Winthrop Trilogy Box Set

by Burnett, May

  Chapter 10

  A spring shower in the afternoon caused a delay in their planned shopping expedition; Abigail and Milla were still in their suite when Mrs. Trevelyan called. After Rob’s visit and that article it had only been a question of time.

  “You have lost weight, Abigail,” Mrs. Trevelyan said after stiff greetings had been exchanged. “No wonder, gadding all over the country, in defiance of your family! I hope it is not some serious sickness?”

  Abigail was about to protest that she was perfectly healthy, indeed stronger and no longer as prone to colds and sniffles as she had been in younger years, but she stopped herself in time. She must not allow the woman to put her on the defensive, a favourite trick of hers.

  “Thank you for your concern,” she said instead. “You are looking blooming, a picture of health, I am happy to see.” It was quite true. Though Mrs. Trevelyan’s figure was matronly and her colour high, she was unusually attractive for a woman in her forties.

  “Your poor father has been prostrate with anxiety at your disobedience,” Mrs. Trevelyan continued, with an uneasy glance at Milla, who was leaning against the writing desk in a relaxed posture. “How do you expect to find a husband, burying yourself in the countryside like that? When I worked so hard to make you attractive to potential suitors! But ingratitude is the world’s reward, and it is bitter indeed!”

  “I did not return to your house – my father’s house – because I was tired of the constant spying, the way you had the servants report everything,” Abigail said as dispassionately as she could. Her hands were curling into fists, and her breath was coming faster than usual. A thousand small injustices and hurts were clamouring in her memory.

  “You were a minor, in fact you still are, and your father had entrusted you to my care. I only did what I thought right, to the best of my abilities.” Abigail realised that her stepmother actually meant what she said. “The Lord inspired my actions, Abigail Trevelyan, and I can only hope yours were not the Devil’s work.”

  Milla smiled. “I hardly think so, Mrs. Trevelyan. Everyone who knows your stepdaughter admires her character and principles, and nobody has ever suggested that she has the slightest acquaintance with infernal powers.”

  Mrs. Trevelyan rounded upon Milla. “Lady Fenton, I was not asking for your opinion. Have you not already caused enough damage to poor innocent Abigail, taking advantage of her good nature, and encouraging her to court ruin by turning her back to her family, her natural obligations?”

  Milla’s smile disappeared. Abigail knew that expression, and shivered. She had to do something to separate these two – but suspected that they rather enjoyed the confrontation that made her own heart beat in nervous staccato. Milla was younger than she; she must not hide behind her.

  “Stepmother,” she said loudly, to draw Mrs. Trevelyan’s attention back to her, “Lady Fenton is my employer as well as my friend. I take strong exception to your insulting remarks towards her, and suggest that you confine your arguments to me. Is there anything else you have come to say?”

  “You will return with me right now, Abigail,” Mrs. Trevelyan declared. “Have your things packed. We can take a hack, it is not far.”

  “I decline to accept this gracious invitation.”

  They stared at each other in cold silence for a few endless moments. Abigail felt light-headed and had to fight for composure, but she did not drop her gaze.

  At last Mrs. Trevelyan shook her head. “Then you are obdurate? I suppose I should have expected it, with the company you choose to keep.” Her grey eyes sparkled with anger. “Mark my words, Abigail Trevelyan, if you do not come with me, I wash my hands of you. You will not be welcome when you do need a home and try to find shelter among your own family. You will be outcast, your name scratched from the family Bible.”

  “So be it.” Abigail felt only relief. Whatever her threats, this woman did not have the legal power to withhold her inheritance once Abigail was of age. Moreover, she doubted that her father, when he finally came home, would uphold his wife’s edict. “I welcome and endorse your announcement. Is there anything else?”

  Instead of replying, Mrs. Trevelyan turned on Milla again. “I know very well to whose malign influence this tragic change in my stepdaughter is due. Clearly the papers were right in their estimation of your character.”

  Milla rang the bell, and when her maid appeared said in a bored voice, “Please show Mrs. Trevelyan out. Should she ever call here again, we are not at home to her.”

  “As if I would so lower myself!” Mrs. Trevelyan spat, but she left with a last glance of deep reproach at Abigail.

  When the door closed Abigail realised she had been holding her breath. Milla still looked bored, though inside she might well be livid. Sometimes it was hard to tell with her. “Sorry about that. I told you what she was like. Every day under her thumb was like a year.”

  “I can imagine. What an unpleasant bully! And here I felt hard done by, because nobody cared what I did during my own childhood. What do you suppose your father saw in her?”

  “Beyond her physical charms? Believe it or not, she convinced him that his poor orphaned daughter was in need of a mother’s care while he was gallivanting around the globe. He never realised that she was quite unsuited to the role.”

  “I am glad you decided not to abandon me,” Milla said, “but if we don’t find this Chatteris and buy the letter from him, we shall both be penniless.”

  “Only till August, when I turn twenty-one and receive the legacy my grandfather left me. It is a pittance compared to your fortune, but it would support us for some years.”

  “You could easily bring Rob up to scratch,” Milla said. “I wonder why you have been discouraging him.”

  “I do not plan to marry.”

  “What, not at all?”

  “Not all women need to marry,” Abigail said stiffly. “One can lead a perfectly contented life as a spinster. Many women do.”

  “Do they?” Milla said doubtfully. “But they are always considered to be spinsters because nobody wanted them, left on the shelf, as the saying goes. And Rob would not be a tyrant. Indeed, as potential husbands go he is almost ideal.”

  Abigail blinked. Was Milla herself harbouring a tendre for their neighbour? “He is nice enough,” she agreed, “but not for me. But let’s not waste time discussing impossibilities. Is there any message from Chatteris?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he is using the papers too; we had better look at the advertisements.” Abigail was eager to return to business. Her stepmother’s visit had been more harrowing than she had expected.

  How could a middle-aged woman who was no bigger and stronger than Abigail herself be so intimidating? It must be those years of constant tyranny, the echo of her former unhappiness. The mere presence of Mrs. Trevelyan, the sound of her voice, called up painful memories and fears from the deepest part of Abigail’s mind, like a poisonous miasma that threatened to stifle her current confidence and poise. Just as well that she was not likely to have any more contact with the woman.

  At nearly twenty-one she was an adult. She would never again allow anyone to reduce her to a helpless victim.

  Without warning, the memory of that night when she had been most helpless, the subsequent plans to jump into the Thames to end it all, crashed in on her like a tidal wave and she gasped for air. After taking several deep breaths she managed to reassert control over her emotions. It was over, and she was no longer that foolish naïve girl. She was mistress of her own fate now.

  Her eye fell on the newspaper with the article about Milla. Mistress of her own fate, indeed! Not even Lord Barton, who had appeared to her as the epitome of the secure, confident nobleman when she had danced with him that time at Almack’s, was secure from society’s malice. Despite his wealth, title and connections he was as human as she; a person with feelings, who could be hurt. Yet he had done nothing at all deserving of censure. He was one of the few men of integrity and goodwill that she knew
. He had rendered Abigail great services – saved her life, in effect. Too bad that it was not in her power to repay him, to protect him from this undeserved slur upon his good name.

  The more she thought upon it, the more she felt the injustice of the paper’s insinuation. As though Lord Barton had engaged in that duel for any frivolous reasons! Fenton had been trying to murder Northcote, Susan’s husband. Neither Susan nor North could have enjoyed a secure existence as long as the man was alive. As for Abigail herself, the knowledge that the monster who had so brutally ruined her was no more had been a balm upon her lacerated spirit. It might not be Christian to rejoice in the death of one’s mortal enemy, but it had been only natural.

  Lord Barton would still feel guilty at having taken a life, she suspected. He was not as indifferent as he liked to pretend out of pride; he would have lost sleep over the killing, as necessary and just as it had been. Had Fenton not shot at an unarmed man, one of his opponent’s seconds, proving even at that moment how unpredictably dangerous and deranged he was?

  Abigail had been slightly acquainted with Lord Fenton before he lost all common sense, before that sick obsession with her friend Susan, and even then she had disliked him. The Viscount had barely noticed her existence. She had only been a nuisance, a nonentity in his eyes. Well, now he was dead and buried, and she was still alive and healthy, with luck for many years to come.

  Yet was he not still ruining her life by forcing her to forego all thought of marriage? Before he had forced himself on her, that horrible night, she had expected to be a wife and have children one day. Her father had spoken of grandchildren to spoil now and then … she could have been a good mother. Fenton had robbed her of the possibility without even noticing, like stepping on an insect in his path.

  It was not just the fact that no man wanted a wife who did not come to him pure and untouched. Lord Barton had known the truth, and yet offered for her. At the time, the very thought of submitting to a man again, of suffering that horrible pain and helplessness had been utterly abhorrent. Her body was hers alone, no man should ever again defile it.

  But happily married women did not think of it in those terms, did they? They might complain of their husbands’ excessive appetites, sometimes in an almost boastful way – as a wallflower Abigail had entertained herself with her sharp hearing, and caught many things not intended for her innocent ears. Susan had never spoken to her of the details of the marriage chamber, but between the lines of her letters Abigail gathered that intimacy with her husband was something she actually welcomed and enjoyed. Might it have been like that for her too, had she never crossed Fenton’s path?

  But even if she married after all, she might not be able to have children. That miscarriage she had suffered after the accident had been extremely painful and she had very nearly died. If a normal birth was even half as bad, should she risk it?

  No, her decision to put all thoughts of marriage and intimate relations aside was still right. She had to believe that. Even if it meant giving the dead Lord Fenton too much power over her life. The villain was already threatening Milla and Susan, without even counting Susan’s husband and others affected tangentially, such as Lord Barton. Was he capable of ruining three women’s lives from the grave?

  It was not a comforting reflection.

  Chapter 11

  Expecting Hendrickson’s first report, Jeremy asked Barnaby to join him in the study. Presently the tall man was ushered into their presence. His countenance was noncommittal, and Jeremy’s hopes sank.

  “I concentrated on the late Lord Fenton’s servants,” the agent began, “since in most cases the upper servants know everything there is to know about their masters’ lives. By asking around the more exclusive agencies for domestic servants I managed to track down Fenton’s valet, who is now working for Lord Breemcote in the same capacity. He was willing enough to talk to me for a small consideration, but had no idea who Chatteris might be. I do not think the valet is involved in this matter; he struck me as an honest and harmless fellow. Fenton had let him go within days of the incident with the kiss and slap – when your sister, my lord, chastised him. The valet felt the humiliation keenly, it was the main subject downstairs at the time. Fenton was becoming so erratic in his moods at the time, with frequent unmotivated rages, that his valet was glad to leave. Especially as he did receive a good character and ten guineas.”

  “I see. That was the period when I could not find Fenton, to call him to account for the insult to our sister,” Jeremy recalled. “He must have feared the servants would talk. Did the valet have any suggestions regarding the other servants? Who was especially close to Fenton?”

  “None that he could think of, Sir. Fenton kept his staff at a distance and did not encourage them to make personal remarks. He was not fond of anyone in his household that the valet could recall. Most of them, including the butler, are working for the new Viscount now.”

  “What about a mistress? A valet might know of that part of his master’s life,” Barnaby suggested.

  “Fenton had kept an opera singer in the year before his death, but that was over when he started his pursuit of your sister, Lady Susan Winthrop.”

  “Lady Northcote now,” Barnaby corrected.

  “It would have been out of character for him to leave anything to a former lover, the valet thought, but I got the name, Lorena Lawrence. She is currently Sir Andrew Armistead’s mistress.”

  And who knew how many others had enjoyed her favours in the interval, Jeremy reflected. She sounded like the kind of woman he had pursued for a time in his callow youth.

  “After interviewing the valet I did briefly talk to Miss Lawrence’s maid,” Hendrickson went on, “but came to the conclusion that any involvement of the singer in this matter is highly unlikely, because her parting from Fenton was quite acrimonious. He threw Miss Lawrence out of the house he had been renting for her in the middle of the night, when he discovered she had shared her favours with someone else.”

  “I see. After that, it would be a miracle if he left the woman a single penny,” Barnaby said.

  “We know he was angry at women in general, and considered all of them deceitful. This experience with Lorena Lawrence may well have contributed to his attitude,” Jeremy speculated. “Fenton would never have suspected that his own character contributed to the series of disappointments. This only adds to the likelihood that the mysterious Chatteris is male.”

  “Just so,” Hendrickson concurred.

  “Have you identified any likely suspects from that afternoon when you followed Lady Fenton in the park?” Jeremy asked.

  “No, but I am more and more of the opinion that the person we seek is not known in society under the Chatteris name. Thus he may have been any of the gentlemen who approached Lady Fenton that afternoon.”

  “How many were there?”

  “At least thirty, and a similar number of ladies.”

  “Is the widow as beautiful as the paper claimed?” Barnaby wondered. “I really must see her for myself.”

  “She is one of the most beautiful women in London, I should think, Sir.”

  “Then why did she have the poor taste to marry a villain like that?”

  Jeremy snorted cynically. “Whatever her reasons, she is a wealthy widow now, after her oldest brother had gambled away her dowry. Her birth is respectable, and but for this slanderous article she might easily find a new and even more advantageous match.”

  “You think she is that mercenary?” Barnaby asked. “When she is so young and pretty?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “My dear fellow, all girls are. They have to be, since the law gives the estates and power to us men. Do you suppose for one moment that a girl like Miss Ro – I mean, a typical debutante, would look at me without my title and money? If I were a half-pay officer without prospects, their doors would remain firmly closed.”

  “It is the way of the world,” Hendrickson agreed, nodding his big head. “Only very rich women can afford to look for more than se
curity in a spouse.”

  “No wonder you are reluctant to wed, with such an attitude,” Barnaby said. “I believe you paint women with too broad a brush. They have to look out for their own and their children’s security, of course, but that does not prevent them from falling in love, and choosing with their hearts among several eligible suitors. And even you, Jer, have met rejection from what you told me – so there must be one woman out there for whom security and a title are not the paramount considerations.”

  “Let us return to the subject of Mr. Hendrickson’s report.” Jeremy felt unwilling to engage in such a personal discussion in front of the agent. “What are the next steps you propose?”

  “I shall check out the club and gambling establishments you named, to see if anyone called Chatteris is known there. And maybe it is a family connection after all. Unfortunately there are not many relations left. There might always be some illegitimate half-brother, though by all accounts the fifth Viscount was an honourable and highly respectable man.”

  “Even those can slip, one time is all it takes,” Barnaby said. “Surely the servants would know? Perhaps there is something in the fifth Viscount’s will that would point in the right direction. An honourable man of his wealth would have provided for a by-blow.”

  “I shall look into that possibility,” Hendrickson promised. He rose and bowed to Jeremy. “I regret that so far I have not found any real trace of this elusive Chatteris. The moment I have more positive news, I shall report it to you.”

  “Very well,” Jeremy said. “We’ll let you know when Chatteris sends another note.” It went against the grain, having to wait for a move from his opponent.

  Could the newspaper article causing him so much aggravation also be inspired by Chatteris? Was he that malicious? If he was trying to avenge Fenton, then he had certainly found an effective way to go about it. Jeremy suggested the possibility to Hendrickson, who nodded morosely. “If the fellow was keeping an eye on Lady Fenton, that might explain how he caught you in his net, my lord. But there is no shortage of other gossips in London, including the staff of the hotel. If it was Chatteris, an anonymous note is the most likely way he went about it, which would not help us much. But I’ll see what I can find.”