by Wilma Counts
“I had thought again of perhaps removing to the United States or to Canada,” she said tentatively.
“Out of the question,” Lawrence said flatly. “The boy must be educated as an Englishman.”
“Well,” Phillips said, “you might set up a household of your own, hire a companion, two or three servants, and a tutor for the boy . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I have funds enough for that?” She was surprised.
Phillips coughed. “You do now. I took the liberty of investing the funds Arthur left in the same cargo venture I talked Jeremy into. This is the first chance I have had to tell you.”
“You did this without consulting me?”
She had steered them to the wicker furniture where she often sat to read with Lady Elinor. She sank into a chair at the glass-topped table and waited for a response from Phillips, who seemed embarrassed as he and Lawrence took matching chairs.
“I—uh—well, you see, if it hadn’t worked out, I would have restored the funds myself.”
“Thus making me a charity case,” she said.
“But you would never have known. I—I thought of it as taking care of Arthur’s business—of his family.”
Kate reached to grasp his hand. “I appreciate that—truly, I do. And I know you had the legal authority to do it, but, all the same, I should like to have been consulted.”
“My wife said you would feel that way.”
“As Ned’s guardians, would you be amenable to my living independently?” Kate asked.
“Where?” Lawrence sounded skeptical.
“London, perhaps—or on the outskirts of the city. Some place in Sussex?”
“Ned seems very content here,” Phillips observed.
“Sussex is rather far away,” Lawrence said. “I don’t fancy a three-day journey every time I’ve a notion to visit my godson. And he will require the presence of some male in his life besides a tutor.”
“London, then,” she said.
They left it at that for the nonce, but Kate found herself as torn as ever. She was thrilled to know that she did have options. On the other hand, Phillips was right: Ned was very content. For the first time since leaving the army life behind, he seemed totally carefree and happy—as children should be, she told herself. He had access to horses and other animals that would be difficult to achieve in London. And he had playmates—in Cassie, of course, but also Porter’s younger children and there were others. Of course he might make friends anywhere. Still, Lawrence was right: A boy needed a man to emulate—and always, when such a thought hit her, it was Jeremy’s image that leapt to mind.
Accepting Jeremy’s proposal was, of course, a perfect solution so far as Ned was concerned. A part of her wanted to grasp at that remedy. Another part resented always being subject to the whim and control of others. And there was another factor to consider: Yes, marriage would serve her material interests, but would it really serve Jeremy’s interests? How damaging might a somewhat scandalous liaison be for him?
The day following what Kate thought of as their “down” day, the men had gone off on their own and were not expected back until evening. Kate and Lady Elinor were at home to visitors making morning calls in the afternoon. With her identity no longer a secret in the neighborhood, Kate was to be a fixture in the Kenrick drawing room whenever visitors were present, her position elevated to honored guest and affianced bride. Among the first of their callers was Mrs. Hartwick, accompanied by the elderly widow, Mrs. Clarkson, and her spinster daughter, Miss Clarkson.
“The Clarksons are two of the most dedicated gossips is our area—perhaps in all Yorkshire,” Lady Elinor confided quietly to Kate after telling Wilkins she and Kate would receive the ladies in the formal drawing room. It was larger and more elaborately furnished than the comfortable room the family usually chose. A marvelous ceiling painted by a well-known artist of the previous century depicted the gods assembled for the wedding of Thetis and Peleus just before the spoilsport Eris tossed the golden apple in their midst. The dominant colors in the brocade furniture and embossed wallpaper were beige, gold, and a deep rose. An Aubusson carpet had obviously been commissioned especially for this room.
“Oh, my dear Lady Elinor,” Mrs. Hartwick gushed on entering, “we simply had to call to see how you are getting on. So much excitement! A betrothal! An attempted abduction! One hardly knows how to begin to absorb it all.”
“May I present my guest, Lady Arthur,” Lady Elinor said, making the newcomers known to Kate.
Kate was amused at the intensity of the ever-so-polite inspection they accorded her. The Clarkson women turned matching dark, beady eyes on her. Mother and daughter, they certainly were, with the mother in her seventies and the daughter in her fifties. Both had long, sharp noses; each wore her black, graying hair in a no-nonsense bun; they were attired in nearly identical dark dresses trimmed with touches of white lace at the necks and wrists. Kate’s initial impression of curious crows was intensified by their shared habit of bobbing their heads as they spoke.
“Lady Arthur,” the three murmured acknowledgements in cultured tones even as they scrutinized her dress and posture.
Kate played the game for Lady Elinor’s sake, responding to inane comments about unseasonably warm weather and answering with a straight face that yes, indeed, she was enjoying her “visit” at Kenrick Hall. Or, at least she had done so until her son’s accident.
The visitors clucked sympathetically. “Such an unfortunate affair,” Mrs. Hartwick said, clearly anticipating juicy details.
Kate and Lady Elinor fed them the story concocted at the breakfast table that morning: It was all a terrible misunderstanding. Somehow the duke had got it into his head that Lady Arthur was trying to deprive him of access to his grandson. The duke, well-known to be a man of firm opinions and decisive actions, had impetuously taken matters into his own hands. Yes, yes. It was, indeed, unfortunate, for it might have been resolved in a most civilized manner. And now a man had died, the duke was injured, and there was to be an inquiry—just when folks at Kenrick Hall had been anticipating the joyous occasion of a wedding in the family.
This shift in subject brought an additional gleam of curiosity in Mrs. Hartwick’s eyes. She turned to Kate. “I must say, Lady Arthur, you have quite stolen the march on our local damsels.”
“Oh?” Kate murmured, all innocence.
“Quite,” Mrs. Clarkson echoed with a laugh. “After all, handsome men with titles are, as they say in the colonies, scarce as hens’ teeth. You have dashed maidenly hopes in many a heart.”
Her daughter added with an arch look, “And in none more than in that of a certain knight’s daughter who shall, of course, remain nameless.”
Kate ignored this sally. She had no wish to discuss what she knew or had heard of Miss Charlotte Mortimer’s designs on the Earl of Kenrick.
That first visit set the tone and pattern for the next two hours as it seemed every woman of any consequence in the entire parish had to see and judge for herself the figure at the center of a maelstrom of gossip. Kate endured and forbore making the caustic remarks that seemed to pop into her mind like a fisherman’s bobbing cork.
When the last of the visitors had departed after spending their conventional fifteen minutes, Lady Elinor said, “Tomorrow we must go into town and procure proper clothing for you.”
“What is wrong with this? Besides . . .” Kate swallowed the retort.
“ ‘Besides’—how do I know? My dear Kate, while my eyesight is certainly failing, it is by no means gone. I cannot read or do fine needlework anymore, but I still see colors and silhouettes. I’ll not have you judged by these tabbies.”
“I do not wish to expend my limited funds on buying new gowns.”
Lady Elinor held up a quieting hand. “Since this charade is largely Jeremy’s idea—if, indeed, it is a charade—he can stand the expense of a few gowns and dresses.”
Not wanting to discuss with his aunt or anyone else the nature of her relationshi
p with Jeremy, Kate said, “Well, if you think it absolutely necessary. . .”
“I absolutely do.”
Jeremy and Robert had taken their guests out hunting in the morning, then ridden into town for lunch at the inn. As the four men entered the establishment, Mr. Finley came forward, wiping his hands on his apron. A boy was adding coal to a low fire on the hearth.
“My lord, gentlemen. Have you come to check on the duke?”
Jeremy responded. “Actually we came for lunch, but how is he faring?”
Sending the boy to inform Mrs. Finley of paying customers, the innkeeper answered, “The duke is not well. Not well at all. Doc told me he is sure the paralysis is permanent, but he’s not yet told his grace that bit of distressing news. The patient does not seem to be in a great deal of pain, but he yells and complains something fierce—about simply everything.”
“I am sorry you and Mrs. Finley have been saddled with his care,” Jeremy said.
“Well, now, we haven’t. Not really.”
“Who. . . ?”
“That Cranstan woman and his grace’s valet. They see to his personal care.”
“Cranstan? Are you telling me the magistrate released her from custody?”
Finley chuckled. “No, my lord. He had the blacksmith attach a bracelet to her wrist; at night it is fastened by a chain to the oak post of her bed. She can get around quite a distance, but she ain’t goin’ nowhere. During the day she‘s allowed freedom of movement; she’s watched all the time, you know.”
“How does she take that?”
“As you might expect. Moaning and grumbling. But I think she’s real scared about what might happen to her.”
“As well she should be,” Robert said.
“Has she had visitors?” Jeremy asked.
“Not a one. Squire Dennison informed Sir Eldridge Mortimer of her whereabouts that first evening too.” Finley ushered his four guests to a table by the window.
“Interesting . . .” Jeremy murmured, but he let the subject drop as the four of them delved into Mrs. Finley’s shepherd’s pie and her husband’s local brew.
“I missed English pub food in the Peninsula,” Robert announced after a few bites.
“Amen,” Lawrence echoed.
“Didn’t find much of it on the American frontier, either,” Jeremy said, “though I must say an Arapaho feast after a buffalo hunt is an experience not easily forgot.” At the urging of his companions, he launched into a description of the hunt and the rituals before and after it.
“They actually smear paint on themselves? Everyone?” Lawrence asked.
“Everyone participating in the hunt.”
“You too?” Robert asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Yes. Of course. When in Rome . . .”
“I should like to have seen that,” his brother said. “Perhaps one day you can show us—say, for a masquerade in London.”
“Mr. Logan told us how he found you living among the savages,” Phillips said, “but he was of the opinion that you had managed to preserve a measure of the civilized man.”
Jeremy was dismayed at the direction the conversation was taking. “A masquerade? Never. That would be disrespectful of people I came to admire. And I rather take exception to the word savages. True, the style of life—nomadic, controlled by forces of nature—can be brutal, especially when judged by outsiders. But people are people. Things like honor and integrity matter.”
Phillips cleared his throat. “I meant no offense, Jeremy.”
“None taken, Wally. They are interesting people—the natives of America. But questions of brutality and savagery are wholly relative, it seems to me.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Phillips said, reaching for the pitcher to replenish his glass, then offer it to others.
“Well, think on it,” Jeremy insisted. “In England we have men—and women too—working twelve hours and more a day in our mines and mills. In the winter, a miner never sees the light of day. Their pay is so miniscule that the men have to have their women working too, and they must put their children to work when they are still babes—barely out of their nappies.”
“That’s true,” Phillips conceded.
“No Arapaho child would be forced to sort chunks of coal by size in some dank, dismal shed hour after hour after hour—walnut size in this bucket, apple size in that—the child himself rarely seeing a walnut, or an apple either—let alone something as exotic as an orange.”
“Ye gods, Phillips! You had to get him started, didn’t you?” Robert’s tone belied his words. “And don’t even think of asking his views on the penal system!”
Phillips grinned. “I must say debates in the House of Lords will be interesting once you take your seat there, Kenrick. You will let me know when you’re pitted against the likes of Eldon and Sidmouth, won’t you? The Whigs have a new champion! Those two Tories won’t stand a chance!”
“Whigs. Tories. Who cares as long as they do the right thing?” Jeremy said, shoving his plate aside and swilling the last of his ale. “Drink up, lads. We need to enlist the aid of the magistrate before we visit the Thompson farm.”
With the addition of the magistrate—Squire Dennison—five horsemen rode into the yard of the Thompson family home, a typical tenant farmer’s cottage by outward appearance, though this one seemed to house folks who left outward appearance to chance. Chickens ran free in the front yard, which was mostly bare of grass. Window boxes boasted only dead stalks of what might once have been geraniums. Weeds had taken over a fenced kitchen garden off to the side. A rusty hoe leaned against the fence and a weathered wooden bench sat near the door.
Two dogs of uncertain pedigree started barking as the five men rode up. Two children that Jeremy guessed to be nine or ten emerged from the cottage, followed by a toddler. A girl dressed in a faded blue cotton print dress stood next to a boy in homespun trousers and a shirt of the same faded print as the girl’s dress. They both seemed shy. The toddler wore a nappy and a short shirt. All were barefoot.
“Ma!” the boy called, holding one of the dogs by the scruff of its neck. “They’s some men here.”
A woman wearing a dress of the same faded blue print came to the door. Her eyes rounded in surprise at seeing five horsemen practically on her doorstep.
“My husband ain’t here,” she said nervously. “He’s down at the barn there.” She gestured to a building some fifty or sixty yards away.
“Perhaps you can help us, though, Mrs. Thompson,” Jeremy said. “I’m Kenrick and this is my brother and our friends. I think you may know Squire Dennison.”
She nodded and looked up at him with a tentative smile. She was missing a front tooth. “Yes. I remember you and your brother when you was just boys.”
Jeremy looked at Robert, who dismounted, took something from his saddlebag, and extended it toward the woman. “Do you recognize this cloth?”
Immediately the older children crowded close to her to see the item.
“Eh!” the girl blurted. “That’s a rag from Pa’s old worn-out nightshirt!”
“It might could be,” the woman said, her tone a blend of caution and suspicion. “It be pretty common goods, though.”
“Have you any other bits of that—uh—garment?” Squire Dennison asked.
“I—I ain’t sure.” Fear tinged her words now.
“Would you mind checking, please?” the squire asked. Given Porter’s report of how the Thompson men held a deal of animosity toward Kenrick people, Jeremy had agreed beforehand to allow the squire to take the lead in these initial questions.
Mrs. Thompson seemed to weigh her options, then shrugged. “Go get the rag bag, Tillie,” she told her daughter.
The girl returned with a bag the size of a small pillowcase and dumped its contents on the bench. “Ain’t much in here.”
Squire Dennison stepped forward and pawed through assorted swatches of cloth. “This piece seems to be a match.” He held a fragment of material from the bag next to th
e one in Robert’s hand. Jeremy dismounted for a closer look.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on here?” The shout came from a man running up from the barn. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. He was followed by a younger man in his twenties. They appeared to be father and son, though the son had a full head of hair and the father’s had been reduced to a fringe above his ears.
“Hello, Mr. Thompson,” Jeremy said in an even voice.
“What do you want here?” Thompson demanded.
“We are examining two pieces of woven fabric that appear to be remarkably similar, though one is clean and the other soaked in lamp oil,” Jeremy said, pointing at the rags in the squire-magistrate’s hand and in Robert’s.
Jeremy watched as the younger man’s face turned a sickly white and he moved as though he might bolt. Lawrence casually edged his mount to ward off Billy Thompson’s escape and the young man’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Two pieces of rags don’t prove nothin’ to no one.” Thompson spat at Jeremy’s feet. “Half the kingdom probably has some just like ’em.”
“That may well be true,” Jeremy conceded, “but my solicitor, Mr. Walter Phillips here,” Jeremy gestured at Phillips, who remained mounted, “and Squire Dennison assure me that this evidence, along with certain testimony from outside witnesses, would give us a very strong case if we were to go to court.”
“Oh, Alfred, no. No.” Mrs. Thompson had tears streaming down her face. Both children started to cry as well and the toddler, sensing the charged atmosphere, commenced to squalling until his mother picked him up and cuddled him with soft shh-ing sounds. When he quieted, she put him down again.
“You got no call to be accusin’ me and mine of—of anything. An’ what are you saying we done anyways?” Thompson seemed reluctant to give up his bluster, but there was a whine of fear in his voice as well.
“I think you know very well that we are investigating the fire that destroyed a portion of wool we had stored in the barns on the Kenrick home farm. My brother and I are convinced that you and your son are somehow involved.”