Down the Rabbit Hole

If convincing the dowager that Alice was to be made welcome would be a challenge, then convincing Alice herself would be an even greater one.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Finding the dowager was easy. At this time of day she would be walking through the garden, dictating to the gardeners—the only place at Westmoreland where she still had authority.

“Good morning, Lady Aunt,” Weston called out, loud enough for half the garden to hear.

“Weston,” she said, quite formally.

“The gardens do appear to be ready to make quite a show.” It was the best that could be said of the space where tulips were the only flowers ready for a vase. “The bulbs from the Dutch seem to be thriving.”

“Yes,” the dowager agreed, “the expense was well worth it. My husband understood those things.”

“The blooms remind me of him every time I see them.”

Those ungodly expensive bulbs were another example of his uncle’s misguided generosity.

“What do you want, Weston?” The dowager sat herself down on the bench and looked up at him. “I cannot imagine you came out here to discuss the garden.”

To the point, he thought. “Very well, though it is always good to share a lovely day with you.”

The old lady’s “Humph” told him that he had overdone it with that heavy-handed compliment.

He sat down next to her but was not so bold as to take her hand. “Times are changing, Lady Aunt, and to survive we must change with them.”

Her body tensed; he did not need to be holding her hand to see that.

“Please listen,” Weston continued. “Times are always changing. King George has remained loyal to his wife and all their children for all these years. That certainly is different from previous monarchs.”

“And he has gone mad for it.”

“Perhaps that is not the best example,” Weston acknowledged. “We no longer need to fear smallpox, and more and more men and women are marrying for love rather than money or power.” Before his aunt could reply he stopped her with a raised hand. “This is my way of telling you that I have every intention of marrying Alice Kemp. We love each other and want a life together. The only thing that is keeping her from accepting my proposal is your disapproval.” That was a slight exaggeration, but his aunt’s opinion was a factor.

“You want my approval?” She looked surprised.

“I value it above most things, but I must tell you that with or without it I will do my best to convince Alice to be the next Countess Weston.”

The old lady sat very still for a moment, and then allowed the smallest of smiles. “About time, Weston. About time that you actually believed that you are the earl and what you want is what will be.”

It was his turn to look surprised.

“I am not saying that I will welcome her with open arms,” the dowager added. “She will have to prove herself worthy. But I will do nothing to hinder the proposal.”

Weston took her hand and kissed it. She pulled it from him as quickly. “There, you see! You are being obsequious again! It is your right! I am nothing more than an old lady sitting among the tulips waiting to die.”

“Nonsense, madam.” He stood up and bowed to her. “You are the keeper of an old and ancient title and I value your willingness to pass it on to the woman I have chosen.”

Her smile grew to almost a grin. “Now that is well said, nephew.”

They parted on such good terms that Weston was convinced that the coin had more influence than even Mr. Arbuckle knew.

The conversation with his sister was next. He found her in the small music room, playing Bach. He was relieved. Bach meant that her world was ordered and as happy as it ever could be. If she had been playing Beethoven he would have left the room and waited for another day.

He took a seat, knowing full well that interrupting her would not be in his best interests. Less than a minute later, she played the final notes and looked over her shoulder at him.

“I doubt you have come for music appreciation, Weston. And I can go further and guess that you have come to plead for me to reconsider Martha Stepp’s dismissal. I will not.”

She turned back to the pianoforte and began shifting the music sheets. Dreading Beethoven, Weston came over and sat on the bench beside her, facing the opposite direction.

“Anne, I respect your decision to dismiss your maid. I know it must have been difficult for you.”

“No, it was not,” his sister said, raising her chin a little. “And I do not regret it.”

Anne never made anything easy. He could not imagine how she would ever find someone who would be able to bear her moods. “Yes, be that as it may, I trust you will allow Miss Kemp to help you find a new dresser.”

“Yes.” Anne drew breath. “She certainly is an improvement over that person she sent as a substitute when she was delayed. At least she had a reasonable explanation for her delay.”

Anne began to fiddle with the sheets of music in front of her again, and a thought occurred to him.

“Sister, dear, do you even want a Season? Do you even want to go to London; and if you do, then why?”