With a kick of his heels, James galloped out of the stables. Mostly, he reserved riding for hunting, preferring to travel greater distances by coach, but he had made this journey on horseback several times when he was younger, although never on his own. Today a coach would take too long; he could navigate his way out of London on four legs at a pace not possible using four wheels. He received a few choice words as he rattled past the slow-moving wagons, but he did not care. He had to get back to the hall. He doubted he would have been sent for if the situation was not dire, and if the worst were to happen, he wanted to see his father one more time. He had so much more to learn before he could consider himself ready to be the Earl of Crofton.
The weather was on his side and the horse ate up the miles. He changed at Enfield, surprised to find another horse waiting for him at the staging post, with instructions that the stallion was from the King’s stable and should be returned without harm. Someone, that could only be Adam or Marchent, had sent word ahead. He’d left the palace within an hour of receiving the message, and since he had hardly dallied it meant they had acted swiftly, and he could not be more thankful. He changed again at Hatfield, choosing to spend the money and have a fresh horse. The roads were filled with a steady stream of traffic, and the daylight and his speed didn’t leave room for concern about travelling through the forest.
The sight of Crofton Hall, her red-brick walls standing proudly in the Hertfordshire countryside, lightened his heart considerably. He loved the hall, remembered vividly the tears his mother had wiped away when his grandfather, William, had sent them away to France in the days after the Parliamentarians had declared victory. His father had not wanted to go, but grandfather had insisted, begging him to think of his children. William had joined them a few months later. He remembered, too, the joy he’d felt at seeing Crofton Hall again when they returned, even though she was not in the same pristine state they had left her. That joy had only been surpassed by one other moment: when David had said he returned James’s love.
James stamped down on the memories. He would have enough anguish ahead of him in the coming days. Ancient history had no place in his thoughts.
He didn’t bother diverting to the stable block but instead rode straight up the drive to the front entrance. Two male servants came running out of the hall. No doubt they hadn’t recognised him at first, but once he had dismounted their defensive stance softened, and while one took the horse, the other ran ahead to open the doors as he strode inside.
He shrugged off the cloak and jacket and handed both them and his hat to the servant. “Where is my father?”
“In his bedchamber, my lord. The physician is with him.”
His first thought was that at least he was not too late. “Inform Lady Crofton I am here.”
James raced up the stairs and across the long gallery. Moments later he stood outside his father’s room, breathing heavily, heart pounding as he didn’t know what would greet him on the other side of the door. He took a few seconds to calm himself, then raised his hand and knocked.
The door opened and he recognised one of the maids, who was clearly taken aback by his appearance. He must have looked a mess. Still dressed in his riding clothes and wigless, he was a far cry from his usual impeccable self. “Oh, it is you, my lord.”
She stepped back and James entered. The air was stale, fetid with the stench of illness, and he swallowed past the bile that tried to climb into his throat. Despite the mild temperature outside the fire was lit and curtains drawn across the windows, the room illuminated with candles, so it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to low light.
Propped up on pillows was his father, pale and weak, sweating profusely but at the same time shivering. James had never seen him in such a state, and he was not prepared to see him now. By his bed stood the physician, a man he did not recognise, collecting blood in vials.
“James,” croaked Stephen. He held out his hand, beckoning James closer.
“Father, I came as fast as I could.”
“It is a blessing to see you. Your mother will be happy you are here, and I have been told your brother is on his way from Cambridge.”
James took his father’s hand; he was cold to the touch and clammy. It hurt to see a man who was usually so full of life look so frail. “You need to rest if you are to recover.”
“I fear there may be no recovery for me. I have made my peace with the Lord.”
“Please do not say so, Father. You have many years ahead of you yet.”
His father squeezed his hand and turned to the physician. “Please leave us, Dr Toling.”
“Please try not to exert yourself, my lord.” The physician gathered his vials and left the room.
Once they were alone, Stephen tried to sit up, but James moved to stop him. “You heard Dr Toling. Lie still. Even now you are stubborn. I see why Mother insists it is from you I developed the trait.”
“Your mother is a wise woman. I always wondered what caused her slip in judgement when she agreed to marry me.” Stephen laughed at his own words. “But you listen to me, James. I know you think you are not ready, but you are fine young man. Believe me when I say you will be an even better earl.”
James did not want to hear the words and face what he silently feared was inevitable. “It is not fair. You have not been earl five years yet. The family needs your guidance, not mine.”
Stephen squeezed his hand. “Shush. I have seen you, James. You can negotiate as well as I can. It was you who helped rebuild the City of London after the fire, not me. You may have acted in my name, but I was too busy here to achieve what you did.”
“Please, Father, do not speak as if you are already dead.”
Stephen winced but continued. “There are things you need to hear. Your nature and compassion means you will not turn a blind eye and that, my boy, is the makings of a good man.”
“I need more time.” With you, he added in his head. “I know only the basics about the estate.”
“Time is an illusion. You will do what is needed, of that I am sure. All that you have done in London will benefit the estate, and being there means you have many people to call on as friends.” His father’s proud smile made James’s eyes well up, but he did not wish to cry. “You have had your fun at court; I expected no less of a young man. But you have not made enemies. On the contrary, even King Charles has recognised you for what you are—a capable man.”
The door flung open and James turned to give the intruder a piece of his mind, but the sight of his grief-stricken younger brother, Francis, made him hold his tongue. Francis was not yet twenty, so there were six years between them, and Francis didn’t seem to have any interest in attending court or having fun. If it wasn’t for how similar they looked, some would never have said they were brothers. Despite the differences, he adored his brother, and he vowed he would do anything he could to make their father’s inevitable passing bearable.
Francis was at the bedside in a heartbeat. Stephen appeared happy to see his children, but James thought that them being there could only tire him further.
“My two boys. It does me good to see you.”
“Father, Mother said you were very sick,” Francis said, and James wondered if their mother had waylaid Francis to give James time to talk his father.
James bit his tongue to stop himself from chiding Francis for stating the obvious.
“I have had better days,” said Stephen. “But I am glad you are both here. You must promise me you will look after your mother and each other.”
“We will, of course,” James said, and Francis nodded. “But only as your second, because you will be well again before you know it.”
A soft cough behind them alerted them to the physician’s presence. “His lordship needs his rest. And her ladyship said she will be up shortly to sit with him for a while.”
Stephen grabbed James’s sleeve as he tried to leave. “I need to give you something.”
James shook his head as his fath
er slid the ruby ring from his finger and held it out to him. “I can’t.”
“Please, James, take the earl’s ring. I will sleep better knowing you have it and it is safe.”
James choked back a sob, but he took the ring and slid it onto the little finger of his right hand. “I will take it merely for safe keeping. Once you are well you shall have it straight back.”
Stephen tried to smile, but he barely managed to quirk his lips. “Of course.”
James pressed his lips to back of his father’s hand and gently shooed Francis out. The physician followed. “Can you tell me what ails my father?” asked James.
“If we could talk away from his lordship’s door, it will be less likely to disturb him.”
“Very well.”
James opened the door opposite, into one of the hall’s many guest rooms. “In here.”
James closed the door behind Francis and the physician. “I do not know you,” said James curtly. “But I assume my mother does. She would not trust the Earl of Crofton’s care to a quack.”
The physician bristled noticeably. “I am Dr Jeremiah Toling, a member of the Royal Society and physician to His Majesty. I assure you, I am no quack.”
James did not back down. On closer inspection, he vaguely recognised Toling from the comings and goings at court. “I am glad to hear it. Thank you for attending my father and now, if you would be so kind, enlighten me on his condition.”
“His lordship fell ill a few days ago with extreme nausea and vomiting. Your local physician tried his best, but, after speaking to her ladyship, I was sent for and duly came. I am afraid he is very weak. Despite the treatment with a preparation of willow bark, and bloodletting to help rebalance his humours, I fear his condition will only worsen.”
James did not want to know what had not worked, only what might be successful, yet neither did he wish the doctor to give him false hope. “Do you know what has caused it?”
“I believe it is bladder stones. I advised to send for my colleague, Thomas Hollier, a skilled surgeon, but your father refused. There’s little more I can do now but make him comfortable.”
The diagnosis was not what James wanted to hear, but he knew in his heart the doctor was right, and it was better to hear the truth. His father had very little time for medical men, and he was not surprised he had refused a surgeon. Not just because of the four children his parents had lost, he’d heard his father say the so-called medical sciences could not save anyone when the Lord called.
“I understand.”
“I will return to his lordship. I have asked a maid for new linens.”
Toling excused himself, and James was left alone with Francis.
“Despite the circumstances, it is good to see you,” James said. Francis looked close to tears, but then he supposed so did he. “Let us find Mother. We should eat something, I should change into something more presentable, and we can agree the vigil to sit at Father’s bedside.”
“She was in her sitting room when I arrived. I doubt she will have moved far, unless she has already gone to sit with Father.”
They found her where Francis had said. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her without her face painted, or so drawn and lost. “Mother?”
James went to kneel at Anna Redbourn’s side.
“Ah, James, I am so relieved you are here.” She ran her hand across his short hair and cupped his cheek, but he saw her gaze flick to the ring on his finger, and she sobbed, tears rolling freely.
She had been devoted to his father, and he to her. Unlike so many wives and husbands he saw at court, they appeared to share a deep affection, and while he was not naïve enough to think they had married for reasons not political, he had never doubted their mutual devotion.
She dried her eyes and composed herself. “I do not wish him to be alone.” The when he dies was left unsaid.
“We will all sit with him. Why don’t you go and take your sewing while there is still some light to work by? Francis will come later, and I will take the midnight hours. It is not as if I am unused to late nights.”
Anna got to her feet and so did James. She tottered slightly but steadied herself, her pride not letting her wish to seem weak in front of her children. Anna pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are a good son. You have made us very proud, and I know you will continue to do so—whatever happens.”
James couldn’t answer her; instead, he turned to Francis. “Escort Mother upstairs.” He did not wish her to lose her footing on the stairs—then they would have to bury both parents—and even if it were for just a few minutes, he would relish a moment alone.
Chapter 7
James had managed to eat a light meal, if only by telling himself he would be no use to his family if he were to fall ill too. The brief nap, although barely an hour, helped and, again, he knew he needed to get some sleep if he was to spend the night at his father’s side after his draining journey. Slightly rested, James changed into clean clothes and was relieved his wig hadn’t suffered too greatly from being in the sack as he rode. While he had spare clothes at the hall, his wigs were all in London. He found himself missing Remembrance’s presence and realised he’d forgotten to send word to Marchent. He wrote a short message to his friend, assuring him he had arrived safely and asking him the great favour of sending Remembrance to Crofton Hall, along with various items he’d prefer to have with him. Part of him wanted to get back to London as soon as possible, but in reality, that would not happen. He would stay until his father had recovered, providing the support he could not give if he was in London. It would give him the chance to ask questions, accumulate the knowledge he would need in the future, once he was the earl.
Most of the hall had retired to bed. A few servants were available, if needed, but the household was not one for late hours. Even when there was a specific event, his father had not been the type to linger into the early morning, preferring his bed to playing cards or dancing. Back in London at this time, James might have been leaving the palace, or one of the fine establishments where a gentleman could drink and gamble for as long as he had the means to pay, so for James, it was not the hour that left him apprehensive as he let himself into his father’s chamber.
He smiled sadly when he saw Francis slumped forwards in his chair asleep, leaning his arm on the bed. Their father, also asleep, was still propped up on pillows and looked as if death would be a mercy.
As quietly as he could manage, James shook Francis awake. Francis blinked owlishly and sat back rubbing his eyes.
“You go to bed,” James whispered. “I will sit with Father.”
“His sleep has been quite fitful, but he finally succumbed after a dose of laudanum. The doctor said he can take it every three hours if he can’t bear the pain.”
James spotted the vial of tincture on the nightstand. “I will ensure he takes it if needed.”
He ushered Francis out of the room, taking his place at the side of the bed. He’d brought some papers with him to read, although the poor light and his own distraction made it unlikely he would get anything useful done. His father moaned quietly. From the pained sound, James didn’t think his sleep would be too restful. He was proven right when a few minutes later Stephen opened his eyes. “James?” came the croak.
“Yes, Father, it is I. Do not tire yourself further. Go back to sleep.”
“I am glad you are here. There are things I must discuss with you.”
“They can wait until morning.” James stood and tried to stop his father from sitting up. “You need your rest.”
“Waiting is not an option. I must talk to you now—while I still can.”
“There will be plenty of time.” The words sounded hollow to his own ears.
“I do not think so, my boy. At the moment, the pain is not so great and I am lucid, but I will need more of the tincture soon and it will rob me of my senses. Now, you must listen to me.”
James would not waste words with further argument; he feared the worst and
did as his father asked. “I am listening.”
“My illness has struck me down at a most inconvenient time.” Stephen spoke slowly, as if each word was a battle to get out. James surmised the pain was worsening. “I am not a man to act without proof, nor will I cast unwarranted aspersions, but for the last few months I have noticed things were not quite right with estate numbers when I was reviewing them. Nothing so obvious I could point to something specific, but I fear members of this household are not as honest as they should be.”
His father had always had an eye for fine detail, much more than James, and James knew if his father had noticed something it should not be dismissed out of hand. He would not challenge him on his concerns.
“When did you first suspect?”
“I review the estate accounts quarterly, and noticed that in we were spending more, but with the merriment of Christmas and the new year I thought little of it. However, twice more I have seen an unexplained rise in outgoings and so I have investigated. You will see all in the private diary in my desk.”
“Is it a considerable sum?”
“I have not yet the exact figure, maybe a hundred pounds. Not enough that we should worry the coffers will run dry, but no amount of stealing should be overlooked, especially one so meticulously planned, and it should not be tolerated. This is not a poor soul taking a few eggs to feed his family, this is an organised attempt to leech money from the Redbourn family.”
A hundred pounds was a large amount of money to most, outstripping any wage even the highest-paid servant would receive. His father’s indignance bled through his words, what little strength he had fuelling his anger. James knew this was not about the money but the breach of trust. Servants at Crofton Hall were not mistreated. They were paid well for their toil and many of them lived in the servants’ quarters or in tithe cottages on the estate. They were gifted extra food and alms on major holidays and his mother had helped more than one young maid who had gotten themselves into trouble.
James, Earl of Crofton Page 6
