“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Aashini said soothingly. “It was a horrid shock and he is an intelligent man. That is the last thing you need to fret over.”
Matilda nodded, but found in her heart, the marquess’ opinion was the only thing that mattered at all.
***
Three days later, Matilda had settled in at her brother’s home, with a heavily pregnant Alice fussing about her as if she was the one who need looking after. Matilda had been welcomed with open arms and genuine pleasure, and realised how much she had missed them both. It seemed foolish now to have stayed away, afraid she might feel resentful for their happiness and joy at the imminent arrival of their baby. Yes, she wanted that for herself, with all her heart, but never could she begrudge their obvious contentment in their new lives together, especially as they so clearly wanted her to be a part of it.
To her surprise, an invitation arrived on the same day from Helena, who was staying just a few miles away with her uncle, Baron Fitzwalter. The baron was giving a dinner and had allowed Helena to invite some guests of her own. Nate, Alice, and Matilda were duly invited.
“Oh, but you must go,” Alice insisted that morning at breakfast. “You’ll have little enough society here now that I am confined, but I insist you take what opportunities are presented to you.”
“But I’ve only just arrived,” Matilda protested. “How awful of me to go gallivanting about when you can’t come too.”
Alice gave an impatient eye roll. “What nonsense. I’m quite content, indeed I feel like a cow put out to pasture,” she said, giving her belly an affectionate rub before reaching for her third bread roll and liberally pilling it with butter and jam. “Besides, Nate won’t leave me, so I’ll have company. It’s you who must go alone, I’m afraid, but it sounds as if you must keep an eye on Helena, if Minerva’s worries about her interest in Mr Knight are sound. I’ve heard the most shocking stories about him. Affairs with married ladies and all sorts of wickedness. He’s a member of Hunter’s, you see, and Nate knows him. He says the man is a dreadful libertine. He also says he intends to marry a lady of quality, to help him get a foothold in society.”
Matilda narrowed her eyes at Alice, who returned a beatifically innocent smile, knowing full well that Matilda hadn’t known Mr Knight would be there, nor that he was such a dangerous prospect, and she’d now have to chaperone Helena who had a reckless streak a mile wide.
“You… are sneaky and underhand, Alice Hunt. No wonder my brother loves you so much.”
Alice snickered and batted her eyelashes at Matilda.
“I don’t know what you can mean,” she said with a straight face, and bit into her roll with relish.
Chapter 9
My Lord Marquess
I will never know how to repay you for what you have done…
Have I misjudged you so badly…
I cannot stop thinking of you…
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to The Most Honourable, Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu—never completed.
7th February 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.
“Good morning, Mrs Norrell.”
“Miss Fernside,” the woman said, smiling broadly. “We didn’t expect you until this evening.”
“I know,” Jemima replied, pleased to be made to feel welcome. “I came to see you. If that’s all right?”
“Oh!” Mrs Norrell looked rather taken aback and then beamed at her. “Well, of course it’s all right. I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” Jemima said, laughing at her. “I’ve come to wrest the recipe for lemon pond pudding from you by any means necessary and I don’t mean to leave without it. I even brought a bribe.” She lifted the basket she carried and Mrs Norrell gave a delighted bark of laughter.
“As if you need to bribe me. It’s yours and gladly. I’m only pleased you enjoyed it so much.”
“It was heaven in a bowl.”
Jemima gave a genuine sigh of pleasure as she remembered and followed Mrs Norrell to the kitchen. Although fitted with all modern conveniences, the kitchen showed clearly how things had been centuries past, with thick stone walls and a lintel over the fireplace so large she wondered how it had ever been hoisted into place. The air was warm and scented with delicious things that made her stomach rumble in anticipation.
“So, what’s in the basket?” Mrs Norrell asked with obvious amusement.
Jemima reached in and brought out two bottles. “My very own blackberry wine,” she said with a touch of pride. “And if I do say so myself, it’s very good.”
“Oooh,” Mrs Norrell said, her eyes lighting up. “That sounds just the thing for these cold nights. Keep the chill out, it will.”
“Oh, it will,” Jemima promised, grinning.
“Have you tasted the Major’s peapod wine yet?” she asked, taking the bottles and putting them away. She then bustled about the kitchen making tea.
“How did you know I had any?”
Mrs Norrell snorted and put a plate of queen cakes down on the table. “He gives it to everyone. Lethal, it is. There’s more than one marriage in these parts that’s been put down to the Major’s wicked brew. Help yourself to cakes.”
“Heavens!” Jemima laughed and did as she was told. “Lethal indeed. I shall have to try it….”
She blushed as the implications of her words sank in. Mrs Norrell gave her a kindly smile.
“It would do him the world of good to marry you, and I hope such a thing may come to pass. You’ll get no complaints from this quarter if you manage it, however it happens.”
“Oh, but I wasn’t… I’m not….” Jemima protested, mortified now.
“Hush!” Mrs Norrell rolled her eyes as she hefted a large brown teapot over to the table. “I know you’re not. I’m only saying good luck to you if you do. He needs a good woman, someone to bring him back into the world. I think that woman could be you, but I know well enough what a stubborn fellow he is. Honourable and loyal to a fault, but to all the wrong people for all the wrong reasons. Not that he can see it.”
She sighed and shook her head before concentrating on pouring the tea.
“What do you mean, he’s loyal to the wrong people?”
Mrs Norrell’s face set in a frown. “Not my place to say, miss. I’ve said too much as it is. You must winkle the story out of him yourself. Milk?”
Jemima nodded and accepted the cup handed her, pondering this. She liked Mrs Norrell very much, and was glad for her kindness, but she could not deny she’d also come to find out more about Solo. He was so reluctant to share anything of himself. Oh, he’d speak for hours about his family history, or that of The Priory, and he was very entertaining too, but any mention of his own past and he changed the subject with such speed it made your head spin. She’d spent another night here since that first one, cuddled in his lap as he told her the exploits of long-dead relatives. Although anticipation and desire simmered between them, he’d made no move to touch her. In all honesty, she wasn’t certain if that pleased her or not, as she burned for him too. She felt far more at ease with him now, though, which had obviously been his objective, and one she was more than grateful for.
“You said before that he’d been engaged. You didn’t like her?” Jemima asked, well aware that she was fishing but unable to stop herself.
There was a derisive sound of contempt from Mrs Norrell, who folded her arms across her ample bosom and scowled.
“I did not.”
Jemima bit her lip, desperate to find out more. “Why?” she asked, wondering if she was about to get her head bitten off. One thing was clear about the staff at The Priory, they were just as loyal as their master appeared to be, and fiercely protective of both his privacy and him.
She could almost see the struggle behind the woman’s eyes as she debated what to say. Jemima recognised her dilemma. She was clearly hoping for a romantic conclusion to their arrangement—one which Jemima was dangerously close to hoping for herself, even though it was beyond f
oolish—but she did not want to betray a confidence.
“I won’t tell a soul, Mrs Norrell,” she said, eager to sway the woman in her favour. “I… I only wish to understand him better. He said she refused to marry him because he’d killed her brother.”
To Jemima’s dismay, Mrs Norrell’s face darkened like an approaching storm and she surged to her feet, stalking away to the kitchen shelves. There was a deal of crashing and slamming of cupboard doors as the woman muttered furiously and Jemima didn’t move an inch, wondering what on earth would happen next. Would she be thrown out?
After what seemed to be an eternity of holding her breath, she dared relax a little as Mrs Norrell came back to the table and sat down again. She put a plate of ginger biscuits down too, and placed them rather than throwing them at Jemima, so she thought perhaps she’d been forgiven.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs Norrell. I ought not pry.”
“Oh, bugger that,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. Jemima’s eyebrows rose as Mrs Norrell leaned in, a confiding tone lowering her voice. “He never killed no one, and that miserable bitch knows it. I know I ought not say so, especially as she lost her brother, who was a dear, sweet soul. That much is true, but to make the poor man suffer so when she knows full well it was none of his doing… well, it’s wicked, pure and simple.”
“What happened?” Jemima asked, finding herself whispering and leaning across the table too.
“His lordship was injured at Sahagun in Spain in eighteen oh eight, and not for the first time, but it was certainly the worst. A dreadful battle, it was, miss. His lordship’s Dragoons defeated two regiments of French cavalry in the dead of winter, a night attack in heavy snow, it was, too. So many medals that man was awarded for that encounter, it would make your head spin, not that he’d ever mention them.”
“The villagers speak of him with something close to awe,” Jemima agreed, feeling a swell of pride herself. “They say it was his strategy that won that encounter but he refuses to speak of it.”
“Aye, that’s him, right enough.” Mrs Norrell gave an exasperated sigh and reached for a ginger biscuit, turning it around and around in her fingers. “Did they tell you he was shot in the leg at the beginning of the battle, but carried on? Never faltered, they say. No one even knew he’d been injured until the conflict was long done and all his men accounted for. Then he falls off his horse, dead to the world from loss of blood. He was taken to a field hospital and, at first, he seemed all right, demanding he be allowed to go back to his post, but then the wound got infected and he was out of his head with fever.”
“Oh.” Jemima felt her breath catch, her heart aching and something close to terror making her skin prickle. Strange, when it had all happened long ago, and yet he had been in such danger, she had been so close to losing him before they’d even met. She forced her attention back to Mrs Norrell who was speaking again.
“They’d got word by then that Napoleon was on his way and that they were dreadfully outnumbered. The lot of them had to retreat to Corunna. The journey was so bad and weakened him so much, they didn’t think he’d survive amputating his leg. Reckon they thought he’d die either way, so best to save him the pain.” Mrs Norrell’s expression darkened, but Jemima recognised the concern behind it, the worry she’d felt for him. “If he’d got it seen to right away, it likely wouldn’t have been so bad, but he’d never shirk his responsibilities that one, never let anyone down. The men under his command were his responsibility, every last one of them, and he’d have died for them. He’s always too quick to sacrifice himself, to do the right thing. He’d let no one else suffer for him, not while there was breath in his body.”
Jemima shuddered and put her hand over her mouth as she tried to comprehend the horror of what he must have gone through.
“Well, anyway. Miss Hoity Toity Hyacinth Jackson had extracted a promise from him to look after her brother, though a sillier fellow you never did see. A good-hearted lad to be sure, but a silly fribble who never ought to have been in the army at all. Lord Rothborn tried his best to keep him from signing up, worried himself sick too, but when the fellow wouldn’t be swayed, he vowed to Miss Jackson he would keep her brother safe. From all accounts, the young man was a good horseman but barely knew one end of a sword from t’other. How his lordship kept him alive as long as he did, I shall never know. Though I do know he kept the lad close to him at all times, protecting him. Once Lord Rothborn was laid up, though, his guardian angel was gone. Poor fool didn’t last the week.”
“Oh.” Jemima sat back in her chair, trying to take it all in.
“He’d been badly injured before that, though, more than once. All while keeping young Jackson alive, too. Another time, he nearly got himself killed with a bayonet. Got in the way of some fellow trying to finish off a fallen soldier,” Miss Norrell said, her voice low and reverent. “Not an officer, mind, just an ordinary serving man. How many other titled gents do you think would have done such a thing? Well, he’s a hero round these parts, not that you’d know it the way he hides himself away, like he’s ashamed to face the world.”
“Ashamed?”
The word hung between them, spoken with incredulity and mirrored in Mrs Norrell’s eyes.
“It kills him that he was sent home. Fought it tooth and nail, he did. Think it sent him a bit mad for a while, and he lost himself in a dark place. He read the papers, drinking himself into a stupor when he found names of friends and men once under his command who’d died while he was back home, far away from the war. Then, as if his guilt wasn’t heavy enough, that fiancée of his told him she’d not marry him because she couldn’t bear to look at the face of the man that condemned her brother to die. She blamed him, in no uncertain terms. He was in love with her, and that awful woman looked at his lordship, still bearing the scars of his own pain, and she sentenced him to a lifetime of guilt. She broke his heart, she broke him… and that… that foolish man swore he’d never marry to atone for his sins.”
Jemima felt her eyes burn as Mrs Norrell’s voice wavered. Oh, Solo. She’d sensed the pain in him and had assumed the war had damaged more than his leg, but to know a woman was responsible for his pain… Her heart ached, but it was more than that. Anger burned inside her. Perhaps it was understandable that a woman would lash out in the heat of the moment if her beloved brother had died. It was not right, but grief made people do and say things they did not mean. Yet to never recall her words, to never tell him she’d not meant it, that she knew it had not been his fault… that was sheer wickedness.
Hyacinth Jackson. Jemima burned the name into her mind. She would not forget it. There was likely nothing she could do, for she was a woman with nothing of her own, her reputation balancing on a knife’s edge, but she would not forget.
“Do you see, miss?” Mrs Norrell reached out a hand to cover Jemima’s. “Do you see why we are so happy to have you here? You’ve made him smile, made him take a moment to drag his head out of the books he loses himself in and look about him. You’re bringing him and The Priory back to life, and we’re grateful to you. So, don’t you go fretting about propriety. His lordship explained you was a lady, that things had been hard for you and we’re not about to judge you harshly. We’re too pleased to see the change in him, it’s so obvious a fool could see it, and I’m no fool, Miss Fernside.”
Jemima swallowed past the lump in her throat and squeezed Mrs Norrell’s hand.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it. When she had agreed to this scandalous proposal, she had assumed she would lose all her friends, but not only did it appear that would not be the case, she was finding new ones. It was more than she could ever have hoped for. “He makes me happy too, but I asked you to call me Jemima. I wish you would.”
Mrs Norrell huffed and blustered. “Well, it don’t seem right, a fine lady like you, but… well, there’s no harm when we are alone I suppose, if it would please you, Jemima.”
“It does please me.” Jemima smiled and Mrs Norrell gave a nod.
That settled, Mrs Norrell slid the plate of biscuits across the table to her. “Now, tuck in. You’re all skin and bone, and these biscuits won’t eat themselves.”
Chapter 10
My Lord Marquess
I felt I must write and thank you for everything you have done in exposing the appalling conditions in Mr Burton’s mills. I fear that when you came to bring me the dreadful news that day, I did not sufficiently show my appreciation. My only defence is that I was so terribly shaken that I hardly knew what to make of it and had no words to give you.
Please, my lord, would you inform me of what exactly is happening to those mills and all those who relied upon the work they gave? I understand some kind soul has set up a charitable fund giving provision for those injured, and for the families of those killed in such dreadful circumstances. I would be grateful if you could give me any further information, as I should like to contribute to any fund at the very least. I feel somehow responsible, for what I’m not exactly certain. For not seeing Mr Burton for what he was perhaps, or for not knowing the conditions those people were forced to work in? I cannot answer, but the guilt lays heavy and I should be glad to make amends.
I feel I ought to inform you that I received a letter from Mr Burton. I confess his vile language was upsetting and most disagreeable. He blames me in no uncertain terms for what has happened to him. He believes — well, I shall not, cannot write down his words verbatim. Suffice to say he holds me responsible for your ‘campaign to ruin him.’ For my part, I am glad for it. I am glad for all those you have rescued from such hellish conditions and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to The Most Honourable, Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.
The evening of the 7th February 1815. Hillcrest House, Otford, Kent.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 10