Antonia and Deborah were having the same thought as to the whereabouts of the three remaining skiffs. And while many were caught up in the moment of the race having a winner and were celebrating at the pontoon as the Spaniard and the Italian docked beside the Stuart boat, the look of astonishment on the faces of the Dowager Duchess and Duchess that the Duke had not won his own race for the third year in a row was replaced with furrows of concern that his skiff and the two others remained unaccounted for.
Just as the Duchess picked up a handful of her blue satin petticoats and turned to leave the bridge with the intention of questioning Dair Fitzstuart, Tommy Cavendish caught at her elbow and pointed out to the open water. Two skiffs had rounded the final turn and were now paddling their way towards the bridge, but at a more sedate pace than the frenzied activity of the first three skiffs to race to the finish line. They were staying almost level, as if the oarsmen were deliberately matching each other stroke for stroke.
Charles Fitzstuart’s skiff now had passengers. Frederick was no longer with Jonathon Strang but was seated in the bow of Charles’ skiff, and huddled up next to him was his brother Louis. All three occupants were bedraggled. Frederick was without his hat, Louis no longer had his red ribbon cockade and Charles was missing his sleeveless waistcoat and his linen shirt was pulled about, as if he had been in a tussle. As if this wasn’t alarming enough for Antonia and Deborah, when the skiffs finally passed under the bridge it became evident why the sixth and final skiff was nowhere to be seen.
Devoid of sleeveless waistcoat and shirt, a bare-chested Jonathon Strang was rowing the Duke, and cradled in the Duke’s arms and wrapped up in Jonathon’s green silk waistcoat was the Duke and Duchess’s youngest son Lord Augustus—Gus the Pirate—little white face surrounded by a mop of drenched red ringlets and bare feet poking out of the makeshift blanket.
The Duchess snatched up her petticoats and ran as fast as her long legs would carry her, kicking off her mules in the grass so her bare stockinged feet could cover the distance to the pontoon in half the time.
A crowd on the bank had surrounded Dair Fitzstuart, who was being congratulated by the Florentine and Spanish oarsmen and heartily applauded by several of his boon companions who had wagered heavily on him to win, and a clutch of ladies that included Sarah-Jane, the Aubrey twins and Kitty Cavendish who wanted to hear every detail of the race. This was in marked contrast to the frenzied activity on the pontoon where the occupants of the two skiffs just come alongside were being helped to alight as quickly as possible.
As the Duchess rushed passed the celebratory party and onto the pontoon, orders were barked out at the knot of servants who scurried this way and that to raise the alarm. Up at the big house warm water was to be drawn for baths in the nursery; more warm water for the oarsmen; tell his Grace’s valet Frew and the footman attending on Mr. Strang; something hot to drink and to eat for their little lordships. Where was the little Lady Juliana’s nanny? Someone fetch Troppe the family physician last seen up on the hill in the third marquee along. No! Stretcher and bearers were unnecessary. The Duke would carry his young son up to the house by cutting across the lawns. Fetch the Oudry carriage. It could transport the Duchess and the children to the house.
“He fell into the lake. His lungs took in water. But he’ll be all right,” the Duke said quickly, holding Gus close to his chest as the Duchess rushed up to him. “He’s been stripped and now needs to be kept warm. A hot bath and tucked up in bed with a warm brick and he’ll soon be himself in no time. Won’t you, Gus?”
“Fell in? Fell? Into the lake? Julian? He breathed in water? Is he truly all right? Is he breathing?” Deborah asked fretfully, hand to the little lifeless brow. She gently pushed back her son’s mop of wet hair and watched his eyes flutter then open. He looked so white. He felt so cold. His lips were tinged blue. Gus was always so full of life and mischief: her little rascal. To see him completely still was as much a shock as knowing he had almost drowned. She began to shiver and shake and looked about her as if she had lost something, before looking back up at the Duke. “Where’s Frederick and Louis? Are they all right? Where are they? Where are my sons, Julian?”
“Deborah—”
“Roxton, give me the boy and take your wife,” Jonathon said quietly at the Duke’s ear. When the nobleman hesitated to relinquish his son he added, “She’s gone into shock.”
“Keep him warm,” the Duke repeated unnecessarily to Jonathon as he deposited his little son, wrapped up as tightly as if he was in a cocoon, into Jonathon’s arms. “Keep walking; straight across the lawn, east. It’s the quickest way to the house. I’ll catch you up,” then pulled the Duchess into his embrace who promptly burst into tears but was quick to dash a hand across her eyes. “Deborah! Darling!” he cajoled. “Gus will be fine after a good hot bath and a night’s sleep. Truly. And here come your sons now, none the worse for their adventure.”
Frederick came running along the pontoon, Louis on Cousin Charles’ shoulders not far behind him; all three waved. Charles had in his free hand Jonathon’s wet linen shirt.
Deborah gave a watery laugh of relief to see her sons safe and happy. “I will hate myself in the morning for being such a watering pot when Gus and Louis fly past my window in search of a bug or a beetle, with not a care in the world!” She looked up at the Duke. “It’s all your fault. Pregnancy always makes me missish.”
“You’re always missish,” the Duke whispered in her ear, which got him a playful poke in the ribs.
“Frederick! You’re soaked through!” she gasped when her son ran into her arms. She looked up at Charles, saw that he was without his shoes and stockings as was Louis. “You’re all wet!”
“Reason to get them to the house at once,” said the Duke, a nod at Charles to follow, an arm about the Duchess and Frederick holding his mother’s hand. “The carriage will take you all. Here it comes now.”
“Gus sank like a big rock!” Louis announced proudly, wriggling his bare toes in Cousin Charles’ face.
“He disappeared under the water, Maman!” Frederick added, skipping beside his mother, neither boy the least bit concerned their youngest brother had been in any danger. “Mr. Strang dived in and brought him up. You should have seen him, Maman! He swims like a fish! And we were winning too! Gus spewed up water and everything all over the boat. His guts went everywhere.”
“Everywhere!” Louis agreed proudly.
“Poor Gus!” said the Duchess, a quick look up at the Duke who rolled his eyes, and then across at Charles, who remained stoically straight-faced, lips pressed together. “Mr. Strang saved Gus?” she asked her husband.
“Strang! Wait up!” the Duke called out just as Jonathon started to head across the lawn. He turned to the Duchess and kissed her forehead. “Yes. He did. Dived in and pulled him out, hauled him up into the skiff, turned him on his side to get the water out of his lungs and had poor Gus coughing and spluttering and back breathing before I could do more than blink! Astonishing.”
The Duchess stared anew at the merchant. “Then we owe him a great debt, Julian.”
“Yes, an enormous debt.” He sighed. “One I have no idea how to repay... Here’s the Oudrey. You go with the children. Quicker if I take Gus cross-country.”
“But I want to come with you.”
The Duke took Gus from Jonathon’s arms. “Don’t be foolish. The baby—”
“I ran from the jetty and I am perfectly fine!” argued the Duchess, but there was no fight in her and she leaned in to have a last look at Gus, who despite his blue little lips and white face blinked up at her from within the folds of the silken green waistcoat with an impish if wan smile that offered her some comfort that her son’s life was not in danger. “My poor little pirate,” she smiled lovingly. “Papa will take you up to the house and Mama will be with you very soon!”
“Now kiss your pirate son and you’ll see him next in a warm bath in the Nursery.”
The Duchess watched the Duke stride away across the
lawn just as the empty Oudrey tumbled into view on the gravel path, being driven at a pace its young regatta occupants had continually urged of its long-suffering driver.
“Louis! Be good enough to stop wriggling so Charles can put you to firm ground. Thank you, Charles.”
“Please, your Grace, your thanks should go to Mr. Strang, who is a terrific swimmer. If not for his quick thinking...” Charles Fitzstuart stopped himself and turned to the object of their discussion and held out the wet shirt just as the Oudrey drew up alongside. “I gave it a good wringing, sir, so it is damp not soaking.”
Jonathon took the shirt with a nod of thanks, and satisfied the Roxton children were now safe and taken in hand, Charles excused himself and followed the Duke’s lead and strode off towards the house, eager to get out of his wet clothes and soak in a bath of hot soapy water, but also to remove himself from the depressing sight of his vainglorious and roguishly handsome elder brother being fawned over by every female of marriageable age, not least by Sarah-Jane Strang, with whom he had fallen, quite illogically but irreparably, in love. He hoped his fickle brother was merely toying with the young woman’s affections. He prayed with all his heart she was not in love with Dair. He doubted his heart would make a recover if she married his brother and became his sister-in-law.
“Mema! Mema! We’re all wet!” Louis announced to Antonia as she finally joined them where the lawn met the pontoon, cheeks flushed, a curl fallen out of its pins and dropped to her bare shoulder.
“Gus spewed everywhere, Mema!” Frederick confided to her, adding quickly at her frown, “Il n'est pas mort.”
“Gus has no guts left!” Louis confirmed with a grin. “They’re still in the boat!”
“Deborah? He is all right? Deborah? Augustus he is all right? Yes?”
“Yes. Yes. Julian says he will be fine,” the Duchess replied, distracted. Now the Oudrey was here all she wanted to do was get her sons and herself into it as quickly as possible and up to the house before they caught a chill. “Where’s Juliana?” she asked, looking about as if she had completely forgotten the existence of her little daughter in her worry for her sons. “Oh! Thank Heavens!” she said on a sigh, seeing her stoic lady-in-waiting not a yard away patiently waiting with the now sleeping little girl in her arms. “Into the carriage, Meg. Quick! The boys are wet through. Frederick?! Louis?! Now if you please.”
Louis scampered up onto the velvet cushions beside his mother. Frederick hesitated. He had hold of Antonia’s hand and was standing before her, back to the carriage.
“I’m sorry we did not win for you, Mema.
“Oh! Do not think on it, mon chou. The race it is unimportant. Your brother he is what is important. And Gus he is safe so that is all that matters, hein?”
Frederick nodded and smiled at her smile. Still, he looked worried. “But you wore green for nothing.”
Antonia touched his cheek. “For nothing? Not at all! I wore green for you, Frederick. Remember that. Not for the race. For you. So go now, your Maman she has called you twice.”
Frederick tugged on her fingers. “Come with us!” Before she could accept or decline he turned and called to his mother, “Mema can come with us; can she, Maman?”
“There isn’t room, Frederick!” the Duchess called back impatiently from within the carriage, Juliana now awake and clambering to the window, wanting to see her Mema; Louis pulling at his sister’s hair and dripping lake water all over the carriage floor. Deborah appeared at the window. “Frederick, do get in! Louis is starting to shiver with cold out of the sun. Oh!” she added, suddenly aware that her mother-in-law was at the carriage steps. “I didn’t mean...” She smiled crookedly, biting her lower lip. “There truly isn’t room and your petticoats will be ruined. Louis is dripping everywhere and—”
“Deborah, you need not explain yourself to me,” Antonia said gently and returned her daughter-in-law’s shy smile, stepping back so the footmen could remove the steps and close over the carriage door.
She waved to Frederick, Louis and Juliana, who had pushed herself between her brothers at the window, and waited until the carriage had rounded the bend in the drive before turning away. She came face to face with the arresting sight of Jonathon Strang towel drying his hair, wet and shirtless.
The celebratory party surrounding Dair Fitzstuart had broken up the instant Jonathon Strang strode over to inform them that their carousing was completely inappropriate given the Duke’s son had almost drowned and this was the reason the other skiffs had crossed to finish late.
There were murmurings of apology and the group headed off to the marquees behind the crowd of spectators who had been watching the race from the bridge and by the shore of the lake and now drifted across the sweep of lawn to the stalls and entertainments up on the hill. The Aubrey twins went arm and arm in company with the Florentine Ambassador’s representative and Dair Fitzstuart, leaving Jonathon Strang talking almost exclusively to his daughter while the Cavendishs stood nearby, Kitty Cavendish pretending an interest in the tabulations in the Regatta Ledger which her husband had open and was perusing, possibly making mental computations in his head, by the frown between his brows.
Antonia was surprised how close she was to the little group. With the Oudrey come and gone and the crowd dispersed it was suddenly quiet and so the conversation between father and daughter was clearly audible. Yet they were not conversing in English or French but in a language so foreign to Antonia’s excellent linguistic ear that she did not understand a single word. She might be able to speak and read fluently in three languages and comprehend another two with ease, but this was unlike any speech pattern she had ever heard before. She was not one to eavesdrop but she could not help herself because she wanted to make sense of the syllables, the cadence and intonation of this exotic and quite incomprehensible language.
And then she realized her ladies-in-waiting also had their gaze riveted on the small group to which Jonathon Strang was party, and it had nothing to do with aurally deciphering impenetrable linguistics. And as if to reinforce their distraction she too found herself staring openly at the merchant. What language he was talking became secondary as she took full measure of the man, from large bare feet to wet shoulder length hair, and his appearance burned itself into her mind’s eye as she finally tore her gaze away, turned and stomped off up the lawn, muttering to herself that the sun must have affected her brain, for why else would the sight of a half-naked man throw her off balance?
What sane man paced about under a watery blue sky wet and shirtless, towel drying his hair? He should have covered his bare chest for the sake of propriety immediately Charles handed him the shirt, regardless of the fact it was wet, and particularly with ladies present, and one of these his daughter! Although Sarah-Jane did not seem at all disconcerted by his appearance but was conversing with him as if she was used to her father parading about in his breeches and nothing more. He wasn’t even wearing shoes! Perhaps on the subcontinent that’s how men dressed, or went about undressed because of the heat? Going about shirtless would account for his chest and wide back being as sun-bronzed as his face and arms. She had admired pictures, beautifully painted illustrations of Indian men and women with caramel skin in various states of undress, admittedly mostly naked, and in a variety of sexual positions, in a large red leather folio belonging to Monseigneur. It was in their private library at the Hôtel in Paris and she had not even blushed at that; they were most interesting and instructional.
But this was different. Jonathon Strang wasn’t a static picture in some ancient text. He was flesh and blood and he was moving about. He was all sinews and muscle. She had never noticed just how broad were his shoulders, as was his back, which tapered to narrow hips...Was that a-a tattoo? Surely not. Only pirates and primitives were given to tattooing their bodies. She remembered a most interesting etching of a Maori or was the native warrior from Tahiti? with intricate ink markings all over his face and down his arms. It was in a book—a journal by a certain Captain Cook�
��also in their library in Paris. Jonathon Strang’s indelible ink mark was of a similar intricate pattern just below his hipbone. Antonia reasoned that his tattoo was not normally on show, even without his shirt, but the waistband of his breeches had drooped, made heavy with water the sodden material clung to buttock and thigh, the breeches with drawers beneath hanging so low that clearly visible was a distinct demarcation where skin bronzed in the hot sun met the smooth white flesh unseen by the light of day. So he wasn’t burnt toffee all over, well, not under his drawers, not-not there.
There was something unexpectedly erotic and inviting about that demarcation line and it intruded without warning into Antonia’s thoughts after dinner as she sat in her favorite wingchair in the Gallery sipping coffee; the conversation having descended into inanity and spiteful gossip of which she wanted no part. And then the Countess of Strathsay was heard to extol her eldest son’s virtues for a fourth time, basking in the hollow glory of his victory in the regatta. This did penetrate Antonia’s subconscious and it was all she could do to stop herself from snapping shut the ivory sticks of her gold leaf fan to draw blood just to have a legitimate excuse to remove herself from her aunt’s venomous orbit.
“I was sitting on the hill, which has a commanding view over the entire lake, and it was evident that Dair was so far in the lead that had Lord Augustus not fallen into the lake, Roxton still would not have caught him up,” Lady Strathsay announced with a self-satisfied smile. “To point out fact, my dear Lady Cavendish, it was Charles who, at that stage of the race, was second to Dair and may well have finished in that place had the accident not occurred. Thus my sons would have finished first and second.”
“But, my lady,” Kitty Cavendish began and was cut off.
“That is a great piece of nonsense, Charlotte,” Antonia stated. She handed off her Sevres cup and saucer to her lady-in-waiting. “You cannot say for certain the outcome because in truth the race it should have been abandoned the instant Augustus he fell into the water.”
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 16