Chapter Eleven

L ess than a month after the eventful dinner party at which William Kirkland announced his plan to give away Dogwood Cottage, George Kirkland once again stood at the doorway of his uncle’s townhouse in Bath. This time, Belle stood by his side, her arm linked with his. He caught her eye and smiled. Her mouth curved into a shy smile in return, but when he rapped at the door, she winced.

“You look nervous,” he whispered while they waited for someone to answer the door.

She wrinkled her nose. “I am nervous,” she whispered back. “I don’t like going to new places and meeting new people. I never know what to expect!”

“But that’s what makes travel fun!” George protested. Not that Uncle William’s townhouse was at all new to him; he merely wanted to defend the principle at stake. The world was enormous and interesting and the only way to explore it was by seeing new places. Which, yes, did involve meeting new people.

Belle turned her head to frown at him. She opened her mouth, but before she could disagree with him, the butler opened the door.

“Ah, Mr. Kirkland,” Baines said. “I believe your uncle is expecting you.” He hesitated and studied Arabella for a moment. He caught George’s eye and slightly raised his eyebrows.

George caught the hint and made the necessary introduction. “Baines, this is my wife. Mrs. George Kirkland, nee Arabella Canning.”

“Very good, sir.” Baines’s face softened from a marble mask into a genuine smile. “Your uncle will be most delighted to meet Mrs. Kirkland. My felicitations!” His smile faded and he cleared his throat. “Your uncle is currently sequestered in his study with another visitor, but he will see you shortly. Won’t you please step into the drawing room to wait?”

George intended to tell Baines that they could see themselves in, but Baines did not give him the chance to do so. The butler led them through the foyer and down the short corridor that took them to the drawing room.

“Mr. and Mrs. George Kirkland,” Baines announced.

The hour was too late in the day for morning calls and too early for dinner guests. George had therefore assumed that the drawing room would either be empty or occupied solely by Aunt Betsy. He had not expected to encounter a well-dressed woman who looked to be in her late twenties. She sat in the most comfortable chair, a teacup in hand.

Aunt Betsy’s face broke into a smile. “George! So good to see you again! I wish we could have attended the wedding, but I am afraid that William’s health did not allow it.” She stepped forward to take Arabella by the hand. “We are so very glad to meet you, my dear.” Then she glanced to the unfamiliar woman seated by the hearth, and her smile faltered. “I was just telling Miss Buxton about the wedding.”

George, remembering his manners, bowed to Miss Buxton. “How do you do, ma’am?”

But the stranger drew back abruptly, as if affronted. Too late, George realized that he ought to have called her “miss” rather than “ma’am.” She probably disliked the implication that she was a confirmed spinster.

“Very well, thank you.” The unhappy lines of her face belied her words. She looked disgruntled, if not downright angry. “I suppose you are to be congratulated on your marriage, Mr. Kirkland.”

Belle responded to the unexpected bitterness in Miss Buxton’s voice by cringing and stepping closer to George.

“Thank you,” George said blandly. “My wife and I are delighted we could visit my uncle before we move to our new home.”

Miss Buxton scowled, but before she could say anything further, the door was flung open and Uncle William walked in. His gout must have reoccurred because he limped heavily. But his face, like Aunt Betsy’s, was wreathed in smiles. He did not content himself with a handshake, but clasped George on the shoulder affectionately.

“I am glad to see you, my boy.” Uncle William directed an odd sideways glance at the unhappy Miss Buxton, then turned toward Belle. “And very happy to meet you, my dear. We are pleased to welcome you to the family.” He leaned towards Belle and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Though I shouldn’t say it, you’ve managed to hook the best of my young nephews.”

Belle’s face flushed a bright red. George faked a cough so that he could hide his face behind his hand. But the most interesting reaction came from Miss Buxton, who audibly gasped.

Uncle William turned back to her. “I mean no offense to your fiancé, ma’am. Benedict is a fine young man too. He will make you an excellent husband. But you must understand, I am not as well acquainted with Ambrose’s boys as I should like to be. George, on the other hand, practically grew up at Dogwood Cottage.”

That was an exaggeration, but George better understood why Miss Buxton was so unhappy. Benedict must have hoped to win the matrimonial race and secure Dogwood Cottage for himself. He and his fiancée would not enjoy meeting the couple who had beaten them to the altar.

“I am very pleased to meet a future member of the Kirkland family,” George said, hoping to soothe some of Miss Buxton’s discontent. He did not particularly like Benedict, but that was no reason to be rude to her . “How long have you known Benedict?”

Miss Buxton flushed and shifted in her chair. “Not so very long,” she admitted. “We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance who knew that we both wished to be married.” She straightened her back and stopped fidgeting. “And we found that we suited each other so well that there was no reason to wait before becoming betrothed.”

“What a charming story!” George hoped his smile did not reveal that he found the story amusing rather than romantic. Benedict must have been willing to rush into matrimony merely for the sake of securing Dogwood Cottage. To be sure, George had done the same, but he at least chose to marry someone he already knew and liked!

“I am not sure what our plans will be now.” Miss Buxton’s lower lip began to tremble alarmingly.

George surreptitiously patted his waistcoat pocket, looking for a clean handkerchief. Aunt Betsy moved more quickly, passing a dainty, lace-trimmed handkerchief over to Miss Buxton before George had even located his.

Sure enough, Miss Buxton burst into rather noisy tears. George handed her his handkerchief, anyway, guessing that Aunt Betsy’s would not be adequate to stem the tide.

Meanwhile, Uncle William looked on the verge of an apoplexy. “Now, now, there’s no need to carry on that way.” He probably meant to soothe Miss Buxton, but his panic filtered into his voice, which sounded more likely to alarm than to calm.

When Benedict Kirkland walked into this chaos, his eyes widened and he paused to dither in the doorway. “What’s going on here?” He glanced at his fiancée and nervously licked his lips. “Lucretia, is something wrong?”

She was crying too hard to reply and could only shake her head. Benedict cautiously approached her and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.” He hesitated, then added, “My dear,” as if it were an afterthought. “My father hasn’t filled the position I left, you know. We shan’t starve.”

“But you shan’t be a gentleman, either,” Miss Buxton sobbed.

Ah, so that was the trouble, was it? Miss Buxton did not want to marry a man who helped manage the family’s cotton mills. She wanted to marry a man of leisure who lived off the income from his investments. Unfortunately, she and Benedict had not acted quickly enough to secure the prize.

George glanced sideways at Belle, curious how she was taking all this. Her face had paled, and she covered her mouth with one hand as she observed the tumultuous scene before them.

“I wonder,” George suggested to his aunt, “if we could have a cup of tea. Mrs. Kirkland’s nerves are rather worn after our travels, you know.” They’d had time only for a short rest after arriving in Bath. He knew he’d said the right thing when Belle directed a grateful look at him.

Uncle William looked frankly relieved to have an excuse for abandoning his fruitless attempt to comfort Miss Buxton. “Of course, of course. You are staying to dine, naturally, too?”

“That is our intention.” George glanced at Belle again, hoping for some clue as to how she felt about that.

Belle had woken up with a headache this morning, and she’d been rather out of sorts all day. She attributed this to the stress of travel, but he worried that he might have inadvertently contributed to her ill humor. One thing he’d learned over the last few days was that eating, traveling, and sleeping with a single person nearly twenty-four hours a day was quite different from being a guest in the same house with her. Marriage might be harder than he’d expected.

“I would be delighted to dine here, Mr. Kirkland. Thank you for the invitation.”

Belle spoke politely, but the stiffness in her voice suggested her head still pounded. They might do better to dine privately at their hotel. But it would be terribly awkward to change their plans immediately after accepting Uncle William’s invitation.

“We will probably not be able to linger after dinner,” George warned.

“But aren’t you going to stay here tonight?” Uncle William’s face fell. “I could have the yellow room made up for you in a trice.”

“Oh, there’s no need to impose on you,” George said hastily. “We’ve secured comfortable lodgings for our stay.”

He very nearly made a joke about honeymooning couples preferring their privacy, but he remembered at the last second that Belle would be mortified if he said any such thing. On some issues, she remained shy even with George. They’d shared a bed every night since their marriage, but she still preferred to undress under the cover of darkness.

In any case, there were other reasons for not staying with Uncle William. A visit could not be anything but awkward if Benedict and his fiancée were also guests. As it was, their presence made dinner a tense affair. Miss Buxton ceased her tears, but her eyes remained bloodshot. From time to time, George heard her softly sniffle.

Throughout the meal, Benedict ignored George and Arabella entirely, speaking only to his fiancée, Uncle William, and Aunt Betsy. At first, George was surprised to hear his cousin conversing so amicably with Uncle William even after the latter made it crystal clear that Dogwood Cottage would be signed over to George. Then it occurred to him that Benedict might be hoping to wheedle money or some other piece of property out of their uncle. Benedict could not afford to alienate the wealthiest member of the family.

George did not mind being snubbed by his cousin, but it irked him that both Miss Buxton and Benedict snubbed Belle, too. As a new-married bride, Belle should have been treated as the guest of honor rather than being left to sit in silence for most of the meal. At first, Belle tried to talk across the table to Miss Buxton, but after a handful of laconic answers, she gave up. By the end of the evening, she kept her eyes focused on her plate, speaking only when Uncle William addressed her.

If it had been up to him, George would have departed as soon as the meal ended. But Belle assured him she would not mind if he lingered in the dining room to have a glass of port.

“For I know that you rarely get to see your uncle,” she explained.

George watched with anxious eyes as his new wife left the room, trailing behind Miss Buxton and Aunt Betsy. Then he turned towards Uncle William. “I really cannot stay long,” he said firmly. “We both of us need rest.”

“But you will dine here again tomorrow night, won’t you?” Uncle William wheedled. “I am sure you are eager to settle into your new home, but Betsy and I would love to see you again before you go.”

“Of course. We plan to spend a little time in Bath.” After traveling for days to get here, George was not particularly eager to hop into another post chaise and travel north again. He had done enough traveling over the last few weeks, thank you very much!

“Don’t stay away for too long, though,” Uncle William advised. “The house needs someone looking after it.”

George blinked. “Isn’t there a couple living there who look after it?” He could’ve sworn he’d heard Uncle William say something about a housekeeper and a manservant who kept the place in order.

Uncle William waved that objection away. “Yes, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings. They’ve done a fine job. But they’re not quite up to coping with all the village children who show up looking the treasure.”

George, caught in the middle of an overly large sip of port, nearly choked. He put his cup down and hastily covered his mouth with a napkin. “ Again ?”

“Damn kids won’t leave the place alone!” his uncle grumbled. Then he paused and shot George an uncertain look. “Pardon my language, lad. But this time, whoever broke in started chipping away at the kitchen walls, as if they thought there was a secret room hidden behind the plaster!”

“ Is there a secret room hidden behind the plaster? Could that be where the treasure is?” Benedict leaned forward, his face alight with curiosity—or maybe greed.

“Pfft!” Uncle William dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “Of course not! How many times do I have to tell you boys, there’s no treasure there!”

“There’s a hidden closet under the staircase,” George pointed out. “But I’ve never seen any treasure in it.” More like broken battledore rackets, a pall-mall set with only half the mallets, empty baskets and crates, and other odds and ends.

“Yes, that’s the closest thing to a hidden room the cottage contains,” Uncle William agreed. “And I assure you, there’s nothing of any value in that closet. Not unless Mrs. Hastings has taken to hiding the plate there!” He chuckled at his own joke, though no one else laughed. “People have been looking for treasure in that house for centuries. If it were really there, it would’ve been found long ago.”

Benedict sighed and looked down into his empty wineglass. “But imagine if there were treasure—”

Uncle William interrupted before Benedict could get any further. “If there really is a treasure, I hope to God someone finds it soon, because I’ve had enough of people making a mess of the place looking for it.” He shifted his eyes towards George, and his face relaxed into a loose grin. “Of course, it’s no longer my problem. I’ll sign the papers making the cottage over to you tonight, George. From now on, you’ll be the one worrying about treasure seekers!”

“Marvelous.” George poured himself another glass of port. He suspected he was going to need it.