“I’m sure you don’t need to pull Mr. Newton away from our company so soon.”
Lydia was at a loss for words. Though she had known Mr. Newton for only a few hours, she was almost certain that his taste did not, would not … should not … run toward a girl who thought the length of thread a grievous matter. Lydia’s first inclination was to protest this travesty. Fortunately, Mr. Newton knew his way around a drawing room.
“As much as I would like to stay, Mrs. Whitfield, I am here on business, and until it is concluded, I must soldier on.” The words were spoken with just the right amount of world-weariness to elicit an accepting sigh from the ladies. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner,” he concluded.
“Oh, yes, of course. Soldier on, Mr. Newton, soldier on.” Cousin Elaine spoke in a breathy voice laden with intensity. “We will see you this evening.”
Mr. Newton nodded, glanced at Lydia with humor in his eyes, and then rose, slipping his penny knife back into his coat pocket. They said nothing to each other until they had descended to the ground floor, and even then, Lydia made no reference to the obvious matchmaking that had been going on in the drawing room.
“Are your meetings with Uncle and Mr. Drury already over, Mr. Newton? So soon?”
“Would that it were so, Miss Whitfield. I’m afraid that both gentlemen have made themselves unavailable.”
Lydia gritted her teeth for a moment and then smiled—somewhat wanly—at the man walking beside her. “Perhaps we should use the morning room to continue our discussion,” she said, gesturing away from the study. “It’s brighter, and I feel a sudden need of a lighter atmosphere. Might even open a window for fresh air. Roseberry is getting quite stuffy and overbearing.” They both knew she was not talking about the manor.
Chapter 4
In which Mr. Newton is afflicted with an odd state of the dismals
The morning room was a much brighter chamber than the study, Robert observed. It seemed equally beloved, with its large bay windows, yellow walls, and charming watercolors of gardens and farm children. There was an informal atmosphere in the room that was unexpected. Not that such a place existed in Roseberry, but that Miss Whitfield had chosen this room to continue their conversation.
It was a business conversation, or so he thought.
“Mr. Newton, there is a matter other than the governing of the estate that I would like to discuss with you.”
Her words did not sound ominous, but there was a sudden stiffness to the way she was walking that garnered Robert’s attention. He waited for her to explain, but she, instead, waved him to one of the chairs by the unlit chimneypiece and seated herself on the settee opposite. And still he waited.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Whitfield?”
She was now staring out the window, skyward, as if there were something of particular interest in the empty air.
“Miss Whitfield?”
“Oh. I do apologize. I was thinking about sowing oats.”
Robert didn’t remember the mention of a grain crop. “Instead of apples?”
“Pardon?” Miss Whitfield brought her gaze back down to earth and into the morning room of Roseberry Hall. “No, no.” She laughed a very pretty trill. “Poor Barley. He said something about sowing wild oats—Is something wrong?”
Shocking revelations would be part and parcel of a solicitor’s daily routine, and Robert thought himself prepared, but to hear that Lord Aldershot had used such an expression in Miss Whitfield’s hearing was appalling. Though it was apparent that she did not know that men sowed wild oats in the company of light-skirts.
Without comment, Robert nodded for her to continue—reestablishing his attitude of nonchalance with only a smidgen of difficulty.
“As I was saying, Barley has not had the funds to sow any oats—wild or otherwise—nor to kick up his heels and live a little. It’s no wonder he feels … Well, that is easily rectified. We shall add an allowance to compensate—throughout our betrothal. Yes, that will give him the chance to go to London and be frivolous before he has to settle down and play the devoted family man. Yes, that will do quite nicely.”
Robert remained silent. He thought it might be a worthwhile policy when a client was being enigmatic. He would understand soon enough … or he wouldn’t. There were only those two possibilities.
“Yes, that is just what I’ll do.”
Her smile was full of life and mischief, and for a moment, Robert could think of nothing other than how appealing Miss Whitfield looked when her eyes sparkled. Overcome by a sudden desire to join her on the settee, he shook the distracting thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the topic at hand. What were they talking about? “An allowance?” he said, finally remembering.
With a sigh of what seemed to be satisfaction, Miss Whitfield nodded. “Yes. Can we add that to the contract?”
“Contract?”
“Yes. Oh, I do beg your pardon. I am starting at the end rather than the beginning. I would like a contract to be drawn up—a marriage contract—between Lord Aldershot and me. I have asked Barley to return tomorrow at two to discuss it—I hope that time is convenient for you.”
Robert barely had time to say “of course” before Miss Whitfield continued.
“I thought we could go over the particulars of a usual contract, then add in what I hope will be agreeable to Barley. I am concerned about the welfare of my mother and sister when the estates are joined, and I would like to retain control of as much of Roseberry as possible.”
This time when Robert offered the standard “of course,” Miss Whitfield hesitated and tossed him a thoughtful look. He should have hidden his amusement a little better. He had noticed her wish to regulate everything—and everyone—around her, and while he found it both unusual and impressive, it was an opinion best kept to himself.
“I imagine Barley will have a few stipulations of his own. We can discuss them tomorrow.… Oh, yes, and an allowance should be included.”
“Are you sure you wish to offer Lord Aldershot money before the marriage?”
“It smacks of paying him to marry me, doesn’t it? I’m not, I assure you. Well, I suppose some will see it that way—probably best to keep that tidbit confidential. I’m sure Mr. Lynch and Barley will agree—to the confidentiality, that is. Now, where were we?”
And so the afternoon continued as Robert noted Miss Whitfield’s addendums. While there was much he had to learn about contracts of this sort, he could explain that her father’s estate would essentially become Lord Aldershot’s property, to be passed down to their children. She was unaware that the law did little to support her claim once they were conjoined.
“Barley has never shown any interest in the farm.”
“I hope that it is ever thus, Miss Whitfield.”
“Yes, so do I.”