Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “My friend Esther Deerham finds it just as hard to understand,” she said. “In fact, it nearly drove us apart until better sense intervened. I find her marriage just as inexplicable, but I accept that it must satisfy some need in her that I had not divined. She is content… as was I. You must not imagine that I was forced into it, or anything of that nature. I was seventeen and he was fifty-three, but I went into it willingly. It suited us both.”

  For a moment she stared into the fire, remembering, then she leaned back in her chair and went on, “My parents married late in life, not expecting children to be any part of it and for three years they were correct. To their bemusement, I happened along when my mother was forty-five, to upend their quiet, studious life. They never quite knew what to do with me, and when I was little there were whole days at a time when I am quite sure they forgot my existence until I materialised in the drawing room before dinner. But as I grew older and showed that I had inherited their love of reading, they took a keener interest in me, and admitted me to their little circle of study.

  “By the time I was ready to enter society, my father was very frail and clearly not long for the world, and my mother not in much better case. They fretted over me, to be left alone with only distant relations upon whom I had no great claim. I went through a spell of wildness for a while, too. I had always had a wilful streak, but Esther was my very good friend and she kept me from serious mischief, and occasionally took the blame on my behalf. Everyone should have such a heroic friend! But when she moved to Shrewsbury, I had no close friends and there were one or two scrapes, I confess. My parents worried a great deal about me.

  “Ned’s father was an old friend of my father’s, with similar bookish tendencies. Ned had visited once or twice a year for longer than I can remember, first with his father and later alone, so I knew him well and we got on together. He had a problem, too. His family was gentry, but at a very modest level. There was a small estate, which Ned would inherit, but he had never married. He had come close to it twice, but it never happened and nobody worried too much about it, because his younger brother Thomas had married Pamela and her vast dowry, and produced an army of children to maintain the line. But then the unthinkable happened — Ned’s father inherited Roseacre and the barony.

  “You have never seen Roseacre, but it is vastly different from the old house, which was not a great deal bigger than this. Roseacre… a wonderful old house, magnificent grounds and a barony — all of which would descend to Thomas and Pamela, unless Ned married. Perhaps it was wrong of them, but they did not want Pamela to become a baroness. Mistress of a small country estate, yes, but not Roseacre.

  “Ned and my father had some correspondence on the matter, and then he came to see me, to determine my feelings. I will not pretend that I was in love with him, or he with me, but there was a degree of affection between us, as between friends. We were both startled to find ourselves considering matrimony, he because he had long since given up the idea and I because I had expected to have many more years under my parents’ sheltering wings. But he needed a wife and I needed a safe haven, and so it suited us both. I had a month in London with a cousin, who presented me at Court and took me to Almack’s, after which I turned my back on the beau monde with some relief, married Ned and went to Durham.”

  She stopped, aware that there was much unsaid, much that she could not explain even to herself. At a time when she should have been looking life in the eye and leaning towards adulthood, she had deliberately run away to hide in the north with a man who wanted nothing more than to sit by his own fire. Why had she done it? Had her courage failed her? Perhaps, but there was also her ignorance of the world. Having grown up with her head in a book for much of the time, she knew little of society. Her ventures into independence had not gone well. Ned had offered her a refuge.

  “But you found it tedious.”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. It was so long since he had spoken that she had almost forgotten he was there. “Not at first. I loved Roseacre, loved the garden, loved the peacefulness of it. There was a good library, several excellent instruments, there were dinner engagements and visitors, even the occasional ball, although I am not much of a dancer. But gradually it dawned on us that there would be no children, and there came a point when Ned simply… gave up. He never treated me any differently — none of them did — but there is no escaping the fact that I failed in my most fundamental duty.”

  “Such things are in God’s hands,” Laurence said with sudden passion. “You cannot be blamed.”

  “I blamed myself, of course, and my physician confirmed it, but Ned never spoke one word of reproach. That made it worse, somehow. We went on just as before, but it hung between us, this monstrous void, the silence of the childless house, the empty nursery. It was almost a relief when he grew sick, and I could become his nurse and not pretend I was any sort of a wife. Oh Lord, do I sound bitter? I assure you I am not. What we did was the right choice at the time, and I do not regret it.”

  Laurence swirled the Cognac in his glass, then looked up with a mischievous glint in his eye. “And so the delightful Pamela became Lady Mountsea after all. Has she refurbished Roseacre to her own taste yet?”

  “Not quite!” She could not help laughing. “Roseacre is rather resistant to refurbishment. It was too daunting a task for me. Whenever a room required attention, I had it redone in exactly the same manner as before. It was easier than trying to impose new ideas on a venerable old building. The garden was where I tinkered, in my amateurish way, for although it had been well designed, it had been much neglected. A little renovation, a dab of replanting, a touch of careful pruning… I spent a great deal of time in the garden, latterly.”

  “Shall you do the same here?” he said. “You could have a pretty free hand, for it has not been touched for decades.”

  “I might,” she said, knowing that she was being evasive. There was no need for him to know that she had no plan to be in Great Maeswood for long. “I have been doing some pruning, but when the weather is warmer, I shall look at the structure and see if there is any improvement that seems good to me. Heavens, all this talking is making me hungry. Do you want something to eat? After the disaster of dinner, William put up a supper tray for me. It is not exciting, just cold chicken and cheese and cake… oh, and pigeon pie. One of the few things Mrs Nokes could cook well.”

  She jumped up and fetched plates of this and that from the sideboard, and brought them back to the fire. There was no table large enough to contain them, so she set them down on the floor and sat on the rug, her back against the chaise longue. He laughed and joined her on the floor, the plates between them, their feet stretched out side by side towards the fire. They nibbled chicken and bread, sipped warming Cognac and talked about cooks and pies and disastrous dinners and then, when he picked up the volume of Boswell she had been reading, of Scotland and the wildness of its mountains and the independence of its people and the advancement of science and literature in Edinburgh.

  It was a little like being married, she decided, except that she had never quite had this kind of intimacy with Ned. They had sat with their books of an evening in companionable silence. There had been conversation over dinner, of course, but it had been of a more impersonal nature, the minutiae of domestic life or the news from faraway London, or even further away France or Spain or Argentina. After dinner, they had played cards or chess, in the early days, and latterly they had hidden behind their books. There had never been much talking. With Laurence, though, there was an almost unstoppable flood of words. The hands of the mantel clock passed midnight, and still he sat beside her, showing no inclination to leave. A very promising sign.

  After a while they lapsed into silence. He reached for the bottle and replenished their glasses. “Were you disappointed for yourself?” he said pensively. “The lack of children, I mean. Quite apart from the son and heir business, should you have liked to have children?”

  “Of course, for what else is a w
oman for? That is our sole purpose, is it not? From the moment of our birth, females are directed towards marriage and motherhood. What else are we to do with our lives?”

  “Many things, I should imagine,” he said mildly. “If God has denied you motherhood, then he has some other purpose for you.”

  “But what? Of what use is a barren woman?”

  “That you will only know when the time comes, but do not feel your life is wasted because you have no children to comfort you. At least you still live. A child is a great blessing, but that which is conceived in exquisite joy may also lead to the utmost anguish.”

  She could not miss the bitterness in his voice. “Is that what happened to your wife?”

  He nodded. “The third child. Two babes brought into the world without the least difficulty, but the third arrived too soon and was born dead, and a day later… there was fever. The physician could do nothing for her. We were visiting my sister at Bristol, and she called in the city’s most experienced doctor as soon as we understood the urgency, but he could not save her or the babe. My poor Catherine!”

  “What a sad journey home for you,” she said, reaching across to touch his hand. “How old were Henrietta and Edward then?”

  “Six and three. Henrietta remembers her mother a very little, but Edward has never known any other mother-figure than Viola. My sister has her faults, I do not deny, but she came at once and has done her very best to be a second mother to the children, even though it does not come naturally to her. She is one of life’s born spinsters, and would disagree very strongly with your assertion that all women should be mothers.”

  Louisa gave a little laugh. “You are quite right to chastise me, for there is much of good that may be accomplished by a childless woman, especially one with an independent income. I hope in time that I may accomplish some good, too, for Ned left me very well provided for.”

  “Then you are lucky. So many widows are left in desperate straits, and are forced to marry again. I suppose I should have married again, too, to provide the children with a mother, but I could never bring myself to do it. And then there is all the awkwardness of searching for a suitable woman, of going into unfamiliar society with the express purpose of selecting a helpmeet. I have never been good at mingling with strangers.”

  It seemed such an obvious question to ask, so she said, “Then however did you meet your wife?” Then she held her breath. Was this the point where the confidences ceased? Would he make some excuse and leave?

  To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, extraordinary, is it not? However did dull, reclusive Laurence manage to entice beautiful Catherine Haywood to marry him?”

  “That is not what I meant!”

  “No, you did not,” he said, eyes crinkling as he smiled at her. “You should have, though, for it is a thing which has puzzled me for years. Why did she marry me when she could have had—?” He stopped abruptly, a frown on his face. “So long ago! Somehow, it no longer hurts. Shall I tell you the whole story? I think I shall.”

  “I should love to hear it.” She picked up a slice of pound cake and pulled off a corner to eat.

  “Let me start with my grandfather. He was one of those men who did everything to excess. Eating, drinking, gaming, women… all of those and more. Fighting, too. Seven duels, according to family legend. Allegedly he killed his man once, but it was all hushed up. Well, he was the local magistrate, so it was not surprising. The poor fellow was dumped in woodlands known to be frequented by poachers, and no one asked any awkward questions. Grandfather loved to entertain, too, so the house was always full of people eating their fill at his expense. By the time he died, the estate had been left to go to ruin, but Father was no better at management than Grandfather. He was a timid soul, who hid away from his money troubles for ten years. Then one day he suffered an apoplexy. He rose from the breakfast table and just dropped where he stood. The whole of his left side was frozen, he could not move or speak… he was carried to his bed and never left it from that day forth. He lived on for two years, but he gradually dwindled into nothing.”

  “The poor man!” Louisa said. “Apoplexy is such a distressing illness, and there is little to be done about so severe a case. How old were you when this happened?”

  “Four and twenty. My sisters were all gone from home by this point, Selena and Ursula married and Viola a companion to an elderly aunt, but my brother Malcolm was here. He was two and twenty at the time. We had to take over Father’s financial affairs and that was when we discovered just how desperate matters were. Half the estate’s land had been sold off or mortgaged, and Father had been quietly selling off paintings and silver and jewels to stay afloat. We could not see any way out except for me to find myself an heiress and marry at once. London was too big and expensive a stage for shire gentry like us, so we took ourselves to Bath, and went directly to the Pump Room and the very first person we saw was Catherine Haywood.”

  “How amazing!” Louisa said. “And you fell in love with her on the spot.”

  “Well, I did, yes, but I was not so foolish as to set my sights on her instantly. I needed an heiress, and could not settle for a dowry-less wife, no matter how beautiful. We made discreet enquiries, and discovered that — miracle of miracles! — she was an heiress to a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. If I could secure her, the estate would be saved and I should have such a wife as I could scarcely dare to dream about. And so I set out to court her. Everything was done properly by way of her mother, but she gave her permission and Catherine seemed amenable. She did nothing at all to discourage me, in any event.”

  He paused, his expression disturbed as if he wrestled with some severe emotion.

  “But there was something wrong?” Louisa prompted. “I feel sure you are about to tell me of some obstacle.”

  “Oh yes, there was an obstacle,” he said grimly. “Malcolm was the obstacle. He fell in love with her too, and he did not see why he should not have his chance to win her. He would use her dowry to restore the Grove, just as I would, he said, so what was the difference? That was his contention, and no argument of mine could sway him. In vain I pleaded that only the eldest son had the duty of repairing the damage to the estate, in vain I pointed out that it was I who had been granted permission to court Catherine. He would not listen. And he had an ally. Mrs Haywood was in Bath for her health, so apart from a daily visit to the Pump Room, she never ventured from her apartment. A companion and chaperon had been engaged to escort Catherine about, and watch over her. This chaperon favoured Malcolm and so she facilitated his suit by every means at her disposal. I would take Catherine out for a drive, and as soon as I left her, the chaperon would whisk her off to Sydney Gardens where Malcolm was waiting by arrangement. Or if I escorted Catherine to Sydney Gardens, Malcolm would just happen to bump into her later in Milsom Street. And the worst of it was that he believed that Catherine returned his regard.”

  “And did she?” Louisa said, completely caught up in the story.

  “Of course not. It was all in his imagination, as it turned out, although at the time I was terrified that he might be right. Malcolm is everything I am not, you see — tall, handsome, lively and very charming. He is not dull, like I am. For three weeks we played this game, three weeks when I was in utter dread of losing her to Malcolm and terrified to put it to the test in case it went against me. In the end I tired of it and proposed to Catherine, and to my astonishment she accepted me. Malcolm fell into the most appalling rage, after which he stormed off and I have not seen him from that day to this.”

  “That is a great tragedy, when families are split asunder unnecessarily,” she said. “What did Catherine have to say about it? She must have understood what was going on, but did nothing to stop it.”

  “She was utterly innocent!” he said, bridling. “No doubt she thought all the meetings with Malcolm were accidental.”

  “No doubt? Did you never speak of it?”

  “Never.”

  “And you had no curiosity? Or
perhaps you do not wish to know what she thought, and that is why you never asked her and have not read her diaries.”

  “I do not need to know,” he said quietly. “You persist in believing that everyone has secrets and no one is perfect, but Catherine concealed nothing and to me she was indeed flawless. Like a goddess, an angel come to earth.”

  “It sounds to me as though you have put her on a pedestal, like a work of art, an object to be admired rather than a real woman,” Louisa said, softening her words with a smile and a gentle touch on his hand. “If you were to read her diaries, you might find out that she is less than perfect but perhaps more real to you. And more alive, Laurence! You hold an image of her in your memory, but in her diaries she can speak to you, even from the grave. She can tell you about herself, the private Catherine that no one but God ever saw. She lives on in her words, just as the words of Gaius Valerius live on in the Argonautica after so many hundreds of years. But I will not tease you about it. Let her be perfect if you wish it. For myself, I am very glad to be imperfect and deeply flawed, for it removes a great deal of constraint. My marriage may not have turned out as I expected, but now I am free to do as I wish and go wherever I please.”

  “And out of the whole world, you chose Great Maeswood,” he said lightly. “Why, Louisa? Why here of all places?”

  It was past midnight, and they were both mellow with Cognac and the intimacy of sitting side by side on the floor. It was time.

  “It is a long way from Durham,” she said at once, making him laugh. “But also no one knows me here. I am a stranger, and may pursue my little project unimpeded.”

  “Your little project?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “What are you up to, Louisa?”

  “Why, to take a lover, of course.” A small pause. “It could be you, if you are so inclined.”

  And then, because he looked so astonished that she wanted to laugh, she leaned forward and kissed him. Without the slightest hesitation he kissed her back, and oh Lord, what a kiss! There was a deep reservoir of ardour lurking beneath that quiet, unassuming exterior. She had only ever experienced Ned’s rather tentative kisses, and this was not like that. This was nothing like that. Dear Lord, make it go on for ever, please do not let him stop. Please, please…