Psyché was unable to suppress her snort.
‘Exactly. Anyway, Uncle Theo took me aside and said that was why you’d visited him on Christmas Eve instead—’
‘Hetty—’
‘They’re wrong—Papa and Charles. And now with Uncle Theo dying—’ Hetty’s mouth flattened. ‘I’ll never see you, unless I defy him. And I’m going to!’
Psyché stared. Was this her gentle, conventional cousin?
‘He has a mistress.’ Hetty’s voice rang bitter. ‘He hasn’t come to my bed since little Julia was born nearly eighteen months ago. He has an heir, two spares, and now a daughter. He says daughters are too expensive to dower to risk another.’
Psyché raised her brows. ‘You might ask him if he’s looked at the cost of kitting out a second son for the military.’ That was Charles’s family tradition. The third son was destined for the church, a much cheaper alternative. ‘Or the cost of his mistress. Does he know that you know about her?’
Hetty nodded. ‘When I asked why he did not come to me any longer, he said that I should be grateful not to have to bear children year after year. So I told him I knew.’ She grimaced. ‘He was simply furious and said that proper women did not know about such things, let alone speak of them.’
‘Convenient for him.’
Hetty scowled. ‘Isn’t it just? Of course we know. But if we pretend we don’t, then everyone can pretend to be happy. And Charles has been very clear that whatever he might do, sauce for the gander is not sauce for the goose. So if I were to have another child—’ She broke off, flushing.
Psyché was silent for a moment. Uncle Theo had once said that while he accepted her need for a greater knowledge of certain subjects than most young ladies, Hetty did not require that knowledge. Or did she?
Once she had held her silence, believing that Hetty would be better off not knowing the truth about Charles. She had thought Hetty would neither want the knowledge, nor act on it. Now she thought that she should have spoken out—what Hetty did with the knowledge would have been up to her. Sometimes knowledge was your only protection.
‘There are ways to avoid conception that don’t—’
‘Do you know if—?’ Hetty stopped short, staring. ‘That’s what I was about to ask. Because it appears that very few high flyers of the demi-monde have babies.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hope Psyché hadn’t realised she was nursing died as she saw the change in Uncle Theo since Christmas. Then, despite weariness and frailty, he had still been an imposing figure. Now he was propped up in bed on several pillows and swathed in shawls. Shrunken, fallen in on himself, the old energy sapped. Despite the fire the room held a waiting chill.
Hetty’s soft gasp told her that her cousin saw what she saw: a man waiting to be called. At first she thought he slept, but when Marney stirred from the chair beside his master, Uncle Theo opened his eyes. A faint smile chased through the wrinkles.
‘Here they are, Marney. Go away and have a nap. That’s an order.’
‘With respect, my lord—’
‘Respect? That’s a plumper! You’ve disobeyed orders for years.’
‘Orders like that, my lord, yes.’
‘Marney.’ Hetty gripped the old servant’s hands and touched her cheek to his. ‘Do, please, get some rest in the dressing room. I promise that Miss Psyché or I shall fetch you the moment he needs you.’
There was moisture in the old man’s eyes, but he bowed. ‘If it please you, my lady.’ He disappeared into the dressing room.
Psyché moved to the bedside and bent to kiss him. ‘There. That’s how you should give orders, Uncle.’
He snorted. ‘Pandering! I’ll wager he would have backed off if I’d made to kiss his cheek!’ He let out a contented sigh. ‘But you’re here now. Both my girls.’
Hetty smiled. ‘Yes, and we have such news! Or Psyché does.’
‘Is that so?’ He reached out and took Psyché’s hand. ‘Going to make an honest man of Barclay, are you, girl?’
Laughter welled up through the grief. ‘Yes. We are betrothed.’
He let out a sigh of contentment and smiled at Hetty as she brought a chair to sit opposite Psyché. ‘That’s it, then. All’s well now.’
* * *
Late in the afternoon as the light faded and the old man dozed, the rumble of a carriage arriving came up to them.
‘It’s probably Papa,’ Hetty said softly.
Psyché’s stomach twisted as she remembered sitting across from Lucius at another deathbed in this house. She hoped it was anyone but Lucius.
Uncle Theo’s eyes opened. ‘Lucius, eh? Nothing to say to him.’
‘Uncle,’ Psyché chided him gently. ‘He will wish to bid you adieu.’
The snort held a pale flicker of his old fire. ‘It’s too late in the day for pretty stories, girl.’
He drifted again. Psyché shared a rueful smile with Hetty and they slid back into companionable silence. Everything needful had been said without anything much being said at all. Sitting here with the old man who had joined their childhoods had set a final seal on the friendship and love that bound them as closely as sisters despite all differences.
The dressing room door opened to admit Marney.
He crossed to them and spoke softly to Hetty. ‘Lord Harbury has arrived, my lady. He begs the favour of your company.’
Be careful what you wish for. How often had Aunt Grace said that? A pity she hadn’t remembered before wishing for anyone but Lucius. Charles’s presence was no better.
‘Please inform his lordship that I must remain here,’ Hetty said firmly.
Marney bowed and departed.
‘That’s telling him.’ Uncle Theo did not open his eyes, but a wicked little smile teased about his mouth for a moment before it fell slack again.
Hetty shot a glance at Psyché. ‘He’ll be up in five minutes,’ she muttered, ‘worrying about it being too much for my—’
She broke off as the door opened and Charles walked in.
In the years since Psyché had seen Charles his golden boyish charm had tarnished to smug assurance. Not like Will’s confidence, but a top-lofty air of certainty in his own superiority and importance.
His gaze fell on Psyché and she could have sworn his eyes narrowed. The impression was gone instantly as he looked at Hetty and the old practised smile curved his lips.
‘My dear Henrietta.’ He came to Hetty, took possession of her hands and raised them to his lips. ‘I know you said I must not worry, but you should not be without family at this time.’
Psyché barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She was right there, for goodness sake. Was she invisible?
‘I’m hardly without family with Psyché here, Charles.’ Hetty pulled her hands free.
Charles continued. ‘Oh, quite. But I cannot rid myself of the thought that this must be too much for—’
‘My delicate sensibilities?’
‘Your delicate sensibilities.’
Psyché bit back a laugh at Charles’s startled expression. ‘Do you have any, Hetty?’ she asked.
‘Course not.’ Uncle Theo’s eyes did open this time. ‘Grace didn’t either. Just something we gentlemen pretend ladies should have so we can trot ’em out every time a woman actually wants to do something.’
Charles didn’t seem to know what to do with that observation. ‘Ah, quite so, sir.’
Psyché reached out and patted Uncle Theo’s hand. ‘You’re becoming very philosophical, Uncle. Good afternoon, Charles,’ she added. ‘You are well?’
‘Yes, I thank you.’ He affected an expression of sober reflection. ‘But deeply saddened by this sad occasion.’
Again the old eyes opened. ‘Sad occasions will do that. Sit down if you’re staying, boy. Hetty, love, your hand.’
‘Of course, Un
cle.’ She sat down, reaching for his hand. The frail old fingers closed over hers.
Charles affixed a tender smile to his face. ‘I should not dream of intruding, sir. I shall simply bid you farewell and leave you in Henrietta’s safe hands.’
Psyché let her narrowed eyes raise to his face and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch before he turned away to the door.
Uncle Theo roused as soon as the door closed. ‘Psyché, my writing slope, if you please.’
‘Uncle, there’s no need to distress—’
‘Then bring the slope,’ he said, with a very fair approximation of his old determination. ‘And, Hetty, help me sit up.’
Exchanging glances, they did as they were bid.
‘Here you are, Uncle.’ Psyché set the battered old slope on his lap.
‘Open it for me, my dear.’
She did so and he raised the leather-clad writing surface to reveal the space beneath. He drew out two folded and sealed documents, handing one to each of them. Psyché’s fingers brushed his, felt the chill in them.
‘All this is in my will,’ he said. ‘Signed and tied up so no one can block it, no matter how much they might wish. Go on,’ he urged. ‘Open them.’
Psyché forced her trembling hands to steadiness as she fought tears and broke the seal. In shaky writing there were listed several items of Aunt Grace’s jewellery. But that was not what mattered.
To my great-niece, Psyché Winthrop-Abeni, natural daughter of my nephew, John Alexander Winthrop (deceased), and his mistress, Elizabeth Black (also deceased), I confirm her Freedom.
A breath shuddered in and out. She dragged in another. ‘Uncle—’
‘I know that’s not something you needed to be told, my dearest,’ he whispered. ‘But in case anyone might ever think to challenge it.’
She swallowed hard and laced her fingers with his. She knew exactly what he’d feared for her. There were many instances of Black servants brought to England, believing themselves free there, only to be dragged to a ship, shackled and sent back to the auction block in Jamaica or America. He had done everything in his power to ensure her safety after his death.
‘Thank you. For everything. For loving me.’
He smiled. ‘That wasn’t difficult.’
‘And...’ she bent forward to kiss his cheek ‘...even for protecting me.’
He gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘I knew you never liked that I did that. In a better world it would not have been necessary.’ His fingers tightened. ‘I gave a copy of that to your Will. You’ve chosen well. You’ve always had my love, now take my blessing and think of me sometimes.’
On the other side of the bed Hetty sat, her own letter open in her hands, tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘Uncle, you...you can’t do this.’
‘Already done, girl. Done, signed, witnessed.’ His voice cracked, audibly weaker.
‘But Papa—’
‘Lucius will have plenty. It’s yours.’
Hetty looked across at Psyché. ‘Highwood. He’s given me Highwood.’
‘Tied up in a trust the devil himself won’t break,’ Staverton said. ‘No one, not even Charles, can touch it or the income to maintain it.’
‘Papa will kill me,’ Hetty whispered.
‘Won’t help him.’ His eyes were closed again. ‘Just go to your daughter on the same terms, and after her, Psyché.’
‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she whispered.
He opened his eyes again and smiled at them. ‘Swore I’d protect you, both of you, any way I could. It’s done now.’
* * *
Despite the clock on the chimney piece, time seemed scarcely to stir in the quiet room, measured only by the flickering fire and Uncle Theo’s increasingly laboured breaths as the evening wore on.
Psyché persuaded Hetty to nap for half an hour on the day bed.
‘I’ll wake you, I promise.’
She sat, holding Uncle Theo’s hand, knowing that with every tired breath he slipped further away. Marney came in, crossing to the fire to put more wood on before coming to the bed. Midnight crept closer.
‘Stay, Marney,’ she whispered. ‘He’s going.’
The old man nodded. ‘Yes. I think...let him go now, Miss Psyché.’
She stared up at him, saw the grief sliding down his cheeks. He’d known Uncle Theo far longer than she had. They were closer to friends than master and servant.
‘Let him go?’
Marney smiled through his tears. ‘You’re holding him here, child. Let go.’
For a moment she didn’t understand, then her gaze fell on their entwined fingers. She remembered the room in the inn where her father had joined their hands, then the day he’d taken her hand to lead her down to the library in this house. Her small brown hand safe in his large, pale clasp. It was reversed now. Her hand was the stronger, holding death itself at bay if Marney were to be believed.
‘I don’t want him to feel alone,’ she whispered.
‘He knows you’re here,’ the old valet said gently. ‘He waited for you and Miss Hetty. Now it’s time to release him.’
Tears blinded her as she slipped her fingers free and went to rouse Hetty.
Hetty blinked awake at once. ‘Is he—?’ She clutched Psyché’s hand.
‘Soon.’
They sat together, holding hands, Marney across from them, and waited.
The clock had slid over the edge of midnight into tomorrow when the old man’s eyes opened again on a rattling breath.
He glanced at Marney. ‘You were right about that damned horse.’
‘I know, sir.’
He looked at Psyché and Hetty. ‘My girls.’ His gaze focused on Psyché. ‘Don’t...’ Another rattling breath. ‘Don’t make the boy wait.’
A moment later he was gone.
‘What now?’ Hetty’s fingers trembled in hers and her voice shook. ‘What should we do, Psyché?’
She had no answer, but Marney spoke. ‘Sleep.’ He leaned over and closed the empty eyes. ‘Your old rooms are prepared.’ He looked at Hetty. ‘I believe you will find his lordship waiting for you.’
‘Oh.’ Hetty let out a sigh. ‘He’ll insist on returning to London, I suppose.’ She looked sadly at Psyché. ‘I’d rather stay here with you.’
Psyché gave her a hug. ‘I must go back as well.’ She felt numb, frozen, as if everything had stopped. ‘I’ll come back for the funeral.’
Hetty grimaced. ‘Charles will say it’s unladylike, but—’
‘Will you attend?’
Hetty’s mouth firmed. ‘Yes. Unless he actually locks me up, yes.’
* * *
Psyché woke to the sound of someone stirring up the fire and was surprised that she had slept at all. But the old, familiar room had closed about her like comforting arms. And Sarah, her first friend here, had been there to help her undress.
‘Don’t you be telling me you don’t need help, Miss Psyché. Well do I know you can do for yourself. But there’s times a body needs a little comfort.’
So she had yielded to the luxury of someone to fuss about her, ease the broad-toothed comb through her hair and wrap it in a length of silk to keep it from tangling.
Now she rolled over to discover Sarah mending the fire.
‘Did you go to bed at all? What’s the time?’
‘Certainly I did, miss.’ Sarah straightened. ‘And it’s nine o’clock.’
Psyché threw back the bedclothes and swung her legs out of bed. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep this late!’
Sarah sniffed. ‘Not to be wondered at. Why, you weren’t in bed till after one.’ Her head tipped to one side. ‘You all right, Miss Psyché?’
Psyché’s eyes burned. ‘No. But I will be. It’s just...’
‘Takes time, it does.’ Sarah brought a robe over.
Sh
e shook her head. ‘There’s a black gown in my valise, Sarah. I’ll dress now.’
* * *
Psyché went downstairs in the sober black gown. It was one she’d had for mourning Aunt Grace, kept tucked away in lavender in her old camphor wood chest. She crossed the hall and smiled at the black-clad footman.
‘Good morning, Peter. Is breakfast ready?’
‘Yes, miss.’ He hurried to the parlour door to open it. ‘Ah, his lordship is down already, miss.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
She passed into the sunny parlour and Charles looked up from his newspaper.
He rose. ‘Good morning, Psyché.’
She blinked. After his studied effort last night to avoid speaking to her... ‘Good morning, Charles.’
She went to the sideboard, helped herself to ham and made a pot of tea. About to carry them to the table, she found Charles at her elbow.
‘Permit me to help you to eggs, dear cousin.’
‘This is quite sufficient, thank you, Charles.’ Her skin crawled at his nearness. ‘Is Hetty coming down?’
‘I fear my poor Henrietta has overtaxed herself,’ Charles said seriously. ‘I have persuaded her to remain in our room.’
She sat down at the table, well away from Charles’s chair. ‘I’ll go up to her after I have eaten and—’
‘She will be readying herself to leave.’ Charles sipped his coffee. ‘I must return to town. There is a great deal to be arranged.’
Psyché couldn’t imagine what Charles might have to arrange. ‘I see. Is Hetty going with you?’
He smiled. ‘Of course. There is room for you, too. No need for two carriages travelling back to London.’ The smile became indulgent. ‘She will like to spend a little more time with you.’
Something about his smile gave her an itch between her shoulder blades. She shrugged it off. ‘How kind.’ She could easily slip down to the stables and order the carriage without him being any the wiser...or she could be there as a sort of buffer when Hetty informed Charles of her unexpected inheritance.
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