Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  Except for Mandy.

  Ah, what was he to do for Mandy? When she saw him, she smiled. Bravely. Defiantly. But he knew she suffered. And was powerless to help.

  He’d call the young whelp out, but Montsale would simply give him that blank stare and walk away. Who was John Merriwether to challenge the heir to a dukedom?

  A roaring protest filled his head, nearly singeing his ears. Wha-at? John slumped on the bench, hands fisted before his face, his engineer’s strong streak of reality yielding to the inexplicable. That roar filling his head was most likely his father, the duke, outraged by his son’s humility. Which was all well and good, but what was a man to do—

  “Mr. Merriwether, I wondered if I might have a word with you?”

  John looked up, more than a little startled. And almost smiled. Perhaps, after all, there was something he could do to ease his daughter’s heart.

  Three days later

  “No, no, I do not want to hear it,” Hetty exclaimed. “Tell me no more.” Urged on by the on dits sweeping Bath society, Miss Oglethorpe was paying an unfashionably early visit to her friend in Laura Place, not expecting to be regaled with the contents of newly arrived letter from Luke Appleton.

  Mandy offered Hetty a look full of sympathy as she carefully refolded her letter. Wellington had gone to winter quarters, Luke had written, safely tucked up behind the lines of Torres Vedras, but massive numbers of French troops still surrounded beleaguered Portugal.. It looked to be a very long time before the British would fight anything more than a defensive war. Which meant Hetty would not see Gideon Dunstan for years unless—oh, horrid thought—he was wounded once again. Mandy searched for a change of topic and, without sufficient thought, burst out with what was foremost on her mind.

  “Montsale has called each afternoon,” she murmured, as if admitting to some dread disease.

  “And you have turned him away, have you not? Just as you refused to dance with him or speak with him in the Pump Room.” Hetty seized Mandy’s hand, offering a look of sincere concern. “Everyone has noticed, my dear. All Bath is agog. Are you quite, quite certain you cannot forgive him?”

  “Forgive him?” Mandy echoed, her chin squared in as firm a line as her feminine features would allow.

  “He loves you.”

  “He does not like the word No.”

  “Man-dy,” Hetty chided, “you know quite well it is more than that. He truly seems to have feelings for you.”

  “So much so he is willing to support my bastard children!”

  Miss Oglethorpe’s gasp of shock echoed through the room. When she had managed to catch her breath, she said with great determination, “Montsale would not be pursuing you so openly if that were still his intent. I cannot believe it.”

  Mandy offered her friend a sad smile. “Ever the daughter of a vicar, my dear Hetty. You are goodness itself, kind-hearted and delightfully naive. I could wish others might emulate your virtues.”

  “But I truly think he loves—”

  “Miss Merriwether? Beg pardon, Miss, but you didn’t seem to hear me scratching at the door.” One of the building’s many maids stood in the doorway, holding out a letter. “This just come for you, Miss. By special messenger.”

  Mandy accepted the letter, her thanks a bit distracted as she dismissed the maid. Turning back to Hetty, she muttered, “If this is from Montsale, you shall have the pleasure of watching me burn it to a crisp.” She stopped, scowled at the letter, a puzzled look replacing her frown as she recognized the handwriting. “How very odd,” she murmured. “It’s from my father, who was gone when I got up this morning.”

  “Then open it, silly. Perhaps there was some emergency and he has been called out of town.”

  After reading the short message, Mandy’s puzzled look remained. Engineers were not spontaneous. They planned every move with care, whether it was the design for a lock, a tunnel, a whole canal, or a trip from Bath to the Dundas Aqueduct by narrowboat. So why this sudden scrawled note, with not a hint of warning?

  My dear Amanda, I have decided to take the Duke on an inspection between here and the Dundas Aqueduct. Please be at the docks by noon if you wish to accompany me.

  The handwriting was definitely her father’s and Bath held little appeal at the moment. Mandy glanced at the clock on the mantel. Merciful heavens, she had less than ninety minutes to change her gown, pack for an overnight journey, and make the uphill walk through Sydney Gardens to the canal.

  “I am so very sorry,” she said. “Papa has invited me on an inspection trip from here to the Dundas Aqueduct. Leaving at noon. I must fly!”

  Hetty stood, gave her friend a quick hug. “Just the thing to improve your spirits,” she said. “Does this mean you will not be at the Upper Assembly Rooms tonight?”

  “I fear so. We will likely overnight at the aqueduct. It is a half day’s journey one way, and we are not leaving until noon.”

  “Then I will see you tomorrow. “Think only good thoughts, my dear. Be brave.”

  When the front door closed behind Miss Oglethorpe, Mandy heaved a sigh full of her innermost regrets before rushing off to prepare for the unexpected pleasure of one more inspection trip on the Kennet & Avon canal.

  Mandy was breathing hard by the time she reached the Sydney Gardens bridge and turned hard right, walking along the bank of the canal toward the place where the company narrowboat Duke was moored. No sign of her papa, who was likely already aboard, but the horse nickered in recognition, its handler offered the greeting of an old acquaintance, and the boatman waved from his position at the tiller. The Duke and its companion boat Duchess were as much her homes as the house on Upper Berkley Street. Perhaps more. The prospect of a day aboard was already lifting her spirits.

  Mandy climbed down into the bow, balancing her small portmanteau with the ease of long experience. Still no sign of Papa. She descended the steps that led down to the boat’s living area, which contained nicely upholstered built-in bench seats and a small table for dining. No Papa. Had he not arrived yet? She continued past the tiny kitchen with its coal stove and piped chimney to the outside, and abandoned her portmanteau in her cabin.

  The narrowboat began to move.

  Surely not so soon! But Papa must have given the order or the boatmen would never . . . “Papa?”

  His cabin was next to hers, a thin wall away, yet there was no response.

  Beyond her father’s room was the aft cabin, which extended the full width of the boat. These accommodations John Merriwether left to the boatmen, as they lived aboard year-round, at the beck and call of whoever needed them during the long years of constructing the K&A. Mandy charged back down the narrow corridor, up the steps to the bow. They were indeed moving, already well out into the center of the canal. They could not be leaving without Papa, it wasn’t possible. But where was he? There wasn’t any place to hide something as big as another human being on a boat fourteen feet wide and seventy-three feet long.

  Dear God, what if he was in his cabin after all? What if he’d had a fall? An apoplexy? Mandy plunged back down the steps and ran full tilt into a solid body. A solid male body.

  Not Papa.

  Strong arms held her tight as the full horror of betrayal hit her. No, no, no, no, no! Papa would never . . .

  Would he?

  Hands grasped her waist, thunked her down on the table, leaving him to tower above her, looking more like an avenging Fury than a would-be lover. “Not a word,” Bourne ground out. “Even your father agreed that your intransigence was in danger of ruining both our lives.”

  “My intransigence?” Mandy huffed. “This from the man who thought he was doing me a favor when he asked me to be his whore?”

  Bourne winced. “You wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t let me explain.” Even to himself his words sounded like a whine.

  “Explain? What is there to explain about such an insult?”

  He looked so fierce, Mandy sucked in a sharp breath, a frisson of fear tickling her spine.

&nb
sp; “I was mad with love for you, filled with a desperation that addled my wits. Love does that, you know. History is full of such nonsense, and it would appear I am not immune.”

  Mandy crossed her arms and glared at him. “And what has changed, pray tell? You are still heir to a dukedom, I, merely the Lady of the Lock.”

  Bourne stepped back, running his hand through his hair. “Come,” he said, offering his hand, “let us go outside and let the scenery temper our fits and starts.” He helped her down from the table, then stood back, allowing her precede him up the steps. After Mandy arranged her skirts on one side of the bench seat, he flipped up the tails of his coat and seated himself beside her. For several moments they sat in silence, listening to the soft whoosh of the water moving along the hull, the clop of the horse’s hooves, the call of birds.

  “May I speak?” Bourne said at last.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes,” he declared in as stern a tone as she had ever heard from him. “You can go to your room and lock the door until we reach Bathampton where my carriage awaits. This journey was never intended to go any farther, for, as you well know, your father would never allow this rendezvous if I had not sworn on the graves of my Challenor ancestors that I would not compromise you. And let me add that it is only because he believed in the sincerity of what I told him that he has allowed me on board this boat.”

  “Oh,” Mandy murmured, her temper considerably deflated. Nonetheless, she crossed her arms over her chest, affixed her most mulish look. “Since I am a captive audience, I might as well listen.”

  Bourne huffed a breath, banged his knuckles against his forehead. “I beg your pardon for losing my temper,” he intoned at last. “There is no doubt that you are the one who has been wronged, and I the guilty party.”

  Better. “Go on.”

  “That terrible moment at the picnic . . . I blurted out words I have longed to take back a thousand times over. I was trying to tell you how much I loved you, how much I needed you, yet I was still so blinkered by tradition and my upbringing that I could not see the truth of the matter. I would never have gone through with it, never dishonored you so. Long before we reached the point of no return, I would have come to my senses and realized there was only one way I could ever have the woman I love so much. The woman I want for a lifetime. In lawful marriage. The woman who must be an integral part of my life, not someone hidden in the shadows offering but a few delectable moments before sending me back to my drab, tradition-filled life.”

  Bourne paused, hopefully eyeing his beloved’s face. Which only proved his love had learned a great many things from watching his carefully schooled immobility through the years. Cautiously, he wound one large hand around hers. “In short, my dear, I wish you to be my wife, to accept the fact you will be a duchess someday, and to keep my arrogance, my indifference, my unfeeling nature in check, so not only we and our children may live in peace and prosperity, but those around us as well.”

  Ah, thank you, Lord! Her eyes were beginning to glow with warmth—shining in fact, the sun glinting off drops of moisture. Surely he was seeing straight into her soul. “Mandy . . .?”

  “I fear ours will not be a peaceful journey,” she offered softly.

  Hope! “Does it matter as long as we mend our differences. Preferably in bed.”

  She blushed. Furiously, her face a fine shad of puce.

  Bourne laughed. And kissed her.

  A tavern keeper, enjoying a homebrew at the edge of the canal, took in the sight and smiled. Silently, the Duke glided on toward Bathampton.

  Epilogue

  Caen Hill Locks, December 1810

  There was little ceremony for the long-awaited opening of the Caen Hill locks. After sixteen years there was only a sigh of relief as the wooden gates swung closed behind the first narrowboat that had not been forced to offload its cargo onto the tramway.

  The Marquess and Marchioness of Montsale were there, however, as was the Duke of Carewe. The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder with John Merriwether, Tyler Holcombe, and Alan Tharp, watching the lockkeeper turn the windlass, raising the front paddle which would allow water to drain out of the lock, lowering the narrowboat to the level of the next lock.

  “A slow business,” the marquess murmured to his wife. “Likely to take all day.” He glanced down at her well-rounded stomach. “Will you please go back to the Bear and rest? I promise all twenty-nine locks will work without the Lady of the Lock watching every blasted step.”

  “And pray what do you know about locks?” his wife demanded.

  “Very little,” Bourne returned easily, “but I am not inclined to see the heir to the House of Challenor born on the banks of the Avon.”

  “Addle-pate,” she returned with a fond smile. “I’ve two months yet. And, besides, where else should a Merriwether be born?”

  Bourne acknowledged her teasing with a fond smile, as his thoughts strayed back over the years. “Bridgewater would have been proud.”

  “Indeed,” Mandy returned, glancing up at her father. “Very proud indeed.”

  The Marquess of Montsale offered his wife his arm. They leaned together, watching as two lockkeepers put their full weight against the long arm that would swing the lock’s heavy wooden gates wide open. And there before them was the mechanical miracle that never failed to amaze—the gate open, the water in both locks level. A soft command to the horse and the narrowboat moved forward. Into Lock Two of twenty-nine. Inaugurating the final giant step in one of the greatest canal-building projects in the world.

  Just as the Marquess and Marchioness of Montsale were about to inaugurate their own leap forward, becoming a family. Mandy tugged on Bourne’s arm. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s time to go. All the way home, if you do not mind.”

  With a fond smile, Bourne nodded, and they made their farewells. After one last lingering look down Caen Hill, they turned toward the carriage that would take them to High Meadows. Tunnel or no tunnel, it was home.

  ~ * * * ~

  1Historical Notes:

  The architect/engineer in charge of building the Kennet & Avon canal was John Rennie. The Dundas Aqueduct still stands, bearing the weight of the tons of water needed for narrowboats to travel across it. But Britain’s canals gradually fell into disuse as railways and better roads came along. In the last half of the 20th century, however, dedicated volunteers restored many of the canals that once moved goods from around the world to the heart of England (or something as mundane as moving horse manure from London streets to the countryside where it could be used as fertilizer).

  The Kennet & Avon was a massive project, requiring sixteen years and a cost of £16,666 per mile, the second most expensive canal built in Britain. And I imagine the restoration was almost as difficult. A few years ago I spent a week on the Kennet & Avon, traveling at 3 mph, even though our narrowboat had a motor instead of a horse. If I had not bought every canal guidebook in sight, particularly those available at the Crofton Pumping Station, I never would have been able to write this book. The two massive boilers at Crofton have also been restored, as have the giant pump arms, even though electricity is now used to recycle the lock water. I cannot praise too highly the many people who contributed to this massive restoration project, whether with time and effort or money. Britain’s modern waterways are truly a national treasure.

  In the course of writing Lady of the Lock, I had to imagine many of the construction details for the “Challoner” Tunnel (in actuality, the Bruce Tunnel). My apologies to those who recognize where I got it wrong. Hopefully, my mistakes will not detract from enjoyment of the story.

  A special thanks to Rebecca Wells, Assistant Adminstrator of the Kennet & Avon Trust who responded in such a timely fashion to my e-mail request for details on the building of the Caen Hill Locks, and passed along my request to Elaine Kirby, Archive Administrator of the Museum and Archives of the K&A Canal Trust. Elaine poured over John Rennie’s scribbled notes to discover the details I wa
s looking for. What a wonder our modern communication system is! John Rennie would have loved it.

  Special Note: The Duke and Duchess aren’t quite fiction. You can find them at http://www.hotelboat-holidays.co.uk/

  Blair Bancroft, November 2012

  About the Author:

  Believing variety is the spice of life, I also write Regency Historicals, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Steampunk, and Futuristic. (Below is a list of my books currently available.)

  The Golden Beach (GB)books are not a classic series. Some have connected characters; others, only a connected setting, a very real Florida Gulfcoast resort and retirement community whose name has been changed because the residents would like to keep its uniqueness a deep, dark secret.

  I am always delighted to hear from my readers. I can be contacted at blairbancroft@aol.com. My website is http://www.blairbancroft.com/. My blog: http://mosaicmoments.blogspot.com/

  Twitter: @blairbancroft

  Blair’s books currently online:

  Romantic Suspense, Thrillers & Mystery

  Florida Knight (GB)

  Death by Marriage (GB)