by Louise Allen
‘Those who creep about spying should expect to see unpalatable sights, Antonia.’ He was damned if he was going to stumble though an explanation of how badly he had handled things.
‘You do not deny it, then?’ she demanded.
‘I am not going to justify myself to you, Antonia. If you are not prepared to take my word, then you are quite correct: we would not suit.’ He bowed stiffly, clapped his hat back on his sodden head and strode to where his horse sheltered miserably under the tree. He did not look back, she did not speak.
The heavy rainstorm of the night before had ruined all but the most sheltered roses in the Dower House gardens. Antonia lifted up the water-weighted branches to try and find some buds fit for cutting and grimaced in distaste as the pulpy petals clung to her hands.
The storm had cleared the air. The morning had dawned bright and fresh and a slight breeze was fast drying the gravel paths. Antonia had resolved to keep herself occupied, but her mind felt numb. Her thoughts flickered to the events of the day before, then flinched away as though she had touched a burn. She could not bear to think of Marcus and of what she had lost by spurning him. But if I had pretended I had seen nothing, accepted him despite it, I would have lost my self-respect.
At the sound of a horse in the lane beyond the high quick-thorn hedge she dropped the basket. ‘Marcus?’ she said out loud as the hoof beats slowed and the rider turned into the carriageway of the Dower House.
It was… Not Marcus. Antonia squinted against the bright sunlight, then the silhouetted rider became clearer. The man was shorter than Marcus, his hair a neatly-barbered brown and the horse he was riding obviously a hired hack. Jeremy Blake.
Antonia bent to right the basket and retrieve the scissors and the tumbled roses. By the time she was ready to face a visitor, she had composed herself and he had dismounted and was waiting politely for her to notice him, the reins looped over his arm.
‘Mr Blake, what a pleasure to see you again. I must thank you for your letter. We are looking forward greatly to meeting Sir Josiah and Lady Finch. May I offer you refreshment?’
The maid had heard them, she realised, as the front door opened. ‘Jane, please show Mr Blake where he can leave his horse and then bring some refreshment to the drawing-room.’
Antonia went in, put the basket of roses on the hall table and studied her reflection in the glass. How was it possible to feel so unhappy and yet for it not to show on her face? True, there were dark smudges under her lashes and she was paler than usual, but she looked quite composed in her fresh sprigged muslin, her hair tied back in a simple ribbon. Pride, she supposed.
She went in search of Donna and found her, as she had expected, sewing in the small parlour. ‘Mr Blake is here. I have told Jane to take refreshments to the drawing-room.’
Donna laid aside her work and patted her already immaculate hair into place. She approved of Mr Blake, Antonia knew. She often remarked on what a most well-mannered and well-bred young man he was. The unspoken sub-text to that was, Although not, of course, such a catch as the Duke would be…
They both did their best to make him welcome, Antonia because she was glad of the distraction and Donna, she suspected, because she thought he might make Marcus jealous.
He sat, flicking up the tails of what looked like a new riding coat, crossed his legs, took a sip of Canary from the glass at his side and smiled at them both. ‘I am charged with messages. Sir Josiah wishes me to say how obliged he is at the expedition with which you have instructed your man of business to proceed and Lady Finch asked me to present her compliments and to hope that you both will call upon her at Rye End Hall at your earliest convenience.’
They murmured their thanks and promises that they would, certainly, call very soon.
‘And in the carriage house, right at the back, I found a gig,’ he added. ‘Just a one-horse carriage, of course, but in very good condition and eminently suitable for a lady to drive in the country. The terms of the lease do not include any vehicles other than the farm carts, so, of course, I will send it round to you. I thought perhaps you had overlooked it.’
‘I had no idea it was there,’ Antonia said. ‘As you say, it will be just the thing.’ Then she recalled their circumstances. ‘But it would not be practical. We have no horses, and to purchase one simply for this purpose would be far too extravagant.’ Beside her Donna sighed, no doubt as disappointed as she was.
Then Mr Blake’s expression brightened. ‘l believe I may have a solution, ma’am, if you would not object to performing a favour for me. I shall be bringing up my riding and carriage horses from London, and Sir Josiah is most willing to stable them for me as I shall be here so much in future. However, I have one carriage horse for which I no longer have a use as I only drive a team these days. I am reluctant to sell him, for I have had him for many years and I confess a sentimental attachment. I would not want to risk selling him to some less caring home, yet I do not feel I can pension him out on Sir Josiah’s land. He is a gelding and most suitable for a ladies’ carriage. If you could give him pasturage, I would be delighted for you to have the full use of him.’
Mr Blake leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with his tactful solution. Antonia had a momentary fantasy of long summer afternoons driving along the lanes, perhaps finding picnic spots, places to sketch from. ‘How very generous and thoughtful,’ She began, then reality asserted itself. ‘But we have no groom.’
‘But,’ Donna interjected, ‘Did we not agree yesterday that we needed a man to help with the heavier work about the place? Jem is too young and Old Johnson too infirm for many tasks. There must be someone suitable and honest in the village looking for employment and many of the men will have some experience with horses.’
‘In that case, if you will permit me, ladies, I will speak to the estate manager and ask him to recommend a reliable man and send him over for your approval.’
When Jeremy Blake left Antonia waited for him at the front steps while he rode round from the yard. He reined in, doffed his hat and leant down when he realised she wished to speak to him.
‘Mr Blake.’ She held out her hand and he took it, keeping hold of it as he looked down at her. ‘l must thank you again for your kindness. We would be happy if you would call again. Please do not stand on ceremony.’
She smiled up at him, her hand feeling safe in his. He seemed so uncomplicated and honest and his admiration warmed her chilled heart. Not all men were schemers and nor did she have to look on every male acquaintance as anything but a friend, she told herself.
At that moment, another rider passed the gate, slowing almost to a standstill. Jeremy’s mount tossed its head at the presence of another horse and they turned to see who it was. Marcus, sitting tall and erect on his rakish hunter, regarded them coldly for a moment, every inch the Duke. Then he touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and cantered off.
‘His Grace appears out of humour again,’ Mr Blake remarked.
‘Indeed, yes,’ Antonia agreed with a small sigh then made herself smile and look unconcerned as Jeremy’s gaze sharpened.
‘Forgive me asking, but is he making you feel uncomfortable, Miss Dane? I am not suggesting any impropriety on his part, of course, but he might not realise how two ladies alone might feel. I could have a quiet word with my aunt, Lady Finch. Without daughters of her own, she would be charmed to take you under her wing, I know.’
‘Goodness, no. It is a very kind thought, but the Duke is perfectly the gentleman and I would not have Lady Finch believe otherwise for the world.’
He nodded and rode off leaving Antonia thoroughly unsettled. The sight of Marcus was enough to disturb her equilibrium without the fear that the neighbours might think that something was going on.
She drifted back into the house, wondering what Marcus had intended. Was he just passing or had he been intending to call and been deterred by the presence of the other man? Jeremy Blake’s concern unsettled her. She might be Miss Dane of Rye End Hall, Hertfordshire
, but she was still dowerless and unprotected – and doubtless she had been very naïve.
Marcus had proposed for her lands, expecting her to be a complaisant Society bride, willing to overlook his mistress, and no doubt his gambling and sporting entertainments, in return for a title, status and an establishment. Like any foolish village girl, she had expected love and fidelity.
Well, foolish she might be, but she was not willing to settle for less. Better to have discovered this now than to have married Marcus and faced humiliation and disillusion when she had no escape. She was an independent single woman now, she told herself and there was no shame in planning for a lifetime like that.
Resolve stiffened, Antonia went to find Donna and found her arranging the battered roses in a pewter jug in the small parlour, a frown on her face.
‘Was that the Duke I saw just now riding past?’ she asked bluntly.
‘It was.’ Antonia fiddled with a discarded stem, rolling it between her fingers, unwilling to discuss him.
‘Antonia, what is going on? I thought the man was coming to propose to you.’ Donna regarded her beadily. ‘Is he playing fast and loose with you? Because if he is…’
Antonia knew she had to stop Donna’s speculation. Her companion was more than capable of confronting Marcus and demanding to know what his intentions were.
‘He proposed to me and I have refused him,’ she announced flatly.
There was a moment’s shocked silence, then Donna repeated slowly, ‘You have refused him?’ She subsided into a chair, apparently too amazed to stay on her feet. The scissors dropped unheeded to the floor. ‘But why, Antonia? He is the most eligible man imaginable, and I was certain you were in love with him. When you came in from the terrace the other night, your happiness was almost palpable.’
Antonia swallowed down the lump in her throat at the thought of that happiness, of how, so painfully, she still loved Marcus. ‘I have discovered that his moral character is not such as I could tolerate in a husband. I must be able to respect the man I marry.’
As she had expected, this completely persuaded Donna. Moral instability was one thing she would never tolerate and one subject on which she would never question Antonia further.
Donna got to her feet and began to pace the room, her small frame a-quiver with indignation. ‘Well, my dear, it is indeed fortunate that you discovered how deceived we were in him. We will cut him, of course. He will not be welcome in this house again, that is for sure. It is a lesson, is it not, in how one may be taken in by a handsome face and an air of breeding?’
Despite her indignation Donna was employing her happy knack of finding a silver lining in even the blackest cloud. ‘And the arrival of Sir Josiah and Lady Finch could not be more providential, for we will not lack congenial company. And if Mr Blake is to be residing here then no doubt parties of younger people will frequently be present.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose – What is it Jem? You should always knock.’
‘Sorry, Miss, but come quick, Old Johnson’s having a seizure in the rhubarb patch!’
Chapter Sixteen
Antonia gathered up her skirts and ran after Jem as he scuttled out through the kitchen and into the back yard. The old gardener did indeed look terrible as he slumped on a log, his face ashen, his gnarled hands wringing the hem of his smock.
‘Johnson? Are you ill? Donna, could you fetch him some of the port wine?’
The old man struggled with his emotions and finally found his voice to utter a string of curses which caused Antonia to clap her hands over her ears. Seeing her reaction, he controlled himself with difficulty and growled, ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s more than flesh and blood can stand, that it be!’
Donna hastened up with a tumbler of wine which he swigged back in one gulp. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘God bless you, ma’am. Real gentry, you are, not like that bastard up at Brightshill.’
‘Johnson! Mind your language, please.’
Jem interrupted when Donna began to tut tut and Johnson to splutter again. ‘He’s had a shock, see, Miss. It’s his other three sons. They’ve been sent to Quarter Sessions by the Duke for fighting with his keepers. And they’ll be transported, sure as sure, to Botany Bay – and that’s miles away, Essex at least.’ Jem’s eyes were huge with the wonderful horror of it all.
‘And our Sim withering away in Hertford gaol these last three months,’ the old man moaned. ‘And all due to the Duke’s terrible hardness. Now he’s took all my boys. Starve, I will, and their wives and little ones along’a me.’
‘No one is going to starve,’ Antonia declared robustly, her mind trying to place the Johnson families amongst her tenants. ‘Are there many children?'
'Fifteen at the last count, ma’am,’ Johnson said gloomily. ‘And young Bethan in the family way, I’ll be bound, the bold young hussy.’
‘That’s one of his granddaughters,’ Jem supplied helpfully. ‘I expect the father’ll be Watkins up at the Big House.’
‘Well, he will just have to marry her,’ Antonia said firmly.
‘His wife’ll have something to say about that – he’s married already with six children,’ Jem said.
Antonia’s brain reeled. There were ways and means of keeping the families from starvation, but they needed their menfolk home as soon as possible. Really, she could not comprehend how Marcus could be so harsh, all for the sake of a few pheasants. Obviously the men were in the wrong to have gone on to his land, but she knew only too well how ready his keepers were to attack. Look at the way she had been manhandled. And he was employing a married seducer of innocent girls into the bargain.
‘Those brutes of keepers,’ she muttered. ‘l am sure your sons were only defending themselves. I shall speak to the Duke directly. Jem, help Johnson home and go by the kitchens with Miss Donaldson on your way, I am sure there is some food you can take for the children.’
Antonia swept inside on a tide of high dudgeon, calling her maid. No doubt the Johnson clan were among the more feckless of her tenants – there had to be a few in every village – but if they were kept in poverty, they were bound to be tempted into crime.
An hour later, attired in her best walking costume, parasol furled and gripped like a weapon, she marched up the steps to the front door at Brightshill and pulled the bell handle.
‘Miss Dane.’ Mead the butler bowed respectfully as he held the door for her. ‘How may I be of assistance? A warm day, is it not?’
‘Most clement.’ Antonia was feeling more than a little overheated after her furious walk to the house and she suspected that her hair was coming loose under the brim of her bonnet and that her face was flushed. ‘I wish to see the Duke.’ She was in no mood for polite chit-chat about the weather with the upper servants.
‘I will ascertain whether His Grace is at home, ma’am. Would you care to step into the white salon while you wait? I will send refreshments.’ He ushered her into a cool, high-ceilinged chamber and bowed himself out.
Antonia was not inclined to admire the charm of the room, a confection of white picked out in gold to match the ormolu that enhanced the delicate French furniture. During the hot walk up to Brightshill, she had decided angrily that not only could she do without the responsibility for three wives, fifteen children and an old man – not to speak of the unfortunate Bethan’s predicament – but that the Duke of Allington was entirely responsible for the entire sorry coil.
By the time he joined her, she was well beyond any awkwardness at meeting him again. He closed the door behind him, and walked slowly towards her, a look on his face that she could not interpret. Surely not tenderness?
‘Antonia,’ he began, then must have seen the stormy expression on her face, for he stopped, his brows drawing together into their familiar hard line.
‘Don’t you Antonia me,’ she snapped. ‘I have come to demand that you release my men immediately.’
‘Your men?’
‘Job, Boaz and Ezekiel Johnson, the men you
have had dragged off to prison, leaving their families to starve.’
Marcus stared at her in apparent incomprehension. Antonia stamped her foot in exasperation. ‘For goodness sake, it was only yesterday! Do you sentence so many men that you have forgotten them already?’
‘Please sit down, Antonia.’
Antonia glared, but she sank onto the sofa behind her, her legs suddenly weak with reaction. Marcus appeared about to speak again as he pulled up a chair opposite her, but he was forestalled by the entrance of a footman with lemonade and orgeat.
By the time the servant had left, Antonia felt calmer, but as she sipped the cooling drink her hand was still shaking.
‘Now, perhaps you can explain to me why it is a matter of concern to you that three violent rogues are about to receive their just desserts?’
Antonia met the hard eyes, remembering with a shiver the day she had been dragged before him as a poacher. ‘Just because they had a set-to with your keepers – who are all too ready to use violence themselves – does not make them violent criminals. These men have families to support. Why can you not relax your implacable opposition to a little local poaching? You do not need all those birds, and this is a time of such agricultural hardship.’
‘The law is the law, Antonia, and should be observed. You do no good with your meddling. I am sworn to uphold His Majesty’s peace – what would you have me do when it is broken?'
‘Meddling? Can you show no mercy? You may uphold the letter of the law, but there are moral laws as well and I hold you entirely responsible for Bethan Johnson’s predicament.’
‘And what might that be?’ he enquired, only the whiteness around his mouth betraying the mounting anger within him.
‘She is with child.’
‘I assure you, I am not the father. I have no recollection of the wench, and whatever your opinion of me, I can assure you I always ask their name first before seducing village virgins.’
