“Lady Sarah?”
“Yes?” She turned back.
“I would have a word with you tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow, my lord,” she said gaily as she went out.
“How do you stand her, Alexander?” Julia threw down her napkin and frowned at her brother.
“Julia, such childish behavior ill becomes you.”
III
“How can you accuse me of such a thing?” Sarah fumed as Alexander stretched out his long legs and settled himself more comfortably in his favorite chair.
“Do you deny you and Wolperton have shared a bed?” He sighed at her outraged expression. “Sarah, you misunderstand me. I am not asking you to end your affaire de coeur, I only desire you to be more discreet. ’Tis obvious you don’t care to spare my feelings, but, I might remind you, I am well within my rights to insist that you not flaunt your liaisons quite so publicly.”
Sarah was shocked to discover that she had been mistaken in thinking his silence on the subject of her lovers was due to his ignorance of them. It came as an even greater shock to discover that he knew and did not care in the least. This reaction was incomprehensible—he was in love with her! Every man she took a care to humor loved her, and she had eventually humored her husband. “Do you hate me so much?” she asked in a small voice, hoping to throw him off guard by a change in tactics.
“Hate you? No, I don’t believe I hate you.”
“Then you do care!” she cried.
Alexander lifted his eyebrows in two perfectly matched arches. “Don’t misunderstand me further. I care for you just as my father cares for you, or Lord Fistersham, or any of the lovers you have not bothered to hide from me. Which, as you may gather, means not a great deal. It seems they tired of you rather sooner than I did. It should be a comfort to you to know that I have decided to give up our bed. Neither one of us has particularly enjoyed that aspect of our marriage.”
“But what about an heir?” She blurted out the question because she had never ever imagined he would stop trying for an heir. Although she would be the last to admit it, she had come to look forward to his caresses. He was a most skillful lover, she had learned as much by comparison. She felt herself flushing from the sudden fear that he might decide to divorce her. The humiliation would be too much for her to stand. She was well aware that if he should actually take such an extreme course, society would no longer turn a blind eye to her behavior.
“If not having to lie with you means the title reverts to some other branch of the family”—he shrugged—“’tis a small price to pay.”
On 25 July, Lord Hartforde died and Alexander Spencer Grey became the 11th Marquess of Hartforde.
Chapter 2
Boston—1781
Isobel hurried home, a few flaxen curls falling out of the heavy braid hanging down her back, humming to herself as she walked briskly down the street. She held a brown paper-wrapped package in her arms and every third step or so she gave an exuberant skip and threw the book up in the air, slapping it safely between her hands when it fell to the level of her chest. At this juncture in her life, Isobel had but three passions. The first was her music and the second was ancient Greece. She could never read enough about Socrates, Plato, or Alcibiades, and her father would have been scandalized to learn she had managed to read nearly all of Sappho. Her third passion was her music teacher, Mr. Standifer. With the steadfast conviction of her twelve years, she fancied herself deeply and enduringly in love with Mr. Standifer. To her unmitigated joy, the object of her affection had been at the bookstore. He had made her an elegant bow and kissed her hand just as though she were grown up, which she naturally considered herself to be. She refused to acknowledge Mr. Standifer’s wife as an obstacle to her (as yet) unrequited love, and in any event, her very existence made her love for Mr. Standifer all the more tragic. So, she had dallied at the bookseller’s instead of going straight home, as she had promised her nursemaid, Miss Forbes, she would. She knew Miss Forbes would be angry with her for having been gone so long, but she accounted the golden moments she was able to spend with Mr. Standifer as well worth whatever punishment her governess might see fit to mete out.
When at last she reached the gates of the neat clapboard house, she was only a little out of breath. She paused long enough to let her panting abate before continuing up the flower-bordered path to the door. Ever since her mother’s death two years ago, her father had insisted on planting bluebells because, he said, even though they were English flowers, they reminded him of Catherine. Isobel thought they were depressing. Every time she saw bluebells she thought of death. The war with England, her father’s lengthy absences, and her mother’s death had all somehow become associated with the flower. Her hand was on the latch when she suddenly stopped. She was still standing, looking at the flowers, when Miss Forbes herself opened the door.
“Where have you been?” Miss Forbes pulled her inside and pushed the door so hard it shut with a bang. Her normally bright eyes were reddened with tears and she let go of Isobel to dab at her eyes with the hem of her lace apron.
“Father?” Isobel felt her stomach tighten with sickening apprehension.
“Your father has taken a turn for the worse.” Miss Forbes took her hand and gave her a pitying look. She had let Isobel go to the bookseller’s because she did not want the girl to worry when she summoned the physic for the third time in as many days. Never had she dreamed Mr. Rowland was so close to death.
Jonathon Rowland had made his fortune from the English trade in the American colonies, and by the 1770s he was the owner of one of the largest fleet of ships in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. At the outset of the revolution, there were those who wondered exactly where his sympathies lay; after all, his wife was British, and the war threatened his very livelihood. Rowland, however, ended such speculations when he threw his substantial resources behind the revolutionaries. In the process, he made a second fortune relieving British ships of supplies being transported to occupied New York. He knew the Hudson tributaries better than almost any man alive, and time after time the British found themselves cursing the luck of the American pirate. It wasn’t until the death of his wife that Rowland’s luck changed. Shortly afterward he was seriously wounded during an escape so narrow that half his crew swore they would never set foot on another Rowland ship, not even if General Washington himself ordered it. Sent back to Boston to recuperate, his health slowly worsened, and not even the devoted attentions of his daughter could improve his condition.
It was at night when Isobel could hear him coughing that she could not keep back the fear he would die. “’Tis only a cough,” she would tell herself fiercely. But the racking sounds sometimes continued for hours. She could not close her eyes until it stopped, and as soon as it did, she would creep down the hall to her father’s room to push open the door and peer into the dark until she could make out the shallow rise and fall of the blankets drawn over the slender form in the bed.
“Is he dead?” The book slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a thud.
Miss Forbes held Isobel’s arm to prevent her from going into the room from which they could faintly hear the soft muttering of prayer. “You mustn’t go in there.” She pulled Isobel into her arms. “My poor little girl. First your mother, and now...” Her voice lowered to a whisper as she stroked her hair.
“Is he dead?” As soon as the Reverend William Grafton came out of the room, she knew that he was, but she desperately wanted to hear, by some miracle, he was alive. After all, she thought, had he not recovered from other attacks of his illness? Why should this time be any different?
“My child...” Reverend Grafton briefly pressed a soft hand to Isobel’s bare arm, and she could not suppress a shudder at the dampness of his touch. “God has called your father to his side. He suffers no more.” He noticed her relief when he took his hand away, and his plump lips tightened while he pressed the palms of his hands together. “God’s will is done,” he said, looking a little unsett
led at her stare. “Here.” He thrust something into her hand. “Your father requested that I give you this.” His chin tripled as he bent his head to watch her take the silver pendant.
It was galling to let the man see her cry, but she knew she ought to show some emotion. If she did not, he might refuse to pray for her father’s soul. She summoned the tears he seemed to want from her. “Why did God let him die?” she moaned, looking up from her hand and clenching her fist around the necklace.
“God’s will is done,” Reverend Grafton repeated. His grim expression relaxed, but still Isobel shuddered when his moist hands touched her arms again. “You are an orphan now, my child. Perhaps”—he glanced up at Miss Forbes—”she will be thrust upon the mercy of the Church?”
“I can take care of her!” Miss Forbes answered him so quickly that Isobel looked over at her in surprise.
“You will pray for him?” Isobel wiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks and was relieved to see him nodding, his chin briefly appearing out of folds of fat.
“What did he give you?” Miss Forbes asked when Reverend Grafton was gone. She bent down to see what Isobel was clutching in her hand.
She opened her palm. “Mother’s locket.” She held it up, and the silver oval her father had cherished as a memento of his wife glinted in the light as it spun on its chain.
“Here, I’ll put it on you.” Miss Forbes took the chain and fastened it around Isobel’s neck. “You will always remember your parents and how much they loved you every time you look at this.”
“I’ll never take it off.
Chapter 3
British-Occupied New York
I
Isobel stood in the drawing room and glowered while the man the court had named as her guardian until she was twenty-one introduced himself. Carter Samuels hadn’t even bothered to come to Boston after receiving the news of his cousin’s death. As a vehement Tory, Samuels had no interest in living in Boston. He had sent his attorney to handle the sale of the house and most of its contents. The attorney had curtly informed Isobel that the proceeds of the sale were to be held in trust for her by Mr. Samuels and that as soon as she felt able she was to travel to New York, where, he was pleased to tell her, she was welcome to live with her relative until her majority, at which time her inheritance would be released to her. To her great relief, it was agreed that Miss Forbes should go with her to New York.
“So, you are little Isobel Rowland?” Samuels held out a thin hand. “I am Mr. Carter Samuels, your poor father’s cousin.” He shook his head to show how sad he was at the death of a relative he believed to be a traitor to his country and whose demise had brought him into control of a fortune of nearly one hundred twenty thousand American dollars. He bent over in a small bow, and Isobel could not help thinking that his horsehair peruke probably covered a balding pate. When, with a flourish, he drew out an enameled snuffbox and shoved a prodigious amount of the tobacco up his nostrils, she despised him for his pretension. She smiled politely when he dabbed at his nose with a slightly yellowed kerchief after a series of artificially loud sneezes. “I am Mr. Samuels,” he repeated breathily. “And this is my wife, Mrs. Samuels.” He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Samuels.” Isobel took a deep breath because she instantly disliked the mousy- haired woman.
Mrs. Samuels nodded when Isobel finished a dutiful curtsy. “You and my little Emily will be good friends, I am sure!” Mrs. Samuels put an arm around a plump girl of about nine or ten whose hair was exactly the same mousy brown as her mother’s. “Say ‘good afternoon’ to your cousin Isobel, Emily.” The girl obeyed her mother in a surprisingly loud voice. As soon as Mrs. Samuels looked away, Emily glared at Isobel and screwed up her face.
“Good afternoon, Emily.” Isobel tried her best to sound pleased to meet her.
“You must call her ‘Miss Emily,”’ Mrs. Samuels remonstrated. Isobel’s disdain for fat Miss Emily increased tenfold. Ever after, she never thought of Emily without somehow including the adjective “fat” in the thought.
“And this”—Mr. Samuels indicated a sullen boy of about sixteen or seventeen—”this is your cousin, Mr. Philip Carter Samuels.” Mr. Samuels’s sharp chin lifted a little after the pronunciation of each name.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Philip.” Isobel curtsied again.
“Cousin.” He bent his head briefly in her direction.
His arrogant nod inexplicably endeared him to her, and she favored him with her most winning smile. His eyes reminded her of her father’s eyes; they were precisely the same deep shade of brown.
“Well, little Isobel, you must be very tired after such a long journey.” Mr. Samuels did not sound as if he cared that it might be true. “A servant will show you to your room. And to yours as well…Miss Forbes, is it not?”
A maid came in a few minutes later, and as soon as Isobel had again curtsied to the family, Isobel and Miss Forbes followed her to a small room at the very far end of the second floor. She stood for a few minutes, staring after Miss Forbes, who had hugged her tightly before leaving her alone. Isobel threw herself into a chair by the bed and held her head in her hands, trying, but failing, to keep back the tears. The future was not going to be pleasant, that much she knew. That Samuels was in charge of her father’s estate, and of her, until she turned twenty-one filled her with despair. It would be years (practically forever! she cried to herself) until she would be able to go back to Boston. Tears of frustration burned her eyes as she was suddenly hit by how alone she was now. There was only Miss Forbes to remind her of happier times.
II
The day after Isobel arrived in New York, Mrs. Samuels went through Isobel’s closet and pulled out all but six or seven dresses, saying as she did so that her dresses would fit Miss Emily so much better it was a shame for them to go to waste. Isobel was so aghast she could do nothing but stare. “Your father may have spoiled you, young lady,” Mrs. Samuels said, “but you’ll get no special treatment here!”
As for Mr. Samuels, he proved to be a strangely penurious man. He kept but two horses, yet three carriages, and there was no doubt that the house was understaffed. Isobel counted herself lucky that Miss Forbes was kept on as governess for the two girls. Mr. Samuels complained bitterly about the expense of keeping the house warm during the winter, and he rationed out the coal in so niggardly a fashion he had difficulty keeping the servants through the season. It was obvious, though, that he had an excellent tailor; he followed the fashions without regard to cost. Then there was Philip; he was the breath of life to his parents, they rarely denied him anything. Mrs. Samuels spoiled fat Emily as though she were a princess of the blood and not merely a chubby, plain, and whining little brat. For heaven’s sake, Isobel thought with disgust, she is only ten, and Mrs. Samuels acts as though she is likely to attract the attention of any of a score of suitors! Worse than fat Emily, worse even than Mr. Samuels and his faded wife, was being required to be polite to the British soldiers who were their frequent guests. It was intolerable, she raged to herself. Why, any one of them could be the man who had wounded her father! She yearned to be twenty-one, old enough to leave New York and go back to Boston.
It was in the middle of the spring of 1782 that, with a look obviously not meant to be interpreted as the glee it was, Mrs. Samuels told Isobel that Mr. Samuels wished to speak with her. “He’s waiting for you in the study,” she said with a sly grin.
Isobel stood before Mr. Samuels, hands clasped behind her back. He was sitting in his favorite chair, and as he turned to face her he placed his feet on an ottoman and hooked his fingers in the pockets of his satin waistcoat because he fancied it made him appear kindly. His peruke was so heavily powdered that his shoulders were covered with a fine layer of flour. He cleared his throat. “I have a great deal to discuss with you, my dear. I have just come from the lawyers’. There appears to be some difficulty about your birth certificate, a trifle, I assure you, that will no doubt soon be cleared up to our mutua
l satisfaction. It seems to have been misplaced. There is no record of your birth that my lawyers can locate. Do you, by chance, happen to know where you were born?” A smile pulled at his lips.
“I was born in Boston, of course, Mr. Samuels.” She did not understand why it mattered and she shifted impatiently.
“How interesting. Are you certain of that? I see I shall have to send Mr. Michaels to Boston again so this little unpleasantness may be cleared up. There is no need to worry about this at all, my dear little one. You may rely on me to see that your interests are represented.” He paused. “You understand that without your birth certificate there is some difficulty about your father’s will?” When she nodded, he said, “Well, my dear child, well, we must also talk about your music lessons.” He smiled, and it made his hollow cheeks wrinkle at the edges of his lips. She nodded again. “In times like these…well…the lessons are quite expensive. This talk of a British withdrawal…but”—he gave a deep sigh—”but your father inexplicably set out that the lessons are to continue as long as you want them.” He had been of a mind to put a stop to the lessons on his own until it occurred to him the girl was likely to make a fuss. He decided it would be unwise to chance having anyone take an interest in his ward. Though he held out little hope she would agree to stop, in light of the cost he felt it was more than worth the attempt. “The lawyers assure me,” he continued, “that such conditions in a will…er…until other matters are cleared up, it is wisest—that is, there is no difficulty about the lessons. But, it is so very hard to meet expenses. The war, you know, has taken its toll on everyone.” He kept a regretful expression as he let his voice trail off.
“You can’t make me quit.” She spoke quietly, but in a voice leaving no room for argument.
“Make you quit? Make you quit? Why, the very idea!” He managed to look as though he had been wounded to the quick. He put a hand to his wig and then, in an unconscious mannerism, stroked his meager thigh.
Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) Page 2