Winthrop Trilogy Box Set

by Burnett, May

  “He is definitely a fool, or he would not be doing this,” Abigail said. “If he were even marginally honest or sensible, he would have approached us openly, with a copy of the will, negotiated a price, and handed over the original for the money. We could have been done with the whole thing days ago.”

  “Maybe he’ll come to his senses and do that after all, if tonight’s attempt fails. But before I go back to bed, how did your evening go? I expected you to return earlier, before I did. Does the theatre not end before midnight?”

  “It was interesting but nerve-wracking,” Abigail confessed. “All those curious eyes on me made my skin crawl. I closed them out by focusing on the play – that was fascinating, and I plan to attend another one at the first opportunity. We came back so late because we had a long supper at Lord Branscombe’s invitation, and he quizzed me for hours about my ancestors.”

  “Did you tell him about the highwayman?”

  “No. I do not know the Earl well enough yet.”

  “Generations later a hanging should not matter,” Milla said. “Most families have black sheep. I strongly suspect that I am one of them.”

  “Nonsense. You could hardly surpass your eldest brother’s iniquity, the one who squandered your dowry.” And had ended his worthless life with suicide, leaving his younger siblings impoverished, but Abigail would not allude to that.

  “I own I am looking forward to the day when I can enjoy the theatre too,” Milla admitted. “But it probably won’t be with you. As soon as we have recovered the will and destroyed it, I shall take a residence of my own, and hire another companion. You have to look to your future with Lord Barton now. I am grateful for all you have done over the past years, but we knew it would not be forever.”

  “Say not more, please. This engagement is by no means set in stone, Milla. There is a better than even chance that nothing will come of it in the end.”

  Milla frowned. “Don’t tell me Barton had the nerve to ask you to agree to a sham engagement? I would not have taken him for such a cad.”

  “No, no, of course not. The problem is on my side … he needs an heir, Milla. I am not sure I can give him that, as a consequence of that carriage accident I suffered. It ruptured something inside.” That much was true enough; Milla had no need to know she had suffered an almost fatal miscarriage.

  “Oh. At the time, I was rather busy with other things.” Milla looked almost guilty. “I am sorry to hear that. But there is never any guarantee, is there? Many people marry with utmost confidence and still produce no children. Just wed him and hope for the best.”

  “He would grow to hate me if I did that, knowing about the potential problem.”

  “If he does, he is not the right kind of husband in the first place.” Milla laughed a little bitterly. “Listen to me, dispensing matrimonial advice after marrying Fenton for his money and position!”

  “It may not have been the right thing to do,” Abigail said bracingly, “but you are still young, and have the chance to do better the next time.”

  “Unless these rumours can be scotched, I doubt that very much. So, when are you going to know for sure if you can marry Lord Barton? How will you find out?”

  “I need to consult a physician. I am sure there are specialists here in London, but it is awkward for me as an unmarried female to make enquiries.”

  “I see how it would be,” Milla murmured. “Maybe I can find out for you. From a widow such a question would be far less shocking.”

  “If you could discover the direction of a suitable man, I would be grateful.” Though she already dreaded the actual occasion. “I would go under a false name, of course, as a wife or maybe widow.”

  “We can alter one of my dark dresses for you. I won’t need them much longer, after all. You can take one of the veils too.”

  “Thank you.” Milla, whatever her other qualities, was admirably pragmatic. “The sooner the better, I do not want to let Jeremy dangle in uncertainty. And the longer this engagement lasts, the harder it will be to break things off.”

  “If he allows you to break it off, he is not the man I take him for.”

  “You don’t understand. Lord Barton’s – Jeremy’s - first obligation is to his family name, he is responsible for the continuation of the Winthrop line. He must on no account endanger that objective. And he is not the kind of man to be overcome by blind passion, just as I am not the sort of woman to rouse strong passion in any man’s breast. We understand each other.”

  “That sounds awfully lukewarm to me, Abigail. Are you sure you would not prefer Rob after all?”

  “Rob needs an heir even more than Jeremy, as he has no younger brothers,” Abigail pointed out. “There is no possibility of my ever marrying Rob. If I find I cannot wed Jeremy, I shall remain a spinster for the rest of my days.”

  “In that case, I hope you can bring yourself to have him. Is Barton aware that a quack is going to decide about your future together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good luck, is all I can say. Both of you are going to need it.” Milla delicately smothered a yawn, reminding Abigail of the lateness of the hour.

  “I’ll let you get back to bed, then. Good night.”

  “Good night … God, I hope they catch that villain Chatteris while we sleep. I want to crush him like a flea.”

  “Happy dreams of that, then.” Abigail closed the door softly behind her.

  Chapter 18

  Both Jeremy and Barnaby joined them for breakfast a little after ten. As Lady Cirrell preferred to take this meal in her boudoir, they could speak freely whenever the servants were not in the room. Unfortunately the news was not good, though at least the money had been recovered. After watching the Church till four o’clock, Barnaby and Hendrickson had retrieved the heavy bag and returned it to Branscombe House.

  “The fellow never showed up,” Barnaby told them with understandable ire. “He must have been waiting until the church was completely empty. After more than two hours Hendrickson signalled to his men to retire, and we were all watching the two doors of the Church, but no luck.”

  Abigail was not too surprised. Chatteris must have realised that it was a trap. How would he react now? By publishing the will, handing it to the late Lord Fenton’s legal firm? Or would he ask for money yet again, and bring his own decoys to the handover?

  “Just how bad is the effect going to be if the, um, letter becomes known – if Chatteris gives it to some muck-raking paper, for instance?” Barnaby asked. “Maybe it is not so very terrible.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Milla dashed his optimism. “I have read what must have been the rough draft, and it stated unequivocally, in crude terms, that he’d had carnal knowledge of your sister. Who would have thought it of the saintly Lady Susan?”

  “Fenton was lying.” “It is not true,” Abigail and Jeremy said at the same time.

  Milla shrugged. “I don’t see how you can be so positive, but it hardly matters, does it? We have just had a demonstration how quickly society will believe the worst. That Susan is highly regarded will just add to the titillation. I suspect people love to talk scandal of those they know and respect, even more than about strangers like myself.”

  “There is something in that,” Barnaby conceded. “We simply have to ensure that this document is found and suppressed –,” as the butler entered with a fresh teapot, he smoothly changed to, “And what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I was going to invite my fiancée to walk in the park with me.” Jeremy smiled warmly at Abigail. It was blatantly unfair. How could she ever set him free if he smiled at her like that? One could so easily become accustomed.

  “Right now? Very well, I’ll get my hat and pelisse when we are done.” She added a spoonful of scrambled eggs to her plate.

  “I need to talk to my banker, and make some enquiries regarding other matters,” Milla announced. Barnaby immediately offered his escort and carriage.

  She hesitated before accepting. “If
association with me is so scandalous for your family, Mr. Winthrop, maybe it would be best if we are not seen in public together – again, I mean.”

  “It is just that Jeremy shot your husband. I was far away at the time, and nobody can suspect me of conniving at his death,” Barnaby said bluntly.

  “And Susan would want you to look out for her sister-in-law,” Abigail added. “In the absence of Lord Northcote, your brother. It is a pity you have so few relatives, Milla.”

  “When I consider my eldest brother, I am not so sure of that,” she muttered. “Very well, Mr. Winthrop, I accept your assistance.”

  Abigail stole a look at Jeremy’s face. He did not seem particularly pleased at this arrangement, but said nothing. Was he worried about his younger brother succumbing to Milla’s charms? As far as birth and age went, they would have made a perfectly suitable match; but with her current wealth and title Milla was hardly likely to be interested in a younger son. If Barnaby lost his heart to her it might well get broken.

  It was not her role to interfere. Barnaby Winthrop was older and more experienced than Abigail, and would have to take his chances.

  The butler returned. “Are you at home to Lord Fenton, my lady?” His voice expressed disapprobation of a visit at this ungodly hour; it was barely eleven.

  “Do let him join us,” Abigail said, and Milla nodded. “Unless you think your aunt would disapprove, Jeremy? Does she know him?”

  “I have no idea, but Barnaby and I have met Fenton the other day. By all means bring him to us.”

  The butler withdrew, and within the minute ushered Rob into the room. The Viscount bowed punctiliously to the ladies, who welcomed him as an old friend.

  “Hello, Fenton.” Jeremy greeted him more cordially than Abigail would have expected.

  “I did not think to find you here,” Rob said to the brothers, “though after that notice in the Morning Post, it should not surprise me. My felicitations, Barton. That was fast work.” He sounded a little chagrined. She had never encouraged him – there was no reason why Abigail should feel even the slightest twinge of guilt.

  “Thank you, but Miss Trevelyan and I have a long previous acquaintance,” Jeremy said easily. “I am indeed a very lucky man.”

  “And I am glad, Milla, that you and Miss Trevelyan have left that hotel, and are now residing here,” Rob continued. “Just as I advised.”

  “That was not why we moved,” Milla said sharply. “It simply happened.”

  “My mother will also be pleased to hear of it,” he went on. “I was planning to ask her to come up and offer you the hospitality of our home as soon as it becomes available, but she does not like travel.”

  “Then we must all be happy that it is not necessary after all,” Milla replied with a dangerous glitter in her eyes. “Your solicitude is noted.”

  Rob ignored her ire. “The rumours have not quite died down, but I believe a few more days should suffice. As long as there is no new incident to excite the wagging tongues.”

  Barnaby had been watching Rob like a hawk, but relaxed when he saw that there was nothing lover-like between Milla and him. “It would be best if some other scandal occurred, to divert their fickle attention. Scandals tend to arrive simultaneously. All is quiet when you could use a distraction, and then four or five exciting things happen all at once.”

  “Indeed, you fashionable denizens of London must be leading very exciting lives,” Rob said drily. “In the country we only hear of the most egregious scandals, days or weeks later.”

  “Unless something happens in the countryside,” Abigail pointed out. “Then they will talk of it forever, to the next generation and beyond. I like both the countryside and the city, but neither offers respite from gossip and rumour.”

  “As Jeremy’s wife you will alternate between town and country, so it is just as well you like both,” Barnaby said. “I am almost as happy as my father that you have consented to become a Winthrop.”

  Abigail thanked him, but his kind words only added to her unease. She was deceiving so many people … but it was likely mere politeness, and he would say the same to any other young lady Jeremy chose. In the meantime she had best get ready for that walk.

  ***

  In the late afternoon, Milla handed Abigail a note with the names and directions of three physicians. “The first one, Sir Rowland Rockley, is the most expensive, and the most sought-after,” she commented. “You will notice he has been knighted. He has attended members of the Royal family on various occasions.”

  “Then he may not give an unknown patient an early appointment,” Abigail said uneasily.

  “I don’t know about that. His fees are so substantial that not many will be able to afford him.”

  “Perhaps I should try one of the other two first.”

  “I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment with Sir Rowland for tomorrow afternoon at four, as Mrs. Pettering, but if that is how you feel we can always send a message to cry off.”

  “Tomorrow? So soon?” Abigail felt more reluctant than ever to have a strange man prod at her body, but it might be best to get it over with and know the truth, one way or another. “I suppose you are right, and he does sound very distinguished. Thank you, Milla.”

  “However distinguished, he is taking your money for a service. Don’t let him intimidate you, Abigail. Do you want me to come with you?”

  Milla’s money, really, and the fees would painfully cut into Abigail’s small reserve of cash, but that could not be helped. “No, my maid will be enough. You are too well-known. If Sir Rowland sees us together he could guess at my own identity.”

  “He may well meet you at some point in the future as Lord Barton’s fiancée or wife,” Milla warned. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yes, I do,” Abigail insisted. A doctor was supposed to be discreet, wasn’t he? Even if he encountered her under her true name, he was not supposed to give her away. Yet she was putting her reputation, Jeremy’s name – if they married – in the hands of a total stranger. A slight uneasiness remained.

  Her apprehension only increased as she arrived at the physician’s consulting rooms in her borrowed widow’s weeds, her maid trailing her. She had explained to the woman that she needed the consultation to deal with occasional pains in her abdomen; her maid had wisely shaken her head and told Abigail that home remedies were best for that, and what could a male doctor possibly know about a woman’s private parts? But she had promised discretion easily enough, and hardly blinked at the false dress and outfit. She had borrowed Milla’s wedding ring for the occasion, as an essential part of the deception. Abigail hated lying and subterfuge, but sometimes one had no choice.

  She paid the fee to a taciturn clerk and was kept waiting in a room furnished in dark wood and olive wall paper. As there were no other patients present, she removed the veils. Her hands were cold and trembled slightly.

  “Are you all right, Miss- err, Ma’am?”

  She nodded tersely, glad that nobody else was present to catch the servant’s slip. The minutes dragged on.

  “Mrs. Pettering?”

  “Yes.” She rose to follow the clerk into Sir Rowland’s consulting room.

  The physician nodded at her perfunctorily, without getting up from the big chair behind a huge desk. He was in his late fifties, his shaggy hair more white than grey, and his pale eyes were covered by glittering pince-nez. Sir Rowland gestured her towards a far less comfortable, hard wooden chair that stood facing the desk.

  “Sit, Ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I had an accident and miscarriage. That was about two years ago, shortly before I was widowed.”

  “How long after conception?”

  That was easy to calculate, as there had only been the one occasion. She suppressed a shudder at the memory. “Not quite four months. The carriage overturned on a steep slope. I lost consciousness for a long time – more than an hour – and woke in a nearby inn to heavy bleeding, and ferocious p
ain.”

  “Yet you seem well recovered, Ma’am. What brings you to me now?”

  “I am contemplating remarriage, and need to know if I can still have children.”

  “How long were you married earlier, and how soon after your wedding did you conceive?”

  “Not long,” she said, her lips feeling cold. “I conceived right after our wedding night.”

  “A short marriage, then.” Was that suspicion in his speculative gaze, or was her guilt at all those lies making her overly sensitive? In any case, it was none of his business. She merely wanted his medical knowledge, not his moral judgement.

  After some questions regarding the regularity of her monthly courses, the nature of the bleeding and duration of the pain he told her to lie down on a raised, hard table. At least there was a small pillow supporting her neck and head. Reluctantly she raised her petticoats and skirts, allowing Sir Rowland access to her body.

  He began palpating the area above her pubic bone and to the sides with a cold metal stick and his fingers. It hurt a little, but though the physician saw her wince, he did not stop or say anything. After a while he told her to re-arrange her clothes in a stern voice.

  Was the ordeal over? She waited in trepidation for the verdict.

  “Mrs. Pettering, from your information and the result of my own examination, it is impossible to say for certain if you are still fertile. From what you have said I would put the likelihood of carrying a healthy child to term successfully at about thirty percent. In other words, it will likely be harder than for other women, but not hopeless. But it may be rather more dangerous to you than before the accident.”

  “I wanted a large family,” she whispered, as she tried to absorb this news. Just what did it mean? Why could he not say yes or no, one thing or another? Maybe she had been naïve to expect a definitive answer.

  “There is perhaps a forty-percent chance that you are completely infertile, after that accident,” he went on inexorably. “A large family is unlikely. On the positive side, you have recovered from what sounds like near-fatal blood loss, and your general health now appears to be satisfactory. You should be able to undergo the intimate duties of a wife without problem, as before.”