by Jo Manning
Chapter Twelve
Its I hev’ been to Weyhill Fair,
An’ Oh what sights did I see there,
To hear my tale ’ud make you stare…
—William Cobbett,
The Weyhill Fair,
19th century poem
The fresh-faced footman, Fred, had brought in another letter. It lay on the chased silver tray, white and plump, embossed with a red wax seal. Lady Sophia picked it up with no little curiosity. Her second missive in as many weeks! She recollected, with no regret, the masses of invitations she was wont to receive in London as she was a favorite, a leading hostess and partygoer, among the ton. So many…and so forgettable. Had she ever truly enjoyed those crowded, noisy events? She picked up the letter and broke the seal.
It was from someone she did not know. She pursed her lips, considering the request. She would have to speak to Charles; perhaps he knew these people. But Tuesday was not one of the days he came to Rowley Hall for the boys’ lessons; she would have to send for him.
Fred was awaiting milady’s pleasure. He was a tall boy; footmen were hired for their height. Sophia frowned. There was a bruise on his jaw. Were her servants engaging in amateur fisticuffs? Ah, well, men will be men, she thought, and the pugilists Mendoza and Cribb were heroes, both to the common men and the men of the ton. She refrained from commenting on it.
“Fred, would you please walk to the vicarage and ask Mr. Heywood to come here this morning if his schedule allows it? I need to confer with him.”
The boys were in the stables discussing the upcoming fair with Lord Brent when the vicar arrived on horseback. Charles frowned. When were these London visitors going to leave? Brent was becoming an annoyance, too much in the company of the boys and Lady Sophia for his peace of mind. I am jealous, he thought. Envy is one of the seven deadly sins…as is Lust.…
John rushed to greet Charles as he dismounted. A stable boy came to take the reins. “Mr. Heywood, sir! Lord Brent has been telling us of the Nottingham fairs, where he saw geese being driven to market in the springtime. Did you know, sir, that the drovers often encased the feet of the geese in little cloth shoes?”
The big man sauntered over, at ease with his body and his good looks, Charles could not help noting, as he enlarged upon his story. “Lads, I saw great gaggles of geese, thousands strong, being driven by gooseherds and bonneted young goose-girls with crooks. They were weeks on the road, these creatures, on their way to becoming some family’s holiday dinner, having been plucked of their feathers at least twice, their down at least five times.”
Brent turned and squatted beside the boys, who had taken seats on a large bale of hay, entranced by the bizarre story. “I did myself see the cunning cloth shoes, once or twice, but more often the geese were fitted for their long journey, some eighty to one hundred miles, by being driven first through a shallow pond of tar and then into a patch of sand, to harden their feet. This procedure was repeated at intervals throughout the drive, and that, too, was an odd sight.”
Throwing back his head, Brent recited in a deep baritone voice, “Who eats goose on Michaelmas Day, shan’t money lack his debts to pay. At Christmas a capon, at Michaelmas a goose, and something else at New Year’s Eve for fear the lease fly loose!”
“Bravo!” John applauded the oft-quoted proverb.
Brent grinned, ruffling young John’s hair. Charles grimaced, again acknowledging his jealousy of Brent as a possible rival for Sophia’s affections and those of her sons. Why was he so proprietary? It was unseemly. He was not their father…yet…though he desired to be. Years of proximity to the boys had nurtured his love for them. And now Sophia was added to the emotional mix.
“Mr. Heywood,” William asked, “why are you here today, sir? It is Tuesday.”
“Your mama has asked to see me, William. I am here in response to her message,” he replied, noting that Lord Brent’s ears seemed to perk up at the mention of the lady.
William nodded. “Will you come riding with us, sir? Lord Brent is taking us to the high moors this morning.”
“I don’t know if I can, William. I have no idea what your mother wants to discuss with me; I may be closeted with her a while.” The boy’s mouth turned down in disappointment.
Charles turned to Brent. The gentleman did not seem pleased he was going to see Lady Sophia. Or was it his imagination? “’Tis rocky terrain there, sir, with many rabbit holes difficult to see. It warrants careful riding.”
Brent nodded. “Thank you, sir, I am aware of that. I’ve ridden up that way. Do not fear. I will be careful with the lads.” He patted William’s head. “I will take care of them as if they were my own sons.” Brent smiled.
Not while I live will they be your sons, sirrah, Charles thought, shaken by the sudden ferocity of his feelings.
Sophia pointed to the open letter on the table. “Who are these people, Mr. Heywood?” she asked the vicar.
Charles picked up the letter and scanned its message. The boys were invited to the home of an Eton classmate from the Lake District. Charles smiled. “I know the Mainwaring family, my lady. Their manor lies not far from my father’s, near Bowness Bay on Lake Windemere.”
“Good people, then?” Sophia queried with an anxious look.
“Excellent. They have been close friends of my family for years. In fact, their daughter and my sister Beth are bosom bows.” Charles stopped himself. The Mainwaring daughter, Charlotte Anne, was one of the young women his sisters were forever teasing him about. Sweetly pretty and devout, Charlotte Anne would make an ideal vicar’s wife, they said.
“Sir?” Sophia’s voice brought him back to the present. He cleared his throat.
“So, then,” she continued, “it would be safe to send the boys for a visit?”
Charles was puzzled at her choice of words. “Safe? Of course they would be safe. Why do you ask?”
Sophia laughed. “Did I say ‘safe’? La, sir, I meant to say…would they enjoy themselves?”
“Shall we ask them if they would like to go?” Such visits among country families were common, and could last several weeks. The boys would miss the fair, but there would probably be a fair or two in Cumbria, in the Lake District, to make up for it.
“Yes, of course. Let us do so. Where are they now, do you know?” Sophia seemed anxious, Charles thought. Something was worrying her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Sophia’s blue eyes flew to meet his. “Charles—” He was conscious of her intimate use of his name. She laid a slim hand on his arm. “Charles, I worry so about them. If anything were to happen to either of them, I could not bear it. I could not.”
“Sophia—” They were alone, a dangerous situation, and addressing each other by their first names. He swallowed. “My lady, nothing will happen to them. I swear to you, I will not allow it.” And he would not, he knew, if he had the power to protect them; he would give his own life for them.
Lady Sophia’s reconciliation with her two sons was a miracle. She loved them with a fierce maternal passion, and they adored her. George had wisely kept Sophia alive for her boys, despite her physical absence.
Her hand brushed his cheek. “You are so good to me, Charles. I do not know what I would do without you, truly. You—” She stood on the tips of her toes and brushed her lips against his. Charles trembled.
“Sophia—” he whispered, cupping her face with his hands. “Sophia—”
She was in his arms, holding him tight, and weeping openly. The tears seemed to stun her as much as they did him. They welled up from somewhere deep and hidden inside her, as if a large block of ice had melted suddenly and overflowed its boundaries like a river in flood. Charles held her while she cried. It seemed to him that she was crying not only for her boys, but for herself, for George, for everything that had ever happened to her. The notorious Lady Sophia Rowley…Who would have thought it? He held her closely as she drenched his new brocaded waistcoat with her tears.
Charles stayed for lunc
heon, sitting at the table in his damp waistcoat. When the boys returned from their ride with Lord Brent, they were enthusiastic about the invitation from Hal and Thaddeus Mainwaring until they remembered the upcoming fair.
“We were so looking forward to the fair, Mama,” William pouted.
John elbowed his brother. “Looby! There will be others!”
Sophia frowned, and John straightened up. “Sorry, Mama,” he whispered. She continued to frown. He turned to his little brother. “Sorry, William.”
“That is better,” she replied, hugging her sons. “There will be other fairs, Mr. Heywood assures me, and probably some in the Lake District. His family is from there, as you know, and the Mainwarings are great friends of the Heywoods. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to visit his family home.” But she was leaving the choice of whether or not to accept the invitation to them. “If you do not want to go, however, that is fine, also.”
“Hal and Thaddeus are great guns, Mama,” John assured her.
William agreed. “We like them. It would be fun to visit. We have never been to Cumbria.”
“You make the decision. Whatever you say, that is fine with me.” She looked at Charles. “Of course, you will miss your lessons with Mr. Heywood.”
John considered this. “We could make up for them when we return, Mama.” He looked at the vicar for confirmation. “And Mr. Heywood says we are ahead of ourselves, anyway.”
Charles nodded. “The boys have been very diligent, my lady. The visit will not affect their studies.”
“Well, then,” Sophia said with a smile, “it is settled. I will send Joan to help Harriet sort out your clothes for the visit, and I will reply to this invitation forthwith.” The boys clapped their hands in glee.
The Earl of Dunhaven hung back, taking in the scene between his daughter and his grandsons. Perfect! As soon as he found out when the boys would be leaving for Cumbria, he would contact those rogues in Roslyn Town. Sophia would be putty in his hands with her sons disposed of. He would comfort her on her great loss even as he made plans to relieve her of George’s fortune. He grinned inwardly, pleased with himself.
Sophia was instructing Joan in laying out the boys’ wardrobe for their visit. As she ticked off the necessary garments, she noted that her abigail was subdued, unlike her usual vivacious self. Sophia frowned. “What is the matter, Joan?”
Joan blinked. “Naught, my lady,” she replied quickly.
Sophia sat down on her bed, her blue eyes fixed on her longtime servant’s flustered face. “Nonsense! I have known you for many years. What is troubling you?”
“My lady, I do not want to burden you with the staff’s problems and concerns.”
Sophia sighed. It was much easier when she had not concerned herself with her servants, when she had not bothered to know them as people. Sophia had been shamed by the boys’ admonitions to use her retainers’ correct names and resolved to mend her ways.
During her childhood in Kent, she had known all the house servants by name; they were her friends. But time and circumstance had changed her for the worse. Her father, who had been absent from home during the greater part of her formative years, considered servants less than human. Unknowingly, she had become like him. John and William had opened her eyes, but now she found herself perhaps too involved with her servants and their lives. The footman Fred’s bruise the other day had concerned her, though she’d said nothing. And today she was concerned for Joan. Something was amiss.
“You are burdening me with your downcast looks, Joan. Come, let me hear what is concerning you, girl.”
Joan blushed. “It is Sarah, my lady—”
Sophia nodded. Sarah, a pretty little brown-haired girl with large blue eyes, was one of the housemaids. Joan had mentioned once that Fred was sweet on her.
“Mr. Bromley had to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Alcott—”
Sophia rose, clearly upset. She took Joan by the shoulders. “What happened?”
“She said she fell, my lady, that she fell and broke her wrist. The doctor set it, and gave her laudanum for the pain.”
Terrible thoughts began to form in Sophia’s brain. “And—”
Joan’s eyes filled with tears. “She did not fall, my lady! She was thrown to the floor by…Oh, my lady, I don’t want to say—”
“How did Fred come by his bruise, Joan? The truth, now!” Sophia shook the girl’s shoulders.
Joan wiped her eyes. “He put himself between Sarah and…Oh, my lady!”
Sophia’s voice was firm. “Joan!”
“Your father, my lady, the earl, he—”
Sophia’s face fell. The bloody bastard! She remembered all the pretty young maidservants in Kent who had left under cover of night. She had stopped learning the names of her servants because of the rapid turnover. After her mother’s death, they had come and gone so quickly. Then Miss Bane, too, had disappeared.…Sophia winced at the memory.
“Thank you, Joan. That will be all. Leave me now, please.”
“My lady, I did not mean to upset you—”
Sophia patted her shoulder. “No, Joan, I am grateful for your candor. I am sure none of the other servants would have spoken. They would keep their own counsel, as servants are wont to do. Thank you for telling me.”
Sophia turned and went to the window. She looked out onto the rolling lawns and hugged herself tight. The nightmare was beginning again; her father was abusing her servants. She would not allow it! She had been powerless once, but no longer. She needed to speak with Charles, but he had left. Brent…She would speak with Brent. Something had to be done about her father.
She began to calm down. The boys would depart on the morrow. She would deal with it then, with the boys gone. She did not want them to be present when she confronted the earl. He had to go, and she would make it clear that this time, it was forever. Brent would back her up. They had become friends, surprisingly so, after clearing the air between them. They would never be lovers. And Charles…Thank God for Charles! He was her rock, her strength, always there for her. What would she do without him?
Sophia recalled her breakdown in his arms. She had wept all over his chest, drenching him. She could not remember when she had last cried. No, that was not true; she did recall the last occasion when she’d permitted herself the luxury of weeping.
It was when her mama had died. Lady Miranda Eliot had been young and beautiful. Sophia remembered the laughing dark-haired woman who’d played with her, sang lullabies and songs to her, brushed and plaited her long blond hair, held tea parties and picnics with Sophia and her dolls in the long summer afternoons. Lady Eliot had fallen into the artificial lake behind the manor house, the servants said, lost her footing on the slippery shore at night and drowned.
Oddly, she had been alone, so there’d been no one to save her or to call for help. Odder still, no one had missed her until the next morning. Her funeral was a sad, hurried affair. Miss Bane had taken charge of Sophia, held and comforted her as she’d cried out her heart. The Earl of Dunhaven had been conspicuous by his absence. He had left at dawn, before his wife’s body was found, before she was missed and the search was begun. He’d been hell-bent for London and its pleasures.
Chapter Thirteen
How warm this woodland wild recess!
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
Float here and there, like things astray,
And high o’erhead the skylark shrills…
—“Recollections of Love,”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1807
With much fussing and kissing from their mother, John and William and their baggage were on their way to the Mainwarings’. John Coachman was accompanied by footmen Fred and Horatio, one sitting beside him on the box, the other on horseback, riding alongside. Sophia had found a brace of pistols among the baron’s personal effects, had them cleaned and readied for use, and had given one to each footman.
Sophia waved as they departed, hiding her sniffles in a lace-trimmed handkerchief. He
r heart thudded in her breast. She turned to Lord Brent, who’d seen the boys off with her.
“I’m worried, my lord,” she whispered. “I fear my father may be up to some mischief. He has been too quiet of late, keeping his vile remarks and humors to himself. It is not like him at all. I know the signs too well.” She wrung the damp handkerchief in her hands nervously.
Brent nodded, but reassured her. “You have taken adequate precautions, my lady. Your father could not be so stupid as to attempt mischief with the protection afforded by two armed footmen. Never fear.” He patted her arm.
“Fred told me that my father went out the evening he pleaded illness, when we were at the Ramsbothams’ for dinner—”
Brent’s brow furrowed. “I was not aware of that. Did Fred have any idea where the earl went?”
“No, he did not know where my father had gone.” Sophia continued to worry the fragile piece of cloth in her hands. “I have now given instruction to the staff to keep an eye on the earl, and to follow him if he leaves Rowley Hall on horseback.”
Brent pursed his lips. “Do you want me to question him, my lady?”
She shook her head. “No, I do not want him to know we are suspicious of him.”
The nobleman laughed. “I’ve not yet made it clear that I am not interested in his plots, my lady.” He stroked his chin. “But I believe he would be foolish to apprise me of any plans to injure your sons. Your father is far more clever than that.”
“We shall keep our eyes on him, you can be assured, my lord. My servants are not fond of him. They shall report his movements to me.” Sophia tucked the wrinkled wisp of cloth into her sleeve, taking Lord Brent’s arm as they went into the manor house.
The Earl of Dunhaven chortled in glee from behind the draperies in the library. He was in a good position to watch the boys’ departure from home, and to note that his protégé and his daughter had formed the seeing-off committee. From all appearances, they were getting on well. As soon as the lads were done away with, Sophia would turn to Brent for support. Marriage bells would follow after an appropriate period of mourning.