Perhaps, he thought as they completed the walk without talking, she would think twice about her decision to move to Warren Hall with her family in light of this conversation and her opinion of him. Perhaps she would decide to stay here at Rundle Park, where she would not have to suffer his arrogance and contempt and bad temper. Sir Humphrey Dew was not a marvelously sensible man, but he was undeniably genial and he was obviously as fond of his daughter-in-law as he was of his own daughters.
She must be comfortable here.
He hoped fervently she would think twice.
But of course she did not.
The long wait was finally over. Young Merton called at the inn on the fifth evening to announce that he and his sisters - all three of them, alas - would be ready to leave on the morrow, and the following morning they showed themselves to be as good as their word. Or almost. When Elliott and George rode their hired horses along the village street to the Huxtable cottage, having settled their account at the inn, all four travelers were out of doors, dressed for the journey. The baggage coach George had hired was loaded with all their baggage. Elliott's traveling coach was drawn up before the cottage gate, its door wide open, its steps down ready to receive the ladies.
But there was a delay. Not only were the three Huxtables and Mrs. Dew out of doors and gathered before the cottage. So also were surely all the rest of the inhabitants of the village of Throckbridge - /and /their dogs.
Miss Huxtable was on the garden path, hugging the housekeeper, who was to remain behind in the cottage. Miss Katherine Huxtable was outside the gate, hugging an unknown villager. Merton was shaking hands with the vicar while his left arm was draped about the shoulders of a sobbing young girl - the very one who had giggled her way through the Valentine's assembly just a week ago. And Mrs. Dew was in the arms of Sir Humphrey, while the rest of his family clustered about them, handkerchiefs in hand, all looking tragic. Tears trickled unabashedly down the baronet's cheeks.
Other persons appeared to be awaiting their turn with all four.
A terrier, a collie, and a canine of indeterminate breed were rushing hither and yon, barking and yipping with excitement and occasionally meeting and stopping to sniff noses. "One wonders," Elliott said dryly as he drew his horse to a halt well short of the main action, "if there is a single villager who has remained at home this morning." "It is an affecting sight," George agreed, "and a testament to the closeness of neighbors in a small village." A village lad was holding the head of the horse Merton had purchased from the stables at Rundle, Elliott could see, and was fairly bursting with pride as two of his less fortunate peers gazed enviously on.
Foolishly, Elliott had expected to ride up to the cottage, assist the ladies into his carriage, and depart along a deserted street without further ado. Six days in Throckbridge should have forewarned him that the departure would not be that simple. The fact that young Stephen Huxtable was now the Earl of Merton was spectacular news enough, but the added fact that he and his sisters were to leave Throckbridge, perhaps forever, was of far more moment.
Lady Dew had stepped through the garden gate to exchange a few words with Miss Huxtable, and then the two of them were hugging each other.
One of the Dew sisters was weeping rather noisily on Mrs. Dew's shoulder.
It was a scene to outdo even the most sentimental of melodramas on any London stage. "We have changed all their lives forever," George observed. "One can only hope it is for the better." "/We /have changed their lives? I had nothing whatsoever to do with Jonathan Huxtable's demise, George. Neither did you, it is to be hoped.
And it was not I who agreed to be guardian to a boy who would never be a mature adult - and then to /another /boy, who will not achieve his majority for four more years. It was my father." Elliott felt for the handle of the quizzing glass beneath his greatcoat and raised it to his eye. No, Mrs. Dew was not in tears, but there was a look of deep grief and affection on her face. Obviously it was not easy for her to say good-bye to her in-laws. Then why the devil was she doing it? She wore a gray cloak and bonnet. There were glimpses of a lavender dress beneath the cloak. She was still in partial mourning after more than a year. Perhaps she had been fond of the consumptive Dew whom she had married. Perhaps she had not married him just out of pity or from a desire to attach her-self to the family of a baronet.
It would be as well for her when she left off her mourning. Those colors - if they could be called colors at all - did nothing whatsoever for her. They looked quite hideous on her, in fact.
And /why /was he allowing a woman with no pretensions to either beauty or conduct to ruffle his feathers?
He looked about him impatiently.
His arrival had been noted, he was relieved to see, and the remaining farewells were being said in some haste. Miss Huxtable nodded briskly to him, Miss Katherine Huxtable smiled and raised a hand in greeting, and Merton strode along the street to shake each of them by the hand, his eyes burning with some inner fire. "We are ready," he told them. "But there are just a few more farewells to say, as you can see." He turned back into the throng. Within minutes, though, he handed his eldest and youngest sisters into the carriage, while Sir Humphrey performed the courtesy for Mrs. Dew, patting her hand and pressing a wad of something that looked like money into her palm as he did so. He stepped back, drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose loudly.
And finally and miraculously they were on their way only half an hour or so later than Elliott had planned - or five days later, depending upon which plan one was considering.
He had expected all this to be relatively easy - a journey down to Throckbridge in two days, a day here to deliver the news and prepare the boy, a two-day journey back to Warren Hall with the new Merton, and then an immediate and intensive training program so that he would be fit for his new role before summer came.
But his plans had already gone awry, as he should have expected as soon as he knew there were women involved. He had sisters of his own and knew how they could hopelessly complicate the simplest of plans. Instead of allowing their brother to go with him and George and get settled before even thinking about joining him, these sisters had decided to accompany him now. Including Mrs. Nessie Dew.
He conveniently forgot that it was Merton himself who had insisted that they go to Warren Hall with him.
All he /did /know for sure was that he now had responsibility for Merton /and /his three sisters, all of whom were great-grandchildren of an earl, but none of whom had been brought up to the life they must now live. They had spent their lives in this village, for God's sake, the children of the late vicar. Until today they had been living in a cottage that would fit into the grand entrance of Warren Hall. They wore clothes they had obviously made - and mended - themselves. The youngest girl had been teaching in the village school. The eldest had done as much work about the house as the housekeeper. The widow - well, the least said about her the better.
But /one /thing that could be said of her was that she was incredibly naive. They were /all /going to have to be brought up to scratch, and it was not going to be easy. Neither was it something they could do alone without assistance.
They were going to need husbands, and those husbands were going to have to be gentlemen of the /ton /since they were now the sisters of an earl.
In order to find respectable husbands among the /ton, /they were going to have to be formally presented to society. They were going to need a Season or two in London. And in order to be presented and taken about during a Season, they were going to need a sponsor.
A /lady /sponsor.
They could /not /do it alone.
And /he /could not do it. He could not take three ladies to London with him and start escorting them about to all the parties and balls with which the Season abounded. It was just not done. It would be scandalous.
And though he had courted scandal quite outrageously on numerous occasions during the past ten years or so, he had not done so during the past year. He had been the epitome of strict respectability. He had had no choice. The days of his careless young manhood had come to an abrupt end with his father's death.