A Baron for Becky

by Jude Knight

  On Saturday evening, Lord and Lady Overton went to a dinner party at the home of the Earl and Countess of Chirbury, where Anne (as she insisted they called her) introduced Becky as ‘a friend of mine from the Southwest counties. Her daughter and mine are of an age.’

  On Sunday, they attended church at St George’s, in company with the Chirburys. The Duchess of Haverford herself greeted them outside, showing her public approval of the new wife of her son’s best friend, even presenting Lady Overton to His Grace, who was making one of his rare appearances at Sunday services.

  Aldridge was not at church, but in the park, riding with his chère amie, as a husband scornfully pointed out to a wife who thought she saw a resemblance between the new Baroness Overton and the Merry Marquis’s Rose.

  Later that day, Aldridge and his mistress strolled in the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall, in plain view of half the ton, and Lord and Lady Overton attended a musical afternoon at the home of Mrs Wakefield, a protegée of the Duchess of Haverford.

  On Monday, the Overtons, after a quiet day at home, joined the Chirburys in their box at the opera. Aldridge, in his own private box with the infamous Rose of Frampton, caused something of a stir when he and his mistress passionately embraced halfway through the second act, then left the theatre abruptly.

  By now, a number of people had noticed the resemblance between Lady Overton and Rose Darling, but that they were two separate women was beyond doubt.

  On Tuesday, the Duchess of Haverford held a ball, and Society held its collective breath to see the Merry Marquis meet a lady who looked so like his mistress. They were disappointed. Beyond a certain possessiveness in the way the baron put his hand over the one his wife nestled in the crook of his arm, and the laughing bow with which Aldridge acknowledged what nearby onlookers whispered was a refusal to dance, the three were clearly well acquainted and on good terms. And the baroness did not dance that evening, so nothing could be made of her not dancing with Aldridge.

  On Wednesday, they met again, this time in Hyde Park. It was, of course, scandalous of Aldridge to bring his mistress there at all, especially at the most fashionable time of the afternoon. But what else could one expect of Aldridge, and didn’t Mrs Darling ride well? She moved as if she and the horse were one.

  She wore a riding dress in her signature powder blue, cut close to her curves, with a deep scooping neckline. A jaunty top hat with a veil perched on her pile of dark curls, and the dress was draped to show neat boots that hugged shapely ankles.

  Lady Overton, by contrast, wore an afternoon dress and redingote in shades of rich deep red. She had been wearing jewel colours all week: red, deep blue, a rich emerald green. There was, beyond a doubt, a surface resemblance between her and Aldridge’s doxy, but Lady Overton was every inch a lady.

  Aldridge tipped his hat to his friend and his friend’s wife as he rode past, and onlookers noticed that the lady did not seem to be offended when the mistress grinned cheerfully and waved a hand. Not at all high in the instep, Lady Overton. A good sort. Society was inclined to approve of anyone so clearly sponsored by its grandes dames, and Baron Overton was well regarded (except his occasional excesses, which most blamed on Aldridge) but Lady Overton was fast winning supporters on her own modest and charming merits.

  What happened next, nobody quite knew. Something spooked Mrs Darling’s horse; that much was obvious. It bolted. Bolted so suddenly and so fast that Aldridge, whose attention had been on the Overtons, was seconds late in responding.

  In moments, horse and rider disappeared into the trees, with Aldridge in hot pursuit. The park erupted in a collective gasp when a low branch swept Mrs Darling from the horse.

  The Overtons were among the first on the scene, and Lord Overton persuaded the distraught Marquis to allow the still, broken body to be lifted into the Overton carriage. Aldridge insisted on taking his mistress to Haverford House, and servants were sent running for any doctor who could be found.

  Three of them arrived in quick succession, and together they examined the body and pronounced it dead. If they thought the injuries inconsistent with a fall from a horse, none of them mentioned it, even to one another.

  Naturally, no one at a nearby workhouse hospital linked the disappearance of a body with the death of the Marquis of Aldridge’s mistress. Why would they? What had a low street prostitute, beaten to death by a client, to do with goings on in the upper echelons of Society?

  The following day, the Overtons left for their estates in Lancashire. Aldridge, reportedly deeply affected by the death of his mistress, did not come to see them leave.

  Two days later, Aldridge walked behind the coffin at a small private funeral. His half-brother, David Wakefield, was the only other mourner. Afterwards, Aldridge thanked him for coming. “It’s the least I could do,” David said. “After all, I found her for you. Poor girl. That coffin is the most luxury she has ever known.”

  Elsewhere, at the same time, Christiana O’Blair, formerly an equestrienne in the employ of Astley’s Amphitheatre, stood at the rail of a ship with the horse trainer who was her husband. The docks of London disappeared into the fog.

  “Don’t you go missing that high life, Chrissie,” said the husband.

  Chrissie tossed her head. “It were fun for a few days, Charlie, but it ain’t me. All that gossiping and such, and the screechy music, and that there Marquis? Spoilt, he is. Thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and so he does.”

  “If he tried it on, Chrissie, I’m going straight back to London to knock his head off.”

  Chrissie made a face, poking her lips out in distaste. “Nah. That’s not to say he wouldn’t have, if you know what I mean. But I’m a married woman, Charlie, and so I told him. And if any of that was in the plan, then it was no deal, I told him.”

  “It’s a rum deal, and that’s a fact.”

  Chrissie looked alarmed. “You won’t say nothing, though, Charlie? You promised.”

  Charlie laughed. “And lose the money his nibs is going to pay us right and tight every year? Not likely. With what he gave you, and what we’ve saved, we’re going to have us a stud farm and horse training school, Chrissie, my love. And in a land with no Marquises and such sniffing ’round another man’s woman. No. He’s got what he wanted, and you and me, we’re going to get what we want, and no mistake.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  3 months later, Lancashire

  Becky knew from whence the letter came before she took it from the salver. The Haverford seal embossed the heavy wax, and the Duke of Haverford had franked it. She held it to her nose for a moment; she had a better sense of smell when pregnant, but would have recognised this scent even without the extra boost of her condition.

  She levered herself to her feet to go to her desk, refusing help offered by the hovering butler. She still had four or five weeks to go, according to the local midwife and the very expensive accoucheur Hugh had brought up from Liverpool, but she felt enormous. Surely she hadn’t been this big and awkward with Sarah?

  The servants would have wrapped her in cotton wool if they could. Hugh, too. She smiled at the thought of her attentive husband. She was so happy, so very, very blessed. It was a heady thing to be treated as a lady, a person worthy of respect.

  And Hugh, who would be home from his week in Liverpool this very day, he seemed content too. It was simple enough to keep a man satisfied. All she had to do was make sure his house was comfortable, his daughters cared for, and his needs met. And this letter would help, she was sure.

  Her letter opener made short work of the seal. She unfolded the letter carefully, and laughed. No economies for Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. Three sheets were covered with her small, elegant hand. Becky scanned them quickly. Most comprised instructions, admonitions, and suggestions about her pregnancy.

  Several lines brought her up to date with news on Aldridge, who was—so the duchess said—well and about his usual activities. ‘And still wearing that ridiculous arm-band, my dear Rebecca, which I cannot
like, though whether that is in memory of his mistress or because of the sympathy it wins from woman, I would not like to venture a guess.’ Becky snorted. She did not have to guess.

  Ah. Here is what she sought. She read quickly, her smile broadening. But this was perfect! Hugh would be so pleased, and so would the girls. And Miss Wilson, Sarah’s governess, who had come as a favour to Becky and Aldridge but was anxious to begin her promised retirement before the first snow.

  She began a reply. She wouldn’t send it until she had spoken to Hugh, but needn’t waste time.

  A footfall behind her announced her husband an instant before his hand came over her shoulder and snatched up the letter.

  “Hugh!” she turned awkwardly in the chair. Her husband’s stormy face unsettled her. “Hugh? Is something wrong?”

  The storm faded quickly. His frown turned to puzzlement, and he nibbled at his upper lip as he read the first page of the letter, then turned to the signature. “The Duchess of Haverford?”

  “Who did you think?” Becky knew perfectly well what he thought. How could he? She had given him no reason to doubt her!

  “I... uh...” He shuffled the pages, shifting uncomfortably. He covered his embarrassment with a glare. “Why is the Duchess writing to you? Does she mention Aldridge?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Becky until this moment that they never talked about Aldridge. Never. And what a large oversight that was. He was supposed to be Hugh’s best friend, and had, in his own way, been a good friend to her, but in this house, he had ceased to exist.

  “She says he is still wearing a black armband and enjoying sympathy, presumably, mostly from women,” she told Hugh, trying to keep the hurt and anger from her voice.

  “That sounds like Aldridge.” He looked down at the letter.

  Becky took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm. Stay calm. “I wrote to the duchess to ask if she would find us a governess, Hugh. Miss Wilson only came for a short time, and it has already been three months.”

  “Oh.” His face flushed, and he shifted again from foot to foot, avoiding her eyes. Good. He should be embarrassed to think so ill of her. “I... can we start again, Becky? Can I go out and come in again and just pretend this never happened?”

  They should talk about it. She shouldn’t let him just brush it away. But she could not stay cross while he smiled at her, begging with his eyes. She smiled back and nodded, and he tiptoed to the door with ostentatiously large steps, trying to make her chuckle. Which she did, just to please him.

  Moments later, he poked his head around the door again. “Becky, my love, I’m home.”

  “Hugh, how lovely. You’re early.”

  “I finished early, and could not wait to see my lovely wife.”

  He’d crossed and was now kneeling beside her, his hand tipping her forward for a kiss. She poured all the love she was afraid to confess into that connection between them, opening her lips to his tender invasion, sucking gently on his tongue and sliding hers to explore his mouth in her turn.

  “And what are you doing here, Becky?” he asked, when they paused, both short of breath. “Writing letters?”

  “I have heard from the Duchess of Haverstock,” she told him, playing along. “Hugh, she has found us the perfect governess! All the accomplishments we were looking for, and just think, Hugh, she has a daughter almost the same age as Emma! I have been so concerned; I tell Sarah and Sophie that they must include her, but she struggles to keep up, and they do forget. Besides, three is an awkward number. However kind the older girls might be, Emma keeps getting left out, and they are not always kind, Hugh.” She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. But his face—the unscarred side—had gone cold and still. What had she done wrong?

  “It is unusual for a governess to be a widow,” he said, his voice even and expressionless.

  “She is not a widow,” Becky admitted.

  The frown was back. Hugh picked up the letter again, and this time scanned until he found the passage about the governess. “Becky, you cannot hire this woman. I forbid it.”

  The cold in Hugh’s voice crept into her own. “What is your objection, Hugh?”

  Let him state it bluntly.

  “You can ask? Becky, she’s from a seminary for fallen women! She has had a child out of wedlock! What is the duchess thinking? A woman like her isn’t fit to have charge of children! No decent person would even let her into their house, let alone near their family.”

  Dear God. All this time she had thought he accepted her, respected her. All this time, he thought... The cold seeped through her, touching her heart and turning it to a lump of ice.

  “You did.” Becky let the words fall uncompromisingly, stopping him in mid-speech.

  “Becky. No. I didn’t mean... Becky, you’re different.” Hugh looked bewildered. The benighted, stupid, arrogant lummox. “You didn’t want to... I mean, I’m sure you felt you had no choice.”

  “Felt I had no choice? Felt?” The cold flashed to heat so fast, the burn scorched through her veins. She was out of her chair more quickly than she had moved in weeks, stalking towards him so fiercely, he stepped back and fell, rather than sat, on the sofa behind him.

  “You are absolutely right, Hugh. I felt I had no choice. Is that what you think? That if I had just tried harder, I would not have fallen, and you would not have been forced to compromise your integrity to allow me in the same house as your children?”

  “Becky, you are being ridiculous.” Hugh tried to sound stern. “This is not about you. And you should not allow yourself to become so emotional. Think of the baby.”

  “The baby. Yes. Because this is about the baby. Of course. How could I forget?” Tears rose to her eyes, and she fought them back. Hugh would take them as further evidence she was overly emotional.

  She paced the room, trying to slow her breathing, ignoring Hugh’s struggle to find something to say.

  “Hugh, I have never told you how I came to be Aldridge’s mistress.”

  “I don’t want to know,” Hugh said quickly. “I want to forget it. I hate thinking that you were his before you were mine, that he was just the last in I don’t know how many. I cannot bear to think of it. Can we not just pretend it never happened?” He held his hands out to her again, but his eyes were still angry in a stony mask.

  She almost stopped. For her entire adult life, obeying the man who kept her had been her only choice. If Hugh wanted to pretend she had come to him an innocent, was that a bad thing?

  But he hadn’t finished. “I don’t want to ever hear you speak Aldridge’s name again,” he said.

  The rage flared incandescent again. “Aldridge,” she said, as though casting a curse. “He was my protector, Hugh. My buyer. Do you know what that means? Do you know how it feels? To be an object to be purchased, a body to be kept in a corner in case the owner might want to take it out and use it?”

  “Silence!” Hugh roared. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear it, I say!”

  She shouted over him. “You have to hear it. You have to, Hugh. I cannot live knowing you despise me. I cannot, I cannot.” It was no good. She couldn’t hold the tears inside any longer, and they flooded down her face, ripping deep, wrenching sobs from some hidden wound inside her soul.

  Suddenly, Hugh’s arms were around her and he guided her to the sofa.

  He cradled her in his arms as he patted her on the back murmuring, “It’s all right,” but it wasn’t. It wasn’t all right. And “There, there,” which meant nothing, but was somehow comforting. And “Don’t cry, my dear wife,” but she couldn’t stop. And “I don’t despise you, Becky. I don’t. I admire you,” but it wasn’t her he admired, and that was the problem. He admired a vision of Becky he had made in his imagination, and he didn’t want the real one. She cried still harder, and he kept patting and murmuring.

  She struggled to stop. Such crying couldn’t be good for the baby. And, at last, she managed to bring herself under control, with only an occasional shuddering sob still escaping
, however hard she tried to suppress it. Hugh’s anger had vanished, and his eyes held nothing but concern as he tipped her chin up to examine her face.

  “Is that better?” he asked, the smug, male statement nearly setting her off again.

  “I have to tell you, Hugh. And you have to listen.” She was determined. For three months, she had been living in a fool’s paradise, believing the feeling between them was growing respect, even affection. If he wouldn’t face all she had been, it was a mirage.

  Hugh shook his head, and her heart sank, but he wasn’t denying her. “If it is that important to you, Becky. But first, let me get you a cup of tea.”

  He brought the tea trolley himself, and with it a bowl of warm water and a flannel to wash her face.

  “Becky, this isn’t necessary. I... I have come to terms with what you were. You don’t need to... I know you must have... I daresay you thought you loved the man who...”

  “I was raped,” she said, baldly, stopping him mid-sentence. “I was 15, Hugh. By just a few days. The three sons of my father’s employer... they took turns to rape me while the other two held me down and gagged my screams.”

  There were no tears now. She had cried for that poor, brutalised child more often than she could remember. Yes, and for what came after.

  “The youngest son was just a year older than I, and the only person who was ever kind to me. After my mother died, I was so lonely. My father was librarian to... the Master, I’ll call him. And tutor, sometimes, to his sons, when they needed extra help with their studies.

  “We lived in our own apartments above the Master’s library. After Mother died, Father left me there alone, most of the time, except when he needed my help in the library. I was allowed in the garden and our apartments and the library. But I wasn’t to go into the rest of the house.

  “Benjamin used to talk to me sometimes, in the library or the garden, and I started looking for him. I was a child, Hugh, starving for company.