The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  Rebecca sent a smile of gratitude at Stanmore. Jamey would need just that kind of attention once she was gone.

  “Is this not the most exciting news?” the lad asked. “And we can take Israel, too.”

  “You shall all have the best of times,” she replied encouragingly.

  “But you will, too!” Jamey asserted. “His lordship thinks you shouldn’t be frightened of Lady Meg…that is my grandmother. He says she is all bark and no…no teeth?” he glanced questioningly across the table.

  “All bark and no bite.”

  “That’s the phrase! She shall love you. The same way that we all love you.” Jamey’s pleading eyes lifted up to hers. “You will come with us? Say you will!”

  Rebecca felt as if someone had wrapped a fist around her heart and was squeezing hard. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. She felt the weight of everyone’s gaze on her.

  “Mama?”

  She no longer deserved it, but he continued to call her by the name. Rebecca saw Jamey’s eyes fill with tears, and she struggled for an answer.

  “I shall…I shall need to talk with his lordship about it.” She turned to Stanmore. “We shall speak more about it.”

  The look on the earl’s face was no less disappointed than the look on Jamey’s.

  ***

  Not one to enter into any situation unprepared, Birch had succeeded in learning a few things about the Hartington family before he and Sir Nicholas climbed the steps to the handsome townhouse.

  Although eight years had passed since the murder of Sir Charles Hartington in Vauxhall Gardens, by an unknown assailant, Lady Hartington was still known to bristle at any mention of the incident. The lawyer was given to understand that the woman’s aversion to discussing her husband’s demise was largely due to Sir Charles’s roguish style of living. Sir Charles was a known womanizer whose sexual exploits were directed at any woman who passed his way, regardless of age, class, or marital status. And to add to the family’s misfortunes, it was rumored that it had been a disgruntled husband—a dock worker or some such thing—who had put the knife blade between Sir Charles’s ribs.

  Not entirely uncommon, Sir Oliver thought, but certainly reason enough for a respectable woman like Lady Hartington to shun such discussions.

  Upon arriving at the house, he and Sir Nicholas were seen into the lady’s receiving room, where she received them civilly, albeit coolly. Sir Oliver was surprised to find she was indeed a very pleasing looking woman, and younger looking than he’d expected.

  “How curious it is that I should receive visitors twice in one week, asking the same question about the very same person.”

  Birch glanced at Sir Nicholas, only to find him looking as baffled as he himself was feeling. He turned his attention back to their hostess. “Did you say someone else was here inquiring after Miss Rebecca Neville this week?”

  “Indeed!” Lady Hartington pressed her hands together on her lap—a movement that the lawyer found extremely charming. “Lady Nisdale. She was here on Monday, claiming that she was a long lost friend to Miss Neville. She was hoping, she said, to find any news she could of her missing friend.”

  “Ah, indeed. Lady Nisdale.” Birch frowned at the thought of Stanmore murdering Louisa. But a glance at the fury in Nicholas’s eyes, and he wondered which one might kill her first. “Did Lady Nisdale mention…how she had discovered any connection you might have with Miss Neville?”

  “She claimed to be an old school friend of Rebecca’s…and she claimed that their old school mistress had offered the connection.” Unexpected temper colored the woman’s cheeks. “Of course, as soon as she said it, I knew the woman was not telling the truth. I have known the director of that school for a long time. In fact, I continue to correspond with her, for my own daughter Sara—she is sixteen now—is a pupil in that fine school. I know the woman would never divulge information of that sort to anyone. She has built a reputation on her integrity and her discretion. Needless to say, I sent Lady Nisdale on her way without being able to offer any answers.”

  Birch buried his sigh of relief. He had enough to be concerned about this week, and he didn’t need Louisa’s jealous involvement added to it.

  “If I may be so blunt as to pose the question, how did you learn of my connections with Miss Neville?” Lady Hartington waited patiently for an answer.

  Birch’s practiced answers had not addressed this specific question. Sir Nicholas’s quick response was a blessing.

  “Your name was given to us by Miss Neville’s mother. She is…was a well known actress on the London stage. Your husband…your late husband had visited the lady at some point in time and told her that Rebecca was being employed by him.”

  The mention of husband indeed succeeded in bringing a frown in the woman’s face.

  “We apologize for the discomfort that our reference to your deceased husband is causing you, m’lady.” Birch spoke gently. “But it is crucial for us to know the length and nature of Miss Neville’s employment while she was here, and also the circumstances surrounding her departure.”

  The lawyer noted the whitening of the Lady Hartington’s knuckles in her lap, and the blush that once again crept into her cheeks. He knew if their questioning had not been conducted on behalf of the earl of Stanmore—a distinguished leader of the House of the Lords—she might have dismissed them at this very moment. She looked up and fixed him with a steady gaze.

  “Miss Neville came to us from Mrs. Stockdale’s Academy for Girls ten summers ago. I hired her as a tutor for my three children, who at the time were of the ages six, eight, and ten. My eldest was going off to Eton in the fall. She came here highly recommended by the schoolmistress.

  “From what I have heard of that fine academy,” Nicholas put in, “the young women who attend it are not generally those who have a need to go into service.”

  “You are correct, sir,” Lady Hartington answered softly. “I felt very fortunate to have her, but I guessed, even from the beginning, that she would not be staying with us long.”

  The woman hesitated, causing Birch to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He couldn’t pressure her, but at the same time the need to learn everything that there was to learn was driving him mad. He wanted confirmation that Rebecca was as pure as he had judged her to be. He wanted to prove that Stanmore was doing the right thing in making her his wife. She deserved it more than any other woman he had ever known.

  “And?” Sir Nicholas was not inclined to be so patient.

  “Rebecca was here for a month,” Lady Hartington continued. “And I have to say that she was everything that Mrs. Stockdale had promised and more. She was absolutely the best tutor my children ever had.”

  “But she left after a month!” Nicholas probed.

  “She did!”

  “Why?”

  “I…I do not know.”

  “Did she ask for any references before her departure?”

  The woman touched her brow in a nervous gesture. “She did not.”

  “Did she give you any notice of any kind?” Nicholas asked again.

  “She did not.”

  “Did she collect what you owed her…her salary before her departure?”

  Birch, quite impressed, stared at Sir Nicholas. He certainly had missed his calling in not studying at the bar.

  “I hardly think…” Lady Hartington finally whispered.

  “Did she take her belongings?”

  “Rebecca did not have much here with her.”

  “Did she take it?”

  “She did not.” Her answer was weak. The color was now gone from her face.

  “Are you telling us that Rebecca Neville did not leave…but simply disappeared one day?” At the woman’s silence, Nicholas stood up, drawing her frightened gaze.

  “See here, Sir Nicholas…” Oliver protested as Stanmore’s friend barreled on.

  “Were you not at all concerned, ma’am, that something might have happened to her? Was she not your responsibility while
staying at your household?”

  She turned her face away, so neither of the men could see it.

  Birch’s tone was much softer—more compassionate. “Were you at home, m’lady, the day…or the night…that Miss Neville left?”

  She shook her head and rose to her feet.

  “Was your husband at home?” Birch continued.

  Without another glance at either of the men, Lady Hartington glided toward the door. As she reached for the latch, she spoke her parting words. “I have told you everything I can, gentlemen. Now, if you will forgive me, I am unwell. My butler shall see you out.”

  The two men’s gazes met as the door closed behind the woman. “We did not get everything that we came for,” Birch said solemnly.

  “But at least we know it was the husband!” Nicholas angrily stared at the door. “It is obvious that the filthy rake had his way with her!”

  “Or tried, Sir Nicholas. We must not jump to conclusions.”

  “True enough. She may have simply run to escape his lecherous claws.”

  “There is more that Lady Hartington knows,” the lawyer said confidently. “Another meeting with her, and I will learn a great deal more.”

  Nicholas was smirking knowingly at him.

  “What is that look supposed to convey, if I might ask?”

  “For an old bachelor, Sir Oliver, when you are attracted to a woman, you are about as subtle as the Temple Gate!” They started toward the door. “But I don’t believe Stanmore has ten years to waste while you pursue your own amorous interests.”

  “My own amor…” Sputtering a little, Birch bit back his own retort as a butler entered the room.

  They were not even out of the receiving room when Nicholas laid a hand on the brawny butler’s arm. “Say, are you not the same fellow I saw fighting at Wetherby’s, last week?”

  “Aye, sir. That would be me.”

  “I won a bundle on you, my man. That was a fair bit of brawling, I should say. You’ve a devastating right hand.”

  Before they reached the ground floor, the lawyer was listening with great amusement as the two men discussed the fights last week and the wagering that was likely to take place at the area boxing clubs this week. It was amazing to Oliver that someone of Sir Nicholas Spencer’s education and family—a man bred to travel in the highest circles of society—could carry on with equal comfort at the very lowliest.

  Shaking off such thoughts, he focused on his next move, and the question of whether it would be worthwhile sending a letter revealing their findings to the earl, yet.

  “And this last butler…the one before you…”

  “Robert, sir.”

  The lawyer focused again on the discussion. The three of them were standing in the open door, looking out onto the residential street.

  “That’s it…Robert. You will pass on my message to him, won’t you, George?”

  The man looked around him first before giving a discreet nod. “Absolutely, sir.”

  “My money will be on you next week, George. Watch for me.”

  “Aye, sir. That I will.”

  Birch had to wait until they climbed into the carriage before voicing his curiosity.

  Nicholas immediately broke into a grin as he seated himself across the way from the lawyer. “You would do far better if you could keep your attention off the skirts, Birch…”

  “Sir Nicholas! Please!”

  The man laughed, but immediately grew serious. “My new friend George tells me he has been butler for the Hartingtons for only two years. But the man before him—a fellow named Robert—had been working for them since before the fall of Troy.”

  “And presumably was there at the time of Rebecca’s short-lived tenure in the household.”

  “Precisely. From what George tells me, Robert was dismissed for doing a little gambling with the housekeeping money. But apparently, the man also harbors a great resentment toward his old master, the late Sir Charles Hartington.”

  Oliver rubbed his hands together. “So when can we go and meet with him?”

  “Robert will be instructed to come to your rooms in the Middle Temple tomorrow evening. George here believes there is no secret in the Hartington household that Robert would not be unwilling to reveal…for the right price, of course.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The dinner served by Mrs. Trimble had been delicious, but William Cunningham had hardly been able to swallow a bite. The topic of the conversation had filled him with dread. Though he and Reverend Trimble had continued to stay away from Melbury Hall, the rector had been getting reports from a number of sources. All of them were the same, stories of unprecedented violence and abuse.

  As he made his way home, the darkness that enveloped the village was complete. The sky was black…not even a single star was visible overhead.

  Nonetheless, the familiar whistle that came from the east wall of the school drew his attention, and he moved cautiously toward the sound. Jonah was waiting.

  “How are things there, my friend? How is Lady Wentworth?” He led the man to the back of the building where they could speak without fear of discovery.

  “Lady Wentworth asks that you come the back way to the Grove right at dawn tomorrow morning. She asks that you bring a carriage.”

  “Is someone hurt? We can go immediately.”

  The man shook his head. “The squire’s watchman will kill you if you come now. In the morning, she thinks you’ll be safe enough.”

  “Am I bringing someone back with me? One of the workers?”

  “Aye,” Jonah said. “Lady Wentworth’s maid Vi. The squire has taken a fancy to the girl, and she is frightened enough to kill herself. We’ve been hiding her in the Grove for two days now. I must be going, sir.”

  “Very well, Jonah. Thank you for coming.”

  “You’ll be there at dawn?”

  “Indeed I will,” Cunningham answered, and then watched the man slip away in the darkness.

  ***

  “Where are you taking me?” Rebecca asked, following Stanmore into a wing of Solgrave that she had not visited before.

  “No questions, just come with me,” Stanmore encouraged, holding a burning candelabra in one hand and leading her with the other.

  She glanced about at the closed doors. She could smell the musty scent of rooms that had not been aired in quite some time. She looked up at the images of the paintings on the walls as the light from the candles brought each one momentarily to life. They came to a halt before a closed set of double doors. She glanced up at Stanmore’s grim face and felt his hesitation.

  “What is this?” she asked softly.

  “My father’s rooms,” he answered, pushing the door open and walking inside.

  Rebecca paused at the threshold, unable to tear her gaze away from the man she loved. He placed the candelabra on a table by the foot of a heavily curtained bed. His face reflected the despair that was his legacy from the past. His eyes studied every aspect of the large chamber, and the open doors leading to adjoining rooms.

  “This was his prison for nearly eight years.” His voice echoed off the walls. “That bed served as his place of crime and punishment, all in one.”

  Rebecca wanted to go to him. To embrace him. To make his pain go away the only way she knew how—by loving him. But she could hardly offer a remedy that held no promise of eternity.

  “For eight years my father lay in this bed. Refused to leave this room. Snubbed everyone who wanted to help him. He simply lay there, basking in his own self-inflicted misery and guilt.” He pulled back the curtains roughly and stared into the emptiness. “For eight years, he lay here…and one day revealed his sins to me.”

  Rebecca wanted to tell him that she already knew, but his need to speak kept her silent.

  “James is not my son. But I believe while you have been here—witnessing my cold, hard behavior toward the lad—you must have had guessed at the truth.”

  All she could do was to give a small nod.

  �
��He was borne to Elizabeth after an affair that my wife and my father had shortly after I went away. He told me about it—about the endless hours they spent together. About her unhappiness with our alliance—about her enchantment with him and of his with her. He told me how her untimely pregnancy was a shock to them both.” He turned again to the empty bed. “But my father was a schemer. He knew how to avoid scandal. He planned to pass off the child as mine. The two months difference between my departure and the start of her pregnancy was no great obstacle…to a man like him.”

  She quietly walked into the room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it.

  “He arranged for Elizabeth to be secluded, pretending she was having difficulty with the pregnancy. Of course, this just created more of an opportunity for the two of them to indulge their passion.” He turned to a portrait of his father on the wall. “At the designated time, when Elizabeth should have had the child—that is, if the child were to be seen as mine—he even made an announcement.”

  He ran a hand impatiently over his face. “He was so secure in his lies that he even announced the child to be a boy. He told me he already planned to give the infant away if a girl was born instead. He would simply claim illness had taken the life of the babe.”

  “And Elizabeth went along with everything. She was a willing accomplice…until the day that James was born. When she found out that, because of his deformed hand, my father was going to give him away, anyway, she could no longer go along with his plans. You see, he was a perfectionist. Any aberration was a reflection against his name—his status in the eyes of the world.” He paced away from the bed before turning around again. “I believe this was the first time in her entire life that Elizabeth showed any courage. Some maternal instinct must have awakened in her the courage to act.”

  Stanmore faced her. “She ran away. She took James in a display of independence that was so uncharacteristic of the person that she was. She fled so she could keep the child…and keep him safe.”