A Grand Gesture

Book : Flowers & Thorns

by Holly Newman

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

When Catherine Shreveton was invited to London to make her debut under the auspices of an aunt, her family insisted she go. In a pique, Catherine disguised herself to look as dull and drab as her aunt supposed her to be, and she kept everyone in the dark about her fortune. But Catherine had not counted on the dashing Marquis of Stefton. This nobleman knew she was an heiress, and he had his doubts about her drab appearance. Wouldn't it be a lark, he mused, to gain the little wren entrée into the most fashionable and prominent circles? And so two pretenders had set their traps unaware that love was the prize.

Release date: April 11, 2021

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 232

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Harth House

5 February 1816

 

My Dearest Mary,

I have invited my twin nieces, Lady Iris and Lady Dahlia, to London for the Season. As daughters of my brother Aldric, fifth Earl of Whelan, they possess the rank which demands a society debut.

Recently, it was brought to my attention that I have two other Shreveton nieces, both of marriageable age, who have come out provincially yet have not had the opportunity of a London Season. One is Susannah, daughter of my youngest brother, Captain Glendon Shreveton, and the other is Catherine, your daughter, and the only child of my dear departed brother, Ralph.

 I am certain you are aware that the Shreveton family holds a respected place in Society. We owe it to Society to introduce our children. I cannot allow any of my brothers' daughters to be overlooked in this manner.

I have decided this Season should be enlivened by the presence of four young Shrevetons, and I intend to undertake this effort. Under my aegis, all of my Shreveton nieces can be assured of the proper notice from the polite world.

If you send my dear niece Catherine to London, I will introduce her to the ton. Do not worry for the lack of suitable gowns. I intend such articles to be gifts I grant all my nieces.

I am confident that Catherine, though the eldest and possessing the least in prospects, will be able, under my tutelage, of course, to make an eligible parti. If you will forgive my plain speaking, at least she will have a better chance than in the wilds of Yorkshire.

I remain with respect, etc.

Lady Harth, Countess of Seaverness

 

Lady Burke’s knuckles were white and her hands shook as she lowered the letter. The brown eyes she turned toward her daughter Mary glittered with anger.

Seeing her mother’s expression and knowing full well her Irish temper, the Honorable Mrs. Ralph Shreveton’s hands fluttered beseechingly. “Lady Harth has no way of knowing Catherine’s true position, Mama. She knows Ralph’s portion was small. It would be natural for her to think Catherine has never had a Season because we are too poor!”

“Fustian.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Mary, she’s implying Catherine’s a nothing!”

Mary looked down at her hands which were twisting her handkerchief into a ball. “Maybe it would have been better if she were,” she said softly.

“Mary!”

The younger woman blushed and looked up quickly, stilling her nervous fingers by pressing her hands deep in her lap. “Well, she will be two-and-twenty this spring.” The note of defiance mixed with exasperation in her tone was unusual.

Gwen drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair, staring at the sunlight shining through the tall parlor windows that showed dust in the air as silver glitter and made patterns of light on the Aubusson carpet, lending jewel-like clarity to its mellow old colors.

It was not for lack of beauty or money that Catherine remained unwed, rather from a lack of concern! Two-and-twenty Catherine would soon be; however, a nothing she was not. To a string of forlorn young men who had crossed her path, she was the elusive beauty. None were able to capture her attention, let alone her heart. No matter how long she talked or danced with them at the local assemblies, they always proclaimed to be head over heels in love with her warm brown eyes, laughing freckled countenance, and masses of auburn hair shining like burnished copper in candlelight or fire in the sun.

That was part of the problem. There was too much proclaiming and little enough sincerity.

And Catherine knew it.

The only sincere aspect of Catherine’s suitors was their awe at discovering Catherine was schooled as a horse trainer for her uncle, Sir Eugene Burke, Bt., and would be his heir.

Perhaps it would be wisest for Catherine to go to London for the Season. She knew Catherine had no desire for a taste of town life. Yet how could the chit choose to be a country spinster without knowing the alternatives? But how to make Catherine see that? And how to make her obey the wishes of the haughty Countess of Seaverness?

Gwen turned to face her daughter, a thoughtful expression on her face. Mary smiled timidly back, afraid to break into her mother’s thoughts.

“Do you truly wish her to go?” Gwen finally asked.

Mary, who was again studying her hands, looked up at her mother. This time her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Gwen sighed, nodding her head as she tossed the letter on the little table by her chair. “I believe Deirdre is the key,” she said. “She can turn the lock on this matter. Of that, I am certain. After all, she is Irish.”

Mary nodded and inquired if she should request the carriage be brought around. Gwen asked her not to be such a ninny, saying they would make their call at their usual hour.

“Depend on it,” she said, “to do anything out of the ordinary would only cause comment and make Catherine suspicious, which we would not want to do."

***

"Should we not tell Lady Harth the truth of Catherine’s position? It cannot be right to allow her to make plans based upon false assumptions,” Mary suggested later that afternoon as they drove through the village of Umberfife to Fifefield, the Burke estate.

“Nonsense,” Gwen replied, scarcely glancing at Mary seated opposite her in their carriage. “What right does she have to make such assumptions? It would be worse if she thought her to be rich and she wasn’t. No one will sneer at money and pedigree, my dear.”

“Do you remember, Mama, when Ralph and I were first married and made that visit to his family? It was easy to see they did not care for Ralph’s choice for a bride, and Lady Harth made sure I knew it. She is Ralph’s eldest sister, but not at all like my dear Ralph in temperament.”

Mary paused as she cocked her head to the side, remembering. “Though, in all honesty, I do feel her haughty nature is assumed in self-defense,” she said, smiling.

“Self-defense?” Gwen asked, astounded.

“Yes.” Mary blushed and looked guilty, for she hated to speak ill of others. “She is, well, she is clumsy. There is no other way to put it. Since she is prone to breaking things by her clumsiness, she has adopted a formidable mien to hide behind and haughtily pretends none of her accidents happen.

“ . . . And hardly anyone else tried to be kind to me,” she continued with a sigh. “Aldric, Ralph’s oldest brother, was under the thumb of his first wife, Lily. A more domineering, hateful woman I could not imagine. She looked down her nose at me and made the most hateful comments that Lady Harth echoed, for they were bosom-bows. Penelope, Ralph’s other sister, tried to be pleasant, but she was breeding and spent much of each day in her room. I was never so miserable.”

Mary smiled suddenly, a faraway look reflected in her soft brown eyes. “Lady Harth’s loudest complaint was that I was a nobody, that even Penelope had the sense to marry a baronet.”

“What? Mary, do not tell me you have allowed that woman to continue in her misguided beliefs for over twenty years!” Gwen said.

Her daughter shrugged helplessly. “You remember how Ralph was. He loved a good joke, and he thought the fact that I was really the daughter of a baronet was terribly funny. I was quite overwhelmed. All I wanted to do was run away. If Ralph had not remained by my side, and if his youngest brother, Glendon, had not been there to keep us in laughter, I doubt I would have survived it.” Mary’s voice choked on her last words, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Gwen sniffed. While her daughter might feel a miserable stay with Ralph’s family was worthwhile if it gave him amusement, she thought otherwise.

“Pardon, Mama, did you say something? I’m afraid I wasn’t attending,” Mary said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“No, merely an old woman muttering to herself. No, don’t question me further. See, we’ve arrived at Fifefield Manor,” Gwen said, feeling the rush of pride she always experienced when she visited the Burke estate.

The house Sir Eugene Burke’s grandfather had purchased for his line was in keeping with his character. It was a large, three-story, gray stone edifice built in the late sixteenth century. The estate had changed hands several times before it came into Burke’s keeping, and each owner made changes to suit his whims and needs. Consequently, the house belonged to no era but commanded respect and mention in the guide books because of its unique design and its illustrious owner.

When the footman handed her down from the carriage, Gwen looked away from the house toward the stables, from which the real fame of the Burkes derived. The Burke name was a byword in the sporting community, for Burke horses were known as excellent mounts for hunting and pleasure. A Burke horse was not a horse to be ridden by just anyone. It took a competent rider to handle such a high-strung, vibrant animal. This added to the horses’ value. They were treasured possessions, and often family heirlooms were sold by an impecunious individual in order to maintain the animal.

Gwen’s breast swelled with love when she saw her handsome son by the stable courtyard archway. He was in serious discourse with a gentleman of Corinthian proportion and elegance, who was attired in a prodigiously modish, multi-caped greatcoat, with a high-crowned beaver set rakishly atop glossy black locks. The men were turned away from her, obviously studying the horse being put through its paces in the training paddock.

Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and she raised a hand to shield them from the winter sun’s glare. Could it be? Her breath whistled through her teeth, clouding the cold air before her with white vapor.

That boy on the horse was Catherine! And in front of a member of the ton!

Gwen grabbed Mary’s elbow and propelled her toward the house. “Look at that hoyden! Lady Harth’s letter was well-timed.”

Mary pulled against her mother so she might see. A timid “oh” escaped her lips; then she turned to her mother and resolutely straightened. “We did grant her permission to ride astride, so we must be complacent about the breeches. It would hardly be seemly to raise her skirts to such heights.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware of that,” Gwen returned testily. “But not in front of strangers!”

“What?”

“Look, there by the stable archway."

Mary cringed. “Maybe, Mother, he won’t recognize her as a girl, dressed like that, with her hair tucked under her hat,” she offered weakly, shoving her hands deep into her muff.

Gwen harrumphed and raised her skirts to climb the steps before the house. “Just pray he’s looking more at the horse than the rider. If this London venture’s to be any success, we don’t need any rumors circulating.” She continued to grumble under her breath as she passed through the doorway into the hall.

Mary followed meekly, risking one last glance in the direction of the stables and paddock. She bit her lip in helpless frustration when she saw the elegant gentleman gesture toward the paddock. Then, compressing her lips in determination, she went into the manor house.

***

Sir Eugene Burke watched the horse and rider with pride. “So, Stefton, what do you think?” he asked the gentleman standing next to him.

The Marquis of Stefton folded his arms across his broad chest. “I’ll own I prefer a gray or a black,” he said. “However, that horse could cause me to make an exception. Have you coursed him?”

The corner of Sir Eugene’s mouth kicked up in wry humor. “Not personally, but I have good reports--excellent action, good clean jumps without a falter.”

“Who schooled him, Michaels or Stoddard?”

“Neither. You’re looking at the one who claims that credit.” Sir Eugene’s grin broadened as he noted the Marquis’s black eyebrows rise in disbelief.

“That squib of a lad? Come, Gene, you're doing it too brown. I didn’t cut my eyeteeth yesterday.”

“On my honor. Done a wonderful job with that horse. He’ll fetch a good price in London.”

The Marquis studied the rider carefully. “Got light hands, a good seat . . .” He frowned a moment, then turned back to Sir Eugene. “Would you take it amiss if I offered the lad a chance as a jockey for me?”

Sir Eugene appeared to consider the matter for a moment.

‘With your reputation,” he said lightly, “her mother would take exception to the idea—it is hardly an occupation for a gently-reared female.”

“Female!” Lord Stefton’s head whipped around and he stared at Sir Eugene. “Are you saying that boy is a woman?”

Sir Eugene nodded. “My niece,” he answered complacently.

“Have you gone daft, man?” The Marquis shed his languid posture to peer intently at the rider. Every idea of propriety was affronted, delightfully so. He found himself possessed of a lively curiosity as to the personality of his friend’s niece. Unexpectedly, the image of himself as a hound keen to the scent flashed in his mind, effectively dousing his initial interest.

He gave Sir Eugene a sideways glance. It was taken for granted no woman could ride a Burke horse. Sir Eugene, he knew, did nothing to disabuse the world of this notion. Most likely, he knew full well this increased the mystique and, therefore, the horses' value.

“Why are you telling me this? I cannot believe you wish me to spread such insight among the ton,” he drawled wryly.

Sir Eugene tore his eyes away from Catherine to look at the Marquis. “Hardly,” he said levelly. “I don’t know why I mention it now, other than some desire to show my pride. She’ll be my heir. She’s like a daughter to me.” He laughed, looking affectionately at Catherine. “Or perhaps I should say, more like a son.”

The sounds of Gwen’s carriage being driven into the stable yard drew his attention, and he glanced away from Catherine toward the source of the sound. “That’s my mother’s carriage. She must be inside. Excuse me, Stefton, I must pay my respects. Are you sure you won’t stay the night?’ ’

“No, though I thank you for the offer. My luggage and valet are ten miles down the road. I only stopped on my return from visiting a friend in Northumbria to see if I might steal a march and acquire one of your horses before the spring sale.”

“Well, stay long enough to share a mug of ale and warm yourself. Dawes will show you the way to the library.”

The Marquis nodded absently as Sir Eugene turned to leave, his attention returning to the rider on the big bay horse.

***

Gwen and Mary surged past the butler into Deirdre's sitting room, a sunny yellow room with broad windows overlooking the park, stables, paddocks, and fields beyond that constituted the central part of the farm.

It was Deirdre's favorite place, for there she could sit and sew and look out over Eugene’s world, though her delicacy of constitution precluded her participation. She was a fragile woman with a heart-shaped face and an almost translucent complexion, save for the natural roses in her cheeks. She possessed the merriest blue eyes, always ready to crinkle at the sides when she laughed. Her fine brown hair insisted on slipping out of its confining pins, so she always looked as though she’d been rushing about. This impression was intensified by the rapid, birdlike movements of her hands as she talked, carrying her beyond spoken thoughts.

She was mending Sir Eugene’s shirts when Gwen and Mary entered, and she turned like a startled fawn when the door opened. Her brief expression of surprise turned to warm welcome when she recognized her visitors and urged them to come in by the fire. She carefully folded her husband’s shirts and rang for refreshments.

Gwen chuckled at Deirdre's occupation and leaned back into a deep gold brocade armchair across from her. “Still refusing to let a seamstress touch his shirts? Well, be careful you don’t ruin your eyes.”

Deirdre giggled. “Oh, faith, if I don’t have a care and sew only when the light is best, Eugene scolds me like a child.” Her hands fluttered. “He looks black at me enough for enjoying the mending. I can’t help it, I must be busy, and mending is ingrained in me from childhood.

“But tell me,” she continued, leaning forward, her face intent, “is the rector’s youngest quite recovered now from the measles? I haven’t gone out for nigh on a week now, and I find it disconcerting not to know everything has happened. I sometimes think Eugene is too cautious of my health. Though I catch a cold easily, I am otherwise strong.”

“That may be, but don’t you be getting any ideas, my girl,” Gwen said gruffly, trying to mask her emotion for the slip of a woman seated before her.

Deirdre had been a genuinely energetic woman until her accident ten years ago. Deirdre had come to her mother-in-law’s house to announce the joyful news that she was finally breeding. When Ralph drove her home that afternoon, a sudden storm blew up, with more wind and sound than rain. A stray small branch of leaves, carried by the wind, blew across the eyes of one of the horses. The startled horse reared and bolted. The carriage careened madly after the horse until the entire assemblage tumbled into a ditch not far from Fifefield. Raymond Dawes, the son of Sir Eugene’s estate agent, found them. Ralph was dead, his neck broken when he was thrown from the carriage. Deirdre was alive, but she lost the child she was carrying and contracted pneumonia. The incident took its toll on her health. In her activities, she was a mere shadow of her former self, though outwardly as gregarious as ever.

“Yes, the child is better. Now it looks like the squire’s two boys have it,” Mary answered sadly. “The poor man, he is in such a state. To see his two babes, usually so full of life, still and quiet frets him to flinders.” Mary’s voice broke slightly, caught up in her thoughts of the squire.

Deirdre and Gwen exchanged knowing looks and smiled. Together, they talked about happenings in the village in a pleasant, gossipy manner until Deirdre's butler brought them tea and left, closing the big white double doors softly behind him. It was a signal to the elder Lady Burke, and she leaned forward in her chair.

“Deirdre, love, we must admit this is not a mere social call on our part. We need your assistance,” she said, nodding over in Mary’s direction.

Deirdre's eyes opened wide. “Oh! Anything, need you ask? But whatever for?”

Gwen smiled, leaning back once more in her chair and bringing her hands together, forming a steeple with her fingertips. “You said earlier you often do not know what is going on with people because you are so secluded here.” She paused for a moment and glanced briefly at Mary, who was sitting straight in her chair with an intense expression on her face. “But I dare swear,” she went on, “you see our Catherine more than we.”

Deirdre grinned. “Yes, that is most likely true.”

“Does she appear content with the horses? Has she ever mentioned to you any other wishes? Dreams?” Gwen asked.

Deirdre's brow clouded for a second. “Alas, no. And if I be understanding you right, you mean, does she think of marrying.”

“Yes. Though she has never voiced such dreams to us, we wonder if they do cross her mind.”

“I’ve often teased her that she should have a man of her own rather than share mine.” Deirdre's laughter tinkled merrily. “For so it does seem at times.”

Gwen sighed. “And the lass is nigh on two-and-twenty. That is what we have come to talk to you about.” She straightened in her chair. “Mary has a letter from Ralph’s sister, the Countess of Seaverness, offering to present Catherine this Season.”

Deirdre's eyes grew round. “However did this come about?” she asked, looking from Gwen to Mary and back.

Gwen turned to her daughter. “Perhaps, Mary, you had best show Deirdre the letter.”

Mary reached into her reticule, her face a study of conflicting emotions. “I do believe she means well,” she said anxiously, extracting the letter and handing it to Deirdre.

Deirdre read quickly. Instead of the outrage Gwen and Mary expected, she fell to whoops of laughter when she finished reading.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she sputtered at last. “But to be thinking of Catherine in this way, it is so outrageous! I can just imagine the picture Lady Harth has of her. T’is rich, I vow!”

She was suddenly solemn. “Oh, you do take this seriously.”

Gwen was the first to recover. “You’re quite right. It is outrageous. Nonetheless, disregarding the snobbish tone of Lady Harth’s letter and her false assumptions, we do wish for Catherine to go to London. To be so totally immured in the countryside is disastrous for her chances of meeting any gentleman worthy of her. Even Eugene had his fling and Grand Tour before he settled here. But how can we get her to London in the face of that?” Gwen asked, pointing to the letter Deirdre held.

Deirdre had to admit her headstrong niece wouldn’t take kindly to such an invitation.

“That is why we’ve come to you. We think if Eugene could be brought to sponsor the idea, then the rest is assured!”

“What is it I am to sponsor?” a deep voice asked.

The three ladies looked up quickly at the gentleman standing just inside the room. Gwen frowned, and Mary blushed, but Deirdre clapped her hands excitedly and would have run to him had not Sir Eugene forestalled her by taking long swift strides to her side, taking her fluttering hands in his own, and urging her to stay still.

Mary’s eyes misted slightly at the sight of the tenderness between her twin brother and his wife, while Gwen regarded him dispassionately.

He was dressed for riding in dun-colored breeches and a brown coat, with a scarf tied negligently about his neck. His was not the studied casualness currently in vogue; his was natural. He was a man who didn’t care about fashion. He didn’t have to.

How alike her children were in looks, Gwen thought. And Catherine, too, had the same large deep brown eyes and square chin. In Catherine and Eugene, the square jaw was strong and supported the belief a square jaw denoted a stubborn personality.

“Ralph’s sister, the Countess of Seaverness, has offered to present Catherine this Season along with her three other nieces,” Deirdre told him brightly, then started to giggle again. “She assumes Catherine has never had a Season and is still unwed because she has little portion and no beauty!”

Eugene raised an eyebrow but vouched no comment.

Mary, nervous at the growing silence, took up the issue. “We believe she should go despite Lady Harth’s ideas.”

“I fail to see where I enter into the matter. If the chit wishes to go, I see no reason she shouldn’t.”

“My love,” Deirdre said softly, tugging her husband’s hand to get his attention, “I think your mother and Mary are afraid Catherine will not go if she thinks you need her here. And she has said she does not wish to wed. She prefers the company of horses.” Deirdre gave him a soft smile.

“Nonsense. Of course she will one day wed. She would be a prize for any gentleman!”

“Aye, she’s a prize, but will the prize ever be claimed?” Gwen asked sarcastically, annoyed with her son’s offhand manner. “Do you see any prospects about? No! Unless you consider the young men with the regiment stationed in York, or perhaps some of those greedy country fops she meets at the Harrogate Assemblies, who fall in love with her beauty but wish to marry her because one day your estate will pass to her. Those are Catherine’s choices now.”

Gwen grew more frustrated at her son’s urbane countenance. “Oh! How I wish you had not told everyone your intentions.”

Sir Eugene’s brows snapped together. He scowled at his mother while he considered her words. He never thought of Catherine’s age, and he realized he never thought of her ever leaving Umberfife. He had meant it for the best when he made Catherine his heir. As for leaving her Fifefield and the stable, well, it was the only way to keep it in the family. He and Deirdre would have no children. Catherine and her husband would keep the Burke tradition alive, and one day his grandnephews would inherit. But he had no wish for her to wed a fortune hunter. . . . If his mother were correct. He looked quizzically at his wife.

Her eyes big as saucers, she nodded.

He looked back to his mother. “It was not meant that way,” he said, irritated at his mother as well as himself.

“There is a reason for Catherine to go to London,” Deirdre said slowly.

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

She smiled broadly. “You mentioned it yourself earlier, Lady Burke. Did you not note Gene had a Grand Tour before taking over Fifefield?”

Eugene and Mary were puzzled by Deirdre's line of thought; however, Gwen caught the nub of the matter.

“Of course, he did not want to go either, eager as he was to take over. However, afterward, Gene, you said yourself it was the best thing you could have done. You knew how to judge horses, and the trip taught you to judge people as well!” Gwen said, warming to the idea. “If you were to tell Catherine it would help her run the stable, she might go willingly.”

“Yes, and I know just how to spur on that willingness, too,” Deirdre said.

The other three looked at her expectantly. She shook her head. “I shan’t tell you, for it must be something between Catherine and me. But mark my words, she will go.” She began to giggle again, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud, her eyes dancing with mischief.