The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  Lydia smiled indulgently. ‘No doubt you expect every young man there to fall at your feet.’

  ‘Oh, do you think they will? Oh, Lydia, would it not be wonderful if we could both find husbands there?’

  ‘There is plenty of time for that. And we are unlikely to meet anyone of consequence. It is only the Assembly Rooms after all, and everyone knows everyone hereabouts.’

  ‘There might be someone new to the town—surely, now the war is over, the officers will be coming back home.’

  ‘You are too impatient, Annabelle,’ Lydia said. ‘Why, you are only fifteen.’

  ‘Sixteen next month,’ her sister corrected her. ‘And you are eighteen. It is time you thought about marriage, for you should marry before me.’

  ‘I am in no hurry.’

  ‘You may not be,’ their mother put in, as they sat side by side over their needlework, their dark heads almost touching. ‘But most young ladies are married by nineteen. To delay longer will make everyone think you too particular or that there is something wrong with you. And I will not have that. You are comely and intelligent and I have brought you up to your proper duties. It is time to be thinking seriously of whom you might marry.’

  ‘I have not met anyone I think I should like, Mama, and I would rather earn my living than jump too hastily into marriage.’

  ‘Earn your living! My goodness, I never heard anything so outlandish. Why, your grandfather was a baronet and he would turn in his grave, if he could hear you. We are not of that class, Lydia, even if we are poor…’

  ‘Are we poor?’ Lydia asked, in surprise.

  Her mother sighed. ‘I had hoped it would not come to this, but now I think I must tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what, Mama? Oh, do not look so stern. Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No, dearest. But we have been living off the income from investments ever since your papa was taken from us so suddenly. There was never a great deal, but stocks have gone down and I have had to encroach on the capital. It is dwindling at an alarming rate. There will be no dowry for you, I am afraid. You must make as good a marriage as you can without one. It is not what I had hoped for you…’

  Lydia was shocked; she had not known things were as bad as that. Her mother was always so cheerful and practical, though she abhorred what she called extravagance. It was no wonder, if they had so little money. And yet she had never stinted her children of anything they really needed. What a struggle it must have been for her!

  ‘Oh, Mama, why did you not say? We could have recouped, eaten a little more cheaply, bought fewer ribbons and lace. Done without the chaise.’

  ‘And have everyone pointing the finger and ruining your chances of finding any sort of marriage where you might be comfortable. Poverty is not something to advertise, Lydia. It gives quite the wrong impression.’

  ‘You mean I must find a husband soon?’

  Anne sighed. ‘I am afraid so. A professional gentleman perhaps, or a younger son, or someone like Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith, who has been married before and is looking for a second wife and would not be particular as to a dowry.’

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ Lydia was horrified at the thought. ‘He is old. And fat. And he has three daughters already.’

  ‘But he is rich enough to indulge you in anything you might want. He might be persuaded to give Annabelle a dowry and help with John’s schooling…’

  ‘Mama, surely things are not as bad as that?’

  ‘Dearest, I am afraid it is beginning to look very bleak indeed. We are fortunate that his lordship has allowed us to live here…’

  Ever since the tragedy, when a new incumbent had been appointed and moved into the rectory, they had lived in the dower house on the Earl’s estate, which had been standing empty since his mother died a year or two before. Lydia’s feelings on accepting help from the Earl of Blackwater were ambivalent. Her pride against taking charity from the father of the man who had killed her beloved papa did battle with the conviction that he should be made to pay and anything they had from him was little enough compensation for their loss. Her mother saw it differently. She was grateful. Grateful!

  Lydia’s hate had not diminished over the years but she had learned to control it, to put on a cheerful face and live in the same small village without exploding every time someone mentioned his lordship’s name, or she saw him smiling and chatting to the congregation after church on a Sunday. He was well liked and some even sympathised with him at the loss of his son and the protracted illness of his wife brought on, so it was said, by the tragedy. As if his loss was the greater.

  Why, he could send his son funds to keep him in luxury wherever he was, but she had lost her papa and her brother might as well be dead as well for all the news they had of him. They certainly could not afford to send him money. Ten long years he had been gone and she still missed him. She missed her older sisters too.

  At the time of the tragedy, Susan had been betrothed to the son of the recently knighted Sir Godfrey Mallard who lived in Lancashire, where the family had interests in cotton spinning. The marriage contract had already been signed by both fathers, otherwise the groom might very well have backed out of it, but on the grounds that Lancashire was a long way from Essex and news of the duel was unlikely to reach there, Sir Godfrey had allowed the wedding to go ahead a year later, though he discouraged his new daughter-in-law from visiting her old home more often than was absolutely necessary for appearances’ sake.

  As for Margaret, she had been betrothed to a young captain in the Hussars, but when he had been killed in the war, had eschewed marriage to anyone else and had gone to Hertfordshire to be schoolmistress to the children of the Duke of Grafton. Somehow working for the duke was acceptable employment in her mother’s eyes. It meant Lydia was the eldest still at home and now they had become so poor she must sacrifice herself for the sake of the rest of the family and marry money. But Sir Arthur…!

  ‘He has not been long in the district,’ her mother said. ‘He is not acquainted with the past.’

  ‘Someone will soon tell him, you can be sure.’

  ‘Then you must engage his attention and make him see the advantages of the match before he has time to listen…’

  ‘Oh, Mama, that is surely deceitful.’

  ‘No, he will take no heed of gossip when he gets to know you and realises what an excellent wife you will make.’

  ‘Wife and mother,’ Lydia added bitterly. ‘Don’t forget his daughters.’

  ‘Oh, my dear child, I am so very sorry it has come to this but I cannot see any other way out. If your father had lived or even if Freddie…’ She could not bring herself to go on. The absence of her elder son seemed to be an even greater cross for her to bear than the death of her husband.

  ‘Can I not wait? Someone else might come along.’

  ‘If you are harbouring romantic notions about falling in love, Lydia, I should caution you against allowing them free rein. Life is not like that. And especially our life.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Lydia sighed heavily. She could not upset her mother by saying what was in her heart: the anger and despair, the black hate which she had pushed into the background but which now returned full force.

  ‘If you do not care for Sir Arthur, there is Robert Dent,’ her mother said. ‘He is still single and will come into his father’s wealth, even if it has been got by industry.’

  ‘He is a rake and a gambler,’ Lydia put in. ‘Living with him would be like twisting the knife in a wound which will not heal. He could have stopped that duel long before Papa ever got there. He should have refused to be Freddie’s second.’

  ‘Freddie would have found someone else to do it. But you are right, Robert Dent’s reputation is a little tarnished and I would not want my daughter to be made unhappy by a profligate husband, however rich.’

  ‘There is always the Comte de Carlemont,’ Annabelle put in with a giggle. ‘Such a dandy, but very polite. He would not care about the gossip. He would carry you away
to the French court now that the war is ended. He might even find positions there for Mama and me.’

  ‘I have no wish to go to France,’ Lydia said and refused to say another word on the subject. She tried not to think about it, to look forward to the ball as Annabelle was doing and dream of finding a husband who lived up to her very high ideals. He must be handsome and strong but, more than that, he must be kind and attentive and not given to gambling. He would love her devotedly and not even think about taking a mistress because they would be so happy together, he would never see the need. And he might restore Freddie to them…

  She sighed. What was the good of dreaming? They had no idea where her brother was. He had written soon after he left, telling them that he had enlisted but then nothing. They did not even know if he were alive or dead.

  They were about to set aside their sewing and have dinner when Janet came to say one of the grooms from Colston Hall was in the kitchen, with a message for Mrs Fostyn. Lydia and Annabelle looked as each other as their mother rose to go to speak with the man.

  ‘What can he want?’ Lydia mused, after Anne had left the room. ‘I cannot understand why Mama continues to bow down to that man.’

  ‘You mean the Earl? He has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘What do you know of it? You were not there.’

  ‘I heard what happened. Everyone did. It was his son who shot Papa, not him.’

  ‘He sent Freddie away. He took our home from us.’

  ‘He had to. We couldn’t have gone on living in the Rectory when the new rector came, could we? And he lets us live here.’

  ‘That’s no reason for Mama to hurry over there whenever the Countess throws a fit.’

  Their mother returned before they could continue the conversation. ‘His lordship has had a fall,’ she said. ‘They need me at the Hall.’

  ‘Why, Mama? His lordship has servants in plenty if he needs a nurse. I do not know why you have to go.’

  ‘I must. Lydia, look after everything while I am away. Do not wait dinner for me. I will be back as soon as I can.’

  Janet fetched her cloak for her and she flung it over her shoulders, lifted the hood over her curls and left with the servant from the Hall.

  Mrs Fostyn did not return until nearly dawn the next morning. Lydia, who had been sleeping fitfully, heard her step on the stair and hurried out in her nightgown to meet her. She looked pale and tired and her eyes, though dark-rimmed, were bright with tears. ‘Mama, what has happened? Why have you been so long?’

  ‘He is dead, Lydia,’ she said flatly. ‘The Earl of Blackwater is dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ She could not bring herself to say she was sorry. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I will tell you all about it later. I am tired. I must rest.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll wake Janet to help you.’

  ‘No, I can manage. Go back to bed or you will disturb everyone. Later we will talk.’ She turned from Lydia and went into her own room, shutting the door softly behind her, shutting her daughter out. Hurt and feeling somewhat resentful, Lydia returned to her own room.

  It was nearly noon before her mother put in an appearance in the drawing room, but by then she looked more like her normal self. She smiled at the girls who, for want of anything else to do and to keep their fingers busy, were continuing their needlework. ‘Let me see how much you have done,’ she said, taking Lydia’s from her and inspecting the stitches. ‘Very good, very good indeed, though I am not sure we shall be able to go now, what with the Earl—’

  ‘Oh, Mama, surely you will not cancel going because he has died?’ Annabelle wailed. ‘He is not a relative. We do not have to go into mourning for him.’

  ‘No, but the organisers may well decide not to hold the ball in view of the fact that his lordship was one of its main sponsors.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ It seemed to Lydia that every bad thing that had happened to them, every disappointment, could be laid at the door of the Earl.

  In the event the ball was not to be cancelled, simply postponed until after funeral, when his lordship’s heir might decide whether it should take place or not. His heir. Lord Ralph Latimer was new Earl of Blackwater, though it seemed no one knew where he was to be found. ‘I was told by his lordship’s valet that there has been no contact between him and the family since…since it happened,’ their mother told them. ‘I thought they corresponded, that his lordship knew where he was, but if he did, he died without saying. I believe the lawyers are looking into it.’

  ‘How did his lordship die, Mama?’ Lydia asked. ‘You said it was an accident.’

  ‘Yes, he fell down the stairs from the upper floor to the gallery.’ She gulped hard and went on. ‘The doctor said his back was broken.’

  ‘But he was conscious. He asked for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why you? Why not his wife?’

  ‘She was not well… Oh, this is so difficult. His wife has never been the same since Ralph went away. She has not always been in her right mind. Sometimes she raves, sometimes she is quite violent towards him. I believe he went to her room to visit her. She…you must promise not to say a word of this to anyone…’ They nodded and she went on, ‘She attacked him. It is why he fell. They have had to restrain her.’

  ‘You mean she pushed him?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Poor lady,’ Lydia said, for the first time feeling some sympathy for her.

  ‘Yes. But you see why she would have been no use to his lordship.’

  ‘But you were.’

  ‘Yes. We have…we have a strong bond. We have both lost those nearest to us by a cruel blow…’

  ‘Is that how you see it? How can you be so forgiving? And if Lord Latimer—I mean, the new Earl comes home, how will you greet him? With a curtsy and a smile?’

  ‘I do not know,’ her mother answered. ‘We shall have to wait and see.’

  The funeral could not be delayed when no one knew if the new Earl had even been informed of the tragedy. Some said he had died of a fever in the tropics; some said he had served as a common soldier and died in battle. Others said he was alive, but would never dare show his face. Others, who sympathised, said he would see the Fostyns off his land as soon as he came, which was no more than they deserved.

  The day before the funeral, a second tragedy struck. The Countess escaped those employed to look after her and threw herself from the roof of the Hall. Grief, everyone said, grief and the fact that her husband had turned to Mrs Fostyn when he lay dying and not to his wife. Lydia was furious on her mother’s behalf and was all for making public what her mother told her about the Countess’s state of mind, but Anne refused to countenance such a thing and said the Earl and Countess should be allowed to lie in peace.

  There were two funerals instead of one and still the speculation went on about the new Earl and what was to happen to the Hall if he could not be found. And no one speculated more than the Fostyn family. They lived in the dower house only by courtesy of the dead man. Where would they go if they were turned out? How would they live?

  ‘We must hold our heads up, pretend nothing is wrong,’ their mother said, though Lydia was not sure how much of the gossip she had heard. ‘We will finish these gowns. If there is no Victory Ball, there will be others.’

  Which was how Lydia and Anne came to be in Chelmsford a month after the funeral, searching for pink velvet ribbon for Annabelle’s gown and braid to match the brocade of Lydia’s. Anne wanted to visit an old friend and Lydia suspected she needed someone to confide in, someone to whom she could tell her troubles; talking to her daughters was not the same thing at all.

  ‘You look for the ribbon, Lydia, and meet me in the lending library.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘I do not know how long I shall be but, if you are surrounded by books, you will not mind waiting.’

  They parted in the street. Lydia watched her mother go with an ache in her heart, wishing she would confide in her more than she had. But when she had spoken of her problems, th
e day before the Earl’s death, Lydia admitted she had not taken her as seriously as she should have done. And now her mother had shut her out, taken control of herself, and was determined to look after her brood no matter what. Lydia sighed. She had to do something to help and the only thing she could do was to consider marriage.

  She pulled herself together and went into a tiny haberdashery shop where she found the pink ribbon, but there was no match for the braid. She tried other establishments to no avail and was just leaving the last shop when it started to rain heavily. She stood in the doorway, waiting for it to ease, when she was joined by a young man with an umbrella. The doorway was narrow and the rain was pouring off the overhanging roof on to her shoulders.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, holding the umbrella over her. ‘It is big enough for both of us if we stand closer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said primly, but declined to move nearer to him. He was already too close for her peace of mind.

  Her first impression of him was his height and the breadth of his shoulders as he stood beside her. The second was the fineness of his clothes. He was wearing a coat of a fine worsted cloth lined with red silk. The collar and cuffs of the sleeve were faced with the same silk embroidered with gold and silver thread. It was an expensive coat, but he wore it casually as if it was of no importance to him that it was being spotted with rain. She tilted her head up so see his face and was taken aback to find him scrutinising her as if he meant to memorise every detail.

  For a moment she continued to look up at him, noticing that his features were even, his nose long, almost haughty, and his skin was tanned and crinkled round his mouth as if he were more used to laughter than frowns. He wore a dark wig dressed away from his face with long side curls and the back tied with a narrow grey ribbon. His dark eyes were looking at her with a slightly mocking expression and she realised that she, too, had been staring and cast her eyes down.

  She was met with the sight of an embroidered brocade waistcoat with a row of silver buttons from the neck, where a lace cravat frothed, down to his narrow waist. His long legs were clad in knee-length fitted breeches tucked into shining boots, which emphasised his muscular calves. Embarrassed, she turned to stare out at the rain-sodden street where puddles were gathering and filling the gutter.