by M C Beaton
Then there came an almighty crash as the lock was splintered. The captain sprang to his feet and looked wildly about for his gun.
The door was thrust open and the little room was full of armed men. Lucinda scampered to a corner of the room for safety as the captain was fettered and manacled.
The captain of the militia approached Lucinda and made a stately bow. “Do I have the honor of addressing Lady Lucinda Esmond?”
“Yes,” whispered Lucinda through white lips.
“Mr. Venables here, the curate of St. Edmund’s, found your note. You are safe, my lady.” He turned to Lucinda’s kidnapper.
“Your name, sir?”
Peter Charteris folded his lips into a mutinous line and remained silent.
“A touch of the lash will get it out of you,” said the captain of the militia.
“Did he tell you his name?” asked Mr. Venables eagerly.
“No,” said Lucinda. At least she could keep one bit of her promise.
“We will convey you to a hotel,” said Mr. Venables, “and a respectable lady will look after you until morning. Should we not be able to find your father by then, you will be conveyed by post chaise to your home.”
“Thank you,” said Lucinda. “Shall I see him again?”
“Only in court, my lady.”
Two days later, Lucinda could only be glad that Mr. Venables was obviously a devout Christian. A less religious man might have either struck her father or burst into tears.
Lucinda had been accompanied to her home, Partletts, on the following day by her companion, provided by the magistrate, a Mrs. Worthy, widow of Squire Worthy, and Mr. Venables. She invited them both to stay. Both agreed, Mrs. Worthy because she was sorry for little Lady Lucinda and Mr. Venables because he felt it to be his duty, although he could not quench a lurking hope that a grateful Earl of Sotheran would grant him a living.
The earl arrived home in a bad temper and immediately demanded to know if his daughter had taken leave of her wits. What did she mean, hey, by asking a milksop of a curate and a shabby-genteel frump to stay in his home?
Putting her thin figure between her father and her new friends, Lucinda told him that if it had not been for Mr. Venables, she would not have been rescued. And Mrs. Worthy had been sent as her companion by the magistrate.
“What in hell’s name are you talking about, you stupid wench?” roared the earl.
“My lord,” said Mr. Venables timidly, “you naturally must be concerned over the kidnapping of your daughter, but Lady Lucinda has come to no harm, I can assure—”
“What!”
“Papa,” said Lucinda firmly, but keeping an eye on the heavy brass poker on the hearth. She had always promised herself she would find courage to emulate her grandmother should her father try to strike her. “Please listen and do not use bad language in front of Mrs. Worthy, who has been kindness itself. Did you know I was kidnapped?”
“No. Where’s that fool, Black? Can’t a man get a drink in his own home?” The earl tugged the bellrope savagely.
“But my kidnapper sent a note to you at White’s.”
“Get lots of notes from doxies. Throw ‘em on the fire. Never read them.”
Mrs. Worthy pushed forward. She was a kindly, motherly woman, but never before in her life had she felt so outraged.
“You are an unnatural parent,” she said. “Mr. Jenkins, the magistrate, expects you to travel to Baxtable prison to see if you can identify Lady Lucinda’s kidnapper, who refuses to give his name.”
The earl pushed his heavy face forward into Mrs. Worthy’s. “Are you telling me what to do?”
Mrs. Worthy stood her ground. “Yes, my lord. It is high time someone told you what to do. Have you no feelings? Do you not care that your daughter has been in deadly peril?”
Black, the butler, entered the room.
“Throw these people out and bring me a bottle of canary,” growled the earl.
“Very good, my lord.”
Mr. Venables made a feeble movement of protest.
“You had better go,” said Lucinda quietly. “He is apt to turn violent.”
They both cast fulminating looks at the uncaring earl. Lucinda followed them into the hall. “It is better if you collect your belongings from your rooms,” she said softly. “Do not worry about me. I am used to Papa. He will become curious after a while and will no doubt go to Baxtable to see Cap—I mean, the kidnapper on the morrow.”
In vain did they protest. Lucinda ordered the maids to help pack their small trunks and then saw them out to the post chaise in which they had brought her home.
“Thank you both,” said Lucinda. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
The post chaise moved off. Mrs. Worthy twisted around and waved to the stately little figure standing in front of the great mansion.
“Poor little thing,” she said. “It is so unnatural to see a child behave in that quiet, grown-up way. It may seem unchristian, Mr. Venables, but I do think that Lady Lucinda might have been better off with that ruffian who kidnapped her!”
Lucinda walked back into the large yellow saloon and stood in the doorway, looking at her father. He was a thickset, bull-necked man wearing an old-fashioned nut-brown wig. His nose was swollen with drink and his lips were wet and loose. There were stains of snuff and wine on his coat and he smelled uncomfortably like overripe Stilton cheese.
“Don’t stand there glaring at me, you poxy trollop,” he said, putting down his glass. “What was all that about?”
Lucinda walked forward and sat primly on the edge of the chair facing him. She told him an edited story of the abduction, leaving out the captain’s name and his story of being cheated at cards.
“I think, Papa,” ended Lucinda, “that it would be better not to bring charges against him. I am unhurt, as you see.”
No sooner were the words out when she realized it was the worst thing she could possibly have said.
“Drop it! On the contrary, I’ll see that fellow hung, drawn, and quartered. Get your bonnet. We’re going to Baxtable!”
Mr. Jenkins, the magistrate, had never been more sympathetic to a criminal as he was toward the young kidnapper or more out of charity with a wronged parent. Instead of showing rage or concern over the abduction of his daughter, the earl had whiled the time away, while the prisoner was being brought over to the town hall from the prison, by telling several very long and very coarse stories.
Lucinda sat up very straight and looked anxiously at the door. She could hear the sound of people ascending the stone staircase outside.
Mr. Jenkins surveyed her with a worried frown. He thought it disgraceful that a girl of such tender years should be forced to see her former captor so soon. Surely there was no need for her to see him before the court case.
The door opened and Lucinda’s kidnapper was dragged in. His shirt was torn and stained with blood, and he was unshaven.
“Well, well, well,” said the Earl of Sotheran with a slow smile. “If it ain’t Captain Mark Chamfrey.”
“His name is Captain Peter Charteris!” cried Lucinda, and then colored painfully.
“Only a widgeon like you would expect the man to give you his real name,” jeered the earl. “Well, well, well.”
He relapsed into silence and appeared to be thinking deeply. Mr. Jenkins looked at him in irritation.
The Earl of Sotheran knew more about the financial prospects of many young men than they did themselves. With the cunning of a moneylender, he ferreted out who was due to inherit what. If he fleeced a young man and he knew that young man was likely to come into a good deal of money, he would smile on his victim and tell him to take his time in paying, knowing that his grateful prey would stump up handsomely and with interest as soon as he had the ready.
This Mark Chamfrey had very little money but good connections. He was distantly related to the Marques of Sunningburgh. The marquess was reported to be in poor health. His son, the Earl of Charrington, was an unmarried cripple
and had been at death’s door for the past six months. After him, the nearest in line was Captain Chamfrey. He had delicately sounded the captain on the matter of prospects when they had played cards and had discovered the captain had no idea of inheriting anything, considering himself too far removed from the Marquess of Sunningburgh ever to profit from the relationship.
The earl turned a bucolic eye on his daughter. She was a pasty-faced little thing and not likely to grow up into a beauty. It would be an expensive bore to launch her. But there might be a way to tie up her future and at the same time to get some of the Sunningburgh wealth for himself….
“Well, I’ve identified this man,” said the earl suddenly and loudly. “That’s that, then. I see no reason to bring this matter to court. Don’t want a scandal.”
“That is very humane of your lordship,” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, “considering this is a hanging matter.”
“Yes, but there is one condition,” said the earl.
“I thought there would be,” said Mark Chamfrey bitterly. “You disgusting old toad. I won that money from you fair and square.”
“Control yourself,” snapped the magistrate. “I see the whippings you have received have not taught you to curb your tongue.”
“As I was saying,” said the earl cheerfully, “you have ruined my daughter’s reputation, so you must make amends.”
“Ruined her reputation!” exclaimed the captain. “Good gad, man. She is a child.”
“Lots of men are interested in children, hey!” sneered the earl.
“I must say I fear it is you, my lord, who is ruining your innocent daughter’s reputation,” said Mr. Jenkins. He turned to Lucinda and smiled at her. “Tell me, Lady Lucinda, did Captain Chamfrey, er, touch you in any way?”
There was a pause.
“He kissed me,” said Lucinda finally.
Mr. Jenkins turned red. “What have you to say to that, Captain Chamfrey?”
“I kissed her on the cheek, as a grown-up kisses a child,” said the captain wearily.
“We have only your word for that,” said the earl, “and it ain’t no use asking this idiot child o’ mine to elaborate, ‘cause she’s too young to know what’s what.”
“I do know what’s what, Papa,” said Lucinda. “Your doxies have seen to that.”
The earl swung his fist at her, but with the dexterity of long practice, Lucinda dodged the blow and then moved her chair out of his range.
“You poisonous, dirty old man,” raged the captain.
“Any more of your curses, young Chamfrey, and you’ll find yourself dangling at the rope’s end,” said the earl.
“My lord,” said Mr. Jenkins, “would you please state what you have in mind so we may put an end to this distressing scene.”
“As I was saying when I was rudely interrupted,” said the earl, recovering his good humor, “as Chamfrey has ruined my girl’s reputation, he can sign documents before a lawyer saying he will marry my daughter on her nineteenth birthday.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins.
“Thank you,” said the earl blandly, taking his exclamation as a compliment.
“Never!” shouted Mark Chamfrey. “I’ll see you in hell first.”
“You may have to wait a long time,” pointed out the earl, his good humor increasing.
“I wish to have a few words in private with the prisoner,” said Mr. Jenkins.
“As you will.” The Earl of Sotheran shrugged. “Come along, Lucinda.”
“You may leave the prisoner alone with me,” said the magistrate to the jailers.
In an anteroom, the earl relapsed into silence, leaving Lucinda with racing thoughts. She did not want the captain to hang. She did not want anyone to hang. But she had vowed never to marry. The captain had seemed kind, but she did not know what he was really like. Lucinda looked at her gross father and hated him from the bottom of her soul.
Once alone with the prisoner, the magistrate surveyed Mark Chamfrey with an expression of pity in his eyes. “What you did,” he said, “was rash and foolish. But do not let pride make you forfeit your life.”
“That child is probably as evil and cunning as her father!” raged Mark Chamfrey.
“I do not think so. Sign the papers, man! Walk free from here and live to fight another day.”
“Yes,” said the captain slowly. “If I live, I can still get my revenge.”
And so it was that Lady Lucinda Esmond found herself betrothed to a soldier. To a man who reluctantly signed the necessary papers and, that being done, turned and looked down at her with such an expression of intense dislike in his eyes that Lucinda felt sick and faint.
Chapter Three
Had the years following the kidnapping passed pleasantly for Lady Lucinda and Captain Mark Chamfrey, they might not have had such a stormy future ahead of them.
As it was, the captain plunged back into the hells of war, the temporary truce with Napoleon being over. The hardship of his life made his desire for revenge against the Earl of Sotheran burn deep.
The Earl of Sotheran grew more gross, more profligate, and more bullying. As his moral fiber deteriorated, so did his physical appearance. Such servants as they were able to keep at Partletts were sloppy and cunning and content to suffer the earl’s brutality while stealing what they could from the mansion.
Lucinda had abandoned her dream friend. She had a new dream. She dreamed that Partletts was hers and hers alone. She would invite Mrs. Worthy and Mr. Venables to stay. She would surround herself with safe, decent, middle-aged people.
But on her eighteenth birthday, part of her dream was shattered. She received a letter from Mrs. Worthy’s lawyers. That good lady was dead. But she had left a letter with her lawyers to be delivered to Lady Lucinda on the event of her death.
Lucinda read the kindly words of wisdom and sympathy through a blur of tears. The letter ended:
And so, Lady Lucinda, I am told I have not long to live. I often worry about your situation. No lady of your Tender Years should bear such a burden alone. Never be afraid to ask for Help. There must be Someone, some friend or relative who is not afraid of your Father, and who would come to your Aid.
Lucinda thought for a long time about the end of that letter.
Finally, she sat down and wrote a plea for help to her grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Lemmington, not knowing whether the old lady was alive or not. A present had certainly arrived for her birthday the previous October, but so much could have happened in the intervening months.
One blustery late-spring day when the daffodils were blowing on the lawns and the twittering birds were building nests in the ivy, an antiquated traveling carriage creaked up the drive of Partletts. Lady Lucinda, watching from the window, recognized the carriage and the livery of the outriders.
She ran to the main door of the mansion, tears of relief running down her face. “Grandmama!” she cried.
A tall footman sprang from the backstrap and went round to the carriage door and let down the steps. Then he held open the door.
A very old lady climbed down and stood blinking in the sunlight. She had a wizened brown face and washed-out blue eyes. She wore a dress that had been fashionable in her youth—embroidered panniered gown, tall beribboned cane, enormous feathered hat over a powdered wig. She looked for all the world like a little, old, dressed-up monkey.
She peered at Lucinda, who was curtsying low.
“La! How you have grown,” exclaimed the countess. “Come closer, my child.”
Smiling shyly, Lucinda went up to her.
The old countess was pleased and relieved by what she saw. Little Lucinda had grown into a beauty. Her thin face had filled out a little and her thick black hair was glossy and beautifully coiffeured. Her arms were no longer sticklike but softly rounded.
“You have become pretty, i, faith,” said the countess. Her voice was light and charming, a queer contrast to her incredibly wrinkled face. “You are smiling and do not look afraid. I assume my d
isgusting son is gone from home?”
“Yes, Grandmama,” said Lucinda. “But I fear I have exposed you to danger. He is expected back this evening and will be monstrous incensed to find you here.”
“He will be even more incensed when he finds out I plan to take you away,” said the countess.
“Oh, Grandmama, if only you could! But he will not let you. These servants are new since he gave the order you were to be forbidden the house. But they will obey his bidding. He will order them to throw you out. I fear, Grandmama, he is not quite sane.”
“Syphilitic old lecher,” said the countess with all of the coarseness that had been fashionable in her youth. “The man addled his wits long ago. That I should have to tolerate such a monster! But he is like his father.”
Lucinda looked at her with wide, questioning eyes, for she remembered the Earl of Lemmington as being a courteous and kindly old gentleman.
The countess shook out her skirts. “Take me in, child. Take me in. No matter what Giles says, I intend to rest for at least a night before I take you with me.” Giles was the Earl of Sotheran.
When they were seated over the tea tray in the morning room, the countess pressed Lucinda for details of what had been happening during the long years since they had last met. And so it was she heard for the first time of Lucinda’s betrothal.
“Ignore it,” she said. “If this captain turns up to claim your hand, I shall send him to the rightabout. You shall marry whom you choose.”
Lucinda gave the old lady a shaky smile. But in her heart she was sure her brutal father would be more than a match for his mother. If only he stays away at least just one more day, she prayed. If only her grandmother would take her away that very moment. After some time of chatting, she shyly suggested it might not be wise to wait for the earl’s return.
“Fiddle,” said the little countess. “He would rant about the countryside and create a scandal. On the other hand, if I ask him civilly—something I should have done this age—he has no reason to refuse. He has never hid the fact he is not overfond of children. Although you are grown, I am sure his paternal affections have not strengthened in the least. I shall tell him that I shall arrange your come-out next year. He is mercenary. He will be glad to be spared the expense.”