Page 57 of Miss Determined
Grandmama propped her cane against a wrought-iron chair shaded by the overhang of the portico and settled onto the cushion by deliberate degrees. “And is all well with our Mr. Dorning?”
He’s not ours, and he’s not Mr. Dorning.“No, actually. He claimed that a death in the family required his immediate remove to Town.”
“One cannot argue with death,” Grandmama said, closing her eyes. “I will miss him. He was a lovely fellow, and he seemed to take to Crosspatch as few of the Town tulips do. The air in spring smells so hopeful. If one must be commended to the earth, it should be on a day such as this.”
“The air smells like manure,” Caroline said. “Phillip always cleans out the loafing shed on his home farm when the weather warms up. Who died, Lissa? Was it Mr. Dorning’s step-mother?”
His step-mother, the former marchioness, of whom he’d spoken so fondly, the one who’d married a Dorning.
“He wasn’t specific,” Lissa said, thinking back. “A cousin.” One entangled with Trevor’s expectations—a fiancée sort of cousin, perhaps? A fictitious sort of cousin?
Though Trevor’s upset had seemed real.
“He’s going to London, though, right?” Caroline set her book aside. “And you are going to London. You can resume your friendship in Town.”
Any interest Lissa had had in a return to London—little enough to begin with—had clattered out of sight along with Trevor’s sumptuous traveling coach. Crests displayed, matched grays in the traces, liveried coachman and grooms…
Ye gods, he was the Marquess of Tavistock. Theirlandlord, a notorious pinchpenny until recently, and he’d… Why had he come to Crosspatch, and why had he lingered?
“I’m off to have a look at the bluebell wood,” Caroline said. “Maybe it will bloom early this year if the weather stays mild.”
“Fetch a hat,” Lissa said, though Caroline’s hats ended up hanging from tree branches, floating down the Twid, or pressed into service as a trug for flowers and medicinals.
“Your father loved to roam the countryside,” Grandmama said, opening her eyes as Caroline dashed into the house. “Gavin and Caroline get that from him.” Grandmama was being kind, offering Lissa a change of subject if she wanted one.
She wanted for Trevor to be who he’d said he was. “Grandmama, I can’t abide the thought of setting foot in London again.”
“But your Mr. Dorning will be there. Has he played you false, Lissa?”
“In a sense.” She took up Caroline’s book, lest it be forgotten out in the elements. “The man who told us he’s Trevor Dorning is, in fact, the current Marquess of Tavistock, Grandmama. The peer. Our landlord. Son of the strutting popinjay who would not sell Twidboro to us twenty years ago. He’s the fellow who threatened to raise our rent.”
“And who apparently changed his mind, at least about the rent.” Grandmama rearranged her shawl. “I did notice a resemblance, but then, the old marquess was something of a Lothario. Many of his ilk behaved no better, and nobody remarked it as long as they supported the fruits of their diversions.”
What sort of society regarded siring hapless children born into scandal as a diversion? “You noticed a resemblance, but you didn’t say anything to me?”
“Lady Cowper’s paternity is a mystery, apparently even to her, and she’s a patroness at Almack’s. I thought it quite possible Mr. Dorning—the fellow we thought was Mr. Dorning—was old Lord Tavistock’s unacknowledged by-blow, or an acknowledged one. Does it matter?”
“I wish you’d mentioned that.” Though Trevor had said in plain English that the marquess was his father. Lissa had assumed Trevor was illegitimate, and he had not corrected her error. She could not recall her precise words, though she could conjure up every detail of what had followed Trevor’s disclosure.
“Will you cower here in Crosspatch so you can strike Tavistock from the rolls of eligibles too, Lissa? He seemed like a charming young man, though every bounder in Mayfair claims a full complement of charm.”
He’d said he meant to propose, but then he hadn’t proposed.
He’d said he was Tavistock’s son, but had not admitted that he himself was the marquess.
He’d said his remove to Town would be soon, but then he’d planned to depart without a farewell.
“I cannot trust him,” Lissa muttered. “I did trust him, and he wasn’t who I thought he was.”
Grandmama took up the Wordsworth. “Dearest child, nobody is who we think they are. This is the real challenge in any marriage. You speak your vows, perhaps having known each other for years, perhaps for weeks, but there are always disappointments and surprises. Your grandfather snored—loudly. He was not prepared for me to be peevish about limitations on my pin money.”
She smiled at the closed book. “We rowed,” she went on. “We sulked, we made up, until we rowed again. It took us years to reach smooth sailing, and then your grandfather got up to the sort of foolishness men of a certain age are infamous for. He was wealthy by then, and his coin allowed him to be a very great idiot indeed.”
“Opera dancers?” Lissa asked, half fascinated and half fearing the answer.
“Two in particular, upon whom he lavished his generosity all the way to Ludgate and back. Your father became aware of the situation and delivered a stern set-down to his sire. The foolishness stopped.”
And this memory caused Grandmama to smile fondly?
