Chapter Seven

Jemima had been quite surprised when her mother had hurried into the drawing room with a vase of purple hyacinths.

"These are from the Duke of Barstow," she said, setting the vase down. "There is no note, other than he has signed his name. I suppose he means the flowers to be the message."

"Sorrow?" Jemima asked.

"And regret," her mother said. "Do not forget about regret."

Jemima was entirely nonplussed. Sorrow and regret for what, though? That he'd been rude? That she was not up to his high-flown standards? It was not a very clear message!

And why could she not stop thinking about what he'd said about her hair? He admired it. He said only a madman would condemn it.

She supposed she'd been struck by it because it was the first and only thing he'd admired about her.

But his opinions were not meant to matter. She'd said so to Aggie and her mother several times.

Flowers. Why had he gone to the trouble? What did he really mean to say?

"Well, the duke may not have the smoothest way about him," her mother continued, "but I do think these flowers must indicate he means well. He has a good heart, he has made an apology, and then sent flowers."

Jemima shrugged, unwilling to give up the point. It might be true, or it might not be. And then, what matter if it were true that the duke regretted his words? He still thought them, even if he was sorry he'd said them aloud. He did not see her charms.

She was not all that certain that she saw her charms either, but certainly there was some gentleman out in the world who would see them. Her old nursemaid always liked to say there was a top to every teapot. At the time, she'd taken that to mean that tea would go cold and not be very nice if the teapot did not have a top. Now she thought Meggy had meant that there was somebody for everybody.

Meggy was probably right, she'd ended marrying a local farmer and it had seemed to come as a great surprise to everybody.

So, Jemima Fornay must just find her somebody.

"Shall we go to the park?" her mother asked. "I can take the carriage and you can take Athena—your mare must be itching to stretch her legs."

Jemima jumped up from the sofa. Whatever her charms were or were not, she was an excellent rider. The fresh air would do her good.

An hour later, Jemima was in her rather smashing new riding habit, a very dark green worsted wool skirt with a matching coat sporting velvet cuffs and collar and discreet brass buttons down the front. Athena had been led the short distance to the park by a groom who rode Baroness, a rather staid old mare who gamely attempted to follow Athena wherever she went.

Now, they'd found a mounting block and she'd been helped into the saddle.

Athena, a mare whose sire was a descendant of Highflyer and whose dam was a heavy-boned Percheron, was everything wished for in a horse. She had speed, she had strength and stamina, and she was responsive to her rider. Athena pawed the grass enthusiastically and Jemima was well aware of what she wanted. She wished for a gallop, as they would do in the countryside, flying over hill and dale. In the country, there was nobody to tell her to slow down, but for the occasional farmer whose fence she'd just sailed over.

Perhaps a ride quite like that was not possible in the park, but Jemima was determined to do what she could for her horse.

Her mother was in an open barouche. "Mama," Jemima said, "Athena is feeling her oats. If Barnes takes you down the carriage road, it takes that sharp bend to the south. I can set off here going southwest and then we'd end meeting in a very few minutes. I'd hardly be out of sight and, really, Athena must gallop or she will go mad and kick down her stall door."

The grooms nodded gravely, as they knew all too well that was a possibility. Athena pawed the ground and danced sideways to further cement the idea.

The duchess looked skeptical, but then she also was well-acquainted with Athena's temperament. There had been stall doors kicked open on more than one occasion. Once, when Jemima had been laid low with influenza, they'd discovered Athena on the front drive and her stall door in pieces of broken wood. It seemed the horse decided that if Jemima would not come to the stables, then she would come to the house.

"Danny will follow me on Baroness," Jemima said.

Her mother turned to the groom. "Do you think Baroness can keep up?"

Danny tugged at his cap. "As long as Lady Jemima don't push Athena too hard, Baroness here will put in a mighty effort. She likes to be by Athena's side."

"Jemima?" the duchess said. "If I allow it, you must not leave your groom too far behind."

"Yes, Mama," Jemima said. Though really, Baroness was a plodding sort of horse and she had no idea how the stolid mare was to keep up with her quicksilver Athena.

"Very well, then. Barnes," the duchess said to their coachman, "continue on to where the well-trodden footpath joins the road. We will meet there."

Barnes nodded, gently slapped the reins on the carriage horses, and they set off.

"Come Athena," Jemima said, "let us have a wild gallop."

Jemima urged her horse forward, though Athena never did need much urging. Behind her, she heard Danny call, "There was nothing said about a wild gallop, my lady!"

Jemima laughed into the wind. Really, Danny had been in service at the estate for above two years. What on earth did he think would happen? Athena would no more wait for Baroness than a rooster waited for noon.

It was positively glorious to gallop on the grass and Athena deftly wound her way around trees and shrubs. The air smelled sweeter and she felt she could breathe deeper. Jemima realized that she missed the countryside. London was meant to be the center of the world, the place everybody wished to be. However, being crowded in by buildings and cobblestones had hemmed in her spirit.

Here, galloping, she was freer than she had been since she arrived. Here, she felt more like herself. It was as if she'd been going along with a small and secret feeling of needing to apologize for herself. She'd claimed to her maid, and her mother for that matter, that she was confident in herself. She would be herself, and consequences be damned. Now she could see that there had been some little voice inside that had questioned that opinion. Some little awful voice had begun to wonder what others thought of her. The wind on her face shook off that annoying little voice.

In the distance, she could hear Danny shouting behind her, as poor Baroness seemed to have quite given up on the whole thing.

Then, a second voice was shouting. It was shouting at her to slow down. That voice that both moved her and enraged her—the Duke of Barstow.

Must he ruin every joyful moment? There were a hundred places in London he could be this minute, why must he put himself in the park shouting at her?

She did not turn round and she did not rein in. Jemima continued on, only slowing when she neared the agreed-upon meeting place.

The duchess' carriage had made the turn to go south, she could see it approaching in the distance.

The sound of hoofbeats were behind her, the hoofbeats of more than one horse if her hearing did not betray her.

"Lady Jemima," Danny said breathlessly. The groom glanced at the road and looked very relieved to note that as far as the duchess would know it, he and Baroness had somehow managed to keep up.

Then the duke reined in his horse.

He sat atop a sixteen-hand black stallion and looked rather marvelous doing it. If only he would present himself in silence and not say a word. She supposed she would like him very much in that attitude. She could stare at his marvelous physique and chiseled features and he could stare at her hair, which he seemed to like, and they would get on very well.

"Lady Jemima! Are you quite all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly all right, Duke."

"The speed though…"

Ah. Now the duke would make comment on her riding her horse at a gallop. What next? Would he condemn her for breathing too much air?

"I am quite used to the speed," she said tersely.

"I only say," the duke said. "Is it entirely wise? Considering?"

Jemima had a great wish to ask, considering what? She knew very well what, though. It somehow was not ladylike. Mr. Gamon had accused her of riding like a Tartar. But really, was it to be her fault that Mr. Gamon sat a horse as if he'd just arrived from a foreign land that did not have horses?

The duchess' carriage rolled to a stop. "Duke," her mother said, and rather too enthusiastically for Jemima's taste.

"The duke was just making comment on my riding, Mama," Jemima said pointedly. "Galloping, not approved of."

Confoundingly, the duchess completely ignored that piece of information. "How fortuitous that we should encounter you," she said to the duke. "We were not an hour ago admiring the flowers you sent."

"I am not sure it was we," Jemima muttered.

"I hope the sentiment was acceptable," the duke said.

Did he? The sentiment was sorrow and regret. And yet, aside from his sorrow and regret at passing judgment upon her, he took the earliest opportunity to pass more judgment upon her. It was as if he could not help himself!

"Do you continue on down the road?" the duke asked.

"Indeed we do," the duchess said. "Do join us in it."

Jemima glared at her mother. The duchess just smiled.

The duke nodded. "I thank you for the invitation."

Jemima was bursting to point out that she had not seconded the invitation, but she said nothing. She could always rave about it later at home.

"May I take the reins, Lady Jemima," the duke said, leaning over with outstretched hand.

Could he take her reins now? Why? So she would not do anymore unladylike riding in public?

"Certainly not," she said, guiding Athena away from the duke.

He angled his horse back alongside her. "I just thought, well considering all that's happened. One cannot be too careful."

"Too careful of what?" Jemima asked, daring him to advertise his opinion.

"An accident," the duke said, looking perplexed. "A knock on the head…well, you see what I say."

Jemima did not at all see what he said. Perhaps he did not understand her level of horsemanship or that she and Athena rode as one. Fearing an accident? She could not believe that was his real meaning. She'd boxed him in and he'd invented it to avoid saying what he really meant.

"I am not sure being on a horse at all is a wise idea," the duke said. "Perhaps a slow-moving carriage ride would be more appropriate?"

Jemima turned toward the carriage. "Mama?"

The duchess, now seeing for herself what the duke was, looked rather alarmed.

Before her mother could say anything about his rudeness, the duke said, "I am sorry. I see I have wandered onto dangerous ground and do not wish to cause an outburst. I had best go. Lady Jemima, Duchess."

He tipped his hat, turned his horse, and spurred him on.

The groom and coachman were staring at each other in disbelief.

"There, Mama," Jemima said. "Now you see what he is like. This morning he sends his sorrow and regret and this afternoon he tells me to get off my horse."

"It is very odd," the duchess said thoughtfully. "Very odd indeed. I have never known the duke to put a foot out of place."

"I have. What did he mean about an outburst? Did he mean that he is to say any insulting thing at all and then it is my fault to be offended? If that is true, then I am entirely at fault because I am offended."

"I am not as offended as I am confused," the duchess said.

Of course, her mother would be confused. All along, she'd thought the duke was some sort of paragon and now she was seeing the real Duke of Barstow.

He was hateful and it was entirely unfair that he should look so dashing upon a horse.

She would take his insults in high good humor if he were a toad.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mr. Harkinson had called an emergency meeting of The League. When they had ventured into this new area of matchmaking, they had planned for such an eventuality. All of them had composed emergencies and kept them at the ready to fly from their houses if the need arose.

If there had been one thing they had not anticipated, it was the sight of them all leaving Grosvenor Square at the same time. They would have to rectify that. Thursday afternoons were a set thing, but this leaving all at once and unexpectedly…if there were a person with hawk eyes in one of their households, surely it would be noticed.

Just now though, the need for an emergency meeting had arisen. Information had come to him that Lady Jemima despised the duke! Her lady's maid claimed she could not stand the sight of him and that she hoped the earth was flat after all so he might be pushed over the edge and never seen more.

For the other members of The League, this would be very unfortunate news. For himself though, it might be a way out of the mess he'd created.

It had been one thing to invent the whole carriage accident and blow to the head story to account for Lady Jemima's usual mien. It had been another thing to make sure the duke heard of it to soften his feelings regarding the various things he'd witnessed.

But it was all getting too complicated!

If the other members were apprised that Lady Jemima despised the duke, then they would see that it was all hopeless. They'd have to give up their matchmaking ideas for this season at least.

With any luck, Lady Jemima would go home after the season and marry a local baron, thereby extricating him permanently from telling any further lies!

He could continue on with The League, the innocent victim of unforeseen circumstances.

His colleagues filed in, most of them breathless. Especially Mr. Rennington, who was clutching at his heart.

"Gracious," Mr. Rennington said, "I know we planned for an emergency, but my nerves do not hold up at all well in an emergency. I nearly fell over when I got the note."

"I am not sure my emergency was even believed," Mr. Feldstaffer said.

"Was it about the mad brother you've claimed to have?" Mr. Penny asked.

"It was, though if I did really have a mad brother, I am certain he would not cause this much trouble."

"Planning," Mr. Browning said. "That is what is required. As far as my lord knows it, I have five elderly aunts. With that amount of decrepit people stumbling about Town, one of them might take a turn at any moment. Which, supposedly, one just did."

"Whatever our various emergencies to get us here," Mr. Wilburn said, straightening a cuff, "we'd best get on with it. The less time we are absent, the better."

They all turned expectantly to Mr. Harkinson. He cleared his throat and said, "I have rather terrible news. It has come to my attention that while we imagined that Lady Jemima's outbursts due to the blow to her head were our only problem, a new problem has developed. I am afraid it is one that cannot be overcome."

"Has the lady taken a turn for the worse?" Mr. Penny said.

Mr. Harkinson paused. He had not thought to pin Lady Jemima's disdain for the duke on her carriage accident, but it was rather a good idea.

"Sadly," he said, "the blow to the lady's head has seemed to impair her judgment. About people, especially. About the Duke of Barstow, most especially."

"She suffers from impaired judgment about people?" Mr. Feldstaffer said.

"Yes, unfortunately. Now, it seems she despises the duke," Mr. Harkinson said, "though we all know him to be a perfect gentleman in every sense of the word. We know it does not have any rationality in it, but that is the illness showing itself."

"I will guess the lady is overreacting to some of things he might have said before knowing of the accident she endured," Mr. Feldstaffer said. "I did imagine that would be a difficulty."

Mr. Harkinson nodded eagerly. Once in a while, Mr. Feldstaffer's pessimism came in handy. "That is it exactly. She will not forgive his lack of understanding for her outbursts. Apparently, she nearly had another in the park when the duke suggested she be more careful at a gallop."

"She really should be more careful!" Mr. Wilburn said. "She ought not gallop at all, it is too risky in her condition."

"As I said, a very rational suggestion. However, Lady Jemima was outraged to hear it spoken of. Her maid says there is no turning her round from her opinion of the duke. I am afraid only time will heal Lady Jemima's mind and so there is nothing further to be done. For now. This season."

There. He'd said it. Now they could all turn their attention to managing the more practical aspects of how their families proceeded through life. Mr. Browning had only months ago written that he was encouraging the Duke of Finstatten to purchase the house on the square that stood next to his own and break down the walls to vastly expand their London holding. It was a worthy project they might all put their minds to.

"Now, Mr. Harkinson," Mr. Penny said, "we should not give up so easily. We are The League, after all."

At this reminder, they all looked reverentially at their motto. Cum Virtute, with valor.

Mr. Harkinson willed them to look away. This was no time for valor!

"Mr. Penny is right," Mr. Wilburn said. "If we are to shy away from the smallest difficulty, we have no right to have any mention of valor on our walls."

"And it's on the inside band of our league rings, too," Mr. Feldstaffer said dejectedly.

Now they were all staring reverentially at the gold bands they wore. Stop! Stop admiring your rings and thinking about valor!

"It seems we have made very great inroads with the duke," Mr. Browning said. "He has been much struck by the news of Lady Jemima's carriage accident and is willing to excuse any and all outbursts. He declared it to Randolph, his valet, and he sent purple hyacinths as an apology."

Mr. Harkinson knew all about the hyacinths, but he did not see where Mr. Browning was going with the idea. He only wished Mr. Browning would go nowhere with any ideas.

"I am sorry to say that the hyacinths were received far more favorably by the duchess than they were by Lady Jemima," he said. That was entirely true and it almost felt odd saying so. He'd told so many untruths that the actual truth felt somehow untrue! Lies were so confusing.

"But what if, Mr. Harkinson," Mr. Browning said, "we could accomplish on one side what we have already accomplished on the other?"

Mr. Harkinson only stared. He had not the first clue what Mr. Browning meant by it.

"I see!" Mr. Penny cried. "If the duke has been softened to hear about Lady Jemima's tragic carriage accident, then just think of the effects of it if she were to believe the duke had suffered the very same! It could be made to account for whatever he's said that she did not like."

"He has not had an accident, though?" Mr. Rennington asked, twisting his hands together.

"Not that we know of," Mr. Wilburn said. "Though I think, considering Lady Jemima's delicate condition and her heroic efforts at recovery, a fib of that sort can only be a kindness."

What? Now there were to be two carriage accidents when there had never even been one? How were they to keep track of it all? What if the truth were to come out and they were caught up in it?

Mr. Browning stood and raised his walking stick toward the ceiling. "Cum virtute!" he cried.

Mr. Harkinson slumped his shoulders as the other members cried in unison, "Cum virtute!"

With valor. He had never felt less valorous in his life. His own motto should be Cum Terrore.