by Autumn Rose
And so the next day they started out, retracing their route, past Hayden Bridge to Corbridge, and finally north to Edinburgh. It was a long journey, tedious at times during the day, but remembered by Margaret only for the passionate evenings they spent in inns along the way. The trip took more than two weeks and almost all their money to accomplish. They were both exhausted by the time they reached Breen’s uncle’s house in Edinburgh, and Margaret, having grown used to it, hardly noticed that Breen introduced her as his wife. She felt so married that the ceremony might well have happened.
* * * *
They were able to find only cheap rooms off the Canongate in the old city, and Margaret spent her days bargaining with shopkeepers, cleaning, and cooking. She also spent hours sleeping, but dismissed her tiredness as the aftereffects of their journey. Breen was out many nights “making their fortune,” as he laughingly put it. In reality, the money he was able to bring in from gambling was all they had to live on, since the Edinburgh branch of the family was clearly the poor one. The Whitmarkes had most certainly not known that Breen’s uncle managed a pub, having married the owner’s daughter years ago.
Margaret was taken aback by Breen’s willingness to earn their bread by the roll of the dice or the fall of a card. He promised her they would marry as soon as he made enough at the tables to find more appropriate lodgings. “Tonight for sure, ma dear,” he would say, rolling his R’s like a Scotsman.
And Margaret found that she was able to shut the door on that nagging little voice that kept asking questions that brought her down to earth: How could she respect a man who lived the way Dillon seemed to? Why wait to marry? Shouldn’t they wed and return to Moorview to make peace with her father and settle down at last to the proper life of husband and wife? The voice was silenced in bed, however, for in bed she believed in him. How could she not, when he felt like a part of her soul and body that had been missing all her life, at last to be found and refound every night.
* * * *
After a month in Scotland, however, she realized her tiredness was not fatigue from her journey, nor from the changes in her situation, but the lassitude of early pregnancy. She was ecstatic, and at the same time terrified. She could think of no better proof of their love than a child, but she delayed her announcement to Breen. She told herself it was because she wanted to be sure, but knew deep down that she wondered if he would despise her for conceiving out of wedlock.
It was finally Breen himself who delicately queried about the absence of her monthly flow. When she nodded a yes to his quiet questions, he pulled her to him.
“Ah, Honora Margaret, we will have to make an honest woman of you this very week.” He laughed, and she relaxed in his arms. He did love her and they would be married.
Breen put his head on her belly and said softly, “If it is a boy, we will name him after your father.”
“And what if he is a she?” Margaret teased.
“Then we will call her Miranda.”
Chapter 1
1818
“The Countess of Alverstone to see you, my lord.”
Marcus Samuel Vane, known to his intimates as Sam, looked up from his desk. “Damn and blast! What does the woman want this time?” he muttered, and immediately felt ashamed of his irritated response. After all, the countess was the widow of his best friend, and had been, many years ago, his own first love. But over the years, and especially since Charles’s death, those characteristics which had drawn both of them to her, her air of fragility and helplessness, had become more than occasional sources of annoyance. What was most attractive in an eighteen-year-old girl was less so in a twenty-five-year-old and positively irritating in the thirty-nine-year-old woman she was now. And Sam, in the last four years, had had plenty of exposure to Lavinia’s worst side, since he had been named guardian of the late earl’s son and heir.
The young earl was no wilder than any young man his age, and, in fact, seemed to be growing into as fine a man as his father. Lavinia, however, became hysterical at his occasional high-spirited escapades, and on those occasions Sam had endeavored to explain to Lavinia that too tight a rein would only cause rebellion.
“Both his father and I turned into responsible men, after all, my dear, and we both got into as many scrapes as Jeremy.”
“I cannot believe that of Charles.”
“Oh, but you can of me?” replied Sam with a glint in his eye.
“You know what I mean, Sam,” Lavinia replied hastily. “You always seemed less serious to me. Charles was…well, someone to lean on. That is why I married him. I needed his strength.”
And an earl is, after all, a better catch than a viscount, thought Sam. The knowledge that Charles had been the better catch no longer rankled, as it had done in the early days of the Whitford marriage. A marriage, he had to admit, that was certainly grounded in mutual affection. Lavinia’s love for her husband had been genuine and she had clearly not recovered from his death. Which was why, Sam knew, she often felt so inadequate to the task of raising Jeremy on her own. As the boy matured and settled into his studies, however, Lavinia recognized that her son was growing into a fine, steady man. And although, like an ivy whose oak has been cut down, she tended to twine around whatever was available, usually Sam, he had not had such a visit in months. When Lavinia walked in, still wearing one glove and not as impeccably dressed as she usually was, he knew something serious, to her at least, had occurred.
“Come, sit down, my dear. Now, tell me, what is the problem?” he queried.
Lavinia sat down and then stood up again, and began to pace back and forth across the library. She pulled at the fingers of her kid glove, which had stuck on her engagement ring, a large emerald she had not taken off since Charles had placed it on her finger. Sam watched her pace, knowing that she would eventually wear down, but he hoped she would come to the point quickly this time, since he was in the middle of researching a speech on Catholic emancipation.
Lavinia’s pacing slowed and then stopped and she sank into a chair gracefully, twisting her glove in her hand until it resembled a short piece of rope. Wells knocked softly at the door and entered on the viscount’s signal. He set down a tray with sherry and two glasses, and Sam dismissed him with a grateful nod.
“May I pour you some sherry, Lavinia?”
Lavinia finally looked at him with those cornflower-blue eyes which had faded only a little over the years. They filled as quickly as they ever had, and she smiled tremulously as she said:
“Thank you, Sam. I know I have burdened you often over the years with my small problems. You have been a good friend to me…more than a friend, almost a member of the family…”
Sam bent to pour the sherry. Lavinia had made such subtle and not-so-subtle hints over the past two years. He knew her grief over Charles was genuine and deep, but he also suspected he would be a welcome suitor. As it was, his infatuation, although not his affection, had died years ago, and he had no intention of becoming her second husband. So he tactfully ignored any flirting or helpless glances which he was sure were meant to inspire warmer feelings. He had to admit she did it well, and were he younger, or less well-acquainted with her, he would have been in a fair way to being caught. But he did feel like a member of the family, and he loved her son as though he were his own. So he put up with her foibles, and thought of his friendship with Charles and of his determination that Jeremy not be smothered by her neediness.
After a few sips of sherry the countess stopped torturing her glove with her free hand and let it rest in her lap, relaxing slightly as the amontillado hit her stomach. She took a deep breath.
“It must be something rather serious to put you in such a state.”
“It is worse than anything,” she replied. “I know if dear Charles were here this would never have happened. I must be a terrible mother, or Jeremy could never have done this to me.”
“Nonsense. You are an excellent mother, and have raised a fine young man. Charles would be very proud of you.”
>
“Do you really think so, Sam?” Lavinia, who was, under her affectation of helplessness, truly insecure and in need of constant reassurance, looked up gratefully at Sam.
“I do. Now, tell me. What has Jeremy done to upset you so? Lost this quarter’s allowance at the tables? Boxed the watch? Taken up with an opera dancer?” Sam knew Jeremy was unlikely to have done any of these things. On the other hand, he couldn’t think of anything Jeremy could have done to upset his mother so.
“It is far worse than that. Oh, I know you think me inclined to be foolish over him, but this time, Sam, I know you will be in complete agreement. He has fallen in love.”
At this anticlimactic statement, Sam was dumbstruck. Of all the feather-witted women, he thought, Lavinia was the worst. He tried hard to mask his anger as he said:
“Lavinia, I know Jeremy has been a great support and comfort to you since Charles’s death, but you cannot depend on him too much, or expect him—”
“Oh, I know what you are thinking, that I am a pitiful, jealous old woman—”
“Never old.” Sam smiled.
“Thirty-nine. Old woman. Who wants to keep her son in leading strings. Of course I know he will fall in love someday. It is all I hope for him that he is lucky enough to make a marriage of mutual affection, like Charles’s and mine.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“The problem is, he thinks that he has fallen in love with the daughter of…”
“A cit?” Sam could think of nothing else that would cause Lavinia to look so horrified.
“Worse. I don’t even know what you would call her. An…authoress. An Irish authoress to boot! For what kind of name is Dillon if not Irish?” Lavinia spat out the word “Irish” as though it had been “leper.”
The viscount was torn between amusement and genuine concern. He was not the snob the countess was, but on the other hand, had no romantic illusions that unequal matches led to anything but unhappiness for both partners and their families. A daughter of an authoress, Irish or not, was certainly not the wife Charles would expect him to sanction as Jeremy’s guardian.
“Lavinia, you say he thinks he has fallen in love. Is it not early days to worry? Surely he is due his experience of first love? He will tire of such an inappropriate young woman once he gets to know her better, surely? How did he meet her?”
Lavinia shuddered. “It could not have happened more ‘romantically.’ He was riding home from visiting the Worthingtons and passed through Hampstead. He stopped for an ale and was looking out the tavern window when he heard an awful commotion and saw a young child swooped up from under the wheels of a curricle racing through. The rescuer was, he says, the loveliest girl he has ever met. She was shaken, of course, so he walked her home. She lives there in some rustic cottage. He has been calling on her since March.”
“And what of her mother? Surely she does not encourage this?”
“Of course she does. You men are sometimes so naive. What more could a mother ask than to have her daughter married to an earl? I am sure she has trapped Jeremy in some way.”
“Do you not think his interest will die a natural death, Lavinia? After all, we are not speaking of marriage.”
“But that is precisely the point, Sam. He is speaking of marriage. He tells me he and this girl have some sort of informal agreement. She says she will not agree to anything public, however, until he is sure his family approves.”
“Does her mother know of this?”
“Jeremy tells me no, but I am convinced the mother has been behind this all along, feeding her daughter lines from some Minerva novel, lines to convince my son that she may be poor but has a sense of honor.”
The viscount had to admit he was unpleasantly surprised that Jeremy had informally betrothed himself to an unknown. If the mother and daughter were smart enough, they could very well institute a breach-of-promise suit. Which could be what this is all about, Sam thought, unwilling to be so cynical, but having seen precedents in several noble families. At the very least, Jeremy would have to pay a considerable sum to release himself. At the worst, the mother could create a real scandal that could take the young man several years to recover from.
“What do you want me to do, Lavinia?” Sam asked quietly.
“Oh, my good friend, I knew you would see it my way this time. I am afraid for Jeremy. He is only twenty, and I can’t bear to have him used or ruined by this harpy and fake bluestocking. Couldn’t you see her and frighten her off in some way? Buy her off, if need be. I authorize you to do anything to get her claws out of my son.”
Lavinia was quite impressive in her outrage, Sam thought. Underneath her superficial airs and blond beauty, there was some real feeling. Her love for Charles had been real and her love for Jeremy was too, the viscount knew even though he teased her about her overreactions. At times like these, when she revealed a bit of herself, Sam felt a little less cynical about himself and his youthful passion. There had been something, after all, to be passionate about.
He sat down next to Lavinia and took her hands in his. “My dear, I will go tomorrow to visit this Mrs. Dillon and her daughter and try to discover exactly what the situation is. Now, what is her full name?”
“You will go tomorrow? Early in the morning, before Jeremy has a chance to visit? And I do not want him to know I have been to see you, Sam. He will hold it against me, I know.”
“Well, I can hardly say I just happened to stop in by chance. But I am willing to play down your concern and exaggerate mine as his guardian. Now, what is the woman’s name?”
“Honora Dillon. Mrs. Honora Dillon.”
Chapter 2
The viscount was usually up early, so his appearance at eight in the breakfast room surprised none of his staff. As he ate, he found his concern of the day before increasing. After Lavinia left, he had gone back to his writing, being the sort of person who rarely suffered anxiety about future problems, but instead, took them as they presented themselves. He had even enjoyed himself at Lady Sedgewick’s dinner dance, to which he had gone in the hopes of seeing Jeremy and trying to discern for himself any sign of lovesickness. Jeremy had been there, but aside from a short conversation at the punch bowl, the viscount had had little contact with him. His godson had looked perfectly happy to be dancing and flirting with the young ladies. He even danced with the Honorable Susan Burrows twice. Sam did not want to appear to be watching over Jeremy, so he busied himself by doing his duty with several young ladies and exerting his charm with one widow on whom he had had his eye all Season.
The viscount had been the despair of the matchmaking mamas for years. When Charles married Lavinia, he had thought his heart was broken. He had thrown himself into government affairs, and over the years, won a place in Whig circles. By the time he realized his heart was still intact, several crops of young ladies had been presented and married off and he had developed a reputation for being distant and somewhat cynical. This never stopped being a challenge for some young women, but his air of cynicism was real, although, could they have known it, as much directed at himself as at them. Over the years, he had had several long-term mistresses, but had never shown any interest in marriage. In fact, hostesses were beginning to invite him as a confirmed, if not old, bachelor who could be trusted not to seduce the prettiest, and to dance with the plainest young ladies, to converse wittily at the supper table, and to join his excellent baritone to a soprano in duets after dinner. It was a great waste, they all agreed, for the viscount was quite attractive and very eligible.
Lady Sedgewick had given him her usual scold last night as he left, asking him when, if ever, he would really look at a young woman. “If you are not careful, Sam, Jeremy will be married and a father and you will be bouncing someone else’s babies on your knee!”
The viscount had taken her teasing words more seriously than usual, and this morning, recalling them, set his mind to the problem at hand. It was hard to imagine this Mrs. Dillon as anything but the harpy Lavinia described. A
lthough his natural inclination would have been to speak with Jeremy first, elicit his confidence, and then advise him against such a connection, he had to agree with Lavinia that scaring or buying off the mother and daughter would be the quickest and, in the long run, least painful way. Jeremy would be disillusioned and hurt, but not lastingly so. And he would be less naive in the future, more aware of the attraction his title and position would have for certain types of women.
The ride from London to Hampstead took almost an hour. Sam was quite familiar with the little village fast becoming a full-fledged town, for he had, like many Londoners, enjoyed the occasional afternoon ride or tramp on the Heath, happy to be breathing the fresh air of Parliament Hill after the fogs and miasmas of the city. He had also been several times to dinner at Heath House, where Samuel Hoare gathered like-minded politicians and writers to discuss the abolition of slavery or the plight of the poor.
It was a beautiful early-June morning, and the further he got from London, the more relaxed he became. He was confident he could settle this affair with only a little unpleasantness and by next year see Jeremy happily married to someone like Susan Burrows. And by then, perhaps he himself would have found the right widow—the right widow being a woman who valued her independence and at the same time would welcome a long-term affectionate liaison with himself.
He was rudely shaken out of his daydreaming by his horse’s shying away from several of the notorious black pigs which overran the village. One of them, a large sow, just stood in the middle of the High Street as though daring Sam’s chestnut mare to come any further. It took all his skill to coax her and convince her that while, yes, this snorting creature was a bit scary, she was much smaller than a horse and it was all right to move on. As he passed the animal, he shook his crop and grinned to see her move off slowly, sauntering away as though it was her own idea. His mental picture of Mrs. Honora Dillon, which had become more and more detailed, was complete. She would, of course, be a heavy, vulgar, and stubborn woman with a pink-and-white daughter like a porcelain pig.