She hadn’t been able to resist watching him through her bedroom window, though, as he was about to get into his carriage and drive away. She had stayed well back, but she knew he had seen the movement of the curtain. He had stared up at the window, glaring, green eyes glittering like an angry cat.
The tears thickened in her eyes at the memory. He had climbed into his carriage and driven away. She had not seen him since.
“Dearest.” Diana’s voice was soft. “Should we return to the carriage now?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. I think it is for the best. I have had quite enough air for one day.”
They turned and walked back down the path. Charlotte resolutely stared over the water, not looking back.
She had made her choice, she told herself fiercely. The same choice that poor Aunt Eliza had been forced to make. It was for the best, she knew that. He would forget about her, if he hadn’t already. He was young and he was surrounded by so many beautiful and charming ladies. She still couldn’t believe she had ever caught his eye long enough for him to grow attached to her, and she was angry at herself for ever encouraging it. It had been cruel. She thought again of his anger that day and knew it should never have reached that point.
She had been weak, she thought. But she wasn’t weak anymore. She was growing stronger by the day, and more resolute. What did it matter if her own heart was so sore it felt bruised? She had done the right thing. She had been cruel to be kind, and that was all that mattered.
***
Sebastian opened the door to the parlour gingerly. His father and mother were already seated inside, sipping tea. They turned and stared at him as he approached them, their eyes carefully appraising him.
“Sit down, lad,” boomed his father, adjusting his collar. “Your mother insisted that we have this little talk, and the sooner it is over and done with, the sooner I can return to my study and the morning papers.”
“Peregrine,” said his mother sharply. “This is rather more important than when the hunting season is about to open.”
“That is debatable, Sarah,” he swiped, equally sharply. “But I do not want to argue with you, dear wife. At least, not this early in the morning.”
Sebastian stared at the duke and duchess. What on earth was this about?
He sat down, watching them glare at each other over their teacups. The duke looked impatient and kept pulling at his collar, which was obviously too tight. His powdered wig was slipping, as always, and his face was more florid than usual. Sebastian could see a new web of spider veins over his left cheek and his nose was positively glowing. Was his father quite well?
The duchess, in contrast, was impeccably groomed and coiffed. Today she was wearing a gown of white silk and lace with a matching mob cap, which contrasted with her greying red hair. She turned to him, placing her teacup on the table in front of them decisively.
“Shall we?” she said crisply, staring at her husband.
The duke sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Yes, we shall. I’ll be damned if I am going to sit here all day staring at you.” He turned to Sebastian. “Your mother has demanded that we put our foot down, Sebastian.”
He stared at his father, mystified. “Put your foot down about what, Father?”
“About your intransience,” burst out his mother, frowning. “It is dragging on too long, Sebastian. I have invited Miss Drake and her mother to the house frequently and to every social engagement I can think of, and still you will not court her.”
Sebastian stared at his mother coldly. “I was unaware that it was a requirement, madam.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “Of course it is a requirement, Sebastian. I have picked a suitable young lady because you will not, and she is perfect – well-bred, charming and beautiful.” She picked up her teacup. “Really, I think that you could do no better.”
“Miss Drake is quite a beauty,” huffed his father, pulling at his collar again. “Her father and I fought in the war together. Brilliant chap, old Hastings. You should hurry up and snag her before another man does, my boy.”
Sebastian stared at them both, not knowing what to say. This was the first time that his father had joined his mother in pressuring him into courtship and marriage.
“I’m not getting any younger, my boy,” continued his father slowly. “I’m not immortal. It might be sooner than you expect that the dukedom lands on your shoulders, and what then? A man of such title needs a duchess by his side, and he needs a son and an heir. An heir and a spare, preferably.” He thumped his fist onto the arm of the chair. “Children, Sebastian! A wife and children! You are dithering around the London scene like a dandy, and it will not do. You have had time enough to sow your wild oats. How old are you now, eight and twenty? Time to settle down now, my boy.”
Sebastian was shocked. “Are you unwell, Father? Is that what this is about?”
The duke grimaced. “The gout has me in its grip, and I’m not getting any younger.” He looked at his son. “Listen to us, son. You need to marry, and Miss Drake is as fine a lady as you will find. What’s not to like? Well-bred and a beauty. She will make you a good wife, and more importantly, she will be a fine duchess.”
“I don’t love her.” He stared at his parents. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
His father waved an impatient hand. “Twiddle-twaddle. What has love got to do with the serious business of marriage?” He stared at his son. “You disappoint me, Sebastian. I did not raise you to be a sentimental fool.”
Sebastian’s face reddened. “But I must spend my life with a woman I marry. How can I do that when I do not at least like her, even if love is not in the picture?”
The duke thumped his fist into the armchair again. “This is nonsense, and I am already bored of it.” He stood up, turning to his son. “Do as your mother says. Either you seriously start to court Miss Drake or some other suitable lady with an eye to a betrothal, or you will find your allowance will be diminished. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Father,” said Sebastian, through gritted teeth. “Perfectly.”
“Good, good.” The duke walked to the door and left the room.
“It is not so bad, is it?” said his mother, staring at him. “Miss Drake is lovely, and you will surely learn to love her, after your marriage.”
Sebastian stood up. “If there’s nothing else?”
The duchess waved a hand in dismissal, and he turned and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
For a moment he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The pressure had intensified. His father was insisting he marry and it looked as though he was well and truly caught this time. He would not be able to shake them off now. They were determined.
An image of Charlotte filled his head, so suddenly he gasped. His arms around her when they had waltzed at the assembly rooms. Shaking in his arms as she had stared up at him with her flashing dark eyes. He had never felt that way about a woman before and he didn’t think he ever would again. It was as though she had seared his soul, and he would never recover.
He took a deep breath. He had tried to forget her in the month since he had made the impromptu visit to Acton House and she had humiliated him. He had tried and he had thought he succeeded. So why was the image of her rearing up now, haunting him?
His parents were clear. He had to marry. Lady Charlotte didn’t want a bar of him. But Miss Drake did. His heart sank slowly. He had never wanted to marry for convenience, or out of duty, but it seemed that he must. And Miss Alicia Drake was as good as any young lady for that purpose. What did it matter who it was, if he couldn’t have the woman he truly wanted?
Firmly, he cast the image of Charlotte in his arms aside. It was gone. Banished forever. His father was right. He had been a sentimental fool, and all of that had to change.
Chapter 18
Martha wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she hurried along Piccadilly towards Acton House. It was an uncommonly chilly morning and a thick fog had
settled over the streets. She watched a cart lurching along the road, carrying firewood to all the fine houses. The driver cursed as a young boy in a threadbare jacket and ragged shoes ran across his path, shaking his fist at him. The boy grinned and kept running to the other side of the street.
Martha pursed her lips. She knew the boy and the family he came from. They were pickpockets and con men working the streets of London. She frowned at him as he scurried like a mouse past her, gripping her parcel tighter. She knew he would grab it given half the chance and do it so quickly she would barely notice. The boy tipped his hat to her in an insolent manner.
“Martha Hall,” he said quickly, staring at her. “You think you’re a bit better, don’t you, now that you’re a fine lady’s maid? All your airs and graces. I know where you came from.”
Martha raised her hand to strike him, but he ducked, laughing as he ran away.
“You’ll end up in the prison, John Evans,” she yelled after him. “Mark my words.”
But the boy was gone. He had melted into the fog, as if he had never existed. Martha gritted her teeth as she crossed the road. She couldn’t afford to get distracted by the urchin. She had clear instructions from her mistress – she had to go into the kitchen at Acton House and speak to the maids about Lady Charlotte Lumley. She had to find out any information she could. She had been excused from her chores for the morning for the purpose.
There it was. Martha approached the grand gates, walking inside and around to the back. The servants and tradesmen’s entrance. She knew one of the maids who worked here, which was a bonus. Sally Church was only a scullery maid, not a lady’s maid like her, but she would still know all the inner workings of the house. The fine gentlemen and ladies would be shocked to know how much the servants did know of their lives, thought Martha grimly. Not that they would care, of course. As long as the servants were discreet and didn’t tattle. But she knew Sally and her loose tongue and appetite for gossip, so she was hoping that wouldn’t be a problem.
She opened the kitchen door to a hive of activity. The cook, a buxom woman with spindly grey hair, barked orders to the other servants as she prepared the breakfast dishes. Martha slipped in almost unnoticed, staring around. A maid gazed at her as she brewed the tea, pouring hot water into a pot. “Are you after speaking to someone?”
Martha clutched the parcel tighter. “If you please, could I speak to Sally Church, just for a minute? I have a parcel sent on from her mother for her.”
The maid looked harassed, placing the kettle down. “I’ll get her for you, but only five minutes, mind? She has chores to do.” The woman rushed off. Martha stepped back, watching the kitchen staff scurry like ants. In less than a minute the woman returned with a thin, mousy-haired girl clutching a rag.
“Martha Hall,” said the girl, staring at her curiously. “You have a parcel from me mam?”
“I do,” said Martha. “Can we go somewhere quieter, Sally?”
Sally nodded, leading her into a smaller back room, filled with buckets and mops. Martha gave her the parcel. “A new shawl.”
Sally ripped it open, staring at it. “I don’t understand. I’m seeing Mam on Sunday on my day off. Why was it so urgent that you had to deliver this to me?”
Martha stared around quickly, then lowered her voice. “Twas an excuse, Sally.” She cleared her throat. “My mistress wants to know about one of your ladies.”
Sally stared at her. “Your mistress? Lady Hastings?”
Martha nodded. “Her, and her daughter, Miss Drake. Alicia.” The maid rolled her eyes. “They sent me here to find out anything I could about Lady Charlotte.”
Sally looked shocked. “What do you want to know about her? Mrs. Neville, the housekeeper, will box my ears if she finds out I’ve been talking about any of them.” She hesitated. “I don’t know, Martha. I don’t think I should.”
Martha glared at her. “Don’t forget I know a thing or two about you, Sally Church. Things that Mrs. Neville might sack you for if she ever got wind of them.” Her gaze softened. “Come on, I don’t want to do any of that, but I’ll be fired if I don’t report back. They’ve got a bee in their bonnet about your lady, for some reason.”
Sally hesitated. “She’s delicate,” she whispered, gazing anxiously over her shoulder. “She often stays in her bed, ailing.”
Martha nodded encouragingly. “Anything else? Do you have details?”
“They say she might die at a young age,” whispered Sally, her eyes wide. “She suffers from a sickness, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t think any of them know. It affects how she walks and moves, and she trembles so, and sometimes cannot even move two fingers on her left hand.”
Martha gasped. “Is it contagious? Can she pass the sickness on to other people?”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Her brother and sister are always in her company, as are her parents. They don’t look afraid or try to avoid her. But it’s kept a secret – neither Lady Charlotte or her family talk about it with anyone.” She looked over her shoulder again. “Is that all? Because I’ve already said too much, and I need to get back to my chores.”
Martha nodded. “That should do. It’s enough for now, at any rate.”
“Sally Church!”
They both jumped at the sharp voice at the narrow doorway. Martha turned to see a large older woman with greying black hair pulled back in a tight bun staring at them, hands on hips. The woman stared at her sharply, looking her up and down.
“Sorry, Dulcie,” said Sally quickly. “Martha was just bringing a parcel from me mam.”
Dulcie blinked rapidly. “On a Tuesday morning? Must be an urgent parcel if it can’t wait until you see her.” She kept staring at Martha. “And who are you? You look like a maid. Who do you work for?”
Martha pressed her lips together. She had to answer, and she couldn’t lie. “My name is Martha Hall. I work in the household of Lord and Lady Hastings. I’m lady’s maid to their daughter.”
“Really?” said Dulcie, her chest heaving. “Isn’t that interesting?” Her eyes narrowed. “Well, the gossiping is over. Sally has work to do, and I’m sure you do as well, back with your lady.”
Martha nodded quickly, then walked out, brushing past Dulcie. The older woman glared down at her, but Martha just smiled blandly. Within two minutes she was back on the street smiling triumphantly. Sally had come through with the goods. An ailing lady who didn’t want the world to know how sick she was.
The old bitch will be happy, she thought. So will Alicia. She didn’t know the reason why they wanted dirt on the lady in question, but knowing them, it probably had something to do with Lady Hastings’ grand plans for Alicia. Martha knew they were targeting the Marquis of Wharton, no less. He was the eldest son of the Duke of Richley, and Lady Hastings wanted her daughter to be the next duchess. Sometimes she almost felt sorry for Alicia. She was beautiful and accomplished, but she was in the palm of her mother’s hand, that was for sure.
***
Alicia stared at Martha, her blue eyes wide. The maid had returned from her errand quickly, and she could barely believe her ears. “Tell me again exactly what your friend said. When I go to Mama, I must have every detail correct.”
Martha nodded. “Sally said that the lady is sick,” she said slowly, repeating all that she had learnt. She lowered her voice. “They want to keep it a secret. No one outside the family knows of her condition. But Sally said they fear that she will die young.”
Alicia sighed. “You’ve done well, Martha. That will be all.”
The maid curtseyed, then scurried out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Alicia stared at it for a moment, then walked slowly to her bedroom window, looking out at the street below. She tapped her fingers against the window pane, thinking. It was time to tell Mama, and she should be feeling victorious. After all, this was why they had hatched their plan to send Martha to Acton House, to find out what – if anything – the Lady Charlotte was hidin
g. But somehow she felt a little hollow, and sad.
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