The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  ‘I never thought an article like an umbrella would stand me in such good stead,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I was in a mind not to bring it out today, but I am glad that I did.’

  She was aware of the undercurrent of meaning he put behind the words and felt the colour flare in her face. ‘Indeed, sir, you would have been very wet else.’ She risked a glance up into his face and smiled. ‘As it is, I do believe you are already very damp. Pray, hold it over yourself and not me. I have my cloak.’

  ‘I do not mind the rain. I am used to it. Where I come from, the monsoon is a hundred times more wet.’

  She laughed. ‘Wet is wet, sir, how can one rain be wetter than another?’

  ‘Oh, I assure you it is. Have you ever been to India? No, I will wager you have not, but if you had, you would know exactly what I mean.’

  India, she mused. Then he was a nabob, grown rich on trade and made bold by it. But the strange thing was that she was not repelled as she should have been. She found herself drawn to him, as if there was something from him to her, a fine but strong thread, pulling her to him. ‘I should like to travel some day.’ she said. ‘But you are right. I have never been away from England in my life.’

  ‘Not even to London?’

  ‘Once I went, a long time ago, but not since—’ She stopped suddenly and then went on. ‘Not since I was a child.’

  He detected the wistfulness in her voice and wondered what had caused it. He looked down at her. She was slight; the top of her head hardly reached his shoulder, but he sensed an inner strength, a steely determination. She was no wilting violet. Her eyes, looking up at him without fear, were hazel, but they had golden lights in them that glowed when she smiled like the tiny lights of the will o’ the wisp that twinkled over the marshes on dark nights. Her hair was thick and a glorious russet brown. The cloak which covered her gown was a plain grey broadcloth tied at the neck with matching ribbon, not the garment of a young lady from a wealthy family, but not poverty-stricken either. ‘Then I hope you have your wish, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am not entitled to be called lady.’

  ‘You are in my book,’ he said softly. ‘For want of a name.’

  She ignored his hint to provide her name and turned from him. ‘I do believe the rain is easing and I shall venture forth.’

  ‘Must you? I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’

  ‘I have arranged to meet my mother at the library. She will be waiting for me.’

  ‘Then allow me to escort you. The rain has not quite stopped and you will need my umbrella.’

  ‘It is but a short step, sir. I would not put you to the trouble…’

  ‘It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.’ He fell into step beside her, carefully holding the umbrella over her. ‘Do you come often to Chelmsford?’

  ‘Occasionally when I need something I cannot buy in the village.’

  ‘Which village?’

  ‘Oh, it is such a small place, you would not have heard of it, I am sure.’ He was flirting with her, she knew, and she ought not to be talking to him at all, but they were unlikely to meet again, so where was the harm? And keeping him guessing was all part of the fun. She stopped at the door of the library. ‘Here we are. I said it was only a step, did I not? Thank you for your escort, sir.’

  He made her a sweeping leg, which was not easy considering he was holding an umbrella, and it made her laugh. ‘You should laugh all the time,’ he said softly. ‘Laughter lights up your eyes, brings them to life.’

  ‘Sir, you are too forward.’

  He sighed. ‘It was ever thus with me. But one must seize opportunities when and where they occur, don’t you think? Take the bull by the horns. Shall we meet again?’

  ‘That, sir, is in the hands of Providence.’

  ‘Then I hope Providence will be kind to me.’

  She smiled as he left her, striding away down the street, his umbrella bobbing up and down as he lifted it clear of other walkers who were venturing out after the downpour. She supposed it would be the last she ever saw of him. She rarely came to Chelmsford and, even if she did, the chances of bumping into him again were slight.

  She turned to go into the library, still smiling. He had been so handsome and evidently wealthy, though without pretensions to grandeur and certainly not over-proud, exactly the sort of man her mother said she should look for as a husband. But you did not pick up husbands in the street, did you? And she knew nothing about him—he might be married, or disreputable. And even if he were not, he would not think of her as a wife. Sensible men did not pick up wives in the street either. Mistresses, perhaps, someone with whom to have a short-lived dalliance. He must have thought she was that kind of girl. But he had called her ‘my lady’. His idea of a jest, no doubt. She was glad she had not told him her name or where she lived.

  Her mother had not yet arrived and Lydia spent the next half-hour browsing among the books, though they came to Chelmsford too infrequently for her to think of taking out a subscription. She smiled. If she did, it would be an excuse to come again. But then she sobered immediately; it would be what her mother called an unnecessary extravagance and, since her revelation about their finances, she must consider every penny carefully before spending it. Even ribbons and braid were luxuries.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Lydia.’ She heard her mother’s voice behind her. ‘I am sorry I am late. I stayed until the rain stopped. Did you get wet?’

  ‘No, I sheltered in a doorway.’ She did not know why she said nothing about the young man and his umbrella. Perhaps because she was determined to forget him and that strange pull he had over her. She had spoken to him for only a few minutes and yet he had left an emptiness behind, a promise unfulfilled, a glimpse of sunshine even in the rain, and she felt sad. And isolated.

  They walked out to where their only outdoor servant, the ancient Joshua Partridge, who had been groom and driver to her father, waited with the old coach and elderly horse. As they trotted through the now-crowded streets towards home, Lydia looked about her for the sight of a bobbing umbrella. But he had gone, disappeared as if he had never been.

  Ralph Latimer, fourth Earl of Blackwater, returned to his carriage which he had left at an inn on the outskirts of town, climbed in and directed his coachman to take him home to Colston Hall. Home! How often, in the heat and red dust of India, had he dreamed of coming home to the cool green of England, of being restored to the bosom of his family and taking his place beside his father, learning to take over the running of the estate, the welfare of the villagers, of hunting and fishing and sailing as he had done as a boy.

  Thinking of his boyish pursuits made him think of Freddie Fostyn. They had been almost inseparable, sharing their lessons in the schoolroom at the Hall, getting into mischief as boys always do, vying with each other on the sports field, riding and gambling and talking about women.

  It was women that had been their undoing or, to be more precise, one young lady they had met on picnic on the banks of the Cam one day soon after Freddie had joined him at Cambridge. The picnic had been arranged by Mrs Henrietta Gordon, a plump matron who had what was laughingly called an Academy for Young Ladies, supposedly a school for the education of the daughters of the middling classes. Everyone except the most naïve, and that apparently included Freddie, knew the girls were no such thing and their mission in life was of an entirely different kind.

  Ralph had found one of the girls very much to his liking and had enjoyed flirting with her, unaware that Freddie had fallen head over heels in love with her. It was only later, when they had returned home for the summer vacation that he had told his friend, laughing the while, that a certain young lady had been more than receptive to his advances and he had invited her to stay in rooms he had taken in a house in Malden, so that they might continue their dalliance during the vacation. In a year or two he would have to settle down, but until then he would allow himself to dip his toe in the waters of sexual experience just as every other young man of his acquainta
nce did. He had hoped Freddie would not mind forgoing their planned sailing trip around the coast to Worthing.

  Freddie had appeared surprised and reminded him in tones that sounded just like his strait-laced mama that he was promised to the Duke of Colchester’s daughter, Juliette. ‘Not yet,’ he had said. ‘The parents are still haggling over the dowry and marriage contract, and while they do, I intend to have my fun.’

  ‘And who is this fille de joie and where did you meet her?’

  Freddie was two years younger than Ralph and, a rung or two lower down the social scale; though that had never meant a thing as far as Ralph and their friendship was concerned, Freddie was decidedly touchy about it, especially when it came to women. Ralph had a way with them, a flattering manner and, besides that, he was wealthy enough to give them expensive trinkets.

  ‘At Mrs Gordon’s picnic. Her name is Fanny.’

  ‘Fanny?’ Freddie had repeated, giving every appearance of being shocked. ‘You are speaking of Miss Fanny Glissop?’

  He should have been warned by the fierce look in his friend’s eye, the way his jaw began to work, the clenching of the fists, that all was not well. But he was busy casting a rod into the sluggish waters of the River Crouch, which bordered his father’s estate, and did not look at him. Instead he said, ‘If that’s her name, yes, I never enquired the rest of it.’

  ‘How could you insult her so?’

  ‘Insult her? I did not insult her, rather I flattered her, for I am very particular as to where I lay my head.’ He had laughed with the exuberance of youth. ‘And my body. And I shall enjoy an hour or two amusing myself discovering more of hers—’

  Freddie’s blow was so unexpected and delivered with such force it toppled him into the river. He came up spluttering and began to clamber out, holding out his hand to be helped up the bank. Freddie ignored the hand and glared at him with pure venom in his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Ralph had demanded. ‘Take my hand and help me out. You will have your little jest, but for the life of me I cannot think what brought it on.’

  ‘Can’t you? Can’t you? You insult a lady, a young and innocent lady, a pure flower who has known nothing but her parents’ love, and talk of defiling her!’ His voice reached a shriek of outrage. ‘You are an abomination…’

  He had climbed out without help and stood facing his friend, dripping water from his fine kerseymere coat and buckskin breeches, ready to grasp him by the shoulders and smile away his fury. ‘Freddie, my old friend, you know she is nothing of the sort. Why, she would not be at Mrs Gordon’s establishment if that were so…’

  Even then, Freddie did not understand and pushed him away. ‘You are a monster, a spoiler of women, a pervert,’ he yelled.

  Instead of continuing to try to placate him, Ralph had lost his own temper and advanced on his friend with fists raised. ‘You will take that back, Freddie Fostyn, and apologise.’

  ‘I will not. Never.’

  ‘Then I will have to fight you and you know I can best you.’

  ‘Call me out, then.’

  Such a thing had never crossed his mind. All he wanted was to teach Freddie a lesson, show him that he could not be insulted with impunity, and fisticuffs was what he had meant. ‘Don’t be a fool.’

  It was almost the worst thing he could have said. It put Freddie in his place, poured scorn on him, laughed at him. And Freddie could not take it. With a roar of rage, he took a step towards Ralph and, for want of a glove, slapped his face, first with the palm and then the back of his hand. ‘My representatives with call upon you,’ he said and strode away.

  Ralph had watched him go, rubbing his stinging cheek and laughing. He was still chuckling to himself when he picked up the rods and fishing tackle and went home. His laughter stopped abruptly when Robert Dent arrived that evening with another of their friends and told him Mr Frederick Fostyn demanded satisfaction.

  He could not believe it and sent them back with a message that he hoped Freddie would think again before taking a step that was not only illegal but might end in the death of one or the other of them. For the sake of their friendship, he hoped Freddie would come to his senses. They returned half an hour later and told him that their principal had said if his lordship refused the challenge he would let it be known that he was a coward.

  Ralph had had no choice. It was all Freddie’s fault, all of it. Robert had asked him for his choice of weapons and his confused mind had chosen pistols, though later he realised that if he had said rapiers, the subsequent tragedy could not have happened.

  Pistols at dawn! How laughable and how tragic! Neither of them owned pistols and his father’s were locked up where he could not get at them. Knowing that the Reverend Fostyn had a matched pair bequeathed to him by his father, Ralph had suggested they use those. It might give Freddie a tiny advantage, though why he should consider his erstwhile friend and now sworn enemy, he did not know.

  The mist had been so heavy that dreadful morning, they could hardly see more than a few yards and he had begun to hope they might both miss their target and that would be an end of the affair. It was like some macabre play as they paced out the ground in a clearing in a copse of trees on the edge of his father’s land. There were few stands of trees in the area and the little wood was the only one for miles, the land being on the edge of the marshes which led to the sea. It was a place that had been used before for such a purpose, far from any habitation, where a body could be heaved into the soggy bog and never be seen again. But whose body? Could he refuse to fire? Could he stand and take whatever was coming to him without trying to defend himself?

  They reached the end of the slow walk being counted out by one of his seconds and turned. Ralph raised his gun at the shadowing figure twenty paces away but he could not bring himself to fire. And then he heard a click and an oath and realised that Freddie’s pistol had misfired. ‘Go on,’ his second said quietly. ‘You’ve got him now.’

  Instead, he had deliberately fired away. He had been so absorbed in his dilemma, he had not heard the horse cantering over the fallen leaves beneath the trees, nor did he see the shadowy figure fling himself from the saddle and run towards them. He only knew he had hit something when he heard a harsh cry and felt, rather than saw, the body hit the ground, almost at his feet. After that there was pandemonium. In a dumb daze he watched Freddie fly to his father, saw everyone looking at each other in horror, heard someone mount a horse and gallop off to fetch a doctor. He simply stood there, the gun still in his almost lifeless fingers.

  Robert took it from him, while Freddie sobbed, yelling at him, accusing him, as if he had meant to do it. He felt sick. And then his father had come. His father, a notable Justice of the Peace, should have had them both taken up and sent to gaol for duelling, let alone killing an innocent man, but instead had sent him into exile. He had never seen him or his mother again.

  Ten long years he had been gone, ten years in which he had matured in body and mind, had learned to control his anger and subdue his softness, to deal straight with all men, and take his pleasures where he found them, never letting anyone see his vulnerability. In truth, he thought he had been so clever at concealing it, there was now nothing left to hide; he had become a hard man inside and out. Oh, he could be charming when he chose and there was many a young lady in that over-hot subcontinent who could vouch for that, but it was never more than skin deep.

  Now he had to pick up the pieces, decide if he should stay in England, stay at Colston Hall and face those who decried him as a murderer. But why should he not stay? He was the Earl of Blackwater, an honourable man, and he would treat every man fairly; if he should come upon Freddie Fostyn, he would ignore him, ignore the whole Fostyn family for they had brought him nothing but grief. They had probably gone from the village because his father had had to appoint a new rector and the house went with the living.

  As the coach rattled towards Colston Hall, his thoughts drifted to the young lady he had met in Chelmsford,
a much more pleasant subject than the past which still had the power to torment him. She was a beauty with those classic features, that lustrous hair and those oh-so-expressive hazel eyes. She had been composed and ready to answer him without simpering or fluttering her eyelashes at him as some young ladies had been known to do under his scrutiny. She was a cool one, but under that he sensed a fire waiting to be kindled into life. He would have liked the opportunity to be the one to set the blaze going.

  He wished now he had been more insistent on learning her name or the name of that village she mentioned. He could have amused himself with a little dalliance between the bouts of serious exchanges with his lawyer. According to that gentleman, there was much to be done, so many things which had been neglected in and around the Hall: tenants’ homes needing repair, walls broken, ditches and drains overgrown, estate roads full of potholes.

  ‘How did it come to this?’ he had asked.

  ‘My lord, his lordship was not himself, worried, you know, about…’

  ‘About what? Out with it, man.’

  ‘The Countess’s health, my lord. She never got over it, you know.’

  He did not need to ask what ‘it’ was. It was one more thing to lay at the door of Freddie Fostyn. He hoped he would never meet him again.

  He discovered he had been wrong about the Fostyn family leaving the village the very next afternoon, when his lawyer called to go over the tenancies of the estate and he discovered they were living in the dower house, not a quarter of a mile away.

  ‘How did this come about?’ he demanded, angrily.

  ‘His lordship, your father, allowed it, my lord. I think he felt sorry for them when they had to leave the rectory.’

  ‘Sorry for them!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘And how much rent do they pay?’