by Wilma Counts
Sydney walked them to the door, where Lady Ryesdale said softly, “Lady Paxton, you have been far kinder than I deserve, and I do most sincerely thank you.”
“It was Henry’s wish,” Sydney replied, sounding somewhat stiff to her own ears.
“And I may come tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course. Henry is still the master of this house.”
When the door closed behind the pair, Henry seemed to shrink into himself, but gestured feebly at the chair near his bed. As Sydney sat, he said, his words ravaged with pain, “Thank you. I needed—thank you. Not easy—for you. You—more than I—I deserve.”
She was struck by his echoing the words of his mistress, but all she said was, “We shall talk tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Yes. I’ll have—laud—have it now.”
She shook the powdered dose into a glass of water, stirred it, and held his head as he drank it.
“Good night, Sydney.”
“Good night, Henry.”
She sat at his bedside until she was sure the drug had worked its magic and he slept soundly. What a bizarre day this has been, she thought. She recalled Henry’s final words to his mistress. So Louisa knew Zachary? Sydney could not shake her feeling of betrayal.
It is not just the day that is bizarre, she told herself as she slipped into her own bed, exhausted. Knowing Henry would be unconscious for a few hours at least, she had called on Brewster to sit with him, but to rouse her the instant he awoke. The entire situation is bizarre, she went on mentally. But, really, did she have cause to complain? Had the Waverly family not benefitted profoundly? Henry had not been wholly honest, but he had behaved with far more honor than many others of his class and his generation. She and Henry had, indeed, developed a genuine friendship of sorts. She must be sure to reassure him of that tomorrow.
On the morrow, though, Henry Matthew Alistair Laughton, eighth Earl of Paxton, died shortly before noon without ever fully regaining consciousness.
CHAPTER 15
Henry was, of course, to be entombed with his ancestors in the family vault in Windham church—and this needed to be done as quickly as possible, but there were practical matters to be dealt with prior to the funeral journey, so Sydney refused to allow herself to give way to either grief or despair.
She was a widow. Widows in general were allowed a good deal more freedom than other unmarried women, but a very young, very rich widow would be a ready target for scandal. Any stigma attached to her would extend to members of her family. With three young sisters who would make their debuts in the next few years, she had to take this issue seriously. She needed a companion to deflect untoward gossip about the way she lived and behaved. The obvious person to fulfill that role was already in residence: Aunt Harriet.
The morning after Henry’s death, Sydney invited Aunt Harriet into her private sitting room and laid out the problem and her solution.
“Of course. I will be happy to take on that role, my dear, so long as I may have Celia with me.”
Sydney smiled and nodded. “It is settled then. I shall have not one but two chaperones. That ought to quiet the tabbies.”
“I should hope so.” Aunt Harriet rose from the couch she had been sharing with Sydney. “I must go and tell Celia of our new status.”
“Which is hardly new at all. But I am grateful to you both. Perhaps you would be so kind as to be with me to receive a gentleman visitor this afternoon?”
“Of course, dear.”
The gentleman visitor, coming at Sydney’s request, was Mr. Walter Phillips, Henry’s solicitor. Dressed in somber black, Sydney met with him in the library, where the two of them occupied wing-backed chairs in front of the fireplace, while Aunt Harriet sat in another corner of the room reading. Sydney was surprised to find this man of law to be only eight to ten years her senior. He had sandy hair and deep blue eyes.
He offered his condolences, then said, “I am sorry that you must deal with mundane matters of business at such a time, my lady, but your message indicated that you are returning to the country quite soon.”
“Yes. We leave tomorrow morning.”
“Since the executor of Lord Paxton’s will is unavailable at the moment—”
Sydney interrupted. “Pardon me, Mr. Phillips, but I was under the impression that Henry’s solicitor had served his father and his grandfather.” She left her obvious question unstated.
The visitor smiled. “My father is Walter Phillips, Senior. He is semi-retired now and has turned over most of the firm’s business to me. I have handled Paxton affairs this past seven years and more.”
“Oh. I see. As you were saying—”
“The executor of Lord Paxton’s will is unavailable at this time and it is highly unusual to have a woman involved in such matters at all. However, his lordship insisted that in the event of his death or if he were incapacitated, you were to be consulted and that, wherever possible, we should abide by your decisions—subject, of course, to final approval of the executor-trustee when he becomes available.”
Sydney merely nodded as she tried to absorb what the lawyer was telling her. She knew Henry had respected her suggestions on certain estate matters, but here was confirmation of her husband’s trust in her judgment.
Phillips continued. “So, I would have to defer any major matters to him—sale of unentailed property, large investments, that sort of thing—but a number of lesser matters need attention from time to time. Lord Paxton was quite clear in his wish that you be consulted. As I say, most unusual, but he reaffirmed that stipulation very recently.”
“How recently?” Sydney asked, mindful of the estrangement between her and Henry the last month or so.
Phillips looked uncomfortable. “I received the note the day after the—uh—incident. It had a date and time of the night before and was witnessed by Lord Hoffman and his lordship’s valet. It is quite legal, my lady.”
“I am to have a say in matters of the earldom?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.
He nodded. “Actually, a great deal of authority, my lady. Until the trustee of the estate is able to take over that responsibility. All is to be held in trust for your son, of course. However, you may act only with the concurrence of the trustee, who is also the legal guardian of the new earl—until he comes of age. The trustee is also now the guardian of those minors for whom your husband was heretofore responsible: Lord Paxton’s sisters and your own siblings.” He cleared his throat and said softly, “And of you, my lady, until such time as you may remarry.”
“G-guardian?” The implications of this idea knifed into her. Why had Henry never shared this with her? Why had she never considered even the possibility of having all control of her life fall into the hands of some unknown, perhaps autocratic man? “Who?” she asked weakly.
Phillips consulted a small notebook. “His lordship’s cousin, Captain Zachary Andrew Quintin.”
Sydney sank back into her chair, stunned. “Z-Zachary—Oh, my heavens.”
“You know Captain Quintin, then?”
“Yes. I know him.” She did not elaborate. She wanted time to digest this news.
He produced a thick folder of papers from a black leather case he had leaned against the leg of his chair when he sat down. “Here are copies of the relevant papers, my lady. The originals, all properly signed, are in my office safe. I have sent copies to Captain Quintin, but given the circumstances of communication between London and the Peninsula, there is no telling when—or even if—he will receive them, let alone act on them.”
“Was no one named as an alternate?” She reached to take the folder.
“Yes.” He paused. “I was. But I would be most reluctant to take any substantive action regarding the Paxton earldom without written concurrence from Captain Quintin—or until such time as I have proof that he is dead. Actually, I could not do so legally.”
“That leaves us in a state of limbo, does it not?”
“To some extent, but perhaps only temporarily. This war cannot l
ast forever. Meanwhile, I am assured that you have a trustworthy man in the steward, Mr. Stevenson. Should you have any questions once you have had time to examine these documents, do not hesitate to contact me. Luckily, communication between Windham and London is easier and more reliable than that between London and Spain.”
The next day Sydney closed the townhouse, leaving only a caretaker staff. Accompanied by the remaining members of her family, including Aunt Harriet and Celia, she made the sad journey to Windham. Mr. Stevenson and the vicar had already arranged the funeral for the following day.
Defying custom, Sydney and the other females of her family attended the ceremony. Other mourners, most of them tenant farmers and locals with ties to the earldom—and mostly male—seemed to accept the countess’s presence without much ado.
As she listened to the testimonies to her husband’s character and prayers for his salvation, she tried to achieve some perspective about her own feelings. Yes, she mourned the loss of a friend she had known—well, forever, it seemed. He had been a part of her childhood and youth, albeit on the fringes much of the time.
He had lived up to the letter of their arranged marriage, though not the spirit of marriage at its best. He had not loved his wife. But, in all honesty, had she loved him? She decided that yes, she had. However, she had not been in love with him. Might that have been the way he felt, too? Henry had been capable of great love; that much was evident in his relationship with his Louisa. What if he had truly expended the time and effort to court his own wife? Had he done so, she might have long forgotten that silly schoolgirl tendre she had had for Zachary Quintin. Or would she have done so? At this point, it no longer mattered.
These thoughts preoccupied her off and on for a few weeks. She dealt with routine issues as they came to her attention—settling disputes, spending time with her son, overseeing the household. But mostly during these weeks, she avoided thinking about the future, choosing to drift from day to day, leaving matters to Mr. Stevenson or Mrs. Knight, even Aunt Harriet. After all, her hands were tied: Any decisions she made might be instantly undone by one Zachary Quintin. Why bother?
She went out riding or walking every day, often with Celia or one or two or all three of the younger girls or with Geoffrey while he was home over Christmas. Sydney insisted that the rules of mourning dress be relaxed somewhat for the others here in the country, though she faithfully observed the conventions herself. Wearing black all the time and foregoing jewelry suited her mood well enough.
One evening after the others had retired, Sydney and Aunt Harriet sat talking in the family drawing room. Aunt Harriet had earlier shared with the family her most recent letter from her favorite navy man.
“I do hope Herbert’s waxing on so about how wonderful his life is will not lead Geoffrey astray,” Aunt Harriet said. “Perhaps I should not have read the whole letter.”
“Geoffrey has two more years of school, then university. He will have ample time to decide what he wants to do with his life.” Sydney sighed. “At least he has a choice.”
“Men always do,” Aunt Harriet said as she stuffed the letter into her knitting basket. “But women have choices too. That is what life is truly all about: a series of choices.”
“Yes. I suppose you are right,” Sydney said absently.
Later as she lay staring at the underside of the canopy of her bed, the word came back to her. Choices. Yes, her choices could be circumscribed by others—by society’s restraints, for instance. Also by the legal restraints of Henry’s will. She wondered to what extent Zachary Quintin would exert his authority? This thought gave her pause, but she shrugged it off. Captain Quintin was hundreds of miles—and who know how many months or even years—away? She was forcing herself to think of him in more formal, distancing terms. Doing so seemed to mitigate her sense of betrayal at his having known all along not only of Henry’s impending marriage, but also of Paxton’s relationship with Lady Ryesdale.
Maybe she had needed these last weeks—living in a state of limbo. But no more.
The next day she set about truly examining the papers Mr. Phillips had given her. She sat at Henry’s huge mahogany desk in the library and read page after legalistic page of meticulous instructions. She was gaining new insight into—and respect for—the husband she had often thought too preoccupied with sport and other pastimes. She noted, and grudgingly accepted as proper, his bequests to his mistress and his other son. That business she could certainly leave to Mr. Phillips and Captain Quintin. It needn’t involve her at all.
She found Henry’s stipulations on other money matters intriguing. He had always accorded her a very generous personal allowance. This would continue—subject to approval by the trustee—until such time as she should remarry. “I cannot conceive of that happening,” she muttered to herself. There were vast sums set aside for land improvement and building maintenance and construction—again subject to approval by said trustee.
She reread certain portions of the documents. Perhaps Henry had built in more flexibility than he might have intended. If one divided a huge project into its component parts, might she not be able to do whatever she wanted? What could her “overseer” do if he were faced with a fait accompli?
A great deal, she answered herself. He had absolute authority—drat the man! He could reduce or eliminate her allowance. He could forbid her use of or access to any of the Paxton properties. He could—God forbid!—limit her access to her own son. He might even—should he be so inclined—have her confined to some remote place. Her mind leapt to an English king’s having once locked his estranged wife away in a castle.
Oh, good heavens, she chastised herself. You are borrowing ideas from some gothic novel. The fact that something is possible does mean that it is therefore probable!
On the Peninsula, the object of much of this speculation was totally unaware of the obligations fate had tossed at him. Zachary’s first inkling came in a letter from his mother, telling him of his cousin Henry’s death a good six weeks after the fact. Then he read the lurid newspaper accounts.
His first thought was of Sydney. My God. Widowed at—what? Twenty? One and twenty? He tried to imagine her in widow’s weeds but his mind kept dredging up the vision as she walked down the aisle on her wedding day. Sydney was free now! But what might that mean for one Zachary Quintin?
Probably nothing.
Three years—and how many more? People change and life goes on like a tree with branches extending and growing in random directions.
And one of his branches included Elena.
Belatedly, he thought of Henry. Poor Henry. Life had not dealt kindly with the Earl of Paxton. ’Twas little wonder he had spent so much time and effort on escaping his problems.
It did occur to Zachary that, as his cousin’s executor, he had certain duties connected with that role, but he dismissed them as largely legalistic. The lawyer, Phillips, could handle matters—at least for now, and probably forever. He knew Phillips to be a man of integrity; the lawyer had been a fellow student at Trinity College, though three years ahead of Zachary.
The next packet of letters brought more details. Phillips had dutifully sent documents pertaining to Paxton affairs along with two letters, one from the lawyer himself and one in Henry’s distinctive script. He read the lawyer’s missive first.
Dear Captain Quintin,
I feel certain that by now you have learned of the death of your cousin, Henry Laughton, Eighth Earl of Paxton.
I have informed his widow of the precise details of his will and your authority over all that is now to be held in trust for her son. She also understands the full implications of your guardianship over the young earl and other persons for whom Henry Laughton was legally responsible.
The Eighth Lord Paxton placed an unusual degree of trust in his wife’s abilities to handle financial and legal matters of the earldom.
Zachary silently snorted. You mean she apparently learned to manipulate her husband, he thought. He read on.
&nbs
p; Having met her ladyship only briefly, I feel that despite her youth, Lord Paxton’s trust was not misplaced.
Zachary shook his head at this. Did she charm you, too, Phillips? He picked up where he had left off.
Lord Paxton reaffirmed his confidence in her in a note written and properly witnessed the night before that duel. Therefore, I would suggest she be allowed a good deal of latitude in making decisions until such time as you are able to see to matters on a regular basis.
I enclose a letter for you from the late earl. I assume it, too, was written the night before the duel.
Yours, etc.
Walter Phillips, Esq.
Reasoning that he had little control over Paxton affairs so long as the British army was stuck on the Peninsula, Zachary immediately decided he would take Phillips’s advice—for now. He could sort it all out when this bloody war was over. He turned to Henry’s letter, feeling somewhat strange at reading some of the last words of a dead man.
Dear Zachary,
If you are reading this, you know that worse came to worst in a confrontation with Kingsley, Ryesdale’s youngest brother. It probably goes without saying that I did try to avoid this turn of events. Phillips has assured me that my previous communications to you sufficiently outlined temporal matters. The rest is up to God.
I am sorry to burden you with this, but I feel sure you will look out for my sons and their mothers. When he hears of my demise, Percival Laughton is almost certain to try to make mischief for them, especially Sydney and Jonathan.
Henry
CHAPTER 16
Zachary took part in the usual attempts to stave off the boredom of winter quarters before the coming spring campaign, but he did so only half-heartedly. What he wanted to do was return to the Ramirez village, which was now hundreds of miles south through some incredibly difficult terrain. He needed to see Elena again, to shake some sense into her, to see whatever this was between them to some sort of conclusion. He hated this uncertainty, this doubt, this feeling of something unfinished.