Baroness in Buckskin Read online

  She would not disappoint him. She would take poor little Miss Ramsay under her wing and turn her into a comfortable wife for his lordship and a suitable mistress for Ramsay Hall.

  And she would never give either of them reason to suspect that she had been deeply in love with Richard Ramsay for more than a decade.

  Chapter 2

  She never told her love,

  But . . . sat like Patience on a monument,

  Smiling at grief.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth Night

  Looking back, Jane supposed it had been inevitable. She had been only eighteen when her father’s death had left her cast adrift on the world, much as Miss Susannah Ramsay had been after the death of her own father. But whereas the late Mr. Ramsay had been a wealthy eccentric, Mr. Hawthorne had been a charming wastrel, leaving nothing behind at his death but a mountain of debts, a bevy of disconsolate mistresses, and a daughter of marriageable age with no dowry to speak of. When she had first met her cousin Richard, he was twenty-one years old and in mourning for his father, having attained his majority and come into his title within the space of a month. Upon being informed of her existence, he had lost no time in making her acquaintance, and had no sooner straightened up from his introductory bow than he had dropped to one knee and made her a formal offer of marriage.

  She had not accepted, of course. Never mind the fact that she was a Ramsay only on the distaff side—and one had to go back five generations to find the common ancestor—Richard’s determination to do his duty in spite of his own inclination had been so obvious that she could not have brought herself to (as he said) make him the happiest of men, no matter how dire her prospects for the future. In the end it had been Lady Ramsay, his mother, who had settled the matter by bringing Jane to Ramsay Hall as her companion. In fact, so adroit had been her ladyship’s handling of the situation that it had not been long before she and Richard were able to face one another without any of the awkwardness usually attending a rejected proposal of marriage. They had soon become friends, and eventually trusted confidantes. But the damage, if it might be so described, was done: to young Jane, whose only experience of men was a father who knew no obligation but the pursuit of his own pleasure, the kindness of the youthful Lord Ramsay was irresistible. She had fallen head over ears, and the intervening years had shown her nothing in Richard’s character to make her revise her girlish first impressions.

  In the years that followed, she had made herself useful—some might say indispensable—to Lady Ramsay, and as that lady’s health had failed, Jane had taken over more and more the running of the household. And if her determination to make Richard as comfortable as possible sprang less from duty than from rather warmer sentiments, she had taken care that no one should suspect the state of her heart, for this would mean the end of her comfortable existence. The highest sticklers might suggest that there was something improper about her continued presence at Ramsay Hall two years after the death of her employer; kinder souls, however, would have pointed out that Miss Hawthorne was, after all, his lordship’s cousin, and if anything of, well, of an amorous nature were likely to happen between them, it surely would have taken place years ago under her ladyship’s watchful eye, and would have culminated at the altar. Jane sighed. There was no denying the fact that this attitude made her life easier, as it allowed her to continue at the house that had been her home for the last ten years; still, it would have been nice if someone had believed her capable of inspiring in Lord Ramsay an unseemly passion.

  She had known, of course, that someday Richard would take a bride; after all, no man so conscious of his responsibilities as to propose marriage to a stranger would be so negligent as to ignore his primary obligation to provide for the succession. In the same manner, she had always understood that the new Lady Ramsay would not wish the former chatelaine to continue under her roof. She had supposed that, when the time came, she would retire to the Dower House with the Aunts, although she suspected Aunt Charlotte would not desire any interference with her own running of that establishment any more than Richard’s bride would with that of Ramsay Hall. To be sure, Richard’s request had postponed the dreaded day of her removal, but at what cost? Surely there could be few things more painful than to tutor the very one whose claim meant the end of hopes so long suppressed that she had believed them dead.

  Such melancholy thoughts still haunted her the following morning, as she consulted with Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, concerning meals for the coming week and assuring that old retainer that there was no reason to suppose the new Lady Ramsay (really, how did the servants contrive to ferret out such events almost before the family knew of them?) would wish to replace her. At last, having dismissed Mrs. Meeks to her domain below stairs, Jane sought refuge in the garden, and it was here, a short time later, that Sir Matthew Pitney found her.

  “Exquisite! A rose in its natural setting,” declared her longtime suitor, a well-built gentleman of forty who might have been accounted handsome, had it not been for a heaviness about his jowls. In truth, Jane found these unfortunate facial features less objectionable than his even heavier-handed gallantry.

  “No rose, Sir Matthew, merely a hawthorn,” quipped Jane, offering her hand.

  “I will allow no one to contradict me in this, Miss Hawthorne, not even your fair self. I said a rose, and I meant it.” So saying, he raised her hand to his lips.

  “You are too kind,” she protested, gently but firmly withdrawing the hand he showed no signs of releasing. “Tell me, Sir Matthew, what brings you here this fine morning?”

  “As if your own self were not enticement enough!” Seeing not pretty confusion but skeptical amusement reflected in her countenance, he abandoned (at least for the nonce) his unsuccessful attempt at flirtation. “Truth to tell, Miss Hawthorne, I have heard a piece of news so astonishing that I came at once for confirmation. Is it true that Lord Ramsay is to take a bride from America?”

  “Gossiping with the servants, Sir Matthew? Fie on you!”

  He neither confirmed nor denied the charge. “It is too bad, your nose being put out of joint by an interloper, and an American, at that.”

  “Nonsense! I have always known that Richard would marry someday.”

  Apparently she was more distressed than she let on, for somehow Sir Matthew contrived to possess himself of her hand again, and held it clasped between both of his own. As she berated herself for a moment’s inattention, he bent over her and addressed her in throbbing accents. “I’m sure I need not tell you that there is one place you might occupy secure in the knowledge that you would never be supplanted!”

  “No, indeed, you need not tell me at all! And it is too kind of you, Sir Matthew, but quite unnecessary. I am not to be supplanted, as you suggest; in fact, quite the opposite, for my cousin has begged me to stay on and instruct Miss Ramsay in anything she might need to know about the running of a large household.”

  She was pleased to note that there was no wobble or break in her voice as she said the words—nothing, in fact, that might suggest to her listener that she felt anything but pleasurable anticipation for the task set before her. Even so, she found it more than a little ironic that she, who had more reason than anyone to wish Miss Susannah Ramsay at perdition, should be compelled to act as the girl’s most outspoken advocate. But it appeared that her point had been made, for after making a few unobjectionable inquiries as to when young Miss Ramsay might be expected to arrive, as well as any plans made for her introduction to the neighborhood gentry, Sir Matthew abandoned the subject of Lord Ramsay’s approaching nuptials, and turned instead to the topic of flowers.

  “I detect Miss Amelia’s hand at work amongst your roses,” he observed, stooping to smell one. Jane had a sudden mental image of a bumblebee stinging him on the nose, and strove to keep a straight face. His next words helped considerably in this regard. “I wish you will prevail upon her to give me a cutting. I am something of a horticulturist myself, you know, and I have not seen this particular co
lor anywhere else.”

  “No, for she cultivated it herself. She calls it Ramsay Red, but I should have said it was more purple than red, wouldn’t you?”

  “By whatever name, it is certainly striking. Still, I have asked repeatedly for a cutting, but without success. Will you not speak to her in my behalf?”

  She shook her head. “I fear yours is a hopeless cause, Sir Matthew. As I said, she calls it the Ramsay Red, and you are not a Ramsay, you know.”

  “No, but I flatter myself the houses of Ramsay and Pitney may be joined very soon.”

  “Will they? I was not aware of it.”

  There was a distinct chill in her voice, but if Sir Matthew noticed, he was unfazed by it, wagging his finger at her in what he no doubt considered a playful manner.

  “You say that now, Miss Hawthorne, but when you find yourself a pensioner in another woman’s domain—well, let us say I shall not give up hope just yet.”

  “Oh, but I wish you would,” she sighed, after he had finally taken his leave. “I do wish you would!”

  For the next six weeks, she moved about the great house like an automaton, doing by rote those chores in which she had once taken such pleasure, constantly aware that in a matter of weeks, she would surrender the house, as well as its master, to another. For his part, Lord Ramsay continued to go about his usual pursuits, riding about his estate, addressing his tenants’ concerns, attending Sunday services with the rest of the family, entertaining and being entertained by the neighborhood gentry. Jane was not sure which would have been worse: seeing him in a glow of anticipation, in dread of his bride’s arrival, or in this curious state of normality, just as if nothing had changed, when in fact his life—and hers—would never be the same.

  In such a manner spring gave way to summer, and at last the day came when Lord Ramsay called his cousin Peter to his study and offered him a bulging coin purse.

  “This should cover the cost of a post-chaise from Portsmouth,” he said. “I daresay you will prefer to ride, so you may take Sheba, if you wish. Miss Ramsay will no doubt be exhausted from her long journey, so you may bespeak lodging for yourself, Miss Ramsay, and her maid at the Pelican before you begin the return trip.”

  Peter took the purse, but not without reluctance. “I cannot help thinking it would be best for you to meet your bride at the dock yourself.”

  “So you’ve said, and I daresay you are right. But an important vote will be coming before Parliament two days hence, and I cannot neglect my obligation to the House of Lords. As you depart for Portsmouth, I will be setting out for London.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Peter, suppressing a sigh.

  Richard grinned, undeceived. “Am I to be ‘my lord,’ then? I see I am in your black books, and no mistake!”

  “Not at all,” Peter protested with perhaps less than perfect truth. “I cannot but feel sorry for the girl, though, having no acquaintances in England to speak of.”

  “Which only proves that you are the best one to meet her, for if I were to do so, my mind would be on my empty seat in the Lords—hardly the measure of devotion a young woman might look for in her affianced husband.” Seeing his young cousin was not entirely convinced, he added cajolingly, “Come, Peter! Oblige me in this, and I promise that when I return, I will be as attentive toward Miss Ramsay as you might wish.”

  Peter could not like it, but the end was never in doubt. Having been educated at Lord Ramsay’s expense and then engaged as his steward immediately upon leaving university, Peter was in no position to deny his aristocratic cousin any request; nor, in the usual course of events, had he any desire to do so, for besides being his distant relation, his lordship was a fair man and a generous employer. Still, Peter could not entirely applaud Lord Ramsay’s hasty betrothal, no matter how admirable the devotion to duty that inspired it. He supposed, with a wry twist of his lips, that it was perhaps a good thing his opinion had never been asked. He was not quite certain whom he pitied the most: the gentleman who had offered marriage out of obligation, or the young lady who had accepted out of expedience.

  And so it was that at dawn the following morning, he strapped his valise to the chestnut mare’s broad back, swung himself up into the saddle, and set out for Portsmouth. By early afternoon, he began his descent of Portsdown Hill, from which vantage point he could see the network of forts surrounding the city—a relic of the days not so long past, when England was at war with Napoleon, and Nelson had led forth the aptly named Victory from this very port to immortality at Trafalgar. Upon entering the city, he located the waterfront inn called the Pelican, surrendered Sheba to the ostler, and engaged two rooms before setting out on foot for the bustling wharf—and not a moment too soon, for the Concordia rode at anchor, and her passengers were even now being transferred from ship to shore by means of a bosun’s chair.

  Peter scanned the wharf where a dozen travellers now moved about on wobbly legs, wondering if Miss Susannah Ramsay had already been brought ashore, and how he was to identify her. Male passengers greatly outnumbered female, so it should not be difficult, given the limited selection. There stood a middle-aged woman who appeared to be the wife of a prosperous merchant—too old; a younger woman with a child clinging to her skirts and an infant in her arms—obviously not. A female accompanied by a maidservant and dressed in the fashionable pelisse and bonnet of a young lady of quality appeared to be a promising candidate, until she was abruptly seized by a young lieutenant and enveloped in a very public embrace, a scandalous display to which she apparently had not the least objection. Peter could not help smiling a little, wondering how long the Royal Navy had kept the young officer from his bride.

  The only other female he could see was a soberly dressed woman of about forty standing a little apart with her husband, a scholarly-looking man engaged in cleaning the sea spray from his spectacles by polishing them on his sleeve. This might be Miss Ramsay’s missionary escort, but if that were the case, where was their charge? As if in answer to his question, the woman stepped aside, giving Peter a clear view of the oddest looking girl he had ever seen.

  To call her clothing out of fashion would be a misnomer, as it would imply that such garments had ever been in fashion. Dark skirts of some coarse cloth were cut much fuller than fashion dictated, and were liberally sprayed with seawater. Peter could form no opinion as to the rest of her dress, for it was covered by what was apparently a man’s jacket made of what looked like buckskin, heavily fringed and much too large for its wearer. Her bonnet, black and plain as a Quaker’s, hung down her back by its strings, revealing unruly curls of a hue more red than brown. Any less suitable bride for his meticulous cousin would have been hard to imagine.

  “Oh, Richard,” murmured Peter, “what have you done?”

  Chapter 3

  “O mercy!” to myself I cried.

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

  Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter approached the soberly clad couple.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Latham?”

  The man put his spectacles back on and regarded Peter through the round lenses. “Yes?”

  “I’m Peter Ramsay,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ve come for Miss Susannah Ramsay.”

  “Why, look here, Susannah,” said Mrs. Latham, turning to address her charge. “Here’s Mr. Ramsay, come to fetch you.”

  Miss Ramsay had been gaping at the bustling waterfront with wide blue eyes and mouth open in an “O” of amazement, but upon hearing Peter’s name, she turned to regard her kinsman and sank into a deep curtsy.

  “My lord,” she said breathlessly.

  “What—who, me?” stammered Peter, hastily demurring. “No, I’m not—that is, my cousin Richard is Lord Ramsay. I am your cousin Peter, and his lord-ship’s steward.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Ramsay, somewhat crestfallen.

  “Richard was obliged to go to London to take his seat in Parliament, so he sent me in his place. He sends his regrets, and
hopes you will forgive his lack of hospitality.”

  This was not entirely true, perhaps, but Peter judged it politic, given the American girl’s obvious disappointment, to stretch a point.

  “Well, Susannah,” said Mrs. Latham, offering a gloved hand to her young protégée, “I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you for bearing me company on the journey, my dear.”

  Susannah ignored the hand, and threw her arms around the woman instead. “The obligation is all mine, ma’am. Oh, how I shall miss you!”

  Mrs. Latham patted her consolingly on the back. “Nonsense! You will be much too busy learning to be a great lady to spare a thought for an old sobersides like me. You must be sure to write, once you are settled, and let me know how you go on.”

  Susannah promised fervently to do so, and after tearful goodbyes (at least on Susannah’s part), the missionary couple departed. As they reached the end of the quay, Mrs. Latham glanced almost furtively back at her erstwhile charge, then took her husband’s arm and hurried him across the road. Peter, puzzling over the woman’s curious behavior, shook his head as if to clear it, then hefted Susannah’s portmanteau and set it on his shoulder.

  “Well, Miss Ramsay—look here, may I call you Cousin Susannah?—if you will summon your maid, I will escort you to the Pelican Inn, where I’ve bespoke lodgings for the night.”

  “My maid? Oh, but I haven’t one.”

  “No—no maid?” stammered Peter.

  Miss Ramsay shrugged. “I’m used to fending for myself. Take my clothes, for example: I’m not wearing anything that I can’t put on without help.”

  Peter, surveying her curious travelling costume at close range, could not doubt that an unassisted female might easily don such garments; the only question, to his mind, was why any female would want to. The greater dilemma, however, was the fact that his cousin’s future bride would be putting up at a public inn with no chaperone—no companion at all, in fact, but her twenty-three year old male cousin. As no hint of impropriety must be allowed to attach itself to the future Lady Ramsay, he resolved to speak to the innkeeper and ask if that worthy individual might spare a chambermaid to wait upon Miss Ramsay—for a consideration, of course, as compensation for leaving the establishment short-handed.