The Merry Chase Read online

  Matty flushed, for she had never

  received a gentleman

  in her bedroom.

  Taking a quick sip of tea to clear her throat, she met the gentleman's eyes and smiled affably. "I suppose that no one has ever told you that it is highly improp­er for a gentleman to visit a lady in her bedchamber," she said sweetly.

  "And I suppose that no one has ever told you that it is unladylike to talk with your mouth full," the gentleman replied, just as affably.

  "Well, of all the rude—" she gasped, as he grinned and moved closer to the bed to dispose himself in the chair at her side.

  "Ah, but my dear Miss Cresley," he continued smoothly, "we are already agreed that I am not a gentleman."

  "I am not your dear Miss Cresley," Matty snapped, "and if you're expecting me to now say that I am not a lady you can wait all day, for—" she blushed hotly as she realized she had just said it, and was guiltily aware of the unholy amusement crinkling the corners of Pettigrew's eyes.

  Taking another tack she reclined against the pillows at her back, saying "I pray, sir, that you will forgive me. .1 am not myself this morning. The fall... the sprain... indeed, I hardly know what I'm saying." She closed her eyes in what she congratulated herself was a faithful reproduction of her Fainting Aunt Francis....

  A Warner Communications Company

  All the characters in this book are fictitious,

  and any resemblance to actual persons

  living or dead is purely coincidental.

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1985 by Judith Nelson

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  75 Rockefeller Plaza

  New York, N.Y. 10019

  A Warner Communications Company

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: August, 1985

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter Xl

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter I

  To those unfamiliar with the inhabitants of Morningdale Manor, the scene in the morning room there was one of domestic tranquility.

  The fire burning cheerily on the grate crackled and snapped from time to time as if in happy defiance of the grayness seen through the large French windows, which in good weather opened onto Morningdale's not-inconsiderable gardens. Those windows, so good at welcoming the sun on cloudless days, were now shut tight against the cold and showed unrelieved gray as the wind drove showers of rain onto the glass, providing constantly changing patterns for those who cared to look.

  The three ladies seated in the airy room were not looking, however; indeed, they appeared deeply engrossed in their work. It is true one now laid aside her embroidery to receive the just-delivered letter handed her by the elderly butler; but the eyes of the other two remained determinedly on their flying needles. If the elder's color ­was raised, who would see? And if the younger lady's lips, more often drawn in a laughing smile, were now firmly compressed as if to keep her from saying something she would rather not, who would notice?

  Baxley noticed, of course, and guessing that Miss Dru and her Aunt Hester were again having one of their periodic turnups over Miss Dru's refusal to be driven into matrimonial bliss, he made his stately retreat. His bow concealed from everyone but himself how intent he was on being absent when it grew as stormy within as it was without.

  Drucilla Wrothton at twenty-five was a handsome young woman whose gray eyes today matched the dove-colored gown she wore in mourning for her brother. She was—as her aunt was quick to point out—no longer in the first blush of youth, but neither—as she was quick to reply to her aunt—had she ever felt the ignominy of being left partnerless at a ball. Men of all ages were often content to pass up ingenues to dance with the laughing lady whose figure was trim, whose smile delightful, and whose conversation stimulating. But Dru's quick mind, which led to that stimulating conversation, could also lead to unwise speech when she was angry.

  She was angry now, but just before Baxley's soft closing of the morning-room door prompted her into hot and hasty speech, her attention was drawn away from her aunt when a soft moan escaped her mother.

  The Lady Jane Wrothton sat with a look of dismay writ large upon her face as the recently delivered letter fell from her suddenly nerveless grasp.

  "Why, Mama," Dru said, alarmed. "Whatever is it?"

  "The Hovingtons," Jane whispered as Dru took the letter from her hands. Her face showed that that was indeed something dreadful.

  "The Hovingtons?" Hester demanded. "What do those worse-than-Cits, far-removed relations—although I admit, not far enough removed—but what do they have to do with our present conversation concerning Drucilla's marriage—or the deplorable lack of it?"

  Dru shook her head impatiently, her soft brown curls bouncing gently against her cheek. "Nothing, of course," she snapped, rapidly perusing the letter which had had such a powerful effect on her mother. As she did, she wished for the thousandth time that her aunt did not exhibit quite as much of the famous English bulldog tenacity when she got a thought in her head.

  "Or everything," Jane put in, looking sorrowfully at her daugh­ter's now-surprised face.

  "Everything?" Dru echoed, settling gracefully on the arm of her mother's chair and giving that good lady a gentle pat. "I don't understand. How could my not being married have anything to do with the Hovingtons coming here?"

  "Coming here?" Hester's voice rose dramatically as she heard the end of her niece's speech. "The Hovingtons are coming here? No. They cannot." Her face filled with horror at the thought.

  "You must send them word, Jane," she continued energetically.

  "Tell them we cannot receive them now. To drop in when we are in mourning—rag-mannered. Rag-mannered by far."

  Hester considered this, the latest in a long series of lapses by the unwelcome branch of the family, and her brow darkened. "It grieves me deeply to think that somewhere in our ancestors there was one with the common blood which flows through George Hovington's veins," she pronounced, working herself into a performance her niece critically thought might compare well With those given by the great Keane. "I have often thought that the real George must have been stolen by gypsies at an early age and this changeling substituted—" She brightened considerably at that thought and looked hopefully at her sister-in-law for confirmation, but Lady Jane only smiled sligtly and shook her head.

  Hester shrugged. "You must write them, Jane," she ordered regally.

  "Write and tell them it is inconvenient for us to entertain them now. Say you will let them know a more convenient date."

  But her sister-in-law made no move to carry out that order; instead she sighed unhappily. "I can't," she almost wailed, "they've already set out. This letter is to tell us we may expect them momentarily."

  That news had a powerful effect on the Lady Hester, daughter of a marquis and widow of an earl. Sputtering angrily about encroaching mushrooms, bad breeding, and worse blood, her eyes fell on her niece who still sat with an arm around her mother, thinking deeply.

  "It's all your fault, m
iss," she snapped, making Dru start. "My fault?" her niece repeated doubtfully.

  "Yes, yours. For if you were married they wouldn't be coming."

  Dur started to protest, but Hester, rapidly working herself to aneven higher pitch, rose dramatically. "They expect you to die a spinster, and they're already counting Morningdale as their inheri­tance." She shuddered. "It doesn't bear thinking."

  Noting that Jane had nodded vigorously in agreement with her last statement, she felt herself gaining support and pointed a stabbing finger at Dru. "Let me tell you, miss, as much as I love this manor," (and here, for effect, she waved a sweeping arm to encompass the room), "I would set it to the torch before I would see George Hovingfon or his young bullock of a son become master of these sacred halls."

  A moment's silence followed her impassioned performance as Jane stared open-mouthed and the twinkle grew in Dru's eyes. Then that young lady sprang from her seat clapping, shouting, "Bravo, Aunt Hester, bravo indeed. Mrs. Siddons herself could not have done better. 'These sacred halls'—a very nice touch."

  Hester froze immediately, favoring her errant niece with one of the famous societal frowns which had been known to turn eager young matrons pale and send usually stalwart butlers cringing to the lower regions of the house. She turned on her heel and stalked back to her chair, where she seated herself and proceeded to arrange her skirts stiffly, wounded dignity apparent in every movement.

  "Really, Dru," her mother reproved gently. "While I trust we will not have to employ such drastic measures as fire to ensure young Hovingtons will not grow up here, I do understand your aunt's strong feelings, and I share them. When your father was dying, I promised him I would see that the manor remains with direct Wrothton descendants for years to come."

  She shook her head as if to brush away the lingering memories and gazed at her daughter sadly. "While your brother was alive, I was content to let you seek a man you might esteem, but after that—that unfortunate accident—you must marry, Dru. For the manor."

  Eager to brighten her mother's thoughts and to avoid a prolonged discussion of her marriage—a topic she felt bitterly was much too important to too many people—Dru quickly changed the subject, saying as mildly as she could that that might be a way to keep the Hovingtons from the manor in the future, but keeping them out at present was their more-immediate problem.

  Both her mother and aunt appeared to agree, and silence grew as three very intent ladies cudgeled their brains for ways to rid themselves of their as-yet-unarrived but very unwelcome guests.

  "I see nothing for it," Lady Jane said regretfully at last. "They are family, and even though we know their sole purpose in coming is to look over the manor, I cannot think of anything we can do when we have all this room but to greet them with a show of graciousness and hope they do not linger long."

  Hester snorted. "Not linger long, dear Jane? You know as well as I that George Hovington would rather eat anyone else's mutton than his own, and where there's a room to stay, he'll—" She broke off abruptly as Dru rose with great resolution and crossed to the bell pull, giving it an enormous tug.

  "This is no time for tea, Drucilla," she said testily, but that young lady merely stood tapping a foot impatiently as Baxley's stately tread was heard approaching the door.

  "Baxley," Dru said as soon as he appeared, "we shall need sheets draped throughout the main hall and over the furniture in the upstairs guest bedrooms."

  "Sheets?" three voices echoed.

  "And paint buckets, Baxley," she continued determinedly. "Paint buckets, and a ladder here and there would be nice."

  "Paint buckets, Miss Dru?" the old butler questioned, his face showing that either he felt he had heard wrong or she was--as he would delicately put it-not quite right upstairs.

  "Paint buckets, Baxley," Dru reiterated, then smiled. "The Hovingtons are coming to visit, Baxley."

  "The Hovingtons?" he repeated, faint but pursuing.

  "Such a shame," Dru murmured, lowering her eyes. "They've come all the way to see us and here we are painting the guest rooms. If only we'd known."

  "Painting the—" comprehension dawned on his face, and the correctness of his bow indicated he understood perfectly. "Of course, Miss Dru," he agreed as he bowed himself out. "A shame."

  Dru watched in admiration as the door quietly latched behind him.

  "So dependable, Baxley," she murmured. Then, turning to her mother and aunt, she saw a look of mirth on the first's face and deep gloom on the second's.

  "I suppose you think it's dishonest," Dru said defensively as she faced her aunt.

  "Dishonest?" Hester echoed. "Distinctly. It makes me quite proud of you. For a moment I had hope. But you forget the Buxtells. "

  "The Buxtells?" Dru repeated, wrinkling her forehead.

  Hester nodded gloomily. "At Collier's Corners. Mrs. Buxtell is Lavinia Hovington's sister. If they can't stay here they'll go there, and they'll still be close enough to poke their noses into our business.

  "Oh, dear," Jane sighed, but Dru would not give up. "You may be right, Aunt Hester," she said as she moved to the door to see if Baxley and the other servants needed any supervision in the sheet and bucket arrangements, "and I'm sure if you are, we shall still see too much of them. But be that as it may, we shall not constantly see them here. And I for one am very grateful." With that she walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her and leaving her older relations to eye each other doubtfully.

  Later that day as Dru straightened her dress for luncheon, she reflected that, much as she disliked the Hovingtons, their letter had proved provident in allowing her to escape the discussion of mar­riage Aunt Hester was so intent on pursuing. Uttering a prayer that the topic would be forgotten in the face of impending disaster, Dru went down to dinner.

  Chapter II

  She soon found her prayer was not to be answered. Between bites of cold sirloin and roast chicken, Hester paused to wave her fork at Dru and say, as if several hours had not passed, "Now, miss, about your marriage—“

  Caught unaware, Dru choked on a crumb of muffin and had to be pounded on the back by an anxious Baxley.

  "Aunt Hester—," she began angrily, but her mother's soft voice interrupted.

  "Your aunt is right," Jane said sadly, "and I have been remiss in my duty for not arranging for you to marry sooner. The Hovington's letter has reminded me of the promise I made your father."

  She eyed her stubborn daughter's face doubtfully, and her eyes were pleading as she continued. "Oh, Dru," she said, "you know that while your brother James was alive we saw no reason to push you into a marriage you could not like. Indeed, I do not wish to do so now.

  "But couldn't' you like one of the gentlemen of your acquain­tance?" she coaxed after a short pause. "Your great-grandfather wisely handled his estate so it is not entailed to a male relative, but you know that if you die without an heir, Morningdale Manor will pass to the Hovingtons."

  Hester shivered eloquently at the thought, and Jane's gentle face crumpled. "I can't bear to think of that loud, coarse man as master of these halls. You must make a match, Dru. Surely you see that?"

  The stormy look in her daughter's eyes convinced Mrs. Wrothton that Dru did not see at all, but after a moment the anger seen there melted in concern for her mother's obvious distress.

  "Oh, Mama," Dru said, her dinner forgotten, "you know I don't want the Hovingtons at Morningdale. But to marry just to prevent that—to be put upon the block—"

  Hester sniffed audibly. "On the block. She heard that from her Cousin Mathilde, Jane, you can be sure of that. People marry for worse reasons than to preserve their family homes, my dear—"

  "And surely for better ones, too, Aunt," Dru retorted warmly, but Hester was not finished.

  "And marriage would be good for you," she continued complacently.

  "Your own husband, your own home, your own children. We wish only to see you happy, Drucilla. Surely you see that."

  "No, Aunt," Dru replied, two red spo
ts showing bright on her cheeks, "I do not see that. I see only that you want an heir, and my happiness has little to do with it."

  Before Hester could respond, Jane intervened, assuring her daugh­ter that they did indeed care about her happiness and asking if there wasn't at least one of her suitors she could learn to love.

  Dru's answer was emphatic, drawing her aunt's attack immediately. "Nonsense," Hester declared loudly, for she tended to raise her voice when upset. "You must simply make up your mind to love him. Any him. You could if you would. "

  Dru looked mulish, and Hester continued in exasperation.

  "I have never understood why you do so little to encourage your beaus," she said roundly. "You've had so many of them, all eager to lead you to the altar. And all you did was laugh."

  Her temper growing as she reviewed her niece's folly, she began to tick former suitors off on her fingers. "Why, there was Reginald Marsten. He dangled after you forever, and you wouldn't accord him a single glance. And Philip Richley said he'd die for love of you, and you just went your way—"

  "He didn't die--," Dru murmured, but Hester ignored her. "You would be a countess now if you'd married him, but did you care for that? Oh, no. And now that you're five-and-twenty, on the shelf, and when you should be grateful for any offer, you speak of marrying for love or not at all. It puts me completely out of patience, Drucilla. I do not understand you at all."

  But Dru would not let that pass quietly. "You mention Reginald Marsten and Philip Richley as suitable suitors and say you do not understand me?" she asked angrily. "Would you really have had me·marry one of them, Aunt Hester?

  "Reggie Marsten dangled after very passable-looking girl who ever emerged from a schoolroom; and though he's married now, I understand he continues to do so."

  "Well, Philip Richley—"

  "Philip Richley," Dru pronounced awfully, "would have liked to have my hand almost as much as he would have liked to have my fortune. Having gambled away his father's estates, he was quite willing to start on mine."