My dearest Valerie, I beg you to come home. We must have you here. Our hearts are breaking. Come home and remain with us. Your loving papa.
Tears rained down her cheeks. They needed her desperately, and she must go to them. No matter what her relations with Malcolm, she must go to them.
And so she left the kindly home of the Fitzhughs the next morning, with all her possessions. She begged them to come and visit her at Arundel.
“For I could not bear to leave you, thinking I should never see you again,” she told Mrs Fitzhugh, Mr Fitzhugh, and the four children. “How dear you all are to me, and how kindly you have treated me.”
She kissed them all. Mr Kenyon added his thanks and the earl’s for their goodness to Valerie.
Mrs Fitzhugh begged her to write upon her return and assure them of her safe arrival. “And write to us about Malcolm, and how he does!” cried small Thomas, as the huge barouche pulled away.
The trip home was physically and emotionally exhausting. Mr Kenyon did all he could to make matters easy for Valerie, yet he also was weary, limping heavily, with grave lines of pain on his cheeks.
She was unutterably thankful to arrive home, as the great barouche rolled heavily up the last hill to the open gates of Arundel. The rain still poured down, the October day was short, and it had turned pitch dark before they came to the lighted doorway.
She went inside, to be greeted in the hallway by the earl himself, enveloping her in a bear hug of relief. “You have come, my dear, you have come!”
“Oh, dear Papa,” she said, overcome and bursting into tears again. She hugged him and kissed his cheeks, noted with pain the grief in his face and eyes. He seemed older by years.
“We dine alone,” he said presently. “My wife is prostrate, and Deidre has taken to her room, to weep alone.”
“Let us eat then in the sitting room, with Mr Kenyon to keep us company,” she said, trying to be more cheerful, wiping away her tears. “You cannot imagine how kind and good he was to me on the journey, whiling away the hours by telling me more of the family history.”
“You are a good soul, Louis, I cannot thank you enough.” The earl pressed his cousin’s shoulder. After Valerie had bathed her face and washed her hands, she went down to join them in the drawing room with the fire lit, and a cheerful table of food before it.
They talked a little. The earl told again and again of the sad last days in London. “If only he had not gone out. I told him not to, the doctor told him not to. But he would go out,” he said with a great sigh.
Louis Kenyon looked significantly at Valerie. She nodded: she would not reveal his outburst against Lady Deidre.
“I think you said he had been ill much of the summer,” she said. “And his chest was not strong.”
“No, he was never a strong lad, though he forced himself to many activities. He took after his mother, delicate and sensitive of nature. Now Malcolm, he is more like me. Strong as a horse and lively as a cricket.” The earl’s face brightened. “You have heard from him lately?”
“Four good letters. They are here in my small valise, I brought them down to show to you.” Valerie took them out, and on his eager invitation, she read him parts of the letters.
“Oh, that he would come home now,” said the earl. “I hope to have results from my letters soon. Louis, who else can be applied to? Shall we ask the new prime minister? What about Viscount Wellington himself?”
They discussed it seriously. Valerie persuaded them to wait until they heard from Malcolm.
The funeral of Eustace, Viscount Grenville, was held the next morning in the family chapel. He was then buried near to Valerie’s brother Clarence in the small graveyard, which had held the remains of Arundels for more than four hundred years.
The countess appeared, heavily veiled in black, leaning on her husband’s arm. Lady Deidre was in black also, but a dainty black chiffon, with a black velvet cloak over her. Her bonnet was a huge fashionable black bonnet with long black streamers.
Valerie stood with them, in a grey dress, with a dark cloak over it, her small grey bonnet newly hung with black ribbons. She looked her last at the peaceful face of Eustace and saw him put into the wet ground. Poor Eustace, how gentle and how good he had been. Too good, too gentle, she thought.
Across the grave, she lifted her gaze and glanced at Lady Deidre. Tears streamed down the pretty blonde’s face. The blue eyes lifted, and hate gleamed from the blue eyes towards Valerie. Hate, furious and hot. There was no mistaking it.
Hate, for me? thought Valerie over and over. Why hate? What have I done? But she shrank from the self-possessed girl, who hung about the skirts of the countess, and wept on the shoulder of the grief-stricken older woman.
She could not help feeling that Deidre was acting. If she was upset, it was because Eustace had died before their marriage. Now she was nothing; one could not be fiancée to a dead man.
How she must despise herself, how she must berate herself for the lost opportunity! Valerie thought she had the key to the puzzle. Lady Deidre hated her because Valerie had married in haste, and was safely one of the Arundels, no matter what happened to Malcolm. But Deidre had put off the wedding, until she had somewhat satisfied her love for gaiety. And now she had nothing.
Mr Kenyon said privately to Valerie, “And now the Lady Deidre must look about again for a husband. Her mother is furious with her! Risking her opportunities like this. They were engaged for three years. She might have married him, had a son of him, and the succession tied to her.”
Valerie nodded soberly. “I think she is very angry with herself.”
“By rights she should be,” said Mr Kenyon curtly. “She is a selfish piece and led Eustace a sorry chase. Oh, well, that is over and done with.”
But it was not. Deidre lingered on. She would return home to her parents for a time, then return, charming and desolate in black silk, black chiffon, black velvet, to weep over the countess and recount her grief all over again. Valerie thought she was more sorry for herself than for them.
Malcolm did not come home. He was deeply involved in the fighting. He wrote hastily, of his grief and surprise, begged Valerie to put flowers daily on the grave of Eustace for him. “However, I cannot quit now. They depend on my intelligence, I have some sources among the Portuguese peasants. We ride out often, they trust me. I cannot come home at this time. Beg my father to be patient with me. I long to come to him, but not until my duty is done.”
It was a sad Christmas and holiday time. Lady Deidre had returned to some friends in Scotland, and they were alone — thankfully, said Louis Kenyon with unusual spite. He would never forgive Lady Deidre, thought Valerie, for being the cause of the death of Eustace.
Valerie was pleased to have a gift from the earl that suited her immensely: a new edition in four volumes of the complete works of William Shakespeare.
“How beautiful, nothing could please me more!” she cried, turning over the thin beautiful linen pages with great delight. “I shall go over and over them, and search out lines for our garden.”
The earl smiled affectionately at her. “I hoped you would say that. I have set aside some plots for us to start a garden in the spring. Shall we not plan it? It would give us something to think about this winter.”
“And what is that?” asked the countess, brightening up a little at their pleasure. She was in drab black, her face white against the black veil. Her face had lined more heavily, her hair was a snowy white now. “My dear Valerie, what have you there?”
Valerie brought the book over to show her, the first volume of the series. “We are going to start a Shakespeare garden, mama,” she said with as much cheer as she could command. “You see, one finds the passages in Shakespeare which mention a flower or herb, then one can plant that in the garden.”
“What a charming thought, my dear,” She roused slightly from her gloom. “Have you opened my little present, my dear?”
“Yes, it was immensely good of you. But little? That is not
the right word!” Valerie tried to laugh, thinking of the immense box which the countess had presented to her.
On opening, the box had revealed a dozen silk dresses, in rose, blue, violet, lilac, and some with silver or gold gauze overskirts in the newest styles. Valerie was not in mourning dress, she disliked black as Malcolm did, and wore a black band on her sleeve only. The mourning for Eustace was in her heart, deeply, at the loss of a dear brother.
“I had great pleasure in ordering the gowns for you in London. If only you had joined us there,” sighed the countess, pleating her black skirt nervously in her thin fingers.
“We shall go another time,” said the earl. “When Malcolm returns —”
Christmas and the holidays over, Valerie turned once more to work. She had many projects she wanted to achieve. The mothers in the village were more dissatisfied than ever with the hard schoolmaster. She asked the earl to dismiss him, then she herself taught for some months until a new one was hired. They managed to find a keen, intellectual young man, just down from university, who understood the nature of children and enjoyed them.
From her experiences in teaching, Valerie decided to write an article about dealing with young minds, and teaching with love and concern, rather than with a rod.
The article was accepted by a magazine for young ladies, and the editor, a female of some years, wrote to her:
I have rarely read anything so well expressed. I can scarce believe it is by another female. I beg you to write again for us. Have you anything on the subject of the education of a girl of about sixteen? So many are frivolous and think only of marriage. They do not think ahead to the days when they will have children and must train them in the way they must go.
Delighted, Valerie wrote another article and sent it off. After receiving some suggestions for revisions, she made some changes and it was printed before the spring in the same magazine. The earl read it aloud to them all, with many a harrumph of pleasure.
“There, now, what a sensible girl you are, Valerie! I am proud of you! Such common sense and good thought in this! Do you not think she is a smart girl, Mother?” he asked the countess.
“I always did think so, my dear,” said the countess, smiling at Valerie. “Lady Deidre always said she was most intellectual. And so I think. I only wish she cared more for dancing and frivolities!”
Valerie bit her tongue and managed to say nothing. She spent more and more of her time with the earl; their minds were in tune with each other. She spent long hours in his library as he and Louis Kenyon worked. At her own table in the corner by the window, she would read and study, and finally write down her thoughts, and form them into articles.
It was the earl who suggested that she might write little moral stories of fiction for the magazines. “For indeed, I think you have more talent than a dozen of these females who write for them,” he said, indicating the pile of magazines she was reading. “Why not write something as for young Eliza Fitzhugh? A story that would delight her romantic heart, and at the same time teach a moral lesson?”
Mr Kenyon agreed heartily that she could do this. So with some trepidation and concern, she began to write stories also. She sent one out, had the pain of having it returned. But on sending it to another magazine, she was stunned to have it accepted and a payment of five pounds for it!
“Good heavens, they have paid you for it,” said the countess. “Dear me, how clever you are, Valerie!”
The rest of Valerie’s time was spent in the greenhouse and potting shed. She and the earl were seriously planning their Shakespeare garden. She was growing a number of herbs: thyme and balm, camomile and fennel, mints and saffron, and all she could find in the plays. The earl and she had many flower projects. Of course, his beloved roses would be prominent in the garden. Also they would have peonies and pinks, violets and carnations, columbine, daffodils, lavender and lilies.
She rode out often with the earl, learning to ride side-saddle, and also to drive his light carriage. She delighted in this, and they returned laughing, with cheeks glowing scarlet from the brisk air.
They visited Mrs Parker and received good advice on their garden. Valerie enjoyed these visits, for often in addition to talk of flowers, there was discussion of children and babies. One, two or more of the grandchildren were often with her, and Valerie could pick up one and hold the child in her arms. She loved doing this and gradually grew more confident of the care of children, absorbing the good woman’s suggestions on their care.
On returning home one day, the earl said, “You shall be most expert when you have a child of your own, Valerie! I am delighted with your interest. Your son shall one day be Viscount Grenville, you realize.”
She started violently and almost lost control of her gentle mare. She knew she had gone crimson, her face felt so hot. A child of her own! A son to be heir to the title! It had not struck her like this. She had worried about Malcolm, wondered what would happen when he returned home.
But the earl was thinking ahead with satisfaction to their children, his grandchildren!
She scarcely knew which way to look. But the earl was humming happily to himself an old song from his childhood, and was gazing into the distance, where his fields lay rich with black earth as the ploughmen dug deep. March, and then April, and they could set out their garden, he was thinking.
“Growing things, and young people, Valerie. They keep a man feeling young and strong,” he said happily. “One cannot look back to what might have been. One must look forward, to the future. When Malcolm returns, we shall make more plans. He must settle down now, he is the future Earl of Arundel. He must be more sensible. You shall help us, eh? He has paid little attention to the estate. However, you understand the needs here, and he shall learn. Yes, it shall all be well, it shall go brightly now.”
And she could not hurt him by saying she wished to leave. She sighed, stifling the sound, and urged the mare around a small clump of trees. They had been so good to her, they treated her like a daughter. Yet sometimes she felt rebellious and hurt, that Malcolm had married her because of a dice play.
Was this all that a woman was worth? A play at dice? A toss of the game? She longed for something more and scarcely knew what it was. To be valued for herself, her body and mind as one, not just for sexual desire, or because with her strength she could produce a strong young heir to the title and the estates.
She loved the earl more than her own father now. Yet the countess was still distant, enjoying the visits of Deidre, weeping with her again and again over the death of Eustace. Deidre was what the countess wanted in the way of a daughter. Someone frivolous as herself, longing for balls and dancing, parties and pleasure. A girl who loved to be dressed like a doll, admired, and flirted with.
Valerie could not endure a life like that, she thought. If Malcolm became like his father, she could live with that, but Malcolm thought only of fighting battles, racing, gambling. Without love, without mutual esteem, without mutual interests, how could their marriage endure?
CHAPTER 7
The fighting in Spain was fierce at times, they learned from the gazettes. A small skirmish here, then action there, and fresh English troops were sent out. The rumour was that the Emperor Napoleon had now turned his full attention to the Peninsula, and experienced French troops were increasing the forces there, some said up to 350,000 men.
Malcolm wrote more irregularly, and his writing was scrawled and scratched — like hen-tracks, sighed the countess. Valerie worked over the letters, figured them out, wrote out fair copies for the others to read.
Then the letters stopped altogether. At first, when two weeks went by without a letter, she was a little concerned. Then it was three weeks, then a month.
“I shall hear all at once, with a grand array of letters,” she reassured the earl and Louis Kenyon in May. But still no letters came.
She watched anxiously for the postman, secretly at first, then boldly standing in the hall, then in the front courtyard waiting for his horse t
o appear on the slopes of the hill below the castle.
“Sure, I’m sorry, nothing today from Viscount Grenville,” the village postman would apologize, handing her whatever he had: a bundle of gazettes, a letter from Mrs Fitzhugh.
May departed in sunshine, with carnations, columbine, and early roses appearing in their beautiful Shakespeare garden. They had fashioned a wheel, with a sundial in the centre, and all about it triangular plots of earth, each with its flowers, and borders of herbs and low fragrant bushes.
Digging in the earth, cutting carefully of the new bushes, bringing in proudly some of the young flowers, gave Valerie some satisfaction. Only by working hard out in the fresh air and sunshine could she become weary enough to sleep at night. Otherwise, she would lie awake worrying, her heart aching.
For herself as well as the earl, she knew. She worried about Malcolm, longed to hear from him. He must be ill, or wounded. Surely they must let her know soon. No word might be good. No news was good. Only the finality of death … But she turned abruptly from that thought, keeping up her spirits as well as those of Malcolm’s parents as well as she could.
Deidre came less, she had retired to a country home with her mother, where there was a promising squire, said Louis Kenyon. But he had not a title, nor as much money as the Arundel fortune she had lost. Still she wrote, and reminded the countess constantly how much she missed her and Eustace.
June came, and the roses bloomed in white, pink, rose, deep crimson, and beautiful yellow. The yellow tea roses were so lovely that Valerie was one morning cutting some for the table, choosing the finest opened flowers.
She was working in the Shakespeare garden at the side of the manor, some distance from the roadway. The sundial pointed to about ten o’clock, and she was thinking she would soon go to the road and watch for the postman.
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 8