by Anna Willman
“We are not horses or hounds, my dear,” Guinevere said quietly.
“And didn’t the ancient kings of Egypt marry their sisters? I’m sure I heard Edmund speak of that. Of course it was very shocking to think of, but in a way it seemed rather sweet to me – those little Egyptian children growing up together knowing that one day they would be husband and wife.”
Guinevere could think of no answer to this, and Louisa continued, “Oh Gwen, what harm could come from it, so long as no one ever knew? The children are so happy with one another, it seems such a pity to meddle.”
Guinevere found her voice then. “Really, Louisa you cannot allow your son to marry his own sister. If the deed were done, I’d be inclined to agree with you, but there’s still time to prevent it. And in any case, so long as that letter remains in Lance’s desk drawer, the children would be at risk of being found out, and just think what heartache that would cause if they were already wed? Not to mention the scandal they would be required to endure.”
Louisa’s face had become very pale, her eyes moist with unshed tears.
Guinevere pondered a moment and then said softly, “No, we have no choice. I must determine the truth and then, if what I fear is true, we must prevent the marriage.”
Louisa sighed. “How do you intend to get Mrs. Westlake to tell you?”
“That is why I had to come to you. I need your permission to confide your own story to her, to convince her of the importance of answering my questions.”
“But you said she doesn’t trust you.”
“She is wary, in any case.”
Louisa was thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I will go with you. She must believe me. I only hope, if she proves not to be the same Lydia Westlake who wrote to Lancelot, that she will not betray me, or decide to end the engagement between our children because Edmund is one of Lord Carew ’s unfortunate offspring.”
“We will only tell her your story if there is no alternative.”
“Let us go at once.”
“Tomorrow,” Guinevere said. “The hour is too late to go today.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN : In Which Lady Guinevere Quarrels With Lord Carew
But the next morning, Guinevere received an urgent message from Lancelot, which caused her to take her fashionable barouche on the road out of town once more. She arrived shortly after noon and found him in his library. He got to his feet, wincing at the effort, and limped towards her, leaning on his cane.
“Is your gout troubling you again?” Guinevere asked sympathetically.
“A little, but it is not important. Come and have some tea. I need to consult with you.”
Jarman brought in a tray, and they settled down in chairs near the fireplace. Guinevere poured out the tea, and took a sip. The tea was hot, but tasted a little stale – no doubt something Jarman had found in the back of the pantry. She sighed and set down her cup. Lancelot drank his without appearing to notice anything amiss. When Jarman left the room, Guinevere addressed her friend’s request.
“I have only one piece of advice for you, Lancelot,” Guinevere said. “You must give up this course you have determined on and find another way to bring yourself about.”
“There is no other way. I can scarcely feed myself. Indeed, I suspect that we are now living largely upon Jarman’s life savings.”
“Oh, Lance, I am sorry. There must be something that you can do. Perhaps you could find a wealthy widow to marry. Your charm is legendary. Can you not put it to good use?”
He shook his head. “I tried that some months past to no avail. My reputation is too shocking. It seems that there are no ladies of substance willing to consider such a rogue as me.”
“Well, none of the haut ton would have you, to be sure. But some citizen’s widow might consider you a bargain. To end her days a viscountess.”
“I could not bear the vulgarity.” He shuddered.
“What if I undertook to find you someone? Must she be very rich? I have a large acquaintance, including many beyond the limited circles of the ton. Surely there will be someone among them who would suit you.”
“I do not require a great fortune – only enough to keep me in comfort for my remaining years. But I assure you that I would find matrimony with a lady who wished to marry me solely for my title extremely distasteful.”
“If you are so nice in your tastes, you had better resign yourself to poverty.”
“I did not ask you to come so that you could read me a sermon,” he said bluntly. “I have something to show you.” He held out a letter. “Tell me your opinion of this.”
Guinevere drew back, shaking her head. “Lance, I want nothing to do with your foul business. You must give it up.”
“No, but look! It is the most peculiar thing. I need your advice. Please.” He extended the letter again, insistently.
Reluctantly, Guinevere took the missive in her hand and read. It was a formal note, very short.
My Lord Carew:
Here is the money I promised you. You may consider it a payment for informing me of the great injustice done to the man I will always consider my true father.
You will not receive another farthing from me, nor any other communication.
I am divesting myself of the Digby fortune and soon will be as impoverished as yourself, so you no longer need to concern yourself about the disparity between our incomes.
Yours, etc.
Thomas Digby
“Thomas Digby? What can this mean? What have you done?”
“It’s what he has done, rather. Sent me one of those new one pound notes tucked in the letter. Had it delivered by his man of business. Thinks to pawn me off by crying poverty. It makes no sense, Gwen. No one would throw away a fortune rather than spend a few guineas to support an old man.”
Guinevere let the hand holding the letter drop into her lap. “Oh, Lancelot. That’s just what a thoroughly respectable man like Thomas Digby would do. He is a proud man. Pigheaded even. He would never knuckle under to pressure, nor do anything he considered dishonorable. Nor live on money not rightfully his.”
“Pah! I hold no truck with this new trend towards respectability,” Lancelot growled. “It’s downright willfulness, that’s what it is. As if we were a bunch of damned shopkeepers! Where’s the humor? The joy in life?”
“You can be sure that there’s no joy for the Digbys now. You have ruined him, truly. Poor Sarah. She must be greatly distressed. And Marianne Digby will be frantic with worry.”
Lancelot rubbed a shaky hand over his face. “But I never meant him harm. I liked the boy.” As he spoke, he gestured indignantly. “How could he do such a thing to his wife? To his children? My grandchildren I might add. You can be sure that I never intended to cause them grief. And Marianne – well, she was once very dear to me, and I told the boy so. What can have possessed him to act in this way?”
“Something you would never understand. Integrity. Oh, I can never forgive you. Now will you give up this madness before you destroy more lives?”
Lancelot shook his head. “I cannot. I must have an income. But I need you to advise me in the future, so that I don’t blunder again.”
“I’ve told you I’ll have nothing to do with this.” She set the letter down on the table beside her and leaned towards her old friend. “You must give it up.”
“Then if I ruin another, it will be on your head, not mine,” Lancelot said bitterly. “I tell you, I have no choice.”
She felt a matching bitterness well up in her. “What has become of you, Lancelot? I remember a boy who, though feckless and wild, had a kind heart. A boy who was willing to take a little girl fishing and bait her hook. Who took the blame when she got into a scrape.” She shook her head and looked at him beseechingly. “How have you come to this? Who are you, if you are no longer that boy whom I loved?”
“I don’t know who you are talking about. If that boy ever existed, he is long gone,” Lancelot replied gruffly avoiding her gaze. “You behold before you a desper
ate old man. I’ve outlived my fortune. Am I to sit here all alone and starve while my children prosper? Must I allow my servants to support me?”
“Find another way, Lancelot. Accept my offer to find you a wife. Or come to town, and Charles and I will house you.”
He grabbed his cane and thumped it on the floor. “Live on your charity? Never!”
“If you are so proud, then go and live in some hovel. Do anything rather than continue with this vile scheme.”
He stared at her and shook his head. “It is not in me to do that.”
“Pride without integrity. Alas, that you are not more like your son.”
They faced each other in silence for several long minutes.
“I have no more ideas to offer you,” Guinevere said at last. “Nor will I accept the blame for your actions. Indeed, I will not see you again so long as you stay on this path.”
He sat still and stared at her. Would not answer her. His hands twitched slightly and the cane wobbled, sliding against the edge of his chair. He righted it with a sharp jerk, but still said nothing.
She got to her feet and moved a little way towards the door. Then she turned to him and said quietly, “I am going now.”
He stayed in his chair and raised his ruined face to look at her. His tone was a blend of dismay and accusation. “You would desert me, then? I never took you for a false friend.”
Guinevere threw up her hands in exasperation. “Indeed it is you who are the false friend, Lancelot. Digby is not the only victim of your selfishness and greed. The whole ton looks askance at me for standing your friend.”
Lord Carew’s face sagged. “They give you the cut?”
“It is not so bad as that,” Guinevere said. “But my friends avoid me. I have lost all trust because of our connection. Indeed, you sow discord wherever you cast your eye.”
She thought for a moment that he seemed genuinely distressed, but then he narrowed his eyes and spoke in a hardened voice. “So you abandon me for the ton? I never thought you would do such a thing.”
“Is there no end to your selfishness?” She sighed and shook her head. She came and stood before him and reached down to take his hand. She spoke slowly – clearly – as if to a small child. “I do not abandon you for them, Lancelot, but for you! You are taking this too far. I cannot lend my countenance to your outrageous behavior. I cannot help you bring ruin upon yourself. We are done.”
She turned to leave, pulling on her gloves. “Fare you well. I shall miss you.” She paused at the door and added, without looking back at him, “Let me know if you change your mind and I will seek out a wife for you.” Then she brushed tears from her eyes with an impatient hand and left him.
But as Jarman let her out, she pressed her stocking purse into his hand and whispered, “I will send you more. Make sure he has enough to eat. And send me word if he should become ill.”
She arrived at Louisa’s house too distressed to go out calling, and besides it was getting late and Louisa confessed to feeling rather tired. So they had tea instead and made plans to call on Mrs. Westlake the following afternoon.
CHAPTER TWELVE: In Which Mr. Digby Loses Control
It is a commonly acclaimed truth that there can be no more blessed state than when two loving souls join together in holy matrimony. It is also widely acknowledged that when discord arises to disturb the natural harmony of such a sacred union, the consequent dissonance must result in a sense of loss and even desolation.
Thomas and Sarah took their breakfast together in stony silence the morning after he had disclosed his intentions concerning the disposal of his fortune. Neither had much of an appetite, and in a very short space of time, they were done with their meal. Then, still without exchanging any words, they retreated upstairs to what had always been their favorite parlor. It was a comfortable room with large windows opening out onto the formal gardens behind the house. The morning light streamed in and highlighted the weary lines on Sarah’s face – clearly she had had little sleep that night. Thomas, who had himself lain awake for most of the night, watched her closely and held his breath. A dark, emotion-laden silence stretched out between them, a heavy weight that seemed almost impossible for either of them to break.
At last Sarah spoke, her eyes piercing and her voice husky. “What of our children? You will throw away their inheritance?”
Thomas felt the force of her words almost as an assault and knew himself to be on the verge of breaking under the weight of it. He did not respond immediately, therefore, but paused to collect himself until he could reply with his usual calm self-control. “Both of our daughters are married and well provided for with comfortable marriage settlements.”
“But their expectations!”
“I do not doubt that their husbands have expectations of inheriting a handsome portion in due time, but they cannot realistically expect to do so before another twenty or thirty years have passed, so there is plenty of time for them to become accustomed to their changed circumstances and to adjust their expenditures if necessary.”
“It is not fair!” she protested.
“No, it is not.” Thomas admitted in his quiet voice. “Nothing about this is fair.”
“What will you tell them?”
“I do not know,” he said. His voice cracked and he came to a full stop. When he could speak again, he continued, his voice wavering slightly. “That I lost the money, somehow. I cannot tell them the truth. I cannot say that…about my mother.” He forced himself to look at her directly, and added, “I hope that you, too, will respect my mother’s confidence.”
Her expression, which had been hard as she had peppered him with questions, softened. She nodded, her eyes on his face with a look that seemed to him almost sympathetic, and then she said, “You might ask Henderson what capital ventures have failed of late – a foreign investment would be best – and then you can claim your losses were made there if our daughters’ husbands should ask for particulars.”
He felt a moment of surprise that she should even know of such things as foreign capital ventures and then experienced a surge of gratitude. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Do not think this betokens acceptance,” she said sharply. “I am not done yet.”
They sat in silence for a while then, each weighed down by that strange sunlit heaviness of spirit. Again it was Sarah who broke the silence.
“Your mother, at least, will be all right,” she said with some bitterness. “You have no power to deprive her of her income.”
“No,” Thomas’ voice reflected her dry tone. “That is upon her own conscience. She may feel she has earned her generous living by the sacrifice of her youth to a man so many years her senior.”
He realized, aghast, that his vision was blurred by tears. The room seemed suddenly dark. He wondered a little wildly if he would ever again be able to think of his mother with kindness.
Then Sarah’s arms were around him – briefly. Too briefly, and then she was gone from the room, so that he could not tell if the embrace had been one of comfort or a good-bye. He stayed there for some time, sitting alone in the parlor, lost in that heavy silence and in the strange darkness of the morning sunlight.
He next saw Sarah a half an hour later coming through the front hall. She was all fitted out in top rig and about to leave the house. He asked where she was going, but she would not answer. He felt that he had reason to believe that she would be discreet, but beyond that could not guess where she might go or what she might do.
Despite the ravages of his own deep sense of loss and despair, he could not ignore a profound awareness that this disaster was happening to Sarah as well as to him. He felt a great sense of pity for her, and also a degree of alarm, knowing full well that it was not in her nature to accept such a dramatic shift in circumstances without putting all of her energies into preventing it.
His sense of foreboding increased as he waited throughout that day for her return. After a period of time spent pacing through the house, he finally
settled down with a book in his office, but the words blurred before his eyes, and he set it down on his desk and simply sat and stared at the cover. By the time she returned late that afternoon he had worked himself into a deep state of anxiety, so it was with no real surprise that he looked up to perceive his wife standing at the door to his office with his mother, meek and red-eyed, standing beside her.
He got up and with no more than a nod to Sarah, walked past them into the library, struggling for control. He gestured the ladies towards a quiet corner where comfortable chairs awaited them and rang for refreshments to be brought in. When it came and the servant had gone, he sat, rather stiffly, in a chair intended for a more relaxed posture. He took a deep breath and addressed himself to his wife.
“I believe I expressed myself clearly yesterday. I excuse you for ignoring my wishes because I know you have been sorely distressed, but I must inform you that nothing can come from what is about to transpire that will in any way alter my decision.”
“Thomas, your father would not have wished you to do such a thing as this,” his mother said.
He could barely bring himself to look at her. After a moment he addressed her, keeping his eyes averted after an initial quick glance at her once dear face.
“Madame,” he said with careful formality, “it would seem that I have no father.”
“He loved you. He took delight in you!”
“Because he was misled! It was not me that he loved, but your lies.”
“He laughed when you took your first steps. He took me in his arms and danced me around the parlor when you completed your studies at Cambridge. And did the same when you were introduced at White’s. You brought him great happiness and pride.”
“Your lies gave him happiness and pride. It was all false.”
She was silent a moment and then tried again, her quiet voice quavering a little as she spoke. “Our marriage was difficult for me at first – I was little more than a child myself, and it was not at all what I had hoped for, had dreamed of. But your father was a good man and eventually I came to care for him. To care deeply. And I was glad to have a fine baby boy for him. He loved you so much! What did it matter that as you grew, you came to have Lord Carew’s eyebrows, his ears? Your very existence brought Jonathan such joy, I could see no merit in spoiling that for him. What is the good of honesty, if it destroys such happiness?”