Salt Hendon Omnibus 01 to 03

by Lucinda Brant

  “The church bells were ringing because the Countess of Salt Hendon was delivered of a healthy son?” When the poet nodded, Sir Antony was unable to hide his grin. “Well done Jane,” he murmured to himself.

  “Saw Lady St. John at Hendon—”

  Sir Antony gave a start. “At Hendon? At the White Horse?”

  “The very same. Waiting to be taken up by the Hendon-to-London stagecoach with her companion and a thin mop of a girl.” He shuddered his distaste. “That companion… Shoulders wider than mine. Unpleasant. Frightening.”

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  “Is she? Is she Mrs. Smith? I’m not convinced. Not convinced at all. Could very well be a man in petticoats. Turned me off m’steak and ale. Her ladyship said she’d just been visiting with Salt—”

  “Diana was at the estate?” Sir Antony was so incredulous the poet took a step back. “Forgive me, Hilary. Do go on,” he added in a soothing voice, which brought the poet back beside him.

  “I offered her a seat in my carriage. It was the decent thing to do. Couldn’t have her ladyship traveling with the mob on the common stage.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t know why Salt didn’t offer her one of his carriages. Still, glad to be of service. There wasn’t room for the Smith person or the girl inside the carriage. Sat them up with Parsons, m’driver. With her wrists, thought Smith could offer to take the reins and give Parsons a rest along the way. Strange…”

  “Strange?” Sir Antony repeated, only half listening to the poet’s prattle.

  He arranged the tea things on the tray to his satisfaction waving away one of the footmen, who had come to do what he saw as his job, topped up the teacups from the weaker tea from the second teapot and handed the poet a teacup on its saucer. “There is sugar on the trolley.”

  Hilary Wraxton did his pigeon face again, and this time Sir Antony did smile. He jerked his feathered wig in the direction of a footman. “Lackeys not up to making a decent brew?”

  “I prefer to make it myself.”

  “Do you? Do you indeed?” the poet muttered, sipping at the hot milky tea without comprehension.

  He put the porcelain cup on its delicate saucer and followed Sir Antony the short distance to the settee. His conversation was unflagging, and for once, welcome by the three ladies on the settee who, despite a room full of laughter and chatter, were all silent, but for very different reasons.

  Lady Reanay was trying to fathom how her daughter-in-law Diana St. John had managed a visit to St. Petersburg, and why Sir Antony had failed to mention this to her.

  Kitty Aldershot was wondering how to get her hands on a glass of champagne, and hoping Sir Antony would at least look at her long enough to notice how pretty she was in her brocade gown à l’anglaise with matching shoes and ribbons in her hair. After all, her effort was on his behalf.

  Lady Caroline remained discomforted that within the blink of an eye in his company she was lusting after Sir Antony Templestowe like a frustrated widow from a Hogarth etching. And no longer being the naïve eighteen-year-old who had every expectation of marrying him, she was well aware where that lust could take her. Although, she was certain that when he knew the extent of her depravity while he was absent from England, he would be greatly relieved he had not married her.

  Aware they were preoccupied with their own thoughts and wondering why they were suddenly sullen-faced, Sir Antony calmly distributed the tea with only one ear to Hilary Wraxton’s prattle.

  “I had to tell someone—tell you,” the poet explained, following Sir Antony up and down the row as he offered tea, cream and sugar. “What happened to the mop girl?”

  Sir Antony turned and handed off the empty tray to a po-faced footman, who was as startled as several of the guests at his master playing servant for the three ladies on the settee. The poet finally had his full attention again, though he had heard only one word in three.

  “What mop, Hilary? You conveyed a mop to London?”

  “No! No! Not a mop. A mop of a girl. Stick-thin and wearing one of those frilly white mobcaps that flap in the face. Noticed she had an overabundance of frizzy hair springing out in all directions. Looked like something you upend and mop the floor with.”

  “Hence the mop of a girl,” confirmed Sir Antony, who was surprised the poet had any idea what such an aid to domestic tidiness looked like, but he did not dispute him. Perhaps he had taken notice of such mundane cleaning equipment as part of his keen poet’s eye? He was known, after all, for poems on all manner of utilitarian subjects, from carriages to clocks to street sweepers, so why not an ode to mops? “What about this girl, Hilary?”

  The poet sighed deeply.

  “That’s what I want to confide. Knew you were of keen mind, Antony. The girl who was with her ladyship and the Smith person at the White Horse Inn has vanished! She was no longer with us when we reached London.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “That’s what I want to know. It’s not that I take an inordinate interest in servants but when one is strapped to the roof of one’s carriage, it behooves one to want to know what happened if it disappears. Thought she must have fallen off the roof when we made a particularly bad lurch on our approach into the environs of Westminster. But no! My panic was all for naught.” He leaned into Sir Antony’s silken shoulder, eyes narrowed. “That man in a woman’s skirt, that Mrs. Smith tried to tell me there was no such girl!” He tapped his thin, long nose, “But Hilary Wraxton Esquire has the eyes of a hawk and the brain to match! I saw her in their company and I offered her a seat up with my driver. So she does exist!”

  “I’m sure she must, if you say so, Hilary.”

  “Good! Because I want you to find out what happened to her! I’ve dedicated a poem to her. And so I must have her name, or what’s the point of the dedication, eh? The poem is called Ode to a Lost Mop Girl.”

  Sir Antony bit back a retort about not resembling a Bow Street Runner in the least, and was about to suggest the poet seek out such individuals to find the mysterious mop girl when Hilary Wraxton gave the lace at his wrist a shake-down and began a recitation,

  In white muslin mob cap, hidden away,

  Flap, flap, flap, the frilly fringe would not obey!

  A servant wench, abundant hair in disarray,

  Her plight unfortunate, and gray…

  Several of the guests gravitated from the four corners of the saloon to hear Hilary Wraxton recite his ode, while a handful were more interested in settling a wager as to the materials used to make the poet’s wig. Under cover of Hilary’s impromptu recital, Sir Antony drew up a ribbon-back chair beside his aunt, and with the delicate cup and saucer steady on a silken knee, leaned in to talk at her ear.

  “Are you at home tomorrow? Shall I call on you?”

  “In the morning. We will have time to talk. The Salt Hendons are due in the afternoon, which will see the house in a state of pandemonium. I do so love to see the children running about. I would say come then, too, but Salt—”

  “—hasn’t forgiven me? Or if he has, he isn’t ready to receive me, yet.”

  “Antony…”

  He smiled ruefully and held the mittened hand she put out to him in a comforting grasp. “It is perfectly all right, Aunt Alice. I understand. He’ll come round in his own good time.”

  “Well, I don’t!” Lady Reanay grumbled. “Enough time has passed for Salt to forgive and forget. Obstinate man! Just as I don’t understand why he won’t allow Diana to see her children. I admit I never warmed to Diana, but she was married to my son, and she is the mother of my grandchildren. No! Close your mouth and listen. I know what it is to be banished from one’s family. St. John was taken from me when I ran off with Tobias, and even after we married, St. John was not permitted to visit his wicked mother for fear of being corrupted. Good God! Corrupted.

  “If it hadn’t been for dearest Jane, Salt would not have invited me to return to England. That I now have rooms in the house and regularly see my grandchildren is beyond my wildest expectat
ions. Merry and Ron are such dear children. And because they are dear children, I believe they should see their mother, now she has returned from her exile. Do you know, my boy, she has not been permitted any contact with the twins since their ninth birthday? They are twelve and a half years old, Antony. And to see Salt with his own children… He is such a good papa that I simply do not understand his cruel actions toward his godchildren. They have no father and their only parent is refused permission to see them! It breaks my heart.”

  “Aunt Alice, I understand perfectly how you, as their grandmother, must feel for Ron and Merry’s situation. On the surface, anyone would. I am very sure Diana pleaded her case with eloquence and passion, but there is far more to my sister’s circumstance than you can possibly imagine.” He gently squeezed his aunt’s hand so she returned her attention to him from the sudden distraction of Hilary Wraxton’s impromptu poetry recital. When she met his gaze he said, “I wish I could tell you more, but until I have spoken with Salt, I simply cannot. What I can tell you is that Diana is not in London under Salt’s auspices. In fact, I am very sure he is unaware she is here.”

  Lady Reanay blinked at him. Raucous applause and movement within the semi-circle of persons listening to the poet allowed her to turn and stare across the room at Diana St. John entertaining a knot of gentlemen with what must be an amusing anecdote, given their laughter and animation. She was so beautiful in her brocade petticoats à la française that Lady Reanay gave a heavy sigh of sympathy. To Sir Antony’s frustration, his aunt completely misread his intention, saying as she sat up tall, her voice full of indignation,

  “Bravo for Diana, for having the courage to defy Salt for the sake of her children. I did not and I have regretted my cowardice every day of my life. Four years separated from her children is long enough, whatever her misconduct of the past. Which, I might add, Antony, no one has been willing or able to shine a candle’s worth of light upon, not even Jane, who politely refers me to Salt if I dare mention the twins’ mamma! Not even Caroline knows the reason for Diana’s banishment. It is most irregular.” It was Lady Reanay’s turn to squeeze her nephew’s hand. “I am very pleased you are taking up Diana’s cause with Salt. Someone has to, and who better than her dearest brother and Ron and Merry’s beloved uncle. Diana confided you are keeping a very close eye on her—”

  “Did she?” he interrupted with a wry smile. “I am.”

  “Such a good and understanding brother.”

  “As to that…”

  “She also told me she is the reason for your return from St. Petersburg.”

  “She was ever the cleverer of the two of us. That, too, is true.”

  Lady Reanay pouted and startled her nephew with an about-face.

  “Making sacrifices for your sister is very admirable in a devoted brother, Antony, but not if it means the ruin of your career! I had hoped Diana was not the only reason for your return…”

  She stopped, a swift glance over her left shoulder to see if Caroline was still seated beside her. She was not. Lady Caroline was by the French windows, where she was languidly fanning herself, a bare shoulder to the room, as if wanting the solitude that the open French window afforded. Lady Reanay realized at once that Caroline had strategically positioned herself close to where Kitty was in conversation with the darkly handsome Mr. Dacre Wraxton, a notorious flirt whose jaundiced eye lingered on girls enjoying their first Season. Kitty was showing the lothario her fan and he was showing her an inordinate amount of attention. When Caroline soon interrupted the pair, Lady Reanay breathed easy and returned her attention to Sir Antony, who had finished his tea and handed off the cup and saucer to a footman.

  What she told him next could not have shocked him more had she slapped him hard across the face with a wet haddock, had such a fish been at her ladyship’s disposal. Shock gave way to disbelief, which had him up off the chair. Disbelief gave way to possibility. A feeling he would later describe as a burst of sunshine consumed him, and he forgot his surroundings in the urgency of securing his future there and then. What was the point of procrastinating when he knew exactly what he wanted and it was within his grasp, just waiting for him to act? And so possibility was overrun by impetuousness.

  In a move he later realized was reminiscent of his drunken behavior at the recital that caused his banishment, but which did not have the excuse of alcohol to blame, history, in an odd sort of way, repeated itself.

  “Call me a romantic old fool, but I had hoped it was Caroline who had brought you home.”

  “Caroline?” Sir Antony frowned, a glance at Lady Caroline Aldershot framed in the window embrasure and now in close conversation with Mr. Dacre Wraxton. His throat went dry. “Why? Why would you think Caroline the catalyst for my homecoming?”

  “You have no idea, have you?”

  “I beg your pardon, Aunt. I must not.”

  “I will not take the blame for your ignorance because it happened after I had left you in St. Petersburg to travel on to Helsinki. And I did not discover it for myself until Paris, where a letter was waiting me, and by then, I assumed you would have discovered it for yourself through the English newssheets. Salt did not write you with the news?”

  Sir Antony shook his head.

  “Salt write to me with news? About Caroline? His occasional letters never mentioned Caroline. In fact, he seems to have been at pains to omit her from all correspondence. If there was anything in the English newssheets, it must have been in such fine print or tucked away in a back column that I missed it altogether.”

  Lady Reanay put up her penciled brows. “Not given to reading the births, deaths and marriages columns? Not even when supremely bored?”

  Sir Antony gave a huff of laughter.

  “No. Advertisements for James’s Powders hold more fascination than those notices. Not since I read with horror Caroline married Aldershot. You’ve made me nervous.”

  He leaned in so only she could hear, although it was an unnecessary gesture because most of the guests had moved across the room to surround the clavichord and harp for an impromptu recital.

  “You’re not about to tell me she’s going to give Aldershot a brat, are you? I have yet to come to terms with her marriage, so any further news in that quarter would surely shatter me. By the by, where is Aldershot? Shouldn’t he be here at his wife’s side? If she were my wife… God! There are some famous last words! Well, if she were, I certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere but at her side. What is it?” he asked, alarmed when his aunt’s hand convulsed in his and tears filled her eyes. “Dear God, Aunt Alice, what did I say to bring this on?”

  He made to rise, to fetch her a fresh cup of tea, water, anything to stop her tears, but she stayed him and he settled again and waited.

  Lady Reanay thought it time to put her nephew out of his ignorant bewilderment.

  “Twelve months and a little over two weeks ago, Poor Stephen—Aldershot—was tragically killed when he was thrown from his horse. He died almost instantly. Well, he certainly never opened his eyes again. He expired before a painmerchant could attend. He was only three-and-twenty. A tragedy.”

  Sir Antony swallowed hard.

  “Yes, a tragedy,” Sir Antony replied soberly. “Poor fellow. And so young… What happened?”

  “No one knows for certain. It is thought he tried to jump a particularly high dry stone wall and his mount shied at the last moment. He was thrown across the wall. The horse was found on one side of the field, Aldershot in a ditch on the other, the wall between them.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “At Salt Hendon.”

  Sir Antony nodded.

  “Good. Not good he died. Good that Caroline was at home, with Salt and Jane, with family around at such a time.” He wiped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “Dear me, what an awful business, and she married not quite two years… Tragic.” He glanced over at Kitty Aldershot who was talking with Diana and Lady Porter. “Is Miss Aldershot his only family?”

  “Ye
s. She was orphaned at Poor Stephen’s death. Salt took it upon himself to be her guardian. She is a sweet child, but penniless. I dare say Salt will be called upon to provide her with an adequate dowry should she receive an offer of marriage.”

  Sir Antony thought of Tom Allenby’s letters and how he had once compared Miss Katherine “Kitty” Aldershot’s blonde beauty to the Goddess Aphrodite walking amongst mere mortals. He smiled crookedly.

  “Oh, Miss Aldershot will receive at least one excellent proposal of marriage before the season’s end, I am sure of it…”

  “Let us hope so. Should he prove worthy and she accept, that will be one less burden for Salt, and for Caroline. Since her mourning ended, she has chaperoned Kitty to functions where this old lady would feel exceedingly out of place.”

  Again Sir Antony nodded, and there was a faraway look in his eye.

  “Since her mourning ended… Yes, of course. She should accompany Miss Aldershot to balls, and fetes and wherever there is dancing… She’s too young to be a widow. Can’t imagine her in widow’s weeds, m’self. Miserable attire; miserable time of it I suspect. Caroline loves to dance…”

  “My boy, I don’t know what you’ve been told,” she confided. “Indeed, I fear you’ve not been told much at all if you think Caroline has returned to her former self before she married Aldershot. She’s not one for balls and fetes and dancing—”

  “Caroline? Not dance? Not want to attend a ball?” Sir Antony blinked at his aunt with incomprehension.

  Lady Reanay wondered if her nephew was suffering shock. He was distracted, and mumbling, almost to himself. His reaction to the news that his beloved Caroline was now a widow was not at all what she had expected. With the requisite period of mourning completed, Lady Caroline Aldershot was free to marry again—free to marry Sir Antony, and he was free to ask her to be his wife. Did he not see that? Did he not understand what this meant for him and for Caroline’s future?

  “You do understand what this means?” she added, peering at him closely. “Caroline is a widow… Antony?”