“I do not know his direction.”
“But you could have obtained it. You spoke to him last night, did you not?”
“My aunt Midmain informed that if I did not marry you, she would send me up to York to take Aunt Nan’s place there.”
“Lady Midmain would have made a better general than Cope, but I could wish that she had not interfered. Come now; admit that you are only objecting to the marriage out of perversity. You are a misfit here. As my wife you will have a good position in Society, will be able to travel, and will have the company of your Aunt Nan. There will be ample money for dress, your own sedan chair and the use of the carriage in Town. Your duties will not be arduous, for I have an excellent housekeeper, and your aunt will remain in charge of my son Thomas.”
“Aye, there’s the rub! You men are all the same. Wrap it up as you will, the bargain reads—for the privilege of acting as brood mare, one title and a wardrobe of dresses. How many times must I be brought to bed before I am considered to have fulfilled my part of the contract?”
“It would be the same in any marriage. Even Mr. Dalby would require that you bear him children.”
“I would have served him with pleasure.” She noted that his eyebrows contracted, and knew how best to hurt him. She chose her words with care. “He is, after all, young and pleasing to me.”
There was silence, except for the rustle of coals in the grate. He walked to the fire, and leaned against the mantel. He took out his snuffbox and helped himself to a pinch. He stowed the snuffbox away, and dusted his sleeve with a handkerchief. Sophia smiled to herself, for she knew he only took snuff when he needed time to think.
When he spoke, it was to the carpet at her feet. “I have an heir already. Thomas is not strong, but with your aunt’s help, he should see me out. So long as he lives, I need no other heir. If he should die before I do …” He shrugged. “Even so, I engage not to enter your bedroom without invitation.”
She leaned back in her chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. If he had bought her, it was going to cost him dear. He would keep his word, of course. A second wife would normally wish the child of the first marriage dead, so that her own children would inherit; he must have thought she would neglect Thomas. But Thomas alive was her guarantee of his good behavior. Night after night she would drop off to sleep with a smile on her lips, thinking of his frustration. It would almost be worth marrying him to inflict such a punishment.
She studied him. He was well enough to look at, she thought. They would make a good couple, both being so tall. She would be able to get away from the Midmains, and have Aunt Nan … perhaps marriage would not be such a terrible fate, after all.
She pulled her lovelock up. “Take it. It is yours.”
He took a pair of folding scissors from a leather sheath and cut off the lock, stowing it away in his pocket. She felt a pang at parting with it. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her neck looked bare without it. She set her teeth. She could always coax another lock forward, or would that be cheating? She rather thought it would be. No, she would have no lovelock in future. A Tarrant must always pay her debts.
Shortly after her betrothal Sophia was reunited with her Aunt Nan. They clung to each other, and laughed, and cried, and started sentences which had no endings, trying to tell each other everything that had happened in the months of their separation.
Presently servants brought in a dainty luncheon, and Sophia dried her eyes and admired her aunt’s rustling black silk dress.
“Philip had three beautiful dresses waiting for me, and I have a maid of my own, and this room is to be refurnished as I wish, and my bedchamber, and … oh, my dear; you don’t blame me too much for accepting his offer, do you?”
“But dearest, can you be happy here, in the house of our enemy?”
“Poor Philip. Do you still think of him as your enemy? I don’t. We brought the sale of Tarrant Hall on ourselves. Philip was in no way to blame for what happened to the Tarrants afterwards, although being Philip, he does of course accept the blame.”
“I hadn’t noticed it.”
“No, dear. You are very unobservant when it suits you. Do try to understand; I was so very unhappy up in York, and not really needed as I am needed here. There is so much to be done in this great house to make it anything like a home. But indeed, if you think it would be awkward having me here once you are married, I will go.”
“Oh, dearest; of course not. Nothing could reconcile me to this marriage more than having you under the same roof with me again. Do what you like. Change what you like. Order things as you wish. Philip has told me I need not concern myself about the running of the house, and I do not intend to do so. I will never willingly step into a kitchen, or order a meal again. I am going to enjoy myself, when I am married.”
“Are you, my dear? Are you so much in love with Society?”
“There is nothing to compare with it,” declared Sophia. “I shall dance every night, and have a new dress once a week, and my portrait is to be painted, and perhaps I shall take little Marjorie under my wing … did you know she was in Town? I met her, with Sir John, at the Buckingham’s last night. She was wearing the most frightful dress, so antiquated and yet it must have cost a lot. I was quite embarrassed for her, and told her—very kindly, of course—that she must be introduced to my corsetiere, and she looked quite horrified. I had to hide a laugh, for really, her figure is so clumsy! Sir Benjamin said that she reminded him of a badly-trussed …”
“Sophia!”
Sophia bit her lip. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, but she brushed them away. “Will you show me over the house before I go?”
Three grave-faced men gathered at Mr. Stone’s office to discuss the latest news from Scotland. Four French ships had slipped through the English blockade to land in the north-east of Scotland. They had been carrying money, volunteers and arms to the Pretender; all of which were much needed. Even more disastrous from the English point of view, was the news that a Monsieur du Boyer, Marquis d’Eguilles, was on board one of the ships and was currently acting as French Ambassador to the court of Prince Charles. His Majesty had taken the news badly. There had been scenes in the Closet. Newcastle had withdrawn in tears, because the King had accused him and his brother, Henry Pelham, of having forced the dismissal of Carteret. The King had worked himself up to such a pitch that he really believed he was being imprisoned in a constitutional trap which forbade him any independent action. Never before had the King’s relationship with Newcastle been at so low an ebb.
“It is a ridiculous situation,” said Mr. Stone. “Carteret commands no sort of following in the Commons, yet he imposes his will on the King at all times. He is throwing the kingdom away for the sake of personal glory.”
“It would be best if the Duke could be induced to offer my uncle office,” said Philip.
“No,” said Mr. Stone. “The Duke will not do so, under any circumstances. We must think again.”
Mr. Carramine was re-reading the latest dispatches from Scotland. “Nowhere does it say that this Marquis is Louis’ official Ambassador. The volunteers are hardly an official French force, either. This is support drummed up by the bankers, I daresay.”
“True,” said Mr. Stone. “My French agent in Paris tells me that one of the bankers returned to France in the Du Teillay, went straight to Versailles, and made a big speech in front of everyone about the standard being raised at Glenfinnan, and the local support which came in. Louis has officially pledged French support, but as we know, that will take time to organize. Lord John Drummond, who commands the Royal Scots regiment in the French Army, has been ordered to prepare for embarkation, together with one thousand well trained men. If they should succeed in getting to Scotland …” He shrugged.
“How long do we have?” mused Philip, looking at the map. “Two months? How many men of our own shall we have by then?”
“This will end in civil war,” cried Mr. Carramine.
Mr. Ston
e began to pace the room. The others were silent, studying the map before them.
“We are in danger of losing our heads over nothing,” said Mr. Stone at last. “The Pretender cannot succeed in his rebellion, and Lord Carteret cannot succeed in regaining office. The odds are stacked against them. All we have to do is keep calm, and deploy what forces we have to the best advantage. We have been pushed onto the defensive, yet we have superior numbers, more able commanders, more money, and the country is behind us. We are behaving like children, panicking at shadows, when we should be thinking how best to destroy our enemies. Why shouldn’t we take a leaf from Lord Carteret’s book, and lure the Pretender out of his safe harbor in Edinburgh as we lured him out of France? I do not like to think of him sitting in the capital of Scotland, holding court, raising taxes, drilling his men. Are you with me?”
“Ahead of you,” said Philip grimly. “You want another letter from Jasper Tarrant, confirming that he is raising support for the Pretender, and inviting him to come south now, before the winter sets in?”
“Precisely. We can forge such a letter, of course, but it is better to have the real thing where possible. I have intercepted just such a letter from William Watkyns in Wales, and here is another from the Earl of Barrymore, and one from the Duke of Beaufort. These are also genuine, having been intercepted by our men, who have been watching these Jacobites from the beginning. With two or three others which I can supply—we made copies of the seals on all treasonable correspondence as it was sent through our hands earlier this year—we should give the impression that the south of England is only awaiting the call to rise in favor of the Pretender. Will you arrange for your friend David Vere to get these delivered to the Pretender in due course?”
Mr. Carramine thumped the table. “It might work, it might, indeed. The Pretender cannot be comfortable in Edinburgh, with winter coming on, and his men in canvas tents outside the city. The Castle is still held against him, and inside the Castle is the city’s wealth. These reports here say that he is finding his first attempt at administration difficult, and I daresay the Scots are not too happy about being asked to pay a second lot of taxes direct to him when they have already been taxed by their legitimate Government. If he had a wise, cautious head on his shoulders he would of course stay where he is, consolidate his position, and wait for the French to send official support, But he is a rash youth, and ill-advised by the men around him. I am sure he will come south, if the bait is well-laid.”
“Yes,” said Philip. “It should work. You will be greatly in David Vere’s debt, if it does. I wonder what his price is?” Here he looked straight at Mr. Stone, who met his gaze blandly, but did not reply. Philip thought: He knows who David Vere is, but doesn’t choose to admit it. Very well, we can wait.
Lord Lincoln burst into the room, brushing aside the attempt of two of Mr. Stone’s clerks to stop him.
“You must come at once,” he said, panting. “My uncle has gone mad, I think. He broke in on the King’s hour with Lady Yarmouth, to advise that the King pack and depart for Hanover until the Pretender can be dealt with. There was no reasoning with him. The King shouted, Lady Yarmouth was all incomprehension, and my uncle wept unceasingly.”
The three men rose in consternation. “If His Majesty goes,” said Mr. Stone, “Then the Pretender can walk onto the throne without a shot being fired.”
“He must be prevented at all costs,” said Philip. “I will fetch my uncle. He will see that this will not do, and will be able to persuade the King against leaving at such a juncture.”
“The Duke will never allow it,” said Mr. Stone.
“Nonsense!” said Philip. “The Duke has lost his head. This is no time to talk about the cost of such an alliance; and in any event my uncle requires prestige, not cash, for his services. I will go to him at once, and I suggest you go to the Duke and remove him from the King’s presence before he does any more damage.”
“Is this wise?”
“It is necessary, or we all lose our heads.”
Sophia exclaimed with delight as she entered her Aunt Nan’s room. She had not been to see her aunt for several days, and the room had been completely redecorated, and furnished with pieces brought—as she saw—from Tarrant Hall. “Oh, your old chair … and the cabinet from the parlor … and our own tea service and tea-chest … and the silver spoons!”
“Was it not a delightful thought of Philip’s? He sent for these things as soon as he knew I was coming. That big chair over there is for guests. It used to stand in the hall, remember? All my men visitors love that chair. They sit there and talk, and I sit here in my own little sewing chair, and make the sort of inconsequential, encouraging remarks which men like to hear from their women, and we are so pleased with each other! Oh, my dear—such fun—their little secrets—I never thought to be the center of such intrigues at my age. I declare I feel quite ten years younger.”
“What has Philip been up to now?” said Sophia, in a bored tone, as if she personally couldn’t have cared less what he had been up to.
“You must ask him that, my dear.”
Sophia shrugged. “When next I see him, perhaps. Or perhaps I won’t. That is the great advantage of a marriage of convenience, that one need not pry into one another’s secrets. We do not have to be in each other’s company all the time. Just as well. Heigho! I declare I don’t know how I would find the time to spare for him, if he were forever sighing verses in my ear. I am invited everywhere, you know, and he seems to have forsaken Society since he presented me at Court.”
“He is very busy.”
“Oh, don’t think I’m complaining.”
“Are you not, my dear?”
“Certainly not.” Yet Sophia’s cheeks were suspiciously red. She plied her fan vigorously. “Several people have asked me whether you are meaning to go into Society yourself.”
“I, dear? No. What would I have to say to Society, or Society to me? I am happy here, and Philip brings his friends to call on me, you know, just as if I were someone of importance.”
“Really?” Sophia did her best not to sound incredulous. She had perhaps been spoilt by the adulation lavished on her, and the thought of her crippled aunt going into Society had caused her some embarrassment. To give her her due, she was angry with herself for being ashamed of her aunt.
“Oh yes, dear. There is a Mr. Andrew Stone, for instance. He was very distant and civil at first, but improves on acquaintance. Mr. Carramine comes, of course; and yesterday Lord and Lady Lincoln came. They are a sweet couple, are they not? They invited me to a rout—whatever that may be—but I told them I prefer not to go out. They promised me they would seek out young Marjorie and bring her to see me next week. Mr. Denbigh often comes, of course; he is to teach me how to speak German with a good accent, and I am to help him with his book on poetry. And Thomas.”
“Who is Thomas?” Then she remembered. “You mean, my step-son?”
“Philip carries him down here from the nurseries in the late afternoon, and we eat sweetmeats and drink hot chocolate, and I tell him a bedtime story. It is the only time he leaves his room, now.”
“And does he have a secret, too?”
“Yes, my dear, he has. He has agreed to share it with me because I, too, have been afflicted with something which the doctors cannot cure.”
“What? Is he that ill?”
“You are perturbed? Good. It is the first time I have known you express concern about anything but yourself since I arrived.”
“Have I become so selfish?”
“Yes, my dear, I think you have. But perhaps it is only natural. Philip says that it is, anyway. He says that you ought not to be scolded at present, because you are not well.”
“He—says—that? How dare he! How I hate him!”
Aunt Nan smiled at her niece. “Come and meet Thomas!”
Sophia opened her mouth to refuse her aunt’s request, and then shut it again. What had she to lose by learning the truth about the boy? So she followed Mis
s Nan up the winding stair to the nurseries at the top of the house. The windows were tightly sealed, and the air was close and warm. A sea-coal fire burned in the grate, tended by a nurse in white cap and apron. On the bed lay a slim figure with blond hair, restless in sleep.
Sophia dropped to her knees beside the bed. The boy was Philip all over again, but if Philip was slender, this lad looked as if a rough caress might break his bones. Philip was naturally pale, but this lad’s skin was waxen, save for a flush high on either cheekbone. His hands were skeletal, and he looked older than his ten years.
He was lying in the same position as his father after he had fallen from his horse, the day Sophia had met him. She remembered it all too well. She had thought at first that the fall had killed him. His hat and wig had gone in the fall and his fair hair, cropped short, had gleamed bright against the turf. She had looked for gray hairs at his temples, for though his face was hardly lined, the bones were not padded with the full flesh of youth. She had seen many accidents and never lost her nerve before that day, but she had knelt over him in the field, and stared and stared and done nothing to help him, or to fetch help, until he had begun to regain consciousness. And then she had been brusque with him; she, who was never brusque with her patients.
Why? Why had she had to show that side of herself to him? He had been courteous in return, had apologized for troubling her, had managed to walk to the house even though she saw he could barely stand upright. He had disturbed her as no man had done, before or since. Her life had been well ordered until that time. She had known where she was going, and what she had to do. She had accepted the fact that she would have to marry Sir John, and it had not troubled her until Philip had put his arms round her, and kissed her. He had woken a craving in her which Sir John could not satisfy.
In fact, the thought of Sir John had been repugnant to her from that moment, although she knew that Philip was not for her. He had been quite open about it. He had not tried to deceive her in any way. She would have loved him; perhaps had begun to love him, until he had insulted her and she had revenged herself on him by inflicting such hurt as no man could easily bear. She remembered the look on his face when she had laughed at him, and the way he had bowed his head on his hands when he leaned on the stairs, afterwards … and how the sight of his humiliation had hurt her, until it had been almost as much as she could do not to run to him and put her arms round him, and tell him that she was his, and he might do what he willed with her. …
The Tarrant Rose Page 18
