Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

“I’m disappointed we didn’t get a look at Huxley’s filly,” Shermont said as they reentered the manor.

“Believe you me, you’re not missing much,” Digby responded, again handing his hat to the footman. “She’s not much to look at.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Shermont considered himself a good judge of horseflesh and knew from experience speed and stamina did not always come in a pretty package.

Digby waved off the words of wisdom. “Bit rude of Huxley to put the exercise of his mount over greeting his host, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. Owning an animal carries responsibilities as well as joys.” If the horse had been kept tied to the back of the carriage the whole way over, the animal probably needed and deserved a good run.

“That’s why we have grooms,” Digby said.

Shermont understood not wanting a stranger on his favorite horse. “I don’t allow anyone else to ride my stallion. A heavy-handed groom would ruin his sensitive mouth.”

Digby could not deny that, so he changed the subject. “I’d much rather spend time with the ladies. I intend to change and join them.” He started up the stairs.

Shermont followed with a similar plan. He entered his room and threw off his coat. “Carl?”

His valet appeared with a basin of hot water and fresh towels. “Yes, milord,” he answered in his somber tone. Dressed in his usual black, his demeanor was funereal except for his one vanity: an elaborate and ugly wig to hide his baldness and protruding ears.

Born in the mews of London to an abusive father, Carl had left home at the age of eight after his mother died of consumption. Admitting only to being fifty years old, he’d had various careers: pickpocket, sailor, acrobat, jockey, cat burglar, to name a few. The previous Lord Shermont had recruited him straight out of Newgate to steal an incriminating document from a third-story bedroom. A patriot despite all, Carl had stayed on to help find and neutralize foreign agents who were selling information to the enemies of the crown. He could now add valet to his colorful resume. The bandy-legged little man had proven himself a worthy partner.

“I wish to change and get back downstairs as quickly as possible,” Shermont said, stripping off his clothes.

“Some men take as much as two or three hours to complete their toilettes,” Carl said with a hint of disapproval. “A gentleman is often judged by the care he takes with his appearance.”

“Attention to detail is fine. Wasting time is not. We have another suspect. There is a new guest. A female.”

Something about her—the way she talked, the way she acted—seemed familiar. Was it a memory from the past he couldn’t remember? As usual, thinking about his life before what he called the “accident” gave him an instant headache over his right eye, a stabbing pain that blurred his vision. He applied pressure on the scar and cleared his mind. The throbbing lessened to a manageable level.

“The cousin from America,” Carl said with a nod. “She could well be a Napoleon supporter.”

“Digby wasn’t acting very cousinly toward her.” Shermont dismissed the niggling jealousy, calling it excitement that their hunt for a foreign agent in the area was finally achieving results. He hoped that by changing clothes in record time he could get downstairs to question her before Digby arrived.

“A distant cousin,” Carl clarified. “According to the servants, she’s a childhood friend of the sisters. Their uncle Huxley was married to a Roberta Donaldson, and her brother is Mrs. Pottinger’s father.”

“Married to …”

“Widowed eighteen months ago.”

Shermont released a breath he wasn’t sure why he’d been holding. “The husband?”

“No one seems to remember him. Only reference was to the Captain. They did say her husband was killed in battle,” Carl continued. “Another reason she would have no love for the English despite being born here.”

“Send a message to our contact at the diplomatic corps, and see if they have any information on a Captain Pottinger. He could have been military or even a private ship’s captain. Did you find out why she’s here? Seems a dangerous time to make such a hazardous journey simply to visit old friends.”

“According to Twilla, the ladies’ maid, the sisters hope to foster a marital alliance with their brother. It would be an advantageous match for the American, as she has no fortune and no prospects. Other servants are quite sure Digby will marry Miss Holcum.”

“What does his valet say?” Shermont asked, knowing a man could keep few secrets from his manservant.

“His valet is closemouthed, as is proper.”

Shermont had finished dressing and turned to the mirror to check his cravat. “Excellent.” He patted the elaborate knot Carl had tied. “Keep your ears open,” he encouraged as he headed for the door with a light step.

“Yes, milord.”

Interested in the topic of their conversation, Eleanor left her seat by the window in the parlor and joined the other women around the coffee table. She accepted a cup of tea from Deirdre.

“Shermont will not ask either of you to dance if he has a lick of sense,” Mrs. Maxwell said to her daughters. “Your father would—”

“It’s just a dance, Mother,” Fiona said.

“No. It’s your reputation.”

“What is it about that man young girls find so fascinating?” Mrs. Holcum asked. “Oh, I know he’s handsome, and titled, and—”

“Now he has a title,” Mrs. Matthews interrupted. “But I heard …” She paused for effect, and the other chaperones leaned forward. “Five years ago, the elder Shermont found him on the roadside beaten near to death by brigands, as the story goes. He survived, but he has no memory of how he got there or any events before being found. He does not even remember his real name. Since the elderly Shermont’s sons had both been killed fighting Napoleon, he later named this stranger his heir.”

“Can someone adopt a grown man?” Eleanor blurted out.

“Not adopt,” Deirdre explained. “Named as his heir. Not unusual for a man without a son to name a nephew or cousin or distant relative—”

“But a stranger?” Aunt Patience shook her head. “Who would have thought it possible?”

“And most surprising, Prinny approved,” Mrs. Holcum said. “He missed an opportunity to have the sizable estate revert to the crown. Not that I would say anything bad about the Regent, but to elevate a man of uncertain breeding …”

“I met Shermont several years ago,” Mrs. Matthews said. “He had an accent I couldn’t place, definitely unrefined. Perhaps he is a Colonial, like your cousin,” she added to Deirdre.

Eleanor bristled and would have made a scathing comment about intentional rudeness, but Mina quickly remarked, “I find her accent charming.”

“We are at war with the United States,” Mrs. Holcum said with a sniff.

“I understand your concern for your brother serving in the Navy, but England is not at war with our cousin,” Deirdre said, putting deliberate emphasis on the last two words.

Mrs. Holcum pressed her lips into a hard white line, saying no more along the ugly American theme. Eleanor decided to cut the woman some slack. She’d forgotten about the War of 1812, as it was known in America. Although the presence of men in uniform was mentioned several times in Jane Austen’s work, Eleanor had always assumed they were destined to fight Napoleon.

“The Americans. The French. Is there anyone we’re not fighting?” Fiona sighed. “These wars have created a dearth of available young men, and any still in England speak of nothing else.” She propped her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her chin in her hand. Her mother tutted her disapproval, so Fiona sat up as straight as a yardstick and folded her hands in her lap.