The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  “Ten pounds,” Millicent said with great vehemence.

  Birch scanned the number of carriages in the yard, wondering from which one of them Jasper Hyde was issuing his commands. A large plantation owner in the West Indies and supposedly a good friend to the late Squire Wentworth, the Englishman had wasted no time in taking over all of the squire’s properties in the Caribbean after his death in payment for debts Wentworth had owed him. And if that were not enough, since arriving in England, Mr. Hyde had positioned himself as Lady Wentworth’s chief nemesis, buying up the rest of the bills of exchange and promissory notes the squire had left behind.

  “Twenty.”

  There was a loud gasp of disbelief and the crowd began to shift uncomfortably.

  “Thirty.”

  The lawyer turned to Millicent. “He is playing with you, m’lady,” he said quietly. “I do not believe it would be wise—”

  “Fifty pounds,” the clerk called without a trace of emotion.

  A group of sailors near the edge of the platform turned and scoffed loudly at the clerk for pushing up the price.

  “I cannot let him do this. Dr. Dombey and this woman spent a great deal of time on Wentworth’s plantations in Jamaica. From the stories I’ve heard from Jonah and some of the others at Melbury Hall, she became a person of some importance to them.” She nodded to the auctioneer. “Sixty pounds.”

  Birch watched Jasper Hyde’s clerk appear to squirm a little. The man turned and looked toward the line of carriages. The rolled newspaper rose in the air before the caller could repeat the last bid. “Seventy.”

  The rumbling in the crowd became more pronounced. There were sharp comments to the effect that he should let the woman have the slave. A couple of the sailors edged threateningly toward the clerk, muttering derisive obscenities.

  “This is all a sick game to Mr. Hyde,” Millicent whispered, turning away from the platform. “There are many stories of his brutality on the plantations. The stories about what he did after taking possession of my husband’s land and slaves are even worse. He is answerable to no one and has no regard for what few laws are observed there. This woman has witnessed it all, though. He will hurt her. Kill her, perhaps.” Her hands fisted. “Sir Oliver, I owe this to my people after all the suffering Wentworth caused. I cannot in good conscience turn my back when I can save this one. Not when I have failed all those others that Hyde took.”

  “That it, yer ladyship?” the auctioneer asked. “Yer giving in?”

  “Eighty,” she replied, her voice quavering.

  “You cannot afford this, m’lady,” Birch put in firmly but quietly. “Think of the promissory notes Hyde still holds from your husband. You’ve extended the date of repayment once. But they will all come due next month, and you are personally liable, to the extent of every last thing you own. And this includes Melbury Hall. You just cannot add more fuel to his fire.”

  “One hundred pounds.” The clerk’s shout was instantly swallowed up by a loud response from the crowd. Birch watched the man take a few nervous steps toward the carriages as the same angry sailors moved closer to him.

  “One ten, milady?” the auctioneer, grinning excitedly, called out from the platform.

  “You cannot save every one, Millicent,” Birch whispered sharply. When first asked by the Earl and the Countess of Stanmore to represent Lady Wentworth in her legal affairs a year ago, he’d also been informed of the woman’s great compassion for the Africans whom her late husband had held as slaves. But his expectations had not come close to the fervor he’d witnessed since then.

  “I know that, Sir Oliver.”

  “For all we know, he might already own this woman. In the same way that he has been acquiring all of the late squire’s notes, he may have done the same with Dombey. This may just be Jasper Hyde’s way of draining the last of your available funds.”

  As his words sank in, Millicent’s shoulders sagged. Wiping a tear from her face, she turned and started pushing her way toward the carriage. Halfway out of the yard, though, she swung around and raised a hand.

  “One hundred ten.”

  A round of exclamations erupted from the crowd. Gradually, people parted until she was facing the pale-faced clerk across the mud and dirt of the yard. Having already retreated to back edge of the crowd, the man shook his head at the auctioneer and looked back at Millicent.

  “Lady Wentworth can have her Negro at the price of a hundred ten pounds.”

  The mocking tones of the man, accompanied by his sneer, caused the sailors to lose the last of their restraint, and two took off after him. The clerk turned and bolted from the yard. Watching him run, Birch felt the urge to go after the clerk himself. There was no doubt in the lawyer’s mind that this ordeal had been arranged. In a moment, the sailors returned empty-handed.

  She laid her hand gently on his arm. “Regardless of Mr. Hyde’s actions, I had to save this woman’s life, Sir Oliver.”

  Millicent Gregory Wentworth could not be considered a great beauty, nor could her sense of style be called au courant by the standards of London’s ton. But what she lacked in those areas—and in the false pride so fashionable of late—she made up in dignity and humanity. And all of this despite a lifetime of oppression and bad luck.

  Birch nodded respectfully to his client. “Why not wait in the carriage, m’lady. I would be happy to take care of the details here.”

  A small writing desk was being handed up and placed exactly where the slave woman had stood a moment earlier. Millicent watched several members of the crowd edge forward for a better look at the piece of furniture. They were far more interested in this item than in the human being who was auctioned off before it. Only the competition of the bidding had attracted their attention. She turned to watch the woman being led across the yard, with Sir Oliver trailing behind.

  Appalled by the entire proceeding, Millicent pushed her way through the crowd to the carriage.

  “She will be brought to my office this afternoon,” Birch said as soon as he had climbed in some time later. “And, since you do not wish to have her delivered to your sister’s home, I will arrange for a place for her to stay until you are ready to leave for Melbury Hall.”

  “Thank you. We shall be leaving tomorrow morning,” Millicent replied.

  “Rest assured, m’lady, everything shall be handled with the utmost discretion.”

  “I know it will,” she said quietly, looking out the small window of the carriage at the door of the shed where the old woman had been taken. Millicent couldn’t help but worry about how much more pain these horrible people would inflict on her before she was delivered to the lawyer’s office that afternoon.

  As they rode along in silence through the city, she thought of the money she’d just spent. A hundred ten pounds was equivalent to seven months worth of salaries of all twenty servants she employed at Melbury Hall, not counting the field hands. It was true that the purchase of the black woman would cut deeply into her rapidly diminishing funds. And she wasn’t even considering the money that she needed to pay Jasper Hyde next month. Millicent rubbed her fingers over a dull ache in her temple and tried to think only of how much good it would do, bringing this woman back to Hertfordshire.

  “Lady Wentworth,” the lawyer said finally, breaking the silence as they drew near their destination, “we cannot put off discussing your appointment with the Dowager Countess Aytoun any longer. I am still completely in the dark concerning why we are going there.”

  “That makes two of us, Sir Oliver,” she replied tiredly. “Her note summoning—or rather, inviting me—to meet with her arrived three days ago at Melbury Hall, and her groom stayed until I sent her an answer. I was to arrive at the Earl of Aytoun’s town house in Hanover Square today at eleven this morning with my attorney. Nothing more was said.”

  “This sounds very abrupt. Do you know the countess?”

  Millicent shook her head. “I do not. But then again, a year ago I didn’t know Mr. Jasper Hyde, either. Nor the o
ther half-dozen creditors who have endeavored to come after me from every quarter since Wentworth’s death.” She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. “One thing I’ve learned this past year and a half is that there is no hiding from those to whom my husband owed money. I have to face them—one by one—and try to make some reasonable arrangement to pay them back.”

  “You know that I admire you greatly in your efforts, but we both know you are encumbered almost beyond the point of recovery already.” He paused. “You have some very generous friends, Lady Wentworth. If you would allow me to reveal to them just a hint of your hardship—”

  “No, sir,” she said sharply. “I find no shame in being poor. But I find great dishonor in begging. Please, I do not care to hear any more.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.”

  Millicent nodded gratefully at her lawyer. Sir Oliver had already served her well, and she trusted that he would honor her request.

  “To set your mind a little at ease, though,” he continued, “you should know that the Dowager Countess Aytoun is socially situated far differently than Mr. Hyde, or your late husband. She is a woman of great wealth, but she is rumored to be exceedingly…well, careful with her money. Some say she is so tightfisted that her own servants must struggle to receive their wages. In short, I cannot see her lending any money to Squire Wentworth.”

  “I am relieved to hear that. I should have known that with your attention to detail we would not be walking into this meeting totally unprepared. What else have you learned about her, Sir Oliver?”

  “She is Lady Archibald Pennington, Countess of Aytoun. Her given name is Beatrice. She’s been a widow for over five years. She is Scottish by birth, with the blood of Highlanders in her veins. She comes from an ancient family, and she married well besides.”

  “She has children?”

  “Three sons. All men now. Lyon Pennington is the fourth Earl of Aytoun. The second son, Pierce Pennington, has apparently been making a fortune in the American colonies despite the embargo. And David Pennington, the youngest, is an officer in His Majesty’s army. The countess herself led a very quiet life until the scandal that tore her family apart occurred this past summer.”

  “Scandal?”

  Sir Oliver nodded. “Indeed, m’lady. It involved a young lady named Emma Douglas. I understand all three brothers were fond of her. She ended up marrying the oldest brother and became the countess of Aytoun two years ago.”

  That hardly sounded scandalous, but Millicent had no chance to ask any more questions as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of an elegant mansion facing Hanover Square. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door of the carriage. Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

  Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, yet another servant greeted them. As Millicent shed her cloak, her gaze took in the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall and the ornate gilded scrolls and rosettes that decorated the high patterned ceiling. In a receiving area beyond an open set of doors, she could see upholstered furniture of deep walnut by Sheraton and Chippendale tastefully arranged about the room, while handsome carpets covered the brightly polished floors.

  A tall, elderly steward approached and informed them that the dowager was waiting.

  “What was the nature of the scandal?” she managed to whisper as they followed the steward and another servant up the sweeping circular stairs to a drawing room.

  “Just rumors, m’lady,” Birch whispered, “to the effect that the earl murdered his wife.”

  “But that is—”

  She stopped as the door to the drawing room was opened. Trying to contain her shock and curiosity, Millicent entered as they were announced.

  There were four people in the cozy, well-appointed room: the dowager countess, a pale gentleman standing by a desk that had a ledger book open on it, and two lady’s maids.

  Lady Aytoun was an older woman, obviously in ill health. She was sitting on a sofa with pillows propped behind her and a blanket on her lap. Blue eyes studied the visitors from behind a pair of spectacles.

  Millicent gave a small curtsy. “Our apologies, my lady, for being delayed.”

  “Did you win the auction?” The dowager’s abruptness caused Millicent to look over in surprise at Sir Oliver. He appeared as baffled as she was. “The African woman. Did you win the auction?”

  “I…I did,” she managed to get out. “But how did you know about it?”

  “How much?”

  Millicent bristled at the inquiry, but at the same time she felt no shame for what she’d done. “One hundred ten pounds. Though I must tell you I don’t know what business it is of—”

  “Add it to the tally, Sir Richard.” The dowager waved a hand at the gentleman still standing by the desk. “A worthy cause.”

  Sir Oliver stepped forward. “May I say, m’lady—"

  “Pray, save the idle prattle, young man. Come and sit. Both of you.”

  Millicent’s lawyer, who probably hadn’t been addressed as “young man” in decades, stared openmouthed for a moment. Then, as he and Millicent did as they were instructed, the countess dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.

  “Very well. I know both of you, and you know me. That pasty-faced bag of bones over there is my lawyer, Sir Richard Maitland.” The old woman arched an eyebrow in the direction of her attorney, who bowed stiffly and sat. “And now, the reason why I invited you here.”

  Millicent could not even hazard a guess as to what was coming next.

  “People acting on my behalf have been reporting to me about you for some time now, Lady Wentworth. You have surpassed my expectations.” Lady Aytoun removed her spectacles. “No reason for dallying. You are here because I have a business proposition.”

  “A business proposition?” Millicent murmured.

  “Indeed. I want you to marry my son, the Earl of Aytoun. By a special license. Today.”