Her friend had been quieter than usual, staring out of the window in a deep study. No wonder, with the challenges she faced. Florence’s heart ached. At her words, Grace’s lovely face turned towards her, eyes clearing slowly as though she was emerging from a dream.
“Pardon? Oh, I’m sorry, I was wool gathering. Yes, quite well. It did help, but tea would be nice, and cake, or biscuits. I am rather peckish.” Grace gave a soft laugh and then returned to staring out of the window, as lost in thought as if Florence had never spoken.
Florence got to her feet to ring for tea, regarding her friend with concern.
“What was he like?”
“Who?” Grace turned back to her in confusion.
“The father.”
The colour drained from the girl’s face and Florence cursed herself for having mentioned it.
“He was a liar,” Grace said, her voice harder and sharper than Florence had ever heard it. “He was wonderfully handsome, dreadfully charming, and he said a lot of pretty, meaningless things that I believed. Good heavens, but he could talk. He could speak of poetry and love and music, and he was always so witty and amiable, and yet now I wonder how I didn’t see through it, for it was all so… so shallow. He wore this shiny golden veneer that hid a rotten soul, and I have never felt more foolish or stupid than the moment I saw the gold was nothing but tarnished brass, and I knew him for what he was.”
“Oh, Grace,” Florence said. She moved to sit beside her, taking her hand. “You were not foolish nor stupid. You were innocent and loving and everything that is good, and he took advantage of you. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.”
Grace shook her head. “I have everything to reproach myself for, but I shall do better. I have been offered a chance and I shall take it and make something of it.”
“What chance?”
Grace studied her, twisting her slender hands together in her lap, her grey eyes full of rain clouds. “Do you swear to keep this a secret if I tell you? No one can know. Not yet.”
“Of course,” Florence said, wondering what on earth had happened.
“I am going to be married.”
Florence gaped at her. “The father…?”
Grace’s delicate features twisted with revulsion at the idea. “Certainly not. No, someone else.”
“Who?” Florence exclaimed, quite at a loss to imagine how she’d gained a proposal and from whom. “Does he know…?”
Grace’s expression was appalled, her reply sharp with censure. “Of course! I would never trick a man in such a way. Marry him without him knowing my condition? Good heavens, Florence! What kind of wretched creature do you think I am?”
Florence shook her head, not having intended any insult.
“I beg your pardon, Grace. Indeed, I am not thinking at all. You are the very best, the kindest and truest of friends, and I spoke before I considered my words. I just… how did you manage it, and who?”
She looked up in frustration as the door opened and a servant appeared.
“You rang, Miss Knight?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Might we have some tea and cakes, please?”
“Directly, miss.”
The servant closed the door and Florence turned back to Grace.
“Mr Oak.”
Florence’s mouth fell open, shocked into silence, uncertain if she was outraged or grateful or just plain terrified.
Mr Oak?
“You told him… You told him you were…?” she began, not quite ready to make complete sentences yet.
Grace shook her head. “He knew.”
Florence’s expression must have been one of bewilderment, for Grace gave a little huff of laughter. “It’s not terribly flattering, I grant you, but it seems I’m no different from a sheep, or a cow in calf. He could tell.”
“And he simply offered for you, and you agreed?”
Florence was too stunned to keep the astonishment from her voice and was surprised at the way Grace bristled in response.
“He did, and I did. Yes.”
“B-But, Grace….”
Her friend’s posture was stiff and unyielding suddenly. “He’s offering me a chance, Florence. A chance for respectability, a home for myself and my child. He’ll give my baby a name so that it need never live in shame.”
Florence nodded at once, knowing this was no small thing, only that she did not like nor trust Mr Oak and, as his wife, Grace would belong to him wholly. He would own her, body and soul, and her child. “I know, love, only… you know nothing about him. What if he’s cruel? What if he mistreats you? The child won’t be his. Perhaps he’ll bear it ill will.”
Grace shook her head. “He has promised me that the child will be treated as his own flesh and blood, no matter what. He swore he would never condemn it for…. He swore, Florence, and I believe him.”
Florence frowned, uneasy and afraid for Grace, yet she knew how little choice her friend had. If this man would give her security, her child a name, Grace would be foolish not to accept, only….
“I don’t like him, Grace.”
Grace smiled a little. “Yes, I noticed. You’re not exactly subtle, Flo.”
“Well, I can’t help it. He’s so….”
Florence searched for a way to explain what it was about Mr Oak that unsettled her so. Mainly it was how he was so brusque, and his lack of tact or manners, but he… he just seemed so cold, so unfeeling. How would gentle, sweet-natured Grace cope with such a harsh, taciturn man for a husband?
“Yes, he is somewhat… difficult, but I must learn to manage him. I do not believe he is cruel.”
“But you don’t know that he isn’t,” Florence persisted. “You will be at his mercy.”
Grace nodded.
“He will speak with your father? There’s to be no elopement or anything of that nature?” Florence asked, suddenly struck by the dreadful idea.
“Of course,” Grace said, squeezing Florence’s hand. “Don’t worry so. He wants to ensure there is as little gossip as possible. He means for everything to be done properly, if with as much haste as possible. A whirlwind romance,” she added with a bitter laugh.
The laugh tore at Florence’s heart but that Grace’s father would be consulted was a great relief. The baron was a highly decorated soldier, a fierce man that even Mr Oak might quail before, if he had any sense. Baron Rothborn would never allow Grace to marry a man who would ill-treat her. If Mr Oak had nefarious intentions, her father would discover it and forbid the marriage to go ahead. Florence stared at Grace in wonder, in awe of how brave she was.
“Look at you. You appear as delicate as a snowflake, and yet you are so strong, so courageous.”
Grace smiled, her expression full of warmth. “That is because I have such good friends. It’s much easier to be brave when you know you are not alone, and you have someone you trust to confide in. At least as a married lady, I will not be denied the pleasure of your company. Speaking of which…. You have been keeping secrets, Florence Knight. So, confess all. I insist you tell me everything about Mr Henry Stanhope.”
Chapter 12
Mister Knight,
It greeves me to rite a letter of this nature, but my Christian soul cant see wrong done to an inosent child. Your dauter is in mortal peril, sir and is in the hands of a wicked bad man. Henry Stanhope is intent on sedusing your pretty girl. Come kwick and save her from damnation.
―Excerpt of a letter from an unknown correspondent to Mr Gabriel Knight (father of Florence and Evie Knight.)
17th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
Henry stared down at the letter he’d been writing, muttered a curse, and crumpled it into a ball.
“Hell!” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Try as he might, he could not find the words to express to Gabriel why he would be the best choice for Florence’s husband. Tossing the letter into the wastepaper basket he reached for a clean sheet and tried again.
Dear Gabriel,
I was hoping I might s
ee you at Holbrook with Helena. It has been too long since we spoke. I understand business matters have kept you in London and would not presume upon your time if it were not important. However, there is something of the utmost importance that I wish to discuss with you. If you have no plans to visit Holbrook in the next few days but can find time to meet with me, I should be at your disposal and will happily journey to London at a time and place of your choosing.
Yours etc,
Henry Stanhope.
It would have to do. Perhaps in person he could voice what seemed impossible to commit to paper. Of course, he risked Gabriel calling him out, but that was hardly out of the question by correspondence either. At least in person he could defend himself and offer answers and reassurances to any of Gabriel’s reservations. Henry was under no illusion that there would not be reservations, if not an outraged denial. Henry and Gabriel had been friends, but they’d not seen each other in years, perhaps things would have changed.
Henry looked up at a knock on the study door.
“You have guests, sir. I took the liberty of showing them into the front parlour.”
“Who?” Henry asked with a frown. He hadn’t been expecting callers.
“The Marquess of Montagu, Mr Ashton Anson and Miss Vivien Anson and… guests,” the footman said carefully.
Henry stood and reached for his coat, pulling it back on. “What the devil is Montagu doing here?” he wondered aloud. “Right, well, you’d best offer them some refreshments.”
“I have done so already, sir. A tea tray is being prepared.”
Henry nodded and hurried to the parlour.
“My Lord Montagu, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Henry said, finding an assortment of guests in his front parlour of the kind that mystified him.
“I imagine it is,” Montagu replied, his expression inscrutable, though something like amusement glittered in his eyes. “I’m afraid you will have the unenviable duty of advising me to mind my own business, but….”
At this point an elderly woman who had been installed in one of the comfiest chairs by the fireplace made a snorting sound.
Montagu paused for a second before continuing.
“But I was disturbed by the tales of corn dolls and witchcraft and more so by the attack upon your person. I am afraid I decided it was time you spoke to an expert and took it upon myself to provide one for you. As it happens, circumstances were… erm… fortuitous, and it seems I have provided two.”
Henry blinked at the marquess, thoroughly bewildered.
“I’m sorry, my lord, I’m afraid—”
“Takes a poacher to catch a poacher, Mr Stanhope, is what Lord Montagu is trying to say,” piped up the elderly lady by the fire. She had a plump, round face with wrinkled rosy cheeks that made her look like a well-preserved apple.
“And going around the houses to do it.”
This came from her companion, a tiny Indian lady with skin the colour of well-polished mahogany and the longest, whitest hair he’d ever seen. She looked to be a thousand years old. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, and the intent way she was looking at him put him in mind of a blackbird listening for insects beneath the earth. She was dressed in the traditional manner of her country in a sari of stunning yellow, orange, and green silk.
“Allow me to make some introductions,” Montagu continued smoothly. “I believe you know Mr Ashton Anson and his sister, Miss Vivien Anson, and this is their grandmother, Shrimati Dharani Das.”
The old woman inclined her head, as regal as an empress. Henry bowed as deeply as if she were a duchess, some sixth sense he did not quite understand compelling him to treat her with the amount of respect she clearly felt her due.
Montagu continued with his introductions, “And this lady is—”
“I was his cook for most of his life,” the old lady interrupted. “Mrs Bertha Appleton, though most call me Pippin. I’m too old to work now, of course, but he’s not so cold and heartless as he looks, so he keeps me about.”
Montagu made an impatient tsking sound and gave the old lady a reproachful glare. “Pippin, do you think you might let me finish my own sentences? I was going to introduce you as a dear friend of the family.”
“I know, giving me airs I’ve no right to,” Pippin replied, waving this away.
“Telling the truth,” Montagu replied, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And giving you the respect you are due, you infuriating old woman, or do you not consider yourself our friend?”
Pippin folded her arms over her large bosom and looked somewhat mulish. “I’ve loved you like a son, and you know it, but I was your servant and there’s no need pretending otherwise.”
“I wasn’t—” Montagu began and then threw up his hands. “Mr Stanhope, these two wicked old harridans have more than a passing knowledge of the… the peculiar problems you are dealing with. I suggest you confide in them, take their advice, and do so quickly. The urge to throw things increases with proximity and every passing moment, I assure you.”
“If he wasn’t so easy on the eye, I’d send him out of the room for that,” Mrs Dharani murmured to her friend, staring at Montagu with undisguised admiration.
“Nani Maa, behave!” Ashton muttered, glaring at his grandmother with an anguished expression.
“Why?” Mrs Dharani demanded, looking genuinely perplexed. “I’m old, I’m entitled to be rude if I want to. I earned the right. Besides, it’s fun. Behaving is dull.”
Ashton groaned and rubbed his face with his hand while his sister looked at her grandmother with undisguised admiration. Going on the brightly coloured scarlet and yellow waistcoat Ashton was wearing, and what he’d heard about the rather forthright character of Miss Vivien Anson, Henry would wager the old lady had greatly influenced her grandchildren.
Henry decided he’d best intervene and quickly.
“I see. Well, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies, but how do you think you can help me?”
“You’d best sit down, young man and tell us everything. And we’ll need to see the dolls.”
Rather to his amusement, Mrs Dharani waved at him to sit down as though he were the guest.
Henry did as he was told.
The two women studied him long and hard, making him want to tug at his cravat and fidget like a recalcitrant schoolboy about to receive a scolding.
“There’s something here, something about this old house,” Pippin said, and gave a shiver, though she didn’t take her eyes from Henry.
Mrs Dharani made a soft clucking sound and nodded her agreement.
Henry frowned. “Well, it’s very ancient, of course. Old houses often have a peculiar atmosphere and this one hasn’t been a family home for a long time. It’s been empty for years, so….”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s not a happy house,” Pippin continued, as if he’d not spoken. “There’s a dark presence, a sense of malcontent.”
“My family were not exactly close,” Henry admitted, frowning over her words, the certainty with which she spoke.
He’d often wondered at the different atmosphere between his home and Holbrook but had believed it was simply his perspective, the way he viewed both houses. He had been happy at Holbrook, but the coldness of his parents towards him and Harriet and how often he and his sister had been abandoned whilst their parents travelled the world must have coloured his attitude towards Saxenhurst. That others could sense something tangible was unsettling.
“We were not exactly a close family,” Henry began, determined that they not make something out of nothing. “But—”
“Vengeance,” Mrs Dharani whispered, closing her eyes.
“Aye,” Pippin said. “Vengeance.”
Henry turned to stare at Montagu, assuming the man would find this all as ridiculous as he did, though he could not deny the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Montagu, though, was frowning at the old women. He turned towards Henry, perhaps sensing his gaze upon him.
“
I know,” Montagu said with obvious sympathy. “But you must hear them out. On the occasions I have failed to do so, I have regretted it. If nothing else, you must respect the opinions of these women who have seen much of life and are excellent judges of human nature. I trust their opinions, Mr Stanhope, whatever you think of their methods. I would strongly suggest you listen and pay attention.”
Henry had been away from England for some time, but when he had left Montagu had been one of the most powerful, respected, and feared men in the country. He’d heard nothing to suggest that had changed or the man had lost his marbles, so… he supposed he’d best hear what the women had to say.
“In that case, I had better begin at the beginning,” he said, and told them of everything that had happened since he returned.
They listened intently and with the utmost seriousness, making him feel increasingly foolish for not having taken the whole thing seriously from the outset. Florence had tried to warn him, but he’d been too pigheaded to listen, so certain of his own rightness he’d dismissed her concern. It seemed there was a good deal he’d been wrong about of late, though.
Once the ladies had heard Henry out, inspected the corn dolls, and consumed a quite astonishing amount of tea and cakes, everyone waited for their opinions. Henry took the opportunity to stretch his legs, walking about the room and giving the old women privacy in which to put their heads together whilst they murmured with low voices.
After what seemed an interminable wait, they gestured for him to come and sit down again.
“It’s a strange thing to use these corn dolls, maidens and the like, in such a way. Almost against their will. They’re positive symbols, used to bring luck,” Pippin mused, turning the largest of the dolls in her hands. “This has been made with a great deal of skill and love, that much is clear, and I do not think it is anything to do with harvest. I think this represents a real person, a woman. Dharani?”
“Agreed.”
The Indian lady gave him a sharp look, her dark eyes settling on him like a knife blade. “Have you wronged an innocent, Mr Stanhope?”
Henry was so taken aback by the accusation he could only stare, and then of course he thought of Florence, about the liberties he’d taken. Heat rushed up his neck and he cursed the old woman for he had the horrid suspicion he was blushing.
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 13