A Match of Honour (The Hartleighs of Somersham Book 1)

by Margaret Brazear

  He would help her if he could and she had jewellery to sell as well as the allowance her father always gave her. He said it was important that grown adults should have that independence, be they male or female. She should not have to explain to him why she needed money every time she wanted to buy something, no matter how frivolous.

  So much for that professed independence now. He had even tried to shame her into complying with his wishes, telling her it was his dying wish. That was a really low thing to do. But she could not comply and that was all there was to it.

  Her father had raised her and her two sisters to think for themselves and have that confidence. Then out of the blue, her half-formed plans had come to nothing. She was as good as being ordered to marry, with no say in the matter, after never taking her to court or even holding one at Somersham. She’d had no season, like other girls of her class, no opportunity to meet a suitable husband.

  Her father did that for his own benefit, because he did not want to be seen. He couldn’t stand for long since his accident and spent most of his time in a bath chair. But there were relatives she could have gone to, the Duchess’s relatives who would have presented her. She had only attended a few local balls and assemblies, accompanied by her mother and sometimes her cousin, Christopher, never by her father. After the accident which crippled him, he preferred to stay at home and his family respected that choice.

  Now it was all too late and he had the audacity to inform her she was to marry her cousin, a man her senior by just one month and one she thought of as a brother. Christopher’s attraction as a big brother figure had been enhanced when two years ago, he was arrested for grievous bodily harm against a village boy who was beating his dog. Christopher had stepped in and given the lad a taste of his own medicine and he had brought the dog home with him, causing a charge of theft to be added.

  Uncle George had bought his way out of that one, but Christopher refused to give up the dog, a scruffy, long haired mongrel with long legs and a warm tongue. That had cost more money, but it was worth it. They all came to adore that dog, all except the Duchess at least, and he had proved to be a wonderful addition to the family. But people hereabouts had been wary of Christopher ever since.

  He did have a quick temper, but he had never physically harmed anyone else and even then, he had a good reason. Certainly, no one in the family was in the least afraid or intimidated by him, even when he did lose his temper and shout a lot.

  His answer to this marriage proposal had not yet been given and Susan had no real idea of what it might be. At least he was being given the choice, the opportunity to refuse this ridiculous match. He was being allowed time to consider, time to think about things and that was not a situation she was pleased with. Had he been set against the idea, he would surely have stated it at once.

  So, he might yet decide the plan was sound and she, a female, would have little say in the matter. Of course, she could refuse. The law was on her side in that but her mother would certainly disown her. She would be separated from her sisters and not allowed to see them, lest she proved to be a bad influence. She would have no dowry to wed elsewhere and the disgrace would not be good for her father, whose health was already weak.

  It was only this morning she had been struck with this, like a great stone hitting her in the stomach, and she had retreated to her bedchamber to worry about it. Her mother had come to her there, had knocked respectfully as they always did in their house, although it seemed that respect was rapidly waning.

  “May I come in?” She asked softly.

  Susan lifted her head, glared angrily at the beautiful woman who was her mother, the woman she had always looked up to, admired, held in high regard. What had changed? She was still the same woman. She had always had an air of superiority about her, a snobbery which had caused a rift between the Duke and his brother, although Susan had always managed to secretly find her attitude amusing. She didn’t realise that her own attitude was often very similar.

  But now she found nothing to laugh about. Now she knew she was being forced into this union because of that superiority, because her cousin would one day be the Duke of Somersham and her mother wanted to be sure her daughter was his Duchess.

  Susan lay back down, stared at the ceiling and held back tears of frustration. She was a strong girl, not given to weeping for any reason, but her plans to hide her secret would come to nothing if Christopher should agree to this marriage.

  Her Grace walked swiftly to the bed and sat down beside her daughter, took her hand and gave it a slight squeeze.

  “Please do not be angry with us,” she said. “We want only what is best for you.”

  Susan glared at her even more fiercely, her mouth turned down. She no longer wanted to weep; now she wanted to slap the woman who sat holding her hand, and slap her hard. She had no idea what would happen if she gave way to such an impulse. Yesterday she would have known, but today her entire world, all her expectations of the people around her, had been turned upside down and she no longer felt that she knew any of them.

  “What else do you expect me to be?” She demanded.

  “It will be for the best.”

  “That is what I hear. Whose idea was this? Yours, or Father’s? I cannot believe it was Uncle George who thought up such a scheme and it most certainly was not Aunt Jane.”

  Veronica stiffened. The fond tone with which her daughter used her aunt’s name brought with it a stab of jealousy.

  “It was your father’s idea,” she answered.

  “I do not believe it. It was your idea, wasn’t it? You are the one who is so concerned that the Duchy stay with your blood line.”

  “I am sorry you feel that way,” Veronica replied. “As it happens, you are wrong. It was your father’s idea. He meant it when he said it was his dying wish. He does not have long and wants to be sure the estate is properly settled before he dies.”

  Susan’s head turned quickly to face her mother. Her anger could not compete with the idea that she might lose her beloved father. She knew his health was not good, but imminent death was a new idea.

  “Is that true?” She said.

  Veronica nodded; tears brimmed over her eyes.

  “I wish it was a lie to persuade you, but it is not. He wants only what is best for you.”

  Susan could have asked why he did nothing about it before, nothing to help both her and her sisters meet suitable marriage partners. She had heard that is how her parents met, although they had loved each other all these years.

  But he was dying; he was really dying and that changed everything.

  “In that case,” she said softly, “I will not be the one to cause him further distress. I want his last weeks to be happy ones. I will do whatever I can to comply with his wishes.”

  Even as she said it, she hoped that Christopher would refuse. No one was going to force him into a marriage he did not want; she was certain of that.

  “Thank you, Susan,” her mother said.

  “Can you go now, please. I have a lot to think about and I would really like to be alone.”

  ***

  Susan had formed a plan before all this; now she must be ready with a different plan, a scheme to fall back on just in case her cousin behaved out of character and did as he was told. She couldn’t go to London now, couldn’t be gone for months, not when her father was likely to meet his end any day. Even should Christopher refuse the match, for which she still hoped, she had to stay here; she could no longer run away and hide until it was all over. She had to think of something else.

  So, she had bribed one of the tenants to lend her a cloak and she had set out on a short walk, through the thick woods at the edge of Somersham land, passed the tree where her grandparents’ names were carved inside a heart. It was said they were devoted to each other. Would their grandchildren being forced into a marriage neither of them wanted be enough to call up their ghosts and make them interfere?

  Somersham Abbey was dear to Susan and marrying Christoph
er would allow her to keep it, it was true. No one else could do that for her and were it not for her present predicament, she might have been amenable. But she was fond of Christopher and had no wish to burden him. Also, the idea of sharing his bed seemed all wrong. These thoughts were irrelevant anyway, since whatever he was thinking now, if he learned her secret, he would most certainly not want to marry her. And when he inherited the title and became Duke and owner of the estate, which would not be long now if her mother was to be believed, he would turn her out to starve in the hedgerows.

  Christopher was very conscious of the family honour, more conscious than anyone else in the family. That was odd, when she thought about it, considering it was his mother who didn’t fit, his mother who was the piano teacher. Strange, she had never thought about it before, but she knew how much the family’s reputation meant to Christopher. Even if he did not accept a match with her, he would be furious if he ever learned her secret. He would be head of the family when the Duke died and her fate would rest very firmly in his hands. He would never forgive her, she was sure of it. He must not find out, no matter what the cost.

  That was why she was visiting the isolated stone cottage, deep inside the woods, and its solitary occupant of whom Susan had heard much, but never seen.

  She was not even certain the woman really existed. There were many rumours about her, that she was a healer, a herbalist who knew about medicines and love potions as well as poisons, even that she was a witch. The Duchess would never have allowed her daughters to visit such a person and had told them all that the woman disliked visitors and would put a spell on them should they invade her privacy. Susan was very scared, but she had to go through with her plan regardless. She could think of no other way.

  Now she pulled the woollen cloak closer about her shoulders to keep out the cold. There was frost on the ground among the trees, frost the sun could not reach and melt away, and when her head touched the wet leaves, they released their watery drops onto Susan’s hood.

  As she moved, she heard rustling, first behind her then from the side. She halted her steps and looked in the direction of the sound, but it stopped then and she decided it must be an animal or some sort of echo of her own footfalls. It was very quiet and eerie here in the woods and she was quite sure she was not alone, but what else could it be? There were no wolves in this forest, only deer and smaller creatures. It must have been one of those making the leaves move, making Susan’s heart pump faster.

  At last she saw smoke coming from the chimney of the little cottage. A few more steps brought the whole building into view, with its stone walls and its thatched roof. Her Aunt Jane had told her all about Polly, the old herbalist woman who lived alone among the trees.

  Susan had brought money as well as spices and meat from the Abbey kitchens and she gripped the handle of the bag in which she held her offerings.

  Her courage began to fail her as she drew closer to the little dwelling. She knew about Polly from her aunt and from listening to the talk in the village and the nearby town, but it could all be rumour. She shouldn’t care about the opinion of a peasant woman, but she feared the condemnation Polly might well have for her. She was so ashamed, she had known all along that she would rather curl up and die than have anyone know her secret.

  She slowed her step as she approached, wanting to get this meeting over with whilst at the same time wanting to turn and run back to the Abbey, confess all to her father, or Aunt Jane. She might understand; she was the only one who might.

  She knocked on the rough wooden door and waited for a reply, prayed the woman was home and not out healing someone. Susan knew she would never find the courage to come back. There was a creaking noise from inside, the distinctive sound of someone struggling to get out of her chair. Susan waited.

  At last the door opened and the woman gave a quick bow of her head, a submissive bow as though she knew who her visitor was. That was something Susan was not expecting. The old woman stepped back to allow Susan entry and gestured her to a chair.

  The cottage was surprisingly cosy, despite its age. There was a stone hearth and a chimney, obviously added long after the dwelling was built. It was warm enough though and had glass windows and a cooking pot simmering on the hot stones. There were two chairs and a table and in the far corner, a little bed which surprisingly had a feather mattress.

  Susan wondered about that. Perhaps it was her interest in it that caused her hostess’s response.

  “Lady Hartleigh gave it to me,” she said, her glance following Susan’s to the bed.

  “Oh. I am sorry. I had no intention of prying.”

  “Her Ladyship looks after me, just as your grandfather did.”

  Your Grandfather. So she did know who she was.

  Susan held out the bag containing her gifts. She had rehearsed this speech over and over in her mind, but now she was here, she had no idea where to begin. The words just would not come, as though they were stuck on her tongue with no way of finding their way out. What would the woman think of her? And why did it matter? But if her Aunt Jane, Lady Hartleigh, held her in high regard, then it certainly did matter.

  “I brought you some things,” she said at last.

  “Please, sit.” Polly smiled and took the bag. “You are very kind, My Lady,” she said. “The Hartleighs have always been kind to me.”

  “I came to…” the words refused to leave her, no matter how hard Susan tried. She began again. “I mean I…”

  “Don’t distress yourself, My Lady,” Polly said, reaching out and touching Susan’s knee with her gnarled hand. “I know why you have come.”

  “You do?” She nodded. “How? How do you know?”

  Terror crept into Susan’s heart. How could she know? Who had told her? There was no one to tell her, no one knew. Perhaps she had slipped up, perhaps she had not been as careful as she imagined.

  “I just do,” Polly said. “I know lots of things without being told. But I have to ask you, is there no other way? It is not something I am happy to do, not even for a Hartleigh. You would be better telling His Grace.”

  Susan was shaking her head vigorously.

  “I cannot do that,” she protested. “I discovered yesterday that he is very ill, much worse than I imagined. The shock of this might finish him and I would never live with myself. I am deeply ashamed to be in this situation and I have no excuse. But now they want me to marry my cousin so I am running out of time.”

  “And the father of the child? What of him?”

  Susan hesitated, unsure how to answer.

  “He was a summer of madness,” she said at last.

  “Does that excuse him of his responsibility?”

  At last Susan gave way to helpless weeping, to sobs she had held on to since the day she realised what she had done. Why did this strange old woman bring on this flood, when nobody else could? Perhaps it was just saying it out loud that was the cause.

  “Everything depends on my cousin’s answer,” Susan whispered through her tears.

  Polly pushed a small piece of linen into Susan’s hands, watched as she wiped her eyes and her wet face before she spoke again.

  “I have some herbs I can give you,” Polly said. “But you say it was a summer of madness? It is long past summer now; they might not work. It may be too late.”

  “I have to try.”

  “Why did you not come to me before this?”

  Susan swallowed.

  “I had another plan. I was going to go away, to London, to one of my cousins there. I was going to have the baby in secret and find it a good home. But then my father told me he wanted me to marry Christopher, because he will inherit the title, so I have no other choice.”

  Polly gave her a sympathetic smile, then reached out to the floor beside her chair where stood a little clay bottle. She already had this potion made up? Or was Susan’s request so usual that she always had such a thing on hand.

  Polly pressed the bottle into her hands.

  “You must
be sure to take this alone or with someone you trust implicitly. It will be painful and messy, but that will only mean it is working.”

  Susan got to her feet, felt her lip quiver. It had all seemed so easy when she only thought about it; now it was real and she searched her mind for another option. She could find none.

  “Will I be able to conceive again?” She asked shakily.

  “That is a question I cannot answer,” Polly said. “It depends on how complete the process is. I can say no more than that, only to beg you to reconsider. Lady Hartleigh will surely help you.”

  “The disgrace to my family would be too much. I cannot ask Aunt Jane to go against my father; it would be too dishonourable and then there is my Uncle George to consider. Whatever I do, my father is bound to learn of it and that will only hurry his end. I cannot do that, no matter what the cost.” She paused and wiped at her eyes with the cloth, clutched the little bottle closer beneath her cloak. “I will wait to see what my cousin’s answer will be,” she said. “If he refuses the marriage, I may yet be able to stick with my original plan and go to London.”

  That was what she wanted. David was a law student; he might well know the best people to find a good home to which to hand over the child and put this whole mess behind her.

  She reached out a hand to clutch at Polly’s arm and gave it a fond squeeze.

  “You will keep this to yourself, won’t you?” She pleaded. “I can trust you?”

  Polly smiled indulgently.

  “You can trust me,” she said. “I know more secrets than I have ever been told. None of them have ever left my lips.”

  Susan held back the remaining tears, bit down on her quivering lip and resolved to shed them when she was outside in the woods, when there was none to witness her humiliation but the creatures of the wild.

  ***