As they walked back home, Mr and Miss Fellowes chatted idly of the people they had seen at the service, whilst Constance allowed her mind to wander. The conversation about the duke had brought back memories of some of the talk that she had heard in Cambridge when her father was alive. There, in his study, men were respected for their achievements and not for the rank to which they had been born. In that academic forum, revolution in England was often spoken of as desirable. At the time, it seemed to be the only way in which necessary change could come about, meaningless titles could be abolished and a fairer system of government established.
Since the time of these conversations, the French Revolution had begun in earnest, and Constance had started to believe that more measured reform would be a better way of proceeding. With her observation of a man behaving with the dandy-brute duke’s arrogance, however, her revolutionary preferences had returned. A ride in a tumbril would do him a power of good, she decided. What right had he to look down on others? What right had he to own a slave? He deserved to be shaken out of his complacency. Would that she could be the one to do the shaking!
‘Such shocking news,’ Miss Fellowes said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Mrs Reynolds told me that Miss Grayleigh has broken her arm in a fall from her horse.’
‘Oh no, poor Melinda,’ Constance exclaimed, concern for her friend putting the duke to the back of her mind. ‘I shall visit her this week.’
Chapter Eleven
The rain, which had ceased when they left church, came down again in torrents on the following day. It was plainly not a sensible idea to drive even such a small distance as three or four miles to Upper Sheringham, where Miss Grayleigh lived with her parents. Instead, Constance spent the day helping her aunt to assemble and wash the jars that they would be using to store preserves when the fruit ripened. This task could not take up the whole day, however, and as soon as they had finished, Miss Fellowes set about sorting out her paints and brushes, whilst Constance turned her attention to her correspondence. She had the book room to herself. Despite the inclement weather, Mr Fellowes could not keep away from his garden, and was even now engaged upon some horticultural activity in his potting shed.
A number of letters had arrived for Constance whilst she had been away. One was from a Mrs Horwich, who had been a neighbour and a friend of her mother in the village where they had lived in her early years. After the departure of Mr Church and his daughter for Cambridge, Mrs Horwich had begun to correspond with Constance.
Her letters were always crossed and crossed again at least twice, and Constance was guiltily aware that she seldom gave those detailed letters the time and attention that had gone into their construction. The life that she had lived then had been left behind long since, and most of the people about whom Mrs Horwich wrote, Constance was ashamed to admit, she regarded with tepid interest at best. Knowing that her aunt would enjoy hearing the letter read out loud – for although she knew none of the people, the events of village life were always of interest to her – she put it on one side, and picked up the others.
One of these was from another childhood acquaintance, now living in London, and enjoying her first season as a married lady. It was brief, and gave the impression of a very busy person, only just managing to snatch half an hour from an extremely active life.
Constance put the letter down and stared into space. Nobody had ever suggested that she should have a London season. Her mother had died before such a thing had been discussed, and it would never have occurred to her father to even think about such a matter. There had been no female relatives on hand to prompt him to do so. Even if someone had suggested it, it would have been difficult to know where the money would have come from. Theirs had not been a wealthy household. Mr Church had been a younger son, whilst his wife’s family had only been able to provide her with a modest income during her lifetime. Most of Mr Church’s spare money had been spent on acquiring books, some of them quite valuable, and Constance had never questioned this expenditure. There was certainly not sufficient left over for ball gowns, even supposing she had ever learned to dance! It had only been since living with her aunt and uncle that she had had the opportunity to acquire such accomplishments.
The third letter was from a gentleman who had been part of the intellectual circle that had met at her father’s house. He had spoken approvingly when she had made an intelligent contribution to a discussion on one occasion, and later had sent her a copy of The Rights of Man by Thomas Paine. In itself, this was a controversial choice. The author was now in France, having been obliged to leave England after which he had been found guilty of seditious libel in his absence. She had read the book more than once, finding his writing to be clear and comprehensible. Wisely, she had been cautious about those with whom she shared this particular opinion.
Briefly, this last letter transported her back to the days that she had spent in Cambridge, often acting as her father’s amanuensis, and she was conscious of a longing for that kind of mental stimulation. Her uncle and aunt had their own interests. There was no one with whom she could discuss the political matters for which her appetite had been whetted by those years in academia.
She laid down her letters, and got up in order to take from the shelf her copy of The Rights of Man. It was well thumbed, and had comments of her own written in the margins. Knowing what she was looking for, she opened it and soon found the passage that she had in mind.
The aristocracy are not the farmers who work the land, and raise the produce, but are the mere consumers of the rent, and when compared with the active world, are the drones, a seraglio of males, who neither collect the honey nor form the hive, but exist only for lazy enjoyment.
‘Exactly so!’ she declared out loud, smiling. ‘He is a drone!’ Her mood of melancholy dispelled, she laid aside her book, and picked up her pen in order to finish her letters.
The next day was fine, but as it was Tuesday, which was Miss Fellowes’s regular day for receiving visitors, Constance stayed at home. Mrs and Miss Mawsby both came, eager to share their own news, and to hear whatever Miss Fellowes and her niece had to impart. It soon became apparent that Miss Mawsby was far more curious about Constance’s encounters with the new neighbour, than about her visit to people whom the vicar’s daughter had never met.
Constance obliged readily enough, describing the various incidents in a lively fashion, which kept the other young woman very well entertained. If she was briefly conscious of a twinge of guilt as she vilified the duke, she firmly suppressed it. Why should he be able to get away with such behaviour just because of his high rank? Had he never heard of noblesse oblige?
‘I have told Mama what you said about the Duke of Haslingfield,’ said Miss Mawsby, after Constance had finished her account. ‘She was very much shocked, and has already begun to warn the local people against accepting employment with him.’
‘Serve him right,’ said Constance forthrightly. ‘I should hate to see any local person treated in the way that he treated his poor valet.’
Soon after this, Mrs Mawsby and her daughter took their leave.
The following day, Constance decided to pay the promised visit to Melinda Grayleigh. Normally, she would simply wander up to Beacon Tower and wait whilst the gig was harnessed for her. On rare occasions, if she was pressed for time, she would send the odd-job boy on ahead to ask for this to be done in order to save herself a wait. Today, as she watched young Ben run up the path with her message for the groom, she told herself that it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The stables would be busier now with Haslingfield’s horses and carriage to be cared for, and Kilver would appreciate some notice. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she did not want to encounter the Beacon Tower’s newest owner.
Just in case she did encounter such an obnoxious person, she decided to take particular care with her appearance. After all, it would never do for him to look down upon country folk as dowdy. She put on a carriage dress of sage green which she had worn only
once, and a bonnet neatly trimmed with green and gold ribbons. That would certainly make Beacon Tower’s new owner think again, should she chance to meet him. She was spared the annoyance of such an encounter, and telling herself that she was far from being disappointed – quite the reverse! – she thanked the groom, and set off in the direction of Sheringham at as smart a trot as the road permitted.
Melinda was very pleased to have a visitor, and sent for refreshments immediately, so that soon the two ladies were sharing their news over a cup of coffee. Contrary to local rumour, it transpired that she had sprained her ankle rather than broken her arm.
‘Such is the nature of country gossip,’ she said, as she explained her reasons for remaining on her day bed instead of rising to greet her visitor. ‘In fact, I am very much better, and will be back on my feet in a couple of days.’
‘Then you will all be able to come and dine with us on Thursday. Aunt asked me to invite you.’
The two young women had met at church when Constance had attended with her aunt and uncle for the first time after her arrival in the district. Melinda had been paying a visit to a relative who lived just outside West Runton, and she had been very friendly and welcoming towards one whom she recognized as a newcomer. Since then, they had often called upon one another, and had become close friends. Although Melinda was of a gentler disposition than Constance, she was not afraid of sharing her views. Like Miss Mawsby, she had not often travelled away from Norfolk; unlike the vicar’s daughter, she was well informed about current events, and open to new ideas.
‘Papa told me that Beacon Tower is now occupied,’ she said. ‘He means to call upon the new owner as soon as he can.’
‘I doubt he would be very welcome,’ Constance responded. ‘The man is very cold and haughty. I don’t think that people in the village will take to him.’
Melinda eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I hope that they will give him a fair chance,’ she answered. ‘To be a stranger in a new place is not easy, as you must know from your own experience. It would be too bad if people were to be hostile towards him for no good reason.’
Constance directed her attention to her empty coffee cup, tracing the delicate pattern on it with her finger. ‘There is a good reason,’ she answered. ‘He keeps a slave.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ Melinda protested. ‘It is not legal to have slaves in England since the Somersett case, is it?’
Constance nodded. She and Melinda had spoken about the slave trade before. She was well aware of the judgement made by Lord Mansfield in 1772 which stated that a person could not be a slave in England since English law made no acknowledgement of slavery. ‘Yes, I know,’ she replied. ‘The thing is, does the Almighty Duke think that such laws apply to him? And what about the poor man in his employ? Has anyone told him that he is not a slave? Melinda, we all know that a servant can be kept in such vile subjection that he might as well be a slave.’
‘You are right, of course,’ Melinda agreed. ‘But I know how quick you can be in your judgements. You cannot really claim to know what the man is like on such slight acquaintance. Remember, too, that he has only just come into this high position. He is probably unused to his situation and does not yet know how to comport himself.’
‘Melinda if you had seen him; heard him,’ Constance protested.
‘I am not saying that you are wrong about him,’ her friend replied. ‘All I am saying is that it would be as well to reserve judgement. How foolish you would feel if you turned out to be mistaken; especially if you had told others your views.’
Constance fiddled with her cup, not meeting her friend’s eye. ‘Very true,’ she said. ‘Let’s forget about him and talk about something else. Have you heard from Stephen? Is he enjoying his work?’
This diversion proved to be a good one, since Melinda’s beloved twin brother had gone to work in the North of England as a junior estate manager. The topic of Haslingfield was not raised again until the midday meal was served, when Mrs Grayleigh asked their guest if she had met the newest arrival to the district. Mindful of Melinda’s warning, Constance simply made a neutral remark about having seen him at church.
‘He will have all the match-making mamas buzzing around him, no doubt,’ said Mrs Grayleigh placidly.
‘It is to be hoped, then, that he has not come to this part of the world in order to escape all of that,’ put in her husband in an educated light Norfolk accent. A squire to his fingertips, he had been tending to some livestock that morning, and had changed so as not to sit down at the table in all his dirt.
‘I hope he will entertain a little,’ replied Mrs Grayleigh. ‘It would be too bad if a man of such distinction could not host a ball or at the very least, a garden party.’ Mindful of Melinda’s eye upon her, Constance carefully bit her lip.
She left the Grayleighs during the afternoon, after she had repeated Miss Fellowes’s invitation to come and dine on Thursday. ‘My aunt told me very strictly to ask you, if Melinda was not as severely injured as we had heard,’ she said.
‘Tell her we should be delighted to come.’
It was in a thoughtful frame of mind that she drove back to Beacon Tower. She knew that Melinda was good for her, even if sometimes she found the other young woman’s ability to see another side of a question a little irritating. Constance often looked at things in black and white; Melinda could always see shades of grey.
Infuriating though it was, she was forced to admit that there might be two sides to the duke. What was more, two nights’ sleep in her own bed had reminded her of the comforts of home – comforts which, although he might have wealth enough to command, would not be found so readily in a new place. Doubtless some – although not all – of his failings could be explained away by his unfamiliarity with his new rank and situation. Furthermore, his regrettable character traits – notably, his arrogance and his obvious approval of slavery – would never be redeemed if he were treated like a pariah. Thanks to her outspoken comments on his behaviour, he could be exactly that. She found herself wishing that she had not given such ammunition to so inveterate a gossip as Miss Mawsby.
When Constance had left the stables earlier, she had been in a hurry to get away and had not really taken notice of what was going on. On her return, she was struck once again by the contrast between their appearance today and on previous occasions. Before the duke’s arrival, her own visits and her use of Patch provided Kilver and his one stable hand with their greatest excitement. Today, the atmosphere was much more reminiscent of some busy coaching inn. Previously, Patch had only had the bailiff’s horse and the plough horses from the home farm for company. Today, their arrival was greeted by whinnies and stamping, as the numerous occupants of the stalls greeted Patch. She caught a glimpse of the travelling coach which she recognized from the journey. She could also see another vehicle, which must surely be some sort of sporting carriage.
‘Good afternoon, Kilver,’ she said as the head groom came bustling up to assist her down from the gig. ‘You have many more mounts to care for now.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed, grinning. ‘I like it busy, miss. What good is it to be a groom, with nothing for me to be grooming, if you take my meaning?’
She laughed. ‘I can see your point,’ she responded. Although she would have liked to leave immediately in order to avoid any possibility of meeting the duke, courtesy dictated that she give Kilver some of her time. After all, he stabled Patch and the gig entirely free of charge, and took exemplary care of them, making sure that Patch was well brushed and fed, and the gig was kept clean and shining. Assailed by a sudden thought that he might have been supplanted, she said, ‘I do trust that some smart London groom has not been brought in over your head.’
His ready smile dispelled this suspicion at once. ‘Aye, I’m still in charge here, and every man knows it. His Grace could see at once that I know my work.’
She glanced over to where a glossy black head was visible, nodding over the front of one of the stalls. ‘Have the duke’s horses re
covered from their long journey?’
‘Like the thoroughbreds they are,’ the groom replied.
‘Does His Grace have many more horses?’ she asked, strolling over to stroke the long black nose.
‘There’s a pair of greys over yonder,’ he said, indicating with a movement of his head. ‘And two or three other mounts, including His Grace’s long-tailed chestnut, which he’s out riding at the moment.’
As if his words had acted like some kind of a spell, they heard the sound of hoofs, and the chestnut horse came trotting into the yard with the duke on his back. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, in a dark-blue coat and tan breeches, a snowy cravat, and his boots polished to a shine. Today he wore his dark hair unpowdered and neatly tied back, giving the effect of making him look younger and altogether more vigorous. Once again, her heart skipped a beat. Inwardly, she berated herself for being so easily unsettled at his appearance.
‘Miss Church, I believe,’ he said, allowing Kilver to take the bridle so that he could dismount. ‘Forgive me, but we have not been properly introduced. Your servant, ma’am.’
‘Sir,’ Constance replied, curtsying before turning back to the groom. ‘I will bid you good day then, Kilver. You have much to do and I will not keep you.’
‘One moment, ma’am,’ said the duke. ‘May I claim the privilege of escorting you home?’
‘There really is no need,’ she told him. ‘I frequently walk to and from these stables alone, and live only five minutes away.’
‘Nevertheless, I would be very pleased to do so,’ he answered. ‘Besides, there is a matter that I would like to discuss with you.’
Imperfect Pretence Page 11
