Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5)

by Brant, Lucinda

  “Sailors headed for their ships,” the woman stated, answering Lisa’s thoughtful frown when she sat back. “It will take a good three days before they see the harbor, and when they join their ships, they’ll be at sea for months.”

  “Thank you. I see then why they are enjoying their time while on land…”

  There was a long silence, but Lisa sensed the woman was still staring at her, as if trying to get her measure. She knew this was so when the woman asked, “If you don’t mind me making conversation, are you and your friend traveling all the way to Southampton?”

  “No. We alight at Alston.”

  “Alston? Now there’s a pretty village in a pretty part of Hampshire. Isn’t that so, husband,” she added in a loud voice, with little regard for her son or Becky, who were still asleep. If the husband had been dozing, he wasn’t now. “Alston—it’s a pretty village.”

  “Aye. Very pretty. The church with its set of bells is particularly worth a visit. And the town is not too distant from Treat, the Duke of Roxton’s seat. I think Paterson’s gives the exact mileage.”

  “Such a grand establishment as His Grace lives in must be in every guide book in the country,” the wife opined. “Now, had it been built in King Harry’s time, he’d have found an excuse to confiscate it for himself, make no mistake. He’d not have liked to be outshone by one of his nobles. Possibly would’ve locked up the Duke for treason.”

  “But not this present duke, wife. His Grace is a God-fearing family man, just like His Majesty. And he’s humble into the bargain, and has upon occasion stopped in at the Crown to take a pint. Is that not so, wife? King Harry would’ve had him for a friend, I’ll wager.”

  “I don’t disagree with you, husband. But King Harry would have been jealous to think the Duke had a grander house than he ever did. And he would’ve been envious that His Grace has sired eight children, and six of those healthy sons, too. Imagine!” said the wife, warming to her topic. “Though he cannot match His Majesty’s fifteen children. So our present king has nothing to be jealous of there. My grandmother was the proprietress of The Crown in Alston, after my grandfather passed on,” she confided in Lisa. “And then we took it on for a time, did we not, husband? And that is why he can say the Duke is a humble, God-fearing man for a noble, because he was the one who poured him that pint. Did you not, husband?” And then she said to Lisa with a superior smile, “Which is why we know so much about His Grace and about Alston, you see. Such a pretty town…”

  “Here, wife. I’ve marked it in Paterson’s. Let me read it to you,” the husband said, having dug in a pocket of his coat and pulled out Paterson’s British Itinerary. He leafed through the pages. “Treat is listed between the noble estates of Traine and Trebursey. And it’s shown on the map, too.” He then removed a folded piece of paper tucked in to hold a place at this particular page, and looked to his wife, and then said to Lisa, “But Paterson’s don’t give a good description of these fine noble establishments. Just where they are located. But this does, and so I kept it, thinking I’d like to take a tour of the grounds one day. For although we lived but a few miles from the estate, we never did make a visit. Did we, wife? We thought there’d be plenty of time for that… But then we had the boy, and he’s not always at his best—”

  “Sea air. That’s what the doctor said he needed,” interjected the wife. “One day he’ll be as right as rain.”

  “—so we moved to Southampton,” the husband said, finishing his sentence. “We own a boarding establishment on Canute Road—”

  “—which is in the fashionable part of town. It’s always booked out for weeks ahead. A proper respectable establishment it is. With breakfast and dinner served every day, and a special dinner on Sundays.”

  “We make a stop in Winchester on our way to and from Southampton to visit our daughter Sally, who’s married to a curate. Our other daughter, Molly, she’s our eldest, she and her husband Fred are in charge of our boarding establishment while we take the boy up to London to see what his physicians can do for him—”

  “But there’s no change in him. Which is a good sign. So says the physicians. He’s no worse and no better.”

  “When it’s warm enough, I take him in to the sea baths,” said the husband. “I don’t care too much for the salt water, but he loves it—”

  “—and the smell of the salt. He’d leave the window open all night, even on a cold winter’s day, if he had his way…”

  Lisa regarded the boy with a soft smile. He looked to be asleep, which didn’t surprise her, given their early start, but she wondered if he might be awake and listening, but preferred to stay snuggled up to his mother, who was warm and comforting, particularly when he was feeling poorly. The jolting of the carriage would not make him feel any better. The parents mistook her frown for one of concern for herself and were quick to reassure her.

  “The physician says you can’t catch what he’s got.”

  “Now, Mother. That ain’t strictly true. One of his doctors says you can catch it, and another says you can’t because it’s all in his head. Not that he imagines what he’s got, but that it’s his brain that’s to blame. To tell you a truth, I don’t think they know theirselves why he gets such headaches. But he does. And what I can tell you is that we’ve never caught it off him, nor has Sally and Molly or their families. And none of our guests have ever complained of fainting spells and the like. Not that he’s much around the guests…”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, does your son suffer with childhood megrims or are his symptoms more akin to those who are afflicted with the falling sickness…?”

  Mother and father looked at one another and then at Lisa. Their startled and wary looks begged the question as to how she, who was not much more than a girl, knew about such things.

  Lisa then felt compelled to tell them a little about Warner’s Dispensary, and about Dr. Warner, adding with a reassuring smile, “So you see, I am not at all concerned for my health, or my companion’s, either. And I would like very much to hear what that piece of paper has to say about the Duke of Roxton’s estate…”

  “Yes! Yes! The paper,” said the husband, taking his gaze from Lisa, whom he thought an extraordinarily confident young woman, and that it was a crying shame that such beauty was wasted tending to the sick poor. Still, if he’d been ill, he could think of nothing nicer than having this ministering angel tending to his woes. On that thought, he quickly cleared his throat and read aloud the description of the ancestral home of the dukes of Roxton:

  “Treat. Seat of the dukes of Roxton. Five miles southwest of the village of Alston in the county of Hampshire. A substantial mansion fashioned in the Palladian style by architect William Kent. Said to be the largest privately-owned home in England. Originally an Elizabethan manor house. Much altered by Henry, fourth Duke of Roxton, the ‘architect duke’, at the turn of the century, and completed in all its glory by Renard, fifth Duke of Roxton. The Grand Gallery has an excellent selection of paintings by well-known artists from Holbein to Kneller, and grand portraits of the family abound. Of particular note is the full-length portrait of the fifth duchess by the French artist Jean-Honore Fragonard. The library is on two levels and said to have no equal in the kingdom. A grand ballroom with three chandeliers, a gilded music room, and several state reception rooms are open to the public on particular days.

  “The grounds are much altered since Queen Anne’s time. Gardens, lake, and immediate surrounding parkland are the work of Capability Brown. Many follies in various fanciful architectural styles can be found throughout the extensive grounds, and those not locked up may be viewed by the public. There is an artificial lake of considerable magnitude that can be crossed at various sites by one of three stone bridges. Small islands abound, with the largest, Swan Island, once home to a hermit and said to be haunted by his ghost. Worthy of note is the magnificent family mausoleum, final resting place of the dukes of Roxton and various Hesham family relatives. It has a grand domed roof set with a gla
ss oculus, and is built on the highest point on the estate. A good vantage point for taking in the surrounding countryside, the mausoleum is a beacon to travelers, for it can be seen from many miles hence. The interior is dominated by a lifelike statue of the fifth duke. Not open to the public, except on foundation day. A small remuneration to the housekeeper for a tour of the public rooms within the house is expected. The grounds may be accessed when the family is not in residence by calling at the Gatehouse Lodge at the northern entrance. Crecy Hall, a restored Elizabethan manor, and its parkland, abuts the eastern shore of the lake, and was once part of the Roxton estate. It is presently the English residence of the Scots duke of Kinross, and is strictly off-limits all year round. No exceptions.”

  “Oh look!” exclaimed the wife before Lisa had time to thank or comment to the husband for reading out a most illuminating description of her destination. The wife then pointed to the window. Her husband and Lisa followed her extended finger. “There! There, between the trees. Do you see it?”

  And they did see it. A grand building with an equally grand portico held up by four fat columns. It stood proudly atop a hill of rolling lawn, much higher than the surrounding trees, so that it was easily visible from the road, and no doubt for miles around. The husband and wife enlightened Lisa about the mansion and its history as she kept her gaze out the window.

  “That’s Claremont—”

  “—built by a rich nabob. What was his name…?”

  “Clive. Lord Clive of India.”

  “Ah! That’s right! Made his riches out on the subcontinent and brought it back here and built that house.”

  “It’s said that from the top floor you can see as far back to London as St. Paul’s—”

  “All the way to St. Paul’s?”

  “All the way to St. Paul’s, wife. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Molly’s Fred’s uncle said it. You ask Fred when we return home if it isn’t so. But for all that, I don’t believe Clive’s mansion can be matched against that belonging to His Grace of Roxton.”

  Lisa turned away from the window with a smile, the house now disappearing from view behind a clump of forest as the stagecoach rounded a bend.

  “From the description you read me, I do not doubt you, sir. The Duke of Roxton’s seat is beyond anything I can imagine.”

  “If you have the time and opportunity, and the coin to pay the housekeeper, I am certain it would surely be well worth the journey. You wouldn’t regret it.”

  “Oh, I believe you, sir. And I will, and have no regrets.”

  THE JOURNEY between Claremont, which was on the outskirts of Esher, and the town of Guildford, the next scheduled stop, gave the stagecoach’s occupants plenty of hours to become better acquainted. Lisa and Becky shared their fruit, slices of orange cake and almond biscuits with the husband and wife, who formally introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, and their son Master Samuel. To this feast the Fullers added bread, cheese, chutney, and some fruit, too. And then Samuel and Becky played several hands of snap with playing cards the boy had purchased in London with his pocket money, while the couple dozed and Lisa admired the view, before she, too, fell asleep with the rocking of the carriage.

  When she woke, the stagecoach had pulled in at the White Hart Inn at Guildford, to change horses and to drop off and take up passengers traveling further south. All passengers alighted, to use the facilities, to sit down to a meal, and to take a stroll along the High Street to stretch their legs, before once again clambering aboard to take a seat on the roof, or for the Fullers and Lisa and Becky, to resume their seats in the relative comfort inside the coach.

  Yet, the companionable company the girls and the Fuller family had formed after many hours of travel together in such a confined space was disrupted when, upon climbing back inside the coach they found it occupied by a gentleman seated in a corner, the collar of his coat pulled up around his ears, and a felt hat pulled down over his eyes. His chin was on his chest and he looked to be asleep.

  The girls and the Fullers all looked at one another, Mrs. Fuller muttering what the others were thinking.

  “Oh dear. This is most unfortunate.”

  The Fullers all returned to their seats, and Lisa gave Becky the window, while she took the middle seat next to the sleeping gentleman. Not even the thumping above their heads, as the outside passengers scrambled up to find a space on the roof, disturbed the stranger in his corner. And then Lisa had a sudden thought, one that made her sick to the stomach and her heartbeat quicken.

  “My writing box! Becky! I left it on the seat. It’s—it’s not here!”

  “It must be, Miss,” Becky said. “No one would dare touch it.”

  Everyone except the stranger shifted about in search of the object in question. Though it was unlikely that anyone had sat on something that was clearly large enough to be avoided. And just as Lisa was feeling bereft and wondering how she would ever explain such a loss to the gift giver, the stranger sat up and produced from under his arm the cloth bag that had within it Lisa’s rosewood writing box.

  “Oh, thank you!” Lisa exclaimed, smiling at the gentleman and hugging the box to her bodice.

  He tugged at the front of his hat, and without a word went back to sleep. Yet this would have been impossible, for no sooner had he dropped his chin than there was a crescendo of noise outside in the yard that could not be ignored. Stable hands ran every which way, shouting out commands, many of the passengers on the roof of the coach moved about to get a better view, unsettling the delicate balance of the entire group, while the coachman needed all his strength and skill to keep a firm grip on the reins of his six horses, who were unsettled by the unexpectedness of the new arrival.

  A sleek, high-set carriage, pulled by four thoroughbreds and accompanied by six outriders in livery, entered the yard with the speed and arrogance of their arrival taking precedence over everyone and everything else. That the carriage swept up beside a stagecoach that was about to depart barely registered with the driver, the outriders, and the occupants of this conveyance. Everything about this latest arrival at the White Hart Inn proclaimed a master with wealth and social position, from the latest in carriage construction, with its light body set on springs to make for a more comfortable ride, the black-lacquered and gold-painted panels and embellishments, to the horses, which were magnificent matching grays in their brightly-polished brass tack, and the outriders resplendent in black and silver livery. Which was why the passengers of the stagecoach leaned forward to take a better look at the carriage, the horses, and most of all to discover who it was that traveled about the countryside in such state.

  The passengers on the roof of the stagecoach had a better view than those inside, for although the carriage was driven up between the coach and the inn, it came to a halt a little further along, leaving the Fuller family, Lisa and Becky, and the stranger who had sat up, to watch the outriders dismount outside their window and then stride off, and this while the stagecoach was slowly pulling away from the inn to the road leading south towards Winchester. There was no opportunity to see these new arrivals for they exited on the far side. Yet their shouts of laughter, as they stepped down onto solid ground, were heard across the yard but soon lost in the accompanying noise of the moving stagecoach.

  Everyone within the coach sat back, dissatisfied. But Lisa did not need to see these new arrivals to have a good idea who owned the carriage. She recognized the livery, and two of the outriders. They were the same two bear-like footmen who had accompanied the gentleman who had gifted her the magnificent writing box when he had visited Gerrard Street. She was not mistaken, and she began to wonder if indeed her wish would be fulfilled and they were indeed attending the same wedding. For why else would he and his servants be traveling this same road towards Alston? And had not Mrs. Warner recognized the coat of arms of his carnelian intaglio as that belonging to the Duke of Roxton? And so if he was a family member, it stood to reason he was indeed attending the wedding of her best friend Te
ddy. And as it was his friend who was getting “leg shackled”, then this friend had to be none other than Sir John Cavendish, Teddy’s intended. He said his name was Jack… She had met Teddy’s future husband. Lisa eyes opened wide with amazement and shock at this unlikely coincidence. She turned to stare out the opposite window, lest the Fullers think her staring at them.

  And just as she thought she could not be any more surprised, with the stagecoach now free of the inn and trundling along the road, the stranger removed his hat and tousled his hair so that it no longer remained plastered to his scalp. Lisa’s gaze shifted from the view to the stranger’s thick head of hair. It was a vibrant copper red, the same color as Teddy’s. She must have stared at him hard, for he turned and looked straight at her, and she felt another shock. His hair was not only the same color as Teddy’s but he had the same straight small nose, which was too feminine for a man as far as she was concerned, though it suited Teddy very well. Nevertheless her best friend shared her hair and nose with this gentleman, who looked to be in his mid to late thirties, if her reckoning was correct. He had to be in some way related to Teddy. She was so sure of this, and so astounded by it, that she just came out and asked him.

  “Excuse my forwardness, sir, but I must ask you: Are you on your way to attend the wedding of Miss Cavendish to Sir John Cavendish?”

  THIRTEEN

  THE STRANGER gave a start to be directly addressed. He darted a glance at the other occupants of the carriage, and saw that the couple had sat forward at the girl’s question.

  Lisa waited for his response. When he shrugged and pulled a face she realized he was about to deny all knowledge of the wedding and Miss Cavendish, even though she had seen his startled reaction to her question. He did this by pretending he did not understand a word of what she had said.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Je ne comprends pas l'anglais.”

  Lisa was more than ever convinced he knew exactly what she had asked. Besides when she had exclaimed at having lost her writing box he had quickly found it next to him on the seat. And when she had thanked him, he had tugged at his hat in reply. So he understood enough English to understand her question. Perhaps he was being cautious because he did not wish his private business discussed among strangers. After all, he did not know her, and he certainly did not know the Fullers. She was certain that even if the Fullers knew some French, they would not be as conversant as she, so she persisted with the stranger, and spoke to him in his own language. Reasoning that if she was truthful and open with him, he might just be the same with her.