A Pitiful Remnant
A Regency Novella
By
Judith B. Glad
Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon
2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-200-1
A Pitiful Remnant
Copyright © 2015 by Judith B. Glad
Cover design © Copyright 2015 by Judith B. Glad
Countryside Manor House:© Khrizmo | Dreamstime.com
Soldiers: © Bronwyn Photo
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Prologue
Southeastern Yorkshire,
Late January, 1809
"Good morning, Grandfather. You sent for me?"
Her grandfather's expression was more serious than usual as he tapped the newspaper on his desktop. "I'm afraid it's bad news."
He had to say no more. "Captain Foxworth?" The words came out a bare whisper, for all the breath seemed to have left her body.
"Yes. His name is in the latest casualty list from Spain." His voice shook. "A terrible battle...a victory for England, but..." As if unable to go on, he handed her the newspaper.
Tears blurred her vision, but she knew. Lisanor let the newspaper slide to the floor. "What will we do?"
"I don't know. If only--"
"Grandfather, you must not continue to blame yourself for my father's follies. You were ill, too ill to be troubled with estate management. If there is fault, it is mine. I paid no attention--"
"How could you? I have never burdened you with financial matters. Bad enough I used you as bailiff, allowed you to labor like a...a serf."
"I did nothing you did not do at my age. How many times have you told me that we Hights are yeomen, not peers? Ackerslea Farm is my heritage. I can only learn how to best manage it by working at every task, no matter how menial."
"But I could have kept your father on a tighter rein. We are facing disaster. And it is my fault."
Grandfather's heart seizure two years past had forced him to relinquish much of the management of Ackerslea Farm to his only son. At first all had been well, but after the harvest her father had gone to London, ostensibly to attend the opera and theatre with old friends, men from his carefree bachelor days. He had renewed his acquaintance with the expensive crowd surrounding the prince and, instead of returning to his duties at home, he had reverted to old habits, living extravagantly, spending lavishly, and gaming wildly. Only after his death in a curricle accident this past October had they learned that he had not only squandered the farm's income, but also had spent monies intended for seed and supplies. Even worse, he had given vowels against Ackerslea Farm's future income.
"If there is a fault, it is my father's." She hated to speak ill of the dead, but her father's reckless improvidence would affect everyone at Ackerslea Farm for some years, as they struggled to pay creditors and to recoup the financial loss.
"Mine was the final responsibility." Grandfather sounded tired, defeated. "And now we must somehow find another man for you to wed."
"Must we?"
"I fear so. While I have no doubt of your competence, the reality of the matter is that alone you will be vulnerable. You need a husband whom the world will see as the master here, no matter that it will be a fiction."
"Where will you ever find another man who will be willing to accept your terms? The concessions Captain Foxworth insisted upon were close to ruinous." She had protested strongly when Grandfather revealed that Foxworth had demanded a generous allowance, and a munificent payment for each male child he fathered on her. But finding a man who would yield total control of the Farm to a mere woman went against the grain of most men. All men, I think, but those words she left unspoken.
"I have an idea. If it comes to fruition, I will tell you."
Chapter One
Northern Lincolnshire,
March, 1809
The sling chafed the back of his neck and the fingers of his right hand refused to work. His breathing was impaired by the wrappings around his chest, the splint on his leg meant he couldn't walk properly, and his arse hurt like bloody hell. Might as well be dead.
Major Clarence Lamberton knew he was indulging in self-pity, but somehow any sense of shame eluded him.
The action had gone on far longer than he'd been capable of fighting. According to the sailors he'd overheard, Coruña was being called a terrible defeat for the British, even though they had won the battle. And had lost it, too, for General Sir John Moore had been killed. Now the ships were carrying the remnants of the British army back to England. Pitiful remnants they were, too. Fully half of the remaining men had taken an injury of one sort or another. And the rest were exhausted and disheartened.
I should be with my men. They need me.
His commanding officer had ignored his arguments and sent him off on a boat with other injured officers.
At least he'd been spared the stinking dark of the hold. His pallet on the deck was only somewhat shielded from spume and drizzle by tattered canvas stretched from rail to rail. He might be damp, but he could see a small slice of the shore of England, slowly growing visible in the mist.
England. Home.
God, how he had missed Guillemot's Burn. But would he be welcome when he got there? In his last letter--good lord, that was in October--his father had threatened to cut off his allowance if he didn't sell out. But duty had been a stronger bond than family. Besides, he had nowhere to spend the money.
The wounded were loaded onto wagons for the journey to London. But before they set out, a command to halt came back along the line. They waited, shivering in the damp coastal air, until a man on horseback appeared.
A man he recognized, even through the film of pain that darkened his vision. Nettles. His sergeant, when he'd had a platoon to command.
"Major Lamberton?"
He pretended not to hear.
Faint hope. Someone near the tailgate called, "He's here. Up front." The mounted man commanded his minions to "Fetch the major, but be gentle."
The journey home used to be long, but this time it happened in mere hours. Or at least that's what his mind told him when he woke as they were carrying him up the stairs. Familiar stairs leading to a bedchamber he'd last slept in eight years ago. "My lord, the doctor will be here soon," Carleton said.
Carleton? Why was a footman taking care of him?
For a long time after that, nothing made sense. Carleton continued to speak to him--kept calling him 'my lord' which made no sense at all. An old woman who vaguely resembled his mother came to sit beside his bed and weep, until he wanted to tell her to go away and irrigate some other floor. His sister, she of the bright golden hair and lilting voice, never came to visit. That was how he knew it was all a dream. Phillipa would never leave him to Mother's tears or a doctor's callous ministerings. But hadn't Phillipa married that Scotsman? MacIvers? And gone off to live in the Highlands
? I can't remember.
"My lord, can you sit?"
"Father? Is that you?"
"My lord, your father--"
"Oh, my poor Clarence. Has no one told you?" Again the weepy woman was there beside his bed, watering the floor, dampening his bed linens.
"Madam, his lordship needs undisturbed rest, else he may not recover."
Maybe the doctor wasn't so callous after all.
"My lord, let me hold this cup..."
The tea burned his lower lip, and he turned his head. Then it burned his chest.
"He can't manage a cup, you fool. Get a sauceboat. We'll have to pour it into him."
The next time he woke, he had his wits about him enough to look around. The room was familiar. Am I home? At Guillemot? How...
"My lord, are you awake?"
It was Carleton again. But this Carleton was older, more dignified. Dressed as a butler, not in a footman's livery. "Why?" was all he could manage, but his fingers caught at the man's jacket and tugged.
"Oh, my lord, you've your wits about you at last. I must call my lady." And before he could ask the questions that had barely begun to phrase themselves in his mind, Carleton disappeared.
An interminable interval later, a very young footman entered, bearing a steaming basin. He was followed by a silent older woman in a maid's uniform who proceeded to strip him naked and wash him all over. By the time she was done, both the water in the basin and the skin on his body were chilled. He locked his jaw to prevent the chattering of his teeth and waited for the next round of torture.
Eventually, still shivering, he plummeted into sleep.
After an eternity in Hell, he woke in a place devoid of light. No, there was a faint glimmer...under a door?
I'm weak as a newborn kitten. He felt as if he were caught in the depths of some thick, clinging substance, one which limited his motion and weighed down his limbs. His left leg was wrapped in something stiff and heavy, his left wrist bore a thick, equally stiff bandage. And the pain in his arse was worse than ever.
"Carleton?"
The croak that emerged from his throat bore no semblance to a human voice. He swallowed, or tried to, but his mouth seemed lined with the clinging, arid dust that had coated everything during summer's heat in the peninsula.
He collapsed back onto the bed--for he lay in a real bed, not upon the hard pallet that had served him during the last weeks in Spain. The sheets under him and over him were fine linen, not the coarse fabric he'd grown used to. They were scented with something besides human sweat. Lavender? He couldn't recall what lavender smelled like, but the word sounded right for the soothing floral perfume. And there was a pillow behind his head. A soft, down pillow.
I've died and gone to heaven. No. Impossible. There was no place in heaven for him, or any of his troops. Not after Coruña.
"Carleton," he called again, but this time it was a mere whisper.
No one answered.
A dark, squarish shape sat beside the bed. Atop it was something that glinted faintly. He groped, and his hand struck something hard. When he swept it forward, the object went flying and landed with a satisfying crash on the floor.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and then it swung open. "My lord?" Carleton stood silhouetted in the doorway, a candlestick in his hand. Behind him, blessed God, was Nettles.
"Sergeant." This time the word was almost recognizable.
"Aye, Major? What can I get ye?"
"Water." A mere whisper of sound.
Carleton came closer and set the candlestick on the bedside stand. "Here, my lord."
Clarence saw the pitcher and glass, just out of reach. "Need light," he whispered.
"In course ye do," Sergeant Nettles said. "How's a man to see when it's as dark as the inside of a horse's gut?" He elbowed Carleton aside and poured the glass full of water. "Can ye sit, sor?"
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he tried. "No," he gasped. "Help...me."
Nettles raised his head, held the glass to his lips. "Take it slow, then, sor. Little sips. You don't want to cast it up."
Clarence had tasted fine French champagne, but at this moment, he couldn't recall anything tasting as good as the tepid water that moistened the dry tissues of his mouth and soothed the sore lining of his throat. He sipped, again and again, until his head fell back with exhaustion. As Nettles reached to set the glass aside, he saw that he'd only taken about half of its contents. Yet his belly felt full.
After that, he regained his strength quickly. It seemed to him that every hour someone was bringing him small dishes filled with gruel, and after a while, soft, creamy porridges and custards. Gradually the bowls got bigger and the pap was replaced by meaty broth, and yet later, by thick soups with pureed vegetables.
The first day he managed to eat a whole bowl of soup, Nettles returned after placing the bowl outside this room. "I reckon you're well enough now, sor. I'll call her ladyship."
The elderly woman who entered was familiar. He had seen her before, on the day they had carried him into this house. She had fainted. Later she had irrigated his hand and his sheets with her tears.
Now she hobbled to the chair Nettles had set beside the bed. "Clarence," she said, in a voice that broke on the word. "You're going to live."
He stared. She looked so much like his mother, but she was old. "I'm sorry, madam. But who are you?"
She burst into tears. He couldn't understand but one word in ten, but those he did comprehend answered his question. "Mother... Mother?"
She caught his hand and carried it to her lips. "How could you forget me? Your own mother?"
His mother was young and gay, with gleaming golden hair and sparkling blue eyes. This woman's hair was drab, her pale eyes rheumy. Her face was lined and careworn. "I'm sorry. My mind... It's not clear." No lie, for his memories were confused, with events of his youth mixed with chaotic images of the hell he'd lived through the past few years.
He stared at her, trying to make sense of the changes he saw. And slowly it all came clear. He had been gone for eight years, and had carried no pictures of his mother with him, save in his memories. In those long years, his own hair had gone gray at the temples, his body had matured, so that the slender stripling who'd eagerly purchased a lieutenancy had become a muscled man with lines of care and suffering replacing the youthful smile.
And his mother had grown old.
"Of course. I understand." But she didn't. He saw that in her eyes, saw the shadow of hurt.
"Father...?"
Her tears only increased.
"Mother? What is it?"
"Your father..." She buried her face in trembling hands. After a moment she drew a deep breath and looked up. "Your father died two months ago. I wrote--"
"I received no letter." Why was he surprised? How could anything so ordinary as mail have been distributed in the rout that ended on the beach at Coruña?
"How?" He'd feel pain later. For now he only felt numb.
"He..." She buried her face again and sobbed loudly. After a few minutes, she said, "He shot himself."
Chapter Two
Lisanor watched through the narrow slit between curtains as the gentlemen descended from their carriages. Most of them, moved with hunched shoulders and tucked chins, shielding themselves from the icy rain.
Two old men led the procession through the front door. Uncle Percival, even more enormously fat than she remembered, shambled slowly toward her. The other, ancient, tall, but so thin that he hardly cast a shadow, was a distant cousin whose name she'd forgotten. The two of them were the only male remnants of the once-numerous Hights, and both were childless. She and Alanna were the last of the line.
A pitiful remnant indeed, of proud Saxon yeomen, loyal followers of Ethelred the Unready, whose descendants had held the land he'd rewarded them with for six hundred years. And most recently, a follower of Wellesley in Spain.
Her brother had died at Roliça. In one fateful battle, the entire future of the Hi
ghts had vanished in a puff of canon smoke.
Mr. Whitsomeworth, the solicitor, was a bent little man with peculiar tufts of grey hair sticking out to the sides of his head like a cow's ears. He stepped forward and to where she and Alanna stood by the library door.
"Miss Hight...er... and Miss Alanna. Please join us in the study."
Alanna bristled. "Who does he think he is, inviting us into our own study?" But she only whispered it, and she followed Lisanor through the door without a fuss.
Uncle Percival, his nephew Darius, and Cousin Wilbur settled in the comfortable chairs drawn up before the desk, leaving the two straight chairs at the back of the room to Lisanor and Alanna.
Perhaps, Lisanor thought, they don't see us. After all, we are mere women.
Mr. Whitsomeworth seated himself behind Grandfather's desk. He shuffled papers for a moment, until the subdued chatter around the room died down.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to read the last will and testament of Gareth Caradoc William Hight, Esquire, late Master of Ackerslea."
"Get on with it then." Uncle Percival was a legend in the family. No one had ever seen him smile. Lisanor's grandfather had disliked his younger brother intensely.
"Indeed, sir. If you will just be seated..."
Uncle Percival sat. The solicitor looked around the room, his gaze resting on each of them in turn.
Mr. Whitsomeworth cleared his throat again. In ponderous tones he began reading Grandfather's will. For a short eternity he enumerated bequests to servants and distant relatives.
Some of those bequests would never be forthcoming, because the funds that would have paid them were gone, squandered by her father. She silently vowed to fulfill her grandfather's wishes, no matter how long it took her.
The recitation of bequests had a soporific effect. She was caught by surprise by a sudden silence. Mr. Whitsomeworth was gazing at her expectantly. "Oh! I beg your pardon. I was...thinking..."
Again that quiet little clearing of the throat. "Indeed." Mr. Whitsomeworth tapped a finger on the remaining page of the will. "Fully cognizant of the need for a strong hand to guide Ackerslea Farm into the future, I have arranged a marriage contract between my granddaughter, Lisanor Isolde Hight, and Major Clarence Eustace Lamberton, son of Eustace Lamberton, Marquess of Guillemot, the marriage to take place by proxy, unless Major Lamberton returns from the Peninsula within six weeks of the date of my death." He raised his chin and looked straight at her. "This codicil to the deceased's will was written shortly after the casualty reports from the Battle of Coruña were made public. Among those lost was Dunstan Foxworth."
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