Abigail frowned. “How can it be your fault if it was an ice storm?”
“Thank you for taking my part,” he said. “Apparently, the Elm was dead, and ought to have been cut down a year ago. Anyone could see it was going to fall over at the first gust of wind. By ‘anyone’ I mean, of course, everyone except me.”
“What on earth are you going to do?” Abigail asked.
“I say we ignore it,” he said, tenderly feeling the end of his nose. “Perhaps it will get tired and go away if we pay it no attention. I’ve a great many trees on the estate, and the vast majority of them are immensely well-behaved. Let us pay attention to them instead.”
“But where are we to go?” asked Abigail.
He raised his eyebrows. “Go? Don’t you like Hertfordshire?”
“We can’t possibly stay in the house now,” said Abigail, unnerved by his apparent unconcern. Her father was the only man she had ever really known, and, while neither quiet nor morose, verbal capers were not in Red’s line. Cary was so different that he baffled her.
“Don’t you like trees?” he teased. “They are generally thought to be pleasant things. Not that tree, of course. That is a very bad tree. But you mustn’t let it ruin all the good trees for you. Think of the shade they offer in the summer, the little birds who nest in their sheltering branches…” Reluctantly, Cary relented in the face of her utter bewilderment. Miss Vaughn evidently had no brothers; she was quite unaccustomed to being teased, which, naturally, made her irresistible to him. “Not to worry, cousin,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve a team of crack woodcutters on the case. You’ll be tucked in bed by nightfall.”
“What?” cried Abigail. “Even if they were able to clear it all away by tonight—which I doubt—we could not possibly sleep here. Why, half the roof is gone!”
“I’m only joking you, cousin,” he said, chuckling. “Of course you’ll have to stay at the Manor, provided the elms have not yet attacked it. It’s only half a mile across the field, nearly two miles by way of the road. I have my horse. I’ll take the shortcut and meet your coach at the house. I’ll tell your driver. Let’s get you back in the carriage before you freeze.”
“But, sir, we could not possibly—I mean, we could not stay in your house—”
“I don’t see why not,” he answered. “You were going to stay in that house and it’s mine. Or do you suppose it belongs to the tree now?”
“But the manor house,” Abigail persisted. “Is that not where you live, sir? I couldn’t possibly ask you to leave your home.”
“My dear girl, you couldn’t possibly ask me to share it,” he pointed out. “The Vicar in these parts happens to be my cousin, and he’s beastly strict.”
“Where will you go, sir?” Abigail asked.
He chuckled. “You needn’t look so forlorn. I shall only be as far away as the gatehouse. I’ll be honest with you, cousin,” he went on cheerfully. “I can’t give the rent back because I’ve spent it already. The desperate pity of it is, I spent quite a bit on the Dower House! Cleaning it, painting it, patching over the rat holes. Those chimneys hadn’t been swept since God was in short coats? You’d not believe the detritus that came down the flue in my lady’s bedchamber. Owls’ nests, and bats’ bones.”
“Bats!” breathed Abigail, searching the cold gray sky in dismay.
“Damned expensive, sweeps. The truth is, my dear cousin,” he added, taking her hand in his, “if you can’t convince Mrs. Spurgeon to take the Manor instead, I shall be ruined.”
“But you can’t ask your wife to remove to the gatehouse,” Abigail pointed out.
To her surprise, he laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”
“I daresay the gatehouse would be adequate for our needs, sir,” said Abigail, rather doubtfully. “We are only three—Mrs. Spurgeon, Mrs. Spurgeon’s nurse, and myself.”
“Nurse? That settles it. Mrs. Spurgeon’s health will not permit her to be consigned to the inconveniences of the gatehouse. I shall take it, and leave you ladies to the comforts of Tanglewood Manor. No, I insist. I give you my word that my wife won’t object to the scheme. I expect Mrs. Wayborn to remain quite mute on the subject, as indeed, she is on every subject.”
Abigail stared at him. “Do you mean that your wife is a mute, sir?” she asked, shocked that he would joke about such a serious matter.
“She might be,” he carelessly answered. “I really don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Abigail cried. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“No,” he sadly agreed. “You’re not very good at riddles, are you? I’m not married, you see. But I daresay my wife is wandering about the earth in search of me as we speak, poor girl. She could be mute. She could be Irish, for all I know. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t got a hunchback or a mustache, but, then again, I’m such a spiritual fellow that her beautiful soul might be quite enough for me. She mightn’t even be born yet, though I must say, I find the thought of marrying a girl nearly thirty years my junior a bit daunting.”
“But of course you’re married,” Abigail argued. “I distinctly recall that you mentioned your wife to me. You said Mrs. Wayborn did all your reading for you.”
He raised his dark brows. “Did I? I seem to recall something along those lines. What I meant was that, when I do marry, she will have the job. Unless she should happen to be blind. I couldn’t ask it of a blind woman.”
“Then there is no Mrs. Wayborn to object to your living arrangements.”
“Not at present,” he qualified. “But if I know anything about my future wife—and I think I do—she wouldn’t object to staying with me in the gatehouse. As long as we two are together, her happiness will be complete. In any case, you must take the Manor.”
“Yes, of course,” Abigail agreed faintly as he let down the steps for her and helped her climb back into the coach. She felt utterly and completely stupid.
Chapter 4
One of the Manor’s wrought iron gates had come loose from its post and was propped against the wall of what Abigail supposed to be the gatehouse—a dingy stone box that looked more like an abandoned rookery than a human domicile. The manor house did not disappoint, however. With its large, mullioned windows and its chimneys rising like decorative spires from the roof, Tanglewood was as fine an example of a Tudor country house as she had ever seen. The red brick facade was clad with ivy, and outside the entrance was a small timber portico, with room enough inside for two rustic benches and a boot scraper.
As the coach rolled up the drive, Abigail saw Cary Wayborn step out from the portico, a barking dog at his heels. The animal had the fox-like head, short legs, and deep, bow-front chest typical of a Welsh corgi. By concentrating on the dog instead of the master as he helped her from the coach, she found she could breathe quite normally.
“The house is much too big for us, Mr. Wayborn,” she said worriedly, turning to help Paggles, only to find that the efficient Evans had the situation in hand. “The rent we paid for the Dower House can’t possibly be enough.”
The corgi launched itself at Abigail, demanding its fair share in the conversation. Its stump of a tail was wagging so hard its entire rear end was in motion. “Quiet, Angel,” Cary snapped, to no avail. The dog jumped energetically at Abigail’s skirts. Abigail solved the problem by scooping the small animal up in her arms.
“Worst dog ever,” Cary remarked lightly.
“No, indeed,” said Abigail, which Angel mistook for an invitation to lick her face.