Mistress by Midnight

by Maggie Robinson

  On Sunday the entire household rose early and, avoiding the rutted road, walked across the hillocks to the village and its humble church. Con, Laurette, the children, and their exotic servants weathered the curious stares of the small congregation as they filled the Stanbury pew up front and the row behind. If the homily referring to the Prodigal Son had been planned or was spontaneous, Con neither knew nor cared. He was beyond insult, or saving. In two days’ time, Laurette, Bea, Sadie and Nico would be leaving Yorkshire.

  He had done his damnedest to make Laurette change her mind. Never had he exuded so much charm and bonhomie. He was rewarded with Laurette’s vague smiles and hasty departures as he entered a room. She chattered to the children at mealtimes but was pointedly reserved toward him. Con was sure she locked her bedroom door at night, not that he had the courage to breach her defenses at this point.

  At least James was thawing. There were fewer silences in their conversation. He had taken Laurette’s advice and proposed a trip abroad if James had a successful school year. The boy’s eyes lit up. Con was still not beyond bribery.

  When they exited the church, it seemed everyone had abandoned the thought of Sunday dinner and was milling about the churchyard, the better to see the fronts of the Conover party in addition to their backs. The cleric, a sturdy older man, vigorously shook Con’s hand in welcome.

  “We are delighted to see you and your family up north, my lord. I knew your great-uncle a little. He, alas, was not one of my success stories.”

  Con tried to picture this bluff, honest-faced man and his devious uncle Ryland in comity and failed. “I expect not. My Uncle Ryland was a bit of a sinner.”

  “As are we all, my lord, as are we all. Terrible business, his wandering off like that. I wrote to you in care of your good wife. You were, I believe, traveling at the time. Lady Conover, may I say how delighted I am to meet you at last? We thank you for your help with the bell tower and all the many other gifts to the parish. We are in your debt.”

  The vicar may have been informed of Con’s absence, but he was not completely up to speed. Laurette looked stricken at the mix-up.

  It was James who saved the day. “Father Andrews, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. My mama passed away more than a year ago. This is Miss Vincent, a very good friend of the family. She and her cousin have been our guests at Stanbury Hill.”

  The vicar raised his bushy gray eyebrows in surprise. “Do forgive me, my lord. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences. I should have made a visit once we heard of your arrival and then I wouldn’t have put my foot in it.” He glanced at an elderly woman hovering near a particularly elaborate headstone a few feet away. Con squinted and was not surprised to see the name Stanbury etched into the marble. His mother was buried at All Saints along with his father, but he supposed it was past time to acquaint himself with his mother’s late relatives.

  “You brought your own servants, I know, but old Mrs. Hardwick over there was housekeeper at Stanbury Hill Farm for many years. I think she’d like to talk to you about your mother. And your uncle, too, of course. It was she who reported him missing. I’ll introduce you, if you can spare a moment.”

  Con had no interest in his uncle’s final days, but he could barely remember his mother. She had grown up here, the squire’s only living daughter, making a grand marriage to the younger son of a marquess. She had never expected to become a marchioness, and in fact, had not. She and her husband had drowned on the Dorset coast in a summer squall, orphaning Con when he was still in short pants. A few years later his entire family had been reduced to his great-uncle and himself. He’d love to hear a tale or two about his mother as a girl.

  Father Andrews motioned the woman to come forward. Her face was wreathed in smiles, showing strong teeth despite her advanced age. Con thought she must be well past seventy. She must not have had an easy time of it looking after his uncle. Marianna had pensioned her off most generously according to the neat business records his wife had kept of his properties.

  “How do you do, my lord?” Mrs. Hardwick dropped to a graceful curtsey. She turned to Beatrix. “I’d know your daughter anywhere. She’s the image of your mother, she is. The same red hair. The same eyes. Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

  Time stood still. This time James did not step up to correct the woman, but cast Beatrix a puzzled glance. Con’s tongue felt swollen in his mouth. He couldn’t look at Laurette, who would be beyond horrified.

  Beatrix blushed. “My cousin Laurette says everyone has a twin, Mrs. Hardwick. My parents live in Cornwall.”

  A wave of uncertainty washed across the old woman’s face. “But—I could swear you are Miss Katie come to life. The hair—the eyes—”

  “There, there, Nell. None of us have the eyesight we used to.” The vicar squeezed her hand. “Perhaps now is not the time to discuss old times. Lord Conover is a busy man.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I worked for the Stanburys when your mother was a girl. This little one—.” She shook her head, fluffy tufts of white hair escaping around her ears and gave an apologetic grin. “As she says, twins. God saw fit to make two such little angels. Your mama was a lovely young lady, full of spirit but always thoughtful. When she married your da, it was a happy day for us all. Got married right in this church. Before your time, Father Andrews.”

  She nattered on. Con wanted the woman to shut up now. Laurette stood tense at his side, worrying her gloves. The children were inching back in boredom. When the housekeeper finally got around to talking about his uncle, he laid a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Hardwick, I’m sure you did every thing possible for my uncle. You must know we were estranged. I’m sorry about the nature of his death, but I can’t say I miss him.”

  The vicar blanched. Well, Con had no plans to settle here permanently, so hang his good reputation and the possibility of heaven. A few more weeks and he’d be back in London, James would be getting ready for school, and Jacob Carter would be king of his little sheep kingdom. Con doubted he’d ever come up here again. It was the site of one more spectacular failure.

  James tugged at his sleeve. “May Bea and I start back, Papa? Nico and Tom will come with us.”

  Con saw his small staff, standing patiently under the shade of a giant beech tree. “Yes, yes, go on ahead. Tell the others they can leave us, too. Miss Vincent and I need no chaperone.”

  It was more than a quarter of an hour before they could make their escape, dodging the greetings and questions of a local populace with far too much time on their hands on this day of rest. He had no doubt his household would be the top topic around their dining tables. Mrs. Hardwick was not the only old soul who noticed Bea’s resemblance to Katie Stanbury.

  “I had no idea,” Con began without preamble as they finally tore away from the churchyard. “Truly, I didn’t, Laurie. I mean, I saw similarities, but I was so young when she died.”

  Laurette said nothing but walked at a pace even Con was having difficulty keeping up with.

  “Bea didn’t seem to take it amiss, though. Perhaps she’ll forget about the whole thing.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s just what children do when someone questions their parentage,” Laurette said sarcastically. “There is a painting in the attic. We’ve got to destroy it.”

  “A painting? Of my mother?”

  Laurette nodded curtly. “Mr. Carter mentioned it.”

  “We can’t just throw it away. I have nothing of my mother’s, not even the scrap of a letter.”

  “We’ll have to hide it then.” She stopped in her tracks. “You don’t suppose they’ve run right home to look for it?”

  “Don’t be silly. Who’d want to play in a dusty attic on such a beautiful day? The lads will take them swimming while luncheon is being prepared, I’m certain of it.”

  “Oh, what do you know? You dragged us here thinking you knew what was best and look how it’s turned out!”

  She broke then, her careful composure shattering. He put his arms around her as she stifle
d a sob. “Laurie, Laurie. I’m so sorry.”

  How many times had he said this childish rhyme to her? She usually bashed him once and laughed. She was not laughing now.

  “Look. Would it be so awful if Bea learned I am her father? I’ve met the joyless man who raised her, and I daresay I’m an improvement.”

  “You haven’t listened to one word I’ve said, have you?” She was bashing him now, but he held her fast.

  “Yes, I’ve listened to you. I’ve never agreed, but I’ve listened. She wouldn’t need to find out about you. You could keep your secret.”

  “How would you explain the coincidence she was raised by my cousins? She’s a smart little girl. Too smart. Damn it, Con! We’ve got to get back. Let me go!”

  He dropped his arms and she flew away from him as if he were the very Devil. In her eyes, he was. He wished they’d come by carriage, but he hadn’t wanted any of them to be subjected to the stomach-churning ride. A cobbled-together road crew was scheduled for the end of the week, after the Vincents left. Con planned to work right in the thick of them to ward off the misery he was already feeling.

  He had read about forced military marches. Hell, he had even been in one or two, despite his unofficial capacity as a civilian aide to Wellington in the Peninsula. He was on one now, trailing in Laurette’s wake. Perspiration dripped down his collar, unstarching the cravat Aram had taken such pride in.

  And then he stopped. Froze his footsteps on the road, wondering if she’d look for him over her shoulder. She did not.

  And then he knew. It was over. Everything he’d worked and wheedled so hard for this past year had come to nothing, like the dry road dust on his tongue. A dozen years of a dream that he should have awakened from long ago.

  He watched her cut away from the track over the field, the feather on her flirty little hat trembling valiantly at every step. He let her go. Had to let her go. Had to let her live her life as she saw fit.

  A life with no room for him.

  Con felt a bleakness he had hoped to never feel again. But it was a selfish black emptiness he had no time for. If Beatrix had somehow discovered the truth, Laurette would need his help, whether she wanted it or not.

  Chapter 18

  The smudges of dirt on her daughter’s face told her everything she was afraid of. Bea’s nose was pink and it looked like she had been crying. The children were waiting for her in the hallway, looking like two solemn sentinels. Between them both they had managed to find the painting and juggle it down three flights of stairs. Resting along the wall was a nearly life-size portrait in a chipped gilt frame.

  Katie Stanbury, dressed in a golden-green panniered gown that matched her eyes, was posed outdoors with a collie that looked a lot like Mr. Carter’s Sam. She appeared not quite old enough to put up her light red hair, but too old for Beatrix’s braids. A large tear had split off one slender foot from the rest of her, and a glob of something stuck to the white of the dog’s coat. The artist had written “Miss Katherine Desmond Stanbury” in the misty background. Laurette felt the blood drain from her face.

  “My! Mrs. Hardwick was right. The likeness is remarkable, isn’t it?” Her voice sounded amazingly normal, though a bit breathless from the near-run home.

  Best just to seem absolutely unruffled by the proof listing against the smart new wallpaper. Have no interest in it. Treat it as insignificant, and Bea would think the portrait was nothing more than a fluke.

  Bea shot James a triumphant look. Laurette half-expected him to whip out a list of questions with which to interrogate her.

  “She’s my grandmother and I look nothing at all like her,” he said doggedly. “This looks just like you, Beatrix Vincent. If that is your name.”

  Bea sniffed. “Of course it’s my name! And you look like your papa, except for your eyes. You have Lady Conover’s eyes.”

  The palest blue. Eyes that looked like they could pierce through the cobwebs to the truth with very little effort.

  Marianna had always taken an interest in Beatrix when she came to Dorset for her week, and to Laurette’s surprise had promoted a friendship between Con’s children. James had considered himself too masculine to socialize much with a lowly girl—especially one who was taller than he—which made the friendship he and Bea had formed now in Yorkshire all the more bittersweet.

  “Well,” Laurette said briskly, “it’s no wonder people thought you were a relation, Bea. Stand you next to Mr. Carter’s dog Sam in a few years and we’ll be seeing double.” She laughed, but the sound was hollow to her. “I’m sure Lord Conover will thank you for finding this. He doesn’t really remember either of his parents.”

  James looked through the open door to the crushed stone drive. “Where is he anyway?”

  “I expect he’ll be right along. Bea, I thought we could start packing. Come on upstairs with me.”

  “Now? Can’t Sadie do it?”

  “Sadie has enough to do without worrying about us, young lady.”

  Con had deliberately kept the staff to a minimum, only the people he trusted. Laurette supposed she should be grateful that her situation was not being bandied about from the Orkneys to Lands’ End. She put her arm around Beatrix. “Come. I fear we’re going home with much more than we brought. It will be a challenge to fit it all in our luggage.”

  “If it comes to that, James and I saw lots of trunks in the attic. We might borrow some. I’m sure his father won’t mind.”

  “The coach will never get us down the lane as it is. Excuse us, please, James.” Laurette smiled at him, but he didn’t return it. Something about the stubborn set of his jaw told her Con was in for a grilling. The sooner she and Bea left, the better.

  When Con entered the house a few minutes later, James sat on the bottom stair, his chin wedged into his fists. “I think, sir,” the boy said, his voice not wavering, “you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  Con’s eyes flicked from his son to the portrait beside him and his breath stopped. But any pleasure he might have had seeing his mother as a young girl evaporated when he looked into James’s ice-blue eyes.

  He tried to brazen it out. “Good Lord. No wonder that old woman was confused. Quite a coincidence, what?”

  James rose. “I’m not a child. Well, I suppose I am in years, but I had to be the man of the family while you were off doing—whatever it was that you did. Bea’s birthday is just a few weeks before mine. Mama always said I was a honeymoon baby.” His tanned face flushed in embarrassment, but he continued. “You must have gotten some poor girl in trouble before you married.”

  Con tried to put his hand upon the boy’s shoulder but James flinched away. Con saw the progress he had made the past week dissolving like smoke in the hushed hallway. “Not here, James. Anyone might hear us. We’ll talk outside.”

  He owed the truth to his son—had in fact wanted to tell him—but how to keep his promise to Laurette to preserve her fiction? This was not the controlled atmosphere in which he had hoped to divulge the past. In his demented dreams he had seen them all in a meadow, laughing, looking like a family. When they discovered they were, roses would bloom and rainbows would banish any clouds from the sky.

  Pure idiocy on his part. No wonder Laurette was disgusted with him.

  They walked silently behind the house to the gate in the stone wall where the sheep had first been penned. The animals were dispersed now, fuzzy white dots grazing in the distance on his grandfather’s land. Con shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch his son again.

  James climbed atop the fence, putting himself almost at eye level with Con. It was probably an unconscious move, but Con was impressed. The boy would have made an artful negotiator. Although he was obviously bursting with questions, he waited for Con to speak first, another sign that Berryman blood was strong. Con was reminded of the old adage “He who speaks first loses.”

  Con had already lost so much. What was one more thing? He had a feeling he’d never have his son’s respe
ct. His son’s love. He was undeserving anyway.

  “This is a more than awkward conversation. Don’t let your imagination run away with you, James.”

  “It doesn’t take much imagination to put two and two together. Bea said you came to visit her at school this year a couple of times. Why would you do that if she’s no relation to you? And why is she here now?”

  A thousand thoughts whirled through Con’s head. “This is not how I would have wished to have this discussion,” he said at last. “Hear me out. You may judge me if you like. One more black mark to add against me on your list, but please don’t judge Bea. Or her mother.”

  James looked him in the eye. “Who is she?”

  Con shook his head, but kept his gaze upon his son’s uncompromising face. “I will not name her. She was a girl I cared for a long, long time ago, when I was a boy myself. Someone I—someone I loved, James. Suffice to say, the affair happened before I was married. I never knew about Beatrix—didn’t have an inkling—until I came back from abroad last year. I hadn’t the first idea that I’d abandoned two children. One was enough to shame me.”

  He swallowed. “I know I let you down, James, and that it would be too much to ask you to forgive me. I was a young fool when I left England and very, very unhappy. Your mother and I did not—did not suit. It wasn’t her fault, not a bit of it. It was an arranged marriage, conjured up by my mad old uncle and your grandfather. I—things were very bad for Ryland Grove financially. Surely she told you something,” Con said, the desperation rising. How had he ever thought this was going to be easy?

  “She only read me your letters, every one, even when they bored me to bits. That’s all. Grandfather Berryman was furious with you, though. He called you a cheat.”

  “I was. But I was never unfaithful to your mother in all the years I was away. Not once.”