The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “And I hear that you have chosen the refreshing country air for your son, as well. Are you planning on having him remain at Solgrave for the summer?”

  “He seems happiest there.”

  “His name is James. Is it not?”

  “James Samuel. After my father.”

  “And I assume you have made arrangements for him to attend Eton?”

  “Of course. He will be starting in the fall term, m’lord.” He eyed the Prime Minister carefully. Perhaps it was simply his own suspicious nature, but Stanmore could not help but wonder at the purpose behind these questions. True, he thought, it could simply be an opportunity for the man to expand their acquaintance on a personal level. Although they’d both attended Eton and Oxford, they had not been classmates nor particularly close friends.

  “My oldest boy is there, now, you know.” Lord North propped his legs up on the table before him. “Ah, but you are very fortunate man, Stanmore. I must tell you, even living as we do here in the center of culture and education—the ‘capital of the world’ as Horace Walpole put it—my wife has had a devil of a time finding governesses and tutors suited to seeing to our young ones’ needs.” He hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and considered for a moment. “Rumor has it, though, that your son James has had a very good upbringing thus far, and under a care of a total stranger, no less…despite being raised in those infernal colonies.”

  “He has been provided with an excellent beginning,” Stanmore answered truthfully. The rumors that had reached the Prime Minister had been intentionally started by the earl himself. It was much easier to control the shape of rumor’s constructions if you laid the foundation yourself. Regarding the manner and condition of James’s upbringing, though, there was not a single thing that he would fault Rebecca with. She had accomplished far more than anyone else with her limited financial resources could have possibly done.

  “Indeed,” Lord North said, breaking into his thoughts. “And this mystery woman from the colonies—the one who has done such an excellent job in raising your son—I understand she is staying with you for a time.”

  “She is, m’lord.”

  “And is she an angel of mercy or…something more mercenary, would you say?”

  “Without a doubt, Mrs. Ford is an angel. Everything she has done has certainly been motivated by her compassion for James and my late wife. The woman brought him up with absolutely no expectation of any financial reward.”

  A curious smile broke out on the Prime Minister’s face, and Stanmore realized it was the result of his quick defense of Rebecca. “She certainly sounds like a most enchanting woman. Tell me this, Stanmore, how long is she planning to stay in England?”

  He didn’t want to think about Rebecca’s departure. “I assume she will be staying for a while yet. She believes that James should be completely settled before she takes her leave and returns to the colonies.”

  “A smart woman, and a benevolent one.” Lord North pouted his thick lips as he considered for a moment. “To be the sole provider for a child—as she has done for so many years—I must assume this Mrs. Ford is quite attached to your son. And yet, she is willing to sever the tender bonds that connect a mother and child—even an adoptive one, I should think—and leave him when her presence is no longer needed. She is certainly a remarkable woman.”

  Remarkable was too feeble a word to describe her. Stanmore looked away as the confusion surrounding Rebecca’s true identity gnawed at him. She hadn’t told him the truth about her past. But then again, neither had he shared anything of his own life.

  “I would very much like to meet them.”

  Stanmore’s attention snapped back to his host, who was studying him with great interest. “I beg your pardon, m’lord?”

  “I said I would very much like to meet both your son and your fascinating Mrs. Ford.” The Prime Minister put his feet on the floor. “You cannot blame me for being impressed with her. Perhaps she would consider accepting a position in my household instead of returning to that haven of troublemakers in Philadelphia.”

  “She is not seeking a position, at all.” His objection to the offer was immediate and his tone sounded curt, even to his own ears. But something had clicked inside of his head. The world suddenly looked different to him. He didn’t want Rebecca engaged by someone else. He didn’t want her dependent on anyone else. By the devil, he was able to support her and provide for her, and that was the way it would stand.

  This possessiveness he was feeling about her future unsettled him, though. For the first time, a sense of permanence had edged into his perspective. In his mind’s eye, even now he could see her beautiful face, her eyes, her hair. The devil take him…he missed her!

  “Well, I should still like to meet her before she leaves,” North persisted. “In fact, would you object to me paying you a visit down in the country?”

  “I thought you mentioned that your lordship was planning to travel to Wroxton Abbey…and then with the king to Kew!”

  “Indeed, I am. But I shall return to London by the way of Hertfordshire before the King’s Birthday. Come, Stanmore, you will surely extend your hospitality to a weary traveler?”

  “You are always welcome at Solgrave, m’lord,” Stanmore said, though he doubted Lord North noted much enthusiasm in his face.

  CHAPTER 24

  Rebecca’s decision had been made, but she knew she could not go until she had some answers.

  Delicate a matter as it was, thus far she had avoided raising suspicions of those whom she had questioned. Unfortunately, neither Mrs. Trent nor Daniel had been able to shed any light yesterday on the late Lady Stanmore. To both of these people, Elizabeth Wakefield had been a spoiled young woman who had left the pampering of her own family and had expected the same treatment from her husband’s family. The fact that she had chosen to stay away from Solgrave for the short duration of her marriage only added to their suspicion and hostility. Rebecca had quickly turned her discussions with them to more mundane topics.

  Discarding any hope of gaining any information from Daniel and Mrs. Trent, she had decided to focus her efforts in bringing up the topic with Philip. Despite the London house steward’s reputation for a dour humor and for brevity, Rebecca had found the older man to be nothing short of charming from the first day they had met.

  Saturday morning dawned gray and wet and unusually cold for a day so near end of May. Jamey, free of Mr. Clarke and schoolwork, was at Rebecca’s door shortly after dawn, restless and seeking her company. It was time together they both needed. They had shared many moments like this in Philadelphia, and she cherished them. At the same time, she knew this was perhaps one of the last mornings like this they would ever have.

  Snuggled together, she told herself she was able to leave him. She wasn’t as worried about him as she’d been when they first arrived. He had once again managed to get his feet under him, as he had done in the streets and on the wharves before. But with this renewed sense of independence, she noticed the loss of naiveté that was part of being a boy. Somehow, he seemed to be maturing so quickly. His questions no longer centered on his own needs, now focusing—curiously enough—on more worldly subjects. Jamey seemed genuinely interested in the running of an estate like Solgrave. He actually asked about his father—his involvement in politics, his influence—questions that had totally surprised Rebecca.

  Without a hint of pride, Jamey appeared to be accepting who he was and where he was destined to be. And this eased Rebecca’s own guilt regarding her decision to wait and reveal the truth of her departure until the very last moment possible. To shift the attention from her own misery regarding their future separation, she told Jamey about Stanmore’s promise of taking him out for a ride around the estate every morning. Although he tried to hide it, she thought he actually looked pleased.

  ***

  Shortly after breakfast, as Jamey ran off through the misty weather toward the stables to spend some time grooming the pony that he’d chosen last week, R
ebecca sought Philip out. She found him overseeing the work of Lord Stanmore’s valet.

  “Philip, would you be kind enough to give me a tour of the galleries?” She hid a smile at the valet’s look of gratitude, and noted that even Philip brightened. Unlike Daniel, who was busy with his normal routine of running Solgrave, the older man was apparently bored beyond measure with the earl gone.

  They had begun their tour in the lower gallery, passing before centuries-old portraits of some the earl’s ancestors. With Philip providing a litany of names and titles, and the mark each subject had made on history, they had paused before each portrait. It wasn’t until they’d stopped before a more recent painting of a beautiful, dark-haired young woman standing with Solgrave in the background, though, that Rebecca had found herself entranced. The woman was holding a child.

  “Lady Margaret. The daughter of the late James Graham, 4th Marquis and 1st Duke of Montrose. The mother to the present earl of Stanmore.”

  “The resemblance is remarkable,” Rebecca murmured. The same high cheek bones, the full lips, even the eyes—with the exception of their expressions—were the same. Lady Margaret was an incredibly striking woman, and so was her son. “What happened to her?”

  “Happened? Why, nothing!” Philip said, surprised. “Lady Margaret Buchanan—as she prefers to be addressed now—is doing quite well, living at her family holding in Scotland.”

  Rebecca had already learned that the way to motivate Philip to reveal more was not through asking questions. Instead, patience and simple interest encouraged him the most. She was not disappointed as he lowered his voice somewhat, speaking to her in a tone that she understood to be confidential.

  “Lady Margaret and the late earl of Stanmore had what is vulgarly called an arranged marriage. I am sorry to say that there never existed any affection between the husband and wife—no camaraderie ever grew between them. The good lady abided her family’s wishes, however, and stayed with his lordship until their son was raised to the age of five. Then she took her leave and retired to Buchanan House in Scotland…near a place called Loch Lomond.”

  No wonder Stanmore had such negative view of love, Rebecca thought. Though she herself had not grown up in a family, she had seen it for herself…been a part of it…in the Strawberry Alley home of Molly and John Butler.

  “If I may be allowed to speak candidly, ma’am, no one ever blamed her for leaving. For all of his good qualities, James Wakefield was, at best, a very difficult man. And…just between us…as the years passed, his lordship became…well, nigh impossible.” The steward stared thoughtfully at the portrait. “You should know that, regardless of the miles between them, our present Lord Stanmore has a far better rapport with the mother than he ever had with his father.”

  “His lordship mentioned to me that he spends a month in Scotland each fall.”

  “That he does,” Philip confirmed. “It began as a tradition when he was a lad…to appease Lady Margaret’s family. But if the truth be told, he always enjoyed the holiday. Still does.”

  Rebecca moved reluctantly away from the portrait, looking at the others. As she and Philip continued to move on along the gallery, she realized that, even here, there were no reminders of Elizabeth.

  “I believe James will enjoy viewing this gallery.”

  “He already has.” Philip nodded approvingly. “I found him here yesterday afternoon engrossed in the pictures, so I offered to be his guide and he accepted it, fine lad that he is. I hope you will accept my congratulations, Mrs. Ford, in the way that you have raised the young master.”

  “All the credit is due to him,” she said softly. “He is a most intelligent and good-hearted boy. Was there anything James was looking for in here particularly?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. A picture of his mother,” he replied, hesitantly glancing at her direction.

  “All as it should be,” she replied. “For James to accept his lineage, he needs to see that someone far better than I brought him into this world.”

  “Not better, if I may say so, Mrs. Ford. Master James was only brought into the world by someone other than you.”

  She looked down at her hands, resisting the urge to speak in Elizabeth’s defense. Her battle was not with this man, she reminded herself.

  “Thank you,” she said a moment later. “All the same, is there a portrait of James’s mother anywhere for him to see?”

  Philip shook his head. “Not at Solgrave, ma’am. No time for a portrait to be done. You see, they were married in the month of July in 1759. Less than a month after their marriage, his lordship took his place as Major in His Majesty’s 45th Regiment of Foot and sailed to the colonies to join in the taking of Quebec. He was away for two years. With Samuel Wakefield gone, Lady Stanmore stayed mostly in London.” Philip stared at a Dutch painting of a city at the edge of a storm-tossed sea. “Quite soon, we could see she was not herself. She had a most difficult time carrying Master James, and she spent much of her time secluded and bedridden. There was never any time to have a portrait of her done after the marriage. But I am certain that her own family…” Philip’s voice trailed off.

  Rebecca’s heart sank like a stone. Stanmore had left in August. James had not been borne until the following July…the day Rebecca and Elizabeth had first met.

  “You say she was ill during the confinement?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. When the child was born in May, the doctor required that she remain in seclusion indefinitely. The house was closed to all distractions and company, since both mother and child were too frail after the ordeal.”

  “An announcement was made in May?”

  “A rather bleak one, if I might say so. As far as any of us knew in the household, there was not much hope for the young master surviving.”

  “But Lord Stanmore’s father did announce that a boy had been born…and announced his name, as well.”

  “Indeed, ma’am. James Samuel Wakefield!” Philip was looking at her curiously.

  Rebecca looked hard at the Dutch painting. Above church spires, the sky was filled with battling clouds of white and gray and pink.

  “Did you attend the mother and child yourself, Philip?”

  The steward stiffened at the memory. “No one, with the exception of the old earl and a number of attendants the doctor brought in, was allowed to see to their needs.”

  He was born only this morning. Elizabeth’s words, as if spoken this very day, came back to her clearly.

  “She remained in their care, cut off from the world for two months, ma’am. And then one morning, the house fairly exploded with activity. She’d just up and taken the child during the night. They were gone, ma’am!”

  Rebecca’s head echoed with the lies that had surrounded Jamey’s birth. She had no doubt that he was only a day old when she had first set eyes on him. If a year had passed, and Stanmore had returned from Quebec, it would have been impossible for the father to know the true age of the child.

  But Rebecca was certain of what had happened. Stanmore’s father had announced the birth before it actually took place, hiding the mother away until the child was really born. It was almost too horrible to consider, but she wondered what would have happened if a girl had been born to Elizabeth.

  But with the husband in Quebec, she puzzled, what was it exactly that drove the young woman to take her son and run away? Rebecca smoothed the furrows lining her forehead and glanced up at the portrait that they were standing before now.

  “This one is the portrait of last earl of Stanmore. The great Sir Joshua Reynolds painted this the summer before all of this.”

  The brooding man standing before a statue of Zeus was striking enough to capture anyone’s attention. Graying hair was the only hint of his age. Strong of build, with a carriage that exuded confidence and power. Rebecca pondered momentarily whether his was a presence that Elizabeth had perhaps found comforting.

  She closed her eyes for an instant. How could she blame Elizabeth? Who was she to say that the young woman
was the one at fault? It very well could have been that the late earl had been the pursuer. Perhaps she had been nothing more than a victim. This was, of course, assuming that no other man had been involved. All the secrecy surrounding the birth of James had been for the sake of preserving the respectability of the Stanmore name.

  She looked hard at the picture again. Yes, she saw the resemblance—the painter had captured the peculiarly piercing quality in the eyes that Jamey shared with both Stanmore men. And there were other small resemblances that the boy shared only with the man in the painting—the line of the chin, the shape of the ears.

  “Two years after this portrait was completed, Lord Stanmore suffered a fall from his horse and lost the use of his legs.”

  Rebecca turned to the steward. “And…and the present earl was away for all of this.”

  Philip nodded gravely. “It was difficult for him when he came home—his wife and son gone, his father crippled. And, I’m sorry to say that losing the power to walk was not the only thing that plagued the old earl. He became increasingly ill and, with each passing year, more and more angry, belligerent…almost mad at times.”

  “When was it that his lordship passed away?”

  “It has been slightly over a year.”

  A year. The father’s death had brought about the search for the younger son. Rebecca followed the steward as he moved away from the portrait. Wentworth had somehow tapped into the truth about this family’s past, but knowing it herself did nothing to lessen her respect for Lord Stanmore. He was the one, she now knew, who had taken it on himself to set so many wrongs to right.

  Rebecca turned and looked out the diamond-paned windows at the lake and the road leading out of Solgrave. In the end, it only made things more difficult. She had lost her heart to Samuel Wakefield, but she was also about to leave him behind.