“Are you truly happy without those things?”
“Indeed I am. It is very fortunate that there were no children, for just think how lonely I should be now, trapped in that great house with no one but a small child or two for company. No, I am better by far here. And I have you, my love, so how could I not be happy? I am so glad you agreed to dine with me tonight, for two hours over the card table, sharing you with the Beasleys and a dozen others, is not adequate to sustain me through so long a separation.”
“I trust Chambers has devised something very special for us,” he said.
“You may be assured of it.”
Over the first course, the conversation turned to the unfortunate Miss Labett.
“It is still hard to believe that Lord Saxby — a baron, no less — murdered that poor woman in cold blood,” Louisa said. “Do you believe it? He was a friend of yours, after all.”
“Not a friend,” Laurence said cautiously. “Never that, but naturally we had many years of acquaintance… of parish meetings and the like, as well as socially, although we had little in common. He was a sportsman through and through — riding to hounds, shooting, driving that curricle as fast as he could. Did you know that he paid personally to maintain that straight stretch of road to Astley Cloverstone, purely so that he could stretch the legs of those horses of his? It was no great surprise that he met his end there, although it could just as easily have been jumping his hunter. He never did anything in moderation. Whereas I am perfectly happy with a bit of rough shooting, just me and the dogs, or spending all day at the river to put some fish on the table. He had a temper, too, when roused. But murder… it is hard to imagine. The need must have been desperate.”
“He does not sound like the sort of man who would be cornered by a governess,” Louisa said. “How would he even meet her? She would hardly have been in society.”
“She only had Ursula in the schoolroom then, but she used to chaperon all three of the girls around the village, and sometimes to evening engagements when Mama had one of her turns.”
“Ah, of course, and no doubt she threw herself at his head. She does not exactly sound like a demure miss. Yet she must have known that he would never marry her, so it was a foolish risk, unless she intended to blackmail him all along.”
“You think she planned it?” Laurence said, startled. “An ambitious woman who miscalculated, perhaps, but—”
“There was no miscalculation,” Louisa said. “Now that I consider it carefully, I am certain of it. Lord Saxby’s marriage was under discussion for a long time, and he was determined to succeed. Miss Labett intentionally entrapped him, knowing that he would never marry her. Then, just before his betrothal was made official, with all the arrangements made, she told him that she carried his child. No doubt she threatened to reveal her condition to his betrothed’s rather starchy family unless he paid her a large sum of money.”
“He would not have liked to be out-manoeuvred in that way,” Laurence mused. “That would definitely have angered him. Nor would he have wanted to pay her off, for very likely she would not have been satisfied with a single payment, but would have returned again and again to drink from the same well. There would have been no end to it. And so he told her he would take care of her, arranged for her to bring all her things to the Dower House, where he murdered her. Poor woman! What she did was very wrong, but she did not deserve such a fate. And now I wonder if the same thing may have happened to Dilys Hughes. She was a housemaid at the Hall, remember, so she could have been another of Lord Saxby’s victims.”
“Except that she took the stage to Shrewsbury,” Louisa said, reaching for another helping of the artichokes. “Whatever became of her, she did not die at Lord Saxby’s hand.”
After dinner, they strolled along the road to the Beasleys’ house, waving to Mrs Cokely as they passed the cottage.
“She is still at her post,” Louisa said. “I daresay our passing is noted in her book. ‘Mr Gage and Mrs Middlehope, hand in hand, at fourteen minutes before eight.’ Poor woman.”
“She was used to be so clever, too,” Laurence said. “Cokely was a well-meaning man but dreadfully shatter-brained, and Mrs Cokely and Lucy ran the parish between them. I hate to see them so sadly reduced.”
“Miss Cokely is an excellent milliner, and I plan to buy a great many bonnets from her,” Louisa said firmly.
It was after eleven o’clock before they left the Beasleys’ card party, a fine, clear moon guiding their steps and rendering Laurence’s lantern unnecessary.
“Will you come in for a Cognac?” Louisa said with her warm smile, as they walked up the Dower House drive.
He could not resist, of course. William opened the door for them, unsurprised to see Laurence follow Louisa into the study.
“You may lock up downstairs and go to bed, William,” Louisa said. “I will bolt the front door. And tell Marie I shall not need her again tonight. There is no point in her waiting up for hours.”
Laurence poured the Cognac, while Louisa lit more candles.
“There, that is better,” she said, settling on the floor, her back against the chaise longue. “So what will you do with yourself while I am gone?”
He sat beside her, wrapping one arm around her, and she snuggled against him in a way that warmed him to his core. Oh the bliss of loving, and being loved in return!
“Tomorrow I am to spend the evening at Exton’s.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “The mysterious Mr Exton. Do tell me what is wrong with him that he hides away in his house all the time.”
“There is nothing at all wrong with him, except grief for his dead wife that makes him unequal to company. And guilt, perhaps, since his wife died in childbirth, just as Catherine did. He knows I understand that, so he has made me something of a friend. His only friend, in truth. He is a very sad man.”
“Ah, the sting of guilt,” Louisa said. “Yet a husband can hardly be blamed if his wife dies in that dreadful manner.”
“The rational mind agrees with you, but a man’s heart is not rational, my dear, not on such a subject. He has caused his wife’s condition and therefore must carry his share of the blame. So his conscience whispers. It is an almost intolerable pain, and keeps a man only half alive until he is so fortunate as to find a reason to return to the living world. I had the children, and now you, my precious Louisa, but Exton has not yet emerged from his darkness.”
“Then I sincerely pity him, and hope that your company will alleviate his despair for a few hours. Guilt is a dreadful companion. Do you know, I think it was guilt which led to my supine behaviour with Ned. Because I could not give him the son he needed, I felt unable to do as I wished, even though he urged me to be free.”
Laurence smiled and kissed her gently. “Guilt kept you at Roseacre after he died, as well. Why else stay so long, when Pamela irked you so? You could have left at any time. And I was guilty about taking Catherine from my brother, when he wanted her so badly. I had never denied him anything before, and I felt dreadful about it. But guilt is a great deceiver, my love. It distorts everything it touches, so that the eye can no longer see clearly, nor the mind accept reason. I hope we can both set it behind us at last.”
She snuggled into his arms with a contented sigh. “My marriage was not terrible, and I was never unhappy, but it was not all it could have been.”
“It was so for me too,” he said. “We will do better this time.”
“We will, but Laurence, you must promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You must always tell me what is in your heart. There must be no secrets between us, no unspoken wishes, no feelings kept tightly wrapped. Every hope, every fear must be brought into the daylight to be shared and driven away like mist, instead of hanging over us like a heavy blanket, snuffing out all joy. Promise me!”
“I swear it, and let me begin at once by telling you that I love and adore you, but I also see you for the warm, living woman that you are, and not as a
goddess come to earth. Regretfully I have no pedestal for you to stand upon, my precious one.”
She chuckled, her face alight with mischief. “Thank goodness for that! It must be so tiring, being perfect. I have never put anyone on a pedestal, since I am by far too cynical, but I shall do my very best to see the good in people as well as the bad. Even in Pamela,” she added, although the pained expression on her face made Laurence smile. She went on, “But in you, dearest Laurence, there was never any bad to see.”
“Ah, my many charms, which you may describe at length.”
His arm was so wrapped around her that he felt as well as heard her ripple of laughter. “Idiotic man! But that is one of your greatest charms, it is true, that you are so much fun. I suppose that must be why I love you so much.”
He squeezed her tight and buried his face in her hair. But then she lifted her face to his, and for a long time there was no talking, only sweet kisses and the glow of happiness inside him.
Eventually, he sighed. “It is gone midnight. Time for me to leave you to sleep. You have a long day ahead of you.”
They both got to their feet, but for a while they simply stood, hands clasped. He gazed at her face, memorising every soft curve, every tiny imperfection, to carry him through the two week separation.
“I shall miss you,” she said simply, giving him one last kiss. “Now off you go.”
“Do you know, I have forgotten my key,” he said, patting his pockets. “I shall have to knock on my own front door, probably rousing half the house before the boy wakes up. How stupid of me.”
She giggled. “You could always climb a drainpipe to an upper window.”
“What, at my advanced years? I dare not risk it.”
“Then you will just have to sleep here tonight,” she said softly.
He froze, torn between terror and longing, then cast a glance at the chaise longue. “There?”
“It looks very uncomfortable.”
“The guest room?”
“The bed is not made up. There is only one bed available, but there is room for both of us and I shall do my best not to snore.”
“Louisa…” he said huskily.
“It is Friday, after all,” she said, smiling innocently at him. “It is past midnight, so it is now Friday. Do you not remember? On Mondays and Thursdays, we are friends, but on Tuesdays and Fridays we are lovers. We began the evening as friends, but now we are lovers… if we wish to be.”
“Do you wish to be?” His voice sounded odd to his ears.
“I wish us to begin our lives together as we mean to go on, as both friends and lovers,” she said, holding out her hand to him.
“That sounds wonderful.”
He took her hand, and together they blew out the candles and went upstairs.
THE END
The next book in the series is Stranger at the Grove, when Laurence’s estranged brother is forced by the terms of a will to return to the family fold. Malcolm is not happy about it, but there are intriguing compensations, like pretty French lady’s maid Marie Fournier whom he quickly realises she is not what she seems. You can find out more at my website.
Thanks for reading!
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Family trees: Hi-res versions available here.
Maps: Hi-res versions available here.
A note on historical accuracy: I have endeavoured to stay true to the spirit of Regency times, and have avoided taking too many liberties or imposing modern sensibilities on my characters. The book is not one of historical record, but I’ve tried to make it reasonably accurate. However, I’m not perfect! If you spot a historical error, I’d very much appreciate knowing about it so that I can correct it and learn from it. Thank you!
Isn’t that what’s-his-name? Regular readers will know that characters from previous books occasionally pop up. Lawyer Mr Willerton-Forbes, his flamboyant sidekick Captain Edgerton and the discreet Mr Neate have been helping my characters solve murders and other puzzles ever since Lord Augustus. Michael Chandry, now a crime-solving partner to Captain Edgerton and his pals, was first seen helping after the shipwreck in The Clerk and more recently in The Duke.
About the Strangers series: There’s a famous saying attributed to John Gardner that authors like to quote: that there are only two plots - a stranger arrives in town, or a person goes on a journey. Most of my books have been based on the latter, in its loosest sense (sometimes a journey of discovery, rather than a literal journey, but a major change, of death or misfortune or even good fortune which propels the main character in a new direction). So I wondered what the other side of the coin would look like - a stranger arriving in town. And there was my series title - Strangers.
Book 0: Stranger at the Parsonage: a new parson arrives at the village of Great Maeswood, and tragedy strikes the baron’s family. (a novella, free to mailing list subscribers).
Book 1: Stranger at the Dower House: a widow moves into the long disused Dower House and makes a horrible discovery in the wine cellar.
Book 2: Stranger at the Grove: an estranged brother is forced to return to his home and face up to his past.
Book 3: Stranger at the Villa: a new physician arrives in the village, but is he all he seems?
Book 4: Stranger at the Manor: a destitute man comes looking for help from his cousin, and uncovers some mysterious goings-on.
Book 5: Stranger at the Cottage: an out-of-work governess tries to start a school in the village.
Book 6: Stranger at the Hall: the newly discovered heir to the barony arrives to claim his inheritance.
Any questions about the series? Email me - I’d love to hear from you!
About the author
I write traditional Regency romances under the pen name Mary Kingswood, and epic fantasy as Pauline M Ross. I live in the beautiful Highlands of Scotland with my husband. I like chocolate, whisky, my Kindle, massed pipe bands, long leisurely lunches, chocolate, going places in my campervan, eating pizza in Italy, summer nights that never get dark, wood fires in winter, chocolate, the view from the study window looking out over the Moray Firth and the Black Isle to the mountains beyond. And chocolate. I dislike driving on motorways, cooking, shopping, hospitals.
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to:
John Gardner, whose alleged saying about strangers and plots inspired these books.
Allison Lane, whose course on English Architecture inspired me.
Shayne Rutherford of Darkmoon Graphics for the cover design.
Andrew K Lawston, world famous translator of the Chantecoq books, for French language advice.
My beta readers: Tod Crouter, Barbara Daniels Dena, Amy DeWitt, Quilting Danielle, Rosemary Paton and the readers of Rachel Daven Skinner at RomanceRefined
Last, but definitely not least, my first reader: Amy Ross.
Sneak preview of Stranger at the Grove: Chapter 1: The Funeral
MARCH
The rain dripped over the brim of Malcolm’s hat as he followed the little procession to the graveside. Why was there always rain at a funeral? As if it was not enough that a man had died to cause the participants to sink into despondency, without the dispiriting grey misery of relentless rain.
The parson began the familiar words. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”
Four working men in their Sunday best, no doubt paid a shilling apiece for their time, laboured to lower the coffin into the ground.
“In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?”
Apart from the parson and Malcolm himself, only six men stood around the grave, silently watching. Two were his great-uncle’s servants, almost as old and stoop
ed as he had been. Three others were his great-uncle’s university colleagues, paying their respects. The sixth was Colville, the attorney.
“Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.”
Some little distance away, and sensibly sheltering in the lee of one of the yew trees, a small group of neighbours and acquaintances, paying their last respects but not encroaching on the burial itself, since they were not invited. It amused him that they came anyway. How like his great-uncle to specify the precise details of his own funeral, down to the style of the coffin — plain wood, for economy’s sake — to the refreshments to be offered the mourners afterwards. Only the official mourners, naturally. But the local people knew what was due to an Oxford man of renown, and so there they were, almost as wet and cold as the smaller group beside the grave.
“We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
Several of the mourners stepped forward to cast earth onto the coffin. Symbolic, they would say. Superstitious nonsense, Malcolm thought it. As soon as the clergyman began to move away, Malcolm strode off, glad that the whole business was over.
“Gage? May we offer you a lift?” One of the academics, spider-like in his black, pointed to a waiting carriage.
“Thank you, Monk, but I prefer to walk.”
Malcolm’s long legs carried him swiftly out of the churchyard and along the road. By the time the academics’ carriage and the attorney’s gig overtook him, he was already turning into the drive of Maitland House, past the high hedge that hid it from the world, or perhaps hid the world from the house. With Great-uncle Zachariah, either was equally likely.
Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1) Page 31
