The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter: A Victorian Romance

by Mimi Matthews

  She shook her head.

  Tristan began to pace the room. “It has no industry. No direct rail access. But the farmers and landowners thereabouts produce an annual yield that far exceeds…”

  Valentine listened in silence as Tristan went on to talk of crops, steam mills, and transport. She didn’t fully understand it but was mesmerized by the intensity with which he tackled the subject.

  When they had first met in Yorkshire, she had been drawn to him because he was kind and handsome, and because he had seemed lost and a little sad. He had needed her, even if only in some small way. But now, he was fairly brimming with confidence. He was happy. She’d known he would be. He was too inherently good to have kept on down the wrong path. Instead, he’d summoned the strength to make a change. It was one of the reasons she loved him so.

  And one of the reasons, she feared she would lose him.

  After all, what need did he have of her now? None at all. They were bound together by nothing more than his promise to marry her.

  “It was the water mill that gave me the idea,” he said. “In centuries past, it made Harbury Morton a thriving concern. But now, every farmer and landowner in the district is obliged to transport their crops to towns with working mills. If there were a way for Harbury Morton to have a steam mill of its own. And direct rail access to transport its crops, coal, and lime…”

  “Is there such a way?” she asked.

  “I believe there is,” he said. “I’ve spoken to an industrialist in Newcastle who’s been keen to build a steam mill in Harbury Morton these many years. The gentlemen at the Blyth and Tyne Railway are equally keen. In both cases, all it wants is investment. I already own the land.”

  “Perhaps your father—”

  “No,” Tristan said. “My father has nothing to do with this. If anything, I expect that my ventures in Northumberland might eventually set me free of him.”

  Valentine folded her hands in her lap. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she remained quiet as Tristan’s pacing took him to the small walnut writing desk on which her book of verses sat open. He stopped there, casting an idle glance down at her work.

  “It’s all rather ironic,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve come to believe that that’s the very reason my father gave me Blackburn Priory. So that I might gain independence from him. He must have known the place was rich with possibility. Had I gone there years ago—had I taken the time—I might have seen it for myself.”

  “Everything happens in its season,” she said. “That’s what my father used to say.”

  “Very wise of him.” He set his hand on the edge of the desk. “If only that season would have come sooner. Then I would have known…”

  “Known what?”

  “That my father never wished to see me fail. Quite the opposite. He hoped to see me succeed.”

  “Of course he did. Your father loves you very much.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “But he does,” she insisted.

  “I can’t imagine why,” he said. “I’ve been the greatest trial of his life. Had there not been intervening circumstances, I have no doubt he would have cut off my funds and cast me off into the proverbial wilderness.”

  The words she’d overheard outside the billiards room at Fairford House echoed in Valentine’s mind. “By intervening circumstances, you mean your engagement to me.”

  Tristan didn’t deny it. “My father wouldn’t allow my future wife and children to live in penury. No matter how much I had disappointed him. A hard fact, but—” He broke off. “What is this?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His attention was fixed on the opening page of her book of verses. “This drawing.”

  She flushed. “It’s meant to be a lion.” She rose from her seat and went to his side. Her skirts brushed up against his leg. “I know it looks like a pug dog, but once I have applied the watercolors it should look a bit closer to my mother’s illustration.”

  “What illustration?”

  “From the front of the original book of verses. It was one of the pages that Felicity Brightwell destroyed. I can’t recreate all of them, but I’m trying to draw some from memory.”

  “A stag facing a lion, each on their hind legs,” he said thoughtfully. “And this I suppose is an eagle.”

  “With a crown of roses in his beak.” She gave him a rueful smile. “My mother painted many variations of the design, but this was the most common. I always thought it a rather odd configuration.”

  Tristan looked up from the book. His eyes found hers. “Was your mother very religious?” he asked abruptly.

  “No more than reason.”

  “Yet she named you after a saint.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Papa said she was trying to atone. To make things right with God before I was born. She can’t have felt easy about having a child out of wedlock. And certainly not so far from home.”

  “Why did she choose Surrey, I wonder. What brought her there?”

  “To our village?” Valentine frowned. She’d often wondered the same thing herself. “I suppose she must have simply run out of money. Before Papa found her weeping in the church at Hartford Green, she’d been staying for several days at an inn outside the village. She could no longer afford it.”

  Tristan looked down again at the book of verses. “The famous Caddington pride,” he muttered.

  “You think it was pride that brought her to Hartwood Green?”

  “No,” he said. “But I think—indeed, I would wager my last groat—that it was pride that kept her from returning home to Caddington Park.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand—”

  “St. Ashton.” Lady Hermione’s voice rang out from the doorway. “How good of you to call on us.”

  Valentine turned from the desk with a start to see her distant cousin entering the drawing room. A rush of heat crept into her face at being caught alone with Tristan, and in such close proximity, too. She immediately moved away from him. “You’re back early, ma’am.”

  “As you see.”

  “Were Lady Penelope and Lady Euphemia not at home?”

  “They were, but there was no need to dally.” Lady Hermione looked at Tristan. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit, my lord?”

  Tristan greeted Lady Hermione with cool civility. “I’m in London on business. As I’ve been explaining to Miss March.”

  “Lord St. Ashton is seeking investors for a business venture,” Valentine said. “A steam mill and a railway station in Northumberland.”

  “How enterprising of him.”

  “It’s bound to be a great success.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And it will make him quite independent of Lord Lynden.”

  Lady Hermione’s gray gaze slid to Tristan’s face. “If that’s so, then there will be no more need to marry in order to secure your income.”

  Tristan acknowledged this fact with a subtle inclination of his head. “No need at all, ma’am.”

  “And this is what you have come to tell my young cousin, I presume.”

  Valentine heartbeat quickened. She looked at Tristan, her eyes questioning. He wasn’t calling off their engagement, was he? He couldn’t be. Only a short time ago, he’d told Phil that the two of them were betrothed. If he didn’t wish to marry her, then why…?

  “I’m afraid that’s a conversation for another day,” Tristan said. His expression was unreadable, his voice reverting to the same tones of aristocratic indifference she’d heard him use in North Yorkshire. “I’ve already stayed too long. I’ve other appointments this afternoon.”

  “As do we,” Lady Hermione said. “Tomorrow we’ll be travelling to Caddington Park and we must make our arrangements.”

  Tristan’s face betrayed the faintest flicker of surprise. “You’re going to see Stokedale?”

  “We are.”

  Valentine
’s stomach was trembling. She clasped her hands at her waist. When Tristan threw her a glance, she looked away. She couldn’t bear it.

  “You have no cause to do anything I ask, my lady,” he said, “but I would beg you to notify my father. Allow him to accompany you.”

  “To lend us countenance?” Lady Hermione scoffed.

  “To lend support to Miss March. I would go myself, but—”

  “You most certainly won’t!” Lady Hermione’s bosom swelled with righteous indignation. “When I think of what I’ve had to endure. The lengths to which I must go to shield my cousin from gossip. That orgy in Yorkshire. Those odious Brightwell creatures. And now, Ledsen tells me, you’ve pitched a country gentleman into the street outside my own home! A country gentleman who’s threatening lawsuits and scandal and having respectable people brought up on charges!”

  “Oh no,” Valentine said in horror. “He didn’t, did he?”

  Lady Hermione didn’t answer. She was in too much of a passion. “No, St. Ashton. You shall not accompany us to Caddington Park. You’ve done quite enough for my cousin, thank you.”

  Tristan’s face had gone hard as stone. “You need say no more, madam. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear.”

  “I trust I have.” Lady Hermione strode to the door of the morning room and pulled it open. “Miss March? See our guest out, if you please.”

  Valentine did as she was bid, walking out the door and down the stairs, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She was aware of Tristan behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body, could hear the sound of his boots on the steps. But she didn’t address him. Not until they reached the front door.

  She turned to face him then but couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze any higher than the top button of his waistcoat. “I bid you good day, my lord. And I wish you good fortune in all of your business endeavors.”

  “Miss March…”

  “Please don’t. Lady Hermione is right. There’s no need for us to remain betrothed. And if you’d only…”

  Her words disappeared in a tremulous breath at the feel of his fingers touching her beneath her chin. He gently raised her face until she was forced to look him in the eye. “Have you lost faith in me?”

  She swallowed hard. “No, my lord.” It was the truth. He would marry her. He would keep his word if she let him. “I believe you will do the honorable thing. And so must I.”

  Dawning realization registered on Tristan’s face. “Valentine—”

  “Goodbye, Lord St. Ashton,” she said. “I release you from our engagement.”

  Kent, England

  Autumn, 1861

  With every miserable mile of railway track they covered during their journey from London to Caddington Park in Kent, Valentine became more and more convinced that she had no one but herself to blame. If she’d been less scrupulous, she would have held Tristan to his promise. She would have insisted he marry her, even if he didn’t want her. Even if he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t do it. She would as soon keep a wild animal in a cage or try to turn a wolf into a lapdog.

  Knowing that, it shouldn’t matter that Tristan had readily acceded to the termination of their engagement. It shouldn’t break her heart that he’d gone without putting up the slightest argument.

  It was a very good thing, she reflected as she settled deeper into her seat, that she hadn’t acted in the hope of forcing a declaration from him. If so, she would have been sorely disappointed. He hadn’t uttered one word of affection. He hadn’t even touched her except to grasp her by the chin and force her to look at him.

  She sighed. It was all quite unromantic. And he the biggest rake and reprobate of them all. Clearly there was something wrong with her. The only time he’d ever spoken or behaved in a passionate manner was that night in the conservatory. He’d said it had nothing to do with drink, but how could she believe it when he’d behaved with so much restraint afterward?

  “We’re approaching the station,” Lady Hermione said.

  Lord Lynden was seated beside her. He was wearing a heavy topcoat and held a carved ebony cane in his gloved hands. It was the first week of December and the cold weather had come in icy and damp. “We may yet have a white Christmas,” he had remarked earlier.

  Mundane comments about the weather had been the limit of their conversation for the past forty miles at least. Valentine didn’t think any of them were particularly keen on visiting Caddington Park. The outcome was practically guaranteed to be a grim one.

  But there was no avoiding it, especially now that Lady Brightwell and her daughter had arrived in town. If they shared the story of Valentine’s indiscretion in Yorkshire, the news would swiftly circulate through society and, inevitably, make its way to Caddington Park. And if the Marquess of Stokedale were to hear of it, his prejudice against her would be insurmountable.

  “I will see to hiring the carriage,” Lord Lynden said.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Hermione objected. “I didn’t invite you to accompany us so that we might hang on your sleeve, sir. We shall pay our own way.”

  Lord Lynden glanced out the window. The train was slowing, the wooden platform at Bolton Heath Station rising up on either side of it. “You didn’t invite me at all, if you’ll recall.”

  “I sent my footman round with a note.”

  “Hardly an invitation, madam, but I’ll not argue with you.”

  The train came to a halt in a grinding screech of metal. Valentine smoothed the folds of her cloak. Beneath it, she wore the same brown woolen travelling dress she’d worn on the journey to meet Lady Hermione. She’d paired it with tan gloves of buttery soft kid, half-boots of polished morocco, and a low-brimmed spoon bonnet with wide silk ribbons knotted beneath her chin. Even her hair had been given special attention. She’d brushed it to a high gloss and then rolled it back into an oversized chignon at the nape of her neck. The whole was secured with dozens of pins, many of which were poking and pulling at her scalp.

  She wouldn’t be at all surprised if she ended this day with a blinding headache. And it would serve her right for trying to impress a man who had treated her so shabbily.

  “Miss March,” Lady Hermione said abruptly. “You’re looking peaked. You’re not going to be ill, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Valentine said.

  Lord Lynden stood. “Come. We’ll all feel better in the fresh air.”

  Valentine trailed behind Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione as they disembarked. The railway platform was deserted. They were obliged to wait a quarter of an hour for the stationmaster’s boy to fetch a carriage and driver to take them to Caddington Park.

  True to his word, Lord Lynden arranged all—a fact which seemed to rankle Lady Hermione to no small degree.

  “We could have managed just as easily on our own,” she grumbled as Lord Lynden handed her up into the carriage. “Women are not helpless, you know. Though I daresay St. Ashton must think so. It was he who insisted you accompany us.”

  Lord Lynden assisted Valentine into the carriage and then climbed in himself, taking the seat across from her and Lady Hermione. “I’m aware,” he said. “He’s explained his reasoning to me and I can find no fault with it.”

  “You spoke to him?” Valentine asked.

  “I dined with him last night at my club,” Lord Lynden said.

  And then he said no more. Valentine ached to question him, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. She’d ended her engagement to Tristan. She had no more rights over him. No more reason to enquire after his whereabouts and his welfare.

  “He believes Stokedale will accord us more respect if we arrive with a man.” Lady Hermione wrapped her mantle more snugly around her shoulders. “Perhaps he’s right. Stokedale’s opinions on women’s issues are sorely outdated. I pity his wife and daughters.”

  Valentine looked at Lady Hermione in alarm. “They won’t be in residence, will they?”

  “No, no.” Lady Hermione waved the question away with a flick of her hand. “They’re o
n the continent. The family won’t come together until Christmas.”

  The words family and Christmas triggered a pang of melancholy in Valentine’s already heavy heart. This would be her first Christmas without her father. She supposed she would spend it with Lady Hermione, but the future hadn’t been discussed as yet.

  She’d only come there to stay for the period of her engagement. In a year’s time, she was to marry Tristan and go to Northumberland. But now that she was no longer engaged, there was really no need to remain with one of her relations. She would have to start planning for the rest of her life. Whether that life be in India, China, or back in Hartwood Green with Mrs. Pilcher.

  Unfortunately, since Tristan’s departure yesterday, she found that the idea of missionary work in an exotic land—an idea which had once filled her with earnest enthusiasm—was no longer as exciting as in months gone by. She could summon no interest in travelling to a foreign country or learning a foreign language. She felt lost. Unmoored.

  “Ah,” Lord Lynden said. “There is Caddington Park.”

  Valentine leaned to look out the window. She could make out an enormous structure of cold, gray stone. It was built in the Palladian style, all graceful lines and muted dignity. She pressed a hand to her midsection. Her stomach was churning. She’d been too nervous to eat any breakfast. And she very much feared she’d laced her corset too tightly.

  “A handsome prospect, isn’t it?” Lady Hermione said.

  She nodded. “Very handsome.”

  The carriage stopped at the wide stone steps that led to the front doors. As they disembarked, they were met by a silver-haired butler and two footmen in livery. The butler recognized Lady Hermione at once. He even appeared to know Lord Lynden.

  “My lord, my lady,” he said. And then his eyes found Valentine. He visibly started.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Frith,” Lady Hermione said briskly. “And you’re not wrong. It’s why we’ve come. Do inform Stokedale, won’t you? And set us in front of a fire. We are frozen through.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the butler said.