The Dutiful Daughter

by Vanessa Gray

  The Dutiful Daughter

  Vanessa Gray

  Copyright © Vanessa Gray 1979

  The right of Vanessa Gray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 1980 by Signet.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  1

  Lord Edward Rothwell, fifth baron of the honor of Rothwell, sat in his late father’s morocco leather chair in the book room, contemplating his immediate prospects with satisfaction, if not pleasure.

  He had reached the mature age of twenty only last month. In the five years since he had succeeded to the title he had nearly paid off his father debts, and in two years from now he could underwrite his sister Lydia’s Season in London.

  He frowned. Lydia was entirely too eager at seventeen for her introduction to London society. He had said, only last month, two years, and he would stick to it. He had all the stubbornness of a weak character. Lydia might weep, cajole, defy — but he was the head of the family, and Lydia must obey him.

  His glance stole to the box of books newly arrived from his booksellers in London. Probably more than half would have to be returned as unfit for the eyes of the ladies of his family. If there was another epic poem by that romantic fool Scott ...!

  He looked forward to this afternoon when he would, at his leisure, open the box and delve into its contents. A duty, after all, but a pleasant one.

  He reflected upon his family. His mother, Lady Rothwell, was entirely too partial to his youngest sister Sophy. Lydia was often scanted, but it did not occur to Edward to rectify injustice where he saw it. As a matter of instinctive reasoning, from Lydia’s slights he turned naturally to Chloe.

  A faint smile crossed his plump face. Dear Chloe — his half-sister, more like the Bradfords, her late mother’s people, than the Rothwells. Too bad she had never had her chance in London’s marriage mart. She had barely arrived in town to stay with Lady Rothwell’s sister, five years ago, when their father died unexpectedly. Chloe had, of course, hastened home, and somehow she had never gone back. He could now be grateful that her small income, from the first Lady Rothwell’s dowry, had been added to the funds he needed to restore the family income without stinting on necessities. Thank God his mother had not had to suffer.

  His thoughts dwelt fondly upon Chloe, a little long in the tooth now for marriage. At twenty-four, she had a year to go before putting on her spinster’s cap. She seemed content here. His mother let her have her way in running the house. Edward could congratulate himself on his untroubled life.

  Enough self-indulgence, he decided, and turned to his unopened letters. One, addressed to Miss Chloe Rothwell, bore the imprint of a firm of London attorneys, a name he knew only slightly. He opened it, and perused the contents — and his tidy world reeled before his bulging eyes.

  Shortly before that fateful moment, the object of Edward’s fond thoughts lay upstairs in her bed. Chloe Rothwell opened her eyes reluctantly, and closed them again against the bright June sunlight streaming through the suddenly opened curtains.

  “Bess!” she protested.

  Bess turned from the windows and approached her mistress’s bedside. “Thought you wouldn’t like to be late to breakfast, Miss Chloe,” said Bess, “seeing that her Ladyship is already down.”

  Upon that news, Chloe’s eyes flew open. With one sweep of her hand she laid the bedclothes back. Accepting a dish of hot tea, she cried, “Oh Bess! What time is it? She will not be pleased with me.”

  Bess, made brave by her twenty-four years’ service to Chloe Rothwell, muttered, “She’d be late too if she’d been up all night with Cook, moaning and groaning with toothache!”

  Chloe prudently ignored her maid’s words, and asked, “How is Cook this morning? She was sleeping when I left her.” She set down her empty cup.

  “Only a couple of hours since,” Bess pointed out, holding out a snowy chemise and deftly dropping it over Chloe’s head. “Still dead to the world, so Field says.”

  In a few minutes, dressed decently if not with great care, Chloe hurried downstairs to the breakfast room. As Bess had gloomily told her, Lady Rothwell was halfway through her enormous breakfast. When Chloe entered the room, Lady Rothwell lifted her eyes once, and then returned them to her plate.

  “There you are, Chloe. I must say I thought you would have more respect for me than to appear so late at breakfast. No regard for my feelings, but then, you young people always think only of yourselves.”

  Since this was not an original thought with Lady Rothwell, and since Chloe had heard it often enough before, she paid little heed to it. Immediately, Field was at her side with the silver coffee pot. Prevented by the presence of Lady Rothwell, he could express his gratitude to Chloe for her night watch with his wife, the cook, only by assiduous attention to her needs. Her plate was piled high with ham and scrambled eggs and her coffee cup was filled to the brim.

  Usually Chloe’s perceptions were blunted, from long familiarity with the other members of her family. But lack of sleep, perhaps, had honed her senses to a fine, sharp edge, and she looked at them now as if they were strangers.

  Chloe’s half-sister Lydia stared into space, and Chloe could guess that her thoughts were entirely upon London. Lydia had the fixed idea that when she arrived in London she would enter a new life, being miraculously transformed into another creature, a gossamer being with fabulous social graces. Her fancy spread itself to encompass balls, routs, and myriads of faceless suitors.

  It could not be claimed that printed romances had addled Lydia’s brain. Edward’s careful scrutiny of the books that entered the house was proof against what he called morbid fancies of romantic writers. Lydia’s own imagination was fuelled by her dissatisfaction with her life as it was and the belief that London held the pot of gold at the end of her rainbow. She had not even, so she thought, begun to climb the rainbow.

  Although Lydia was at an age when most girls were planning the next year to be in London, she was unfortunate in that the Rothwell fortunes had struck a low ebb. While Edward was congratulating himself at this moment in his book room on bringing them all out of the River Tick without disaster, Lydia’s prospect of staying at home for two miserable years chafed her unbearably.

  Her younger sister, Sophy, sitting opposite at the table, was a replica of Lady Rothwell when young. Sophy at thirteen was already lumpish. For Lady Rothwell, the years had turned her juvenile plumpness into grossness and she now filled the armchair with her bulk. Sophy’s pudding face concealed the curiosity and intellect of her father, but she lacked his great charm and kindliness. Sophy was no longer under the care of a governess. Finding her life at Rothwell Manor somewhat confined in scope, she sought with every means at her disposal to augment its liveliness. She was often found listening outside doors, and no drawer was safe from her. Chloe’s insight lasted only a few moments, but it was enough to unsettle her. I’m sickening for something, she told herself. Lack of sleep, that was all. These were her family, and she loved them dearly.

  “The eggs are hard,” complained Lady Rothwell. She i
gnored the fact that this was her third helping. “Chloe, I wish you will speak to Cook about this. She is getting careless.”

  “I must tell you, Mama, that Cook is suffering badly from the toothache and is in bed,” said Chloe.

  “Well,” said Lady Rothwell, “I suppose I must not blame her for the eggs. I hope I am too well bred to chide a servant for what is not her fault. But —” she pushed her plate away — “my appetite is totally gone. I cannot abide ill-dressed meals.”

  Indicating to Field that she wished her cup refilled, Lady Rothwell turned to her mail. “At last, a letter from Sister Hensley. I have been wondering what is going on in London this long time. It has been more than a week since I have heard from her. Such a thick letter. It will probably take me most of the day to read it.”

  Lady Rothwell’s sister, Mrs. Hensley, had welcomed Chloe to London for two weeks, five years ago. She was a kindly woman, yet an inveterate gossip, and managed to gather all the tidbits that rumor cast around the city. The truth of them, as Mrs. Hensley would have been the first to admit, could not always be counted upon, but then, the truth would always come out in the end, wouldn’t it?

  This letter was full of the doings of her son, Francis. Francis, whose breeding and manners were impeccable, had spent the Wednesday night at Almack’s. He had also been one of a party that had played cards at the Prince Regent’s — and Mrs. Hensley took this as a feather in her own cap, even though there had been more than a hundred at Clarence House.

  Chloe’s mind wandered, but was jerked back to earth by Sophy’s saying, “Francis isn’t very bright, is he?”

  Lady Rothwell said, oppressively, “Francis has sufficient intellect for his station. I wish his father had left him a greater fortune.” Her voice faded away, and then she picked up the letter again. “Here is something! Sir Richard Davenant — returned from the Continent already.”

  Chloe felt a queer tightening in her chest. Sir Richard Davenant was their nearest neighbor. In earlier days, Chloe had considered Richard her best friend. An only child, Richard had been a lonely boy and found his companionship in Chloe, only four years younger. Since her brother, Edward, was still in leading strings, Chloe and Richard had been great comrades. But the time had come when Richard’s life took a different turn, and he had gone away to further his education. When Chloe had made her brief appearance in London, Richard, in Italy, had not been at hand to help her through difficult days.

  It was strange, she thought, that she could now not remember his features. What shape was his nose? What kind of eyebrows? She remembered his eyes were blue, but she could summon recollection no farther.

  She had missed him so sorely, when he first left Davenant Hall, that she had deliberately put him out of her mind. It was at about that time that Lady Rothwell turned over the running of Rothwell Manor to Chloe and she had sufficient on her mind to thrust Sir Richard out to the fringes of her consciousness. But here he was in Mrs. Hensley’s letter, back in London, and Chloe could not explain her sudden shortness of breath.

  Lydia felt no such restriction. Almost bouncing in her chair, she cried, “Do you suppose he’ll come home? He hasn’t been at Davenant Hall for years! What do you think he’s going to do next?”

  Sophy said, “What difference will it make to you?”

  Lydia said, “Such a deal of entertainment he’ll be obliged to make. We certainly will count on invitations, and it will be nearly as good as London!”

  Sophy jeered. “Already you’re dreaming of becoming Lady Davenant! No chance of that!”

  Lydia pouted, “He’s not married yet, or we would have heard about it. So he must not have met anyone yet that he likes.”

  Then, realizing how much she had given away of her inner thoughts, Lydia blushed furiously and sank into silence.

  Lady Rothwell ignored the squabble between her two children. Taking up her sister’s letter again, she informed her family, “Davenant is said to be hanging out for a rich wife.”

  Sophy inserted neatly, “That lets you out, Lydia.”

  Lady Rothwell looked reprovingly at Sophy. “There is no need to be vulgar, Sophy. Sir Richard has all the money he wants, and he does not need to hang out for a rich wife.” She turned back to her letter. “Lady Theale says — you remember, Lady Theale is Sir Richard’s cousin — that he is about to offer for Thalassa Morland. No, it’s Thalassa Morland or Penelope Salton or Eugenia Folkes. My goodness, he has a choice, doesn’t he! I don’t believe I know these ladies, although the names are familiar. Thalassa Morland must be old Lord Morland’s daughter, and her mother is —”

  Lady Rothwell descended into the tangled web of genealogy. Being of only ordinary good breeding herself, she had made it her business to follow the convolutions of marriages and connections throughout the upper stratum of society. Finally Sophy, impatiently, extricated her mother from the morass. “Doesn’t Aunt Hensley say which lady he is offering for?”

  Lady Rothwell addressed herself once again to the subject. “No, but the betting is high on which of the three he will offer for. The rumor is that he will within the week make his choice known.”

  Sophy crowed, “Doesn’t sound as though he’s waiting for you, Lydia. He’s not even coming here!”

  Lady Rothwell ignored the interruption and read on. “He is coming down to Davenant Hall, according to this. He may even be here already!”

  Finally, Lady Rothwell, knowing well where her best interest lay, noticed that Chloe was not eating.

  “Chloe, are you ill?”

  Chloe shook her head. Lady Rothwell sighed in relief. “With Cook sick, I vow I could not bear it if you were to fall ill, too, for that would be a tragedy. I doubt whether Field could run the household.”

  Chloe was brought back to earth by her stepmother’s injunction. She had been overset at hearing Richard’s name. What would he be like now? Was he really coming down to Davenant Hall? She felt that she could not wait to see him, and at the next moment that she could not bear to see him again.

  If he were going to offer for one of the ladies of London, then it was quite likely he would not come down to the Hall for any reason except to put it in order for his wife. Somehow, she had never thought of Richard with a wife. He was still, in her mind, the companion with whom she had explored the brook that ran through their lands, ranged forest and meadow, the playmate who had played Crusader with her, the friend who had always understood her childish complaints.

  But Richard with a wife! That was something she could not quite believe in. Yet Lady Theale had always been in her cousin’s confidence, and if she said he was about to marry, then it had to be the truth.

  By this time, in the book room, Edward had had time to compose himself. He had read the letter from the attorneys twice, and then set it aside while he dealt with the other mail. If he ignored the letter, perhaps the news therein might go away. At length, knowing he could delay no longer, he picked up the mail and marched to the door. Unconsciously he stopped and squared his plump shoulders in a vague attempt to fortify himself. And yet, he reflected as he walked across the foyer to the morning room, this was nothing but good news. It might mean a change in his life, but basically Edward was not selfish and — as soon as he got used to the idea — would rejoice at Chloe’s good fortune.

  When he entered the morning room, his mother hailed him with the news that filled her mind. “Sir Richard is home at last, and Sister Hensley says he may even now be at Davenant Hall. I vow, it will be pleasant to have a man of such high fashion living near to us. I am sure he will fill the house with company — after he marries, of course — and it will do Lydia and Sophy no harm to have a man of such elegance closely identified with their interest!”

  Edward dared not trust himself to answer. His own mind was filled with the letter about Chloe’s affairs and he parceled out the magazines to the rest of the family with less than his usual comment. “Here’s your magazine, Lydia,” he said, omitting for once his strictures on the foolishness of the f
ashions and the stupidity of women who tried to keep up with them.

  He also ignored Lydia’s routine response, “I wish I could see the magazine first.”

  Lady Rothwell took him to task. “Edward, I don’t think you heard a word I said. What do you think of Sir Richard’s coming home at last? We must go over and call on him at the first opportunity. And congratulate him on his marriage.”

  Edward roused himself enough to say, “Marriage? Old Davenant marrying? I thought he must have given up the idea.”

  Sophy, glancing across the table at her sister Lydia, said, with malice, “If you expect to catch Sir Richard, you’ll have to be up to the crack of fashion, for he is used to the best, you know.”

  Edward, roused to the sense of his responsibility, interrupted. “Lydia, I hope you do not consider that every fashion in that magazine is yours for the asking, Sir Richard or no Sir Richard. There is not enough money on hand to indulge your extravagant tastes. We are not poor, but we are far from plump in the pocket. If you had your way, all our income would be on your back. That is poor food for breakfast.”

  Chloe, rightly ignoring the routine wrangling among the two sisters and Edward’s futile attempt at setting them straight, eyed the head of her family with a certain uneasiness. Edward wore an air that she could only describe as one of suppressed excitement. It was hard for her to believe that he was only twenty. He seemed almost old enough to be her father. It was too bad, she reflected, not for the first time, that their father had died so untimely a death. Edward had been elevated to responsibilities he was not ready for. The result had been a sad settling of his character into channels of rectitude and humorless duty. Had her father lived, however, it was possible that Edward would have still become the sober patriarch he now appeared to be. He would have come to it, later rather than sooner.

  Edward’s air of excitement was now so palpable that Chloe was moved to comment upon it. “What is it, Edward? Have we all been sold to the bailiffs?”