by Decca Price
“Don’t be pert. It’s unbecoming. It’s your obstinacy that vexes your Papa so much. Two years, Claire! You should be married with your first little one at your knee by now. Instead, your sister Frances is likely to go to the altar before you, and that is so wrong!”
“Francie? Has she had a proposal then?”
“I don’t like to speak out of turn, but your Papa and I fully expect a call any day now from Mr. Hapwell. He has been most attentive to Frances these past weeks, and to all the family. Even you,” she said pointedly. “It can only mean one thing.”
“But she can’t love him, Mama—does he love her?”
“Claire, how can you be so—well, I won’t say stupid, that’s too disagreeable. I’ve raised all of my children to be good, sensible and responsible. You are all these things, yet this fanciful streak in you will be your ruin. All two people need to marry is mutual respect —“
“—and an income.”
“Yes, you do see. Mr. Hapwell could have been yours if you’d but lifted a finger, but he quickly saw the lay of the land and moved on to court Frances. With her money and his connections, they will have a good life together.”
“If that is all she wants, then I am happy for her and I will tell her so sincerely. But I wanted more, Mama, and I don’t regret that I gambled everything and lost.”
“I begin to see why your Papa has lost patience with you. ‘Lost.’ How dramatic. I suppose you’ve gotten that out of some book, like so many of your notions. And I believed education for girls was a good thing. Good money wasted.”
“There is much wisdom in books, Mama. We live but one mortal life on earth, but our great English writers help us to see through the eyes of many others and enable us to look into our own hearts before we are tested by life’s adversities.”
“Pah! That sounds just like something written in a book.”
“But Mama, I loved Mr. Carter and told him so. Men want to be first in a girl’s heart, so who would want me now, even if I could forget?”
“Men are more practical than you imagine, Claire. The best marriages are based on practicality, and for many wives, loves does come with time. But love doesn’t last without a sound basis in social background, family support and—yes—money.”
Claire let that pass.
“You and Papa will excuse me from appearing at dinner?” she asked.
“Of course. With the mood your Papa is in at the moment, it would be best. “
After supping from a tray, Claire went back to her sorting, ignoring the hum outside her chamber as her sisters prepared for another night out on the marriage market.
Francie burst into the room without preamble.
“Claire! It’s so dreadful and I’m so sorry you’re leaving us! And I never said how sorry we were about Mr. Carter. Cat and I have talked about nothing for days but the latest installment in ‘The Rector.” All the girls say it’s so thrilling! Now we’ll never know the secret!”
“Oh –“ she caught herself. “You must be—devastated?” The girl’s puzzlement was plain. Claire looked so normal. As always, her hair displayed its usual neatness, her eyes were calm, her apparel tidy.
“Was that Mr. Carter’s new serial?” Claire asked quietly. “How ever did you get your hands on it?”
“Oh, you know. Now that Augusta and Lydia Fawn are both married and out of the house, Lady Fawn isn’t paying nearly so much attention to the younger girls. Diana got a copy from Lydia Sitwell and once Cecilia was finished with it, she passed it on to me at the Maddoxes’ party last Tuesday. You won’t tell?” she asked anxiously.
Claire surveyed her sister. Another blond, she was not nearly as fair as Claire but more blooming. Arrayed in a billow of pale green organdy and tulle, with an abundance of pink satin rosettes cascading down her sleeves and the front of her skirt, she looked delicious and happy and innocent.
“No, I won’t tell. You look very pretty tonight, Francie. Is this a special occasion?”
Francie blushed. “Mr. Hapwell has written to Papa. I think he will speak to me tonight. Thank goodness he did. Papa was in such a fret this afternoon, Cat and I were afraid he would make us stay in tonight. But he is ever so pleased about this.”
“Are you, Francie?”
“Of course. I can’t wait to have an establishment of my own and make my own calls without always trailing after Mama. I wish you could be so contented, Claire. Whatever will you do at Aunt Maud’s?”
“I shall do good works and endeavor to be content myself.” Claire picked up the lace scarf she had set aside her sister. Wear this tonight, and I hope it brings you luck.”
Francie embraced her with thanks and, clutching the scarf, swept out of the room.
Claire looked at her other sister, standing quietly beside Claire’s desk, fiddling with the little china dog. Catherine’s mind always was elsewhere or in a book, or both. She rarely volunteered what she was thinking unless asked.
“What is it, Cat?”
“I wish you were coming with us tonight, Claire. I wish I were going with you tomorrow. I wish I could help you.”
Cat held up the china trinket she had been toying with and her solemn gray eyes searched Claire’s face.
“He gave this to you, yes?’
“That’s right, Cat.”
“I’ve heard that if you hold something that belonged to someone you really loved, you can connect with them—on the other side. If I came to Herefordshire with you, we could—”
“Oh, Cat, stop. Where do you get these notions?”
“It’s been in all the papers, people talking to loved ones who have passed over.”
“Papers you’re not supposed to be reading, dearest kitten! Besides, if you have been, you know that Mrs. Cook was exposed as a fraud last year.”
Cat gently replaced the figurine on the desk.
“I only want to help, Claire. This can’t be all there is, when two people love each other, can it?”
Claire pulled her little sister into a close embrace.
“No, my dear. No.”
Chapter 3
The blood-red rays of the setting sun transformed the sea of apple blossom flowing across the valley into a blaze of crimson. As the breeze stirred the trees, the glow flickered and danced like hearth flames under a blacksmith’s bellows, petals falling in showers of sparks. Swallows darted in the gathering twilight black as bats, and the whisper of rustling leaves washed up at the rider’s feet like surf pounding a distant shore.
In the far distance, a pale ochre house crouched on an island of green, where lawns ran down to the river, a bright line of molten steel shimmering toward the Black Mountains on the horizon.
There were lights on in the rooms, he could see from his vantage point on the ridge above. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys into the cool twilight air. So they had come at last. He fought the impulse to spur down the incline, ride hard up to the door and demand admittance.
The big horse stirred beneath him, responding to his rage. The need to bring the restive animal under control concentrated his thoughts and his emotions cooled. Best not to show his hand. Stay aloof and let his man of business do his job.
He watched until darkness enfolded the valley and the fire died away, the full moon transforming the blossom to silvery ash. Turning toward home in the chill of descending night, he gave no more thought to the people in the house. He wanted only what belonged to him. The man who had taken it away was beyond reach, but he was prepared to pay a high price to the living to get it back.
He expected his own house to be dark and empty, but light from the library in the east wing told him otherwise.
He flung the reins to the waiting groom. “See that he’s cooled down properly this time or I’ll have your post! He’s had a hard ride.” Then he took the treads of the grand curving stairway in the entrance hall two at a time, paused in his rooms long enough to splash water on his face and dashed back down.
The long journey from the main hall to
the east wing gave him time to compose himself, and he showed no signs of hurry when he pushed open the door and strode into the room.
The firelight winked from polished brass, dark wood and cut crystal on the sideboard. Edward Latimer had availed himself of his whiskey, he saw. Latimer knew how to appreciate life’s little luxuries when they presented themselves. The man lowered the periodical he had been reading, revealing a stark white clerical collar above a suit of black.
“I told Parker we’d dine in here tonight. I hope you don’t mind, Montfort.”
Rhys Fitzgordon, Viscount Montfort. He winced as Latimer casually tossed his title at him. He should be used to it by now, but it was bitter nonetheless.
“No,” he said curtly. “With my mother and sisters in town, we should seize the opportunity to enjoy ourselves.” He poured himself a short portion of whiskey, then carried glass and decanter to a seat beside his friend. “What news?”
“I daresay you’ve heard that woman of Josiah’s is in the neighborhood?”
“I saw the house was occupied. I didn’t think she would come herself. After I made my offer, I expected only that someone would hurry out to Herefordshire to take stock and make an exorbitant counter offer. Her refusal is merely a ploy to get a higher price. She scarcely took time to think about it.”
“You should go and see her. I’m told she’s pleasant to look at.”
“That goes without saying, though God knows Joss wasn’t always choosy in his women. But I intend to stay out of this affair. If she realizes how personal it is, she’ll turn the screws even harder.”
“I was actually thinking that her seeing you would be to your advantage. A grass widow is always ripe for wooing, Montfort. You’re a little the worse for wear, but most ladies prefer experience. They like a strapping figure and a glowering air as long as the face behind it is pleasing and the purse is deep. And you’ve got the title now, to boot. What could be easier?”
“Don’t be obscene.”
“A woman once fallen, Montfort. The charms that won her this wealth could just as easily be her undoing again. Or would you not mix business with pleasure?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe you are a man of the cloth, Latimer. You think the worst of everyone.”
“Only a realist. My profession requires deep study of human frailty, and the good Lord knows I see enough of it in my meek parishioners. Sometimes I wish one would rise to the level of actual sin. It would be more challenging, professionally speaking.”
Latimer reached for the decanter sitting between them and poured himself a generous measure. Neither spoke, as Latimer studied his glass and Montfort stared into the fire.
Then, “I was thinking of paying a call myself tomorrow,” Latimer said.
“Whatever for? What would your staid parishioners think?”
“My parishioners will admire my courage in risking moral contamination to save a lost soul. The remainder of the county will once again have their worst suspicions confirmed about the Church of England and their plain preachers will have fresh meat for their sermons next Sunday. Everyone will be satisfied.”
Montfort frowned, and his friend continued.
“Besides which, a man with a suitable wife and a handsome income has a fair chance of becoming a bishop. She’d be far from suitable, but I’d be willing to give up the bishopric for the income. And perhaps could skip the ceremony. I’d make her sell you Oak Grove for a fair price.”
Latimer grinned as Montfort shifted uneasily in his chair. “The scandal would force me to go to Italy or some other warm locale, of course. And Josiah Carter’s papers—his manuscripts, diaries, letters—would secure me for life.”
“For God’s sake, Edward, be serious.”
“I am serious, Montfort. Think of the irony, should I become Josiah’s ‘authorized’ biographer! I want to meet this woman, win her trust.” His face grew dark. “I want her to let me see Josiah’s papers, Rhys. They may reveal something about Lucy’s whereabouts.”
Montfort put his glass down so hard droplets of whiskey splashed onto the tabletop. The use of his given name told him Edward Latimer was being serious now.
“Lucy! You think Joss knew where she went? Did he say something to you, Edward? Or are you letting yourself be fooled by his latest ridiculous plot? You know how he could take bits and pieces of truth and twist them into grotesque fantasies.”
“‘The Rector?’ Yes, Josiah was definitely mining the past again for his latest best-seller—a parson arrives at his new living in the company of his beautiful young ward—though Lucy was my half-sister. It had all the usual trappings of his productions. Mysterious hints, dark secrets, melodramatic balderdash. ‘Was she his daughter?’ ‘Was she his paramour?’ et cetera.”
“You should be grateful he died before he finished it. I may never live down ‘Lord Morden.’ Some people around here still look at me as though I murdered my wife. And the people who should know better are the worst. Thank God the tenants don’t read novels, too!”
“Their wives and daughters do, I can assure you, Montfort. A woman used to be content if her cottage was snug and her husband didn’t beat her. Now they complain if they don’t have fresh doilies for the tea tray and their men don’t surprise them with nosegays every other Tuesday. And the young ones! They all fancy themselves Lady Corisande waiting for their Lothair.”
“Lucy wasn’t like that.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
The arrival of Parker with their dinner interrupted the silence that intruded like a third, unwelcome presence in the room.
Montfort worked his way through the food mechanically, but Latimer ate his chops, roast potatoes and early asparagus with relish. Finished with that, he poured himself a glass of port and moved on to the warm apple tart with cream, then eyed Montfort’s portion.
“Going to let that go to waste?” he asked.
“By all means, Latimer. But if you don’t mind, I’ll make an early night of it. Stay if you wish. The cigars are in their usual place or Parker can get you anything else.”
“I’ll just finish this article I was reading. Pleasant dreams—and think about what I said, Montfort. Between us, we can both get what we want. If you are going to do nothing but send letters through your agent, I will strike while the iron is hot.”
“Suit yourself.”
“And Montfort?”
“Yes.” He could barely suppress his disgust.
“It is too bad you didn’t take Josiah to court over that book. It was a clear case of libel—unless you’re keeping something to yourself. When you won, he would have been forced to sell Oak Grove back to you. Now you won’t even have the satisfaction of thrashing him.”
“He was my friend, Edward. Our friend—yours and mine and Lucy’s. Let’s not forget those days.”
Despite the quality of Montfort’s port, Latimer did not linger. Less than an hour after Montfort had retired, he let himself out a side door into the park and started walking. The rectory was less than a half-mile from Oakley Court and he had made the journey countless times since accepting the living from Montfort’s father a decade ago. He knew the grounds as well as his own back garden and the gamekeepers were no longer startled to encounter him rambling the park at night. They nodded to one another, muttered knowingly about the effects of too much book learning and left him alone.
This night, the landscape was bathed in bright moonlight and he had to walk a distance just to escape the dark shadow the massive house cast across the terrace and formal gardens. He had no conscious destination in mind but soon found himself approaching the ancient ruins that once had been the seat of the Montfort clan.
Lucy. She had been gone such a long time now and her name was seldom spoken. She was just 18, and her sudden disappearance two years ago prompted gossip behind his back, he knew. But since everyone in his parish assumed she had run off—quite likely with Josiah Carter—they tiptoed around the subject when he was in the room. She was too pretty for her
own good, they whispered, and that’s what came of letting a girl run wild without a mother’s firm hand to guide her.
But how could he not indulge her after her mother died five years ago, he asked himself for the hundredth time. She was his darling and his pet, and he did his best to protect her from a predatory world. If only she had listened to him!
The tongues had started wagging again when Josiah returned from America a month ago. Lucy was not with him, and it was evident to even the most skeptical after a time that he was looking for her.
Latimer’s skin crawled every time he recalled that final confrontation before Josiah died. The man had been out of control, throwing wild accusations. He was fortunate they weren’t overheard.
“You were her guardian, Edward!” he had shouted again and again. “She trusted you above anyone and you used that against her!”
It was true he had done his utmost to steer her away from both Josiah and Rhys as she blossomed into womanhood. Was that so wrong? They were flesh and blood like any other men. He knew they wanted her carnally. What man wouldn’t? She was so temptingly ripe and with an unconscious come-hither look in her eye. Women were weak, and especially vulnerable at that age.
He wondered again how much Josiah had known about his last argument with Lucy.
Had Josiah truly loved her? Had Rhys? He thought not, since both had moved on to other women when Lucy was denied them—Josiah supposedly engaging himself in London and Rhys entering into his catastrophic marriage with that coal baron’s late, intemperate daughter.
He barked out a laugh, startling a deer in the undergrowth close by the ruins. It crashed through the woods and in a moment the night was silent again, leaving Latimer alone with his thoughts.
What a set they were—three highly eligible bachelors, the envy of their respective peers. Manly and well-formed gentlemen of station and accomplishment. Yet here was he with no one to mourn him when he passed on, Josiah with only a whore for an heir, and Montfort so soured on matrimony that a 400-year-old title was apt to lapse with him when he expired.