by Mary Nichols
He smiled and reached across his daughter to take Frances by the hand and draw her towards him. ‘Then I am indebted to her.’ He conveyed her hand to his lips, looking at her over it with an expression she could not fathom. Tenderness? Sorrow? Or was there just a gleam of wry amusement? Could he be laughing at her? ‘For everything.’ The last two words were said with heavy emphasis, confusing her all the more.
‘But why did you come in that awful coach?’ Lavinia asked him, ‘It is Mr Poole’s. We thought…’
‘Come, let us go back to it and you shall hear the story.’
With Lavinia on one side of him and Frances on the other they went back to the stationary coach from which had emerged Donald Greenaway and James. They were standing in the road watching them approach, while John Harker sat on the driving seat, smiling from ear to ear. James hugged his stepmother and bowed to Lavinia, his eyes alight with pleasure. ‘Thank God we were in time.’
Frances had noticed Poole sitting in the coach, sullenly staring out at them. ‘What is he doing there?’
‘Oh, do not be alarmed, he is securely trussed,’ Donald said. ‘Now all we have to do is wait for the Runners who are not far behind and then we can go.’
He had hardly spoken when they heard the sound of another vehicle arriving. A huge prison van, drawn by two great draught horses, hove into view and drew up. Three Runners emerged, carrying bludgeons and pistols and they soon manhandled the silent Poole into the van. ‘There’s another man back there,’ Donald told them.
‘You can safely leave him to us, Major. You be on your way. I dare say the ladies will be glad to bathe and rest.’
‘We are not far from Twelvetrees,’ James said, as he and Marcus joined Frances and Lavinia in the coach, leaving Donald to climb up beside Harker. ‘We will go there for you both to recuperate, before returning to London.’
As soon as they were on their way, Lavinia began a long account of exactly what had happened to them, which made her father smile. He knew, as the others did, that the sudden relief from tension had made her talkative and she just could not stop.
Frances remained silent. Now all danger was past, she did not know what to say, even if Lavinia had paused long enough to allow her to say anything. When the euphoria of the rescue died down and Marcus contemplated what might have happened and where to lay the blame, he would turn to her, and although she did not think she had encouraged Lavinia in her wilfulness, she had not curbed her as she ought.
She dreaded the end of the journey, when he would insist on speaking to her alone and would coldly repeat his proposal in such a way that she would be under no illusion that he meant her to refuse him. Oh, how difficult that was going to be!
Lavinia, having come at last to the end of her narrative, demanded to know how he had known where they were. ‘Lady Corringham said you would come, but when they moved us, we thought you would never find us. Mr Poole seemed very sure you would not.’
‘Once we had John Harker’s message, we were well on the way. From the lad at the orphanage we followed the trail to the man who had given Lady Corringham her directions.’
‘But that would only lead you to the tavern,’ Frances put in.
‘So it did and we searched it, but all we found was a piece of cloth snagged on a broken window and several spots of blood.’ He did not tell her what had gone through his mind, seeing that piece of cloth which he had recognised as coming from the gown Frances had been wearing the day he helped at the orphanage. And the spots of blood had set him in a fever of impatience to find who had been hurt. ‘We feared you may have tried to escape and one of you had been injured but everyone in the neighbourhood denied all knowledge of you, even when offered money.
‘We thought we had come to an impasse, but we decided to leave a guard watching the place while we looked elsewhere. I went home and found the ransom note pushed under the door. It told me where to leave the money.’
‘In a sack in the kitchen of the old orphanage in Monmouth Street,’ Frances put in. ‘Poole made me write it. Did you see the tiny magpie I drew in the middle of my signature?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I saw it and very cleverly done it was, but we had already searched there and knew you were gone. The only way was to catch Poole when he came to collect the ransom. I kept watch with the Major from across the street, but it wasn’t Poole who arrived, but another man. We arrested him and inveigled him into telling us where he was meeting Poole. We told him to go ahead and followed him; when Poole arrived we arrested him.’
He made it sound easy, but there had been a desperate struggle and several times Poole had almost escaped before the Runners had arrived to help and the man had eventually been overcome.
‘Are you going to charge him with the murder of Mrs Poole?’
‘Very probably. Along with incitement to riot. He tried to get the framework knitters to march on Loscoe Court, but Major Greenaway and I had been forewarned and arrived ahead of them.’
‘That was why you went back to Risley?’
‘Yes, I talked to the men and explained that Poole was using them for his own ends and they went away peaceably enough. Unfortunately Poole slipped through our fingers and came back to London.’
‘And being thwarted, killed his wife?’
‘Yes. For which he will surely hang.’
‘And what about little Jack?’
‘His name is Jack, is it?’ Lavinia put in. ‘Is he named for Uncle John?’
‘You know the truth?’ her father queried.
‘I do now, her ladyship told me, but I do think it was despicable of Benedict Willoughby to repeat that awful gossip. Do you think we shall ever live it down?’
‘Of course we will.’ He hugged her to him, while smiling at Frances over her head. ‘Gossip comes and goes, the gabble-grinders will soon find something else to get their teeth into.’
They had been passing through cultivated countryside while they had been travelling and now they entered a village and, a few minutes later, rattled through the wrought-iron gates of Twelvetrees. ‘Home,’ James said.
Although the housekeeper had not been expecting them, the ladies were soon stripping off their filthy clothes in their respective rooms and enjoying a hot bath, while down in the kitchen a meal was prepared for everyone.
Lavinia had been right; everything they had been wearing had to be destroyed, but fortunately Frances had left some clothes at the house when she moved to London and thus it was that Lavinia emerged in a blue spotted muslin which, though slightly too big, was soon taken in, and Frances found a green jaconet, slightly old-fashioned, but still a good fit. Without a maid to arrange her hair, she had brushed it and left it loose, held back by a simple ribbon.
The meal was a noisy and cheerful affair with everyone adding to the enjoyment, but at the end of it Lavinia pleaded fatigue and retired to bed, leaving Frances to make her way to the drawing room alone. She had not been there five minutes when Marcus joined her.
‘You did not spend long over the port,’ she said, looking past him for the other two.
‘No.’ He shut the door behind him and came to sit next to her. ‘I prefer the company in here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘What would you have me say? That I am sorry?’
‘You are sorry that I prefer your company?’
She realised he was teasing her, but she dare not turn to look at him and kept her face obstinately forward. ‘No, I did not mean that.’
‘What did you mean, then? What have you to regret which I do not regret even more?’
‘Yes, I thought you might. But have no fear, I shall tell no one.’
‘Now you are talking in riddles and I am not in the mood for conundrums, so please explain what it is you are not about to tell.’
She turned to face him. He was looking down at her with such intensity, his eyes seemed to burn into her. His mouth, which she knew could be soft and gentle, looked hard, as if he d
are not relax. She took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘I shall tell no one of our interview last night and that you offered me marriage.’
‘Why not?’
‘I would not wish to embarrass you in Society when the marriage does not take place.’
‘It is not to take place?’
‘No, and you need not sound so relieved, you should know that I would never hold you to it.’
‘Why not?’ His tone, which until then had been gently mocking, was suddenly hard.
‘You know very well, Marcus Stanmore,’ she retorted angrily. ‘I have been a thorn in your side ever since you came to London. Not that I intended to be, for I did not know you were come and I dare say we would never have been more than polite acquaintances if you had not brought Lavinia to be taught by me. So do not blame me for it.’
‘Blame you for what?’
‘The way Lavinia has behaved, for condoning her mischief, taking her to the orphanage, sending her home in a cab with James…’
‘Do you think I should blame you?’
‘No, but I know you do.’
‘I see you still imagine you can read my mind.’
‘So I can.’
‘Then tell me what I am thinking now.’
She smiled wanly. ‘You are thinking what a lucky escape you have had…’
‘No, what a lucky escape you have had.’
‘That too, of course, and it is polite of you to say so, but…’
‘No, it was not luck for it was down to your courage. You could have been killed, as Mrs Poole was. Lavinia could have…’
‘Oh, you blame me for that too.’
He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to face him, shaking her gentle. ‘Fanny, my love, I shall have to spank you if you do not stop this nonsense. Don’t you know that I blame you for nothing? Nothing except making me see sense. If you had not taught my daughter more than how to draw a line and brought her out of the sullen mood she has been ever since I brought her to London, I would never have come anywhere close to understanding her. Nor understanding myself either.
‘I know I love you. I thought I did when we were both so young, but now I am not so sure it was love. Youthful infatuation, if you like, passion, perhaps, love, in a way, but not the enduring love I feel for you now. I came to London a month ago, a lonely and embittered man, determined to do my best for my wilful children but with no more idea of what that best was than that teapot there. And when I saw you with your own stepchildren…’ He chuckled. ‘I was jealous, I admit it.’
‘Marcus, how can you say that? I own they are not my flesh and blood, but they are my children and I would do anything for them.’
‘Don’t I know it! But do you not think you could spare a little of that love for me?’
She looked up at him and saw the soft gleam in his eyes and the wry twist to his mouth which told her that he was in earnest and no longer teasing her. ‘It is not a question of sparing it, Marcus. The love I have for you, the love of a woman for a man, is very different from that of a parent to a child, as you very well know, having children of your own.’
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘But did I hear aright? You did say the love you have for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you still mean to refuse my offer of marriage?’
‘Do you wish me to?’
‘No, by God, I do not. Nothing will make me happier than for you to say yes. And we can be married as soon as may be.’
She was suddenly as shy as a schoolgirl and looked down at her hands, one of which was bandaged. ‘Very well, I accept.’
‘Oh, Fanny!’ He laughed aloud, seized her hands and turned her to face him. ‘Oh, thank heavens! You can be so inscrutable at times, I began to wonder if I would ever break the ice.’
She laughed as he took her into his arms and kissed her soundly. This led to another and another, until Donald and James, having consumed the better part of a bottle of port between them, decided they had been left out in the cold long enough and joined them, making as much of a noise about it as they could to give the lovers time to break apart.
‘I can see felicitations are in order,’ James said, crossing the room to kiss a flustered Frances on the cheek. ‘I wish you happy.’ Then he turned to shake Marcus by the hand. ‘Congratulations, sir.’ He grinned teasingly. ‘But as head of the family, I would expect my approval to be sought…’
Marcus laughed. ‘And do I have it?’
‘If you make my darling stepmother happy, then you do.’
Donald came forward and added his congratulations, a toast was suggested and drunk and the hilarity brought Lavinia down in her dressing gown, saying they had woken her. ‘Not that I mind,’ she said. ‘For I was having a dreadful nightmare.’
‘Of a wicked stepmother, I shouldn’t wonder,’ James said, with a laugh.
‘No,’ she answered, puzzled. ‘Why do you say that?’
Marcus went to her and put his arm about her shoulders. ‘Would you mind very much having a stepmother?’
‘If she is as nice as mine?’ James added.
Lavinia looked from one to the other and then a broad smile creased her face. ‘Oh, you haven’t…you aren’t…’
‘Lady Corringham,’ Marcus said, almost pompously, though with a touch of pride, ‘has consented to become the Duchess of Loscoe.’
Lavinia flew to Frances and hugged her. ‘Oh, I am so pleased. I thought I had spoiled it all, being so naughty.’
‘You very nearly did,’ her father said. ‘Now, I think it is time we all retired, if we are to be back in Town tomorrow. There is much to do.’
She went dutifully and was followed by James and Donald. Alone once again, with all the things that had divided them safely disposed of, Frances and Marcus spent a few delectable moments in each other’s arms before they reluctantly drew apart. They had waited seventeen years and though they were impatient to consummate their love, both knew it would not do, not with James and Lavinia in the house. ‘Three weeks,’ he said, kissing her goodnight outside her bedroom door. ‘Not a moment longer.’
May 1818
Stanmore House was a very different home from the one Frances had entered the year before. It had been refurbished; the old dark wallpaper had gone, along with the heavy oak furniture. Now the rooms were light and airy and it was possible to see some of the fine pictures which hung on the gallery wall. Frances had cleaned them so that their true colours had been revealed. Among them was a set of four new ones, named Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter.
She had been surprised, on the day she had gone there as Marcus’s bride, to find Autumn and Winter on the wall of the library. ‘You were the one who bought them?’ she queried in surprise.
‘Why not? They are good. But I am still waiting for their companions.’
And so, in the weeks that followed, whenever she had time from her new status as the Duchess of Loscoe, entertaining their many friends, the refurbishment of the house and visits to Loscoe Court, not to mention spending time with her children, grandchildren and the orphans, she had completed the commission.
Her portrait of Lavinia with the rabbit had pride of place beside one of Jack with a toy monkey. No longer a ragged urchin, the child had been adopted by Marcus and had been absorbed into the extended family. John had agreed to this and had set up home in the Scottish castle which Marcus had gifted to him. ‘What do I want with a castle in Scotland,’ Marcus had said, echoing Frances’s thoughts of eighteen years before.
Tonight every chandelier in the place had been lit. There were flowers and greenery everywhere and the great ballroom floor had been polished within an inch of its life for tonight was to be Lavinia’s come-out ball and Frances wanted everything to be perfect for her.
‘I have just been to see Lavinia in her gown,’ she told Marcus when he came into her room to watch her being dressed. Rose disapproved, but there was nothing she could do about it as he sat down to watch his lovely wife sitting in her shift
having her hair brushed. ‘She looks so radiant. Every buck in Town will be mooning over her.’
‘Then let us hope it will not go to her head,’ he said laconically, taking the hairbrush from her maid’s hand and indicating with a turn of his head that she should leave them. He was already dressed in a black evening suit of the best superfine, his cravat a piece of art in itself, so precisely was it tied.
She looked up at him, marvelling at the way his hair curled, the way the little lines creased his eyes when he smiled, the firm line of his jaw and the love in his eyes when he looked at her, a love mirrored by her own. ‘Marcus, you should not send Rose away like that. You will make me late.’
‘There is plenty of time and you know I like to brush your hair,’ he said, suiting action to words. ‘If we had the time…’
She laughed. ‘But we haven’t.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose you want me to fetch Rose back?’
‘Yes, but not until you have heard my news…’
‘More on dit? Tell me then, though why you should think I would be in the least interested I do not know.’
‘Oh, but I know you will. And it isn’t exactly on dit yet, but it will be. You see…’ She paused and laughed. ‘Marcus, a miracle has happened. I am…I am in what the prudish among us call an interesting condition.’
‘You mean you are pregnant?’ He dropped the brush and seized her hands, pulling her to her feet. ‘Oh, my darling, I am so pleased. But I thought…’
‘So did I, but it appears there was nothing wrong with me that a good man could not cure.’
That was what the doctor had told her; she was not barren, it had been her elderly husband who could not have more children. At last, at long last, she was to be a mother. And what made it even better was that her child would also be Marcus’s.
‘Oh, my love, my dearest one, this child of ours will be loved so much…’
‘And indulged.’
‘Oh, yes, but not over-indulged, I think.’
‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘Now, will you go and fetch Rose?’