The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  She had a week more of freedom and she must make the most of it, doing all the things she liked doing, so she would spend it going into Chelmsford shopping, visiting old friends, reading and walking, usually with Hector at her side.

  The day before Sir Arthur’s soirée, she walked through the village and on to an old track that led through the marshes to the sea. There were many such tracks and Lydia, who had lived in Colston all her life, knew most of them. So did Hector, who scampered ahead of her sniffing the ground and chasing the gulls who dared to land near him.

  When she reached the beach she stood with the wind blowing her skirt against her legs, threw back her head and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with fresh, salty air. As a child she had done exactly the same, laughing and carefree. Sometimes her father had been with her, or one of her older sisters, and they would chase each other down to the beach and stop to watch the ships sailing down the coast to London, or up to the east coast ports, speculating on the merchandise they carried. With the parlous state of the roads, taking goods by water was still the best way. There had been warships too, and Lydia would wonder what great sea battles they had fought and would read the newspapers for news of them.

  And sometimes ships came inshore by stealth on dark nights and sent out boats to land contraband. Freddie had often told her of seeing lights flickering out to sea and answering ones from the shore. He had, he told her, crept out after he was supposed to be in bed, to see what was going on. He made it sound exciting and dangerous and she had marvelled at his courage.

  She didn’t think there had been so many smugglers during the war, certainly not any involving local men, who were all patriots, but if what she had heard was true, there had been some illegal activity and more than tea and brandy involved. Spies had been brought ashore, who disappeared into the darkness to do their nefarious work. Today she could see sails on the distant horizon but they were too far away to identify.

  She sighed and turned towards Hector who was splashing about it the shallows, tugging at a piece of cloth he had found submerged. She took it from him. ‘No, Hector, drop it. It is time we went home.’

  She tugged the cloth from him and realised it was a man’s coat, a brown leather jacket such as the oyster fishermen wore. She looked about her, half afraid there might be a body, but there was nothing and no one to be seen except half a dozen men, bending over the mud flats with their oyster baskets. Donkeys harnessed to carts with huge wheels stood patiently waiting to be loaded.

  She was about to fling the garment into a patch of marram grass when she realised it was heavy, and not just with the weight of water it had absorbed. Feeling in the pockets, she pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package. Hector had rushed off to find new treasures, but she stood with the package in her hand wondering what to do with it. She supposed she ought to hand it over to the coastguard or the revenue men. But supposing it implicated one of the villagers in smuggling? Could she bear to be the one to betray him?

  Thinking about smugglers set her mind whirling towards the subject she had been able, just for an hour or so, to banish from her mind. She tried not to allow it to happen, tried calling Hector and throwing a stick into the sea for him to retrieve, laughing when he emerged, dripping water, his soft coat flattened to his skin, anything rather than permit her unbridled thoughts to flow.

  That encounter in the woods still played on her mind. She could not forget that kiss which had been so brutal and demanding and yet she had felt herself respond, passion with passion. She was ashamed of that, ashamed that he might have deduced she enjoyed being treated so roughly, that given the opportunity she might welcome his advances. It was one more reason to hate him. She thrust the package into the inner pocket of her cloak and turned her back on the sea.

  ‘Come, Hector, time to go home.’

  The dog followed her over the wet sand and across the dunes, swept into hills and hollows by the wind, then onto the path which led back through the marsh. It was easy ground for smugglers if you knew the difference between solid land and weed-covered bog, where stepping off the path might mean sinking without trace. It took local men to know that, men who had lived on the marshes all their lives, men she had known since she was old enough to walk the lanes of the village. She could not betray them.

  When she reached the firmer ground alongside Colston woods, Hector disappeared, sniffing among the trees for rabbits, and he would not return when she called him. She had promised herself she would never go into those woods again and would take a two-mile detour rather than do so, but she could hardly leave the dog. She stood undecided, listening to the scuffling sound of his progress through the undergrowth and the sighing of the wind and the hairs began to stand up on the back of her neck and her mouth felt dry.

  ‘Hector!’ she shouted, and her voice sounded unnaturally loud. ‘Come here, boy!’

  She had to call several times but at last the dog emerged, wagging his tail. Behind him strode the tall figure of the Earl of Blackwater. He was dressed in a rough tweed coat and thick leather breeches and boots; he wore no wig or hat and was carrying a pistol in his belt. If she had not known who he was, she would have taken him for one of his own labourers. She bent to grab the dog by his collar and save herself having to speak to him, but he had stopped and was standing, feet apart, not three paces from her. ‘Good day, Miss Fostyn.’

  She straightened up to face him. ‘Good day, my lord.’ Her voice was cold and precise.

  ‘Not a bad day.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘But the wind is sharp, especially down by the shore, do you not think?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she answered, wondering if he had been watching her. Had he seen her take the package from that old coat? Would he demand she hand it over? ‘But it is very invigorating.’

  ‘Oh, to be sure, but more sheltered in the trees.’

  ‘I have not been in your wood, I was exercising my dog and he ran in.’

  He looked down at the animal. ‘I heard you call him Hector. Is he the original Hector?’

  ‘Freddie’s puppy, yes. Twelve years old now, but still as ungovernable.’ For a tiny fraction of time, their memories united them, pleasant memories of two boys, a little girl and a dog.

  ‘That I surmised. Does the beast ever come when called?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ The moment had gone; the hint of criticism was enough to send it flying into the past where it belonged. ‘But if he finds something that interests him…’ She stopped. Now was the time he would ask what she had found on the beach and she was determined to deny finding anything but a ragged coat which she had thrown away.

  ‘In my woods?’ He smiled, wondering why she looked so guilty. Her face was scarlet and she seemed unable to look him in the eyes which, in his experience, was not at all like her.

  ‘Perhaps a rabbit, my lord, but, as you see, he failed.’

  ‘I do not begrudge a rabbit for your pot, Miss Fostyn.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘But do not tell the rest of the villagers or I shall be hunting poachers as well as smugglers.’

  She looked up then. ‘Are you still hunting smugglers?’

  ‘I am looking for the men who have had the effrontery to use my land and buildings for their activities, as I have every right to do.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ She stopped, unwilling to continue the conversation; it was too unsettling. In fact, any interchange with him was unsettling and especially so, if you imagined you were carrying evidence of some kind. ‘But surely they have gone now? They would not stay once they have landed the contraband?’

  ‘True. But that cottage has been used regularly, I will swear to it. They will be back.’

  ‘Then I shall take great care to avoid this path while I am still living in Colston, which you will be pleased to hear will not be for much longer.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I have received an invitation from Sir Arthur to attend a soirée at his home tomorrow evening. Am I to assume that is to celebrate your betrothal?’

  �
��Yes, my lord.’ She forced a smile from her stiff lips. ‘The wedding will be in early summer. Will that be time enough for you?’

  ‘Me?’ He was genuinely surprised. ‘Why should I have an opinion on the matter?’

  ‘The sooner I am married, the sooner you will be rid of me and my family from the dower house. That was the arrangement you made with Mama, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, but I still say you are making a mistake. What do you know of the man?’

  ‘I know all I need to know. He is an honourable man who knows how to treat a lady. Good day to you, my lord.’ And with that parting shot, she left him.

  He stood, watching her departing back, held so rigidly upright, and smiled. Proud she was, but was pride enough? What did she really know about Sir Arthur? Why did he think he had met the man before? Not recently, he was sure of that, but in another place, another time. Where? He had travelled the length and breadth of Europe and half of Asia in the last ten years and it could have been anywhere. India, perhaps. But he had never come across anyone called Thomas-Smith while he was there, he was sure of it. Had the man changed his name?

  Ought he to find out? But why? So that he might inform Miss Fostyn, who would rage at him for interfering and tell him to look to his own business? He shrugged. It was nothing to do with him what the Fostyns got up to; the sooner they were off his land and he need never think about them again, the better. He had enough to occupy him with the work being done on the estate, the decorating and refurbishing of the Hall.

  He smiled to himself as he strode home; there was talk in the village that he was preparing it for a wife and curiosity as to who she might be. Having no one in mind, he was curious himself. It was time he married and settled down, but there had never been a woman in his life, not one he would have considered marrying, that is. Mistresses in plenty, pretty ones too and satisfying in many ways, but not wifely material. But then who was? What kind of woman would she be? Young, beautiful, passionate and compassionate, he told himself, attributes not often found all together in one woman.

  Lydia. Her name sprang to his mind completely un-bidden and shocked him. They were sworn enemies. She hated him and the feeling was mutual. Then why did he keep thinking of her, why when she suddenly appeared as she just had, looking windblown and vulnerable, did he want to detain her, to taste her lips again, to experience again that feeling of tenderness which was so alien to him and had been for ten long years?

  If she were not Freddie’s sister, he would almost say he was falling in love with her. But he had no love for any of the Fostyn family. They were to blame for his mother’s madness and the early demise of his father as well as his own exile. If he had not been sent away, both parents would be alive now. If there was something murky in Sir Arthur’s background, so be it, he would do nothing to disillusion them.

  As soon as she arrived home, Lydia went to her room and took the package from her pocket. She laid it on the table by the window, took off her cloak and hung it away before returning to look down at the flotsam. Or was it jetsam? Had someone deliberately thrown it overboard from a ship? Had the jacket clothed a dead body? If so, where was the body? She picked it up and weighed it in her hand. How long had it been in the water?

  She sat on her bed and carefully unwrapped it. It contained documents, a map and a velvet bag containing several glittering stones which could have been diamonds. The documents were so badly stained with sea water they were illegible except for an odd word here and there and a large red seal. The sea had stained the edges of the map as well, but it was drawn on linen and some of it was still clear. Lydia spread it out, realising it was a plan of the marshes between Malden Water in the north and the Crooksea Water in the south. Mersea Island with its defending fort on the south-east corner was marked, so was Malden, Southminster and Burnham in the mouth of the river Crouch. Colston and its Hall, the dower house, the church and woods were clearly marked, including the empty hovel and Mistress Grey’s cottage. And there was a cross on the Southminster road where it branched off to Chelmsford.

  Her first thought was that it was a smuggler’s map, but why would smugglers need a map when most of them were almost certainly local men? And were the stones really diamonds? Who did they belong to? What were they worth? And what, in the name of heaven, should she do with them? What had she stumbled on? She felt a frisson of fear run down her spine as if the package portended evil and she wished fervently she had not picked it up.

  ‘Lydia, is that you?’ She heard her mother’s voice and then her footsteps climbing the stairs. Quickly re-wrapping the bundle, she put it at the bottom of her clothes chest beneath the yellow ball gown, shut the lid and called, ‘Yes, Mama. I was taking off my cloak.’ Then she left the room to carry on as if it were a normal day.

  But it was hardly that. She was possessed of something that frightened her; she had met and spoken to the Earl of Blackwater and if she had hoped that after an absence of a week, the effect he had on her would be any less disturbing, she had been wrong. And tomorrow would be her betrothal day and she must prepare herself, not only by trying on her gown and the new white wig, but mentally. And that was hardest of all.

  Sir Arthur had sent money and required her to buy herself a gown suitable for the occasion and all the accessories that went with it and though she would have liked to refuse it, Anne had persuaded her that to do so would be foolish. ‘He will look after you from now on,’ her mother had said. ‘And you should not hesitate to take advantage of his generosity. Look on it as your due.’ And viewed in that light, she conceded her mother was right. If she had to marry him, she would make sure he paid. She ignored the little voice in her head which told her she was being unfair.

  The gown she had gone to Chelmsford to order from the best mantua maker there was of white grosgrain, heavily embossed with silver embroidery of flowers and vine leaves. The stomacher was stiff and forced her breasts so high the rounded tops of them appeared above the low square-cut neck. The sleeves were narrow to the elbow and then fell in a cascade of lace over her wrists. The skirt was wide and heavy and supported by several petticoats, one of them padded. White stockings, white slippers embroidered to match her gown, a white wig topped with three Prince of Wales feathers and long white gloves, completed an ensemble which had her mother in tears and her sister green with envy.

  ‘No jewels,’ her mother said, ‘for undoubtedly Sir Arthur will present you with something special as a betrothal gift.’

  Sir Arthur sent his coach to fetch them and so they were saved having to arrive in the old carriage which would surely have looked incongruous. Anne, in a dark blue taffeta, was quietly satisfied, Annabelle in white silk, was quivering with excitement and Lydia shaking with nerves as they rode the two miles to Sir Arthur’s mansion, every window of which was ablaze with light.

  He greeted them in the vast hall, whose marble floor echoed the footsteps of everyone crossing it, took both Lydia’s hands and held her at arm’s length to appraise her. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘You have good taste, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She found herself looking wildly round her, as if searching for a way of escape, but there wasn’t one. The door to the large reception room was open and most of the guests were already there, taking their seats while the musicians tuned their instruments. Behind her the door to the street had been closed.

  ‘Miss Fostyn, may I present my sister, Mrs Sutton, who is housekeeping for me.’ He turned to the tiny thin-faced woman who stood beside him clothed in purple. ‘Martha, this is the lady who has done me the honour of consenting to marry me, Miss Lydia Fostyn.’

  Lydia curtsied, wondering as she did so how the older woman viewed her arrival on the scene.

  ‘You are welcome,’ Mrs Sutton said. ‘And will be doubly so when you make this house your home. I will then be able to hand over my nieces to your care and return to my own family.’

  ‘The little girls,’ Lydia murmured. ‘I look forward to meeting them.’

  ‘It is lat
e now and they are asleep.’ Sir Arthur put in. ‘But come tomorrow afternoon and take tea with us. I shall allow them to join us and you shall make their acquaintance.’

  ‘Do they know…?’ She paused.

  ‘Of course. I told them a week ago and they are all agog to meet their new mama.’

  ‘Constance is the oldest,’ Mrs Sutton put in. ‘She is thirteen and Faith is eleven. They are dark like their father, but little Gracie, who is four, is fair and blue-eyed. She never knew her own mother, who died when she was born, and the idea of having one fills her with pleasure.’

  Lydia wondered how the older two had reacted to the news, but decided not to ask. If they resented her, she would find out soon enough.

  ‘Before we make our entrance, I have something for you,’ Sir Arthur said. ‘Come with me. Your mama will excuse us, I know.’

  Anne nodded and he took Lydia’s hand and led the way into the library whose shelves were stocked with brand new books, all of the same size, and unlocked a drawer in a desk. From it he withdrew an enamelled box which he brought over to her. She watched as he opened it and took out a diamond and emerald ring, which he slipped on to her finger. It was huge and ostentatious and she hated it.

  ‘The betrothal ring,’ he said. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ she croaked, hoping he would mistake her husky voice for awe. Even though she had known what was going to happen she felt stifled, unable to breathe. Until now she had almost managed to convince herself it would never happen, that some thunderbolt would come down and prevent it. But it had happened and it was so very, very final.

  ‘Only the best will do,’ he said, his strange falsetto voice filled with self-satisfaction as he returned to the drawer for another, larger box from which he lifted a matching necklace of diamonds and emeralds set in filigree silver. ‘And now my betrothal gift to you, my dear.’

  She stood, frozen into immobility as he fastened it about her neck and then bent to kiss her bare shoulder. She must not flinch, she told herself, she must not.