Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  Chapter 24

  Two shadowy figures stood in the dooryard of an old, broken-down stable at the edge of the Dower House grounds. Once a busy coach road had run nearby, and a gatehouse had stood opposite the stable. But now the old road was overgrown with grass and weeds. The gatehouse was a burned-out ruin. The stable was kept intact because the wagons and tack were kept there for when hay was harvested from the back meadows.

  “A chair? She fell out of a chair? Just what was that supposed to accomplish?”

  “It was not supposed to be her!” the other speaker said desperately. “If he was injured, he would not be able to cook, now would he? They’d have to call back Mr. Sparks because Jemmy ain’t no cook, not yet anyway.”

  “Likely they would hire a different cook rather than call back Mr. Sparks.”

  “It’s a dirty shame, how they done him,” the second speaker said, with mock outrage. “That poor old man, worked so hard all his life and turned out to pasture, just because the roast got burned.”

  “Don’t you get to feeling too sorry for that old rogue. I was obliged to eat some of that roast, and not even Mr. Rudge was able to make it edible.”

  “Mr. Rudge? But...”

  “Hush, not another word,” said the first speaker. “Some things are best left unsaid. But you need to come up with a better idea, and that right quick. A chair! It is a wonder and a miracle they did not see the sawed-off end on that leg, or that it did not break before anyone had a chance to sit in it. Better idea next time, and you’d better make sure you get the right person.”

  “I’m sorry, M...”

  “Stop right there. No names. You never know when the walls might have ears.”

  “Out here? No one comes out here unless it is haying season.”

  “Or unless some young swain has an itch to scratch and has been able to talk a village girl into a tumble in the hay. And mind how you go back.”

  “Yes,” the second speaker said, the honorific trembling upon lips accustomed to politeness. “I will be more careful, more circumspect.”

  “You had best. I want no mistakes. Make another like this one, and you will find yourself in worse case than Mr. Sparks.”

  The second speaker looked at the first fearfully, then nodded without saying anything.

  “Off with you now, before you are missed.”

  Chapter 25

  Dr. Alton smiled affably at his dinner companion. It was pleasant to share his evening meal, a privilege not often accorded to him. Constable Morris was an amiable dinner companion as long as you could keep him from talking shop at table.

  As a physician, Dr. Alton had a strong stomach, but he preferred not to discuss business over dinner.

  Constable Morris dug into the rabbit stew that was the Roadgrass Inn’s main dish of the day. He clearly had all the appetite of a young man who had spent his morning walking up and down the village, becoming acquainted with the locals and the lay of the land.

  “It is pleasant to see a young man enjoying his dinner,” Dr. Alton said.

  “This is good, really good,” Constable Morris said, after hastily swallowing a bite. “You would not believe the swill that was standard fare at my last job. This is chock full of carrots, and I do love a good carroty stew.”

  “It is good that you do not require too much meat in your stew,” Dr. Alton remarked.

  “Meat? Nah. I can taste that this was rabbit, an’ that it wasn’t off when it went in it. But it’s the carrots that I really like. The bread is good, too, an’ the butter nice an’ sweet... you don’t get food like this up in London.” Constable Morris single-mindedly mopped up the gravy out of his bowl with a bit of bread. “This is prime eatin’, this is.”

  “Did you not enjoy the food at the Dower House?” Dr. Alton enquired.

  “Of course I did!” Constable Morris affirmed. “Who wouldn’t? But I was nervous that I would use the wrong fork or forget to quirk my pinkie just so,” he demonstrated by quirking his little finger at an awkward angle whilst picking up his mug of ale.

  “The best part o’ that meal was the dessert. It is good fortune that the young Miss was out of the room so’s we wasn’t treated to no Cheltenham tragedies whilst we were eatin’ it.”

  “Have a care, Constable, when you are talking about the influential families,” Dr. Alton cautioned. “An inn is scarcely the place to discuss your patrons.” He glanced around the nearly empty room with its scarred tables, blackened rafters, and fireplace that was in dire need of a cleaning.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Constable Morris looked down at his plate.

  “Just a word to the wise,” Dr. Alton sighed, trying not to think about his own faux pas. “What did you think of the companion?”

  Constable Morris picked up on the idea that a companion could be discussed, whereas the titled or nearly titled could not. “Purty as a pitcher. Seems odd that she should be a widow no older than she is.”

  “Death does not always respect age. Her husband was carried away by consumption. She nursed him right to the end. I was concerned about her health since she was so intimately connected with him.”

  “How would that matter, Dr. Alton?

  “Consumption can be a contagious disease, the humours passing readily from one person to another.”

  “Do you think that Mrs. Swinton might carry consumption to the Duchess?” Constable Morris asked, with some alarm.

  “No, no. We burned John Swinton’s effects and all of the clothing that Mrs. Swinton wore while nursing him. Although that might not be completely effective, I believe it will suffice to keep from spreading the contagion. It has worked in other cases. Mrs. Swinton herself is hale and hearty, showing no signs of illness. Miss Notley, on the other hand...” Dr. Alton glanced around the nearly empty room, “Let us save that discussion for my office after dinner.”

  When the two gentlemen finished their repast and wended their way peacefully back to the physician’s small house, which contained his office, receiving room, and occasionally the village morgue, they settled themselves into his office.

  “Brandy?” Dr. Alton asked.

  “No, no,” Constable Morris replied. “I have my rounds yet to walk tonight, and I’d just as soon do it with a clear head.”

  “A man does hate to drink alone,” the physician remarked. “If it is wakefulness you require, perhaps we could share a small pot of kaffee.”

  “Kaffee?” Constable Morris immediately perked up. “I had a cup when I was in France. You actually have some?”

  “I do. More than that, I have a pot and cups from Arabia, so I can brew it in the traditional fashion as it deserves.”

  For several minutes, the physician busied himself with crushing beans and preparing the pot. While it was simmering, he sat down in a curious chair that had patchwork cushions and two curved rails like sleigh-runners beneath. The body was woven, like a picnic basket. Constable Morris stared at it. With one foot, Dr. Alton set it into gentle motion.

  “Never seen a rocking chair, constable?” the physician asked.

  “Seen one, sir,” the young man said thoughtfully, “but never one quite like that.”

  “Nor are you likely to see one just the same,” the physician replied. “My father had this one sent from the Colonies just before the rebellion in 1776 on the recommendation of Benjamin Franklin.”

  The young constable’s eyes grew round. “The American diplomat?”

  “The very one. My father met him while he was here in England. The fellow was quite old by then, and he was bothered by gout. Apparently, the chair’s movement was soothing to him. In all events, I find it soothing. Now, then, I think our qahwah, as it is called in Arabia, is done.”

  Dr. Alton poured the kaffee into tiny cups. The liquid was thick and syrupy. They took a few minutes to sip the thick, bitter liquid.

  After a sip or two, Constable Morris said, “That will put hair on your chest.”

  Dr. Alton laughed. “Indeed it will. More than tha
t, it will leave your senses bright and alert, not dulled in the manner of wine or brandy.”

  “You were going to tell me about Miss Notley,” Constable Morris reminded the physician. While he waited for a reply, he took another sip of the bitter liquid, trying not to grimace.

  “Ah, yes. I am afraid I might have burned my bridges there. But we were talking about matters of health back there at the inn. You see, consumption has a stage where the sufferer has two high spots of color on their cheeks, yet the rest of their skin can be pale as milk. Their eyes look dark and mysterious, sunken into the head. Such an appearance is sometimes described as pale and interesting and many young ladies strive to achieve the seeming of it.”

  “How would they go about doing that?”

  Dr. Alton rocked meditatively for a moment. “They do it by applying a white powder derived from arsenic and they apply carnelian color to their faces, which also contains a toxic element. They often compound their condition by nibbling little wafers that contain arsenic, and by putting belladonna drops in their eyes. The toxins are highly addictive, of course, as is the desire to be extremely beautiful. It is a positive relief to see a lovely woman such as Mrs. Swinton, who employs no artifice at all, yet whose looks are incomparable.”

  “She is a handsome figure of a woman,” the constable agreed. “Yet also polite, soft-spoken, and seems kindly.”

  “I believe her to be so.” The physician rocked, and meditatively sipped his drink.

  “But why would anyone do these things?” Constable Morris burst out. “Don’t they know it is bad for them?”

  The physician sighed. “Of course they do. It is amazing the lengths to which some ladies will go in the name of beauty, especially when their personal security is on the line. I might add that some of them are so knowledgeable that they are fully capable of using their beauty powders and potions to commit murder.”

  “That is... unthinkable.”

  “Oh, but many do think of it,” said Dr. Alton. “I was amazed at how Lady Carleton took umbrage when I explained the cause of her daughter’s condition. If the young lady does not stop using the cosmetics and draughts her renowned London physician has prescribed, there is an excellent chance she will not live to see her wedding day.”

  “Do you think her mother has designs on her own daughter?”

  Dr. Alton shrugged. “She would not be the first to cause the demise of a child, either by intent or through ignorance. While one does not like to say it, the beasts of the field are better examples of enlightened parenting than many humans.”

  “That is beyond astonishing, Dr. Alton. I swear, I shall be afraid to walk my rounds tonight lest some damsel in distress slip a powder into my drink or sprinkle me with her face powder.”

  The physician laughed. “I do not think you are in such danger as all that, but it never pays to stay alert.”

  The young constable bade Dr. Alton good night, and let himself out the door. “I’ll never understand the posh coves,” he muttered to himself. “Me mum warned me there would be days like this.” He could not help but shudder a little as he looked up the hill to the stately manor that topped it.

  Chapter 26

  The Duchess stared despondently at the piece of gross-point embroidery on her loom. “It is all wrong, my dear Mrs. Swinton,” she said.

  “What is, Your Grace?” Evelyn looked up from sorting a tangled basket of embroidery threads that she was attempting to bring to order by winding them onto bobbins.

  “This piece, of course. The orange is too garish against the yellow. It needs something in between.”

  “Perhaps this spool of gold ochre would bridge the gap,” Evelyn suggested.

  “No, no,” the Duchess shook her head. “Too dull. I want it to look lively, vibrant.”

  Evelyn gazed thoughtfully at the Duchess. Her Grace’s cap was askew, and her eyelids were suspiciously pink. “This is not about the yarn, is it, Your Grace?”

  “No, dash it all,” the Duchess admitted, blowing her nose with an unabashed honk. “How could I have been so blind as to not recognize Lady Carletane’s distress? I should have had you to take her aside and distract her. I would have done it myself in my younger years.”

  “I cannot think how you could have anticipated her reaction, Your Grace,” Evelyn soothed. “Nor is it easy to learn that the paints and powders that you use to make yourself beautiful are causing you to feel ill.”

  “No, I suppose not,” the Duchess sighed. “If I were able to be up and about as I was in my younger days, I would go to them and apologize. Ordinarily, I would send you to tender my regrets. Not for the information, but for upsetting them. I never meant for that.”

  “Of course you did not, Your Grace. But, even though neither of us can go to them personally, you could send a letter. You could even invite them to tea. Promise not to include your physician, and ask M… that is, Mr. Rudge to cook up something soothing.”

  “A superb solution!” the Duchess exclaimed. “Are you prepared to take a letter, Mrs. Swinton?”

  “I can be in just a trice, Your Grace. I’ll ring for the footman to set up the writing table and bring me my small writing desk.”

  In just a few moments, the desk was set up and Evelyn set to work on a draft of the letter. “What would you like to say, Your Grace?”

  “You know my feelings,” the Duchess said. “Write out a formal apology, then read it out to me. We shall then work to improve it.”

  For the next several moments, there was no sound in the room but the scratching of Evelyn’s pen. “Done,” she finally announced.

  “Read it out,” the Duchess directed. “Then I shall have my son deliver it. I cannot think that she would refuse her promised husband.”

  After a few adjustments, the letter was judged fit to send, and a footman dispatched to request the Duke’s presence at tea.

  When the Duke put in an appearance, it was clear that he was in a distempered mood.

  “What did you say to her?” he grumbled at his mother. “You know she is of a nervous disposition. My creditors know it, too. At the slightest sign that she might cry off, they begin circling like vultures over a battlefield.”

  “Do you not wish for her to cry off?” his mother demanded. “I’ve seen the tension between the two of you, and it is not one that presages a happily wedded couple. But as to that, I have a plan to mend my connections with your intended and her parents. Would you be so kind as to carry a letter for me? Tendering my apologies?”

  The Duke’s expression softened. “You would do this for me, Mother?”

  The Duchess scowled at him. “Actually, I am doing it for myself. While Lavinia has no more brains than a goose, she will nurture a grudge as if she were hatching eggs. Given enough time, she will grow my error into a fabrication of plot sufficient to blanket the entire kingdom. Bird-witted though she is, she and I were school chums, and I have few enough living friends that I am loath to lose another.”

  The Duke laughed. “Very well, Mother. I will carry your letter for you, and wait for an answer. Perhaps I will have a chance to exchange a few words with Blanche while I wait. I am curious. What did Dr. Alton say was her difficulty?”

  “He could not say for certain, but he believes she is being slowly poisoned by the paint and powder she wears. And that her condition might be aggravated with belladonna eye drops and some sort of health tonic.”

  “Her physician is collaborating in her slow death?” the Duke looked scandalized.

  “It would seem possible. However, it is equally possible that she is dosing herself with something she has purchased from an apothecary. London abounds in them, and more than half are pure charlatans. It is no less daunting to discover that one might be the author of one’s own troubles than to find that your physician is, at best, only human.”

  “And what did you learn about yours, dearest Mother?” he asked.

  “That he is unlikely to ever launch a career as a diplomat,” the Duchess said, somewhat bitt
erly. “However, if he is correct, your promised wife needs to stop painting her face and cease taking any vile concoctions she is currently dosing herself with. I know it is all the fashion to look pale and interesting, but there comes a time when one must make a choice between fashion and good health.”

  “What choice did you make, Mother?” needled her son.

  The Duchess flapped a dismissive hand at him. “At the age your Blanche has reached, I had been a mother for two years. I had no time for fripperies, and no desire for them. George liked me just as I was, and was happy to indulge my every whim. Despite it all, you were the only child. Goodness knows what damage Blanche has already done to her system. If you wish to beget an heir with her, all this foolishness must stop.”