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Unless he wished Wilton to tell that worthy and his party that, having fallen off a horse and been forced to walk home, Mr Ransleigh was in no fit state to receive them.
He might not have resided at Bildenstone Hall for years, but beyond doubt, every member of the gentry for miles around knew of ‘Dandy Dom’ and his exploits on the hunting field and in the army. Call it foolish pride, but even more than being branded as churlish, he dreaded being considered a weakling—a conclusion his injuries might make strangers all too quick to draw.
Dredging up from deep within the will that had kept him in the saddle through the fatigue and strain of many long campaigns, Dom said, ‘Very well. Tell them I’m just back from...riding the fields and will need a few moments to make myself presentable.’
‘Very good, Mr Ransleigh,’ the butler said, obviously relieved not to have to deliver a message of dismissal to a man of the Squire’s stature.
Hauling himself up the stairs, he rang for Henries. He had his mud-spattered garments removed by the time the batman arrived to help him into clean ones. Battle-ready within minutes, he squared his tired shoulders and headed for the stairs.
Though he ached for a soothing draught and a deep sleep, he figured he could stay upright for the length of a courtesy call. He was too tired to wonder why Lady Somebody and her daughter had accompanied the Squire.
A few moments later, he forced a smile to his lips and entered the drawing room.
‘Squire Marlowe, how kind of you to call! And whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ He gestured to the ladies.
‘So good to see you, too, Mr Ransleigh, after so many years!’ the Squire replied. ‘Lady Wentworth and Miss Wentworth, may I introduce to you our illustrious neighbour, Mr Dominic Ransleigh. A captain in the Sixteenth Light Dragoons who charged into the teeth of Napoleon’s finest, one of the heroes of Waterloo!’
‘Ladies, a pleasure,’ Dom said as the callers curtsied to his bow.
‘We’ve heard of your gallant deeds, of course, Mr Ransleigh,’ Lady Wentworth said. ‘Everyone in the county is so proud of you.’
‘We were all of us delighted to learn you intended to take up residence at Bildenstone Hall again,’ the Squire said. ‘Your father and mother, God rest their souls, were sorely missed when they abandoned Suffolk to settle at Upton Park.’
Had the neighbourhood felt slighted by his father’s removal to Quorn country? Dom wondered, trying to read the man’s tone.
‘When she learned I meant to call today,’ the Squire continued, ‘Lady Wentworth, head of the Improvement Society for Whitfield Parish, begged leave to accompany me. With her lovely daughter, Miss Wentworth, the ornament of our local society who, sadly, is soon to join her godmother for the Season in London.’
So that was why Lady Somebody had come, Dom thought, his mind clearing as he caught this last bit. As closely as news about his family was followed, he suspected that word of his broken engagement had already made it to Suffolk. The nephew of an earl with a tidy fortune and important family connections would be considered an attractive prospect by country gentry like Lady Wentworth, regardless of his physical shortcomings.
Equally obvious, the enthusiasm engendered in her mother by his matrimonial assets was not entirely shared by the daughter. Dom noted her gaze travelling from the pinned-up sleeve to his eye patch and back, her expression a mingling of awe and distaste.
First the girl in the lane scolding him for making excuse of his limitations, and now Miss Wentworth’s fascinated disdain. As if he were the prime attraction in a raree-show.
He had the ignoble urge to sidle up to her and see if she would flinch away. When his continued attention finally alerted her that he’d caught her staring at him, she coloured and gave him what he supposed most men would consider an enticing smile.
With her pretty face and glossy blond locks, she was as lovely as the Squire had pronounced her—and he felt no attraction at all.
Perhaps he ought to relieve her anxiety by assuring her he was in no danger of falling for the charms of an ingénue who’d probably never set foot outside her home parish. Then, rebuking himself for his uncharitable thoughts, he turned his attention back to the mother, who was nattering on about her reasons for accompanying the squire.
‘...take the liberty of accompanying Squire Marlowe, when in the strictest sense, I should not have called until my husband, Sir John, called first. However, there is a matter of urgency at hand. My society oversees the parish poorhouse, where honest folk in need are offered assistance. As I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s imperative that such unfortunates, their morals already weakened by low birth and squalid surroundings, not be made more vulnerable by exposure to additional corruption. As they certainly would be, were children of that sort allowed to reside here!’
‘Children of that sort?’ Dom echoed. ‘Forgive me, Lady Wentworth, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Have you not yet been informed of the matter?’ the lady cried, indignation in her tones. ‘Infamous!’
Resigning himself to the fact that, though Lady Wentworth’s main purpose might be to show off her attractive daughter, her secondary one was not likely to be quickly accomplished, Dom said, ‘Shall we be seated? I see Wilton already brought tea; can he refresh your cups?’
Resisting the devilish urge to seat himself close to Miss Wentworth, and see whether the inducements of his wealth and lineage won out over her distaste for his damaged person, he took a chair opposite the sofa.
After Wilton had served the guests, he turned to the Squire, hoping his explanation would prove briefer. ‘Won’t you acquaint me with the matter?’
‘Certainly,’ the Squire said. ‘Two days ago, Mr Scarsdale, the solicitor in Hadwell, mentioned to me that Thornfield Place, which abuts your southern boundaries, had been let by a Theo Branwell. He then informed me that this man, already in residence, intends to approach you about renting the old stone barn your father once planned to turn into a cloth manufactory. For the purpose of setting up a home for soldiers’ orphans.’
‘A terrible prospect!’ Lady Wentworth cried, seizing hold of the conversation. ‘Having been with the army, Mr Ransleigh, you know better than we how rough a life it is! Lord Wellington himself referred to the common soldiery as “the dregs of the earth”. Only consider the offspring of such persons, growing up around vulgarity, drunkenness, and the company of...’ With a glance at her daughter, she leaned closer to whisper, ‘Camp-following women!’
Settling herself back, she continued in normal tones. ‘They could not help but have been corrupted since birth. I’m sure you understand our horror at the prospect that such children might be lodged nearby. Unthinkable enough that gently raised folk be subjected to their presence! Only consider how much more injurious association with them would be for the orphaned poor, with their innate bent to depravity. As head of a society devoted to their well-being, I felt it my Duty to speak with you at once about this nefarious scheme. Doubtless, this Mr Branwell means to play upon your sympathies as a former soldier. But as a gentleman of wit and discernment, I’m sure you could not wish to lend yourself to such an enterprise.’
In truth, Dom didn’t wish to lend himself to anything, particularly not to the lady whose strident voice was intensifying the pounding in his head. Knowing that responding would encourage her to embellish, likely at enough length that he got a good eyeful of her beauteous daughter’s neatly turned ankles, he meant to give her no excuse to prolong the interview.
‘I understand your concern, Lady Wentworth, and yours, Squire Marlowe. I assure you, when and if I’m approached by Mr Branwell, I will give the matter my most careful consideration. After such a long wait, I’m sure you must be pressed to return to other engagements. I myself am overdue to consult with my steward,’ he lied smoothly. ‘So you must excuse me, but do finish your tea before you depart.’
He rose as he spoke, continuing quickly. ‘Squire, a pleasure to see you again. Miss Wentworth, I wish you well on your Season, and best of luck with your society, Lady Wentworth.’
Deaf to their expressions of gratitude and protestations that they were in no hurry, Dom bowed and left the parlour.
Retreating to his chamber with as much speed as he could muster, he barely made it to the bed before his legs crumpled under him. Bracing himself with his good arm, he sank face-down on to the blessedly soft, flat surface and fell instantly to sleep.
* * *
With dim memories of having awakened in the dark to glug down a glass of the laudanum-laced brandy at his bedside, Dom pulled himself from sleep late the next morning, groggy and aching. He took another quick swallow of the brandy, thinking as he sank back against the pillows that he’d not indulged in strong spirits before breakfast since his salad days at Oxford.
After a few moments, the liquor soothing the sharp edges off his ever-present pain, Dom felt human enough to ring for his batman. Hot coffee and a hot bath would dispel the grogginess, after which he could dress and ready himself...for what?
