Lord Augustus

by Mary Kingswood

  “What did you mean earlier,” Gus said, “when you said that Amaryllis had something of yours?”

  She turned to look him fully in the face, her pale blue eyes as cold and unblinking as a fish. “Why, my grandchild, Lord Augustus. Amaryllis had James’s baby and took the child away from me! She took my son from me, which debt she can never repay, but then she took my grandchild from me also, which compounds my loss, for the babe is all that now remains of my son. I shall never stop looking for that child, never, for it is mine.”

  With another abrupt shift, she smiled and it was as if they sun had come out from behind a cloud. “Come, let me show you the entry in the register.”

  She led the way down the side aisle to the vestry, and there, on a plinth, sat a book open at a page edged in black and written in the decorative script of monkish scribes, painted in many colours and embellished with gold leaf.

  “There… James Charles Ambrose Ballard. After his father, of course, and his benefactor.” For some reason she found this exquisitely funny, and laughed merrily. Perhaps realising how odd it looked, she raised a black-gloved hand to her mouth, and continued more solemnly, “Five years three months and six days ago, my son was killed.”

  “Killed?” Gus said, horrified. “As in murdered?”

  “Oh… not exactly, no. He fell from his horse. But it was her fault, all the same. If she had married him when she should have done, he would never have been riding out there, never have fallen, never have been taken away from me. And if she had married him, that babe would have been here now, delighting my old age, and not out there in the world, growing up without knowing its grandmama. Family is so important, isn’t it, my lord?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “You are very attached to your family, I daresay.”

  “Very much so. However much my brothers annoy me and do the most absurd things, I still love them all.”

  “Oh, brothers!” She snapped her fingers dismissively. “That is not the family that I speak of. It is children who are important, especially when they are small and kneel quietly at one’s feet. They grow up to be wilful and disobedient, but when they are young and docile, they are quite perfect.”

  Gus tried to reconcile this idyllic vision of childhood with the exuberant Ned, shrieking at the top of his lungs and racing about the woods, and shook his head in bemusement. “I cannot recall ever kneeling quietly at anyone’s feet. My brothers and I never did anything except at a run, and never spoke but to shout. We must have been a great trial to our nurses.”

  “At Drummoor,” she said flatly.

  “At Drummoor, yes. I was born and grew up there.”

  “It is a great house, no doubt. A fine estate. No neighbours for miles around.”

  “There is a village nearby,” Gus said. “But forgive me, Mrs Ballard. You have been generous with your time to strangers, but I am sure we keep you from more important calls upon your time.”

  At the ‘we’, she turned to observe Merton, who was leafing through the pages of the register with apparent interest. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Leave that as it was!”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Merton said smoothly, resetting the book back to the black-edged page.

  She stamped her cane against the tiled floor, its thump ricocheting around the room. “You are right, I have wasted too much time on you. None of you are worth it.” So saying she strode off into the church and out of sight down the aisle.

  Gus watched her go, bemused. “Well, that was an odd thing. What do you make of her, Merton?”

  “A strange woman, and one I would not like to cross. But she has been an invaluable help.”

  “She has told us a great deal about Amar— I mean Mrs Walsh.”

  “Who is, apparently, still Miss Cordwainer. The register confirms that there was no marriage. Her father’s death is recorded, and that of James Ballard, of course, but no marriage and no baptism of the child.”

  “So he is truly a fatherless child.”

  Merton raised an eyebrow, and shuffled his feet. “No child is fatherless, my lord, and in this case the line is very clear. Ned must be James Ballard’s child.”

  “Then what has Lord Edward Winfell to do with it? Why does Amaryllis talk about a husband whose name is Edward, and name the child after him? It makes no sense, Merton.” He stamped out of the vestry into the church, and down the side aisle. His steps slowed as he drew near to the window, with its so-lifelike depiction of Amaryllis. And there beside her was James Ballard, his hand on her shoulder, claiming her. Her betrothed, the man she should have married yet had not, and she had never mentioned him. “And why did she not marry the fellow, eh? If she liked him well enough to surrender her virtue, why not marry him? Does she strike you as the sort of woman who would be so careless of her reputation?”

  “Not at all,” Merton said, “but we do not know what she was like then. We only see the face she presents to the world now.”

  “You are suggesting some deceit or artifice?” Gus said coldly. “I do not like your implication, Merton.” He sagged into a pew, and Merton sat in the pew in front, turned round to face him.

  “I meant no slur on the lady,” Merton said quietly. “But consider her position. She had no mother, no sisters or brothers, no family to advise her, only a sick father. She fell into the orbit of Mrs Ballard, and we have seen how formidable a character she is. The son perhaps made strong advances towards her, and Miss Cordwainer was drawn in. He had a pleasing enough countenance, charming manners, let us suppose, so perhaps, in time, she was so enamoured that she surrendered to him. Then he died, and she found herself in a difficult situation. She realised her error, and when her father’s death released her from any further ties, she made her escape to Castle Morton, with a plausible tale about Lord Edward. The duke investigated, just as we have done, and realised the true situation, but out of charity he housed her anyway.”

  “Until that last part, I can believe it all,” Gus said. “But the duke is not a man to hand out charity to a woman so wholly unconnected with him. He might give her a few guineas, but then he would send her away. He would not house her and feed her and clothe her if he had no connection at all to her. And she brought the duke a letter from Lord Edward asking him to take care of her. No, the child must be Lord Edward’s, I cannot interpret this any other way.”

  Merton grunted. “Perhaps he does not believe her story, but he feels obliged to keep her close just in case some evidence turns up that proves it,” he said cautiously. “After all, if she was legally married to Lord Edward, then the boy might be the heir to the dukedom. Better by far to have him on hand if it should turn out to be true, than to have to scour the kingdom for him.”

  Gus deflated at once. “Damnation, Merton, you are always so reasonable. And may God forgive me, now I am using foul language in His holy house. But I am no further forward. She might be… he might be… It is all inference and supposition. Maybe I should just marry her and be done with it. Carrbridge has said he will support me, and for all you will represent to him the unwisdom of such a move, he will not go back on his word.”

  “No, he will not,” Merton admitted. “But have you any idea what it is like to live on one thousand pounds a year, my lord? How many horses do you keep at present? Ten? A dozen?”

  “Hmm… fifteen, not counting the hunters.” A long pause. “Are they very expensive, Merton?”

  “That alone would consume half your income, if you were to pay for every part of it yourself. Then there are the costs of coals and flour and tea and candles and soap and gowns for your lady. How much did that coat of yours cost?”

  Gus exhaled gustily. “Oh, Merton, you are a good sort of fellow, but this is so lowering. So tell me, if Amaryllis were to turn out to be a respectable widow, and I were to take her to Drummoor, Carrbridge would not refuse to keep me, would he? I should not need an independent establishment, and the thousand a year would be enough then?”

  “I daresay it would, my lord. Should y
ou like to be the poor relation, always dependent on your brother? Do you think Miss Cordwainer would like to live under another man’s roof?”

  He was silent for a long time. That was the trouble with Merton, he was always right, and especially so where money was concerned. He sighed again. “It is hopeless, is it not? I should have let Connie find me an heiress, like Reggie and Humphrey.”

  “You still have your work with Tattersall’s, my lord. That will make you independent, in time.”

  “In a very long time,” he said quietly.

  Again he fell silent, considering. Would it be so terrible to give up some of his horses? Perhaps all of them? His heart quailed at the prospect. No Jupiter, no Masterful, no Darkling Sun, no Arabian Prince. No curricles with their matched pairs, either. That would be a sorry day for him, to lose so much majestic power. The thrill of a fast drive or a hard gallop, jumping every wall and ditch, would be forever lost to him.

  But then, if he could wake each morning to a sweet heart-shaped face, and see her blue eyes gazing at him, it would surely be worth it. A quiet life it would be, but a contented one, with Ned to watch growing up, and, God willing, a few more besides. There would be a joy in that, too, a different kind of joy, but it would be enough for him.

  “Suppose…” he said thoughtfully. “Suppose I were to get rid of the horses…”

  “All of them?” Merton said, surprised.

  “Yes. If all the horses were gone… it could be done then, could it? With care and economy.”

  Merton blinked. “It could. Many live on a great deal less, and still call themselves gentlemen. My own income is under eight hundred a year.”

  “And you plan to marry,” Gus said eagerly. “Such a sum would support a family… Oh, but I daresay Lady Hardy has money of her own.”

  “She does, twelve hundred and fifty a year, or perhaps a little more next year if my investments on her behalf prove fruitful.”

  “And two thousand a year will make you very comfortable, I should think, when you are married?”

  Merton looked rather conscious. “I do not quite like to be so presumptuous… the lady is still in mourning after all, but I do have hopes, and two thousand a year is a very comfortable income. I could afford to keep a carriage on such a sum.”

  “But not on one thousand a year?” Gus said.

  “A gig, perhaps. Are you serious about this, my lord? For if so, I feel duty bound to remind you that if you marry a lady with a despoiled reputation, you cut yourself off from all good society. It would reduce your expenses, for you would not need to entertain at all, but the change in your circumstances would be dramatic.”

  Gus nodded eagerly. “I know, I know! I understand what I would be giving up, but Merton, I have been an idle, selfish being all my life, and boredom and too much money to spend have got me into trouble more than once. I buy all these horses because I can, not because I need them. Who needs two curricles anyway? Or even one? What rational man needs fifteen horses? I cannot ride them all at once, so they sit about, eating their heads off and keeping who knows how many grooms in employment. It is foolishness. I have wasted half my life, Merton, but I am determined to do better in future. Will you teach me how to manage on a thousand a year? Teach me the price of coals and candles and… all those other things?”

  “I should be delighted to do so, my lord.”

  “And I shall give up hanging about at Tattersall’s, which I only did because it gave me the opportunity to stay in London and stable my horses at Marford House. Lord Longannet offered me four hundred a year to manage his racing stables in Hampshire. That would be a useful increase to my income, would it not? And at least I should get some riding there. I shall write today to ask if the post is still open. My own horses can go — Tattersall’s can sell them for me.” He laughed at the irony. “And it matters not whether Amaryllis will have me or not, for I am determined to do this, Merton, quite determined. But oh, if she will! Oh, how glorious that would be!”

  22: Soup And Bread

  Gus and Merton repaired to the hotel again, where the lawyer met them, his face showing uncharacteristic animation.

  “I have some interesting information,” he whispered, although they were quite alone in the private parlour Gus had procured. “Miss Cordwainer left Old Drifford House shortly after the death of Mr James Ballard, but she did not leave Drifford. She and her father moved to Holly Cottage in the older part of the town, higher up the river. She had friends there, seemingly. That is where we must enquire next.”

  “It is of no use,” Gus said. “She was not married, for we have seen the register in the church and there is no record of any marriage, or of Ned’s baptism, either.”

  “Oh.” The lawyer deflated at once. “The register, of course. I should have checked there first, for even if there had been a form of marriage, you know, it cannot be valid without the event is recorded in the parish register. Even if the banns have been called and the marriage has taken place before the clergyman and witnesses during the proper hours, if it is not registered it is not valid.”

  “I wonder if that is the way of it,” Merton said thoughtfully. “An otherwise unquestionable marriage, completely real to the participants, but without that entry in the parish register, there is no marriage and the child cannot inherit.”

  “The law can be the very devil sometimes,” the lawyer said sadly. “But if we ask her friends in Upper Drifford, we may determine when she left the town altogether, and whether there is any likelihood that she was married elsewhere.”

  This was a cheering possibility, so they left the hotel and walked some little distance up the main road, crossing the bridge into the old part of the town. At once the fine new buildings and wide streets gave way to a different settlement altogether. Great tall warehouses lined the road, and muddy alleys led to narrow houses where many families lived piled on top of one another, to judge by the lines of washing at every window, or across the street. A few men smoking pipes sat about in groups on the doorsteps, although it was the middle of the day when they should be at work. One had a crying baby on his knee.

  But a little further on the valley sides steepened and the warehouses were set closer to the river. On the rocky slopes on either side of the main road were crowded a mass of tiny cottages, thrown together any which way, with odd patches of garden or tumbledown wooden sheds mixed in amongst them. Barefoot children chased each other, and chickens scratched about happily in the dirt.

  To one side of the road, where the ground was flatter, an irregular square opened up, edged with small shops and neat little houses with walled gardens.

  “There is a tavern over there, Marford,” Willerton-Forbes said. “You may want to rest there with a tankard while Mr Merton and I continue our investigations.”

  “Do you wish to be rid of me?” Gus said amiably. “I can as soon go back to the hotel, if so.”

  “Not at all,” the lawyer said politely, “but you are rather… um, conspicuous in that coat and waistcoat, if I may say so, especially in this part of town. I am a lawyer and Mr Merton could easily pass for one, but you, Marford—”

  “I look like the idle aristocrat that I am,” Gus said with a sigh. “Very well. I am not sure I want to eat in any establishment here, but the beer should be potable, would you not agree?”

  So he ambled down to the tavern, cane swishing, and sat in the autumn sunshine at one of the rough tables set outside. The tapboy brought him a tankard of something not too unpleasant, and he stretched out his long legs and watched the poorer folk of Drifford going about their business. The matrons eyed him warily, and one or two men who looked better dressed than mere labourers bustled past on business, but most of those he saw wore thin, well-patched clothes and many were barefoot.

  It was the children who showed the most curiosity. They stopped chasing each other and stood and stared at him, fingers in mouths. They were all young, from two or three up to about six, and he supposed that the older children were busy at home, or
perhaps they were at school? Had Amaryllis not mentioned a school? Gradually, seeing that he was not about to explode or chase them away with his cane, they began to inch closer.

  One boy was braver than the rest, although he was smaller than many of them and as thin as a rail. He came close enough to call out, “Hey, mister, ’oo are you?”

  “I am Gus,” he said, gravely. “Who are you?”

  “Kit Sandwell,” the boy said. “Why you only got one name? I got two names. Everyone got two names.”

  “Oh, you want the whole thing, do you? Very well, I am Lord Augustus Theodore Horatio Marford.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “You really a lord? What you a lord of, then?”

  “Unfortunately, I am not a lord of anything, but my brother is — he is the ninth Marquess of Carrbridge. Are you hungry, Kit? You look hungry to me.”

  The boy nodded, words failing him, although whether this was caused by the prospect of food or meeting the brother of a marquess was hard to determine.

  “Boy!” Gus called, and the tapboy, who had been loitering ready to intervene if anyone harassed his noble customer, rushed forward. “Bring something hot for Master Sandwell, if you please. Some soup, preferably with some meat in it. And bread.”

  “For Kit, sir? I mean, my lord?”

  “If you please. Come and sit down, Kit.” The boy scrambled up onto the bench, and a few minutes later, a bowl of steaming soup arrived. It looked rather unappetising to Gus’s eye, but he guessed that the boy would not mind. Nor did he, for he dived in with gusto.

  By this time, Gus had acquired rather a crowd of children, who watched silently and enviously as Kit polished off his soup, and a big chunk of bread. It was one of the girls who dared to speak.