her feel a little breathless. He was a man who held her future and that of everyone at Tarnlea in his hands, and yet by degrees she was coming to trust him. Maybe more than trust him.
The viscount raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "A trifle early, perhaps, but no matter. Happy Christmas, cousin."
"Happy Christmas, my lord."
After Meacham and the two ladies had visited Sir Lawrence to share with him some sweetmeats Mrs. Kamidge had made especially for him and a kaleidoscope the viscount had purchased in the village, they retired to the salon, still basking in the pleasure of their meal and the delightful surprise he had arranged for them.
The knowledge had grown on Drucilla all evening that she was developing strong feelings for Lord Meacham. Previously, she had been so busy trying to direct the course of their interchanges, needing to hide certain thing and explain others, that she had not acknowledged the full force of his character. She had been aware during dinner that the viscount had set himself to amuse her and make her forget her many concerns for one evening. And she admired the way he showed respect to her father, even when Sir Lawrence was acting his most bizarre.
In the salon Drucilla found herself almost shy. Suddenly Meacham seemed far too sophisticated and elegant for their little family circle. This man undoubtedly had a place in London society, where people would listen to him and respect his opinions. Until tonight she had thought of him as one of the family, a country gentleman good-humoredly carrying out his duty.
"Is something the matter?" he asked, taking a seat opposite her on the sofa.
"Oh, no! You've given us such a memorable evening. Shall I play something on the pianoforte?"
"Oh, do," said Miss Script sleepily. "Something very soft and melodic, Drucilla. Nothing vigorous, if you please. Unless Lord Meacham should object."
"Music is the very thing we need to crown our evening." He rose as Drucilla did and moved to stand by her stool. "If you will let me turn the music for you, I promise to pay attention."
"Which is more than May shall be able to do," she whispered, aware that Miss Script had already closed her eyes. Within minutes her companion was gently snoring, her head fallen down against the chair's projecting wing. Drucilla played the song to its end, but looked up then to Meacham, a fragile smile on her lips. "May I ask you something?"
"By all means."
"Have you always done the right thing? I mean, is there nothing in your own life to look back on with regret?"
Meacham's momentary puzzlement was quickly replaced by an understanding of the significance of the question. "Oh, my dear, you're quite wide of the mark if you're envisioning me as some paragon of virtue. Come, I'll tell you an instructive Christmas story."
He caught her hand and drew her to her feet. For a moment they stood remarkably close, gazes locked on one another, a strangely powerful emotion drawing them together. Alarmed, Drucilla dropped her eyes and moved unsteadily to the sofa, where Meacham seated himself only slightly apart, close enough to retain possession of her hand.
"You remember me when I was twelve---all stiff and righteous and unbending. Doesn't that seem to you something to look back on with regret?"
"But you were a boy. You had too many responsibilities for your age."
Meacham nodded reminiscently. "I took it all very seriously, even when I was away at Eton. And then when I was nineteen I came to town, to London, with a friend of mine. And simply ran mad!"
Drucilla looked doubtful. "I find that hard to believe."
"Nevertheless, it was true. I had never experienced that degree of freedom, that heady realization that I had the resources to do whatever I wished. We were up to every lark---boxing with Gentleman Jackson, betting on which raindrop would slide down the glass fastest at White's, off to every prizefight and horse race, gambling in games that were far too rich for our blood, even though he, too, came from a well-heeled family."
"Did you not go to any of the balls and ridottos?" she asked wistfully.
"Most assuredly we did, but they were pretty tame for us. Standing up with our sisters, and doing the pretty to the girls one's mother introduced to one. William and I were ripe for trouble, not for something so subtle as flirtation or social pleasantries. Eventually we were taken in by a very clever gamester who was introduced by William's cousin."
"What happened?"
"Less than we deserved," he admitted ruefully. "You see, William's father is a remarkably clever fellow. Though he gave William plenty of rein, he always had his eye on his son from a distance and he allowed things to go only so far before he stepped in."
"Didn't William consider that interfering?"
"I suppose he would have, if he had not already realized that we were about to disgrace ourselves. In the most gracious manner possible, the earl showed us how to set things right. More than that, he and his wife rather adopted me into their already large family. Spending time with them had a very beneficial effect on me."
"Do you think so?" she teased.
Meacham met her quizzing with a placid smile. "So I believe. It was comforting to know that an older, wiser head was concerned with my progress in the world. With my father dead and my mother of a singularly retiring disposition, I had felt very much adrift. As you do, I think."
"And are you to be my older, wiser head?"
"I would very much like to help you, cousin. I'm older, certainly, and more knowledgeable about certain matters, but I won't claim to be wiser. Still, I think there are things you are reluctant to discuss. I wish you could learn to trust me."
Drucilla's hand squirmed under his, but he steadily retained hold. Her eyes did not meet his when she said, "You are very kind, sir. There is nothing, I think, that you need to know which is being withheld."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, giving the hand a light squeeze and allowing her to withdraw it. "And there is no reason that you should place such dependence upon me. However, I would be honored if you did."
Drucilla's lips trembled, but she forced herself to say, "It is late and I really ought to see Miss Script up to her room. Thank you so much for your delightful Christmas surprise."
Meacham regarded her with calm acceptance. "It was a great pleasure for me to arrange it, my dear. Sleep well."
It was not, in fact, very late at all, and after Miss Carruthers's withdrawal from the salon, Meacham decided that there was no reason why he should sit before the cozy fire, drinking exceptional brandy, when he could ride out on a coldly bitter night to the only inn he had discovered in the closest village. Off the main road, it was not a coaching inn, but its attractions for the local residents were surely enough to lure someone out on a moonlit night.
When he had given over Standish to a lad who promised him a warm stall for the next hour, Meacham entered the inn, brushing flakes of snow from his coat and stomping his boots. There was a festive air to the taproom, with a fire blazing in the hearth and greenery hung over the windows and doors, tied with large red bows.
Meacham requested a tankard of ale from the ruddy-faced landlord and sat down at a rough wooden table. Stretching his long legs out toward the burning logs, he discreetly surveyed the thinly populated room. In the opposite corner were two rough country men, to whom he nodded cordially. Nearer at hand sat two elegantly dressed gentlemen, younger than himself and obviously aspiring to a higher standard of fashion than generally prevailed in the country. Instead of the informal neckerchiefs he had seen sported on his earlier visit to the town, this pair wore neckcloths of pristine whiteness, carefully shaped into what Meacham guessed to be a tortured version of the Waterfall.
The viscount was aware that there was some interest piqued by his appearance in the room, both the youths and the older men covertly stealing glances at him. When one of the younger gentlemen came over to toss another log on the fire, he said to Meacham, "I've not seen you here before, sir. Are you staying in the area?"
"At Tarnlea, for a few days," he answered willingly enough.
"If that don't beat all! My family has known the Carruthers family forever. Allow me to introduce myself---James Slocum, sir, at your service." The young man swept him an impressive bow and indicated his companion. "That's Charles Gladham, who has lived here all his life as well."
"Julian Winslow," Meacham said. "Please join me."
The two youngsters, whom he judged to be about twenty years of age, took seats opposite him, and Meacham ordered another round of ales from the landlord. "So you've known Sir Lawrence and Miss Carruthers for many years."
"Oh, lord, yes," James Slocum assured him. "Drucilla is only a year older than I am. Known each other since we were in leading strings. Sir Lawrence was used to..." But he stopped abruptly and asked, "You've seen Sir Lawrence, haven't you, sir?"
"Yes. I was much shocked by his condition. Until recently I was not aware of how badly his mind... wanders."
Gladham nodded energetically. "So we hear, but the old gentleman hasn't been out of the house in... oh, years, I should think."
"My mother visits Drucilla and her companion, of course," Slocum explained. "Not that she sees Sir Lawrence on her calls. Well, I daresay she wouldn't wish to, would she? Mad as a hatter, the poor devil. But it's the sort of thing one might have expected."
"Is it?" Meacham asked, surprised.
"Not at all!" protested Gladham. "There's not a drop of madness in the family that I know of."
"Of course there's not," Slocum retorted. "But, lord, the way the man drank! Might have driven a lesser man crazy years ago."
Gladham could not accept this and stated, "Never knew a man to go mad of drink, Jimmy. Not like Sir Lawrence, at all events. It was his wife's dying that pushed him over the top."
"Hardly!" returned his friend. "That happened eons ago. Everyone knows that."
"Yes, but my father says it was her dying that drove him to drink," Gladham reminded him. He turned to the viscount and explained, "Made him a bit unbalanced, don't you know? Everyone says so."
Slocum glared at him. "Well, I don't know about that. The fellow was a bruising rider to hounds long after Lady Carruthers died. Had some of the finest hunters in the county."
Gladham took a long draw on his ale and appeared to consider this. "Thing is, that's all he cared for, demme."
"By God, it isn't," rejoined young Slocum. "Can't say he didn't care for Drucilla, Charles. Not an unnatural father, Sir Lawrence."
Much struck by this, Gladham relented. "So he did, so he did. Took her riding, didn't he? I could almost have felt sorry for her, though, little bitty thing up on one of those great hunters. Don't know as I could have done it at that age. She had the stoutest heart of any of us. Never cried craven about the biggest, wildest horse he put her on. She could ride anything."
"She don't anymore," said Slocum. "Saw her on that gray mare the other day. Nice bit of blood, of course, but no high flyer."
"Treated her more like a boy than a girl," mused Gladham.
Slocum nodded sapiently. "No heir," he said succinctly. "Some distant cousin gets the place when he dies."
Meacham coughed apologetically and said, "I'm the cousin, I'm afraid."
The two youthful gentlemen stared at him in something of a bosky haze and exchanged embarrassed glances. Slocum straightened his slender body. "No offense meant, I'm sure, sir."
"None taken," Meacham assured him. "Another round?"
"Don't mind if I do," Gladham agreed. "Have you seen Standish?"
"Yes, and ridden him. I wouldn't bet a guinea that I've ridden a more promising animal."
"Finest piece of horseflesh this county has seen in a dozen years," Slocum informed him, and proceeded to bicker with his friend as to whether his own Rufus or Gladham's Mars ranked first of the hunters originally owned by the baronet.
When Meacham eventually made his way back to Tarnlea on Standish, he had much to think about. The sharp clarity of the night seemed in keeping with his thoughts, which were centered, as they had been so often lately, on his cousin. It was obvious now that all Drucilla's efforts had been to prevent his learning of her father's careless and unbecoming behavior, both with regard to the estate and to herself. What astonishing loyalty from someone who had not been treated with even ordinary consideration!
As he rode down the lane that skirted the Tarnlea property, he imagined a young Drucilla mounted on one of her father's enormous hunters, frightened but determined not to admit it. Meacham thought that perhaps she'd been forced all her life to accept responsibilities that were only with astonishing courage within her grasp. Not many women in similar circumstances could have turned into the delightful creature he had spent so much time with these last few days.
The avenue of oak trees leading up to Tarnlea looked ghostly in the pale moonlight, but the building itself seemed grandly solid and enduring. Meacham had developed an affection for this ancient property, something he would not have expected on that morning of his arrival. Tarnlea then had seemed merely another problem in search of a solution, and one he had taken on only out of a stringent sense of duty. He had considered sending his secretary, a very capable young man, who would have surveyed the situation and brought him an admirable report. The thought distressed Meacham inordinately.
He would not have been reacquainted with Drucilla, would not have seen with his own eyes her courage and her capabilities. His secretary could not possibly have conveyed her mischievous-angel face, or the resolute sincerity of her eyes. No secondhand account of Drucilla could capture the innate liveliness or the subtle innocence of this remarkable lady.
Meacham knew that, from a distance, he might have ordained a resolution to the Tarnlea situation that would have shown his cousin very little more consideration than her father had done. The prospect appalled him. And yet, on the scene and faced with all the necessary evidence himself, he was no closer to knowing what he should do.
How could he walk away from Tarnlea? Oh, it would be simple enough to put someone in charge of the estate. That wasn't the problem at all. Nor was Sir Lawrence the problem. Drucilla was the problem.
As Meacham swung down from Standish at the Tarnlea stables, he ruefully admitted to himself that his time spent here had changed his life. Drucilla had become a necessary part of it and he would not willingly leave her behind. But he hadn't the faintest notion if she returned his regard. She had given no more indication than perhaps he had himself.
Well, there was nothing for it but to put it to the touch, he thought as he relinquished Standish to the sleepy waiting groom. An alarming prospect, the viscount acknowledged, when all one's happiness depended on the outcome.
Though Meacham was up early the following morning, he was not able to catch Miss Carruthers at the breakfast table. When he noticed that her place had already been removed, he turned a questioning gaze on Hastings, who said apologetically, "Miss Carruthers has gone to look for Teddy."
"Teddy?" the viscount repeated.
"The goat, milord."
"Of course. What else would she be doing than searching for the lost sheep?" Meacham inquired rhetorically.
Hastings gave a discreet cough. "Actually, it is a goat, milord. Sir Lawrence is excessively fond of goat's milk in his tea."
Meacham thought this sounded positively disgusting but asked, "Where would Miss Carruthers be likely to look for the... er... Teddy?"
"It's difficult to say. Once she was found at the home wood, another time beyond the spinney."
"Would Miss Carruthers have ridden?"
"Oh, yes, sir. The goat has roamed far afield at times."
Meacham made a hasty repast and headed toward the stables. He was already dressed for riding, as he had hoped to induce his cousin to take some exercise with him. Glory was gone from her box, and Meacham tapped his whip against his top-booted foot as Standish was saddled.
The stallion was restive, tossing his head and stamping his hooves. The groom grinned at Meacham and said, "He's going to be a wicked one to handle this morning, my lord. Seen him this way before. He'll try to unload you in the first pasture."
"Thank you for the warning. Do you know which way Miss Carruthers headed?"
"Toward the spinney, but more'n half an hour gone."
Meacham swung himself onto the horse, who was attempting to sidle toward a railing. Not wishing to have his leg crushed, the viscount spoke firmly to his mount and held the reins in a powerful grip. Standish obeyed, but Meacham knew he only awaited an opportunity to unseat his rider.
Clear of the stable yard, Meacham gave him his head across the first pasture, bearing in mind the groom's caution. Standish shied wildly at a rabbit leaping in front of him, a perfectly normal occurrence in the country. Meacham had no difficulty in retaining his perch, but Standish was far from finished with his antics.
Amused, the viscount endured the bucking, twisting, and bolting with no more than a sharp dig of his heels or a tightening grip on the reins. At length the horse tired of his tricks and settled into a headlong gallop that would have outpaced many of the racehorses Meacham had backed in his younger days.
He scanned the spinney, and beyond it a tenant farm, to more pasture land. To the east there was an avenue of oak trees that led up to Tarnlea, to the south a glimpse of water. Meacham had not as yet ridden toward the tarn for which he assumed Tarnlea was named, and with a frown turned Standish in that direction. Buttermere Lake was much further away, out of the present range of his vision. But in the vicinity of the tarn he detected movement that looked very much like a riderless horse.
Distance was deceptive on the hazy December morning, and it took him ten minutes to arrive at the scene. He could easily identify Glory when he was still some little way from the mare, but she was indeed without her rider. Glory was not tied to any bush or tree, though there were plenty surrounding her.
Meacham saw no evidence of his cousin, but the mare was in a little depression nearer him than the water. A shale-covered hillock behind the mare shielded much from his view.
"Drucilla!" he called, grasping Glory's reins. "Are you here?"
A faint response reached his ears, but he could not be certain of its direction. He swung down from Standish and tied his mount to a nearby tree, trusting that Glory would stay close. On foot he scrambled up the steep slope toward the water, fearing that his cousin had attempted to ride Glory up it and been thrown. As he crested the hill he saw that it was far otherwise. His cousin was down on her knees, wrapping a bleating white and brown goat in her own cloak.
"Drucilla," he said quietly, so as not to startle her.
Drucilla looked up at him with surprise. "Meacham! I thought it would be Rall. He's out looking for Teddy, too. Have you seen him?"
Meacham shook his head. "Perhaps he searched in the opposite direction. Are you perfectly all right?"
"Yes," she said with a wry smile, "but this stupid goat has done herself an injury. I found her in the water with her foot caught between two rocks, and though I have managed to release it, she does not seem to be able to walk."
"I don't see how she could with your coat wrapped around her that way," he said, placing his own upon her shoulders. When Drucilla moved to protest, he said, "You'll catch your death."
"Well, if one of us has to freeze," she said, with a pert smile, "I'm certainly glad it's you. I cannot tolerate cold weather." Which was true enough, but mainly because she knew that her nose got red and her eyes watered unbecomingly when she was chilled. His coat felt heavy and warm, and she'd been out in the cold longer than she'd planned.
Meacham was regarding her with a look that was not at all indecipherable in his eyes. Drucilla felt somewhat abashed at his decidedly tender gaze and busied herself slipping her arms into his coat and wrapping it tightly about her. After a moment he reached over to lift the collar against her neck before saying brusquely, "I'll carry the goat. Let's get you back to Tarnlea where you can put on dry clothes and warm yourself before a fire."
Teddy bleated pathetically as she was picked up, but she allowed herself to settle into the viscount's arms without a struggle. Her long legs made her an exceedingly awkward burden. Meacham remarked caustically that he planned to remove goat carrying from the list of things he was willing to do for his cousin. Drucilla preceded him, grinning appreciatively as he maneuvered his way over the slippery shale and down to the solid ground below.
"I was afraid you had suffered a fall when I found Glory without her rider." Meacham set the goat down on the ground and Teddy scrambled to stand up, only to subside again when she could not bear her own weight.
Drucilla placed her foot in the hands Meacham held out for her, and he tossed her neatly up onto her horse. "She'll stay where I tell her to, if I drop the reins over her head. Why don't you hand Teddy up to me? I would dearly love to see you try to mount with her in your arms, or holding her on Standish while you swing into the saddle, but I'm afraid she would be the worse for it."
The viscount, who had been wondering how to best accomplish this feat, said, "I trust Glory will be more tolerant of Teddy than I fear Standish would. How were you planning to manage if you'd been on your own?"
"I daresay I would have been forced to leave Teddy here while I went for help." Catching the amused gleam in his eyes, she admitted, "Yes, I'm very grateful you came along, Lord Meacham. That goes without saying."
"You called me Meacham a while ago. I liked it."
"Did you? And I believe I heard you call me Drucilla, rather than your depressingly correct Miss Carruthers. Shall we agree to a more cousinly form of address?"
"Cousinly?" He eyed her speculatively. "By all means. You might even call me Julian."
She laughed. "Oh, I don't think I could go so far as that, sir. Come, hand Teddy up to me."
Meacham bore the goat, protesting with its knobby-kneed legs, up onto Glory's back. The mare calmly accepted the wriggling bundle, and Meacham wrapped Drucilla's cloak more securely about Teddy to keep her still. When he stood back, frowning, he said, "I don't see how you're going to hold her on and manage the horse as well."
"Glory is a very obedient creature, Meacham. Lead the way on Standish and she'll follow."
Standish was not as easily convinced that he wished to walk abreast of a struggling goat, but Meacham had no difficulty in keeping him in line. As they rode slowly back toward Tarnlea, he said, "Did you have to go yourself to look for her?"
Surprised, she turned her face toward his. "And why shouldn't I?"
He shrugged. "You have a sufficiently resourceful staff to trust them with such a task. You seem to me to feel a personal responsibility for even the smallest matter at Tarnlea."
Drucilla studied him rather sharply, uncertain as to his meaning. "I'm fond of Teddy. She's rather like one of the dogs here, a member of the family."
"Yes, but you could have stayed home in comfort. Rall would no doubt have found her eventually."
"I see what it is. You think me a managing female, but that is only because I have had to become one. Who was there but me to take the management of Tarnlea in hand?"
"You could have asked for my help."
Drucilla's brows rose in surprise. "Well, to be honest, that thought never occurred to me."
"I wish it had. Not that I mean to say you have not done a fine job, but it was a large burden for one of your years. I don't perfectly understand why you didn't wish Wicker's help. Perhaps you could explain that to me."
But she dismissed his question, saying only, "Mr. Wicker is far too cautious for my taste."
"In other words, you could not trust him to do precisely as you wished."
She responded to the teasing in his tone with a decided grin. "True. He might have called you in."
"I wish that one of you had. Under the circumstances Tarnlea is my responsibility."
"I have everything in hand."
"Mr. Wicker, however, no longer appears to agree with you."
"Mr. Wicker has been badgered by a younger partner into laying the whole matter before you in the hopes that a competency hearing will not only bring them in fees, but that you will choose their partnership to oversee matters here on the estate."
"I am more likely," he assured her, "to think them very lax in their duties for having taken so long to inform me of the situation."
"You mustn't blame that on poor Mr. Wicker!"
"No? Who shall I blame it on, then? A certain young lady who managed to cozen an elderly solicitor for the better part of two years with her charm and her earnestness? Did the poor man ever see your father during that time?"
"Never," she admitted. "But Mr. Wicker could see that the estate was given our every attention. And it was he who sent John Thomas to me originally."
"Probably expecting Mr. Thomas to keep him informed of what went forward here. But Mr. Thomas soon switched his allegiance to you."
Drucilla laid a calming hand on the goat's butting head. "You make it sound for all the world like a devious plot, Meacham. All we wished to do was set things to rights."
"And to get it done before I knew of your efforts."
"Well, yes, because we had no way of knowing whether you would approve of the expenditure. It has all been shockingly dear."
"And you've tried to compensate by making household economies." Meacham regarded her with amusement. "Now that I could not have approved of."
"Why ever not?"
"Because there was not the least need. In the first place, they could hardly make a dent in your overall outlay, and in the second, there is no reason you should not live at Tarnlea in perfect comfort."
"Oh, you are thinking we have deprived ourselves, which is not at all true. But you are quite right that our economies served little to the purpose. Meacham, do you really not mind what I've done?"
"I think it was probably very necessary."
She was surprised by the knowledgeable tone of his voice. For a moment she thought perhaps he had discovered her father's culpability in the disintegration of his own property, and a touch of color crept up into her cold cheeks.
The blandness of Meacham's expression reassured her. No one at Tarnlea was going to point a finger at the baronet. And if Meacham had met any local people, they would have been much too impressed with his rank and family connection to gossip about Sir Lawrence.
Drucilla was gratified that they had reached the stable yard by this time. Meacham was instantly on the ground and allowing a stable lad to lead Standish off. Teddy bleated hopefully as the viscount reached up to remove her from Glory's back. While a groom studied the goat's injury, Meacham helped Drucilla down from her horse, keeping hold of her hand a moment longer than necessary.
"We need to talk further," he said.
Drucilla looked around for some means to escape from his penetrating gaze. "Yes, certainly we shall. But now, my dear sir, I must change my clothes. I am also hopelessly behind on my daily tasks because of this wretched goat. Will you see that they take proper care of her leg? Here, you will need your coat and I must hurry into the house so that I don't freeze."
Meacham, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, watched her hasty retreat with a mixture of frustration and amusement.
Drucilla couldn't help but wonder what the viscount might have discovered. Heaven knew she had done her best to protect her father's name and reputation in Meacham's eyes. After all, this was her only family and she did not wish an outsider---even if he was distantly related to her---to despise her father for his lack of attention to his holdings. Sir Lawrence had been shattered by his wife's death, and embittered by his lack of an heir. If he had taken to drink, who could blame him?
Meacham could, of course. Tarnlea was his to inherit, and he could not have failed to assess when the damage to the estate had taken place. It was possible that the viscount might assume Sir Lawrence had been mentally distressed long before he indeed was, and lay his disinterest to that cause. In many ways, that was precisely what Drucilla hoped would happen, and had been at some pains to insinuate. Meacham's own youthful indiscretions, though a hopeful sign, hardly meant he would regard an adult's irresponsibility as something readily tolerated.
Putting aside her concerns, she busied herself with the task of conferring with the housekeeper about linens, and the cook about the meals for the next few days, until Meacham was safely away from Tarnlea. But her mind would not stay on these tasks. Much to her distress, an image of the viscount, usually with a laughing light in his eyes, continually disturbed her thoughts. She could interpret this light as mocking, or as humorous, but she could not interpret the way she felt each time it arose as anything but a breathless sort of excitement.
If it had been a warm and sunny day, she would have taken off across the park on a long, exhausting hike, forcing all thought of Meacham from her mind. As it was, she paced about the small library which doubled as her household office, pausing now and again at the window to stare unseeing at the shrubbery.
Thoughts of him refused to be vanquished. He had treated her with consideration, generosity, humor, and any number of other virtuous behaviors. Which did not mean that he cared for her in the slightest. It was merely the kind of man he was.
Besides, nothing could come of any attachment between the two of them, even if he should happen to return her regard. There was her father to be thought of, and May Script, and a dozen other matters large and small that she needed to attend to at Tarnlea. At times her burden seemed heavy indeed. For a brief moment she allowed herself a glimpse of a shared responsibility, and the vision was heavenly.
Drucilla considered the possibility that her desire for relief was the whole of her attraction to Lord Meacham, but she knew better. For the very first time in her life she had met a man who had caused her to succumb to love. When he went away again, she would have the delicious memory to hold in her heart and her mind.
And he would go away soon now. From the moment of his arrival he had made it clear that he must return to Meacham Court in time for the holidays. There was less than a week; at any time he would announce that he was leaving on the morrow. Probably the next time she heard from him would be a boldly penned letter announcing his plan to install a new administration for the estate.
A firm tap at the door startled her. No one ever bothered her in the small library unless she requested their presence, and today especially she had wished to be alone. Very much afraid of whom her visitor could be, she nevertheless granted permission to enter. Before she could so much as smooth down her skirts, the door opened and Meacham strolled in.
"I had the devil of a time getting anyone to tell me where you were," he said. "You're not hiding from me, are you, Drucilla?"
"Certainly not! This is my office and I come here almost every day, though I am not in the habit of receiving visitors here."
"Let's not consider me a visitor. Not only am I one of the family, but I have business with you."
Drucilla waved him to the solitary straight-backed chair and took her seat behind the desk. "Before you begin, do tell me if Teddy is going to be all right."
"Rall seems to think so. They've wrapped her leg tightly and she's able to hobble around on it. There will even," he informed her with the amused gleam in his eyes, "be goat's milk for your father's tea."
"I daresay you find it humorous, sir, but people in my father's condition can become quite agitated if their routine is disrupted."
He leaned back in his chair, very much at ease. "Does that worry you, my dear? My experience of your father is that the agitation of the moment quickly passes, which is perhaps one of the greatest advantages of having such a very short memory."
He seemed to give some underlying meaning to this pronouncement, but Drucilla was unable to determine what it was. "Perhaps," she agreed. "But what business has brought you to my office?"
"A matter of the utmost importance to me. I feel I have learned a sufficient amount about the situation here to conclude my stay, and I want to advise you of my decisions."
With a sinking heart, Drucilla said, "Please do."
"I won't object to the expenditures over the last two years, because they were obviously necessary. I do feel that it would be appropriate for me to press for a competency hearing for Sir Lawrence, so that I might be given complete control over the estate."
"But if you don't object to the way I've handled matters, I don't understand why you can't just leave things as they are."
"Because, my dear, you are not the appropriate person to set matters to rights here. That's my responsibility"
"But I don't mind! And there is very little left to be accomplished. As to the day-to-day running of the estate, John Thomas is an excellent estate manager. He would not lead me astray."
"Drucilla, I want you to listen very carefully to me. You are not responsible for your father's mismanagement of the estate. No, no, don't try to bamboozle me any further, my dear. Though it took me a great deal more effort than I would have thought necessary---your servants and neighbors being so very loyal---I have found the truth of the matter."
"But it was our previous estate manager who defrauded the estate. You saw that for yourself in the books."
Meacham regarded her with sympathy. "I am aware of that, my dear, but you must allow me my own prejudice, which is that a gentleman who allows himself to be defrauded on such a gross scale is certainly guilty of negligence at the very least."
"But... but there were extenuating circumstances."
"Only recently has it been impressed upon me how deeply a man might be devastated by the death of a beloved wife, Drucilla. I suppose I assumed that in a year or two, the grief would abate and life would return to normal. I'm not at all sure any longer that that's true."
A flush rose in her cheeks at the meaningful intensity of his gaze. "I believe my father was inordinately fond of my mother."
"So I understand, and that he took to drinking and hunting as his major distractions after her death."
Drucilla frowned prodigiously. "I should very much like to know who told you that."
"Yes, but I have no intention of informing you, for it was done quite unsuspectingly. And though I can understand your father's despair and his desire to escape from an unpleasant reality, I find it more difficult to pardon him for what he did to you."
"To me?" she cried in astonishment. "Why, he did nothing to me."
"Except ignore you or terrify you by putting you on his great hunters."
She waved aside such insignificant matters. "You mustn't think I suffered from his odd starts. He managed to make me into a creditable rider, and he was not an abusive man when he was in his cups." At his skeptical look she added with a dismissive laugh, "He was loud, certainly. He would roar at everyone, but I soon learned to simply disappear from sight until his sobriety was restored."
"And a very young girl was, I suspect, left to tidy up the disorganization he created. My heart goes out to that child."
"You refine too much on it, Meacham. Besides, all of that is well in the past."
"Not the responsibility." He rose, walked to the window, and stood looking out for some time without speaking. "I don't mean your father's responsibility. His illness makes his negligence irrelevant now. Nothing can be done about that. It is you I am concerned with, and you pose a very prickly problem for me."
"I cannot see how," she protested. "I am of age and in a few months will have a perfectly acceptable independence with which to manage under any conditions you may impose on the estate. If I must leave Tarnlea, why, I shall settle in the village with Miss Script, or even make my home with Lady Nibthwaite, who has offered the dower house as my residence when my father dies. You needn't have the first thought as to my welfare."
He turned to face her and shook his head slightly. "My dear Drucilla, that is precisely my problem. Nothing concerns me more than your welfare because, you see, I have conceived an affection for you which I am not at all certain is reciprocated." He paused, then more diffidently added, "I find it impossible to make plans for the estate without knowing your feelings on the matter."
Drucilla sat, bemused, at the desk, her lips trembling slightly. In five paces he crossed the room and held out his hands to her across the small desk. Hesitantly, she placed hers in them and allowed him to draw her to her feet. For long moments they stood looking into each other's eyes as a smile, tremulous at first but growing stronger, curved Drucilla's mouth. Meacham raised her hands to his lips and kissed them one after the other.
"My hope," he said, "is that you will consent to marry me, my dear. Everything else is of little moment. We could live both here and at Meacham Court. Your father could stay here or come with us when we journeyed there. Miss Script could come with you, or go to one of my sisters' homes. The only matter of any importance to me is whether you will have me."
Drucilla felt the ache that had been in her heart begin to fade. "You're certain that it is not pity you feel for me, sir? I should not at all like to accept an offer inspired by compassion."
His eyes danced. "Compassion? My dear Lady Bountiful, it is you who would be gracing me with your generosity of heart, your charming vivacity, your..."
But deeds seemed more appropriate here than words, and Meacham moved quickly around the desk. Taking her unresisting body into his arms, he bent his dark head down to her upturned face. His kiss, tender at first, became very much in earnest, and at length Drucilla was forced to pull back to get a breath of air.
"I see," she said, with a shaky laugh. The blue eyes beamed up at him. "Then I shall most certainly have you, Meacham."
"And will you come home with me for Christmas, my love? My sisters will have the Court all festive with candles and holly, and filled with the laughter of their children. I could not possibly bring them home a present they would more delight in than you. Just say you will come and I will make arrangements for everything else."
"Of course I'll come." Drucilla raised her hand to stroke his beloved cheek. "I knew, from the moment I heard you were coming, that you would change my life---one way or another. I was more than a little afraid that it would not be in a pleasant way. Until I came to know you. And then I wondered if I should ever be the same if you disappeared from my life as quickly as you had entered it."
Meacham kissed the disordered blond curls that fell on her forehead, hugging her to him. "And I knew from the moment I saw you, Drucilla, that this---with a modicum of luck, and the holiday spirit---would be no ordinary Christmas."
Laura Matthews is the author of twenty Regency romances and two Regency Christmas novellas. Writing as Elizabeth Neff Walker, she has also written numerous contemporary romances and women's fiction titles.
Ms. Matthews lives in San Francisco with her architect husband Paul and their lhasa apso, Samantha. She actively pursues her research interests (the Regency period and medical sociology) by membership in her local Jane Austen Society and by volunteering at the University of California San Francisco Medical Center.
More information about Ms. Matthews is available on the Regency Reads website: www.regencyreads.com/matthews\_laura.html
Copyright © 1999 by Elizabeth Rotter Originally published by Signet Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House
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www.BelgraveHouse.com Electronic sales: ebooks@belgravehouse.com This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

