by Jude Knight
Aldridge, though, was assuring Rose he had a basket full of kittens, or a pair of puppies, or a pet bear cub. She just laughed at him, telling him that the care and feeding of such a menagerie would be to his cost, and not hers.
Hugh couldn’t reconcile Rose’s speech, the cut of her garments, her grace, her manners, with the way she earned her keep. She was unlike any light-skirt he’d ever known.
She threw him off balance, and Aldridge did too, presenting him as if she were not a harlot and he not a peer of the realm.
She acted as if she were a lady, but she was a whore as much as any brassy painted strumpet who offered her wares to all comers in a bawdy house or the street. However much she might ape her betters in this tasteful parlour, whatever Aldridge said.
“What am I supposed to call you?” he asked, and could have bitten his tongue. He was never this graceless.
“Mrs Winstanley,” Aldridge said, looking over his shoulder, “and if you choose not to behave, Overton, you can leave right now.”
“Mrs Winstanley,” Hugh said.
Aldridge nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the woman. “Do you not think Sarah would like a pony?” he asked, clearly wanting to continue his game.
From behind his back, Hugh glared at this female who did not know her place.
Hugh enjoyed the visit to Astley’s. Not so much the performance as the reactions of the little girls. Their excitement was contagious, cheering the riders, gasping at the trick riders, and laughing at the clowns.
One of the riders could be a twin of Mrs Winstanley, with the same cornflower blue eyes, the same even features and porcelain skin. Red hair, rather than dark, but otherwise, uncanny. She showed a lot more skin than Aldridge’s mistress, and her legs set Hugh fantasising about what he could do with the woman’s acrobatic skills.
Mrs Winstanley, whom he treated with punctilious courtesy, in imitation of Aldridge, looked like a virtuous woman. He wondered if her legs were as long and shapely as the rider’s. He would bet ten guineas that Aldridge had taught her some acrobatic tricks.
He caught himself, embarrassed to be thinking such things in the presence of innocent children.
Damn Mrs Winstanley. He would not feel guilty about his lust. True, she’d successfully played the lady all evening, giving him no excuse for his inflamed longings. But why should he not imagine bedding a woman who sold her body?
He definitely needed another brandy. Two. No, three.
After the show, they went for a birthday supper at Merrick’s—the highlight, a tower of iced cupcakes decorated with pink sugar flowers—and then home, dropping the guests one at a time, shedding carriages from the convoy, until the coach with Hugh, Aldridge, Mrs Winstanley, and little Sarah was the only one left.
It dropped them at the little girl’s apartment, and the grooms then took it home to Haverford House, a few streets away.
Aldridge, eyes bright and grinning like a fool, instructed Sarah to shut her eyes and guided her into the parlour where he had left his present.
“Keep them closed, keep them closed,” he said, as he retrieved two wrapped parcels, and propped them on the sofa in front of her.
“Now, Sarah,” he said, kneeling at her side, and the little girl opened her eyes.
Beautifully mannered, as she had been all evening, Sarah curtseyed her appreciation, then hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Lord Aldridge.”
“Open them, Princess,” he urged. “They’re yours. I chose them myself, but the lady in the shop wrapped them. Do you like the ribbon? She said you would keep it for your hair, so I chose two different colours.”
Anyone would think the child was Aldridge’s own. Just look at him, watching anxiously as Sarah carefully untied the ribbon and unfolded the fabric Aldridge had chosen for the wrapping.
The child’s calm self-possession fractured in the face of the doll and her wardrobe.
“Oh, I love her! Look, Mama! Look how beautiful she is. Look at all her clothes!”
Hugh looked. The mother, bending over her daughter, exclaiming over the doll’s articulated arms and legs, and its wardrobe. And the child, her mother in miniature. Identical heart-shaped faces; identical dark hair, tied back but with tiny curls left loose around their foreheads; identical porcelain skin and cornflower blue eyes fringed with dark lashes.
So beautiful.
So intent, eyes full of love for her daughter, like statues of the Madonna he had seen in Catholic Italy, before he sold out.
God, he needed a drink.
“Aldridge?” Aldridge was smiling fondly at his mistress and her child. “Aldridge, is there any brandy in the house?”
“Not here, Overton,” Aldridge snapped. “Just wait a bit, can’t you?”
Of course he could. It didn’t bother him at all to see this kept woman, this harlot, bent lovingly over her daughter. It didn’t bother him that she stood up to him—a head taller, a man, and an aristocrat—to protect her daughter. When his wife, damn her, had ignored her daughters, regarded them as disposable pawns in her campaign to be the mother of a peer. It didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t.
“I’ll meet you back at Haverford House,” he said. “Miss Winstanley, my felicitations on your birth anniversary. Mrs Winstanley, my thanks for a pleasant evening. Aldridge.”
“Overton?” Aldridge stopped him in the hall.
“I have to go, Aldridge. I can’t stay here and watch you playing at happy families with your whore. I just can’t.”
Aldridge bristled. “Keep a civil tongue, Overton.”
“Your friend, then. Your dear, intimate friend.” He didn’t try to keep the sneer from his voice.
“Prig,” Aldridge said, but without much heat. “Go, then.”
Overton took his hat and coat from the waiting maid, and let himself out the door. He carried with him the wounded look in Mrs Winstanley’s eyes. Would he have spoken so, had he realised she’d followed her lover—her keeper—to the hall? He tried to shrug off his sudden pang of shame. He’d only said what was true. How dare she be hurt!
Hadn’t they passed a tavern two streets back? Surely they had.
Whatever they sold, he was drinking it.
Chapter Nine
“Go after him,” Becky said.
Aldridge hesitated. He’d planned to walk Becky home to the town-house and spend the night. But Overton was in a bad way. Aldridge had seen the stricken look in his eyes.
“Go after him,” Becky said again. “He is heart sick, Aldridge. He needs his friend.”
Overton ‘needed’ a swift boot to the rear, the way he talked about Becky. Though, it wasn’t like him to be cruel. The man was surprisingly prudish, given his amorous exploits, but Aldridge had never doubted his essential kindness. Something was very wrong with him tonight.
“Go,” Becky insisted. “I’ll stay here tonight with Sarah. And I’ll be here, or at the town-house, when you’ve finished your disgusting bet, sobered him up, and sent him home.”
“You heard about the bet?” He winced a little at the word ‘disgusting’. He couldn’t disagree.
“It is in the papers, Aldridge,” she said. “Go after your friend, my dear. I don’t know what is haunting him, but go to him.”
She was right. He couldn’t leave Overton alone, tonight of all nights.
Aldridge, always circumspect in Sarah’s presence, contented himself with pressing her hand as he kissed her cheek.
“Thank you, Becky. You’re a wonderful woman.” Then, to Sarah, “Goodnight, Princess. I’ll see you soon.”
“Goodnight, Uncle Lord Aldridge. Go and look after the sad man.”
He saluted Sarah’s cheek, too, and gave the long plait of dark hair an affectionate tug. She was more like her mother every day.
As he’d expected, Overton had made it no farther than the tavern a couple of streets over. “What are you drinking?” Aldridge asked, sliding onto the bench beside him.
“Don’t know,” Overton said, sinking a
nother from the line before him. Three gone, five to go.
Aldridge had a sniff. Gin. Probably illegally distilled on the premises. Rot gut, certainly.
“Let’s go home and get into my brandy.” Aldridge suggested, putting his hand over the poison. Overton knocked it out of the way and downed another, roaring like an aggrieved bear when Aldridge sent the last four crashing to the floor, juniper fumes rising from the spreading puddles.
Aldridge knew he wouldn’t move. If anyone tried to carry him, he’d fight every inch of the way. Best to let him drink here, then drag him out unconscious. But at least Aldridge could make sure he drank decent brandy. Even if he didn’t appreciate it, Aldridge would. The tavern keeper, who had come at the noise, was happy enough to accept a gold guinea for his trouble and a bottle of his finest.
Overton was touchingly grateful. “You’re a good friend, Aldridge. You stick by a man. Share the best. Good friend.”
Aldridge poured a glass of the brandy the innkeeper brought and inhaled the bouquet. Much better. He handed the glass to Overton, who took a revoltingly large swallow.
“She’s beautiful, Aldridge.”
Aldridge didn’t have to ask who; everyone who met Becky had the same reaction.
“Very beautiful.” He poured himself a brandy. Where was Overton going with this? His comment about sharing had better not be related.
“Loves her daughter, doesn’t she?”
“She does, Overton. That little girl means everything to her. And I would kill to protect either of them.”
Overton waved off the implied threat, shaking his head. “Not going to hurt them. Secret. You told me.” He lifted his glass again, this time sipping rather than gulping. “Good stuff, Aldridge. I needed a drink.”
Aldridge refilled the glass. If his oldest friend in the world needed to talk, the least Aldridge could do was listen.
“Polyphemia didn’t.”
Aldridge must have looked blank, because Overton explained. “My wife. Polyphemia. She didn’t love her daughters. She died, you know.”
Three years ago this very night. “Yes. I know.” To his shame, he’d not gone to Lancashire when he heard, reluctant to leave Becky and knowing he couldn’t take his newly acquired mistress to visit his newly bereaved friend.
Overton was following his own train of thought. “She didn’t want to marry me, you know. Said I was ugly. But Pankhurst didn’t leave her anything and no one else offered. So she traded her proven fertility for my title and money.”
“Is that so?” What else could a person say to such a revelation?
“Wouldn’t let me bed her, except in the dark. Wouldn’t let me bed her at all that last year. Except the one time... But she was with child, of course.”
“Was she?”
“Mmm. Needed me to think I was the father.”
Aldridge tried to fend off further revelations. “Shall we go back to Haverford House, Overton?”
“I did, too. So happy, Aldridge. Thought I couldn’t, you see.”
Couldn’t what? “I’ve heard from a lot of women that you can, Overton.”
“I can plough well enough. I like ploughing. But I can’t sow. No Overton heir. No Overton bastards, even. Lying bitch. Lying whore. I wanted to believe her, Aldridge. I thought the doctors were wrong. ‘Look,’ I told them. ‘I got my wife with child.’”
Overton would regret these revelations in the morning. Aldridge regretted them now. He filled the man’s glass again. Perhaps he would pass out and stop talking.
Not just yet, though. He cradled the brandy, staring into it as if his wife’s image were floating on top.
“I was in London. You remember, Aldridge. You were here, too. ‘Plenty of time’, she said. ‘Go to London. You can be back before the baby is born,’ she said. ‘Women’s business.’ Lying bitch.”
He said nothing more for several minutes, just sat and swirled his brandy meditatively. Aldridge relaxed. Perhaps the soul-baring was over.
But no such luck. When Overton spoke again, in a quiet voice that carried no further than Aldridge’s ears, the drunken slur was gone, as if his memories had burned the alcohol out of his brain. “I went home early, when you and I argued. Anyway, I missed the girls. And I was worried about my wife. She seemed—she was huge when I left, and Crawford’s wife had just had twins.
“Besides, we had children to think of. Not just the new baby, but Pankhurst’s girls. And if we could have one baby, perhaps there would be others. I wanted to mend the marriage. Well, build a marriage, really. What we had was a contract. But we could do better than that, couldn’t we?”
“Mm hmm,” Aldridge mumbled, hoping the noncommittal sound conveyed sympathy and support, and didn’t sound too much like a whimper. He topped up the man’s glass.
“The midwife was with her when I returned home, and things were not going well. I rode for the doctor, of course.”
“Of course.”
“A six-month baby, she told the doctor. I saw the midwife shaking her head, but I didn’t understand.”
So, Overton’s baroness had tried to tuck a cuckoo into the Overton nest. Aldridge made another noncommittal sound.
Tears rolled disregarded down Overton’s cheeks.
“Something was wrong. The baby was in the wrong position, or too big. They told me to stay downstairs, but she was fighting this battle for me. I had to be there.”
“You did,” Aldridge agreed, desperately wishing something would stop Overton mid-confession.
Overton gave no sign of hearing. “She was screaming with pain. Cursing me. Cursing some other man, too. John something. I didn’t understand, didn’t really listen. She was half out of her head.
“Then the doctor and the midwife... something changed. They managed to move the baby. They said it would soon be over. I tried to reassure her. I don’t remember what I said exactly. Something about her being brave, and we’d soon have our son or daughter. I told her I was grateful.
“She screamed at me. Everyone in the house must have heard her. In the village, likely. I should be grateful, she said. Did I know how hard it was finding someone as tall as me to give her a boy since I was only half a man? And it had better be a boy, because she wasn’t going through all that again.
“It was a little girl, Aldridge. I didn’t care. The doctor put her in my arms. I loved her the minute I saw her. If she had lived, I would have loved her as my own.”
“She died?” Stupid thing to say. He knew the baby had died, and the mother, too. But the woman’s betrayal cast a new light on why Overton never talked about them.
“No. Not then,” Overton said. “Polyphemia didn’t either. She tore, and she bled. It took them a long time to stop the bleeding, but they did it. Everyone heard, though, Aldridge. The doctor. The midwife. The servants. They knew what she’d done. The whole household knew. Even if she’d said nothing... I’ve seen six-month babies. I am not as big a fool as my cheating wife clearly thought.”
He emptied his glass and held it out for Aldridge to pour another. “Grace... I named her, because Polyphemia wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even look at her. Grace was born at term, and nine months before she was born, I was at sea on my way back from Jamaica.”
“Ah,” was the best Aldridge could do.
“What was I to do? Divorce her? I had the evidence. But then what would become of the girls? I said nothing. I didn’t even speak to her—didn’t go to her room. When she wouldn’t feed Grace, I found a wet nurse. When she wouldn’t see Sophie and Emma, I made excuses, told them she was tired, but she’d send for them soon.”
Overton lapsed into silence again, sipping his brandy. Aldridge knew it wasn’t over, though. The deaths of his wife and child sent Overton into a bottle for weeks every year. And Aldridge was now going to have to sit and listen to how they died, and keep making ineffectual noises. Perhaps the roof would collapse, or the tavern would catch fire.
After several minutes, Overton took up the tale again, calm voice adding another lay
er of horror to the bitter tale. “Three days later, she called for the baby. I was glad. I thought perhaps we could work it out. We could have, couldn’t we Aldridge? We could have tried, at least, for the girls? If she’d waited?”
Aldridge tried not to shake his head. Unlikely. In his experience, a treacherous bitch remained a treacherous bitch, no matter how much she swore reform.
Overton wasn’t paying attention, staring blankly at his glass. Suddenly, he thumped it down on the table and, in a wail that attracted the attention of everyone in the tavern, asked, “Why did she have to take Grace? Why?”
Overton rose with his voice, emphasising the last anguished question by shaking Aldridge’s lapels, then collapsed again, huddled beside his friend, weeping.
Aldridge patted him awkwardly, glaring at the rest of the patrons until they turned back to their own affairs. Overton was going to hate himself in the morning. If he remembered. May the gods of drink and debauchery wipe it from his memory. Aldridge was only sorry he was too sober to forget. He took a long draught of brandy.
“She drowned, Aldridge. She and Grace both. Walked through the house, down the stairs, across the lawn, and down to the lake. And just kept walking. No one stopped her. No one even saw her until it was too late.”
Perhaps another sip of brandy would loosen the tightness in Aldridge’s throat. It was worse than he expected. Far worse.
“I’m so sorry, Overton.” How inadequate that sounded in the face of such grief.
Overton misunderstood. “Why? You aren’t John.” He frowned, staring at nothing, clearly thinking this over. His tale told, the illusion of sobriety was fast abandoning him. “Might have been. You’d swive any man’s wife. But she never met you. Wouldn’t mind raising your son, though. I like you, Aldridge.” He wouldn’t in the morning, when he realised how much Aldridge now knew.
“You should marry again, Overton. Have a couple of sons for the barony.”