Page 3 of Lady Controversial
The ladies descended from Ellery’s travelling chaise. As always, his mother found something to complain about before her feet had even touched the ground.
‘The state of the roads is quite shocking, Ellery,’ she said, making it sound as though the responsibility for the highways’ maintenance rested on his shoulders. ‘Really, something should be done about it. We have been jolted about in a quite appalling manner and I am absolutely sure that I shall be bruised black and blue, and that will likely bring on another rash.’
‘I am sorry if you’ve been made uncomfortable, Mother,’ Ellery replied, winking at Jemima, well aware that his carriage was the last word in luxury. Well sprung and conveyed by four high-steppers, it would be impossible for anyone to travel in more comfort.
‘I did suggest your remaining in town to save yourself the inconvenience of a journey you detest,’ he continued. Having dismounted and handed his stallion to the groom who came running to take its reins, he offered his arm to his mother. She leaned heavily on it and appeared to have developed a limp since leaving London. Aware that she was as strong as an ox and likely to outlive them all, Ellery refrained from remarking upon her latest infirmity.
‘I hope I know my duty,’ his mother replied. ‘You gentlemen will be shooting and I shall entertain the ladies. You would be hard pressed to manage the arrangements without me. Don’t worry about my inconvenience.’
‘If you insist, Mother, I shall not give it another thought.’
‘Really, Ellery, must we mix with the hoi polloi?’ Lady Finchdean twitched her nose when she entered the cramped inn, where the smell of damp bodies and smoking fires clearly met with parental disapproval. ‘Is a private parlour not available? I cannot help wondering why you did not arrange one for our comfort, indeed I cannot. This is intolerable and I am bound to catch something or other from these…these people.’ She swung an arm in a wide arch, narrowly avoiding clumping a fellow traveller with her reticule in which she carried a whole range of medicines that made the bag heavy enough to have knocked the man unconscious had it made contact with his head. For all her supposed frailty, Ellery’s mother was a large woman who packed a formidable punch.
‘Have a care, mother,’ Ellery said, nodding an apology to the offended man.
‘I am not the one at fault,’ she replied indignantly, putting up her chin. ‘That oaf should have cleared a path for me.’
Ellery managed to find a vacant corner table in the area adjoining the taproom, at which he installed his mother and sisters. Lady Finchdean continued to criticise everything, seldom pausing to allow anyone other than Sally to join in. Sally could always be depended upon to support their mother’s opinions and was turning into her mirror image. Ellery had little respect for her weak-willed husband and wondered how he tolerated Sally’s constant criticisms. He should have nipped her tendencies in the bud at the start of their marriage, Ellery knew, or he would lose control of his wife, much as Ellery’s own respected father had lost control of his. But George was far too easy-going to rein Sally in, and anyway, it was hardly the sort of advice that Ellery could dole out without causing offence.
Mercifully, priority had been given to changing the team conveying his chaise, and his party would negotiate the final leg of the journey with their own horses between the shafts. With the ladies reinstalled in the carriage, Ellery swung into Legacy’s saddle. He had ridden his spirited grey all the way from London and he still seemed as fresh and eager to stretch his legs as he had been at the start of the journey. He was a new acquisition and Ellery was so far delighted with him.
Ellery’s spirits lifted even more when the tall chimneys of Finchdean Hall came into sight. He spurred Legacy forward and galloped up the long driveway, gravel flying from Legacy’s hooves as he ate up the ground, putting in the occasional buck for good measure. Ellery drew rein in front of the house and stared up at the ivy-clad façade, drinking in the sight of the house he adored. Memories of his childhood, romping in the grounds and generally causing mayhem flooded his mind. The sight temporarily chased away his dire mood, brought on by George Fox’s remark about Brooke and the accusations he had made.
Accusations that Ellery had yet to decide how to handle.
He left the servants to help the ladies alight and walked into the house, where he was greeted by his man, Lawson.
‘Welcome home, my lord.’
‘Thanks, Lawson,’ Ellery replied. Lawson had only left London a day ahead of Ellery, but Ellery could tell the moment he entered his library that his efficient right-hand man had everything under control. ‘Any news for me regarding that damned cottage?’
‘Yes, my lord. There is a Rose Cottage on the edge of the village. It had been vacant for some considerable time.’
Ellery breathed more easily. ‘Is it part of this estate? Can’t say that I’ve come across the name.’
‘No, my lord. It’s privately owned and poorly maintained.’
‘Derelict and uninhabited, you say?’ Ellery’s relief was palpable. ‘In that case Brooke is talking out of his backside. I thought as much.’
‘I said it had been vacant, my lord. What I should have made clear is that it was recently reoccupied.’
Ellery, who had been flicking through his correspondence, jerked his head round. ‘Who has taken it?’ he asked.
‘A family by the name of Crawley, I am given to understand. One assumes they are the same Crawleys that Brooke referred to.’
‘One does indeed.’ Ellery’s spirits plummeted as quickly as they had risen. ‘Damn,’ he muttered.
Chapter Two
Isolda tried but failed to ignore the gossip in the village and especially in the cottage regarding the earl’s return. Isolda had absolutely no idea where Jane garnered her information from, nor could she be bothered to enquire. Every bone in her body ached as a result of the manual labour she had been obliged to undertake in an effort to preserve their dwindling funds, both in the grounds and in the cottage itself. It was half derelict, the parlour uninhabitable due to a large hole in the thatch, and if they were to live there indefinitely then the rot would have to be stopped.
Quite literally.
‘Well, miss, I’m reckoning itcouldbe saved.’ Mr Bruton, a man from the village who claimed to work wonders with property defects of any nature and was reputed to be cheap and reliable, stared up at the hole in question and tutted. ‘Of course, them struts are rotted through and will have to be replaced. Ain’t no help for it,’ he tutted again. ‘Tricky things, struts.’
Isolda agreed that they very likely were, thinking that perhaps she ought to have worn a gown rather than her customary breeches. It was obvious that Mr Bruton was highly offended by her unconventional attire and didn’t know quite what to make of her. Word would spread through the village by nightfall, and highly exaggerated reasons for her preferences would likely be reached in the taproom at the George and Dragon. For herself she didn’t much care, but since she had invested so much of their wealth into Jane’s future, she decided that she really ought to make more of an effort to preserve her sister’s reputation. ‘How soon can the work be carried out and how much will it cost?’
‘Well now...’ That question required further pondering and a great deal of chin rubbing. ‘I’m reckoning we could make a start next week. Course, iffing Mrs Arnold needs her henhouse fixed up then it could delay matters.’
