Lady Polly

by Nicola Cornick

“No, truly, Mama, it will not serve—”

  “I think you should speak out, Polly.” Surprisingly it was Lucille who spoke up now, gently but firmly. “You may find that what you believe—what you have been told—is not the case. At the very least, I do not believe that the truth can be hidden any longer.”

  Polly stared at her. “Lucille? But—how can you know?”

  “Tell us,” Lucille repeated, and her tone was inexorable.

  Polly allowed herself to look across at Peter and Hetty, who were sitting opposite her on the sofa. Peter looked vaguely puzzled but the delicate colour had already started to come into Hetty’s face, as though she sensed what was to come. Polly took a deep breath.

  “Very well, if it must be so. Mr Ditton came to me on the night of the ball. First he suggested that we should become betrothed to protect my good name from the scandal caused by his presence in my bedroom that night at the House of Tides. I thought this ridiculous and told him so. He then dropped all pretence of respect and affection.” Polly looked briefly at Hetty again. This was so very difficult. Everybody was quite silent, waiting for her to continue. Lucille was willing her on with a look of combined sympathy and determination.

  “Mr Ditton told me,” Polly said very clearly, “that he had information injurious to Hetty’s reputation and that he would make it public—announce it in the ballroom—if I did not immediately consent to an engagement between the two of us.”

  “Oh!” Hetty had gasped even before Polly finished speaking, pressing one hand to her mouth, her cheeks scarlet and her eyes wide with horror. Polly watched as Peter moved closer, taking her hand in a comforting hold.

  “Mr Ditton must have told you what that information was in order to gain your consent,” Lucille observed, coolly. “And it must have been convincing. You would not have believed it else.”

  Polly’s eyes flew to her face. “Yes, indeed, but—Lucille, I cannot!” She threw another look at Hetty, who had turned her face into Peter’s shoulder. “Hetty, I am so sorry! I did not wish to tell—”

  Peter’s face was grim. “You should finish Ditton’s tale, Poll!”

  “How can I?” Polly appealed to them. She felt sick at what was happening. Hetty looked like a broken butterfly, her tumbled curls brushing Peter’s shoulder, her face hidden. Polly had a horrible vision of Peter pushing her away, repudiating her when he knew the truth. Yet Peter was holding her so tenderly, whispering words of comfort, almost as though he knew…

  “You know!” she said, almost accusingly.

  “I know the truth,” Peter said harshly, “but what is the tale?”

  Astonishingly, whilst Polly groped for the words, it was Henry who answered. “My guess is that Ditton told Lady Polly that Miss Markham had spent a night alone at an inn with a man, and that the man was Edmund Grantley.”

  This time it was Polly who gasped. She stared at him in astonishment. “How could you possibly know—?”

  Across from her, Henry said bitterly, “I would guess further that Lady Polly could not bear for her future sister-in-law to be ruined, but most of all she could not see you hurt and disillusioned, Peter. Perhaps she thought that you might already know and that you were protecting Miss Markham by offering her marriage. In either case, Lady Polly knew that you loved Miss Markham sincerely and would be dreadfully injured by the disclosure. It was misplaced loyalty that kept her silent—and impelled her into the betrothal.”

  Polly could not speak. Hetty was crying quietly in Peter’s arms and Polly wished she could follow suit. Her mother’s face was stiff with shock and horror, Nicholas looked almost as grim as his brother, and it was Lucille who came across to Polly in a rustle of silk and put an arm around her.

  “I did what I thought was right!” Polly said. It seemed to her that the words came out too loudly, rattling the china, making her listeners wince.

  “Of course you did,” Lucille said soothingly, hugging her close. “It is just that Mr Ditton’s story was not true. Oh, if only you had confided in someone—” She bit her lip, clearly thinking that this was hardly the time for recriminations.

  The Dowager Countess, who had been viewing Hetty’s sobbing figure with a mixture of concern and doubt, turned to Lucille, her face clearing.

  “The tale was not true, you say? Ditton invented it? But—”

  Nicholas Seagrave stirred slightly. “Peter,” he said thoughtfully, “there is nothing for it but to tell the truth.”

  Hetty gave a little whimper. “Oh, must we, indeed? I cannot bear—”

  “Yes, you can, my love.” Peter put her a little away from him, giving her an encouraging smile so full of love and warmth that Polly felt a huge lump in her throat. This was very different from her imaginings, from the denunciation and horror that she was certain would greet her revelations.

  “It is true,” Peter said grimly, “that Edmund Grantley took Hetty to the Rose and Crown at Farnforth and imprisoned her there. There is no doubt his intention was to seduce her. He had taken her driving that afternoon and Hetty had become concerned at the distance they had gone from home. It was dusk when they pulled into the yard at Farnforth, and Grantley’s intentions soon became clear to her.” He glanced down at Hetty, who was still held close to his side, her eyes cast down, her face now as pale as it had been scarlet before.

  “He kept her locked in one of the chambers for several hours whilst he drank below,” Peter continued savagely. “Several people heard Grantley boasting drunkenly of the ripe little bird he had waiting for him upstairs. All might have fallen out as he had planned had I not chosen to put up at Farnforth that night.”

  “You!” It was the Dowager Countess whose stunned accents spoke the word and conveyed that she had already understood the rest of the story.

  Peter sat up a little straighter and took Hetty’s hand in his once more. She was still very pale, but a light burned in her eyes. Watching her, Polly understood. Hetty was safe in the knowledge that Peter loved her above all things and that his love would never falter. He would not desert her to the condemnation of the world.

  “It was too late to travel on to Kingsmarton that night, and Farnforth was conveniently on my route,” Peter confirmed, meeting his mother’s eyes very directly. “Hetty heard my arrival, heard me talking to the ostler, and recognised my voice.” He looked at her and smiled. “She smashed the window and shouted to me for help. Grantley was still downstairs and I…persuaded him to take himself off. It was quite a mill.” There was grim amusement in Peter’s voice. “Then I went to find Hetty. She was desperately upset and frightened.”

  There was a pause whilst everyone filled in the missing bits for themselves. Polly could imagine Hetty’s overwhelming relief at her rescue, the breaking of the tension after such terror, Peter’s fear for her and his feelings on finding her unharmed…An irresistible passion could quite easily sweep one away. Moral frailty, perhaps, but entirely understandable. Looking up, she caught Henry Marchnight’s eyes upon her, accurately reading every thought and looking very interested. Polly blushed and looked away.

  “I think you all know already,” Peter said gently, “how much I love Hetty and how honoured I am that she will be my wife. None of that has changed and I would marry her tomorrow if I could! I wish with all my heart that I had never done anything that endangered her reputation but—” he shrugged “—such things happen and it is pointless to deny it. Poor Hetty has been through agonies of regret and remorse but I feel she has done nothing of which she should be ashamed. I can only repeat that I love her with all my heart.”

  “A good thing that you are to marry so soon!” The Dowager Countess said trenchantly, conveniently forgetting that it had been her most ardent hope to see the marriage at St George’s, Hanover Square, the following spring. “But the scandal, Peter! Whatever can Mrs Markham have thought when Hetty did not return that night?”

  “Mama was most distressed,” Hetty confirmed, speaking for the first time and just managing to overcome her embarrassment. “F
ortunately, my aunt and cousins were from home, so knew nothing of the scandal, and when Mama saw that it was Peter who had rescued me and that we were…” she blushed “…betrothed once more, her fears were put to rest.”

  The Dowager Countess snorted. “A fine protector, indeed, who takes advantage—” Aware of where her words were leading her, she broke off again. Her eye fell on her younger son, defiantly looking back at her, and she softened slightly. “Well, well!” She looked as though she were about to say “No harm done!”, but quickly changed her mind.

  “What I do not understand,” Lucille said, a frown on her forehead, “is how Tristan Ditton came to know of this—or at least to know enough to make up so damaging and scurrilous a story.”

  Now it was Henry’s turn to look a shade embarrassed. “I can see that there is nothing to be done but tell you the rest, Lady Seagrave—I was hoping to spare you this, for a little time at least—” He broke off and sighed heavily, seeing the look of blank incomprehension on all their faces. “It was Lady Bolt who told Ditton about the episode at the inn.”

  “Lady Bolt!” Several people spoke at once.

  “It does not surprise me that she is spreading slanderous gossip,” the Dowager Countess observed.

  “But she was at Wellerden with you when Peter was at Farnforth!” Polly exclaimed and found that everyone was looking at her again. She turned bright red as Henry looked at her with quizzically raised brows. “I mean…I understood that Lady Bolt…that you…”

  Henry’s smile mocked her. “Just as you understood that I had arranged a tryst with Lady Bolt at Richmond? It was only business, I fear, contrary to all appearances! It is true that Lady Bolt and I were briefly at Wellerden’s houseparty, though not together in any sense of the word,” he added drily. “In fact, Lady Bolt left only a day or two after Peter did. Her intention, I believe, was to join the Duke of Garston at the Newmarket races. I imagine her route took her through Farnforth—I know it did, for she stayed at the Rose and Crown only the night after Peter was there. The landlady there knows Lady Bolt and also knows of her connection with the Markham family. She was bursting to tell her ladyship this prime piece of gossip and no doubt she was rewarded for the information.”

  “And Mr Ditton?” the Dowager Countess pressed.

  Henry gave an ironic smile. “This part might be amusing were it not that the behaviour of Ditton and Lady Bolt was so damaging. You may know that the two of them are old…” he cleared his throat “…old friends. In recent times they have been in a different business together. Lady Bolt has lent Ditton considerable sums of money, has become involved in several illegal gaming rackets with him and has even, I suspect, benefited from his and Chapman’s criminal activities. The extent of her involvement is something on which she is currently being questioned. She was arrested this morning.” He turned back to Lucille. “I am sorry if the news occasions you any pain, Lady Seagrave.”

  “I shall bear it with fortitude,” Lucille said, straight-faced. “But we digress. Did Lady Bolt pass on the gossip to Ditton?”

  Henry nodded. “She did. She wrote to him immediately. She knew that he loved scandal and she was also sure that he might find the information useful at some point in the future. Of course, she was correct.” He glanced briefly at Polly, who looked away.

  “The piquant part, however, was that Lady Bolt did not approach the subject directly. She liked to hint and tease, and at no point did she tell Ditton whom the gentleman was by name. He, knowing that Miss Markham had recently been courted by Grantley, made the obvious assumption. I know, because I have seen and destroyed the letter. Ditton was carrying it last night.”

  “So you knew that as well!” Polly was so affronted she thought she might burst. “You knew why I had agreed to the betrothal even though you pretended you did not!”

  “I only knew about the letter after Ditton was arrested,” Henry said calmly, “and I could not be certain that that was the means he used to compel you to marry him. There might have been something else!”

  Polly was not to be pacified. “I do not believe you! Of all the cruel tricks! Oh! You are despicable—”

  “Polly!” The Dowager Countess’s shocked tones mingled with Lucille’s more tempered reproof. Henry did not seem much put out. Polly thought he was almost smiling and she felt she could have slapped him had she been closer.

  “The tea has gone cold,” Lucille observed prosaically in an attempt to calm the atmosphere. “Nicholas, would you pull the bell for some more? Henry, will you stay?”

  Henry Marchnight got to his feet. “No, ma’am, I thank you. I have work to do. I am not sure—” his gaze touched Polly’s face briefly “—whether I shall return to Suffolk.”

  “But you must come to the wedding!” Hetty said hopefully. She seemed to have almost recovered her spirits now that the dreadful truth had come to light and no one, not even the Dowager, had condemned her as a fallen woman.

  Henry smiled. “I should be very glad to do so if I can,” he said, “and I wish you both very happy!”

  There was an awkward silence after Nicholas had gone out to see Henry to his curricle. The Dowager Countess made some comment about the weather, indicating that the topic of the past fifteen minutes was now effectively closed. Hetty ventured a remark about the wedding arrangements and soon everyone was chatting about the rival merits of orange blossom or hot-house lilies to decorate the church. For a fantastical moment it seemed to Polly as though the whole episode had never even occurred. She was left to marvel at the swiftness with which the most enormous of family secrets could be swept successfully under the carpet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You are my only hope now, Polly!” The Dowager Countess fixed her daughter with tragic dark eyes. “I had every expectation of seeing Hetty and Peter married in London, but of course that is out of the question now! I was never more shocked in my life! And Hetty the daughter of so respectable a man! There must have been some sad lack of guidance in her upbringing—perhaps the influence of that dreadful Cyprian,” the Dowager added thoughtfully, brightening at so plausible an explanation.

  “I feel, Mama, that you should be laying the blame at Peter’s door if you must apportion it anywhere,” Polly said firmly. “He is the seducer, after all!”

  “Yes, and in such a low place as that inn!” the Dowager mourned.

  Polly hid a smile at the thought that Peter’s behaviour would have been more acceptable had he chosen more salubrious surroundings.

  “I do feel that Hetty should show a certain reticence,” the Dowager continued. “Why, she behaves as though nothing has happened! It shows a certain unsteadiness of character!”

  Polly thought that Hetty’s ebullience sprung more from relief than a want of feeling. “I am persuaded that Hetty’s feelings are all that is proper,” she said. “She is very young, Mama, and is understandably excited about the wedding. Now, in what way am I your only hope?”

  “Why, for a fashionable wedding, of course!” Happily, the Dowager was now diverted. “First Nicholas and Lucille marry in that hole-in-the-corner fashion, and now Peter…But you will not disappoint me, I know! It is what your father would have wanted—”

  Polly was looking vaguely confused. “But, Mama, I have no intention of getting married—”

  “No intention!” The Dowager Countess laid aside the linen she had been folding for Hetty’s trousseau. “But surely it is as good as arranged? I assumed that Lord Henry was only waiting until he could wash his hands of this sordid affair with Tristan Ditton! Surely—”

  “You are mistaken, Mama.” Polly got up hastily. In the five weeks since Henry Marchnight had left Suffolk, she had had ample time to reflect on what had happened and resolve that she could never explain to her mother why such a match was now impossible. “There never was an understanding between Lord Henry and myself—”

  Polly steeled herself against the memory of that brief time when they had been in such perfect accord. “And I would be astounde
d were he even to return to Dillingham for the wedding next week!” she finished with relief.

  The Dowager raised her dark brows.

  “Now there you are fair and far out!” she said triumphantly. “I have had the most delightful letter from Lord Henry, engaging himself for the wedding and the breakfast! He will be escorting his mother and sister. Oh, and the Vereys are also coming up from London! Is that not fine? Perhaps,” the Dowager said, brightening, “it will be almost as good as a Society wedding, after all!”

  Lord Henry did not come to the wedding. The Duchess of Marchnight, accompanied by the Vereys and stately in Dowager purple, explained graciously that her son had been detained on business but hoped to join the wedding party later in the day. Polly was acutely disappointed. She tried not to lose interest in the proceedings as a radiant Hetty wafted up the aisle on Nicholas Seagrave’s arm to be joined in holy wedlock with his brother.

  The service went very smoothly. The Dowager Countess cried becomingly into a large lace-edged handkerchief and Mrs Markham sniffed slightly less elegantly in the pew opposite. Hetty and the Dowager both wore expressions of faint relief as she floated down the aisle again, this time on her husband’s arm. A happy end to a potential scandal, Polly thought with a smile. Now that they were safely married and Hetty had the protection of Peter’s name, the whole unfortunate episode could be allowed to slip into the past where it belonged.

  The wedding breakfast at Dillingham Court seemed interminable to Polly. Had Henry been there she would have been consumed with nerves, but as it was, she felt both disappointed and let down. Eventually they rose from table to take a rest before the evening dance and supper for the Seagraves’ tenants and the villagers. Polly felt out of sorts. Misery had prompted her to eat too much and the meal weighed heavily on her stomach. She lay down in the cool of her room and allowed herself to doze.

  She was awoken by the sound of hooves on the gravel outside and voices raised in greeting. Hurrying across to the window, Polly was in time to see Henry Marchnight hand his reins to one of the grooms as Nick Seagrave came forward to shake his hand and lead him up the steps into the house. That put a different complexion on the evening. Polly, lethargy forgotten, rushed to the bell and rang energetically for Jessie.