by Jayne Davis
“That can still happen,” he said, keeping his voice gentle.
“There is something else.” Her voice was hesitant.
“Tell me.” A previous lover? Was that why she didn’t want…
Stop thinking like Father!
“Connie?”
“When you said you didn’t care for rank, did you mean it?”
Rank? “It matters little to me.”
She looked into his face and took a deep breath. “My father lied to yours. He implied I was the daughter of his first wife, who was a baron’s daughter.”
“You are not?” He couldn’t help feeling amusement at his father being deceived, but he was careful not to show it. He would not make light of her concerns.
“My mother was his second wife. Her father was in trade, and Charters married her for her dowry.” She looked away. “I was too young to ask about it while she was still alive, but Martha said she was in love with someone else when she was made to marry Charters.”
“Connie, that—”
“That’s not all. Charters isn’t my father either, so I’m not a viscount’s granddaughter. Martha thinks Mama’s former suitor came to see her after she’d been married for a year or so. Charters knew I wasn’t his. Mr Fancott made Charters accept me as his own by convincing him he’d be ridiculed as a cuckold and earn the enmity of my mother’s relatives.”
She was back in control now, her voice steady, but he could see the tension in her neck, and in her closed fists.
“So now you know. I’m nothing. A bastard.”
“Not a bastard,” Will said, saying the first thing that came into his head to try to reassure her. “Not in the eyes of the law, and not in my eyes either. Good grief, Connie—the fact you’re not related by blood to Charters is a good thing if he’s anything like my father.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Trust me, it’s who you are that counts.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“No,” he said. “But I’m learning.”
Chapter 21
They walked slowly up the road together, neither of them wanting to hurry in the heat of the sun. They had made a late breakfast out of the bread and ham Mrs Curnow had provided, sitting in companionable silence.
Connie felt light, floating—happy even. Until she’d told Will about her true parentage, she hadn’t realised how much the secret had been weighing on her mind. Did he really think it was a good thing? He had sounded sincere.
She bit her lip against a smile at the memory of her scold. She’d meant every word, but now she had calmed down she could see how galling it must be for a man, used to being in charge of his own life, to have his hand forced in such a way. Reassuring, too, that his only resentment of this forced match seemed to be directed against his father, not her.
Ashton St Andrew was little more than a cluster of houses around a green, dwarfed by the church. Connie spotted the chaise in the shade of a huge oak tree, the mare cropping the grass nearby. Archer was nowhere in sight.
“Would you care to wait in the chaise while I turf Archer out of the inn?” Will indicated a small, tumbledown building half-hidden by the oak. “I’m afraid the place isn’t really suitable for a lady.”
“Very well.” It would be cool, at least.
Will was only a few minutes. “We have an appointment for Mrs Strickland to show us the cellars,” he said, as Archer backed the mare between the shafts. “Then, if you wish, we can drive around the estates as I promised last night.”
On their return to Ashton Tracey, Connie headed for the parlour. The dust sheets had finally been removed, the room looking bright and cheerful with the curtains open. The furniture was pushed to the walls, leaving bare floorboards where the carpet had been.
Good—Mrs Strickland appeared to be doing a proper job, having the carpet beaten. Connie ran a finger over the tables and the mantelpiece. It had all been dusted, although the woodwork needed a good polish to make it gleam.
She could hear Warren’s voice in the hall. “…gave me a key this morning, my lord. Do you wish to see the cellars now?
“Yes.” Will turned, meeting her eyes as she stood in the parlour doorway. “Shall you accompany me, my lady?”
Why not? She followed the two men down to the kitchen level, where Warren collected a couple of lanterns.
“There didn’t seem much point in cleaning these rooms, my lord, while no-one was in residence,” the butler said, showing Will the smaller rooms that Connie had seen the day before. “They can be cleaned now, if you are wishing to restock the cellars.”
“I need to find a supplier first, Warren. Prices in the merchants in Exeter were rather high.”
“I will see what I can do more locally, my lord.”
“Thank you. Lead on, if you please.”
Connie puzzled over this exchange as the two men looked into more storerooms. Had Will just asked Warren to find a source of smuggled goods—while they were looking for traces of smugglers?
They finally came to the door at the end of the corridor. Entering behind the two men, Connie peered around Will with interest, but there was nothing to be seen, only walls and the stone-flagged floor.
A very clean floor.
“It’s—” Connie closed her mouth again; Will might not want her to say anything in front of Warren.
“Thank you, Warren, you may return above stairs,” Will said. When the sound of the butler’s footsteps had faded he spoke again, keeping his voice low. “What were you were about to say?”
“It’s much cleaner than the other rooms down here.”
“Hmm. It’s either in regular use, or they cleaned it when they took the goods away.” As he spoke, he walked towards the end of the room, holding the lantern high. The far wall was obscured by another set of empty wine racks. Will lowered the lantern with a sigh.
Are those scratch marks? “Will, shine the light on the floor.”
He moved the lantern, as she requested. “Ah, someone’s moved these racks. Hold this, will you?” Will handed her the lantern, then dragged one of the racks a little way from the wall. Connie held the lantern higher, making out lines on the wall.
“A door? Is that where they took things out?” Connie asked, her voice a whisper even though Warren had gone.
“It must be. Let me put the shelves back.”
“So no-one could get in from the outside unless someone in the house moved the racks?” Connie asked, as he dragged the rack back into place.
“That’s possible. But it’s also possible that this rack was only put here to stop us finding the door.”
“Does Warren know?”
“I’m not sure; we have to assume he does. However he doesn’t know that we know, so we will express disappointment at the fact there was nothing interesting to be found in the locked room.”
“What about on the outside?” Connie tried to imagine the ground beyond the walls, but she didn’t know the place well enough yet.
“There may be a trapdoor, covered in earth or plants.”
“So some of the gardeners must know, too.”
“Not necessarily, but we should assume that they do. It may just be a case of them turning a blind eye. But again, it would be best if none of them suspect that we have found anything.”
Connie had routinely deceived Charters over small things for many years, but he had been the only one. Keeping track of who knew what here could become very complicated.
When they emerged from the cellars, they sat on the terrace and Barton brought out a tray of refreshments.
“We have not had our tour of the estate, Connie,” Will said. “Do you still wish to join me?”
It would be hot, but she didn’t want to turn down the chance to find out more about her new home—and her new husband.
“I would enjoy that, yes. Thank you.”
“Excellent. I don’t intend to go far, just to drive around some of the tenant farms, to become more familiar with the are
a.”
Didn’t he spend time here as a child?
“I know my way to the nearest villages,” he went on. “But as a boy I was more interested in exploring the woods and the cliff tops.” Her lips twitched and he paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. “Let me guess,” he said, his lips curving up at the corners. “You were about to ask me why I don’t know the farms. Is that right?”
She nodded, returning his smile.
Once in the chaise, Connie took the map Will handed her. It was more of a sketch than a properly surveyed map, but she identified Ashton Tracey and the two nearby villages. “Where are we going?”
Will leaned towards her, pointing out a couple of nearby farms, his arm warm against her own. “Up through Ashton St Andrew again, then past Low Hill Farm and Quarry Farm.” His finger traced a path through the maze of lanes. “It doesn’t matter exactly.”
Will let the mare amble along. The roads were quiet, and he could give much of his attention to the scenery, and to the woman beside him. Although he’d come out to re-acquaint himself with the area, he found himself more interested in her reactions than in the countryside: her smile of delight as a buzzard swooped down and flew along the lane ahead of them, the sudden turn of her head as a blackbird flew chattering out of a hedge.
“Do you like watching birds?” he asked, when she twisted in her seat to watch a kestrel hover.
“I used to put food out for garden birds,” she replied. “I didn’t have much time for watching once I started keeping house for Papa. I’d never seen seagulls until I came here.”
“There’s a lot more than gulls to be seen,” he said. “Wait until you see a flock of gannets diving into the sea.”
“Gannets?”
“I’m sure there’s a book in the library with bird illustrations. I’ll look it out when we get home.”
“Thank you. And will you take me to the cliffs again to see them?”
“With pleasure.” He’d watched birds as a boy with his brother; he would enjoy it again with her, he was sure. “Did the Fancotts encourage you to study nature?”
“Yes, Martha loved birds. She even trained some to eat out of her hand.”
As she talked about the lessons she’d shared with the Fancott children, her affection for the vicar and his wife was clear. It seemed that parts of her childhood had been happy, in spite of her father. He responded with tales of his own adventures as a boy, and almost ended up lost in the maze of lanes through lack of attention. In the end he had to consult the map to work out the shortest route home to avoid being late for dinner and upsetting Mrs Curnow.
Connie peered at her face in the mirror as Sukey pinned her hair up. Her complexion normally had some colour from walking to the village in all weathers—her recent excursions in the sunshine were adding to that.
Fine ladies were supposed to have white skin; perhaps she should ask Will to buy her a parasol. She smiled, imagining trying to control a parasol on a breezy cliff top.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Sukey said, fastening a few final curls in place. “Have I done it right?”
Connie turned her head from side to side—the knot wasn’t quite as neat as Fanny would have managed, but it was very good for the girl’s first attempt.
“Very good, thank you Sukey.”
Her eye caught the row of books on the chest. Before her marriage, she’d wondered if Will would restrict her reading as her father had tried to do, but now she was sure he would not.
“Sukey, please take those books to the library. Leave them on one of the tables.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Connie adjusted the position of a few of the pins. Sukey seemed bright enough—she’d soon learn.
Downstairs, dinner had been laid in the small parlour, now thoroughly cleaned, dusted, and polished. Light from the lowering sun sparkled on wineglasses and cutlery, and someone had placed a bowl of flowers in the middle of the table. Connie breathed the scent of beeswax and sweet peas.
She heard Barton directing Will to this parlour, and turned as her husband entered the room. He looked around, a smile spreading across his face as he moved over to the table to hold her chair.
“This is much better than the formal room,” he said. They waited while Barton laid out the meal, and then Will dismissed the footman.
“I intend to open up the little parlour next door,” Connie said, once they had served themselves. “Is that is all right?”
“You don’t need to ask, Connie.”
He had said so yesterday, but she still wasn’t used to the degree of freedom she had here. “Thank you. I found an escritoire in one of the guest bedrooms. I thought I could have it moved here, or next door.”
“Take some paper and ink from the library,” Will suggested. “I can get more next time I’m in Exeter.”
That reminded her of an idea she’d had while dressing. “Will, how do letters get to the post from here?”
“Someone will take them—the inn up the hill is the local office, I think. Who do you wish to write to… not to your father?”
“No, to Martha.” That wasn’t why she’d asked. “But I was thinking about Mrs Strickland. Anything she writes to your father would be taken by… by a groom, I suppose.”
“Indeed. I could get Archer assigned—is that what you were thinking? He could retrieve the letters before they are sent.”
“Yes, but as you said before, if the letters stop, your father will get someone else to do it. If her letters can be intercepted, we could at least see what is in them.”
“She would still be reporting on our actions, though,” Will countered.
“If you copied out the letters, you could omit anything you did not want him to know. The first time you do it, you could explain that Mrs Strickland has sprained her wrist, and you are writing at her dictation. You could be…Mrs Curnow, perhaps. Or Warren?”
“Lady Wingrave, you have a devious mind!” He raised his glass in a toast to her with a smile.
Connie felt a flush of pleasure at the praise.
“I think you had better write, though,” Will went on. “My father might recognise my handwriting.”
“Does he write to her, do you think?”
“His secretary might. That shouldn’t be a problem—Archer can fetch the post, too. We can’t keep it up forever, but it’s a good plan for now.” He smiled. “My father told me you knew your duties to man and to God, and that you would be an obedient wife.”
Obedient? Was that what he wanted?
“That wasn’t a criticism, Connie. I was only thinking that the description seems inconsistent with your devious—and totally admirable—ability to work out such schemes. More lies from your father to mine, I suppose.”
She let out a breath. “Oh, no, my father believed it himself. He only allowed me to read the Bible and books of sermons.” She smiled. “I have something to show you after dinner.”
When they retired to the library, Will saw a stack of unfamiliar books on one end of his desk.
“Those are my books,” Connie began, “and some that Mr Fancott lent me. You might be interested in the sermons; the black book with the ribbon around it.”
Will picked up the book she’d indicated. Why did she think he was interested in sermons?
“Open it,” Connie directed.
Pulling the ribbon loose, he tried to open the book in the middle but the pages appeared to be stuck. Starting at the front, he found that after the first couple of dozen pages, the rest had been glued together, with a large rectangular hole cut in them.
“Mr and Mrs Fancott used to lend me their books,” she explained. “If the one I was reading was small enough to fit in there, I could take it home without my father finding out.”
His lips curved, then his smile turned into a laugh—his father really had no idea who he’d chosen for the next Countess of Marstone.
“Mr Fancott gave me those others on the morning I set off for the… for Marstone Park.”
; “When it was too late for your father to find out.” He’d never thought of Fancott as devious—although unlike his father, Fancott was doing it for someone else’s benefit.
“Yes. Am I… May I buy some books myself? I would like to read these, but it would not do to deprive Mr Fancott of his volumes for too long.”
She should not need to ask such a thing. Of course, he chided himself, he’d said nothing about pin money or a clothing allowance. He would remedy that soon—on Monday, after he’d talked to the steward.
“Of course you may.”
She smiled. He liked making her smile.
He caught her gaze shifting to her pile of books. “Do sit and read, if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
He recognised the book she chose as the one she had been reading in the coach—or at least, it was one with a similar binding. He picked another from her pile, but sat with it in his lap. She was a far more interesting object of study.
She wore the green gown again, and looked well in it, but it was as sober in colouring as her other gowns. What would she look like dressed in something brighter? Hopefully when the rest of her things arrived she’d have more to choose from.
Not that she needed adornment, he thought, glad of the book resting in his lap. Seen like this, with her attention on what she was reading, she was not much out of the ordinary, but he knew that her face could show enthusiasm and joy. She could laugh with him; she would probably laugh at him as well, and he thought he wouldn’t mind.
He’d been married five days, only another twenty five to wait.
Only?
Chapter 22
Sunday 29th June
It felt strange to Connie to spend a Sunday without attending church. When she’d asked, Warren had said a visiting curate only held a service once every month or so at Ashton St Andrew, or when weddings, baptisms, or funerals were required.