Lady of Lincoln

by Ann Barker

  ‘Thank you, Grandpapa,’ she said, bending to kiss him. As she did so, she took hold of his hand and, unmistakably, but quite faintly, he returned the pressure. ‘Grandpapa?’ she said again. ‘Open your eyes, Grandpapa.’ He did not do so, but there was the merest flickering of his eyelids.

  The next day, Dr Boyle called to see Dr Whittaker, and after he had come back downstairs again, Emily told him what had happened. He listened attentively. ‘Those are very good signs,’ he told her. ‘Your faithful attendance has, I feel, done him a great deal of good.’

  ‘Papa has also visited him every day,’ Emily pointed out.

  ‘Yes indeed, but a granddaughter can sometimes have a closer relationship with a grandparent than that which exists between parent and child,’ the doctor replied. He paused briefly then said, in a more urgent tone, ‘Miss Whittaker!’

  ‘How is Mr Fanshawe?’ she asked hastily, fearing a proposal.

  It was a successful diversion. The doctor shook his head. ‘It was a tragic business, was it not? I have attended him of course, but naturally I cannot disclose anything to you about his condition.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ Emily agreed. ‘It is simply that I am wondering whether to go round yet and introduce the new wet nurse. I know that Mrs Grant wants to get back to Mablethorpe as soon as possible, but I did not want to intrude.’

  ‘I think you might go,’ the doctor answered. ‘He is naturally still distressed and will be for some time, but the child must be settled. She is thriving, I am thankful to say. How I wish that Mr Fanshawe would take some notice of her! But it is early days yet.’

  To Emily’s relief, he left without proposing. His timing would have been most inappropriate even had she been inclined in his favour. Recent events, however, had shown her that she could never accept him. When he took her hand before his departure, she had felt nothing other than a mild distaste at the clamminess of his touch. The salute of Sir Gareth, however, had seemed to cause every nerve end to tingle. How could she ever marry anyone and accept less than that?

  She went upstairs intending to visit her grandfather, but as she was going, Mary appeared in the hall and said, ‘Shall I bring a glass of claret, miss?’

  ‘Claret?’ echoed Emily, mystified.

  ‘Well, when Sir Gareth comes to see the old gentleman, he has a glass and he gives him a little bit.’

  ‘Sir Gareth visits my grandfather?’

  ‘He came two or three times while you were away, miss.’

  Feeling absurdly pleased, Emily said, ‘Just a small glass, then.’

  ‘Grandpapa, I have decided that I cannot marry Dr Boyle,’ she told her grandfather when she was in his room with the door closed. ‘I am sorry if you are disappointed, but you see I …’ She paused. ‘Grandpapa, I’m … I’m in love.’ It seemed strange to say it out loud. ‘I’m in love with Sir Gareth. You know, the gentleman who comes to see you sometimes. Oh I know that he would never look at me in that way. In fact, I am almost sure that he thinks of me as another sister, but because I feel that way about him, I cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone else, even if it means a lifetime of loneliness.’

  At that point, Mary came into the room with the glass of wine on a tray, and in getting up to make sure that there was a clear surface for the glass to rest on, Emily managed to conceal the blush that had crept into her cheeks.

  ‘Shall I show you how Sir Gareth gives him the wine, miss?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Please.’

  The maid took the glass to the old man, dipped her finger in the wine, and touched his lips with it. Emily watched in wonder as her grandfather’s tongue emerged to lick the droplets. ‘Let me, Mary,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, miss.’ Smiling, Mary handed the glass over before leaving the room.

  Emily sat next to her grandfather on the bed, and went through the same process several times before saying, ‘You are getting better and better every day. I know you are. That was good, wasn’t it?’

  While she was watching, Dr Whittaker’s lips moved to frame the shape of the word ‘good’.

  Emily stayed with her grandfather for a little longer. He made no further response to her presence, but she was satisfied. The death of Nathalie had been a shock, and it would take time to recover from the blow caused by the loss of a friend, albeit quite a new one. But hope could be found in other situations; in the health of the new baby, for instance; in the slow recovery of Dr Whittaker.

  Knowing that the news would please her father, Emily sought him out and told him about the small signs of improvement in her grandfather’s condition. To her great astonishment, Canon Whittaker then told her that he had noticed similar incidents. ‘I did not say anything, because I did not want to raise your hopes for nothing,’ he told her. After a brief silence, he said, ‘I was sorry to hear of the death of Mrs Fanshawe. You had become very attached to her, I think.’

  ‘Yes … yes, I had,’ Emily admitted. She was glad that he did not say more. She had not yet reached a point where she wanted to discuss the matter.

  She now felt strong enough to go to the Fanshawe household and break the news of the wet nurse that she had found. In truth, although she had suggested to Dr Boyle that she might go, she had felt very reluctant to do so. The circumstances in which she had last spoken with Mr Fanshawe had oppressed her spirits. Now, however, a new feeling of optimism buoyed her up, and resolving to make the most of it, she put on her bonnet and walked along the southern side of the cathedral.

  As she passed the Trimmers’ front door, she found her footsteps slowing, as if to increase her chances of encountering Sir Gareth, and she remembered the conversation that she had once heard between a local girl and her infatuated friend. Don’t be foolish, she told herself, deliberately quickening her step.

  Mr Fanshawe’s housekeeper greeted Emily with pleasure. She looked markedly more cheerful than on the last occasion when Emily had seen her, and the reason for this increased cheerfulness soon became apparent. ‘Such a dear little mite,’ she said smiling. ‘She’s never a bit of trouble, and as for that Mrs Grant that you brought, such a pleasant person! I do declare the house will be quite dull without her, when she goes.’

  ‘It is about that matter that I have come to see Mr Fanshawe,’ said Emily. ‘Is he within, Mrs Dainty?’

  ‘He’s just stepped out, but only for a moment,’ answered Mrs Dainty, her face becoming anxious. ‘We all want to help him, so we do, Miss Whittaker, but how to do it?’

  ‘It isn’t easy,’ replied Emily. ‘Time is a great healer, of course. I’ll come back later, then.’

  But this Mrs Dainty would by no means allow. ‘You must step upstairs and see the little one while you are here,’ she pleaded. ‘She is so much like her dear mama that it’s no wonder the master finds it hard to look at her. No doubt that resemblance will be a comfort to him in time.’

  ‘All right then,’ Emily answered, easily persuaded because in truth she did want to see the baby again. ‘Perhaps Mr Fanshawe will have returned when I come downstairs, if he has only gone out briefly.’

  The housekeeper conducted her upstairs to the nursery, where Emily could see that the baby was thriving just as much as the woman had said. ‘I do believe she has grown, even since I saw her last,’ Emily said, as she took the baby from Mrs Grant, who had just finished feeding her and changing her napkin.

  Whilst she was holding the baby, she told the other two women about how she had found Mrs Pearce to be the new wet nurse. ‘I know the family well,’ said Mrs Dainty. ‘They’re a respectable lot.’

  ‘Well, I shall be sorry to say goodbye to this one and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Grant. ‘Not but what I’m anxious to see my own little ones again, but she’s one that is easy to be fond of, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Emily agreed. ‘Mrs Dainty, would you like to hold her for a little while?’

  ‘That I would, miss,’ the housekeeper replied, putting her arms out to take the baby. ‘It’s some time now sin
ce my own little ones were this size.’ She had just done so, when they heard the sound of the front door closing. ‘That’ll be the master,’ Mrs Dainty said, looking regretfully down at the dozing infant.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Emily told her. ‘I am sure that Mr Fanshawe will not mind if I knock on the door and tell him the news.’

  ‘’Twouldn’t really be proper,’ the housekeeper responded. Then a look of regret crossed her features. ‘Mind you, it won’t be the first thing that’s happened to this household that shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘No indeed,’ Emily agreed. ‘I will see you both soon. Pray do not leave without saying goodbye, Mrs Grant.’

  ‘No, indeed I won’t, miss.’

  Emily went down the stairs and tapped lightly on the drawing-room door, and when no one answered she went in. The room was empty, but the door which led from the drawing-room into the study was not quite shut, and she became conscious of voices in conversation. It had never been her intention to listen, but as she drew closer to the door, she recognized the timbre of Sir Gareth’s voice and paused, not to eavesdrop, but simply to savour the pleasure of hearing his voice.

  ‘I haven’t come to interfere; I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he was saying.

  ‘Oh no?’ replied Fanshawe in the kind of sneering, hopeless tone that Emily had heard him use before.

  ‘No,’ Sir Gareth answered. ‘God knows, I don’t want the responsibility.’

  ‘Then rejoice,’ Fanshawe exclaimed sarcastically. ‘You don’t have it, do you?’ He paused. ‘God forgive me, but I can hardly bear to look at her.’

  Deciding that she had heard enough, Emily raised her hand to scratch on the door, but before she could do so, the baronet said, ‘Then give her to me. At least we have the same blood in our veins.’

  ‘But the world thinks that I am her father,’ Fanshawe declared.

  ‘You and I know differently though, don’t we?’

  Suddenly, Emily felt sick. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she hurried out into the hall, where mercifully there were no servants to detain her, and then into the street. She stared up at the cathedral and for the first time could not feel able to run here for comfort. In the recent past she had met with Sir Gareth there on too many occasions. Staring about her like a frightened animal, she finally hurried home, praying that neither her father nor Mary would meet her in the hall or on the stairs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Fortune favoured her and after what seemed like hours, but which in reality could only have been a matter of minutes, she gained the sanctuary of her room. There she sat on her bed and finally forced herself to consider the vile disclosure that Sir Gareth was the baby’s father.

  What other explanation could there be? The whole business had been very secret as Nathalie had informed her. How would the baronet know about it if he were not one of the principals in the affair? Furthermore, he had said that he and the baby had the same blood in their veins.

  Now that she thought about it, there were other, small incidents which could have given her a clue. When he had first arrived, his sister had referred to an injury that he had sustained. That would have been the injury in the duel that he had fought. Lord Stuart had spoken of Sir Gareth as running with a dangerous set. Such a man would think nothing of taking part in a duel. Nathalie had spoken of her lover as a handsome man of taste, and that certainly described Sir Gareth. Had not his sister and Mrs Hughes both mentioned the way in which ladies liked to consult him? Yes, and Nathalie had said that the father of her child had a reputation among the ladies.

  A man who could treat Nathalie in such a way could have very few scruples, and Emily had seen how easily he could tell an untruth if he thought that a situation called for it. If this needed confirmation, Mrs Hughes had said more than once that he was a fabricator of lies. Once, she had thought him a hero. What kind of hero behaved thus?

  ‘Fool, fool, fool!’ she said out loud. ‘How could I be so deceived?’ Thinking of Nathalie, she knew that she was not the first. At least she had not been so unfortunate as her friend. As she told herself this, however, she realized that she was committing the greatest deceit of all. Although naturally she did not want to die in childbirth, and although there was a part of her that even now wished that she were dead, another, treacherous, weak-willed part could not help thinking how wonderful it would be to bear Sir Gareth’s child. Then she burst into a storm of weeping as she realized that despite the wicked things that he had done, she still had a picture in her mind of those engaging dimples, that warm smile, and her body still tingled at the memory of the touch of his hand. Was there ever such a fool as she?

  She did not go down to dinner that night, pleading a headache, and fortunately, because her father was engaged to dine with some of the other clergy, she did not have to explain herself to anyone. She sent her tray back untouched, slept only fitfully that night, and woke up with the headache that she had feigned the previous evening.

  Remembering her errand of the day before, she wrote a brief note to Mr Fanshawe, telling him about the new wet nurse, but she did not leave her room. Mary came upstairs with a message to say that Sir Gareth and his sister had called, but she denied herself, pleading her headache as a reason. Later that day, a bunch of roses arrived from the baronet with a message to say that he hoped that she would soon be better. She tore the note into pieces, then cried over the bits, as she retrieved them all. The roses, she decided, could go in her grandfather’s room. It would be shameful to waste them, but she did not want to be seeing them every minute of every day.

  She put them in a vase, therefore, and took them to the old man’s room, where she put them down on the bedside table so that he could look at them. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she said to him moving one slightly so that they looked better. ‘Sir Gareth brought them. He …’ All of a sudden, the bright cheerful words died in her throat, and exclaiming ‘Oh Grandpapa!’ she put her arms down on the bed, next to him and buried her face in them.

  ‘Grandpapa, I thought …’ she gulped. ‘I never, never supposed that he would look at me; not really. When I was in my pretty yellow gown I indulged myself with some hopeless dreams, but I suppose I knew deep down that that was all that they were. Oh there were times, when I thought there might be a chance for me, but even though the chance was very small, I loved the fact that he was honourable and kind and good. But he isn’t, Grandpapa; he isn’t! He’s vile and wicked and I don’t think I can bear it.’

  Suddenly, she became aware of a very light pressure upon her head, and, looking up in surprise, she found that her grandfather was stroking her hair, and that his eyes were open.

  ‘Grandpapa?’ she breathed.

  His lips moved. She leaned down to hear what he was trying to say. ‘Good man,’ he murmured.

  She smiled at him. ‘Yes, you are a good man,’ she told him.

  His brow wrinkled; his mouth worked as if in agitation. ‘No, no; good man,’ he insisted. ‘Good man. Wine.’

  ‘Do you mean Sir Gareth?’ Emily asked him tentatively.

  ‘Good man,’ he repeated.

  Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and Dr Boyle came in.

  ‘Miss Whittaker?’ he questioned concernedly, for it was quite clear that she had been crying.

  ‘Look, Doctor,’ she said, gesturing towards the old man. In truth, had she been crying for no other reason, she might easily have been shedding tears of thankfulness.

  Dr Boyle lifted Dr Whittaker’s wrist to take his pulse, then glancing at his face was so surprised to see watery blue eyes looking at him that he almost dropped the limb that he was holding. ‘Dr Whittaker,’ he said slowly, ‘can you hear me?’

  The elderly clergyman continued to look at the doctor, but made no further reaction.

  ‘He stroked my hair,’ said Emily. ‘I looked at him and found that he was looking at me.’ For some reason, she found that she could not tell him about what her grandfather had said. Her feelings were too raw on that particular
issue.

  ‘This is indeed very promising,’ said the doctor, ‘very promising indeed.’ After a short time, Dr Whittaker closed his eyes again, and soon after that, the doctor left the room, signalling to Emily to come with him.

  When they were downstairs in the saloon, Dr Boyle said, ‘This is excellent. I must tell you that I had not looked for this degree of progress. Your father will be delighted to hear the good news. Is it your wish that I should tell him, or would you like to give him the news yourself?’

  ‘I will tell him,’ Emily replied, thinking that this would provide the two of them with a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with her broken heart.

  The doctor shuffled a little, and began to look self-conscious, and by these signals, Emily know that he was going to raise a topic of a personal nature. ‘Miss Whittaker, I was hoping that with the anxiety over your grandfather lessening by the day, you might be persuaded to hear me on a matter that is very close to my heart.’

  Emily was on the point of refusing point blank to listen to him, but something gave her pause. It was partly the knowledge that she would have to listen to him one day; it was also partly because now that her illusions about Sir Gareth had been torn away, marriage to the doctor seemed to be a possible way of escape. She sat down therefore, folded her hands in her lap, and said, ‘Very well, Dr Boyle, what do you wish to say to me?’ Then she was obliged to listen while the doctor spoke of his respect for her, his regard for her intelligence, his thoughts about how she would make an excellent helpmeet for a busy doctor; throughout his speech, not one word of love did he say.

  That was what made Emily decide that she would probably accept him. A marriage in which she was struggling with the guilt of not being able to return her partner’s affections would be intolerable. And yet she could not say yes; at least, not yet.

  ‘Dr Boyle, you are very kind and I thank you for your very flattering sentiments,’ she said. ‘However, I need some time to think about your proposal. May I give you my answer in a few days?’