“What?” she said.
“I am not surprised you did not know.”
“I was so very young,” she said, frowning. “My stepmother led me to believe I was penniless.”
“I also think it possible your father may have left you more. Such a large dowry indicates wealth and a possible inheritance. You are no longer poor as you imagined yourself to be.”
“Is it possible?” she queried, tears once more brimming in her eyes.
“Aye,” he said softly, smiling down at her.
She placed a hand on his cheek. “Thank you again for coming to find me. I am so very grateful, you have no idea.”
He held her tightly once more and even if there was an audience, he kissed her warmly and deeply. How thankful he was that she was unharmed. How much he loved her.
The moment could not last, not with any degree of modesty and her nightdress withheld little from his imagination so that very soon he drew back from her and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should rejoin the troupe,” he said. “I believe they all came.”
“I should like that very much.”
When they turned toward the door, he felt obligated to warn her. “Charles is here,” he said quietly.
“Indeed? Did he, as I suspect, arrange the matter with Stolford?”
“He did. We are not yet certain what to do with him.” With that he escorted her from the chamber. By now a veritable riot of noise was in progress. Betty had even taken to singing, which was not her strongest ability. The taproom had come alive and at the top of the stairs an old man in his nightcap and gown shouted at them.
Kelthorne addressed him. “It will be of no use. They are quite an incorrigible troupe of actors. However, if you wish for a brandy or perhaps a cup of rum punch, I shall be honored to have you as my guest.”
“And who be ye?” he said hotly, turning back to him.
“The Earl of Kelthorne,” he stated, “at your service.”
“What humbug. Kelthorne is quite old, by Jove and... well, by all that’s wonderful, did that old ferret finally stick his spoon in the wall?”
“Aye,” Kelthorne responded, laughing.
“Well, then. A cup of punch it shall be for he was the worst nipcheese I ever knew. I am an architect by trade and once built a cottage for one of his tenants and what it cost me....” The man ground his teeth. “But that is all in the past now.” He began moving down the stairs.
Kelthorne followed behind with Judith. The man called out to the landlord, “Punch, if ye please and since the lady,” here he winked at Kelthorne, “and since the lady is also in her nightdress, I shall not demur another moment. Actors, you say? And actresses?”
“Aye,” Judith said, laughing.
The man hurried down the remainder of the stairs but Kelthorne held Judith back. “It was a terrible insult,” he whispered. “I am sorry. Do you wish to retire? I shall provide a bedchamber for you if you so desire.”
Judith looked up at him and smiled if crookedly. “Have you forgotten already that I, too, am a member of this troupe? Do you think there is even one of the men who has not seen me in my robe and nightdress, in my cap and with my hair tied up in rags?”
Kelthorne stared at her feeling oddly aghast. “I suppose it never occurred to me.”
“Of course not, for you are being ridiculously naïve about it all.”
“Are you certain you do not wish for a private parlor?” he asked again.
At that he knew he had erred for a cool light entered her eye. “Not by half,” she stated and then began a quick running descent of the stairs in what he realized were her bare feet.
“Judy, there ye be,” Henry called to her.
Kelthorne followed slowly after and watched as one after the other, everyone in the troupe, save Charles, embraced her. He felt a profound degree of jealousy that was not in the least reasonable given the truly wretched circumstances of the night’s events. Yet, she was the woman he loved, the woman he fully intended to make his wife and she was being passed from man to man just like any of the ladies.
When he reached the bottom step, his sister Mary approached him. “They are certainly a lively group,” she said. “I could only wish that Judith were not so indelicately clad. ‘Tis quite disconcerting.”
He glanced at his sister. “She has been through a terrifying and difficult ordeal,” he snapped. “Would you fault her for this?” He was being quite irrational since his own recent thoughts had been of a similar nature.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said hastily. “I mean to do better and it was unforgivable that I should complain of her attire.”
“Just so,” he returned piously but his conscience smote him.
After Judith had regaled the troupe of just how she had come to do a fearful injury to the Marquess of Stolford, all eyes suddenly turned to Charles who was hunched in a corner.
Judith stepped toward him. “I knew you were many things, Mr. Hemyock, but not this. I knew you disliked me but to wish to see me ruined at Stolford’s hands? I would not have thought you so cruel.”
He glared at her. Not the smallest amount of remorse appeared in his eyes. “Ye never belonged in the troupe. Always above yer company, walking about with yer nose in the air, all yer ladylike manners, so smug and all the time laughing at us all.”
“There you are greatly mistaken, Charles. Do you truly believe that I do not respect John and Margaret, Betty, Henry and the rest?”
“Of course not. Who would when Margaret came from the East End and worked as all girls worked or any of them wat give themselves to the gentlemen.”
“Ye’ve said enough,” John said hotly, intervening by grabbing Charles by the arm and jerking him to his feet. “Now, get out and do not let me see yer face again for as all these good people are my witness I’ll not leave a shred of skin on yer pretty face if ever I see ye. Leave, I say.” He threw him toward the door. Charles turned back as if to speak, but John said, “Ye’ve forfeited everything by wat ye’ve done this night. Yer things I’ll give to the poor.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a small purse and flung it at him. “Twenty pounds and not a tuppence more.”
Charles, after picking up the small purse from the floor, was unable, as always, to resist a dramatic finish. He flourished a grand bow, lifted his head high, turned on his heel, flung open the door and passed through. Dawn had passed and morning was bright on the horizon.
Judith felt the cold morning upon her skin. She shivered and at once felt Margaret’s arm about her.
“Kelthorne,” John suddenly called out. “Will ye not have a cup of punch? ‘Tis a fine bowl the landlord makes.”
Judith turned to watch him and saw his hesitation. His sisters flanked him, each of whom seemed to have grown uncomfortable. Her heart sank. Here was the truth that she already knew, which she understood a thousand times better than Kelthorne ever would. He might have spent much of his career dallying amongst the ladies of the theater but with his sisters to protect and his responsibilities as the Earl of Kelthorne, he could not easily cross the boundaries dictated by their society
“I think it time to go,” he said, meeting Judith’s gaze.
Margaret turned to Judith. “Indeed, it is, Judy. Time fer ye to go.”
“But I have not had a cup of punch yet,” she stated firmly, holding Kelthorne’s gaze. “I should like a cup, perhaps even two.”
Lady Radsbury and Mrs. Newnott looked up at their brother. Kelthorne took a step away from them and toward Judith but there was nothing conciliatory in his expression. He extended his hand to her. “We should all go. ‘Tis time my sisters returned to Portislow.”
“Of course it is,” Judith said. “And I bid you all a safe journey.” She dipped a curtsy, bowing her head, but afterward moved swiftly in the direction of the steaming bowl of punch, which sat on the bar. “A cup if you please, landlord.”
An awful silence reigned behind her. Even the landlord was uncertain what he ought to do.
“A cu
p please,” she stated again. “You were so kind to me last night and I will always be grateful.”
His expression relaxed and he ladled a cup and handed it to her. She took a sip and then another. Margaret approached her. “Judy,” she whispered close to her ear. “Do but think wat ye are doing. Such a man will not like to have his will thwarted.”
Judith relaxed suddenly and turned and kissed her cheek. She then slid her arm about Margaret’s waist and turned her toward Kelthorne. “This is my family, my lord,” she said. “Mrs. Ash is as dear to me as a sister could ever be. Here my loyalties lie and perhaps always shall. I beg you will take your sisters home.”
His expression was wholly grave. “And you will not attend us?” he inquired, a sad light entering his eye.
“Nay.”
“But Judy,” John began, drawing nigh as well.
She smiled up at him. “You are more my family, Mr. John Ash, than I have ever known.”
There were sudden tears in his eyes. “This is wat ye wish?”
“Aye,” she responded.
“Come,” Kelthorne said, taking his elder sister’s arm. “We should leave.”
“But Aubrey—” Mary protested.
“Yes, Aubrey, this cannot be right.”
“All will be well,” he said, but he did not look at Judith again.
She watched him go and sipped her punch at the same time for fear that the ache in her throat would soon force a flood of tears to her eyes and that would never do. She knew she was doing what was right, especially after he kicked up such a dust about her nightdress. She believed only in that moment had he truly come to understand just what manner of life she had been living for eight years.
Still, her throat ached. She drank deeply, again and again.
So it was that on the following morning, she awoke in her tent without the faintest idea how she had come to be there. The camp was alive with the peculiar shouting that occurred when the tents were being struck and the wagons loaded. How her head ached, though she was not certain to which cause she could ascribe the pain she was presently feeling. After all, she had been struck over the head little more than thirty hours past, but then she had never imbibed so much rum punch in her life.
Sitting on the edge of her bed and wondering as she always did if the corner would hold, she lowered her head gently into her hands and moaned softly. She determined never to become foxed again. Indeed, she could not help but wonder who would ever repeat such an experience as this.
Events of the night before flooded her mind. She did not want to think about anything that had happened, yet the memories rolled through her head one after the other like a tide that could not be turned. Only one thought snagged her, that she had a dowry and a very great one at that. Even her cousins had only had five thousand each. When she had left her home at fourteen, she had taken so very little with her and she had been just young enough that she had not known what she would bring to a contract of marriage.
Now she had a dowry and perhaps an inheritance. She would probably be able to do what she pleased and go where she desired. How was that possible? She truly did not know what to do.
A soft scratching sounded on her canvas door. “‘Tis I,” Margaret said.
Judith lifted her head. “Come,” she whispered, but even then the sound of her voice was like a trumpet to her own ears. She winced and moaned anew.
Margaret entered bearing a cup of tea. “‘Tis very weak. John always takes a cup after such a night.”
Judith took it in trembling hands. She noted that the cup was but half full and nicely warm to the touch. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Margaret sat on the small stool by the doorway. “Be ye feeling better?”
Judith smiled. “Better than what? Better than a lady whose head is being clamped in a vise? The answer must be no.”
Margaret chuckled. “Oh, Judy, how I am going to miss ye. I can hardly bear to think on it, I am that sad.”
Judith sipped the tea. “Of what are you speaking? I am continuing on with the troupe.” She knew at least this much, that she had a responsibility to the troupe and would not think of abandoning them now, particularly since their principal actor was gone. “I thought I made myself very clear on that subject last night.”
Margaret shook her head and sighed. “I were hoping ye discovered by now how wrong ye were. Ye should have gone with Kelthorne and his sisters. They were willing.”
“But I was not, not under such circumstances. Can you not understand as much?” She wished they were not discussing the matter now. Her stomach felt queasy even with the warm tea.
“Nay, I do not understand. Ye love him and he loves ye. Wat more is there to consider?”
“Only the future. If he could not even bear to pass an hour or two in the company of all of you, how will he ever properly manage how I have lived since I was fourteen? No, Margaret, in this I know I am right and his conduct proved it to me last night. I am for Devonshire.”
Margaret frowned as though trying to make her out. “Very well. I see that ye are not to be moved. John wished me to tell ye that the wagons will be ready in no more than an hour.”
Judith nodded and surrounded the cup with both her hands, sipping deeply once more. As Margaret rose and turned to go, Judith said, “Thank you, Margaret.”
“Fer the tea? O’ course.”
Judith shook her head. “Not for the tea, though I am grateful for that, but for your friendship and kindness to me. No sweeter soul exists on earth than yours.”
Margaret smiled a watery smile. “And thank ye fer believing in me. ‘Tis changed m’life, as ye very well know.” She quit the tent but Judith had one last glimpse of her swiping at a damp cheek just before she called out to her daughter, “Shelly, get off Horace’s back. He’s trying to tie up the goat.”
*** *** ***
“‘Tis my fault,” Mary said.
“No, dearest, ‘tis all mine,” Amy countered. “I am to blame. I should have insisted upon a cup of punch. And did not the bowl smell heavenly? But that is quite beside the point.”
Mary turned in Kelthorne’s direction and scowled at him. Watching her, in some amusement, he thought she appeared to be about twelve instead of five and thirty, the wife of a peer and the mother of eight hopeful children. He found he was rather astonished by both his sisters, something he rarely was. “Well,” she continued, “we are at least settled on this, Amy, that you and I both should have accepted so civil an offer of rum punch.”
“I think you are both being ridiculous,” Kelthorne countered. Rufus looked up at him. He was seated beside his master, his head draped over the toe of his boot. Kelthorne leaned down to rub his ears.
They were seated in the drawing room, only the three of them present. Lord Radsbury had gone to London on business as was expected of him and Mr. Newnott and Mr. Emborough were off hunting. Miss Banwell and Miss Upton were practicing a new ballad in the small music room while Miss Currivard and Laurence had taken, as was their habit, to walking about on the hilltop garden. Mr. Currivard was due to arrive in a fortnight’s time to meet his prospective son-in-law. Laurence was understandably nervous about the forthcoming encounter, but he had never been happier. How odd to think that love had found them both in Somerset.
A sennight had passed since the troupe had quit Portislow. The vale had begun to slumber once more. The apples in the orchard grew riper with each passing day. Every once in a while sunlight sparkled on the leaves in just such a manner as to hint of autumn.
For his part, Kelthorne had never known such lowness of spirit in his entire life. The night of Stolford’s injury he had needed Judith to choose yet he still did not comprehend why. He had forced the matter and that just following a time when she had barely recovered from the abduction. He wondered, as he had several times since, what would have happened had he not pressed the issue, had he—as his sisters were so markedly regretting—taken a cup of punch with the acting troupe.
Yet, he could not
shake the wretched feeling of ill-usage and a piercing jealousy, which had attacked him in that moment, upon seeing her while clothed in but her nightdress being embraced by every man of the troupe.
“Aubrey,” Mary said suddenly, sitting up very straight. “You are not fearful of her innocence, are you?”
He met her gaze and shook his head. “No,” he stated simply.
“Then what is it?”
He rose abruptly and began pacing the chamber. “She was in her nightdress for everyone to see,” he said sharply, throwing an arm wide. “And this was to be my wife?”
When he turned to face his sisters, he saw that they were staring at each other in consternation. He thought they understood now why he had been, and continued to be, so adamant about not following after Judith, begging her forgiveness for his snobbery, and bringing her back to Portislow. However, they soon began to smile and then to laugh. Finally, they were in such hysterics that he grew angry.
“What the deuce is so very funny about that. She was in her nightdress and all the men of the troupe were gawking at her as well as the servants in the inn. And you expect me to marry such a female?” His words, however, merely served to cause them both to laugh harder still until tears flowed down Amy’s cheeks and Mary’s face had turned a violent shade of red.
He was mightily offended that his sufferings had become such a source of amusement to his dear family.
He sat down again, feeling injured and more illused than ever. He refused to even look at them.
They continued to laugh for some time throwing out incomprehensible phrases to one another that would set them off once more at various intervals, things such as, “Imagine...” or “he complains,” or “what great irony.”
When at last their amusement had abated, they moved to stand side-by-side in front of him. Mary made her case quite simple. “What a sapskull you are to think you deserve someone so precious as Judith Pensbury when, given your quite sordid career, you would complain of Miss Pensbury in her nightdress. You are a hypocrite, Aubrey, and I wash my hands of you.”
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