The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

by Jane Lark

~

  Just after breakfast on the third day the carriage climbed steeply up onto the first plateau of the Yorkshire moors, and leaning down from his horse Edward tapped the carriage window; signalling to her that they were nearly there and riding through his brother’s lands. Since then the carriage had swept through undulating hills and dales. It was a county of emerald, with meandering brooks, heather clad moors and sweeping valleys; where a blanket of fog rested, hazy in the early sunshine and flocks of sheep grazed, the first young lambs of spring bouncing and skipping about them.

  Finally, the carriage crossed the brow of a hill and the road began following the line of a high stone wall. After another few miles the wall turned back from the verge, opening onto a large grey stone gatehouse and a set of broad iron gates, which rested open, the carriage turned.

  The entrance was guarded by two formidable lion statues with the Barrington family crest resting before their paws. The carriage swept through and stopped just inside the gates as Edward leaned forward in his saddle to speak with a man in maroon and gold edged livery. On the other side of the carriage, John twisted to kneel on the seat by the window and pressed his brow and fingers against the frigid glass, his breath forming an area of fog on the translucent pane while he watched the gatekeeper remove his hat and bow. Then, lifting his hand, Edward called the coach back into motion and the man stepped back.

  “Mama, may I open the window to see?” At her nod John slid off the seat and crossed the carriage to climb onto her lap, then tugged the window strap to jolt it down. The cold air rushed into the small carriage and she slipped her arms about his lean midriff, holding him securely as he leaned out the window.

  The carriage rumbled along through a long avenue lined with towering horse-chestnut trees and at a turn in the gravelled drive she saw it snaked down into a valley and back up the other side.

  When the coach reached the next brow and crossed over the top, in the distance she saw the first glimpse of Edward’s home, Farnborough, the Earl of Barrington’s country residence, Edward’s family seat. The carriage continued on a downward slope into the valley where his brother’s property stood.

  The place was vast, fronted by in the region of two dozen windows or more. At the heart, an ancient Norman keep reached skyward, surrounded by towering turrets. It was flanked by two large grey stone wings, built in a gothic style to blend in with the old, although their appearance was more histrionic than historic.

  Her feelings of trepidation grew, her eyes never leaving the building as the carriage drew closer. Then they swept beneath an archway and a raised portcullis into a central courtyard. The noise of iron horseshoes ringing on the cobbles filled the air as the carriage and outriders came to a halt. Edward dismounted before a large fountain which splashed in the centre of the courtyard.

  No wonder she’d heard people say he was at a loss for what to do in London. He’d managed all this on behalf of his brother for years. It was his home. A cold shiver ran across her skin. What if they were not welcome? She’d had days to fret over it and when she’d tried to speak to Edward he’d merely dismissed her concerns. They’d had no opportunity to speak in private. She still had no knowledge of his feelings and feared he was only helping them to fulfil his promise. A gentleman’s word was his honour. Honour. That godforsaken word. Oh, she knew all about that cold-hearted sanctuary of reputation. She didn’t want Edward to help them because he’d made a promise before he’d even known of John. She wanted him to help them because he wanted to. She wanted to know how he felt about her now and what he felt about John.

  When Edward opened the carriage door, he smiled and lifted John down. “Welcome to Farnborough,” Edward said, pleasure and pride in every syllable as he set John on his feet.

  Then Edward turned to her, while John beamed, his eyes skimming over the buildings about the courtyard, wide with expectation.

  “Ellen?” Edward offered his hand to help her onto the step which a man, clothed in the same livery as the gatekeeper, had dropped into place. “We are home.” Edward’s whole demeanour was flooded with pride. But it wasn’t her home.

  She accepted his aid and stepped down, aware of her travel-stained clothes and the increasing number of servants filling the small courtyard. She still wore the evening dress she had fled in. Pulling her cloak about her more securely, she found herself facing an approaching servant.

  “Davis!” Edward acknowledged, his voice full of affection.

  “Lord Edward. The Earl will be pleased you have returned, but I am afraid he is not here. He’s gone to London, my Lord. I had believed his Lordship’s intention was to speak with you. He received an urgent letter from Lord Rupert.”

  Ellen felt the servant’s eyes scan her in assessment and saw Edward’s expression darken. “Rupert? When did Robert leave?”

  “Two days ago, my Lord.”

  “Then it could be a week or more before he returns. Davis, I must introduce Mrs Harding and her son, Master John.”

  As the servant gave her a slightly austere and judgemental look, Edward added, “They are to be made welcome, they are my guests, Davis. Give Mrs Harding the yellow room with the view of the lake, John may have full use of the nursery floor. I believe our collection of soldiers is still up there.” He cast a smile to John. “Margaret can take him up. And we all require baths and refreshment at once, Davis. You may ask Jill to attend Mrs Harding.” Edward turned to Ellen then, as John tugged her hand, urging her to follow the servant.

  “Go with Davis. I’ll see to the horses and men, Ellen. Take John in.”

  Meeting his gaze, Ellen felt herself dismissed in the same way he’d dismissed his brother’s servant. She nodded and turned to face the sober, challenging gaze of the man he’d called Davis. She’d encountered this judging look most of her life, but not before her son. She pulled John close, her instinct to flee, but without Edward there was nowhere they could go. She did not even have a farthing to her name. There was nothing else to do but follow the scowling servant.

  He led them into the house to a family sitting room. It was dark, wreathed in shadow, but homely, panelled with aged oak and cluttered with well-used furniture. Two red sofas flanked the unlit fire, and three chairs stood further back.

  Her gaze lifted to a full-length portrait of a man above the mantelpiece, he had the same colouring and imposing stature as Edward. His hair was swept back in a queue, with grey shadowing his temples. Edward’s father she supposed. She could see the mansion painted in the distance behind him.

  “Master John.”

  A woman in perhaps her fifties, or early sixties, stepped in through the open door, dressed in a grey uniform with a starched white apron and mob cap. As Ellen turned to face her, John pressed close to her side and the woman bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Mrs Harding? I am Margaret. I was asked to take the young master up to the nursery.”

  “Mama?” John’s hand gripped more tightly about Ellen’s.

  “Perhaps I should come too,” Ellen responded, squeezing her son’s hand in return.

  In answer, drawing closer, the woman dropped into a chair, facing John at his own height. “Now then, Master John, there’s no need to bother your Mama, is there? She will want to have a bath and change after your journey too. If you come along with me we can sort out a tub for you, and I can find all of Lord Edward’s and Lord Barrington’s old toys. Then perhaps we could toast some crumpets by the fire and have some sugared tea?”

  John let go of Ellen’s hand and drew away. The woman had won over her son in a moment. Warring relief and concern possessed Ellen. She did not really want to let him go, she’d only just got him back. The nursemaid stood and took John’s hand as he came to her. “No need to worry, Mrs Harding, Master John and I shall get along just fine, and as soon as you are ready you may ask Jill to show you up and pay a visit. If Master John needs you before then I will send word.”

  “Thank you, Margaret,” Ellen answered, clearly requiring more reassurance than her son. She still felt
bewildered, afraid, knowing she should not be here. As they turned to leave, John immediately started telling the nursemaid tales of their journey, talking of Edward. He’d spent hours riding with Edward as they’d travelled and was beginning to idolise him.

  Left with nothing to deny her confused thoughts, crossing the room, Ellen studied a group of miniatures. The small ivory ovals, trimmed by polished brass, hung in a cluster. There were five. Three were children. Her fingers touched the one in the centre she believed to be Edward, an impish smile on his face. Beside him was a girl who looked younger than him, but she did not remember him mentioning a sister. The two miniatures above were of his parents. One was identical to the portrait above the mantle, if perhaps an impression painted at a younger age, and the woman beside him was stunningly beautiful.

  “Madam.”

  Ellen turned and blushed, caught prying. A young maid stood in the doorway. She too bobbed a curtsy, although her eyes surveyed every detail of Ellen’s appearance, wide and assessing, studying her as an interloper in Edward’s life. Gentlemen in general kept their mistresses at a distance from their family. Edward had stepped across a boundary in bringing them here. The servants knew it, even if he did not. Again she feared his brother would cast them out, her and John, when he returned. She had a few days though, to think, to plan—to talk.

  ~

  Pacing the small drawing room, which he’d always used as his private retreat, Edward drank the last of the brandy in his glass. His gaze lifting, he met the eyes of his father as they looked on in measured, imperious, judgement from his portrait.

  His father would not have liked him bringing Ellen here. He would not have liked her immorality. But he would have appreciated his chosen bride’s remarkable beauty, her demure yet immovable courage, and if none of the former had won him over, he would have fallen for Ellen’s charm in the end, Edward was sure. Who could not? After all she’d tipped Jenkins’s stubborn, thoroughly English, stiff upper lip into a smile, and now Davis had seemingly been swung about from north to south. His frosty welcome had thawed to a silent almost pitiful adulation as she oh so carefully minded her p’s and q’s with the man. She threw at him the occasional sweet-as-sugar smile in gratitude for the way he fawned over her son.

  In contrast Edward had been out of sorts, unable to look at her during dinner, knowing the moment had come for him to ask his questions, though he did not wish to hear the answers. They’d barely spoken on the way up here, the chasm between them widening with every mile, unasked and unanswered questions hanging between them.

  She’d been silent through dinner, pushing her food about the plate with her fork, while John had rattled on about all sorts of nonsensical balderdash, wants and wishes. Edward knew the child was excited over his new home and hungry for adventure, and Edward liked John’s company, but wanted to speak to Ellen. Now she’d taken John up to bed, with a promise to return. When she did, Edward had not intended to push for answers immediately, but he knew he must, he needed to put her past aside.

  He heard the door hinges creak behind him and turned back. She was standing there.

  “Come in, Ellen. Shut the door. Can I pour you something to drink?” His voice sounded clipped, lacking in emotion, even to his own ears.

  “No, thank you.” As she stepped into the room he watched her gaze skim over him, looking from his polished evening shoes up to his clean shaven jaw and then at the lock of hair which he’d felt fall forward onto his brow. He set his empty glass down on the silver tray with a hollow clink and lifted his fingers to slick back the errant lock.

  She closed the door, crossed the room and occupied a single chair, as though she was entering a court, casting him as judge and jury.

  He didn’t wish to intimidate her. Folding his body into a seat opposite he slouched back, his fingers gripping the scrolled leather arms, in an attempt to set her at her ease. It failed. She remained ramrod straight, her fingers clasped in her lap. He had the strong impression she was not going to make this easy no matter what he did. And thus there was only one thing to do and that was to come right out with it and damn the consequence. Suddenly he felt immensely younger, all of the four years that parted them in age.

  “I do not wish to force you in to speaking—”

  “But you wish to know who John’s father is?” she interrupted, her gaze meeting his—challenging him—daring him to deny it. He said nothing, waiting on her words. He wanted to know who her husband was too. Were they one in the same?

  On a sigh she began the tale, a slow yet deliberate note to her voice, “Very well. He was, is, the son of my husband, Captain Paul Harding.” Edward sucked in a breath. “He is dead, Edward,” she said in answer to his response. “I met Paul when I was sixteen. We married in my seventeenth year. I followed his regiment with other wives.” Her gaze left his then, falling away to a memory Edward would never see. “He died at Waterloo, before I’d discovered I was carrying John. Paul never even knew.” That pale crystal-blue all absorbing gaze, met his again, sharp, unbending.

  “If you would know the rest?”

  Of course he wanted to know. He had always wanted to know, ever since he’d met her, before he even knew about the child. He wanted to know every man who’d been before him and then he would call all of the bastards out, one by one, for bringing her down to something he was certain even she abhorred. Fighting a vicious battle with his emotions, he said nothing but gave a stiff decline of his head bidding her go on.

  With a little shrug, implying she was throwing caution to the wind and risking his judgement, she continued, “Paul’s Lieutenant Colonel took me under his wing. I had to eat. I had no way to get home. He offered me both. The army had not paid Paul in months, his Lieutenant Colonel knew it. He asked for nothing from me at first, but after John was born he wanted something in return. You understand there was not only my mouth to feed then but John’s too. And as he so forcefully pointed out I was already indebted to him—obliged. There was only one way in which he would accept payment. I knew it was wrong of me, but I was out of my depth.” Her bright eyes flashed a spark in his direction, visibly daring Edward to condemn her in word or deed.

  He did not, instead he gave her an understanding smile. He’d always known she’d never chosen to live as she’d done. It belied his desire to tear the bastard limb from limb.

  She smiled back with a bolstered, more confident, look. “I was terrified, but didn’t know what else to do. All I thought of was John. And then one night the Lieutenant Colonel came home and told me he’d lost me in a game of cards to another man, a General. I argued and fought against it, but in the end, again, I had no choice. I had nowhere else to go. From that moment on I have been passed from one man to another as a possession, bought and sold.”

  Including some Duke, who must have somehow got his claws into her son.

  Her shoulders lifted and fell again, this time the gesture implied her bitter acceptance of the fact and her helplessness. And it did not escape Edward that she’d first passed to him via a card game too. He felt ashamed.

  “I could not change it, so I learned to live with it. That is my tale.” She delivered the simple statement in the way another woman would accept a green trim for their bonnet instead of pink.

  Endured it, yes, and established her shell.

  Oh yes, he’d seen how she guarded herself from hurt—from the mental intrusion if she could not protect herself from the physical. But she had not succeeded in hiding her pain from him. Her situation had stolen her life from her, stolen her son.

  She looked tired, worn and bleak suddenly. She didn’t like the woman she’d become, nor the choices she’d made, he could see. Yet that was the point, was it not? The whole point of what she’d just told him. This life had never been her choice. It was where the dice of fortune had cast her. She was driftwood on the tide of fate, nothing else. That tide had brought her to him.

  I am her choice and she is free to accept my offer, a widow not a wife.

 
He could give her the power over her future now. Let her play with providence for a change instead of providence tossing her about on its own whim. He could free her from that life for forever.

  “Ellen.” Her gaze piercing his as sharply as the sun reflecting off an ice encrusted lake her eyes dared him to judge again. “What of your family? Did neither your own, nor your husband’s offer help?”

  Her skin reddened in a deep crimson blush. For a fleeting moment he thought there was something more she held back, but when she spoke his assumption was forgotten. “I wrote to them both, there was no reply. They have never helped me.” Her gaze falling away from him, she stood. “If you have heard enough, I admit to being tired.”

  “Ellen, wait.” He rose. “I will send word to the vicar and ask him to meet me first thing in the morning. We can be married tomorrow.”

  Her gaze flew to his face, astonishment and accusation in her eyes. “You are not asking me? Am I not a part of the decision, Edward?”

  Lifting his hands, palms outwards, warding off her anger, he responded. “I know you said no before, but surely things are different now?”

  “You mean now I am pushed into a corner again.”

  She would have turned away, but he caught her arm. “Ellen, I won’t force you into anything you don’t wish for, but I thought you would understand. This is the best way in which I can offer you protection. Now I know of John, does it not make even more sense? It is still your choice, but I can only truly protect you if you accept my offer, if—”

  Her arm tugging loose from his grip, she broke his sentence with fury in her voice. “Were you not listening? I have heard this argument before! Without me what else will you do! It is of course your choice, but you have no other option!”

  She verbally punched him in the gut with her words. He was not those men. He was offering her his name, not just his protection. God, could the woman not see and hear how much he loved her. He needed her. He could not bloody breathe without her. But perhaps that was the only way to prove the sincerity of his feeling. To persuade her he was in earnest perhaps he had to be prepared to let her go. He remembered his silent promise of but moments ago, to give her, her freedom.