“Mrs. Warren?” she looked up to see Sir Carter’s housekeeper. Mrs. Shelton had held her position for less than a month, but from what Lucinda had observed the woman had taken the staff well in hand. “Might I presume upon your time, Ma’am?”
Lucinda hated being referred to as “Ma’am.” She thought it made her sound terribly old. “Certainly, Mrs. Shelton.” She offered the woman a welcoming smile. “How may I serve you?”
The woman, a lady of forty plus years, stepped further into the room. The housekeeper’s strict posture and well-rehearsed facial expressions hid an attractive woman who likely had experienced the world’s sour side. “Sir Carter, Ma’am. The baronet asked that I oversee the renovations of the rooms in the east wing. The men have completed the changes Baroness Blakehell left with her son, but the décor is lacking something, which I possess no experience in defining. I wondered if you might have a look.” The woman appeared nervous, and Lucinda realized the impropriety Mrs. Shelton ventured. “It is just that Sir Carter speaks so highly of you, and I thought a fresh set of eyes might recognize what is missing.”
Lucinda thought to refuse. What right did she have to offer an opinion in Sir Carter’s house? After all, she was a mere guest, but the housekeeper’s words of the baronet’s praise had warmed her after three days of desolation. “I am not certain I shall have much to add. My life has been one of military tents and small cottages,” she confessed. “But I would be pleased to view the progress in the east wing. Do you mean to do so now, Mrs. Shelton?”
“If you can spare the time, Ma’am.”
There was that detestable word again, the one which labeled her as a widow, as a woman who had known her husband’s every thought. Such a foul word! Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, Lucinda said evenly, “Certainly. Please lead the way, Mrs. Shelton.”
Carter had received the initial reports on Jamot’s presence in Suffolk and on the largest of the Jewish populations spread throughout England. Since meeting Mrs. Warren, he had spent more than a few hours immersing himself in the history of the Jews in England since the accession of George III to the throne. He was convinced Simon Warren’s mother had dwelt with one of the pockets of Jews congregating in England.
He had made several calculated assumptions. First, despite Captain Warren having met, wooed, and married Simon’s mother in Spain, or possibly Portugal, no one could say whether he had sent the woman and the boy to England. Warren’s military records showed from the time of his joining the service, the man had made but one journey to his home in Devon, the one where he had exchanged vows with Lucinda Rightnour.
Carter had assigned a man to search ship records to learn whether Warren had traveled alone. Perhaps, Matthew Warren had settled his “wife” before claiming Miss Rightnour. He shook his head in disbelief. It was against Carter’s nature to permit a woman to know the evils of war. In contrast to what Mrs. Warren believed, he was of the persuasion to think Simon the product of an illicit love encounter, rather than to be Captain Warren’s heir for he doubted any man of a right mind could ignore Lucinda Warren’s charms.
Although Carter worked daily with people of the Jewish persuasion, he had never really thought about the impact of the Jewish religion on the daily life of those in London and the English countryside. From his governmental studies, he was aware that with King George’s rise to the throne, two standing committees had formed to address urgent political developments, which might affect the Ashkenazi and the Sephardic sects. The appointed Deputados would approach the government on their behalves. The two “Nations” had been forced to communicate and to meet jointly and to receive a degree of statutory recognition.
Numbering in the thousands, there were distinct economic differences between the two assemblages. The more anglicized and wealthier of the two were those from Spain and Portugal; the lower social strata were those from Eastern Europe, predominantly from Germany. Carter prayed progress had been made between the “Nations.” He was ashamed to admit he knew little of the Jewish faith and had few social contacts of a Jewish affiliation.
“Perhaps you know more of the people than you think,” John Swenton had declared when they met over a drink at White’s. The baron had arrived in London to conduct estate business and to call upon Pennington before retreating to York for the summer months. “After all, there has been a steady, though narrow, stream of reformation. Conversionistic hopes were not stymied by Lord George Gordon’s switch from Protestantism to Judaism.” Swenton smiled wryly.
Carter said dryly, “I know you correct.” It was the second time in a day he had recognized one of his shortcomings. First, Pennington had pointed out how Carter had not developed a deep reservoir of contacts, and now he gave credence to the idea of his weak education, especially in history. How could he ever hope to succeed Aristotle Pennington in the role of the Realm’s leader if he was constantly found wanting.
As if Swenton read Carter’s thoughts, the baron suggested, “Surely you have encountered the Rag Fair, and I know you have bought items from the Jewish peddlers who roam the countryside. Hell, Lowery, we have encountered more than one wealthy Jew serving as a ship’s agent, and it is easy to note every official list of the Navy’s agents holds a directory of the Jewish communities supporting the war and England.” Swenton scowled. “What does this involve? Is it an investigation with which I may assist you?”
It was Carter’s turn to frown. He had spoken too freely. “Nothing of import,” he added quickly. “Just an encounter, which has sprung my curiosity.” He motioned the server to bring them another drink. “Instead, permit me to apprise you of Jamot’s latest dealings.”
Lucinda looked about the guest bedchamber. Based upon her limited experience with British country manor houses, it was quite typical. She held images of her life at Merritt House, her parents’ modest estate in Devon, but she possessed little knowledge beyond those idyllic years spent with her vivacious mother.
Mahogany pillars supported linen bed draperies, gathered in folds and tied about the posts, which matched the draperies hung at the tall, thin windows. Mrs. Shelton and her staff had scrubbed away the filth reportedly left behind by the previous owner, but in its simplicity, the room lacked appeal. Wool blankets displayed upon a chest were a pale brown, as were the sheets. The counterpane was of white cotton with cotton knots. A mahogany press. An oval mirror. A small table holding a basin and pitcher. Another table beside the bed. “Quite efficient,” she murmured softly, “but it has the feel of a let room.” She should know; Lucinda had spent many days in rooms not her own.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Shelton said in exasperation. “I have never held the responsibility of refurbishing the master’s rooms, only with cleaning them.”
Lucinda glanced to the woman. “Obviously, Sir Carter trusts your opinions.”
“I do not think so, Mrs. Warren.” The housekeeper gestured to the room’s furnishings. “It is my opinion Sir Carter does not know where to begin. The baronet realizes he requires a home, which will impress those he entertains, but Sir Carter does not see beyond the basics. It is as if he expects a fairy’s magic wand to make everything as he envisioned it; yet had no concept beyond these simple items.”
“Has the baronet forbidden additional expenses?”
“Oh, no, Ma’am. The baronet established an account for whatever I saw fit,” the housekeeper protested.
“Then I do not see the concern,” Lucinda declared.
The housekeeper shook her head in strict denial. “I could not think to place my taste in the baronet’s home. I was not raised to know the differences in lace, only which soap to use to wash it.”
Lucinda wanted to scream, neither had she, but that pronouncement would be an untruth: Her dear mother, Sophia Rightnour, had overseen all Lucinda’s lessons upon being a fine lady. It had been Sophia’s wish when both the Rightnours and the Warrens passed, she and Captain Warren would combine the estates and live grandly as husband and wife. “It shall be a fine legacy for my gra
ndchildren,” her mother had said upon more than one occasion. So much for your distinguished dreams, Mother, Lucinda murmured beneath her breath. “I am a guest in the baronet’s house,” she pleaded. “I do not believe it fit I should interfere.”
“Interference is hardly the word,” Mrs. Shelton reasoned. “From what the others have said, you are the only guest other than the baronet’s family who have dined and rested below Sir Carter’s roof for more than one evening. In my humble opinion, the baronet holds you in highest regard. He instructed the staff to accept your orders in his stead. To me, it sounds as if he would gladly respect whatever choices you made. In fact, your opinions and insights would be a means to repay Sir Carter for his generosity.”
Lucinda immediately wondered how much the baronet’s staff knew of the real reason for her stay at Huntingborne Abbey. Despite her desire to remain removed from the chaos surrounding her arrival in Kent, she conceded Mrs. Shelton stated the obvious: Lucinda owed Sir Carter Lowery. Pausing to choose her words carefully, she said, “I shall write the baronet to seek Sir Carter’s permission to assist you.” She would feel better knowing she had not offended the baronet by being so bold. “Meanwhile, perhaps we might inventory what is available in the house we might use to decorate the various chambers.”
Carter had ridden to Oxfordshire to meet with an informant regarding another recent investigation in which he was involved: This time with a PM who had proved a traitor during the war. Mr. Cyrus Woodstone had traded information, which he had accessed as a member of the War Board, for expensive pieces of European art. The man had erred by showing Lord Witmore a painted tapestry by José del Castillo. Witmore had immediately recognized the artist and had reported his suspicions to Pennington.
Under Carter’s direction, one of the Realm’s elite units had spent the past year gathering information against Woodstone; but the gentleman had correctly made adjustments and had hidden away the items, sending Carter’s men on a fox run: chasing after each scent. The Realm could not move against Woodstone until they recovered the artwork. The British government wished to return the pieces to the respective courts as a symbol of goodwill.
His meeting with Ward Dartmour had proved very productive, and Carter’s demeanor had lightened. Even if he could not capture Murhad Jamot, sealing Woodstone’s fate would bring him positive note among those debating who should replace Pennington. He rode comfortably, feeling the warmth of the day upon his cheeks.
Last night, he had dreamed again of the boy–the one he had left upon the fields outside Bousval, but before he had awakened in a cold sweat to the horror of death all around him, a light had opened, and the boy had stepped through. He had awakened with a jerk, but dread had not filled his chest. Instead, a flicker of hope had taken root. It was possible the boy had not died a horrendous death. Until he had awakened from the familiar nightmare, Carter had held no delusion the youth had survived, and he had prayed some crazed Frenchman had not taken the lad prisoner and had ill-abused him. If the youth had lost his life that terrible day, Carter prayed the deed had been swift. However, the light’s shaft in the midst of his bloody nightmare had given Carter hope for the first time since the day he awoke in a Realm-controlled hospital. “Perhaps…” he had announced to the day.
The word had barely escaped his lips when the shot rang out, and Carter felt the graze of hot metal across his thigh as he reined in his horse. Leaping from the saddle, he ran toward a nearby hedgerow. A second shot whizzed over his head. He threw his hat upon the ground and dove behind the thick greenery. His horse skittered away, but Carter gave it little thought. Instead, his eyes searched for movement in the clump of woodland on the other side of the road.
The shooter likely used an infantry rifle. The Baker rifle was known for its accuracy, but only the rifle regiments used them during the war. Average soldiers used the issued Brown Bess. “An expert shot. Likely the same person who found me in Dover,” he reasoned aloud. His eyes swept the opposing cover again. Nothing moved, which told Carter someone had been there–likely still there. Nature always goes silent when men invade its territory, he thought.
Finally, a flash of sun upon metal caught his eyes, and Carter was on the move, paralleling his attacker’s retreat. He ran bent over, keeping his eyes peeled upon the spot where he had seen the split of color.
When his assailant broke into a run, Carter burst through the hedgerow to give pursuit. The man was heavier than he and struggled with the rugged terrain. When his attacker stumbled, Carter overtook him. A diving lunge brought him crashing down upon the man’s broad back, but Carter had misjudged the distance enough to where he brought his assailant only to his knees, rather than flat. The man turned quickly to land a blow to Carter’s chin. Swinging wildly, the shooter scrambled to his feet as Carter, still reeling from the man’s fist, struggled to reach his own.
As the stranger set off again through the brambles, Carter swayed in place for a second before following. His senses rattled, his reflexes had slowed, and he had not anticipated the blow across his upper back, which drove him to his knees. Carter’s eyes caught the image of a highly polished boot before the world went black.
“Is Mrs. Warren your mother?” the girl asked as Simon built a castle for her dolls from the wooden blocks scattered upon the nursery room floor. He had spent several hours at the Duke of Thornhill’s manor and had attempted to imagine his father walking through these very halls. He held no true memory of his father other than a voice he heard sometimes in his dreams. Mrs. Warren had given him a sketch of Captain Warren she had made. “Although I am not much of an artist, it favors Mr. Warren,” she had said as she handed over the folded paper, holding a pencil drawing of a man in a uniform.
He did not look at the girl. She was dressed in frills and lace, much as he expected fitting a duke’s daughter, but to Simon’s surprise she had freely shared her toys and books with him. “No. Mrs. Warren was once married to my father,” he explained. “My mother was sick. She paid a man to escort me to England. I imagine she has died.” The realization made him duck his head to hide the tears teasing his eyes.
The girl sprawled beside him on the floor, and Simon shot a glance to the disapproving look upon her nurse’s countenance. Sonali Fowler was two years older than he, but they were about the same size. Simon had had only two friends with whom his mother had permitted him to play, and neither had been a girl. “My mother died also,” she announced. “She was very sick and a long time in her bed. Papa says Mama fought to live long enough for me to be born.”
“I thought the duchess your mother,” he said.
The girl traced the line of the wooden floor with her finger. “The duchess is my mama because she and I wanted it to be so.” She said brightly, “Maybe Mrs. Warren can be your mama. Would you wish for her to become your new mama?”
Simon thought upon what the girl asked. “Mrs. Warren treats me kindly.”
“That is something,” she declared. “Papa says many children have no one to care for them, and I am fortunate to have both him and my new mama, as well as his friends. I call Sir Carter ‘Uncle Carter.’ There is also Uncle James, Uncle Marcus, Uncle Aidan, Uncle Gabriel, and Uncle John. They are not my real uncles, but they assisted Papa with me when he had business from home.”
“I suppose you are correct: Having Mrs. Warren as a my mama and Sir Carter as an uncle would be very fine.” He placed a sheet of brown paper on the floor beside the make believe castle. “This will be the drawbridge.”
“It is an excellent castle!” she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. “Your castle is nearly as well done as Papa’s.” Simon liked that particular idea. From what he had seen of the duke, he thought the man quite brave. Earlier, Thornhill had spoken to Simon of how he and Simon’s father had attended university together. The duke shared tales of boyhood pranks and studies. Then he spoke of spending several months in the same military unit as Captain Warren.
“Your Papa and I were both captains,” the duke ex
plained, “which meant we held great responsibility for the men under us. Your father was a great one for responsibility, Boy. You should be very proud of his service to England.”
The girl, who had sat upon her father’s lap throughout the duke’s tales, had said, “Mama says you met Mrs. Warren when you were with Simon’s papa during the war.”
The duke had appeared uncomfortable, as if there was a secret he would not share, and Simon had wondered what if might be. Adults always kept secrets from their children. His mama had kept the secret of his birth from everyone, and she had also not told Simon she might be dying until it was too late for him to seek out assistance for her. “Yes, Mrs. Warren followed the drum; that means she and the women like her traveled with their husbands during the war.”
“Would my real mama have followed you, Papa?”
The duke caressed his daughter’s cheek, and Simon was a bit jealous. He would never have a ‘papa’ to offer him such a gesture. “Ashmita was very brave,” Thornhill assured his child. “I hold no doubt, had she lived and had I remained under the Duke of Wellington’s command the two of us would have been among those surviving the war together.” Simon wondered why his own mother had not followed Captain Warren. Was it because she was a Jewess? Mrs. Warren had said others did not care for those who followed the Jewish ways.
From beside him, the girl scrambled to catch up the doll Mrs. Warren had made for her. “I plan to call this one Chenille; it is the name of my new mama’s mother. She will go well with Isana.” From a drawer, the girl produced an unusual rag doll with a porcelain head. The doll’s painted face held a small crescent moon painted on its forehead, along with a blue throat and a stringy braid of matted black hair. “This is a special doll. My real mama made it for me.” Sonali placed the doll reverently upon a miniature bed. “Now I have an English doll and an Indian one. They are like me, a little of each.”
Realm 06 - A Touch of Love Page 10