by Jayne Davis
He turned south towards the woods, gradually increasing speed. He jumped a hedge, and set the horse to a gallop across the field on the other side. As he spurred his horse on into the trees he spotted the three men entering the field via a gate in the far corner. After that it didn’t take him long to lose them in the woods, and he slowed Mercury to a walk. Over Minster was a mile further on.
The Royal Oak stood on the edge of the village green, a sagging half-timbered building with a beady-eyed painted King Charles on its sign. He handed the horse off to an ostler and entered the dim coolness of the taproom. A couple of men played dice in one corner, looking up briefly as he entered before returning to their game.
“What can I get you, sir?” Goodwin, the landlord, was as thin as Will remembered, his head now almost completely bald. “My lord, I should say,” he corrected himself, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
“A pint of ale, if you please.” Will cast a glance at the two gamblers. “I’ll have it outside.”
Goodwin gave a small bow and went to pull his pint. Will wandered back out into the sunshine and sat on a bench by the door, leaning against the wall. His ale arrived, and he took out his watch and checked the time, wondering how long it would take the three grooms to stop searching for him and come here to see if he had kept his word. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes.
Elberton’s defeated look came back to his mind. The man would have discovered his wife’s infidelities at some point, but that did nothing to mitigate Will’s regret for having caused him hurt.
It was time for a change in his life, but he’d prefer it to be of his own choosing.
He turned over options. He could try to take a horse without being seen and go to London, but sponging off his friend didn’t appeal. Earning a living from gambling was risky and required stake money he didn’t have, and enlisting as an ordinary soldier would probably get him flogged for insubordination within a week. Whatever he did, his father was quite capable of having him tracked down and forcibly brought back to Marstone Park. An undignified process, to say the least.
If only Uncle Jack were in the country, he might be able to counter whatever his father was planning. His aunts would be no help; their husbands wanted Marstone’s favour and would send him straight back, like an errant child. He’d just have to wait and see what his father decreed.
Marriage, most likely. His way of life for the past few years had been an attempt to stave off boredom, rather than an expression of his true character. What would he do if his father selected someone like the faithless Hetty as his bride? Or he might get some mouse who couldn’t even look him in the face—he’d met some of those at the few society balls he’d attended. Neither prospect was enticing.
It was nearly half an hour, and two tankards of ale, before he heard horses on the road, and the three grooms came to a halt in front of the inn.
“See, I told you he’d be here!” Archer exclaimed. “We could’ve come straight here, like I said, instead of wandering round the woods like gormless idiots.”
The three dismounted. Will raised a brow as Morris came over to where he sat, the groom’s face set in a scowl. “You gave me your word, my lord.”
“And I kept it.”
“But you—” Morris stopped talking as Archer jabbed him in the ribs.
“His lordship only promised not to go more than five miles,” Archer said. “And he’s here, like he said. This isn’t even four miles from the Park.”
Morris still wore the scowl.
“Oh, very well,” Will said. “Morris, I give my word I’ll not give you the slip again if you agree to keep me just in sight.”
Morris nodded, mollified.
“Get yourselves some food and drink,” Will added. It was peaceful here. He’d sit for a little longer, then go back. It was time to see his sisters.
Back at the Park, he changed out of his riding gear before climbing the stairs to the schoolroom on the top floor. The girls were seated around a large table in the centre of the room, a scatter of books and papers across its surface. With them sat a new governess, much younger than the one Will remembered.
Theresa and Lizzie, at fifteen, were too grown up now to show enthusiasm, but Bella jumped up from her place at the table and dashed towards him. He grabbed her under the arms and lifted her high enough for her to hug him, before setting her on her feet again, her curls bouncing. Gone were the days when she was small enough to swing around.
“I’m glad you’ve come home to see us, Will!” Bella took his hand and pulled him over to the table. Her bottom lip stuck out a little as he failed to completely suppress a grimace. “You didn’t come for us, did you?”
“Papa sent for me,” he admitted. He turned his gaze to the governess. “My apologies, Miss…”
“This is Miss Glover, Will,” Bella said, as the governess inclined her head.
“I apologise for interrupting the lesson, Miss Glover.”
“It is no matter, my lord.” She began to collect together the books and papers. “Tea will arrive shortly, in any case.”
Will sat down at the table.
“Is Mr Tregarth coming, Will?” Theresa asked, her voice slightly breathless.
Will shook his head.
“Betsy said you fought a duel.” Lizzie’s eyes were wide.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But no-one was hurt,” he added, seeing Bella’s bottom lip come out again. More guilt nudged at his mind—he’d only contemplated the effect his death might have on his father, without giving a thought to his sisters.
“Enough of such things,” he added, hoping the heartiness in his voice didn’t sound too forced. “Tell me what Miss Glover has been teaching you.”
He met the governess’ eyes as Bella started to chatter about Queen Elizabeth and the Armada. The governess pursed her lips for a moment, then turned her attention back to tidying her papers.
The notion that duels were affairs of ‘honour’ began to seem quite ridiculous.
Chapter 5
Friday 20th June
Connie’s father looked up from a letter he was reading, running his eyes from her head to her toes and back again, his scowl darker than usual. His study was cooler than the scullery, for which Connie was thankful.
“Why on earth are you dressed like that, girl?”
“It’s washing day, Papa. Everyone needs to help if the washing is to get done.” As you would know if you took any interest in your household. “If we had another maid or two, we—”
“You need to manage the household better, as I’ve explained numerous times.”
Connie bit her lip against the sharp retort she longed to make. It was too hot to bother arguing with him today. “What did you want? The laundry won’t do itself.”
“Never mind that now,” her father interrupted, waving a hand. “I have a visitor today who will wish to be introduced to you.” A pleased smile spread across his face as his gaze become unfocussed.
It must be someone with a title.
“Go at once and change into a decent gown, and dress your hair properly to look like a lady.” He scanned her clothing again. “You are supposed to be the granddaughter of a viscount, do try to look like one for a change.”
“Who is the visitor, Papa?”
“Do as you’re told, girl, do not question me.”
She stood her ground. “I only asked in case Mrs Hepple needs to prepare refreshments.” Charters opened his mouth, but she continued to speak. “It would not do, Papa, to serve the best brandy to someone not deserving of such consideration.”
“Hmpf. Bring a new bottle of the best brandy and one of port.”
Definitely someone with a title.
“And come back when you have changed so I can ensure you have attired yourself correctly.”
The visitor must be important indeed, Connie thought as she went up to her room. She regarded the garments hanging on pegs in her closet, and pulled out her best gown. Its fine woollen cloth was a d
ark green, worn over a sprigged muslin underskirt. It had only enough fullness in the skirts for a small bum roll; if her father wanted a fashionable daughter, he should have given her a much greater clothing allowance.
Her father’s eyes narrowed as she entered his study. “That will do, I suppose.”
Connie didn’t wait for his dismissal. Mrs Hepple and Fanny looked up as she re-entered the kitchen, Fanny’s mouth dropping open.
“He’s expecting a visitor,” Connie explained.
“It’ll be his lordship,” Mrs Hepple said, with a decisive nod. “Oh, you wasn’t here when that footman came yesterday.”
“Footman?”
“One of Lord Marstone’s.”
“I did ’ear that footman say ’is lordship ’ad been duelling,” Fanny said, keeping her eyes on the collar she was scrubbing.
“Not him, his son,” Mrs Hepple corrected. “Over some woman, I heard.”
Connie was torn between her duty to suppress gossip and her desire to hear more. She settled for listening while she sorted the remaining linens.
“Did ’e win?” Fanny asked. “’E’s supposed to be a crack shot, I’ve ’eard. Be a shame if a good-lookin’ young man got ’isself killed.”
“How do you know he’s good-looking?” Mrs Hepple asked. “When did the likes of you get to see him?”
“Must be,” Fanny said. “Else ’ow would ’e get all them women to lie with ’im?”
“That’s enough gossip,” Connie said firmly, diverting the decidedly improper direction of the conversation.
Mrs Hepple muttered something about young girls thinking they know it all when they don’t, then asked, more loudly, if Connie was thinking of picking some lavender for the linens. “For it won’t do to stand in this steamy kitchen in your best gown.”
The clop of hooves on the hard-baked mud in the lane carried clearly to the back garden. Connie set down her basket and hurried around the side of the house. She recognised the Marstone crest on the carriage that drew to a halt in the lane. The portly gentleman who emerged was clad in a beige velvet coat, elaborately frogged in gold, with froths of lace at his neck and wrists. It must be the earl himself. A footman handed him a walking stick and he hobbled up the front path.
Marstone Park was only a few miles from Nether Minster. As Charters was happy to tell anyone who’d listen, he’d attended Eton with the current earl’s cousin. However, as this cousin had never called, Connie thought the vaunted friendship must be mostly in her father’s imagination. As far as she could recall, this was the first time the earl himself had deigned to visit.
Why would he want to see her? Did he need a governess for his daughters?
Mrs Hepple called her from the back door. “He wants you in the study,” she said, then returned to working the dolly in the soapy water.
Connie knocked on the study door before pushing it open. The earl did not stand as she entered the room, but did make an awkward bow from the waist, one hand gesturing towards the bandaged foot stretched out before him. As he sat back, his paunch strained the buttons on his waistcoat. His gaze swept her from head to foot, as her father’s had earlier, but at least she hadn’t felt her father was looking through her clothing.
“My lord,” Charters said. “This is my daughter, Constance.”
Connie dutifully curtsied. “Good day, my lord.”
“Miss Charters.”
Although she had not been invited to, Connie seated herself in a nearby chair, folding her hands in her lap. If her father wanted her to look like the granddaughter of a viscount, she would not stand before him like a child about to recite her lessons.
“Where were you educated, Miss Charters?” the earl asked.
“The local vicar and his wife taught me with their own daughters, my lord.”
His expression remained neutral. “You manage this household?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“It is but a small establishment, is it not?”
“Big enough, my lord,” her father interjected. “I do apologise that the footman was not—”
“No matter, Charters,” the earl said. “Miss Charters, how do you suppose you would go on managing a much larger staff?”
Was she being interviewed for a position as housekeeper? Surely not—not after her father’s emphasis on his own father’s rank.
“I would take advice from those with more experience, my lord, but I imagine the basic principles are the same.”
“The household is well managed, Lord—”
“Do you read, Miss Charters?” The earl’s words cut across her father’s statement.
That was the first time she’d heard any approval from her father of her management. He must want something from the earl—but what?
“My daughter does not fill her head with nonsense from novels,” her father said, before she could make her own answer. “She has been well trained to know her proper place in the natural order of things.”
“You read the scriptures then, Miss Charters?”
Connie glanced at her father out of the corner of her eyes. If he suspected her of reading anything other than the books he gave her, his face gave no indication of it.
“Yes, my lord. I am very fond of my copy of Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women. It contains some admirable precepts.” Admirable from her father’s point of view, not her own. Her hollowed out version usually contained far more interesting books.
The earl nodded his head, his eyes narrowing. “So, tell me, Miss Charters, what the Bible has to say about obedience.”
Connie’s gaze moved between the two men in front of her. Was the earl as hypocritical as her father, forever insisting that she study the Bible and its teachings while rarely bothering to attend church himself? Charters was particularly fond of hearing her recite the verses about obedience and chastity.
“Saint Paul said that children should be obedient to their parents in all things,” she said.
“And what about obedience within marriage?”
Connie looked at her father again. Where was all this leading? Were they arranging a marriage for her? Surely an earl would not be interested in any of his connections marrying the supposed daughter of the second son of a viscount. Nevertheless her chest tightened at the idea these two men might be deciding her future, and with no thought for her own wishes.
“Miss Charters?” The earl sounded impatient.
She took a deep breath. “Every man should bear rule in his own house, my lord.” That was certainly a precept her father admired.
The earl smiled; it curved his lips but did not reach his eyes. His turned his gaze to the portrait over the fireplace. “Which of those children is you, Miss Charters?”
“It was painted before Constance was born, my lord.” Once more, her father spoke before she could reply.
“Hmm. Only three children.”
“My wife became ill shortly after Constance was born, otherwise I’m sure there would have been many more.”
Her father was talking as if he’d had only one wife. His gaze was on her, his lips compressed. She dropped her eyes. It was no business of hers if her father chose to deceive the earl.
“Do you have any more questions for my daughter, my lord? If not, I’m sure she has duties to attend to.”
“I think we can continue this discussion alone.” Lord Marstone ran his eyes down Connie’s figure again. “Thank you, Miss Charters, I look forward to further acquaintance with you.”
She gave a shallow curtsey before leaving the room. Pulling the door to, she was tempted to stand and listen, but the consequences of being caught were not worth any information she might glean.
Half an hour later she heard voices in the hallway. Opening the kitchen door a crack, she saw her father shaking hands with Lord Marstone. Her father turned to go into his study after the earl left. She stepped back, only going upstairs to change when the study door closed behind him.
Her father had looked pleased. That was not a good sign.
Chapter 6
The countryside around Marstone Park was pleasant, with pretty villages set amongst fields, woodland, and streams. Will had spent most of the last two days riding, followed at a discreet distance by the three grooms. But he found himself longing for the wilder coastal scenery at Ashton Tracey, the wind in his face on the cliff-tops, and the sun glittering on the sea.
It wasn’t just the different scenery that made him want to be there, but the happy memories. He’d spent most of his childhood summers there with his mother and siblings, while his father stayed in Town or at Marstone Park. Even after his mother died, their father had packed the girls off there in the summer with their governess, and he and Alfred had joined them in the school holidays.
Towards the end of the second afternoon, Benning found him to announce that his father wished to see him.
The library was an imposing square room, inadequately lit by a couple of windows on one side. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-spined books and bound copies of reports and journals. Will had never seen his father reading anything beyond the parliamentary proceedings and newspapers, and suspected that he kept the rest of the library stocked only because that was what an earl was supposed to do. The effect would be impressive to anyone who assumed his father had absorbed the knowledge in all the books.
Marstone sat at his desk, beneath a huge portrait of the second earl. “Sit,” he commanded, waving a hand towards a low chair.
Will perched on the arm, knowing from previous experience that if he sat on the chair properly he would be looking up at his father.
“I have arranged a marriage for you,” the earl stated.
Already? He’d known this was coming, but so soon? How had his father arranged it so quickly?
“She’s the granddaughter of Viscount Charters through her father. Her mother was the daughter of a baron. Not as high as I would like, but I want your heir soon, and you’ve managed to acquire a reputation that makes it difficult to find a match amongst higher families.”