A Comfortable Wife

They were in Henrietta’s sitting-room, a cosy apartment made bright with flowers and floral embroideries. Henrietta occupied her favourite armchair beside the hearth; Philip stood before her, one arm negligently extended along the mantelpiece. At the back of the room, Henrietta’s dresser, Trant, sat stitching industriously, head bent, ears flapping.

Lifting eyes of faded blue presently lit by her ire to Philip’s face, Henrietta went on, “Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the good offices of the other local ladies, that poor child would have grown to womanhood with not the first inkling of the social graces.” Her expression mulish, she fluffed up her shawls. “And as for contracting a suitable alliance—it pains me to say it but I’m quite sure that that was the furthest thought from Araminta’s mind!”

With her frown as near as it ever came to forbidding, she looked like an irate owl; Philip set himself to soothe her. “I met Antonia as we came in. She seemed wholly confident, quite in her customary mould.”

“Of course!” Henrietta threw him a scornful glance. “The girl’s no namby-pamby chit full of die-away airs! Araminta left the running of that huge old house entirely on Antonia’s shoulders. Naturally she knows how to greet visitors and act the hostess—she’s been doing it for years. Not only that, she had to manage the estate and take complete care of Geoffrey, too. It’s a wonder she hasn’t become bowed down beneath the weight of all the accumulated responsibilities.”

Philip raised one brow. “Her shoulders—indeed, her carriage—seem to have held up admirably under the strain.”

“Humph!” Henrietta shot him a glance, then settled deeper into her armchair. “Be that as it may, it’s not right! The poor child should have been brought out years ago.” She fell silent, idly toying with a fringe, then she looked up at Philip. “I don’t know if you were aware of it but we offered to sponsor her—take her to London and introduce her to the ton. Puff her off with all the trimmings. Your father insisted—you know Horace always had a soft spot for Antonia.”

Philip nodded, aware that was the truth. Even when, as a scrawny twelve-year-old, Antonia had blithely put a saddle on his father’s favourite hunter and taken the ferocious beast on a long amble about the lanes, his sire, stunned as they all had been, had praised her bottom rather than spanked it. His sire had never disguised the admiration he felt for Antonia’s particular brand of straightforward confidence, an admiration Philip was well aware he shared.

“We argued and even pleaded but Araminta wouldn’t hear of it.” Henrietta’s gaze grew cold. “It was perfectly plain she considered Antonia’s place was to act as her nursemaid and chatelaine; she was determined the girl would have no chance at any other role.”

Philip said nothing, his expression remote.

“Anyway,” Henrietta said, her tone that of one who would brook no denial, “I’m determined, now that she has come to me, to see Antonia right.” Lifting her head, she fixed Philip with a challenging stare. “I intend taking her to London for the Little Season.”

For one instant Philip felt shaken, but by what force he couldn’t comprehend. Holding fast to his customary imperturbability, he raised his brows. “Indeed?”

Henrietta nodded, the action an eloquent testimony to the strength of her resolution.

A pause ensued, which Philip, somewhat diffidently, broke. “Might I enquire as to whether you have any…” he gestured languidly “…further scheme in mind?”

A beatific smile lit Henrietta’s lined face. “I intend finding her a husband, of course.”

For an instant, Philip remained perfectly still, his expression utterly impassive. Then his lids fell, veiling his eyes. “Of course.” Gracefully, he bowed; when he straightened, his expression was as bland as his tone. “Hugo Satterly’s downstairs—I should return to him. If you’ll excuse me?”

Only when the door had closed behind him and she had listened to his footsteps retreat along the corridor did Henrietta allow herself a gleeful cackle. “Not a bad start, if I do say so myself.”

Trant came forward to plump the cushions at her back and straighten her myriad shawls. “Seems like they’ve already met.”

“Indeed—nothing could be more fortunate!” Henrietta beamed. “So like dear Antonia to remember to summon you to make sure I didn’t oversleep. I detect fate’s blessing in Philip arriving at just that moment.”

“Maybe so, but he didn’t seem all that taken. You don’t want to get your hopes too high.” Trant had been with her mistress ever since her marriage to the late Lord Ruthven. She had seen young ladies aspiring to the role of her mistress’s successor come and go with sufficient frequency to entertain serious reservations as to the present Lord Ruthven’s susceptibility. “I don’t want you getting moped if it don’t come off.”

“Nonsense, Trant!” Henrietta turned to view her henchwoman. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after sixteen years of observing Philip, it’s that one should never place any reliance on how he reacts. His nerves, I’m persuaded, have become so deadened by fashionable disinterest that even should he suffer a…a coup de coeur, he would merely raise a brow and make some mildly polite comment. No impassioned speeches or wild declarations from Philip, of that you may be sure. Nevertheless, I’m determined, Trant.”

“So I see.”

“Determined to see that languidly uninterested stepson of mine legshackled to Antonia Mannering.” Henrietta thumped her chair arm for emphasis, then swivelled to look at Trant who had retreated to the windowseat. “You have to admit she’s everything he needs.”

Without raising her eyes from her stitchery, Trant nodded. “She’s that and more—you’ll get no argument from me on that score. We’ve watched her grow and know her background—good bones, good breeding and all the graces you could want.”

“Precisely.” Henrietta’s eyes gleamed. “She’s just what Philip needs. All we have to do is ensure he realizes it. Shouldn’t be too difficult—he’s not at all dull-witted.”

“That’s what worries me, if you want to know.” Trant snipped a thread and reached into her basket. “Despite that sleepy air of his, he’s wide awake enough on most suits. If he gets wind of your plans, he might just slip his leash. Not so much a case of not liking the girl as of not liking the persuading, if you take my meaning.”

Henrietta grimaced. “I do indeed. I haven’t forgotten what happened when I invited Miss Locksby and her family for a week and promised them Philip would be here—remember?” She shuddered. “He took one look, not at Miss Locksby but at her mother, then recalled a prior engagement at Belvoir. Such a coil—I spent the entire week trying to make amends.” Henrietta sighed. “The worst of it was that after that week I couldn’t help but feel grateful he wouldn’t marry Miss Locksby—I could never have borne Mrs Locksby as a relative.”

A sound suspiciously like a smothered snort came from Trant.

“Yes, well.” Henrietta fluffed her shawls. “You may be sure that I understand that we must go carefully in this—and not just because of Ruthven. I warn you, Trant, if Antonia gets any inkling of my active interest, she’s likely to…to…well, at the very least, she’s likely to become uncooperative.”

Trant nodded. “Aye. She likes running in harness no more’n he.”

“Exactly. But whether they like it or not, I see this as my duty, Trant. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe it’s my place to criticize Ruthven, but in this particular area I feel he’s allowing his natural indolence to lead him to neglect his obligations to his name and to the family. He must marry and set up his nursery—he’s thirty-four years gone and has shown no signs whatever of succumbing to Cupid’s darts.”

“Mind you,” Henrietta declared, warming to her theme, “I freely admit that susceptibility on his part would be the most desirable avenue to pursue, but we cannot base our plans on improbabilities. No! We must do what we can to, very tactfully, promote a match between them. Antonia is now my responsibility, whatever she may think. And as for Ruthven—” Henrietta paused to lay a hand on her ample bosom “—I consider it my sacred duty to his sainted father to see him comfortably established.”

Chapter Two

At precisely six o’clock, Philip stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, idly checking his cravat. It was the household’s habit to gather there during the half-hour preceding dinner; Henrietta, however, rarely made it down much in advance of Fenton’s appearance.

Focusing on his reflection, Philip grimaced. Dropping his hands, he surveyed the room. When no distraction offered, he fell to pacing.

The latch clicked. Philip halted, straightening, conscious of a surge of expectation—which remained unfulfilled. A boy—or was it a young man?—came diffidently into the room. He stopped when he saw him.

“Er…who are you?”

“I believe that’s my line.” Philip took in the wide hazel eyes and the thick thatch of wavy blonde hair. “Antonia’s brother?”

The youth blushed. “You must be Ruthven.” He blushed even more when Philip inclined his head. “I’m sorry—that is, yes, I’m Geoffrey Mannering. I’m staying here, you know.” The boy stuck out his hand, then, in a paroxysm of uncertainty, very nearly pulled it back.

Philip solved the problem by grasping it firmly. “I didn’t know,” he said, releasing Geoffrey’s hand. “But had I considered the matter, I should, undoubtedly, have guessed.” Studying the boy’s open face, he raised a brow. “I presume your sister felt she needed to keep you under her wing?”

Geoffrey grimaced. “Exactly.” His eyes met Philip’s and he promptly blushed again. “Not that she’s not probably right, of course. I dare say it would have been dev—” he caught himself up “—deuced slow staying at Mannering by myself.”

Rapidly revising his estimates of Geoffrey’s age downwards and his intelligence upwards, Philip inclined his head. The boy had the same ivory skin Antonia possessed, likewise untouched by the sun—strange in one of his years. “Are you down for the summer?”

Geoffrey flushed yet again, but this time with gratification. “I haven’t actually gone up yet. Next term.”

“You’ve gained entrance?”

Geoffrey nodded proudly. “Yes. Quite a stir it was, actually. I’m only just sixteen, you see.”

Philip’s lips curved. “No more than I would expect of a Mannering.” He had years of experience of Antonia’s swift wits on which to base that judgement.

Engaged in an entirely unaffected scrutiny of Philip’s coat, Geoffrey nodded absentmindedly. “Dare say you don’t remember me, but I was here, years ago, when the parents used to leave Antonia and me with Henrietta. But I was mostly in the nursery—and when I wasn’t I was with Henrietta. She used to be very…well, motherly, you know.”

Draping an arm along the mantelpiece, Philip’s smile wry. “I do, as it happens. You’ve no idea how grateful I was, first to Antonia, then to you, for giving Henrietta an outlet for her maternal enthusiasms. I’m extremely fond of her, but I seriously doubt our relationship would be quite so cordial had she been forced to exercise her talents on me in lieu of other, more suitable targets.”

Geoffrey regarded Philip measuringly. “But you must have been quite…that is, almost an adult when Henrietta married your father.”

“Not quite a greybeard—only eighteen. And if you think you’ve outgrown Henrietta’s mothering just because you’ve reached sixteen, I suggest you think again.”

“I already know that!” With a disgusted grimace, Geoffrey turned aside, picking up a figurine and turning it in his hands. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice low, “I think I’ll always be a child in their eyes.”

Philip flicked a fleck of lint from his sleeve. “I shouldn’t let it bother you.” His tone was even, man to man. “You’ve only so many weeks to go before they’ll be forced to cut the apron strings.”

Geoffrey’s expressive features contorted. “That’s just it—I can’t believe they actually will. They’ve never let me go before.” His brow clouded. “Mama wouldn’t hear of me going to school—I’ve had all my learning from tutors.”

The door opened, cutting short their tête à tête. Philip straightened as Antonia came into the room. Geoffrey noted the movement. Replacing the figurine, he unobtrusively followed suit.

“Good evening, Antonia.” Philip watched as she approached, a picture in soft yellow silk, the sheening fabric draping her curves, clinging, then hanging free, concealing then revealing in tantalizing glimpses. Her guinea-gold curls rioted in prolific confusion about her neat head; her expression was open, her hazel gaze, as always, direct.

“My lord.” Graciously, Antonia inclined her head, her eyes going to her brother. “Geoffrey.” Her serene smile faded slightly. “I see you two have met.” Inwardly, Antonia prayed Geoffrey hadn’t developed one of his instant dislikes—something he was distressingly prone to do when confronted with gentlemen.

Philip returned her smile. “We’ve been discussing Geoffrey’s impending adventure in joining the academic establishment.”

“Adventure?” Antonia blinked, her gaze shifting to Geoffrey, then back to Philip.

“Adventure indeed,” Philip assured her. “Or so it was when I went up. I doubt it’s changed. High drama, high jinks, life in all its varied forms. All the experience necessary to set a young gentleman’s feet on the road to worldly confidence.”

Antonia’s eyes widened. “Worldly confidence?”

“Savoir faire, the ability to be at home in any company, the knowledge with which to face the world.” Philip gestured broadly; his grey eyes quizzed her. “How else do you imagine gentlemen such as I learned to be as we are, my dear?”

The words were on the tip of Antonia’s tongue—she only just managed to swallow them. “I dare say,” she replied, in as repressive a tone as she could. The teasing light in Philip’s eyes was doing the most uncomfortable things to her stomach. A swift glance at Geoffrey confirmed that her precocious brother was not ignorant of the purport of their host’s sallies. Tilting her chin, she caught Philip’s eye. “I’m sure Geoffrey will find the academic pursuits all absorbing.”

Whether Philip would have capped her comment she was destined never to know; the door opened again, this time admitting Henrietta, closely followed by Hugo.

As she turned to her aunt, Antonia surprised a fleeting look of chagrin on Philip’s face. It was there and then gone so rapidly she was not, in truth, entirely certain she had interpreted his expression correctly. Before she could ponder the point, Fenton entered to make his announcement.

“My honour, I believe?”

Antonia turned to find Philip’s arm before her. Glancing across, she saw Henrietta being supported by Mr Satterly, the pair already deep in conversation. With a regally acquiescent glance, Antonia placed her hand on Philip’s sleeve. “If you will, my lord.”

Philip sighed. “Ah, what it is to be master in one’s own house.”

Antonia’s lips twitched but she made no reply. Together, they led the way to the dining-room. They were five, leaving Philip at the head of the table and Henrietta at the foot with Hugo Satterly on one side and Geoffrey on the other. With a subtle smile, Philip delivered Antonia to the chair next to Geoffrey, the one closest to his own.

The conversation was at first general, with Hugo relating a succession of on dits. Having heard them all before, Philip bided his time until Henrietta, eager for gossip, predictably buttonholed Hugo, demanding further details. Equally eager to learn of the world he had yet to join, Geoffrey drank in Hugo’s entertaining replies.

With a faint smile, Philip shifted in his chair, bringing Antonia directly under his gaze. “I understand, from what Henrietta let fall, that you’ve lived the last eight years very quietly.”

Antonia met his gaze directly, her expression serious and, he thought, a touch sombre. She shrugged lightly. “Mama was unwell. There was little time for frivolities. Naturally, once I was of an age, the ladies about invited me to join their parties.” She looked away as Fenton removed her soup plate. “To the Assemblies at Harrogate.”

“Harrogate.” Philip kept his expression impassive. She might as well have been buried alive. He waited until Fenton laid the next course before venturing, “But your mother must have entertained to some degree?”

Sampling a morsel of turbot cloaked in rich sweetbread sauce, Antonia shook her head. “Not after Papa’s death. We received, of course, but more often than not, when the ladies arrived, Mama was too ill to come down.”

“I see.”

The quiet comment drew a quick glance from Antonia. “You must not imagine I’ve been pining away, dreaming of a gay life.” Reaching for a dish of morels, she offered them to Philip. “I had more than enough to occupy myself, what with running the household and the estate. Mama was never well enough to tend to such matters. And there was Geoffrey, of course. Mama was always in a fret that he was sickly, which, of course, he never was. But she was sure he had inherited her constitution. Nothing would convince her otherwise.”

Philip looked past Antonia; Geoffrey was wholly immersed in the conversation at the other end of the table. “Speaking of Geoffrey, how did you manage to find tutors to keep up with him? He must have been quite a handful.”

Instantly, he realised he’d discovered the key to Antonia’s confidence. Her eyes fairly glowed. “He certainly was. Why, by the time he was nine, he had outstripped the curate.”

There followed an animated catalogue of Geoffrey’s successes, liberally sprinkled with tales of misdeeds, catastrophes and simple country pleasures. In between the highlights of Geoffrey’s life, Philip heard enough to gauge what manner of existence had been Antonia’s lot. What encouragement was needed to keep her revelations flowing, he artfully supplied. As her history unfolded, he realised the unnamed curate was featuring remarkably often.

Laying aside his fork, he reached for his wineglass. “This curate of yours seems to have taken his duties very seriously.”

Antonia’s smile was fond. “Indeed. Mr Smothingham was always a great support. He really is a true knight—a most chivalrous soul.” With a small sigh, she gave her attention to the gooseberry fool Fenton had placed before her.

Leaving Philip to wonder how he could possibly feel so aggressive towards a probably perfectly innocent curate whom he had never met. He cleared his throat. “Henrietta mentioned she was thinking of going up to town for the Little Season.”

“Indeed.” Savouring the tartness of the gooseberry treat, Antonia slanted him a glance. “She’s invited me to accompany her. I hope you don’t disapprove?”

“Disapprove?” Philip forced his eyes wide. “Not at all.” Picking up his spoon, he attacked the frothy concoction before him. “In fact, I’ll be relieved to know she’ll have your company.”

Antonia smiled and gave her attention to her dessert.

Philip rejected his, reaching instead for his wineglass. He took a long sip, his gaze on Antonia. “Am I to understand you’re looking forward to taking the ton by storm?”

She met his gaze with another of her disconcertingly direct looks. “I don’t know.” Her brows rose; her lips curved lightly. “Do you think I would find it diverting?”

Beyond his will, Philip’s gaze was drawn to her lips, to the rich fullness of the ripe curves. He watched as the tip of her tongue traced their contours, leaving them sheening. His expression rigidly impassive, Philip drew in a deep breath. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and met Antonia’s steady gaze. “As to that, my dear, I would not dare hazard a guess.”

He had only questioned her intentions in London to assure himself she was a willing partner in Henrietta’s schemes. His motives, Philip assured himself, were entirely altruistic. Henrietta could be a battleship when she was so moved. Unless he had misread the signs, when it came to Antonia’s future, Henrietta was definitely moved.

“I’m not in the mood for billiards.” Tossing back the last of his port, he stood and settled his coat. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?”

Geoffrey, for the first time elevated to the rank of gentleman to the extent of remaining to pass the port, saw nothing odd in the suggestion.

Hugo was not so innocent. He turned a face of amazed incomprehension on Philip.

Philip ignored it, leading the way to the drawing-room without further comment.

If Henrietta was surprised by his unheralded break with long established habit, she gave no sign. Seated on the chaise, she looked up from her needlework to smile benignly. “Wonderful—just what we need. Geoffrey, do go and sing a duet with Antonia.”

Henrietta waved towards the pianoforte, which stood before the long windows, presently open to the terrace. Antonia sat at the instrument, her fingers on the keys. A gentle, elusive air hung faint in the evening breeze.

With an obedient nod, Geoffrey headed for his sister. Antonia smiled a welcome, breaking off her playing to reach for the pile of music sheets resting on the piano’s edge. With his customary lazy grace, Philip strolled in Geoffrey’s wake. Left standing by the chaise, Hugo studied the small procession, then shrugged and brought up the rear.

“Let’s try this, shall we?” Antonia placed a sheet on the stand.

Geoffrey scanned the lines, then nodded.

Philip took up a position by the side of the grand piano from where he could watch Antonia’s face. As her fingers ranged the keys and the first chords of an old ballad filled the room, she looked up and met his gaze. A slight smile touched her lips; for an instant, their gazes held. Then she looked down and the music swept on.

She and Geoffrey sang in unison, Geoffrey’s pure tenor weaving in and about her fuller tones. For one stanza, she sang alone; Philip briefly closed his eyes, listening, not to the song, but to the music of her voice. It was not the light voice of the girl he remembered but richer, a warm contralto with an undercurrent of huskiness.

As Geoffrey’s voice blended once more with hers, Philip opened his eyes. He saw Antonia glance encouragingly up at Geoffrey, then they launched into the last verse. As the final chords died, he, Henrietta and Hugo burst into spontaneous applause.

Almost squirming, Geoffrey blushed and disclaimed. Her expression one of affectionate exasperation, Antonia turned and deliberately met Philip’s gaze. Lips curving, she arched a delicate brow. “Are you game, my lord?”

Philip detected at least two meanings in her challenge; he was uncertain if there was a third. Languidly, he inclined his head and straightened, responding to the more obvious of her prompts. Coming around the piano, he dropped a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “After that masterful effort, I fear my poor talents will be a disappointment to you all, but if you can find a simple ballad, I’ll endeavour to do my poor best.” He took up his stance behind Antonia’s shoulder; Hugo took his place by the side of the piano.

With an approving smile, Antonia obliged with a rolling country ballad; Philip’s strong baritone managed the changing cadences with ease. Unexpectedly caught up in the simple entertainment, Hugo consented to favour them with a rollicking shanty with a repeating refrain; Antonia made the performance even more humourous by consistently lengthening the long note at the end of the second last line of the reprieve. The shanty had a full twenty verses. First Geoffrey, then Philip, joined in, assisting Hugo through the increasingly jocular song. By the end of it, they were all laughing, very much out of breath.

A smile wreathing her face, Henrietta applauded vigorously, then summoned them to take tea.

Laughter lighting her eyes, Antonia swivelled on the stool to find Philip beside her. Deliberately, she looked up and met his eyes. Despite his easy expression, the grey orbs were veiled. Calmly, she raised a brow, then watched as the chiselled line of his lips lengthened into a definite smile.

He held out his hand. “Tea, my dear?”