A Rival Heir

by Laura Matthews

  His first words surprised her: "Miss Armstrong, may I call you Nell?"

  "But of course. Your sister has been calling me Nell since we met."

  "I know, and it is very awkward to be forever addressing you as Miss Armstrong when in the next breath Emily is saying Nell this and Nell that."

  "I do prefer Nell to Helen, however. Only my aunt calls me Helen."

  "So I've noticed." He placed a packet of letters on the table as he seated himself across from her. "I trust your aunt has gone out? These arrived today from my housekeeper. I think they answer our questions about Miss Longstreet and Lord Westwick."

  He sounded so serious that Nell clutched her hands tightly in her lap. "Yes, my aunt should be gone for some time. What do the letters say?"

  "You should read the pertinent ones," he said, reaching to lift the first one from the stack. "We have only my godmother's word for what happened, of course, but I see no reason to disbelieve her, as these letters were written at the time of the events."

  Nell accepted the first missive with slightly trembling fingers. It was dated more than forty years in the past and began with the salutation "My dear Amelia." She immediately recognized her aunt's impressive copperplate handwriting, large and self-assured as it was. There were a few lines congratulating Lady Nowlin on her state of impending motherhood before Rosemarie Longstreet launched into her own news:

  I must tell you that the long-awaited proposal has been made and accepted. Carstairs Tollson applied to my father last week for the right to pay his addresses to me. It was prettily done, as one would expect. He is such a handsome fellow, as you will remember from meeting him in London, and his being almost a neighbor is such a fortunate thing.

  We have set no date as yet. Mama seems to think there is no sense rushing into what will carry me away from the Manor, when I bring a "calming" influence on my sister Margaret. I am not impatient to be off myself, as I understand old Lord Westwick has been ill for some time, and we will be forced to live in his household for the time being. But I believe the earl has expressed a wish to see Carstairs married before he passes on. Not that this is imminently expected. I trust our nuptials will take place in a few months.

  Nell looked up from the letter to say, "There is a lack of excitement about her acceptance, isn't there? It sounds almost as though it were an arranged marriage."

  "Well, they would have known each other, and it would have been a beneficial alliance on both sides, I dare say. Read your aunt's next letter to my mother."

  This one was dated three months later. The pertinent information was offered in a slightly irritated tone:

  The old lord has died. Though he had been sickly for some time, no one expected his death. I must say it is very aggravating. Now we are supposed to wait out the year of mourning before we marry. I cannot believe it is necessary, but apparently Carstairs' mother insists that it would be disrespectful to her husband’s memory if we were not to adhere to this antiquated custom. I cannot see how! Her husband wished for our marriage before his death and would no doubt be annoyed by its delay, but no one pays any attention to my opinion on the matter. Both my parents agree that it is Lady Westwick’s right to demand this of her son and his bride.

  Without saying anything, Hugh handed her the third letter. This one was dated six months after its predecessor.

  You will not credit what has happened, Amelia! I can scarce believe it myself. This morning I received a call from Carstairs. It had been almost a month since we had last seen him. He sought an interview with my father first, and Mama and I could hear father's voice bellowing all the way down the hall, though we could not distinguish the words. Mama was quite alarmed. She suggested that I go above to my chamber, but I am not so chicken-hearted!

  When Papa came from his study, he was red in the face and would say nothing but "OUT!" to the new earl. Carstairs hesitated, saying, "I really should speak to Miss Longstreet, sir." But Papa would have none of it. He kept mumbling things like "miscreant," "cad," and the like. Some of the terms I was not even familiar with! But you may be sure that Mama and I got the idea that the earl was no longer welcome in our house.

  With a stiff bow, Carstairs left. Papa was so distressed that he was unable to speak. Mama insisted that he sit down, and while she was ministering to him I slipped out of the room and ran after Carstairs. I caught up with him just short of the stables. When he heard me, he stopped and waited for me. His face was quite white, whether with anger or some other emotion I was unable to tell. He held his hands out to me and clasped mine so tightly that they hurt. "Miss Longstreet! Thank you for coming. I have done you a dreadful wrong and I would have been even more distressed to leave without telling you to your face."

  Even then I did not comprehend of what he spoke. Well, who would have? I had always considered him a man of honor, as did we all. Otherwise I would not have agreed to ally myself with him. So what he had to say not only stunned but disgusted me, and I pulled my hands from his in real horror.

  How could he so humiliate me? For that is what he has done, Amelia. Unbeknownst to anyone except his mother, apparently, my Lord Westwick has married his cousin Sophie, the one who came to stay with Lady Westwick to comfort her after the death of the old lord. They have "fallen in love." Spare me from such maudlin sentiment! Fallen in love, indeed. My lord assured me that he had the greatest respect for me, etc., etc. He assured me that he had tried on the occasion of his last visit to explain the situation to me, but had found himself unable to produce the necessary details. One may well imagine! I well remember that he spoke warmly of his cousin on that occasion. Oh, yes, he had indeed mentioned her and enlightened me as to his vast appreciation of her usefulness to his mama. She was all kindness, all goodness, all sympathy and gentleness. His encomiums made me quite ill.

  Not having had the courage to face me with the truth on that occasion, he had acquired a special license and they were married last week. A week ago! And he has only just gathered the courage to tell my father of his treachery. And hear this his reasoning, Amelia, if you will. He was not convinced that I loved him, but was certain that his cousin did. He did not love me (though holding me in the highest regard, of course), and knew that he did love his cousin. He had hoped, you see, that I would guess the state of his emotions and release him from his promise when he spoke so glowingly of his cousin! As though I would do any such thing when the announcement of our betrothal had already been made.

  No man of honor would do what Carstairs has done. I still can scarcely credit that he has told us the truth. Oh, I regret that Mama allowed a delay in the marriage, for had I married him and gone to the Hall, there would have been no need for his cousin to come and throw out her lures. And I overheard Mama and Papa talking when they thought I had gone to bed this evening. Papa thinks it was the old lord who insisted on Carstairs marrying, and Mama thinks the dowager Lady Westwick did not care for me and purposely arranged for her weasely little cousin to come and attract Carstairs' notice. Both my parents, however, have made it clear that if queried, I must indicate that it was I who broke off the engagement. Otherwise, I shall look a complete fool, Papa says, though I don't see it myself. Carstairs is the villain of this piece and I would have everyone know it!

  There was a hastily written postscript which begged Amelia Nowlin to keep the story to herself since Miss Longstreet's parents were adamant about the necessity to have no word of the true situation leak out.

  "Oh, dear." Nell set the letter aside as though she wished nothing to do with its contents. "How awful. I find it almost impossible to believe that Lord Westwick could have done such a thing."

  Sir Hugh nodded, his face drawn. "And yet, I cannot believe that your aunt lied, or even exaggerated, in her letter. He seems to have chosen to marry the woman he loved despite the heavy social penalty it might have brought him. He was fortunate that Miss Longstreet's parents insisted on her taking the blame. But it was grossly unfair to her, of course. I think you may be right that your aunt
is here in Bath to seek revenge."

  Nell felt tears prick at her eyes. "Poor Aunt Longstreet. She must have suffered dreadfully."

  "At least the blow was to her pride and not to her heart," Sir Hugh remarked, his voice gentle. "She does not seem to have been 'in love' with the earl. And I must tell you that it has always been obvious that he was very much in love with his wife, and she with him, to the day of her death."

  "So I understand." Nell clasped her hands tightly in her lap, a frown wrinkling her brow. "Do you suppose it was a self-imposed exile, his living here in Bath rather than staying on his estate in Westmorland?"

  "Probably. He must have thought it the least (and perhaps the most) he could do to make amends to my godmother and her parents--to stay as far away from them as possible.”

  "And so he built a new life here, and no one has ever known about that broken engagement." Nell glanced over at Sir Hugh. "But of course, Mrs. Dorsey must have known all about it. She would have gotten a letter, much like your mother's, when it happened."

  The baronet nodded. "I'm sure she did, since she told you your aunt had once been engaged to the earl. She will be part of your aunt's plot to be avenged for the destruction of her expectations. Should we try to speak to Mrs. Dorsey?"

  Nell felt torn. Once again it would be calling her loyalty into question if she did anything to stand in her aunt's way, and yet of course she must. No matter what Lord Westwick had done, it was many years ago, and he was an older man now. The social disgrace would be intolerable, and so unnecessary. "Yes, of course we must speak with Mrs. Dorsey. I doubt she has any idea what’s afoot. For that matter, you and I can only suspect what Aunt Longstreet plans. And what about Lord Westwick? Should you speak with him?"

  "Do you wish me to?"

  Nell sighed. "Oh, Hugh, I don’t know. He must still feel the shame of his actions, even if he has never regretted them. He won't like it that we know. Especially you. He is excessively fond of you."

  Her companion scowled and flicked a finger against the remaining letters he held. "What an unpleasant interview that would be. And it might cause some damage to . . . to persons who wouldn't seem to be involved."

  Nell regarded him questioningly.

  Hugh looked uncomfortable. "He spoke of some plans he had, which I am not at liberty to disclose. It might be best if we said nothing for the time being."

  "I can't think that’s right," Nell argued. "Difficult as it might be, he should know what we've learned."

  "Perhaps." The baronet tapped a finger restlessly on his chair arm. "Would you let me think about this, Nell? Let me consider the ramifications?"

  "But..."

  "Please. Just overnight."

  Nell could not understand his hesitation, but he looked so earnest and so concerned that she capitulated. "Very well. Until tomorrow."

  When he rose, she stood also, but indicated the remaining letters. "What of those? Did you not wish me to read them?"

  A slight flush tinted his cheeks. "I'll leave them with you. Some of them concern your mother, others Miss Longstreet's . . . ah . . . role as my godmother."

  Nell reached out a hand for the aging sheets of paper. Her fingers brushed his and she felt an unaccustomed flutter in her chest. Briefly, so briefly that she might have imagined it, he clasped and pressed her fingers before letting them go. "Thank you,” she said. “I shall take good care of them."

  "Miss Armstrong... Nell... I was loath to withhold any of your aunt's letters, but you must remember that some of them were written at the height of your grandparents' anxiety about your mother. Your grandmother was always a conciliating and generous woman, but your grandfather... Well, let us say that he was not always reasonable, and that on occasion his judgments were harsh and unfair. I remember that as a lad; you probably encountered it as a young lady."

  Keeping her eyes on the letters in her hands, she nodded. "He could be a harsh man on occasion."

  A note of anger crept into Sir Hugh's voice when he said, "I would not forgive him if he was ever harsh with you."

  "No, no, not harsh. He was... unforgiving of my mother, you see, and therefore could never accept me as I should have liked."

  "Well," he said gruffly, "read the letters, but do not despair over them. They were penned a good many years ago and time would have softened the worst of his attitudes, I dare say."

  Nell smiled faintly. "Perhaps, but I shan't be surprised if I recognize them."

  "Poor dear," Hugh murmured.

  "Nonsense," she said stoutly. "I am a fortunate young woman to have been accepted into the family home. I might well have been placed in an orphanage and trained to domestic service when my parents died, sir. I hope you will spare no pity for me."

  He regarded her stubbornly thrust out chin and laughed. "Oh, no. Pity is the last thing I feel for you, my dear Nell."

  And he was gone, before she could do more than blink at him.

  Because her aunt might return at any moment, Nell carried the letters up to her bedchamber. It was a pretty room, with dainty furniture and wispy curtains. She moved immediately to the window, which looked out on the square, and was fortunate enough to see the baronet just disappearing around the corner onto Gay Street.

  What had he meant by that: "Pity is the last thing I feel for you, my dear Nell"? She touched her fingers to her lips and allowed herself to drift into a daydream where the baronet was escorting her to a ball. She was dressed in her emerald gown and he was resplendent in his most elegant evening clothes with a cravat so starched and shining that his face rose above it like a portrait.

  The strains of the music just reached her and she felt a thrill when she realized it was a waltz they played. He took her in his arms and effortlessly guided her about the dance floor. And though there was a scent of jasmine and the glow of a thousand candles in gleaming chandeliers, they were the only people on the floor. His hand at her waist so intimate, so confident. Whirling about until she was dizzy with the movement and the nearness to him...

  Nell's lovely daydream was dispelled by a loud hammering on the front door. She gazed down to see that her aunt had returned and was demanding entrance in her best fashion. Nell sighed, slipped the letters into a drawer under her reticule, and went down to greet her aunt.

  * * * *

  Hugh thought best when he rode, so he went directly home from Queen Square to change into his riding clothes. He instructed that his horse be brought round, and found himself within half an hour south of Bath and galloping across parkland. Despite the beauty of the day, and the interest of his surroundings, his thoughts never seemed to veer from Nell.

  He wished there had been some way he could protect Nell from the mean-spirited nature of many of the comments in the letters he had left with her. His godmother was in the habit of quoting her Papa on the subject of Margaret's elopement and the legitimacy (or lack thereof) of Nell's own birth.

  More, he was not sure it was in her best interests to let Lord Westwick know of her having read those old letters. Would he be so inclined to find a way to give her an independence if he thought she held him in contempt? Not that she would, of course. Nell had been shocked by the revelation, but she was far too open-hearted a young lady to completely change her good opinion of the earl on the basis of that one (admittedly distressing) action of his.

  But there was her loyalty to her aunt. Had she not instantly sympathized with Rosemarie Longstreet at the destruction of her hopes and plans? This, despite her knowledge of her aunt's irascible nature. Of course, Hugh admitted as he slowed his horse to a walk when they approached a stand of trees, that irascible nature had no doubt been aided by the earl's rejection of her when she was young.

  Hugh had not been born at the time of that event. And even as a boy coming to Longstreet Manor he had not suffered from it. As a young man his godmother had seemed to take him in dislike, and Hugh could now see that her disappointment and the memory of her own betrayal were at work.

  He well remembered receiving
a letter from her excoriating him on his behavior toward one particular young woman. "You have raised her hopes of an offer!" Miss Longstreet scolded. "Your carelessness and cruelty could ruin her life!" Of course, his godmother had not had an intimate association with this particular courtship, where in fact he had been rather casually dismissed by the young lady in question, rather than the other way around. But Miss Longstreet had not forgotten--or forgiven, apparently.

  As he emerged from the small wood, Hugh saw his brother-in-law approaching along the road below. Once again he was south of town and not on the western side where someone coming from Bristol might have been expected. Hugh drew his horse to a stop and stayed in the shadow of the trees in order to watch where John Holmsly went.

  Hugh was familiar with the horses the Holmslys had brought to Bath, since he had ridden out with Emily and Nell on so many occasions. John was not riding one of them. In fact, Hugh could have sworn that the horse he was riding was the one which Hugh himself had ridden when he visited Combe Park with Nell. Had his financial situation been more robust, he might have made the earl an offer for the stallion, but he had learned to be cautious in his expenditures.

  John Holmsly appeared to be putting the horse through his paces. He was not merely out riding, but using the stretch of road below as a proving ground. Back and forth he went, urging the horse to walk, to trot, to canter, to gallop. Reining the animal in to test his obedience. Encouraging him to accept the pressure of a heel or the tightening of a rein as instruction. Hugh frowned down on the scene, perplexed. Was John planning to buy the animal? It looked almost as though he were training him.

  Why? If it was indeed Lord Westwick’s horse, and belonged at Combe Park, why would John be working with the horse on this stretch of road?

  Hugh had the greatest hesitancy about confronting his brother-in-law. The man had a right to his privacy, and he no doubt had a perfectly legitimate reason for being where he was and doing what he was doing, but Hugh couldn't imagine what it could be.