The Portrait

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by Cassandra Austen


  The spasm came as she waited for the carriage. Its sudden violence astounded her, and she dropped to her knees in the mud before she could even gasp. There was no pain – just the sensation of her breath being squeezed out of her. She opened her mouth to speak but found she had no voice.

  Lydia was beside her in a moment, as were countless other people.

  “Stand back, please,” she heard Lydia say. “Stand back – my lady is unwell.”

  The swell of voices in her ears grew louder. She was finally able to gasp. Her belly seemed to shudder, and she grasped at it protectively.

  “No!” Her voice creaked and ended in a wail.

  “Has she eaten?” A woman’s voice. It was the only voice she could understand. The rest were an incoherent babble of concern.

  Lydia replied, but her voice was lost in the roar of noise.

  Two strong arms were put around her, warm like an embrace.

  “Easy, my lady.” It was the woman. “My son is going to lift you. I am holding your skirts. You will be comfortable soon.”

  “I am all right,” Catherine panted. “Must … must hurry—”

  “You can rest with me. My house is over there, on the high street. You’ll be on your way in no time.”

  The vice grip around her middle was lessening. “Please,” Catherine begged, lifting her head. Her hair had fallen from its pins and was pasted onto her face with a sheen of sweat. She pushed the strands out of the way as best as she could, and looked up at the woman who had spoken to her. She was middle-aged, brown-eyed and brown-haired, and wore a rough brown cloak. Brown from top to toe.

  “I have to go home,” Catherine whispered.

  “And where are you going?” The woman turned to Lydia, but Lydia remained silent. The woman looked around the silent crowd, and said something in Welsh. When no one replied, she repeated herself a little more loudly, and with shuffling feet, the crowd began to disperse.

  “That’s better,” the woman muttered. She turned to Catherine. “My dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You will go nowhere today. You might as well come home with me.”

  “I cannot,” Catherine said, trying to push the arms away. “I need my coach. I am going home. Oh!” She bent forward again.

  “Are you in pain, my lady?”

  “No,” Catherine groaned. “No …I …the babe—”

  The woman in brown put her hands on Catherine’s belly. She looked over at Lydia.

  “February?”

  “March,” Catherine said.

  The woman looked back down at her. “No,” she said quietly. “February, to be sure. And it’s likely to be January, if you don’t come home with me today.” She said something in Welsh, and strong hands reached over to lift Catherine up. She whimpered slightly, but allowed herself to be lifted into her waiting carriage. Lydia climbed in after her and beckoned, but the woman glanced at the crest on the doors and shook her head.

  “The high street, at the top of the hill,” the woman said to the coachman, who nodded and shut the door. She turned and walked over to a waiting gig, where her son now sat holding the reins of an old cob.

  * * *

  The house was large and comfortable, clearly the dwelling of a prosperous merchant or tradesman. It stood alone at the top of the high street that was paved in tidy cobblestones.

  The woman in brown emerged with her son – a stocky, silent fellow of not much more than twenty. Together, they helped Catherine down from the carriage.

  “I am grateful for your kindness. But I cannot stay. I am travelling north, and I need to make some progress before the day is done.”

  “She is the Countess St Clair,” Lydia murmured.

  “Indeed?” The lady in brown looked at Catherine, her face suddenly grim. There was an awkward pause.

  “I am going to Castle St Clair.”

  Silence.

  “It is—”

  “I know where it is.”

  Catherine drew back. She looked at Lydia for help, but Lydia was folding and refolding a handkerchief.

  “It is a long journey. And hard.”

  “But it is where I must go,” Catherine protested. She looked from the woman to Lydia and back again. “I am sorry, madam, but I do not know your name.”

  “Mrs Owen, my lady.” The woman in brown nodded at her son. “My son will help see to the horses. You must come in.”

  Catherine could find no polite way to refuse. With reluctance, she entered the house and was shown into a surprisingly large and lavishly appointed room. She sank into a chair, and was immediately overcome with fatigue. For a moment, she thought she would fall asleep just where she was.

  “You will have something to eat.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, her voice failing. “But I—”

  “You will not get to Castle St Clair today, my lady. And it would not be wise for you to travel by night.”

  “You do not understand me, I fear,” Catherine said. She was beginning to feel exasperated and trapped. “I own Castle St Clair. I have come to take up residence.”

  “You will forgive my rudeness, my lady. I know a little bit about birthing and I know you would not like to bear your child at Castle St Clair. The journey alone is long and rough. And, when you get there—”

  “I will have help!” Catherine exclaimed. “There is a village—”

  “You may not find much help,” Mrs Owen said, rising. She took a tea tray from the hands of a curious maidservant and dismissed her before sitting down once more. “You are English. The villagers may not think well of you.”

  Catherine protested, “But I mean to hire them! I will not cheat anyone.”

  “Being cheated is not what they will be concerned about, my lady.” Mrs Owen’s voice softened. “Come, here is something to eat. You must keep up your strength. Tiring yourself does the child no good. After you have eaten, we will talk about your journey. My son says your horses also need some rest. Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “I do not like to impose—”

  “You do not impose, my lady.” Mrs Owen rose. “I will speak to your coachman about the route he proposes to take to Castle St Clair. He is English, I think? He may not know the best way—”

  “The boy,” Catherine interjected. “He is Welsh. We had thought to follow his directions.”

  “Then I will speak to the boy. But rest and eat a little, build up your strength. And do not think you will travel on tonight. It is already too late.”

  With this, Mrs Owen left.

  Catherine looked helplessly at Lydia. “This is terrible.”

  “But she is right.” Lydia hesitated. “And she is likely to be right about the village, too.”

  “What, that we will find no help?” Catherine felt a sudden chill. The thought had not even occurred to her. To have a child with no help in the cold, wet Welsh spring – it was a dreadful thought.

  “It cannot be true,” she said slowly. “Why would the villagers refuse to work?”

  “Because, my lady,” Lydia said nervously, “because we are English, and they are Welsh.”

  Catherine felt the fear wash over her again. Impossible, was her first thought. But she suddenly had a dreadful premonition that Lydia was right. The castle had been uninhabited for a very long time. She had no idea what the previous St Clair lords might have been like. She knew nothing of St Clair family history. Had they been bloody? Cruel? Dishonest? She had no way of knowing.

  To her growing despair, she realised that the only house she knew was that of the Clavertons. The Delamare earldom, which had rejected her – and which she had proudly rejected in turn – was, nonetheless, the only history she had.

  She felt as if someone had kicked the wind out of her. All this way. She had come all this way to give her son what was his. And now she realised that she did not know exactly what she was giving him. It could be a most unwelcome gift. To be despised by those around you, to be tainted by a history for which you were not responsible – it wa
s a horrible thing to do to a new life.

  The St Clair earldom was no simple gift, she thought.

  But I have no choice. I am here. I cannot return to Bath, or to Wansdyke. Avebury does not love me as much as he loves his ships. And Sir Lyle – I have dragged him through the dirt, too. He will not save me now.

  When Mrs Owen returned, Catherine spoke calmly. “Mistress Owen, I will gratefully accept your offer to stay here tonight. You are right – I am fatigued, and the spasms come when I am fatigued. But tomorrow I must leave, and I beg your assistance in finding the best route.”

  “Your gardener’s boy knows the way,” Mrs Owen replied. “I have spoken to him, and he will guide you along the river. Do you know Abergavenny? No? You will be travelling along the edge of the mountains, and Castle St Clair is beyond Abergavenny.” She shook her head. “I would not have thought it wise for you to travel so far in your condition. It will be slow going.” She looked sharply at Catherine. “And your husband? When will he join you?”

  “He is not joining me,” Catherine said. Her voice was calm. “He is an officer with His Majesty’s Navy. He will be at sea.”

  “And these spasms? Do they come often?”

  “Often enough,” Catherine admitted. “But only when I am extremely tired, and the child does not seem to be in danger.”

  “You can expect this child in February, my lady. Forgive me for saying so, but—” Mrs Owen shook her head and glanced at Catherine’s belly.

  February. How could that be? That would mean – Catherine counted absently – an image of Jocelyn in shirtsleeves, silhouetted in the light of her bedroom window at Albrook, entered her mind.

  This child is anxious to be born, she thought. He will take the first opportunity to arrive.

  She would make sure he was safe.

  She rose with difficulty. “I thank you for your help. If I might be so bold—”

  “I will take you to your room, my lady.”

  Chapter 38

  Jen Owen was a widow. Her husband had been the apothecary, and had left her a reasonable sum. Thanks to that, the assistance of several sons, and occasional work caring for the sick, she was comfortably off. She did indeed know quite a bit about midwifery, and so she pulled Lydia Barrow aside. “You do realise that you will have to manage the birth when the time comes,” she said gravely.

  Lydia was not fearful by nature, but this shocked her.

  “Will there be no one to call on?” she asked, in horror.

  “You can try getting a message to me. If I hear from you, I will come. But you should not expect any other help. I suspect that the men will not allow their women into the castle – even if some of the carpenters are prepared to work on it.”

  “But the danger of it! Will there be no one to protect us?”

  Mrs Owen shook her head. “We are not so horrible, you know. I cannot think that a Welshman would attack a household of ladies. It is not the way we are. But they will not hold you in any affection. Listen to me. I have family in Abergavenny. If you can get a message to them, they will find me. I will come as quickly as I can.”

  * * *

  The journey was rough. Catherine was relatively well-rested, they had provisions, and the horses were fresh. But the weather was foul – wet and cold – so it took all of a hard day’s travel to reach Abergavenny. Catherine was grateful that it did not snow. Their route wound along the edge of the mountains, and she could see the crags above the road, snowy and grand. At another time in her life, she would have found them enthralling, uplifting. Today they were terrifying.

  In Abergavenny, they found an inn where they were able to spend the night. They were up early the following day and pressed on through a damp drizzle that turned into wet snowflakes. The snow soon gave way to a depressing fog. There was no scenery to admire – they could barely see beyond their immediate path.

  As the afternoon light faded, the horses seemed to get slower and slower. Finally, they stopped. There was absolutely no sound, no motion. Having been rocked continually for two days, Catherine was momentarily taken aback, as if being still was about to make her seasick. Lydia rapped at the door. No response.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. She threw open the door and, suddenly, they saw what had made the coachman stop.

  Castle St Clair. It seemed to be a giant shell – an utter ruin.

  * * *

  It was a much better prison than the sort Jocelyn had imagined: not a dank cell, but a sun-filled room. But it was still confinement. The windows were so high he could not see out. The door was kept locked. Meals were brought, but no conversation offered.

  It felt like death. He would prefer death, he thought, to this endless waiting. But he was a navy man through and through. Whatever his superiors demanded of him, he would do.

  His mind turned to Kate and the child. She would be in Wales by now. He wished her Godspeed, and good health. He hoped someone would tell him when – and if – the child was born safely.

  On the fourth morning, the door opened. It was Beaseley.

  “Sir.” Jocelyn rose.

  “Captain Avebury.” Beaseley looked over his shoulder at the guard on duty, and dismissed him with a nod. The door shut.

  “I confess, I have always been rather ignorant of naval procedure.” Beaseley kept his voice light. “I was told of your arrest the morning after it occurred. But I had some trouble getting in to see you.” He shook his head. “You are quite a troublesome young man.”

  “I am sorry.” Jocelyn sat again. He gestured toward the only other chair in the room, and Beaseley also sat.

  “What am I to call you?”

  Jocelyn shook his head. He did not meet Beaseley’s gaze.

  “The admirals seem to be having the same problem. What do we call the golden boy of the Royal Navy – the one who would have been on his way to Spain by now, if— Ah, you look startled? Do you suppose me so ineffectual that I would have had you taken to London for questioning without assurances? I insisted on a return for making you available for the interminable hearings of the committee looking into Lieutenant Bright’s death. A ship. A rather nice ship, as I recall. And an easy and potentially profitable tour of the Mediterranean.” He sighed deeply. “Why on earth could you have not stayed out of trouble until then?”

  Jocelyn shrugged. “It was bound to happen, Mr Beaseley. I am not Jocelyn Avebury. There never was, never has been, such a person.”

  “Fie, Captain Avebury! You are talking rubbish.” Beaseley rose and rapidly paced the little room. “No man is who he says he is. No man is what his parents say he is. Do you take my meaning, sir?” He pointed toward the door. “Do you know that there are piles of paper in the Admiralty testifying to your bravery and courage in the face of great danger? I know who you are, Captain Avebury, as do the admirals – we all know what stuff you are made of!”

  “But that is to no purpose, Mr Beaseley. I would not be here were it of any use.”

  “Nothing is that simple, Captain Avebury,” Beaseley retorted. He stopped pacing. “You have got to tell me everything. Then I may be able to comprehend who benefits by you being here.”

  Jocelyn laughed: a short, harsh laugh. “Do you not know why I am here, Mr Beaseley?” He rose. “I thought you understood very well on the day I married Lady St Clair. Do you not remember? You were willing to procure a licence without seeing any of my papers. Surely you knew.”

  “Quite honestly, Captain Avebury, I do not know why you are still here. I am rather proud of what I was able to persuade the Admiralty to do for you. Everything was all ready. All that was required was your testimony. So I ask again, why are you here now and not at sea? How did you turn all my careful plans upside down? Do you think no one knows there is something you hide about your past? No one cares, Captain Avebury!”

  Jocelyn stared at him, perplexed, beginning to realise that Beaseley was beside himself; he truly expected Jocelyn would have been long gone from London by now. “But – but I am here accused
of misrepresentation—” he stammered.

  “And what of it?” Beaseley demanded. “They are not fools, these men. When your distinguished record and impressive accumulation of prize money came to their attention years ago, they will have scrutinised your records closely. Do not underestimate the Admiralty, Captain Avebury.” He walked over to the chair again, and sat down. He produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his forehead, blew his nose, and delicately replaced the handkerchief.

  Was it possible? Jocelyn saw the room blur before his eyes. He tipped his head back to look up at the windows, as he had done so many times since being brought here. Rare January sunshine poured through. He squinted, then shut his eyes. His head was pounding.

  Was it really possible? He was beginning to realise that self-pity had blinded him to what surely must be the truth – the Admiralty had known all along that, whoever he was, he was not Avebury. And yet they would continue to use him for their own purposes. Had they wished it, he would have been found out long ago.

  A weight was lifted from his heart, from his shoulders. It flew away on gilded wings, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. But he was free, truly free, for the first time in many long years. And what sorrow remained in his heart was for Kate and the child.

  His thoughts travelled to Wales. Was she safe in Castle St. Claire?

  “You are going to tell me your story from the beginning, Captain Avebury. The truth.”

  The truth. He opened his eyes, directed his gaze at Beaseley. He pulled himself back to London.

  “I was born,” he began, “twenty-nine years ago in York. My father was a prosperous doctor. My mother was the daughter of a squire. She died when I was very young.” He hesitated, continued with difficulty. “My father was a political malcontent. He held some rather extreme views – I wish I could tell you what they were, but I was much too young to know what he was about. He was condemned as a traitor and executed when I was seven.”

 

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