by Anne O'Brien
‘No.’ Henry fought off the looming sense of depression at the futility of the evening and the prospect of the long journey on the following day.
‘Do you think he has a mistress?’ Nicholas asked.
‘To demand vast sums of money and diamond necklaces? A possibility.’ Henry grinned at the prospect. ‘Mistresses can be very expensive.’
‘The voice of experience.’ Nicholas returned the grin. ‘And how would we discover that?’
‘Have him followed, I expect!’
‘That I will not do!’
‘Go and talk to Hoskins tomorrow. Suggest to him that he make discreet enquiries with Howard and Gibbs—unless you care to? No, I thought not.’ He laughed as he saw the expression on Nick’s face They had arrived on the steps to their front door. ‘But if Baxendale is short of the readies, and does not wish to advertise the matter, a moneylender would be his first port of call. Hoskins will know how to go about it, I expect.’ He thought for a moment before opening the door, all humour drained in the dark shadows. ‘But you might visit the other gaming houses. Meanwhile I will see what the Reverend Broughton has to say about our elusive gentleman.’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider visiting Aunt Beatrice to discover her thoughts on the Baxendales four years ago. Judith reminded me that she has a formidable memory.’
‘No.’
‘Mmm. Then I will suggest that Mrs Stamford pay a morning call. They can enjoy a comfortable dissection of the manners and morals of the younger generation—and perhaps Aunt Beatrice will remember something of import.’
Chapter Six
Henry leaped down from the curricle, winced at the headache, cursed all gaming hells, and walked back into the entrance hall as Eleanor emerged from the breakfast parlour on the following morning. She had dressed in a smart travelling costume of deep blue, the fine wool double-breasted coat with its long tight sleeves and high waist already buttoned. She was in the act of arranging the wide collar so that it draped elegantly into a cape effect. If his lordship noticed that she wore a particular jewel on her breast, whether deliberately to provoke or through custom, he chose to make no comment.
‘I am ready to leave.’
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ He frowned at her as she tied the bow of her neat straw bonnet beneath her chin to charming effect.
‘Yes. There is no need to scowl at me, my lord. We have already had this conversation and come to an agreement.’
‘I do not remember actually agreeing to anything—simply bowing to a stronger force when you threatened to go on your own.’ The scowl did not lessen. ‘I hope that you realise that we may learn nothing. I could see the Reverend Broughton myself and be back here within the day…’
She shook her head. ‘You do not understand. I want to see the village…and hear what he has to say.’
‘Do you not trust me to do the right thing?’ The demand was brusque, Henry’s mouth set in displeasure.
Did she? She looked at him consideringly, head a little on one side. All she knew for certain was that she must not rely on anyone, certainly not on Hal. She had trusted Thomas, had accepted his offer of marriage—which was more than she could ever have dreamed of and for which she would always be grateful to the depths of her soul—but look where that had got her. She must look to her own inner strength to weather this storm.
She turned her back on his lordship to pick up her tan leather gloves, thus evading the answer—which he was quick to notice with regret and a degree of hurt that jolted him. She did not trust him, not even to do all in his power to restore her good name.
‘I simply need to go there,’ was all that she would say.
The weather was set fair for travel. They made good time in the curricle on the main roads as they negotiated their way out of the growing sprawl of London. There was little conversation between them. Eleanor was too tense and could find nothing to say. Henry concentrated on his horses. When they took to the country lanes their progress was slower, but the pair of greys were excellent animals with strength and stamina and well up to the task. Henry drove them with patient skill to conserve their energies.
Eventually as the sun rose to the height of noon, they drove into the village of Whitchurch. They could see the cluster of stone houses nestling around a squat Norman church over to their left, calm and peaceful in the growing warmth, hardly the place where sordid schemes were in hand. Before reaching the village street, to their right, they drew level with a pretty stone manor house and Henry reined the greys to a walk. Jacobean in construction, behind its ornamental gates and stone wall with well-tended gardens on either side of the gravelled walk leaning up to the main entrance, it made an appealing picture. Behind the house were glimpses of a walled garden and an orchard with a rose-covered pergola leading to a sweep of open parkland.
Lord Henry halted the curricle before the wrought-iron gates.
‘What do you think?’ Eleanor sat and looked at the house where her husband might have spent time of which she knew nothing.
‘It could be. An attractive little estate.’ He studied the mellow stonework with a critical and knowledgeable eye. ‘Well cared for. Prosperous enough.’ A gardener was engaged in clipping a neat box hedge. ‘There is someone who can furnish us with a little information.’ Henry hailed him. ‘Tell me. Does Sir Edward Baxendale live here?’
The gardener, a man of advanced years, opened the gate to come and stand beside the curricle, pulling off his hat and squinting up at his lordship.
‘Aye, y’r honour. But not at home—none of the family is. In London, so they says.’
‘And his sister?’
‘Gone with him, I expect. There’s no one ’ere at any event—and not likely to be for the near future, so they says.’
‘My thanks.’ Henry tossed him a coin and watched him amble back to his box clipping. They sat for a moment and took stock.
‘It does not suggest an immediate need for money, does it?’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘Do you suppose…?’ She hesitated, a deep groove forming between her brows. ‘Do you think that Thomas came here to visit Octavia? Did he walk in this garden with her? Beneath those roses? Or sit with her in the arbour in the dusk of a summer’s night? Octavia is very fond of gardens…’
‘Enough, Eleanor. You must not torture yourself like this! Did I not warn you that it would have been better for you not to come here?’ His voice was harsh and when she glanced up in some surprise, she saw no softness in his face. ‘What is the point,’ he continued, ignoring her distress, ‘of perhaps and what if? It will only lower your spirits and drain your courage. It may be that Thomas did all of those things.’ He looked away from the pain that filled her beautiful eyes and swore silently. ‘But we still do not know the truth of it.’
She looked away from him and swallowed against the knot of fear and desolation in her throat, unable to find an adequate response. She had not expected such sharpness from him and yet had to admit that his words were justified. He had indeed warned her.
‘So what do we do first?’ Her voice was admirably controlled.
‘We find the inn. It is after noon and you need food. And it might be to our advantage to talk with mine host before we tackle the servant of God.’
They left the curricle and horses in the charge of the ostler at the Red Lion Inn, which overlooked the village green. They were shown into a dark, dusty parlour where the innkeeper fussed over having the gentry call at his establishment. Not many people travelled through the village, the main post road passing to the east as it did. He could not remember the last time that a lady and gentleman of Quality made use of his inn, other than the people at the Great House, of course. But he hoped they would not find the Red Lion wanting. Certainly he could provide refreshment for his lordship and the lady. If they would care to be seated. He whisked ineffectually with a grubby cloth at the dust on table and chairs as his wife bustled in with bread, meat and cheese and a jug of local al
e.
Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.
‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.
He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.
‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’
‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.
‘Do you see much of the family?’
‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’
‘Are they well thought of locally?’
‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’
‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.
‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’
‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.
Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’
‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’
‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’
‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’
‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’
As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.
‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’
‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’
An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?
‘Do you know the Reverend well?’
‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’
On which he left them.
With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.
‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.
At last the mourners departed.
‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’
‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’
Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.
‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’
Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.
They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the furniture polished with the books properly on their shelves and the papers on the desk in neat order. It gave the impression of care and order and efficiency, suitable to a conscientious man of the cloth.
The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for
long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.
The priest rang the bell beside the fireplace and the door was immediately opened by a young girl, as if she had been close at hand and awaiting the summons.
‘Molly.’ Julius Broughton addressed the girl. ‘We have, as you see, visitors. Be so good as to bring brandy for his lordship and ratafia for the lady.’
She bobbed a curtsy, casting a sharp eye over the guests. A village girl, Henry presumed by her simply cut blouse and skirt, very pretty with dark curls under her white cap and attractive curves not in any way disguised by the white apron that enveloped her. Her smile revealed a dimple and she was not averse to a flirtatious glance from beneath long dark lashes. She had an air of smugness and her smile a hint of sly. Henry would wager that Mistress Molly was a most competent housekeeper, if surprisingly young for the position. He suppressed a sardonic gleam as he found himself remembering the innkeeper’s enigmatic comments on their priest’s interests. They were not difficult to understand,
The refreshments were dispensed, with graceful skill and concern for their comfort, and then as Molly departed with a final swing of shapely hips the visitors were free to turn to business.
‘We are looking for information, sir,’ Henry repeated, wondering fleetingly if Mistress Molly was listening at the door.
‘So I understand.’ The Reverend indicated that they should make themselves comfortable in the charming room. ‘I will try to help. Is it something that occurred within my holding of the living here?’
‘Yes. The first event less than four years ago.’ From his pocket, Henry took a number of gold coins, which he placed, without a word, on the desk beside him.
The Reverend’s eyes fixed on them for more than a second, a flush mantling his cheeks. He pressed his lips together. It was, Henry knew, a gamble, based purely on first impressions. It crossed his mind that the priest could see it as an insult to his pride and standing in the community, and so refuse all co-operation with sharp words. Justifiably so if he were an honest man. But he did not. He answered, his eyes still on the money being offered so blatantly, ‘Of course, my lord. As I said, I will do what I can.’