Lord Iverbrook's Heir (3 page)

“I have not asked you to remove to either the Dower House or my stepfather’s residence, Mama. I wish to discuss your grandson.”

“My grandson? Oh yes, dear little Peter. Such a sweet baby.”

“I am glad you are fond of him, because as he is my heir, I intend to bring him to live at Iver Hall.”

“What! A horrid, noisy little boy at Iver Hall? Agnes, I feel a Palpitation! Pray bring me a little hartshorn. You cannot be so heartless, Hugh. Consider my poor nerves!”

“Lady Lavinia, calm yourself, I beg of you. Lord Iverbrook is certainly speaking in jest. No one in your delicate state of health can be expected to take responsibility for a small child. Why, I daresay it would be the death of you!”

Hugh tried to ignore the interruption. “I shall hire nannies and nursemaids and governesses and whatever else you consider necessary, and I shall come down often from London to see him, of course. But the child is my heir and will be brought up at Iver Place whether you are present or not, Mama.”

Lady Lavinia produced a feeble shriek and fell back against her pillows, eyes closed.

“‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth . . ." intoned Miss Sneed, casting a glance of condemnation at her mistress’s “thankless child” as she seized the vinaigrette.

Lord Iverbrook beat a hasty retreat. He had been on the receiving end of that particular quotation more times than he could number, and had once even read through the whole of
King Lear
to find out just how he compared with that monarch’s ungrateful daughters. Since he had so far resisted the temptation to turn his mother out of doors, he felt that to class him with Goneril and Regan was unjust.

He went in search of his stepfather.

Mr. Ffinch-Smythe was leaning on the gate of his favourite sow’s pen. “What-ho, Iverbrook!” he shouted, sighting the viscount. “Come and look at Primrose!”

His lordship picked his way through the mud and looked over the fence. A huge black pig with white feet and a white star on her forehead stared back at him, then turned around to present her curly tail.

“She looks very healthy, sir,” he commented cautiously.

“Aye, she’s a beauty.” Mr. Ffinch-Smythe was a short, spare gentleman. The tie-wig he wore in defiance of modern fashion lent him the air of a courtier, an impression completely at odds with his boundless enthusiasm for pigs. “See the piglets? I bred her to a Tamworth boar this time. Tamworths have lots of lean on them, fatten slowly, while Berkshires like Primrose mature early. It’ll be interesting to see what the offspring are like, what?”

“Very interesting, sir. Speaking of offspring, I’m going to be bringing my brother’s child to Iver in a few days. He’s my heir, after all, and ought to be living here.”

“Right you are. Last time I crossed her with a White Yorkshire.” One of the piglets started squealing and the others quickly joined in. Mr. Ffinch-Smythe raised his voice a trifle. “Great success it was. Eighteen of 'em and all doing well. If they breed true, I’m thinking of calling them Windsors, in compliment to the King.”

George III might be known affectionately to his subjects as Farmer George, but it seemed a strange compliment to the crazy old man. He was presently confined at Windsor Castle, not six miles distant, while his son celebrated his recent appointment as Regent. The viscount opened his mouth to argue, caught himself in time, and returned to his own current obsession.

“M’mother won’t hear of it.”

“She won’t? Can’t think why she should object. Not as if I was going to call them after her, though it does have a ring to it: Lady Lavinia’s Own Breed, what?”

“Not the pigs, my nephew.”

“You want to call them after your nevvie? ‘Pon my soul, can’t even remember the lad’s name!”

“My mother objects to my plans for bringing my nephew here,” said his lordship loudly and clearly. “She kicked up the devil of a dust when I mentioned it.”

“We can’t have that,” his stepfather frowned. “I’ll tell you what, Iverbrook, you went about it the wrong way. It never does to go mentioning plans to Lady Lavinia. Upsets her. Gives her Spasms and such.”

“It did.”

“What you have to do is present her with a Fate Accumplee. That’s French for no use crying over spilt milk. I went on the Grand Tour in my youth, you know, before this upstart Napoleon made it impossible, and I must say the French have some excellent pigs. Italians too. Neapolitans and such. I wonder . . .”

“So you think I should just bring the boy here, without saying any more about it?”

“Let her think you’ve forgotten about it. And be sure to wear knee breeches to dinner! Wish it was as easy to bring hogs from Naples, but with Boney’s brother-in-law on the throne I daresay it ain't to be thought of."

“I’m afraid not, sir. Thank you, I’ll take your advice.”

“Knee breeches always put her in a good mood, you mark my words. Primrose don’t set any such store by fashion, do you, old girl?”

Primrose honked a reply, and Lord Iverbrook left them to commune with each other in peace.

He had been wondering how to announce to Miss Whitton that he was about to remove her charge from her care. Best, he now decided, to swoop down and carry the boy off before she had time to be cast into high fidgets. He would request the honour of an interview with her on Monday afternoon, take the child to an inn in Abingdon for the night, and be back at Iver on Tuesday. Then, duty fulfilled, off to Brighton with the luscious Amabel.

A spring in his step, Lord Iverbrook strode back to the house and called for pen and paper.

Chapter 3

“I can read a new word,” announced Peter at breakfast. The morning sun, pouring through wide open windows, gilded his hair; he looked positively cherubic.

“Clever boy! What word is that?” asked his aunt Selena with a smile.

“Anise. I know what the rest of the label says too. It says ‘For Flatulence’. That means it stops you belching, doesn't it, Grandmama?”

Lady Whitton looked up guiltily from the finger of toast she was dipping in her comfrey tea. “Yes, Peterkin, but not to be mentioned at table, pray!”

“Mama, can you not teach him to read from his primer, or the catechism?” Selena demanded, frowning.

“I spend a good deal of time in the stillroom at this season, dearest,” said her mother apologetically. “And Peter does so like to help me. But I agree, he must bring his book with him in future.”

“I do not like my primer,” the child declared. “It has dull words. When I grow up I’m going to write all Grandmama's labels for her.”

“You are excessively peevish today, Selena,” observed the fourth member of the family, slathering a muffin with butter.

Selena sighed. “You’re right, Dee.” For the hundredth time she wondered how her younger sister managed to look so delicately romantic even while munching a muffin. Delia’s long, straight, ash blond hair was smooth as silk, and her dark brows and lashes over blue eyes added piquancy to her dreamy face. Selena's equally flaxen hair was a mop of curls, and while her lashes were dark enough to be visible, her eyebrows were so fair she might as well have had none. Add a figure like a beanpole and the freckles inevitable to her outdoor life, she thought, and it was just as well she had no romantic inclinations.

Sighing again, she pushed her chair back and stood up, tall and slender in her faded blue riding habit.

“I’m sorry I was snappish, Mama. Of course it will not harm Peterkin to learn the names of your herbs, though you must admit he does come out with the most disconcerting prescriptions! I am a little worried about the weather. The wind is in the west, and clouds are building up in that direction though you cannot see them from here. I had hoped to start cutting the barley today.”

“Can I come with you, Aunt Sena?” clamoured Peter. “I’m ever so good at barley. You said so when I was four, ‘member?”

Selena smiled, and her hazel eyes twinkled. "You should be even better now you are five. Let us make a bargain, then. You will study your book with Nurse this morning, and this afternoon I’ll take you harvesting.”

“We have to shake hands to make a bargain,” said the child solemnly. “Timmy Russell says so. Please, Grandmama, may I get down? I have to shake hands with Aunt Sena.”

“Finish your milk first, dear. Selena, cannot John Peabody manage the harvest? You know how ill it makes you.”

"Old John may know the land like the back of his hand, but he has no real authority with the men. If I am not there, they will spend hours arguing about which field to cut first and which end to start and whether the scythes are sharp enough.” Looking harassed, she ran her hand through her curls.

It was Lady Whitton's turn to sigh. “Well, I shall make you some clover tea,” she said practically. “It is one of the best things for hay fever.”

Selena dropped a kiss on her mother’s rose-petal cheek. Peter had finished his milk and climbed down from his chair. White-mustached, he shook her hand and submitted with dignity to being picked up and hugged.

“I’m going to read my book to Finny,” he said, and ran out of the room, narrowly missing the butler in the doorway.

“The post is come, my lady,” announced Bannister, presenting a silver tray with a heap of letters.

“Thank you, Bannister. Pray give them to Miss Selena,” said Lady Whitton, as usual.

Selena sat down again and sorted through the pile. “For you, Mama, from your Learned Society, and here's a couple of household bills. Bannister, these are all farm business. Put them on my desk, if you please.”

“Is my
Lady Magazine
not come?” asked Delia.

“No. Now what is this? A letter franked by Lord Iverbrook! I did not know he was in England. It is addressed to me, but it must be meant for you, Mama.”

Lady Whitton, already deep in the report from the Learned Society of Herbalists, waved it away. Selena broke the seal and unfolded a brief note.

“He’s coming to see me this afternoon! How extraordinary! I must suppose that he wishes to present his condolences on Phoebe’s death though we are now out of black gloves even, and perhaps to see Peter; but it is you he should speak to, Mama.”

Her oblivious parent stood up, report in hand. “Here is a decoction of mullein leaves which will be the very thing for your sneezing, Selena. I will go and pick some at once, for it must be carefully strained to remove the bristles. It will be ready for you by the time you come in for luncheon.” She wandered out, still reading.

“I’m sure we have not seen hide nor hair of Iverbrook since Gil and Phoebe were wed,” said Selena. “I daresay I shall not recognise him.”

“I remember him well,” said Delia dreamily. “He is excessively handsome and romantic. Clive says he is a rake.”

“You exaggerate, Dee, and so does Clive, I feel sure. All I remember of him is that though I was Phoebe’s maid of honour and he was Gil’s best man, he did not see fit to dance with me after the wedding. Dear Papa was quite incensed, and I have no patience with such ramshackle manners, I vow. And now here is another example. Does he think I have nothing better to do than to sit at home this afternoon awaiting his condescending arrival?”

“I daresay he does not know about your barley harvest. It is not at all the sort of thing in which ladies of quality are generally interested.”

“I own I had as lief not go out there in the fields today. When John Peabody retires I shall look about for a bailiff who can supervise the men. But I prefer to manage my own farm, and I could never be satisfied with a life of novels and gossip and embroidery, like Clive’s mama.”

“There is nothing wrong with novels,” said Delia defensively.

“Well, before you begin the one I saw Jane passing to you in church yesterday, give these bills to Mrs. Tooting, if you please, since Mama has forgotten them. And you had best warn her of Lord Iverbrook’s visit. I suppose it is but common courtesy to invite him to dine, though if he has but common courtesy he will decline.”

Leaving her sister gazing out of the window, apparently engaged in a daydream about the coming noble guest, Selena set out for the Forty-Acre Field.

It was still early when she and her groom rode down the lane. The breeze was cool on her face, but the threatening clouds had blown over and the bright sun made dewdrops twinkle on spiderwebs in the hedgerow.

“It’s going to be hot later,” she said.

“Yes’m. Good harvest weather.” Young Jem, the groom, had but recently advanced to that exalted position. He now took care of the ladies’ riding and carriage horses, leaving to mere stableboys the great, patient Shire horses that did the farm work. "Take care, Miss Selena, Orion’s a bit resty this morning.”

Selena curbed her black gelding as he danced skittishly sideways, and stroked his neck soothingly. As they drew level with a five-barred gate, she brought him to a halt and looked across a field towards the river. The Thames glinted through a tangle of willows; the pasture was overgrown with meadowsweet, its scent hanging heavy in the air. Selena sneezed.

"One day!” she muttered in frustration, and urged Orion onward.

A couple of hours earlier, at first light, she had sent a message to John Peabody, and he had gathered some two score harvesters who now awaited her at the Forty-Acre Field. Most were local villagers, glad of a chance to supplement their meagre incomes. A dozen or so were gypsies, swarthy folk whose encampment south of the village had been making the inhabitants of Kings Milford uneasy for days. Jem grunted disapprovingly and urged his cob protectively closer to his mistress’s side.

After a brief consultation, the harvesters were stationed along one side of the field. Selena took a scythe, tested it against her thumb, and with a graceful swing cut the first swathe of corn. It fell neatly, ready to be sheafed. A cheer went up and she flushed with pride. There was a trick to it, and she had been practising for a week on the long grass in the paddock.

The reapers started across the field. Pale golden barley, scarlet poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, all fell before them, and behind them stooped the binders, boys and women, tying the sheaves with wisps of straw.

Gradually the line of figures spread out. Old John and Selena marked where slow scythers kept their followers waiting, and where stragglers laboured far behind. At the noon break the teams must be rearranged, and fast workers given the longer or more awkward rows. John knew what must be done, but without Selena's authority behind him there would be argument, bad feelings, and time wasted.