by Carola Dunn
“That is just as well, Letty. Lady Pardoe has particularly requested that I stay, and I should not disoblige her for the world.”
“Hoity-toity, miss! And what of disobliging your aunt, may I ask, who has been so kind as to offer you a home and to introduce you into the highest society?”
“I am grateful, Aunt, and I mean no disrespect when I say that the Pardoes have been equally kind, and I had no claim whatever on their generosity. I shall stay until the day after the wedding. Now, Letty, tell me about your new gowns and the parties you have been to.”
Lady Hadrick recognised defeat and went off muttering about stubborn, ungrateful, ill-bred paupers. Ruth spent a tedious hour listening to Letty boasting of her wardrobe and her conquests, and complaining about her sister’s treatment and her friends’ insipidity and disloyalty.
She found she was weary to death of Letty’s affairs. It seemed that a constant stream of admirers was attracted by her looks, but her ill-tempered outbursts quickly alienated the well-brought-up young ladies with whom she was expected to associate. Letty was inclined to blame the loss of her friends on her sister’s sojourn in the city, “quite beyond the pale.” Ruth’s mild remonstrances and suggestions met only with further complaints.
More fatigued by a morning with Letty than by a week of constant occupation, Ruth decided guiltily to wash her hands of her until after Rose’s wedding. After that, she would devote herself to remedying the deficiencies in her aunt’s tutelage. A sneaking hope crept in that by then she would be affianced to Oliver and might legitimately abandon the responsibility to him. She did not think he would be willing to include Letty in his household.
With relief, she took her leave.
The afternoon was much more enjoyable. Oliver had just completed the construction of one of his machine models, and he invited Ruth to be present while it was demolished by the words of Sir Marc Isambard Brunel, the famous engineer.
“You should not be so certain that he will not like it,” Ruth told him severely. “Why, one day you will invent something vastly important, and you will be so discouraged that you will not show it to anyone for fear of ridicule.”
“I shall show you, and you will tell me how very clever I am. That will be sufficient to persuade me to cry it from the rooftops.”
“What is it you have made this time?” she asked, following him down the dimly lit corridor to the workshop.
“It is a machine for knitting stockings, which I expect I should not mention in your presence. The Lee machine has been in use since Elizabethan times, and Strutt added great improvements sixty years ago, but something I saw in Yorkshire last month suggested a new line of thinking.”
“I thought Sir Marc was a naval engineer?”
“He has done a great deal of work for the Navy, but he is interested in machines in general. He is talking now of building a tunnel under the Thames.”
“That seems a far cry from the manufacture of hosiery!”
“It is, of course. However, I try to spread my favours impartially among the engineers I know, and Sir Marc has not been expected to pass judgment on any of my toys for some time. Besides, he is an interesting fellow, and I think you will enjoy meeting him.”
They entered the laboratory and very soon a knock on the outer door heralded the inventor’s arrival.
“Well, mon ami, what have you to show me now?” he greeted Oliver. He had a fascinating blend of accents, the native French overlaid by a patina of American twang.
Oliver introduced him to Ruth and led the way to his machine, which he demonstrated. Wheels turned, tiny bobbins clicked up and down, and a strip of cloth appeared as he pressed with his fingers on the miniature treadle. Ruth was most impressed.
“Aha,” said Sir Marc. “You put zis t’rough ze... yes, I see, and... very good. But Oliver, see here. You cannot do zis. On a full-size machine, ze t’read will break, ze strain will be too much, far too much. Could you perhaps put an eyelet... no, zat will pull here.”
“What did I tell you?” Oliver asked Ruth with a wry grin. “I simply do not have the eye for it.”
“I think it is amazingly clever,” Ruth consoled him. “To produce cloth on such a tiny thing.”
“All we need now is tiny people.”
“Wait,” interrupted Sir Marc, still poking at the inside of the frame. “Now zis is an excellent improvement here, and if you... yes, mon ami, as always you have given me ideas. You will not mind if I work on it?”
“By no means, Sir Marc. I shall not make anything of it now. May I offer you a glass of claret?”
The engineer assented, and Oliver went to dig out a bottle from a dusty cupboard on the other side of the room.
“Is Mr Pardoe’s machine really unworkable, sir?” enquired Ruth.
“Just like all ze ozzers,” Sir Marc answered with an all-embracing wave of the hand and an expressive shrug. “My young friend likes to dabble in such t’ings, but his real génie lies elsewhere. He knows what is being done in such matters all over England, and he carries ideas from one engineer to anozzer, always knowing what will be useful to whom. Now, zis knitting machine, he found ze idea in Yorkshire, n’est-ce pas? And ze stockings are made in Nottinghamshire. Now when will I go to Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire? Maybe never. But zis machine inutile of Mr Pardoe, it gives me ideas of my own. Who knows what will come of it?”
“So you see,” Oliver explained, returning with a bottle and three glasses, “my toys are not quite useless. The only trouble is, I get no benefit from them.”
“Ah, if it is glory you want, no. But, milady, Oliver has anozzer genius, and zat is to know where to invest. If he says an invention will make money, I will put my fortune on it.”
“I knew he was a genius,” sighed Ruth, satisfied. She sipped her wine and pulled a face. “Have you some lemonade hidden away somewhere, Oliver? I cannot think how you gentlemen can actually like this stuff.”
“I shall invent a machine to make lemonade!” cried Oliver, inspired.
“And I suppose we shall have to find miniature lemons to put in it,” Ruth teased.
Sir Marc soon took his leave. Oliver was intent upon poking at his unsuccessful stocking frame, so Ruth found a heap of cloths in a corner and began dusting, carefully avoiding the various experiments set up on the long tables. Heaving a sigh, Oliver abandoned the inquest and joined in the housekeeping. Between them, they made the dust fly in clouds, and when they realised it was past time to change for dinner, they were both filthy.
“Forget lemonade,” said Oliver, removing a smudge from Ruth’s cheek with a corner of his handkerchief. “My next effort will be a dusting machine!”
* * * *
No one who had seen Ruth and Oliver at that moment would have recognised them the next evening when they entered Almack’s Rooms with Rose, Theo, and Lady Pardoe. Oliver was resplendent in the requisite knee-breeches and a blue coat perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. Ruth was wearing white gauze over sunset-orange satin, one of the dashing confections that the Ton had come to expect of her. The prospect of waltzing with Oliver made her eyes sparkle with more than their usual brilliance. She quickly attracted a crowd of hopeful partners, but Oliver was no longer worried that there would be no room for him. Even Lord Sarbury’s constant attendance had no power to disturb him.
Like his sister, he had never before set foot in the exclusive Assembly Rooms. He was not very impressed with what he now found. Not for nothing was Almack’s known as the Marriage Mart: its chief purpose was the display of marriageable damsels, and even the refreshments took second place, there being no drink stronger than orgeat.
To his surprise, Oliver found himself in demand as a partner. Lady Cowper, daughter of that great Whig Lady Melbourne, had been responsible for admitting the Pardoes to the august portals, and now she introduced Oliver to a number of young ladies, all of whose mamas had mercenary gleams in their eyes. Fortunately, there were also present several gentlemen with whom he was already acquainted, and
after a while he escaped from the predatory hordes to the card room—not that cards were much more to his taste than dancing with titled but penniless maidens.
Before he was completely petrified by boredom, it was time for his waltz with Ruth, from which nothing could have kept him. She was waiting, surrounded by a group of gentlemen who were trying to persuade her that her partner was not going to turn up in time.
As they whirled about the crowded ballroom, Ruth remembered their first waltz, at the Christmas party, when she had been full of vague hopes. Then had come the Owingtons’ ball and despair, and now here she was again in Oliver’s arms, as certain of his love as she could be without a declaration. She was sure he would ask her to marry him after talking to her brother, but suddenly that was too far away. How many things might happen in a week to interrupt the expected course of events! It even seemed possible that after seeing Godfrey his feelings for her would change.
The musicians on the balcony closed the dance with a flourish. Ruth clung to Oliver’s arm, looking up at him searchingly.
“What is wrong?” he murmured in alarm. “You look as though you had seen a ghost, Ruth. Come and sit down quickly, my dear.”
Reassured by his instant solicitude, comforted by his strong arm supporting her, she told herself she was being silly. By the time he seated her and bent over her, she was able to smile and say, “It was nothing, Oliver. I was a little dizzy from all that twirling around. I think I shall sit out the next dance.”
Lord Sarbury, her next partner, was more than happy to sit it out with her, until he discovered that Oliver had no intention of leaving them to a tête-à-tête In fact, Ruth’s usual court quickly gathered, and she soon regained her spirits. Oliver was not completely relieved from anxiety until he took her in to supper and found that she had not lost her usual excellent appetite. It was always a source of amazement to him that she managed to remain so elegantly dainty when she enjoyed her food so much. He supposed it to be due to early deprivation and vowed that never again would she go without.
The Pardoe party did not stay until the end of the dancing, but even so it was the small hours of the morning when they arrived home. Oliver arose later than usual the next morning.
He was giving his valet orders about packing for his journey when there was a knock on the door of his chamber. A young footman handed in a sealed letter.
“It’s from Cornwall, sir,” he announced. “Mr Bartlett thought as y’ought t’r’ave it right away, case it’s from the airionot.”
Oliver looked at the cover. He did not recognise the hand. Breaking the seal, he scanned the message quickly.
“I must see Sir John Hadrick at once,” he said grimly. “Ask Bartlett to send someone to find out where he is. He’ll probably be at the House at this hour. Then I want the curricle ready as soon as I know where to find him.”
Sir John, for once, was at home. Within the hour, Oliver was closeted with him in his study.
“You have heard from Trevelyan, I take it,” opened the baronet, as grim-faced as Oliver. “Did he tell you the whole? I suppose he did, as you came here at once.”
“Yes, sir. I cannot agree that it is necessary for Lady Ruth to be there in person.”
“I must suppose Trevelyan has his reasons. He is the investigating magistrate, and I cannot go against his will, loath though I am to subject my niece to such an ordeal. Unfortunately, I shall be unable to accompany her to Cornwall until the end of the month. There is business in the Commons from which I cannot absent myself.”
“There would seem to be some urgency. You know that I myself leave for Cornwall tomorrow. I should be more than happy to escort Lady Ruth to Boscastle. The Trevelyans have offered me hospitality, I take it they have done the same for Lady Ruth?”
“Yes, yes. Do you intend to stay there?”
“I was to go to Port Isaac, but in this case I think I had best stay in Boscastle.”
Sir John rose from his desk and paced up and down.
“I feel it is very remiss of me not to attend to the matter myself. I cannot like embroiling you in the affairs of the family.”
“Sir, I have embroiled myself. I had already intended to see Lord Penderric to ask for his sister’s hand in marriage.”
The baronet stopped pacing and looked hard at Oliver for a moment.
“I see,” he said abruptly, sitting down. “I had wondered if that were the way of things. Oliver, there is something I must tell you that I had thought never to divulge to a living soul, not even to the man Ruth will marry. I tell you for your father’s sake. I know not a word will pass these walls.”
Oliver waited in sudden, silent dread for Sir John’s words.
“My sister Millicent,” the older man began, “Ruth’s mother, was a girl of high principles. Her only fault was that her nature was too trusting. From that came her one mistake for which she spent the rest of her life atoning. She trusted the man she loved, a naval officer, and he betrayed her. He told her that he would take her to Plymouth to meet his family, and she went with him.
“I must shoulder a great part of the blame. She was only eighteen, ten years younger than I. I was her legal guardian, both our parents being dead, and already then I was much involved in politics. I should have found a gentlewoman to keep Millicent company, to teach her the way of the world and introduce her to society. I delayed until it was too late.
“It was two months before I found where she had gone. He had already abandoned her, and she was living in misery, expecting his child. My only consolation is that he was lost at sea shortly after.
“I found her a husband, God help me. Even then, Penderric would do anything for money. I sold our estate to pay him and have only recently made good that loss, thanks to your father, Oliver. Had I guessed how he would treat her, I’d not have let him have her if he had paid me the same sum. They were wed six months before Ruth was born.
“Ruth is my dear niece, but she is not a Penderric.”
Oliver rose to his feet and laughed in angry relief.
“Is that all?” he cried. “I should want Ruth if she were born of a whore in Tothill Fields! It is her I love, not her ancestry, and whether a faithless sailor is any worse than the Penderrics, I beg leave to doubt.”
Sir John had buried his face in his hands. Oliver took pity on him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a calmer voice. “I was so very afraid that you were going to reveal some real obstacle to our marriage. Ruth has her mother’s trusting nature, but she has put her trust in me, and she will never be betrayed. Does she know this story?”
The baronet raised his head to show a ravaged face.
“No. I have told no one, and Penderric was sworn to secrecy. Twenty-six years ago, Cornwall was yet more remote than it is today, and no whisper of a rumour ever reached London.”
“After that time, who would remember? Ruth was born in wedlock. Everyone knows all Lady Oxford’s children have different fathers, yet all are received everywhere. How should it matter to me?”
“You will not tell her?”
“Sir John, I begin to think you have a poor opinion of me. A revelation of such a nature could do nothing but hurt her. If you think me such a villain, you had best forbid me to see Ruth ever again.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Sir John humbly. “My wits have gone astraying.”
“No, sir, it is I who must once more beg yours. It must have been excessively painful to speak of your sister’s unhappy fate, and I appreciate the kind thought which prompted you to enlighten me. Allow me to ring for some brandy to settle your nerves, and mine, too. We must decide just how we are to tell Ruth about the arrest of Captain Cleeve.”
Chapter 19
Ruth was finishing a late breakfast with Lady Pardoe and Rose, when Bartlett entered the morning room.
“Sir John Hadrick is here, my lady,” he announced, “and wishful to have a private word with Lady Ruth in the library.”
“Pray excuse me, Lady Pardoe
.” Ruth wondered if her wish had come true and Oliver had spoken to her uncle instead of waiting to see Godfrey. When she entered the library and found Oliver there, too, she was momentarily certain that he had asked for her hand, then she saw that both gentlemen looked worried. Her uncle, in fact, did not appear to be at all well.
She hesitated on the threshold. Sir John, who seemed to have aged overnight, was huddled in a chair by the fire. He gestured to Oliver, who came and took her hand.
“Come and sit down, Ruth,” he said gently. “We have news for you, whether good or bad is hard to tell. You remember how in the cave at Boscastle the smuggler Jem referred to a Captain Cleeve, from whom he was taking orders? The captain has been taken up and is in gaol at Bodmin.”
“Surely that is good news? Why are you and my uncle so agitated?”
“Unfortunately, Mr Trevelyan has decided that your presence is necessary when the man is questioned. He wants you to travel to Cornwall and confront the villain.”
“It sounds like an unpleasant business, but I am not given to fainting when there is need for action, as you surely know, Oliver. If it is considered necessary, of course I will go.” Ruth was certain that he was concealing something from her. She had rather not meet Captain Cleeve, but this was no great calamity.
She was about to tax him with her suspicions, then realised that her uncle must also think it best to hide the full story from her.
“I know your spirit well,” Oliver was saying warmly. “And I shall be there to support you.”
Sir John rose and moved to sit beside her on the sofa.
“My dear,” he began apologetically, “I fear I cannot accompany you as I would wish. Important business keeps me in town. Oliver has kindly offered to escort you to Mr Trevelyan’s house, but if you feel unable to accept his offer, I can easily find someone else to take you.”
“Oh no, uncle, I shall be happy to travel with him.”
“I shall, of course, send a maid with you, as you have none of your own.”
“Surely that is not necessary, sir. I came all the way from Cornwall before without a maid. And I daresay the Trevelyans will not like to have an extra servant turn up.”