Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘She reminds me of someone,’ he replied.

  Her eyes flickered. ‘Who?’ When he smiled, without answering, she pouted. ‘I can be whomever you wish, Guy. Come to me tonight, and I will make you forget her.’

  ‘I have no desire to forget her, Lady Fenton.’ But at that moment a stir in the ballroom dragged his attention away, and he was dismayed to see Maria Carberry in a glittering scarlet gown that made every other gown seem indifferent. She was at her most glorious, her flaxen hair piled up on top of her head, her neckline plunging so much further than Lady Fenton’s that her full breasts seemed they were barely contained. Plumes streamed from her head, and she glided like an Irish galleon in full sail. It was an arrival par excellence, and she enjoyed every moment as she approached Guy.

  A hush had fallen over the ballroom, and the orchestra’s playing gradually died away as it became clear that very few would partake of the next dance. Guy faced her reluctantly, alert to the glitter in her eyes. In recent days she had been trying unsuccessfully to resume their liaison; now he guessed she was intent upon stirring things in public. She halted dramatically before him. ‘Well, if it isn’t my English rover.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Maria.’

  Her eyes flickered toward Lady Fenton, whom she accurately assessed as a rival. ‘Well now, with breasts like that you’d be a success on the stage.’

  There were gasps, and Lady Fenton was outraged. ‘How dare you, madam!’

  ‘I dare because you’re shoving them in everyone’s face. Why, a short man would suffocate. If you don’t want them commented on, put them away.’

  ‘I wish you to leave, Miss Carberry.’

  ‘Oh, so you know who I am?’ Maria preened.

  ‘I saw you as Lady Macbeth. Until then I had no idea it was a comedy.’

  ‘I’m surprised you understood enough to think anything,’ Maria retorted.

  ‘I understand when an overblown has-been makes a fluff of her lines and totters because she’s inebriated.’ Lady Fenton’s capacity for vitriol was a match for Maria’s.

  ‘Inebriated? Inebriated?’ shrieked the actress.

  Lady Fenton’s lip curled unpleasantly. ‘Irish bitch,’ she declared.

  ‘English sow,’ was Maria’s swift riposte. ‘Do titties range all down your belly too? It wouldn’t surprise me, given that you have such a snout.’

  Guy stepped between them. ‘Enough!’

  ‘She started it!’ Maria cried.

  ‘No, she didn’t, you did. You came here to be troublesome, and you’ve succeeded. Now I suggest you leave quietly.’

  ‘Will you come with me?’ she whispered.

  ‘No. It’s over, Maria.’

  ‘I suppose you’re dibbling her now?’ She gazed at Lady Fenton with loathing.

  ‘No, nor will I be,’ he said, for her ladyship’s benefit. ‘I sleep alone now, and that’s the way I intend it to remain. So fight on if you both wish, but it will do neither of you any good where I’m concerned.’ He stepped aside again, and bowed to them both. ‘Goodnight, ladies.’ Then, as cool as the proverbial cucumber, he left the ballroom.

  Chapter Twelve

  In late July, on the eve of the wedding at Gloucester Cathedral, Jane had cause to wonder if marrying Thomas Welland might be a grave mistake, but love being blind, she ignored the warning. The incident happened at Whitend after breakfast, when she had changed into her riding habit for an agreed ride with her husband-to-be and his son, who, for some reason, was disposed to accompany them. She went down to the hall in full expectation of the plan proceeding.

  The main staircase was wide, shallow and creaking, and there wasn’t much light from the small windows paned in red and blue. At the bottom her riding boots echoed on the smooth stone flags of the oblong hall, which was brightened by a magnificent oriel window. Neither Thomas nor Rowan was waiting for her, so she went to the fireplace, where the tilt of the tarnished mirror above the Jacobean chimneypiece revealed her reflection. She adjusted her spruce black hat and rearranged the net veil that shaded the upper half of her face. She still had her looks, she decided approvingly, and would make a noteworthy bride tomorrow. Ivory silk and lace were perfect for a bride of her age and widowed status, even if her decision to reside at Whitend before the marriage had offended many prissy principles. Still, she was about to become Lady Welland, so what did she care?

  At last she heard Thomas’s gruff voice approaching the front entrance. He’d been with his bailiff and his tone was edgy. The doors were flung open unceremoniously and Thomas strode in, closely followed by the bailiff, whose red face and ears suggested he’d received an unpleasant tongue-lashing. Seeing her, Thomas halted. ‘You surely don’t imagine I have time to indulge in a pretty little jaunt around the park, do you?’ he asked patronizingly.

  ‘I was under the impression that we’d arranged just that with Rowan.’

  ‘Today nothing could be further from my thoughts. I have half-a-dozen tenants clamouring for lower rents because they cannot pay their way; the bank in Gloucester has closed its doors; my shares in armaments have become virtually worthless overnight, and you wish to go riding!’

  ‘Put like that, it does seem a little like Nero fiddling while Rome burns.’

  He glowered, suspecting her of facetiousness, and then stomped into the library, followed by the hapless bailiff. The door slammed, and she heard him shouting again. Well, better the bailiff than her.

  The butler opened the outer doors with a flourish, and she swept past him like a frigate before the wind, her sapphire riding habit bright as she emerged into the sunshine from beneath the two-storey porch that hunched its shoulders against the house. Whitend was surrounded by a moat adorned with lily pads and exotic waterfowl, and spanned by a flat wooden bridge upon which peacocks sunned themselves. Beyond the bridge the scenery was very different from that up at Tremoille House. Low, flat acres of parkland extended for 200 yards to the banks of the Severn, the serpentine course of which was marked by pollard willows and the wild pear trees that made the vale so famous for perry. On the far shore of the river were the rolling foothills of the Forest of Dean and, in the hazy distance, the Welsh mountains.

  Crossing the bridge to the fresh-raked gravel circle where carriages turned at the end of the drive, she looked up at the façade of the house. Whitend was so much part of its surroundings that it might have grown out of the rich Severn clay. Grey and rather imposing, it was far from beautiful, rising slab-like through four storeys to a stone-tiled roof with five plain gables and ugly chimneys. Jane glanced around. The air was too clear, so rain was on the way. She could see the steeple of Frampney church a mile or so to the south, and a curl of smoke that presumably came from the forge where Jake Mannacott now worked, as Bolton had discovered. It was hard to imagine her delicate, well-bred stepdaughter between the sheets with a blacksmith. A groom appeared from the stable block behind the house, leading three horses, including Thomas’s favourite mount, and at the same moment the front door opened again and Rowan came out. ‘Your father is not joining us, I fear,’ she said.

  ‘So I gather. Am I supposed to murmur something regretful? The less I see of the loathsome old goat, the better,’ he replied, donning his top hat and kid gloves.

  She thought he looked very handsome in his green riding coat and tight cream breeches, his long curling hair clinging to his collar. Youth was on his side, endowing him with the strength and vitality to overcome the results of his numerous over-indulgences. Even now he was suffering the after-effects of too much alcohol last night, sherry, wine, liqueurs, cognac, the latter to great excess, but apart from being tired, he was master of himself. How long would it be before he became a drunkard? ‘Do I pass muster?’ he enquired, seeing how she studied him.

  ‘You’ll do, I suppose, although it escapes me why you’re coming on this ride.’

  ‘For your charming company, of course.’

  A few minutes later they cantered slowly along the banks of the Severn, follow
ing the river around a loop toward the estuary. The tide was out, exposing vast bars where seabirds congregated at the water’s edge. The hard, flat sand invited a stretched gallop, and Jane urged her horse forward, scattering lapwings skyward. Rowan kicked his heels and followed. He soon caught her, and for a while she tried to outrun him, but with no chance of success, so she reined in. ‘I’ll allow you victory!’ she cried, above the racket of some squabbling herring gulls.

  He turned his capering horse. ‘You have no choice in the matter, madam!’

  ‘How gallant.’ She rode a little closer. ‘Why have you come out today, Rowan?’

  ‘To tell you I do not like you, or want you as my stepmother.’

  ‘Well, that is honest enough, I suppose. I, on the other hand, can put up with you, spoilt and selfish as you are.’

  ‘Touché, but perhaps I should also inform you that I am acquainted with Guy Valmer. Actually, he’s a cousin.’

  Oh, wouldn’t he be! ‘Ah, and you choose to believe what he says of me?’

  ‘Naturally, but please don’t overlook the fact that any woman who could send someone like Beth into penury must be entirely bad. There, I’ve said my piece, Jane, so I trust you no longer have any illusion about how I feel about you.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you don’t like me, nor do you like your father, so why on God’s own earth you have consented to walk me to the altar tomorrow?’

  ‘Because I wish to see the whole sorry business over. Just don’t seek ever to encroach upon my preserve, Jane dear, for that I would not tolerate, and I can be even more unlovable if I choose. I am no Beth, to be forced out penniless.’

  She stroked and patted the horse. ‘I won’t encroach, Rowan, I only want your father. I’ve always wanted him.’

  ‘Well, after tomorrow you can lust legally. I won’t be here to give a damn.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘La, how the lady’s eyes suddenly shine. Yes, Jane, I’m running back to London, to fritter the rest of my mother’s fortune as best I can.’

  ‘And be in your grave before you reach thirty? How admirable an ambition.’

  ‘It will be my own choice,’ he answered.

  ‘Have you no thought for your birthright? It is up to you to provide the next generation.’ Jane watched his firm young body yielding effortlessly as the horse shifted. He was a little too pretty and boyish for her taste, but there was an attractive air of virility about him. Perhaps his passion for pugilism was not a bad thing after all, for it kept him very fit and agile. Of course, it might yet give him a broken nose and cauliflower ears, but for now he was still a young god.

  ‘My birthright is mine, whatever I do, so dear Papa can go to hell, and hopefully take you with him. Come on, it’s a fair distance back to Whitend.’

  He kicked his heels and sent his sweating horse away from the river, toward the unfinished canal embankment about a quarter of a mile inland. They followed the canal all the way back to the house, and arrived just in time to share a light luncheon with Thomas, who complained and carped throughout. It would be different once they were married, Jane thought. She would make him happier and more content than Diana ever had. It didn’t cross her mind that she was committing the most naïve female sin of all – believing her love would transform a man.

  The open landau was as white as the horses that drew it, and so garlanded with bridal flowers that it resembled a bower. A rather surly crowd waited in the cathedral close, where the carriages of Gloucestershire society were drawn up. Necks were craned as Rowan, looking particularly poetic and romantic in a dove-grey coat and cream trousers, alighted to help Jane down. Elegant in the ivory silk and lace gown that pleased her so much, with a veiled pink bonnet and carrying pink roses, she was indifferent to the simmering hostility of the onlookers. This was her day, and she wasn’t about to let anything spoil it. She glowed, as was most becoming for all brides, of no matter what age, and there was confidence in the way she accepted Rowan’s arm to enter the cathedral, from whence the sound of organ music resonated gently.

  Rosalind was with Phoebe among the crowd. ‘Lord Welland’s son is very dashing, isn’t he?’

  Phoebe nodded ‘And from all accounts he’s a proper gentleman too.’

  Rosalind’s glanced moved to Jane. ‘She looks beautiful.’

  ‘Past her prime, like me,’ Phoebe replied shortly.

  ‘Well, her nasty stepdaughter said she was ugly and horrible.’

  ‘I see. Well, last night your Dad told me all about him and Beth. Lord above, your jib’s trailing on the ground again, even at the mention of her name. What did she do to you that was so bad, eh? Beat you with a stick? Starve you?’

  ‘She had no right to come between me and Dad!’

  Phoebe frowned. Jake had spoiled the girl, who needed taking down a few pegs if she was to learn anything of life. ‘Rosalind, will you listen to yourself? The love between a father and daughter is not the same as between a man and his sweetheart. You know that well enough when you’re not being a mule. Your father loved Beth, and loves her still; you can see it in his eyes. And you can’t say it happened too soon after your mother’s death four years back of the same pox that took my daughter.’

  ‘Nothing you say will ever make me like that woman.’

  ‘Cluck that often enough and you’ll start laying eggs,’ Phoebe replied drily.

  ‘She lied about her stepmother.’

  ‘You think so? Rosalind, from all accounts Mrs Tremoille may be a picture on the outside, but inside she’s a witch. You’re childish to talk of hatred, and no young man of worth will admire you, certainly not Rowan Welland.’

  Rosalind went a little pink. ‘I’m not childish.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you are, my girl, and what’s more, you should be grateful – really grateful – to Beth Tremoille for teaching you to read, write, and speak properly. Now then, we’ll have to put on a trot if we’re to get to Johnno’s wagon in time.’ Phoebe began to push her way toward King Edward’s Gate and, after stealing a last look at the cathedral entrance, Rosalind followed.

  Johnno was on the point of leaving. He was impatient, and spat out a plug of tobacco as he saw them. ‘I’ll leave you here if you like! Darned women. Squawking I suppose, with a whole lot of other fowls.’

  ‘That’s enough of that, Johnno Walters,’ Phoebe said primly, waiting deliberately for him to help her up into the back of the covered wagon. He obliged, giving her a hearty smack on the rump as he did so, but when he turned to Rosalind, she scrambled up quickly before he could touch her. He grumbled under his breath, and reached in his smock pocket for some more chewing tobacco before taking his place on the wagon box. Giving a piercing whistle, followed by a flick of the whip, he coaxed the oxen into life, and the wagon rumbled slowly up toward the Cross.

  Gloucester was some way behind when Johnno discarded his tobacco and decided to select a blade of grass from the roadside. Phoebe was incensed. ‘Get on, Johnno Walters, we want to be home this side of Christmas!’

  ‘Hold your noise, Phoebe Brown, you’re worse than my wife! Nag, nag! Haven’t you got any Christian thoughts to occupy your mind?’ He didn’t see the two dogs bounding along the road toward the wagon, and when they began to snap around the legs of the oxen it was too late. The frightened beasts heaved forward and sideways, and in a trice the wagon had tipped over into the water-filled ditch that ran alongside the road. Rosalind screamed and clutched at a dangling rope, and Phoebe slid to the floor where the nearest sack of flour burst and spilled over her.

  As soon as the wagon had come to rest, Johnno scrambled through the back. ‘Are you all right?’ he cried anxiously, dragging several barrels aside to get to the two frightened women. He helped Phoebe out first.

  She was trembling. ‘Lord above us, Johnno Walters, you’re a danger to folk!’

  ‘It was your fault, you foolish biddy, if you hadn’t gone on and on at me I’d have paid attention to what I was doing!’

  ‘That�
�s right, blame someone else, anyone so long as it isn’t you!’ Phoebe retorted, trying to shake the flour from her clothes. He made the mistake of trying to help her and got a smart slap for his pains. ‘Keep your paws to yourself! I’m fine, except for my dignity. How about you, Rosalind?’

  ‘I think so.’ Rosalind allowed Johnno to lift her down to safety.

  Then the hapless wagoner gazed at his stricken livelihood. ‘Now what am I to do? Repairs will cost me a small fortune.’

  Phoebe was dismayed as well. ‘And it’s a terribly long walk home.’

  Rosalind glanced back toward Gloucester. ‘Maybe something else will come along soon,’ she said hopefully, but the usually busy road was quiet. Then her sharp young eyes picked out an approaching rider, and at the same time her heart leapt a little, because she recognized the prancing cream-coloured horse. ‘I – I think Master Robert is coming. Yes, I’m sure it’s him.’

  ‘That cocky young bugger!’ Johnno spat roundly on the ground. ‘We can kiss goodbye to any hope of him stopping to help!’

  But he was wrong, for Robert reined in as he reached the overturned wagon. ‘What happened, Johnno?’