No, not his Kate, of course.
Still, she could not be left on her own, no matter what she thought. She was too fragile, too vulnerable. She should be cared for, protected.
There must be some way.
*
Yorkshire
There had been an exchange of letters.
Mrs. Grant had written to her friend’s sister, mentioning that a viscount had appeared searching for his sister, who had run away. Mrs. Grant had, of course, no notion where the sister might have gone, but she hoped that a young woman with such an unpleasant brother had found a safe haven.
Mrs. Darling had written to her sister’s friend, assuring her that the unpleasant fellow’s sister had found a safe haven. She trusted that her sister’s friends would be discreet should anyone else come in search of the young woman.
Mrs. Grant told her husband and Dr. Finley that she was quite assured that Kate was safe. She did not, however, say anything about where Kate was. She did not think men capable of keeping a secret.
Thus, when Hall appeared, purporting to be a Somerset neighbor of the Langleys who had known Lady Newell when she was a girl, he was received civilly, even graciously, and received no information at all beyond the fact that Lady Newell had died the year before and the daughter had gone to live with her brother in London.
He had not expected anything else. These people were friends to Miss Russell, and they had met Newell. That was enough to assure that they would not help anyone searching for her. However, just to be certain, he spent a few days in the village, presenting himself as a tradesman thinking to retire to the country.
The questions he asked about the land and conditions were sufficiently intelligent to convince the townspeople that he was serious in his search, so it was natural that he should also ask about the inhabitants of the neighborhood. A bad landlord, for example, harmed far more than his own tenants.
He raised the question with the regulars over a mug of ale at the Ring o’ Bells, and noted the morose silence that followed. The tavernkeeper, Powell, finished polishing the pitcher he was holding and put it down carefully.
“Well, now,” Powell said slowly, “Squire Grant, I doubt you could find a much better landlord. Takes care of his tenants, makes repairs as needed, keeps a good eye on the crops and brings in new breeding stock when it’s needed.”
Hall nodded judiciously. “That’s good to hear. I was a bit worried when I rode out to the west today. There seemed to be cottages just falling to pieces, and the fields looked as if no one was taking notice.”
“Ah,” said one of the regulars. The others nodded. They looked at Powell, seeming to expect him to speak for them.
“That’d be Viscount Newell’s estate.” Powell turned aside to spit.
“Not such a good landlord then,” said Hall, nodding sagely. “Too miserly mayhap?”
Powell snorted. The others sneered.
“The old one turned up here maybe once every five years or so,” said one of the men.
“Happen he’d run out of money,” put in another.
“The old one?” asked Hall.
Powell nodded. “Him and the son lived in London. Left the wife and daughter here to run the place.”
“Too big a job for a woman,” said Hall.
Powell shrugged. “They did the best they could, but he took every penny and left them nothing.”
“Ah, well,” said Hall easily, “women never have enough money. It’s always frills and furbelows with them.”
One of the men grunted. “My wife has more in the way of frills and furbelows than Lady Newell and her daughter ever did. If squire hadn’t paid old Tomlinson to stay on at the home farm, they’d not have had enough to eat, and if he hadn’t run their sheep with his own, there’d have been no money coming in at all.”
Hall managed to look shocked. “Mayhap the viscount had no money himself.”
“He took every penny they made from the wool and sold the furniture from the manor out from under them. After he died, the son did the same,” said Powell.
“The son doesn’t manage the estate himself, then?”
Powell snorted. “He came up after his mother died and took his sister away. Then he came back a few weeks ago looking for her.”
“Happen the lass had sense enough to run away,” said the oldest of the men.
Hall frowned. “Run away? Sounds foolish. Where could a lass run to?”
That was met with shrugs.
“If she’d come back here, she could have gone to the squire. The Grants would have taken her in quick enough. They offered when her mother died. But no one’s seen hide nor hair of her.” Powell shrugged again.
“To her mother’s people,” Hall suggested.
That was met with disbelief.
“If they’d been willing to help,” said Powell, “those ladies wouldn’t have been living hand to mouth all these years.”
Chapter Nine
Moreton-in-Marsh
Lady Talmadge lay down on the broad bed provided in the best chamber the White Hart Inn had to offer. It was quite comfortable, with a feather mattress atop the woolen mattress. Lady Talmadge would not have objected to such a bed in her own home. At the moment, however, it had one supreme virtue to her mind.
It did not move.
It did not bump and bounce her about.
It did not cause bruises on various parts of her anatomy.
It remained stationary.
She gave a sigh of pure pleasure and closed her eyes.
Clara sat in a chair by the window, looked out at the people bustling about the town, hurrying home at the end of the day, and gave a sigh of boredom. “You wouldn’t be so tired, you know, if you hadn’t insisted on making the trip in two days. It’s so late now that we won’t be able to see anything of this town either.”
Lady Talmadge did not open her eyes, but her sigh changed in tone. “Do not sulk, Clara. It is most unbecoming. Worse than that, I find it very irritating, and since I am both sore and tired, you really do not wish to irritate me.”
Her daughter looked at her, affronted. “You were the one who wanted to travel so quickly. Had we taken three days or even four as Cousin Stephen suggested, we would have had time to explore other places and even this town before going to Longwood. And you would not be sore and tired.”
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Her brother had insisted that she and Clara could not make the trip alone, and she had agreed. However, Stephen had looked so uncomfortable at having to be their escort that she had not wanted to impose on him longer than necessary.
That did not prevent her current irritation.
They were staying at an inn. She could not tell her daughter to go to her room because her daughter was sharing her room. She could not tell her daughter to go occupy herself elsewhere because they were in a public inn. She sighed once more, opened her eyes and sat up. She glared at her daughter. Clara smiled back angelically.
A knock at the door signaled the arrival of her maid with their bags. Susan was importantly directing the porter to be careful with my lady’s cases, and casting a scornful eye about the room. She sniffed and supposed that the cases should be put there, pointing to the corner by the wardrobe. Lady Talmadge caught her daughter’s eye and both did their unsuccessful best to repress smiles.
After shaking her head in despair at the clumsiness of the porter, Susan closed the door behind him and curtseyed to her mistress. “Mr. Bancroft has ordered dinner to be served in the private parlor in an hour, my lady, if that is acceptable to you. And he told them to bring you a tea tray now.” Another knock on the door brought the tea, which was followed in short order by hot water and a bathing tub.
By the time she and her daughter joined Bancroft, Lady Talmadge no longer felt bruised and battered, and Clara’s high spirits at the prospect of a new adventure had returned. A table had been set up by the window to which Clara promptly hurried, eager to see all there was to see.
Bancroft s
miled at her indulgently before he turned to her mother. “She reminds me of you when you were a child. You were always ready for something new, always eager to see whatever there was to see.”
“Was I? I can scarcely remember myself at that age. How tiresomely boring I have become.”
“Do not go fishing for compliments, my lady.”
“Stop that. I do remember that you called me Alice when I was a child. I wish you would do so now.”
He looked at her with an expression she could not read. “You are no longer a child, my lady.”
She felt suddenly self-conscious, but determined to continue. “And I am no longer Lady Talmadge. Not really. It is simply a label left over from a part of my life that brought me little pleasure. Were it not for Clara, I would gladly forget it completely. I know you call my brother Peter. Please call me Alice.”
He was still looking at her with that odd expression. Then he smiled. It was an odd smile, too, a combination of pain and pleasure somehow. “I would be honored to call you Alice.”
“Honored nonsense, Stephen.” She could feel a flush rising in her face. “We are old friends, are we not?”
“Friends,” he repeated, still with that odd smile.
They sat down to enjoy a meal that was not, perhaps, the best any of them had ever eaten, but that was certainly one of the pleasantest. Any discomfort from their earlier conversation dissipated under Clara’s eager chatter and speculation about everything she saw from her seat by the window. They were soon all laughing together at the sight of a large dog being chased away from a shop entrance by a cat he had disturbed at her ablutions.
As they neared the end of their dinner, Clara asked, “Will we be leaving for Longwood first thing in the morning?”
Alice was about to say yes when she caught a look of uncertainty on Stephen’s face.
“I was wondering if you might care to first spend a day exploring the town, perhaps taking a ride about the area,” he said slowly.
“That sounds to be an excellent idea,” Alice said, taking a cue more from his face than from his words. Clara looked for a moment as if she might object, but then seemed to decide she had no real objection. She simply nodded and finished off her pudding.
Once Clara had retired for the night in Susan’s care, Alice turned to Stephen expectantly.
He did not need to hear the question. “It is nothing I know,” he said, “just a feeling I have. I mentioned Longwood in the common room without saying anything of your connection to it, and noticed some odd looks being exchanged. I would like to learn a bit more before you present yourself.”
She looked at him sharply. “Is that why you did not want me to write to say that I was coming?”
He made a slight face. “I truly do not know of any problems, and the reports and accounts that Carstairs has sent have been unexceptionable. Your brother has always checked them over and everything has been in order.”
“But?”
“But I have always had an odd feeling about it all. I am not familiar with this part of the country, and Carstairs is. He was here for many years under your husband—your late husband,” he amended at her grimace. “I would like to see a bit before you are handed more impeccable books.”
She thought a moment, and then grinned. “We shall be like that sultan who wandered around Baghdad in disguise to hear what his subjects really thought. What fun!”
*
In the morning, the travelers strolled about the town, buying ribbons at the drapers and buns at the baker, eavesdropping where people were chatting, and listening politely when people responded to their own mild inquiries about families in the neighborhood.
Longwood?
Well, what can you expect when the owner never comes? West of town it is, on the road to Worcester, with the drive just before the toll gate.
Toll gate?
Ah, doesn’t that fill the coffers of the earl. And none of it coming back here.
It was all said with a nod and a sigh.
They walked back to the inn with Stephen scowling and silent, and Alice feeling an unexpected disappointment.
“In all those meticulously prepared and presented accounts, there was never mention of a toll gate,” he finally said. “Now I am wondering what else might have escaped mention.”
“Indeed. I very much wish to know.” Alice thought a moment, and then smiled. “You know, I quite fancy a drive. Along the Worcester road. We should be able to see something of the farms at least, perhaps some of the tenant houses.”
*
The landlord was pleased to rent them a gig and provide a picnic for their jaunt. He recommended two drives, one to the north and one to the east, that would provide pleasant views, and the one to the east led along a bit of an old Roman road, it was said. His face fell slightly when Bancroft said they intended to go west, but he wished them a pleasant afternoon nonetheless.
They had not gone far when they began to see the reason for the landlord’s fallen face. Moreton-in-Marsh may not have been the wealthiest town Bancroft had ever seen, but it was reasonably neat and prosperous. Built of the golden Cotswold stone, it had gleamed in the sunlight. West of the town, things began to deteriorate.
The fields they could see looked well enough, green with young crops, and the sheep looked fat enough. The cottages, however, looked sadly dilapidated. A few had chickens as well as children in the yard, but none had a cow or even a pig. Alice hoped at first that they had not reached her estate, but Stephen stopped to ask. These cottages did indeed belong to Longwood.
Clara looked shocked. Never, not on her father’s estate and certainly not on her uncle’s, had she seen such neglect.
“Carstairs should have said something,” Alice said. “These cottages should have been repaired long ago. Even Talmadge would have approved such a necessary expenditure.”
“He did,” said Stephen grimly. “The accounts for years past were forwarded to your brother after Talmadge’s death. Funds enough were allocated every year to keep all the tenants’ homes in excellent repair.”
When they came to the entrance to Longwood, he turned to ask her if she wanted to drive in, but she shook her head. “No. When we enter, it will be to take possession. I do not wish to give any warning.”
Stephen smiled his approval and they continued to the toll gate. This, and the toll keeper’s cottage, were in excellent repair. When Anne commented on this, a bit acidly, he pointed out that the road was in excellent repair as well. At least some of the money for the repair of the cottages had been invested here.
They pulled up at the toll gate and an elderly man limped out. Stephen raised his brows at the tariff—a shilling seemed a bit steep for a gig, with only one horse, but the man showed him the printed bill.
“I don’t recall this toll gate. How long has it been here?
“Ah, the earl built the road, oh, three years ago. It goes over his land, so it’s a private road, but it cuts off a good twelve, fifteen miles of the old road. And it’s a good, safe road, too, so those going any distance are glad to pay for the convenience, you might say.”
“The earl?”
“The Earl of Talmadge, he is.”
“The earl lives here, does he?”
“No, no. It’s Mr. Carstairs, the earl’s manager, who lives at Longwood.”
“In one of the cottages?”
“Ah, no, not Mr. Carstairs.” The toll collector grinned. “Mr. Carstairs lives in the manor house itself, he does.”
They rode away in silence. Eventually, Alice said, with a small smile, “So Talmadge was cheated for years, and never knew it. Wouldn’t he have been furious. I wonder if he is looking down and gnashing his teeth.”
They found a pleasant hillside for their picnic, beside a stream that made Stephen regret that he did not have a fishing pole with him. Clara, however, found it excellent for dangling her feet and, on her own, she was not too old to enjoy racing sticks down it.
The following morning, the two grooms
who had accompanied them had the carriage and horses waiting for them when Alice and Clara came downstairs. The landlord was there to wish such well-paying customers a safe journey, but they made his face fall once more when he heard that they were going to Longwood.
“Mr. Bancroft,” he said hesitantly, “are you certain you wish to go there? It is not really a place you would wish to bring ladies. It is Mr. Carstairs’ place, you see, and he is a single gentleman.”
“Actually, it is my place,” Alice said pleasantly. “I am Lady Talmadge.”
The landlord’s eyes grew round and he looked at Stephen for confirmation.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “But before we leave, could you tell me, who is the local magistrate?”
“That would be Mr. Sommerfield, over at Millcrest, about two miles from here.”
“Sommerfield,” repeated Stephen. “And would you by any chance know if he is in residence at the moment? Just in case he should be needed.”
The landlord nodded, still round-eyed and now speechless.
*
The carriage stopped on the crest of a hill in the drive. When Alice looked at him questioningly, Stephen said, “I thought you might like to see the house before we arrive, so I asked them to stop as soon as it came into view.”
“What a good idea.”
He helped her down, and Clara as well. The three of them stood there, looking down at a house of the same golden stone that had built the village. It was a good-sized house, though not on the massive scale of Kelswick, or even the Earl of Talmadge’s Wharton Court. The turrets and multi-paned windows seemed to belong to the house’s own history, not to the newer fashion for the gothic. The gardens around it seemed sadly neglected, but of a pleasant size, with a massive oak anchoring the side garden.
“Do you wish to go on?” asked Stephen.
“Of course,” Clara said, as if astonished that any other course could be possible. “It looks perfect!”
Alice smiled at her. “Yes, I certainly want to go on.”
A Debt of Dishonor Page 11