The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  Smiling to himself, he left his perch in the window and climbed into bed, refusing to acknowledge he would be doing it to spite Miss Fostyn, to prove to her that she had made a terrible mistake in choosing that mushroom for a husband when he had so much more to offer. Not that he would have offered for her; there was a limit to forgiveness and forbearance.

  In less than five minutes he was asleep, but his dreams were full of the colour and noise and the smell of an Indian bazaar. A very fat bearded man whom he half recognised was talking to one of the stallholders, muttering in a low voice while the other listened, nodding his turbanned head every now and again, but not speaking. Then the stallholder picked up a bag of spices from his stall and the European paid for them and left.

  Five minutes later the Bengali packed up his stall and hurried away. He was soon lost in the crowd. The colourful bazaar faded from the dream and was replaced by an English ballroom crowded with dancers. And among them was Lydia Fostyn. She was throwing back her lovely head and laughing. Even in his dream, his body ached with the need to hold her in his arms, to feel that soft flesh against his, but as he reached out for her, the vision faded and he woke to find the sunshine of a new day streaming in the window.

  A quarter of a mile away, Lydia opened her eyes to find Janet in the room, drawing back the curtains. There was a steaming dish of chocolate on the table by the bed and a jug of hot water on the washstand. She tried to sit up and moaned because the movement sent a little man with a hammer to work inside her head. That was what too much champagne did for you, she scolded herself. She had been foxed, there was no doubt about it. She still felt uneasy in her stomach and her head was as fluffy as a pillowful of feathers, and heavy as lead at the same time.

  ‘What time is it?’ she murmured, shutting her eyes against the strong light.

  ‘Half past ten, Miss Lydia. What will you wear?’

  ‘Oh, an undress robe will do, I think.’ Reluctantly she opened her eyes again. ‘Later, you may put my pink muslin out for this afternoon. We are to visit Sir Arthur.’

  The maid picked up the white dress from a chair where Lydia had discarded it. ‘Shall I put this in the chest?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured and then, remembering the hidden package, added. ‘No. No, leave it. It needs airing first. I am sure it smells of smoke and drink…’ And sick, she added to herself as she left the bed to wash in the warm water the maid had poured for her.

  Janet draped the gown over a chair, smoothing the rich material of its skirt, sighing as she did so. ‘It is so beautiful. Did you enjoy the evening, Miss Lydia?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her flat reply did not deceive the maid, who knew her too well, but she made no comment. Instead she went to the dressing table and picked up the betrothal ring.

  ‘Is this it? Oh, my, it’s something, that is. Is that a real diamond?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia had neither the heart nor the energy to scold the maid for her impertinence. ‘And the green one is an emerald.’

  ‘And this?’ The maid held up the shining, heavy necklace. ‘Did ’e give you this too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ooh, you are lucky to have someone like Sir Arthur to marry. It’s like a fairy story.’

  Lydia could not bear any more of this nonsense. ‘Janet, are you going to fetch me my robe or not?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Lydia.’ The maid put the jewellery back where she found it with a deep sigh and went to obey.

  Ten minutes later Lydia joined her mother in the little parlour where she was presiding over the breakfast table and reading a letter with a small frown on her brow. Lydia went to kiss her cheek; as she did so, she could not help noticing the Blackwater crest at the top of the page. ‘What have you got there, Mama? Not more demands, I hope.’

  Her mother looked up and smiled. ‘Demands, no, but it is an invitation to take tea with his lordship tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Good heavens, whatever for?’

  ‘It does not say. Perhaps he simply wishes to be neighbourly.’

  ‘After telling us to move out! I don’t think so, Mama. No doubt he wishes to make sure we are truly going.’

  ‘He did not need to ask us to take tea to do that.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes, the invitation is addressed to you too.’

  ‘Me? I cannot think why he wants to give me tea unless it be to gloat.’

  ‘Gloat, my dear?’

  ‘Over my downfall.’

  ‘Downfall?’ Anne repeated in dismay. ‘Lydia, what have you done?’

  ‘Engaged myself to be married.’

  ‘But, dearest, in no way can that be described as a downfall, quite the contrary. It is a triumph.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia sighed. ‘But his lordship is not pleased about it, or so he says.’

  ‘When did he say that?’ her mother asked sharply.

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Then he is jealous that you have been snapped up from under his nose.’

  The idea was so ludicrous, Lydia laughed until she cried. ‘Oh, Mama, you say the strangest things. He hates me as much as I hate him and I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking he can order me to come and go on his whim.’

  ‘Lydia, it is a politely couched invitation, not an order.’

  ‘You mean you want to go?’

  ‘Why not?’ She smiled suddenly. ‘I must admit to being curious. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps, just a little.’

  ‘Then you will come too?’

  Lydia smiled again and reached out to put her hand over her mother’s. ‘How could I let you beard the lion in his den all alone?’

  ‘Good,’ her mother said with satisfaction. ‘Now, do not forget we are engaged to call on Sir Arthur this afternoon to meet his daughters.’

  ‘I had not forgot.’

  They ate a frugal dinner with John and Annabelle, who was still grumbling that they had forced her to leave the party just when she thought Lord and Lady Baverstock were coming round. She had not even had time to say goodbye to Peregrine and she had no idea when she would see him again, and it was all so unfair. But both her mother and her sister were too engrossed in their own problems to pay any attention to her.

  Lydia dressed slowly that afternoon, trying to delay the inevitable, until her mother called out to her to make haste, that Partridge had had the coach at the front of the house for the past ten minutes. Sighing, she put a wool cape over her pink muslin dress and went to join her mother, taking with her gifts for the children.

  Sir Arthur was stiff and formal, the little girls too shy by half and only answered Lydia’s questions in mumbled monosyllables. She sensed the older two resented her and the youngest clung closely to the apron of her nurse, sucking her thumb, though she accepted the doll Lydia gave her with a shy smile. Constance and Faith, given games, bobbed a curtsy each and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Fostyn,’ in tones which told her they had been rehearsed.

  ‘I wonder if I will ever be accepted as their new mama,’ she remarked to her mother when they were once again in the coach and going home.

  ‘Of course you will, given time. You must be patient.’

  ‘You know, Mama, I often wonder why Sir Arthur chose me. We are as unlike as two people can be. He is so serious, almost pompous, he rarely smiles and I do not think I have ever heard him laugh. And he is so correct, I am sure I shall never be able to live up to his high standards. Why do you think he picked me out?’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, my dearest. You are beautiful and lively, how can anyone fail to fall in love with you?’

  ‘You are biased, Mama,’ she said. And even then thoughts of Ralph Latimer intruded which was silly because he was immune from falling in love, certainly with her.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  They rode on in silence for several minutes while Lydia found herself wondering what it would be like to have several handsome young gentlemen all vying for her hand. They would shower her with gifts, extravagant compliments an
d protestations of undying love and she would play along with them, favouring one and then the other before someone came along to sweep her into a love affair, whose passion nothing could extinguish.

  He would be bigger in every way, not only in stature but in presence. He would be more handsome, more powerful and richer and every whim she had would be satisfied because he loved her to distraction and she loved him. And she would honour him and try to please him and they would be happy together for the rest of their lives. She sighed heavily. That only happened in stories of romance, and dreaming impossible dreams was a waste of time and only brought heartache. Better to face reality: marriage to Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith. And the coming visit to the Earl which must be endured.

  They walked up to the Hall at four o’clock the following afternoon. It was the first time Lydia had been there since Ralph’s return home. Even before that she had rarely ventured there and, in spite of her avowed animosity, she really was curious.

  The drive had been cleared of weeds and the garden tidied. The house itself was massive, built of stone and crenellated like a castle. Lydia, looking up, was reminded of the Countess and that dreadful leap from the roof. Whatever she thought of the Earl, it must have been very sad for him to come home to that and she found herself feeling sorry for him. Telling herself not to be such a fool, she took her mother’s arm and they proceeded along the drive, their taffeta skirts rustling as they walked.

  The newly varnished front door was opened as they reached it and a footman stood aside to allow them to pass into the entrance hall with its marble tiled floor, massive fireplace and grand staircase which went up from the centre and divided to left and right. There was a very long window on the half-landing and at the top was a gallery which had doors all round it evenly spaced.

  Lydia tilted her head. The walls above the doors were covered in an enormous mural: a peaceful pastoral scene on one side and a battle scene on the other. ‘You didn’t tell me it was like this,’ she murmured to her mother in wonder. ‘It’s like a fairy castle.’

  ‘Mrs Fostyn. Miss Fostyn.’

  Lydia had been so immersed in looking about her that she had not heard Ralph’s footsteps.

  Startled she swung round to face him. He was dressed in a plain grey kerseymere coat with biscuit-coloured breeches and stockings and wore a small brown wig. He was smiling pleasantly. Almost her umbrella man. But not quite. Her mother was curtsying and bowing her head to him. ‘My lord,’ she said.

  Lydia, against her inclination, found herself doing the same and chided herself for her weakness when she should have been haughty and merely given him a nod.

  ‘Your obedient servant.’ He acknowledged the obeisance with an inclination of the head and a smile. ‘May I offer my congratulations on your betrothal, Miss Fostyn. I did not have a proper opportunity to do so on the night.’

  Only because you were quizzing me and telling me how much you disapproved, her errant mind told her. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said aloud.

  He threw his arm out to encompass the room. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Very baronial,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Meant for show. There are other rooms which are more comfortable. Would you like a short tour?’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Oh, I forgot, Mrs Fostyn, you are already familiar with the house.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, but you have changed it beyond recognition. I remember this hall as being rather gloomy.’

  ‘I thought so too, which is why I enlarged the window. Come up and see.’

  He led the way up to the half-landing and they stood looking out of the window, which gave a magnificent view from the rear of the house. Below them was a cobbled courtyard, enclosed on two sides by other buildings. Ahead was a wide archway, which led to the gardens and from there to the park and beyond that the marshes and sea. They could just make out the glimmer of it in the distance.

  ‘I like to stand here and watch,’ he said.

  ‘What do you watch for?’ Lydia asked, thinking of smugglers.

  ‘Oh, the changing seasons, the different shades and patterns of the greenery, the animals and seabirds, the fishermen. I think I might set up a telescope and watch the stars and the ships going about their business.’

  ‘You can see the ships out to sea?’

  ‘On a clear night with a good glass I could.’

  ‘But we cannot see the beach from here.’

  ‘True.’ He smiled, guessing she was thinking about his determination to catch the smugglers, and that thought led inexorably to their first encounter by the hovel, the day he had realised who she was. It made him squirm with shame to think of the way he had chased her and kissed her. But she deserved it. And she had responded. Oh, she had not wanted to, he knew that, but the answering passion had been there and, in any other circumstances, the outcome could have been so different.

  That kiss was something he would never be able to forget; it would come back to haunt him over and over again, a reminder of what could never be. He found himself looking down at her, wishing he could explain why he had done it, but what was there to say? He had been angry, or weak, or had given in to temptation, that if he could roll the clock back it would never have happened—how could he say that? She would not listen and it was not the truth. What was the truth? He did not know.

  She was looking at him with a puzzled frown, as if trying to read his thoughts. He shook himself and addressed himself to Anne. ‘There is something else I must show you, Mrs Fostyn. Follow me, if you please.’

  With both ladies behind him he led the way up the remainder of the stairs and through a double door opposite the long window. They found themselves in a huge room which took up almost the whole width of the front of the house, along which long windows, elegantly draped with ruby velvet, were spaced at regular intervals. The plastered ceiling was intricately carved and gilded and supported six huge candelabra. The walls were papered in red and gold and the floor was polished to a mirror brightness. ‘The ballroom,’ he said. ‘It has not been used since my parents were young and was in a parlous state of disrepair.’

  ‘It’s very grand,’ Lydia said. ‘Don’t you think so, Mama?’

  Anne was standing in a kind of dream, her eyes misted over and her mouth slightly open, and there was an expression on her face which was half-joyous, half-sad.

  ‘Mama, is something the matter?’

  Suddenly aware that her daughter had spoken to her, Anne pulled herself together and smiled. ‘No, my dear. It is magnificent.’ She turned to Ralph. ‘But how did you know what it looked like in the old days? Recently I believe it was used as a repository for old furniture and anything no longer in use.’

  ‘I know, and you would be surprised at the strange things I found when I cleared it out: stuffed animals and birds, broken statuary brought home by my father from his Grand Tour, gruesome pickled things in jars, ancient chests and sideboards, thrown out when Mama decided to refurnish in the French style, bed hangings eaten by mice, documents and letters—’

  ‘Letters?’ Anne queried.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled, knowing why she had reacted in that way. He had found a bundle of letters from her which his father had kept. But there was nothing she need be ashamed of and one day, when the time was right, he would return them to her. ‘That is how I knew what to do to restore it. I found my great-grandfather’s instructions to the architect.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She sounded relieved. ‘It is done so exactly right.’

  ‘I thought you might remember it.’

  ‘You were here?’ Lydia asked her mother in surprise.

  ‘Yes, when I was young. The first Earl and his wife held a great many balls and I was lucky enough to be invited to some of them.’

  ‘The first Earl was my grandfather,’ Ralph explained to Lydia. ‘I believe your mama is speaking of a time before my father married.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. I never came after that.’

  Lydia looked sharply at her mother whose face was flushe
d with colour, but she was still looking at Ralph, almost as if she were trying to convey something to him, something more than the words she spoke. She felt a great wave of tenderness for her mother; to have to deny rumours, without actually mentioning them, must be very difficult. Was that why Ralph had brought them here, to try and catch her mama out? Oh, it was hateful of him!

  ‘Let us go down and I will have tea brought in,’ he said. ‘Then I will tell you why I asked you here.’

  They followed him down to the hall again and he ushered them into a small comfortably furnished room, where a fire burned in the grate and teacups with handles were already set upon the table.

  ‘Mrs Fostyn, will you preside?’ he asked, pulling out a chair for her.

  The next few minutes were occupied with the ritual of pouring and drinking tea and the offering and nibbling of little cakes, while Lydia seethed with impatience and irritation. Just what was he playing at?

  ‘Dear lady, do you think it would be a good idea for me to hold a ball here at Colston Hall?’ he asked Anne.

  ‘Why, if that is what you wish to do, then I can see no reason why you should not.’

  ‘You do not think it is too soon to be entertaining?’

  ‘I think your people might be pleased to know that you are going to stay and live among them again.’

  ‘That is exactly what I thought,’ he said. ‘Thank you for confirming it.’

  ‘I cannot think why you have asked Mama’s opinion on the matter,’ Lydia said, unable to resist the opportunity to score a point. ‘We shall soon be gone from Colston.’

  He smiled, refusing to be drawn. ‘Because it is important your mama and her daughters are present.’

  ‘So that you may crow over us,’ Lydia put in. ‘I told you so, Mama, didn’t I?’