Marrying the Mistress

by Juliet Landon

  The rain had stopped in favour of blue sky and fluffy clouds pushed by a stiff breeze, bringing some colour back into the day. Our bargain had changed me too, though it was hard to say how except that I had reached another turning point, this time more permanent than any before it. My mother would think it was love at last, and she’d be delighted. And I dare say we’d be able, without too much effort, to convince her that she was right.

  * * *

  What had happened, however, was too important to be filed tidily away in a back drawer of my mind while I took on the day’s duties, and there were times when I ought not to have been staring blankly out of the bedroom window, or trying to part Jamie’s thick waves on the wrong side of his head.

  ‘Mama!’ he protested, clutching at the comb. ‘What on earth are you doing with me?’

  Mrs Goode, watching the process, tipped her head to indicate the problem, but her smile caught Jamie’s eye and their indulgence was like a warm hug. After that, there appeared to be a mutual understanding that the whole messy business of too many guests was rather beyond me and that they ought, out of kindness, to send me off on some less mind-taxing mission. Nana Damzell, said Jamie, should have his room, and he would sleep with Goody. And since the sacrifice meant so much to him, neither of us denied him. After a talk with Mrs Carson and Mrs Neape, my housekeeper and cook, I left to visit Prue whom I’d not seen since Monday.

  * * *

  Prue was not a demonstrative lady, but on this occasion she wept in my arms as I smoothed her back and tried to find some comforting words to say, which turned out to be very unoriginal. ‘Dear…dear Prue,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry. Is there anything I can do? There must be something?’

  ‘No, you’ve done more than enough, Helene. But thank you,’ she said, drawing away. ‘They were both very peaceful at the end, thanks to your help. They’re at rest now, thank God.’

  ‘Still together, Prue,’ I said, feeling the sting of conscience that I had not sent for the doctor sooner, when I ought to have done. Would it have made any difference? That was something we would never know.

  ‘Mother first, then Pop. Within the hour. After forty-four years.’

  ‘When will you…they…?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. St Thomas’s at Osbaldwick. They were born in that village, christened and married there too. Always went to St Thomas’s.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Did Mr Monkton visit them, Prue?’

  ‘Nay,’ she said with a huff of disapproval. ‘Not him. I sent a message, but he never came to see them. Too busy, I reckon. It’s only two miles beyond Walmgate, but young curates have more interesting things to do than visit their dying parishoners, these days. The undertakers are making all the arrangements for me.’

  ‘Let me pay for it, Prue. Please. I shall be there with you, and the staff, and I shall close the shop on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that. They’ll be very proud, will Ma and Pop.’ She blew her nose and straightened her white lace cap. ‘They were so weak, you know.’

  ‘Yes, love. Quite a few others have been taken in the same way.’

  ‘Aye. It’s been a wicked winter so far.’

  * * *

  I went straight from Lop Lane to the shop to inform the staff, and to warn them that on Friday we would all be attending the funeral. I stayed for an hour to design some morning gowns for Lady Mirfield’s seventeen-year-old overweight daughter, then returned home to find the place in the process of being rearranged, adjusted and turned upside down to find enough basic requirements for the invasion. What I had just heard about Medworth Monkton’s indifference to Prue’s request had both puzzled and shocked me, having always believed him to be the most diligent of curates. Could it have been Claude’s birthday party that had prevented him? If not that, then what?

  I had not been home above half an hour, spent stuffing pillows into cotton cases, when my footman came to say that Mr Medworth Monkton was downstairs in the drawing room, hoping for a few words with me. Which rather amazed me, considering that, in my mind, I had just been having a few well-chosen words with him about his parochial duties.

  As always, his greeting was courteous and friendly towards me, despite my unorthodox links to his family. He had never been judgemental. In fact, if I were to criticise him at all, it would be on his ambivalence on matters which one might expect a man of God to have some kind of opinion. Sitting on the fence is all very well, and comfortable, but for those of us who welcome some direction from time to time, Medworth was probably not the one to ask. Not a highly practical man either, regardless of the medley of livestock he kept. Apart from being a good husband and a friendly scholarly curate, it was hard to know what else he was.

  His bow was meticulous, his acceptance of a seat precisely timed to my being seated, his coat and breeches surprisingly free of animal hairs that show up so well on black. His hair, however, was as unruly as ever. Yet in the strong low winter light, I recognised a handsomeness akin to his brother’s in the distinct jaw and nose that I had not been aware of before.

  ‘Are you in town on business?’ I said, thinking he might even now be on his way to Lop Lane. Better late than never.

  ‘I came, Miss Follet, to ask about little Jamie and to apologise most sincerely for the accident. I was instructed,’ he said, releasing a sheepish grin, ‘to stay with the boys in the field. But one of my old friends insisted on distracting me with his chatter, and I’m afraid…well…I failed in my duty.’

  It was kindly meant, and fair, to explain what happened for, since then, my opinion of his guardianship, temporary or not, was only lukewarm. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘There’s no harm done, Mr Monkton. Jamie is perfectly recovered. Your brother is going to teach him to swim.’

  ‘Ah! How like Winterson to see the positive side. Excellent. He rarely lets a chance slip past him, does he?’

  There was something in the tone of his question that seemed to have more behind it than polite rhetoric, followed by a smile that failed to lighten his eyes with the usual boyish mischief. Had he really come here to ask about Jamie, or was there something else?

  ‘I don’t know. I know much less about Lord Winterson than I did about his twin brother, you see. You know him better than I do.’ I heard the artfulness of my reply. I was going to marry the man. ‘But I do know that he makes an excellent guardian for my son.’

  ‘Mmm, yes. Well, I suppose that will remain true as long as Jamie is too young to understand. I cannot help wondering, though, what will happen when Jamie reaches…er…the age of questioning.’ Dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he observed me from beneath his brows, waiting for an appropriate reaction.

  ‘Jamie has already reached the age of questioning, Mr Monkton, as you may recall when he told you of the remark made to him by Claude’s little friend. That, you see, was the cause of the fracas at the mill-pond. Perhaps something ought to have been said at the time, don’t you think?’ My heartbeat had stepped up its pace in anticipation of a new phase in the conversation that had begun so amicably.

  His eyes dropped away from mine as he nodded, and I could see that he had sucked in his bottom lip and let it out again, grimacing. ‘Which is exactly the point I’m making, Miss Follet. That it’s best to say something at the time, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for what? About Jamie’s parentage? I think that will all become clear in time, sir.’

  ‘Er…well, not that, particularly. As you point out, that will be resolved eventually, I’m sure. It’s the problem of my brother’s lifestyle that concerns me most, and how it’s going to affect a young impressionable boy like Jamie. Even though you claim to know so little about my brother, you must know what I’m referring to, Miss Follet. You yourself have been apart of it for some years now.’

  Astonishment and indignation seethed in my breast, but I would not allow him to see. Instead, I smiled. ‘Dear Mr Monkton,’ I said, calmly, ‘you must allow me to put your mind at rest, for I can
see how misinformed you are about the kind of life I lead. I have never been part of Lord Winterson’s…well… lifestyle, for want of a better expression. As for Jamie being affected by his guardian’s behaviour, all I can say is that if Lord Winterson is only half as diligent, dutiful, loving, generous and caring to Jamie in the next three years as he has been in the last, I shall have nothing whatever to worry about. Nor will you.’ Come to think of it, I had never spoken to anyone about Winterson in such terms, though there could never have been a better opportunity to say what I felt to one of his own family.

  As if my praise of his brother gave him satisfaction, he nodded again, although the contortions of his mouth indicated that the matter would not be allowed to rest there. ‘It does happen,’ he said, ‘that parenthood often brings out the best in even the most unusual circumstances, and it heartens me more than I can say to know that my brother has begun his duties so well. But I must refer you to my original concern, Miss Follet, about the kind of questions Jamie is sure to seek answers to in the future.’

  ‘Do you have something specific in mind, sir?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, about Winterson’s love-child and its relationship to him. About who its mother is, and why—’

  ‘Mr Monkton, please hold on a minute. You go too fast for me. What exactly…who exactly are you talking about? Which mother?’

  Sitting bolt upright, he pulled his chin deep into his collar like a runaway horse responding to the curb. His eyelids fluttered, but whether in mock or actual surprise I do not know. The whole conversation had an air of unreality about it, for I found it increasingly disturbing that a man usually so devoid of opinions should have come down so strongly against something that had not yet happened. Or had it?

  His frown was childishly embarrassed, and one cheek went into a spasm as if it was all too painful for him. ‘Oh, dear, what have I said?’ he whispered. ‘I thought you’d know. You seemed to be in each other’s confidence.’

  Confidence, I supposed, was his euphemism for pockets.

  ‘Yes, what have you said, Mr Monkton? What is it you thought I’d know?’

  ‘Er…about Lady Slatterly…and my brother.’

  I don’t know how I found the breath to say, ‘What about them?’

  ‘You saw that she was not quite herself at the ball, last weekend?’

  ‘I had noticed it.’

  ‘Did it not occur…? No, I see that it did not. My brother and she have always been very close, you know. It should hardly come as a surprise.’

  ‘To know…?’

  ‘That she’s in,’ he whispered, ‘a delicate condition.’

  I must congratulate myself. I kept my voice level. ‘It doesn’t really surprise me at all, Mr Monkton, to know that Veronique is in the family way.’ Yes, I felt justified, at that point, in using a little spicy vulgarity to bring the wretched man down to earth. ‘In that, you are absolutely right. What does surprise me is that it hasn’t happened sooner, after all the chances she’s had.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, glancing wildly from side to side. My outspokenness had shaken him. ‘But what about Winterson? That will surely not surprise you either, knowing something of his tendencies.’

  I did not intend to give him the satisfaction of an answer to that. ‘May I ask how you come to know this, sir? There are no visible signs of it yet. Is it not regarded as confidential at this early stage?’

  He could not look at me, the father of three. Coyness had set in. ‘The fashions, you know. They’re very concealing, are they not?’

  High waists, gathers and drapes, shawls and winter wraps. Yes, it was true. His own wife’s bulge could be seen only from the side. Then I recalled Veronique’s reaction as we joined them in the supper room, and there was I, thinking she was broody, like me. Breeding she was. Not broody. ‘They are indeed, sir, but that doesn’t answer my question. How do you come to know about Lady Slatterly’s condition?’

  ‘Old friends, Miss Follet. Veronique…er, Lady Slatterly has always found it easy to confide in me, both as curate and as Winterson’s brother. She came to me some time ago for my advice.’

  Advice? From Medworth? Now that was clutching at straws.

  ‘In confidence, of course? How many others have you told, sir?’

  He had the grace to look away, and I began to dislike him intensely. ‘The point in my telling you, my dear Miss Follet, is that you and my brother have a legal share in Jamie’s custody. A trust, as it were. And if that trust has been broken by one party, I feel it my bounden duty to inform the other of it, whether that breaks a confidence or not. I did hope that Winterson would have admitted his part in this affair by now, if only to discuss with you what steps he intends to take regarding his responsibilities. Marriage to Lady Slatterly would, of course, be the obvious solution, and this is why I am expressing some concern about the possible confusion in Jamie’s mind concerning his exact relationships.’

  ‘So you are certain about her condition. Are you equally certain who the father is, Mr Monkton?’

  He adopted his pained expression again, as if I had challenged his veracity instead of Veronique’s. ‘I have her word on it,’ he said, puffing out his chest a little, ‘which I trust implicitly.’

  ‘Then you are not as wise as you have always appeared to be, sir. You must surely be aware, in your role as confidante to the lady, that she’s probably had more lovers than he? How can she possibly know who the father is? Has she kept notes?’

  Wincing at my forthright turn of phrase, he was obviously rattled by my lack of conviction. ‘She is absolutely certain of it, Miss Follet. I really do apologise for being the bearer of this distressing news, but I assumed, wrongly, I see, that my brother would have told you how things stand between him and Lady Slatterly. I came only to offer you the benefit of my advice and support, coming so soon after our mutual loss.’

  ‘Your advice…ah…what would that be, in confidence, of course?’

  His glance flickered uncomfortably in my direction as if I were a restless congregation. ‘I find it is rarely successful to confront my brother with a problem head-on. He would deny it, naturally, as would most men in his position. As I said, he has an uncanny way of turning negatives into positives. No, perhaps the best way to handle the situation would be to distance yourself from him just a little more and then to allow him to broach the subject when he’s decided what to do about it. Perhaps he already has, but I think it’s much better for him to bear the bad tidings.’

  ‘Of great joy.’

  He did not, as Winterson had done, laugh and tell me not to go all biblical on him. Instead, he said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You mean that, after all you’ve told me, I am now to pretend total ignorance of the matter? Then I’m supposed to appear shocked? On the other hand, is it really any of my business what your brother and Lady Slatterly get up to together? It would be if he were my husband, but he isn’t, is he? And by the time Jamie is old enough to ask some searching questions about his half-relatives, he’ll be old enough to be given some searching answers, I expect. He’s quite intelligent. Regarding his own parentage, we have put in place a solution to that problem, such as it is. About other people’s parentage, sir, I shall advise him to do as the rest of us try to do.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Why, to mind our own business, of course, and never… ever…to break a confidence unless it’s a matter of life or death. And this isn’t, is it?’

  ‘It may be of great importance to young Jamie, Miss Follet.’

  ‘Is that why you told him you had more important things to think about when one of your guests insulted him?’

  That, apparently, was enough confrontation for the young curate of Osbaldwick who had already stayed longer than the regulation fifteen minutes. Standing up, he prepared to make his bow, though he could not resist a parting shot as he did so. ‘I shall pray for you, Miss Follet. I came here as a friend out of the goodness of my heart to help you see your way out of an e
mbarrassing situation. I suppose I must be relieved to find that you need no such help, but I shall always be available whenever you do.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Mr Monkton, and greatly appreciated. As you suspect, I am not in the least embarrassed by anything you’ve told me, though I imagine Lady Slatterly might be. Now, just remind me again, will you? Am I to tell your brother you called on me? Or not?’

  His look of deep reproach convinced me that the interview had not gone according to plan, which had been to drive a wedge between me and his brother, as large a wedge as he could devise, and as plausible too. Everyone in the family, and plenty outside it, knew how Veronique Slatterly felt about Winterson, and who was I to blame her? But I knew also that, whether he was the father of her child or not, she would lose no time in laying her pregnancy at his door in the hope that, with enough pressure from all sides, he would do ‘the honourable thing’.

  But I had Winterson’s categoric denial of any association, and whatever delinquencies he might be guilty of, dishonesty was not one of them. Quite the reverse. Too much honesty had kept us apart for years. I would not believe what Medworth was telling me. I would refuse to be upset by it. Nor would I challenge Winterson with this tale, as I knew full well Medworth wanted me to. Why else would he have come here to tell me? Why would he have come these two miles if he expected I’d already been told, when he couldn’t be bothered to travel the same distance to administer God’s grace to two of his dying parishoners? He was already halfway down the street before I remembered to ask him what had kept him from his duty to Prue’s parents.

  I would like to have felt as carefree as I seemed, but Medworth’s visit had disturbed me deeply, both for its implications and the reasons why he should wish to cause a rift when he’d done no such thing during my association with Linas. There must have been other occasions when Winterson was thought to have fathered someone’s child, yet nothing had ever been said to confirm it, or hold him to account. Furthermore, Linas’s last few months had been spent in his brother’s care at Abbots Mere, and I found it inconceivable that, during such a sad time of intensive nursing, Winterson would have been taking advantage of Veronique’s generosity after so many years of refusals. The idea was ludicrous. No, I could not and would not believe it.