Lady of the Lock Page 9

She’d swear a faint blush tinged his cheeks as Montsale glanced down the length of the Tea Room. “I fear that is not quite the tale that reached Castle Carewe. The Bath gossip-mongers have you all but wed.”

  Mandy opened her mouth to rebut this statement in her usual forthright manner, when the truth slammed home. Oh, dear God, no! It wasn’t possible. Carewe wouldn’t . . .

  He had. That’s what Montsale was doing in Bath. He’d been sent to pry his brother from her unsuitable clutches. When she’d thought . . . hoped . . . rejoiced he’d come to her at last.

  How utterly mortifying.

  A rush of fury struck away her hurt. Her chin came up, green eyes sparking cold fire. “Such an unfortunate misunderstanding,” she declared. “I suppose you have come to save him from the tradesman’s daughter, the evil fortune hunter who would taint the Challenor line.” She stood, overriding his protests with a spate of words. “May I say I feel quite sorry for your family, my lord. They could benefit from a influx of good red middle-class blood, for ’tis painfully clear the Challenors are much in need of a strength of character that seems to have gone missing in recent generations.”

  On that Parthian shot, Mandy strode, skirts swishing, back to the ballroom, pausing only long enough to offer her Papa a fierce smile as she passed the table in the Octagon Room where he was playing whist. She arrived in the ballroom for her dance with Luke Appleton just as the set was forming and found his ear-to-ear smile of relief a welcome panacea for her considerably exacerbated feelings. There was a great deal to be said for engineers, solicitors, even half-pay officers. They recognized a young lady’s sterling character, even if her family tree was not littered with dukes and earls and viscounts and—

  Devil take it! (Only an expletive borrowed from Papa and his engineers fit the shock of admitting reality.) Her obsession with Montsale was ruining her life. Never again would she allow the miserable man into her thoughts!

  As good as his word, the Marquess of Montsale departed for London the following morning, taking his brother with him. A few of the Bath gossips, mostly cronies of the Dowager Baroness Tynsdale, maintained they were mystified by the brevity of Montsale’s visit, but the majority of the Pump Room habitués, led by Lady Pontesbury and Lady Silverdale, wallowed in speculation. With sly glances, adder-like tongues, and excited whispers that carried all too well, they spoke with malicious satisfaction of the downfall of a certain encroaching young female’s hopes of becoming Lady Jeremy. Others nodded wisely and spoke of history repeating itself.

  While John Merriwether looked ready to strangle a dowager or three, Mandy adopted Montsale’s indifferent mien and gave every indication of having turned deaf and dumb. Through it all, Hetty clung to her side, with Alan Tharp, Luke Appleton, Peter Prescott, Avery Rutherford, Peyton Farnborough, and Captain Gideon Dunstan providing a stalwart phalanx at every social event. For which Mandy was abjectly grateful. Though when her anger wore off, leaving only hurt behind, she was forced to acknowledge the truth. She had been Lady of the Lock so long, a young woman of free spirit and independence, she had allowed herself to hope, had never been able to give up her dream.

  This last incident, however, was . . . humbling. Bringing home, as nothing else could, the impossibility of her affections. The navvies might respect their Lady of the Lock, but to the ton she was a figure of fun. Daily, Mandy reminded herself she was a Merriwether, daughter of the man who had designed and built the Kennet and Avon canal. She would not be cowed into subservience. Yet the shine was gone from her season in Bath. She could only endure, grateful for the friends who stood by her.

  In mid-February the Oglethorpes returned home for a few weeks before making the journey to London, where Hetty would be brought out my her mother’s cousin, the Viscountess Ellesmere. Mandy, in spite of her vow to ignore the Marquess of Montsale, had no little difficulty repressing twinges of envy. Though Papa and she might have a house in Mayfair, they had no claim on the hallowed ton, whose members were rather like gods gazing down from Mount Olympus.

  Except their tongues were their swords and their feet of clay.

  So there!

  Mandy forced herself to think of something less depressing. Of Hetty’s glowing eyes as she anticipated her London come-out, knowing that Captain Gideon Dunstan planned to follow her there. The captain, it seemed, was the younger son of a baron, giving him entré to the best society, if not quite the income Hetty’s parents might have wished. Yet after enjoying the attentions of a good many young gentlemen in Bath, Hetty still seemed to have a special place in her heart for the wounded captain. Mandy sincerely wished her well, while secretly hoping her friend might remain unwed for another year, leaving her free to spend a second winter season in Bath.

  And now, with sinking heart, she was climbing the hill to Gay Street, knowing full well Aunt Tynsdale was about to comb her hair with a joint stool, call her a great flibbertigibbet for refusing three perfectly respectable offers, and an ingrate to boot. For which Mandy had not one iota of defense. Except it was not the first time she had refused Luke Appleton and Peter Prescott, and she suspected they would have been quite disconcerted if she accepted offers made at the end of an assembly after far too many glasses of punch. As for Mr. Avery Rutherford, her aunt’s solicitor, Mandy shuddered at what Aunt Tynsdale might say.

  She was not left long in doubt. Mandy had scarce removed her bonnet and stripped off her gloves when she heard Miss Grimley’s stentorian tones. “Shocking, I tell you, whistling such a good man down the wind!”

  “Mind your tongue, Cordelia. The girl has finer strings to her bow than a Bath solicitor.”

  Mandy gulped and strode forward before she could be accused of eavesdropping. “Aunt, Miss Grimley.” She curtsied.

  “Sit, sit.” Lady Tynsdale waved Mandy to a chair directly in front of her. “So,” she declared, perusing her great-niece from head to toe, “given them all the go-by, have you? And what makes you so niffy-naffy in your tastes, child?”

  Mandy had spent a good portion of her climb from Laura Place to Gay Street preparing for this question. “I am scarce turned eighteen, Aunt,” she returned in as humble tones as a young lady of considerable independence could manage. “I would prefer to take the time to expand my acquaintances. And I would also wish to see the canal finished. Papa needs me.”

  “Humph!” echoed from Miss Grimley.

  The Dowager Lady Tynsdale said nothing, merely nodding to the butler as he placed the silver tea tray before her. Silence reigned as she poured for each of them. After her first sip of the smoky Lapsang Souchong, which was her favorite, the dowager once again fixed her gaze on Mandy. “And what of Montsale?”

  Mandy sputtered tea into her cup, her saucer wavering wildly. She coughed.

  “Goodness, child, do you think I have no ears? Everyone knows Carewe had to drag Montsale away from you two years ago, and that he sent him to do the same for young Jeremy. Except his strategy failed, as Montsale made his way straight to your side, with the two of you smelling of April and May the entire time he was here.”

  “Two days, Aunt. And we scarcely spoke. Montsale did exactly what he was sent here to do—remove Lord Jeremy from my wicked influence.”

  “To clear a path for himself more like,” her aunt returned a trifle smugly.

  Mandy gasped. “You are quite mistaken, Aunt. Any . . . attachment we might have had is long in the past.”

  “But not rooted out of your heart.”

  Mandy straightened in indignation, mouth open to protest, then slowly set her tea cup down. She settled back in her chair, shoulders slumping. “Not a tendre, Aunt, but a thorn in my side. A very large one, I fear, difficult to pluck out.”

  “Life as a spinster”—Miss Grimley swallowed hard, her face twisting as she glanced at the dowager—“even when one is blessed with a kind-hearted employer, cannot compare to one’s own home, to creating a family, raising children of your own.”

  “And that, my child,” said Lady Tynsdale, continuing her compani
on’s reasoning, “is what happens when you set your sights too high. When none but the moon will do.”

  “That . . . or the other,” Miss Grimley intoned most ominously.

  Mandy considered for a moment before blushing a shade just short of crimson. “Oh, no, never, I wouldn’t, I assure you. I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  But it wasn’t true. Sometimes in the deep dark reaches of the night, with her pillow wet with tears, she had considered the alternative—mistress to the Marquess of Montsale.

  But she could never shame Papa so. Nor Papa’s engineers who treated her as if she were one of those old Greek or Roman statues, high on a pedestal. Nor the navvies . . . who had named her Lady of the Lock.

  Nor herself. As much as she might long to take the fall into the muslin company for a love that would not go away.

  The Dowager Baroness cleared her throat, bringing back her niece’s straying attention. “Amanda, has your father ever told you about his father?”

  Mandy frowned at the sudden change of subject. “No, ma’am. He always avoids any discussion of his father. I have assumed”—Mandy bit her lip—“perhaps wrongly, that his birth might have been . . . ah, irregular.”

  Lady Tynsdale nodded. “I feared as much. And though I know it is not my place and your papa will be justifiably incensed, I think it is time you knew. One of the advantages of old age and being a widow,” she added, “is that I may do as I please.”

  Wide-eyed, Mandy could only stare, wondering what was coming.

  “The Americans,” Lady Tynsdale pronounced, “are building a country based on equality. Ours, however, is relentlessly snobbish. One’s ancestors are vitally important, even if they were rakes and wastrels.” Miss Grimley added a distinct sniff of agreement. “Even if they are connected on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  Dear God, what was her aunt saying? Unable to choke out so much as a squeak, Mandy fixed her gaze on her aunt and waited.

  “It is generally accepted, Amanda, that your father’s father was the Duke of Bridgewater.”

  Bridgewater? The canal Bridgewater? The man who began Britain’s network of canals?

  “Precisely,” Lady Tynsdale intoned, as she saw comprehension light her niece’s eyes. “That Bridgewater. You are the granddaughter of a duke. And endowed with all his dukely ancestors.”

  “I am the daughter of an architect-engineer,” Mandy returned steadily. “A man who was—is—a bastard. That is what I am, all I will ever be.”

  “Nonsense! Stand up for yourself, child! Noodling gains you nothing.”

  Bridgewater. Idly, Mandy picked up a macaroon and nibbled it. The Duke of Bridgewater was a legend. Undoubtedly, he had seen to Papa’s education, started him on his career. So it wasn’t as if he had ignored his bastard son . . .

  Which had to count for something.

  Granddaughter of a duke. Surely that had to count for something as well.

  She could almost hear the Challenors’ derisive laughter.

  Guess not.

  “We will be back to digging soon,” Mandy said. Not a change of subject.

  “Indeed,” Lady Tynsdale agreed, the single word filled with meaning.

  “Indeed,” echoed Miss Grimley, her pale eyes lighting with comprehension.

  “He was not in residence last year,” Mandy murmured, striving for reality.

  “My dear child, the dowager declared, “I had the tale from a dozen friends of how he looked at you. This year he will be.”

  Chapter Eleven

  March 1808

  Only someone of the most cheerful turn of mind could call March weather in Wiltshire clement, and Miss Amanda Merriwether was far from cheerful. After a cozy winter in Bath, she had almost forgotten what it was like to be chilled to the bone. But today the gray clouds above the Challenor tunnel site and stinging drops of rain that fell like shards of ice could only add to her gloom. The news from High Meadows? The master was not in residence.

  However, in spite of being out of spirits, Mandy refused her papa’s suggestion that they attend an occasional assembly in Hungerford or perhaps even Marlborough. She had experienced quite enough gaiety, she informed him a trifle too airily. It was high time they returned to work. Did he wish the tunnel project to drag on as long as the Caen Hill locks?

  Mandy did not ask her papa if he missed Isabelle Honeycutt, for she feared she would not like the answer. Yet she had to admit he showed no signs of pining, his looks of concern seemingly reserved for herself. Which quite shriveled her toes. No one, not even Papa, was allowed to feel sorry for the Lady of the Lock.

  At least the navvies still seemed to adore her. And her court of engineers remained faithful. Mr. Tharp, evidently forgetting the widow Baggett the moment he left Bath, had suggested only yesterday that it was time she called him Alan. Mandy sighed. An alliance with an engineer was inevitable, she supposed . . . although Papa had received a letter from Avery Rutherford, stating that he would be “passing through” Great Bedwyn at the end of the month and wished to call on them.

  Passing through, indeed. Mandy supposed it was possible Mr. Rutherford was traveling to London, or possibly to Marlborough, on business, but she rather expected he had invented an excuse to be in the vicinity of Great Bedwyn. Alas, the news raised her heartbeat not at all, but only added to her burden of guilt. Ungrateful wretch, her inner voice scolded. You should be on your knees thanking the good Lord for such a devoted array of good men!

  “. . . bricks.”

  “What? Beg pardon, Papa. What did you say?” John Merriwether and Alan Tharp were standing on the bank of the river, doing their daily morning consult, and Mandy, as always, was supposed to be taking notes.

  “We are short ten square yards of bricks,” John Merriwether repeated patiently. “Inform the mill of the shortage and tell them to have the bricks on the next boat out.”

  “You are starting to brick already, Papa?”

  “’Tis safer if we brick as we go.”

  She knew that, of course she knew that. How many times had she heard discussions on the subject? But somehow this spring she was living in a haze, not quite integrated into the world that had been her home for so many years.

  “Shall I write the letter now, Papa, or do you have more notes for me?”

  “Now, my dear. I’ll give you any further notes when I return from my inspection.”

  Mandy frowned. “Papa . . . will the brick walls not be damaged when debris from the dig is hauled out?”

  One thumb under his chin, John Merriwether studied his only child. What a chip off the same block she was, bred true from a father and grandfather with canals in the blood. If only she had been a boy . . . but then he would not have had the joy of seeing her blossom from an extraordinary young girl to a young lady who turned heads wherever she went, whether on the banks of the Avon or the Assembly Rooms in Bath. She was magnificent, his child, a helpmeet worthy of any man, commoner or king. And woe to those who broke her heart.

  “Why don’t you spend the day in Hungerford tomorrow?” John suggested. I’ll ask our landlord for the loan of young Davy to drive the gig—”

  “Papa, you know quite well I can drive to the inch!”

  “Indeed, Miss Indignation, but I’ll not send you haring off to town without an escort. Good God, child, do you think the men of Wiltshire are blind? I’d have the lot of them trailing you back to Great Bedwyn. Fortunately, Davy looks a great hulk, even if he’s tame as a pussycat. And,” John added, “you’re to keep him no farther away than a stone’s throw, is that clear? “Hungerford is a coaching town, and who knows what kind of men might be roaming the streets.”

  Recalling the many comfortable days they had spent in Hungerford in the past, Mandy sighed. “Sometimes, Papa, I am not at all certain I wish to grow up.”

  “I fear it’s too late, my Lady of the Lock,” Alan Tharp said. “Like it or not, you are at an age which invites danger.”

  Miss Merriwether proffered a look designed to flattened an e
lephant. “I assure you, Mr. Tharp, I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” With that, Mandy strode back to her tent, whose thick canvas sides were down due to the brisk March weather. But she could not fail to hear her papa call, “Nonetheless, you will take Davy.”

  Mandy plumped herself down at her traveling desk and spent some time scowling at its wooden surface, clean of all but standish and pen, before she opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. Bricks, she must think bricks. Bricks and mortar. If only she might find some magical bricks to sheer up her life.

  “Miss Merriwether, welcome back!” boomed the landlord of The Bear Inn in Hungerford, Mandy’s home for many months during the building of the Berkshire portion of the canal. He soon had her fixed in an obscure corner of the taproom, buffered by several empty tables. To her right was a window overlooking the garden, where green shoots gave promise of tulips and daffodils, although the current rather dreary prospect was lightened only by clumps of white narcissi. Tears misted Mandy’s eyes as familiar faces, from the landlord’s wife to the upstairs maid, came rushing to greet her. One of her many homes away from home, The Bear held a special place in her heart, and to think they remembered her so fondly . . .

  Mandy had to fish in her reticule for a handkerchief to wipe away a trickle of tears. These, she realized, were her people, the so-called “salt of the earth,” backbone of the country. People—like Papa, his engineers, and the navvies—who stuck to their daily tasks and kept the world around them moving. And like a series of giant gears, each circle of life connected to the next, expanding outward to encompass the globe. Though where that left those who neither toiled nor spun Mandy was uncertain. She should not care about idlers, of course, yet she could only suppose God must be tolerant of the noble rich for the ton seemed to thrive.

  As a loaf of bread, butter fresh from the creamery, and a bowl of steaming potato and leek soup was set before her, Mandy’s lips curled in a rueful smile. A female philosopher of eighteen—how Montsale would laugh. Taunt her, more like. And yet she suspected, for all his town bronze, hers was the wider circle of friends, hers the more realistic view of the world. Members of the ton lived in their own rarified bubble, seeing those outside it but dimly. If at all. A wavering glimpse, possibly a single touch before the bubble’s viscosity hardened, once again trapping the seeker inside. No contact allowed.