by Anne O'Brien
‘I was ignorant of our relationship until some weeks ago. Lady Drusilla saw no necessity to tell me.’
‘Ah. But she did finally.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I be permitted to ask why?’ Sir Edward’s manner betrayed nothing but a mild interest—and perhaps a sensitivity for so difficult an occasion.
‘That is of no consequence.’
‘Very well.’ He accepted her reluctance with apparent equanimity. ‘So why are you here today?’ He watched her. Thinking rapidly, he noted the sheen of wealth, of the confidence of the rich and privileged, of high fashion. It immediately caught his interest. Here was a lady who could be of use to him. A very useful weapon, although in what manner he was not yet sure. Why had he not thought of this connection before? It would be wise to be open to any opportunity that might present itself from this unlooked-for conversation.
Equally, Theodora took a keen assessment of her brother. A gentleman, certainly. With, according to the little she had heard, a vast catalogue of unidentified sins. He looked pleasant and affable, with open features and a ready smile. Nothing sly or untrustworthy to prick her instincts. But whether he would tell her the truth, she had no idea.
‘I am given to understand, Sir Edward, that I also have a sister.’
‘Why, yes, indeed. Sarah.’
‘Does she live near? Can I meet her?’
‘Forgive me, my dear.’ He rose to refill his glass, looking back at her over his shoulder. There was true regret in his voice. ‘I no longer know where she resides. Sarah married a naval man against the family wishes. Not an advantageous marriage or, I believe, a happy one for my sister. Unfortunately he lacked good family and connections. Sarah, I am loathe to admit, has chosen no longer to communicate with us—despite encouragement from me. She has a child, I think. But more than that … ‘He shrugged as he returned to his chair and lifted his glass to his lips.
Leaving Thea with little choice but to broach the subject that had brought her to Whitchurch.
‘It has come to my knowledge, sir, that there was some … unpleasantness … between the Baxendales and the Marquis of Burford. I have come here hoping to discover the truth.’
‘Ah!’ The Faringdons. So that was the issue! Now, how was his sister possibly linked with the Faringdons? It would be well to have a care. ‘So that old scandal has reared its head. I had hoped for Octavia’s sake that it had died a death.’ A tightening of the lips was the only emotion Sir Edward allowed himself to betray.
‘Octavia?’
‘My dear wife. You can meet her soon. She has gone into the village on an errand of mercy.’
‘I would like that.’ Thea could detect nothing but concern in her brother. ‘Will you tell me?’
‘What is it you wish to know?’
‘I would know what the issue is between you and the Faringdons.’
‘Very well. We never speak of it now, as you will soon understand—but I will tell you. As a close member of family, perhaps you should know the truth.’ Sir Edward leaned back, crossing one elegantly booted leg over the other. ‘Tell me, are you acquainted with any members of the Faringdon family? We rarely socialize, so I am not aware …’
‘Yes. A little.’
So there was something here. Perhaps something that he could use to their detriment—and his satisfaction.
‘Lord Nicholas, perhaps? Or the Countess of Painscastle? If you have moved in the first circles in London—as I am sure you have—I expect that you will have been introduced.’
‘We have been introduced.’ Thea watched her brother. Again, nothing in his manner to disturb her, to make her aware of the direction of her brother’s calculations, the sudden explosion of insight, the chance of a sharp thrust of revenge for past injuries. And if there happened to be an understanding between Lord Nicholas and his sister … well, it would please Sir Edward greatly to destroy any chance of happiness there. As for this sister who sat so confidingly before him, he had no feelings for her, did not know her. Envied her, of course. She had enjoyed an easy, wealthy life of luxury and comfort, whilst they at Whitchurch … He owed her nothing! It would not hurt him to apply a gentle twist to a knife buried to its hilt in her hopes and dreams of love. Miss Wooton-Devereux deserved nothing from him! He smiled at Thea, all warmth and brotherly concern. He would sow a few bitter seeds, then wait and see what the harvest would bring. All carefully masked behind those smiling blue eyes, guaranteed to ease Thea’s doubts. So he began his tissue of lies, as skilfully woven as cloth of the finest quality.
‘It is not a comfortable tale and I beg that you will not discuss it in the hearing of Octavia. You will soon appreciate why. But these are the bones of it. Thomas, Marquis of Burford, promised Octavia marriage in the year when she was presented for a Season in London. He courted her most assiduously. She was impressionable and young, overawed by his wealth and his title—and his handsome face, of course. He seduced her and left her carrying his child.’
Edward took a sip of claret as if to removed an unpleasant taste from his mouth.
‘Forgive me. It still brings me pain. The Marquis then reneged on his promise, refused to recognise the child as his own and cast her off. He married Eleanor Stamford instead.’ His lips sneered.
‘I see. But why?’ Thea felt her heart soften towards the unknown Octavia. ‘Why did he not marry Octavia?’
‘Simple enough. Because although she was gently born, he claimed that her birth was not good enough, not appropriate for a Marchioness of Burford. She was good enough for him to seduce!’ His bitterness on behalf of the lady won Thea’s acceptance.
‘So what happened to Octavia?’
‘I knew Octavia—had known her from her girlhood.’ His lips now curled a little in a smile at the memory. ‘I married her to protect her name and give the child a home and a father. When the child was born I applied to the Marquis for financial recompense for Octavia’s sufferings—and for the child, of course. We were refused and threatened with a court case against us if we persisted. I did persist.’ Sir Edward shook his head in apparent disbelief. ‘It seemed so wrong that the Faringdons should be able to reject so innocent a lady as Octavia. I took her to Burford Hall, with the child, to beg for restitution. By then the Marquis had died and matters were in the hands of his brother, Lord Henry. We were faced by the united Faringdons. Can you imagine the humiliation? Yes, they listened to what I had to say—and then promptly turned us from the door. Denied any involvement or proof of the child’s paternity. Accused me of being a charlatan and Octavia—well, there is no need to explain what the implications were of her. It would be too shaming to resurrect such words as we heard that day from the lips of Lord Henry Faringdon. Enough to say, they would have destroyed our credibility in society if we had pursued the matter further.’
‘I did not realise …’ Theodora found her thoughts almost paralysed with shock at this appalling situation, concerning a lady who was, after all, her sister-in-law.
‘It is not a flattering picture, I am afraid.’ Edward’s gaze was sharp and bright on his sister’s face, but full of compassion.
‘No, indeed. It is … it is a disaster!’
‘I am sorry if it distresses you—’ now, how will she react! ‘—if perhaps you had a … an understanding with Lord Nicholas?’
‘No. I …’
Thea fought to bring her thoughts into some form of order. This dreadful tale of deliberate, wilful cruelty to an innocent young girl. Could Henry and Nicholas Faringdon have behaved with such callous insensitivity and selfishness? Surely she could not have been so mistaken in the man to whom she had so willingly and joyfully given her heart.
‘Could I ask,’ Sir Edward broke into her despair, ‘what have the Faringdons said about the affair?’
She does not know the truth. She will accept anything I say!
‘I could not discover the truth,’ Thea confirmed to Edward’s satisfaction. ‘Neither Judith—nor Lord Nicholas—was willing to discuss it. I
believed it was to shield the name and reputation of Eleanor, but perhaps …’
‘What could they say that would not be shaming to themselves?’ Edward gently increased the pain. ‘They acted with complete ignominy. Octavia was better off out of their clutches.’
Thea drew in a deep breath. It all seemed so horribly possible. ‘And the baby?’
‘A son.’ Edward acknowledged. ‘Unfortunately it died. We—Octavia and I—have never had the felicity to have more children.’ His lowered lashes hid any grief.
‘I am very sorry, sir …’
‘I, too, am sorry if it brings you pain, Theodora, but it is better that you know the truth. The Faringdons were arrogant and unfeeling, with no thought for a poor wronged girl who was preyed upon, who was robbed of her youth and innocence. I fear that Octavia has never recovered her spirit or her pure enjoyment of life. She lives in shadows, fearful and suspicious of all—other than myself
So there it was. Or Edward Baxendale’s version of it. As Thea sat and studied her brother’s face, the sorrow and concern that she could read there, it came to her that there was no reason for her not to believe the wretched tale she had just heard. But it was a terrible indictment of Nicholas and the whole Faringdon family. Anger simmered. If it were true, how humiliating it was that she had failed so completely in her judgement of human nature, had fallen in love with someone who in effect did not exist. The Nicholas she knew—caring, careful and concerned for the feelings and welfare of others—did not match this terrible portrait painted by her brother. How could she have been so wrong, have misjudged him so completely? How could she have given herself to a man who could treat a defenceless and needy woman with so little respect? But was it all true?
Edward watched the uncertainties flit across his sister’s face and worked to preserve a bland appearance. So far, so good.
‘Listen.’ He stood and stretched out a hand to bring Thea to her feet. ‘That will be Octavia. Now you can meet her—my very dear wife.’
So Theodora met the lady in question. A fair lady, slender almost to the point of thinness, with pale eyes that seemed reluctant to rest for long. Pretty enough, but the fine lines in the delicate skin of her face suggested a life touched with grief, perhaps nervous strain. Yet she responded to her husband with real affection and made Theodora welcome.
Thea did not stay long. She soon discovered that Octavia had little to say beyond a comment on the weather or the state of her rose arbours. Thea could well believe Octavia having been a victim. She was as insubstantial as a sunbeam on a winter’s day. Yet her situation demanded sympathy. Her loss and her rejection by one whom she thought had loved her—a Faringdon—must have been hard indeed.
Thea made her farewells and felt the similarity of rejection with bitter pain.
‘It would please me if you would keep in touch with us here in the country,’ Sir Edward invited as Thea stood in the hall, preparing to depart. ‘We do not go into society. Times are hard with us.’ He hoped a slick of guilt would attack the lady’s conscience. ‘I congratulate you on your good fortune. Life has blessed you, with Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla.’
‘It has. I must be grateful.’ The comparisons between their lifestyles touched her with discomfort. As intended.
‘Octavia would much enjoy your visits. To hear of events in London. We have few acquaintance who stay in town.’ Sir Edward smiled again, the perfect host, the deadliest of enemies.
Thea made a non-committal reply as she curtsied her farewell. Edward kissed her hand and her cheek.
‘Well?’ Agnes Drew enquired as they were once more embarked on their journey and Thea showed little inclination to break the silence.
The lady sighed and turned her head. ‘I do not know! I simply don’t know.’
‘Was it what you had hoped for?’
‘No. It was worse than I could possibly have imagined.’
‘Hmm. But can you trust Sir Edward? You do not know him.’
‘I do not know that either.’
‘And Lord Nicholas? After all, you do know him, Miss Thea.’
Yes. I thought I loved him. I still do. But is he a man worthy of my love? Sir Edward has cast all into doubt.
Life at Burford Hall and Aymestry Manor followed inexorably the demands of the changing seasons. Enough to occupy Nicholas, enough to fill his mind with the day-to-day affairs of running two estates and planning for the future. Enough to distract his thoughts from a blighted love affair, the final ending of which should have been a matter for rejoicing. But when he rode beneath the dripping beeches in a heavy shower, he sensed her beside him. When he rose from a troubled sleep at early light or took himself to bed—alone!—with dreams that teased and haunted him. Nicholas cursed and informed himself that Theodora WootonDevereux no longer had a niche in his life. Unfortunately he discovered, long forgotten in a coat pocket, a little diamond-and-sapphire brooch, which forced him to remember how he had removed it in the soft twilight of the stable and kissed its owner into shocked delight. For a moment he watched it catch the light with rare brilliance, then pushed it out of sight, too painful a talisman. There was no need for him to spend one second in a day in thinking of her. It would all get better with time.
It did not.
The most urgent business to confront him was the matter of the Maidens. Some days after Thea’s departure, he rode into Leominster to meet with his fellow JPs at the Talbot, to discover with no surprise that the rural unrest was to be the main subject of discussion. The Maidens, with their skirts and scarves, their vociferous complaints, were extending their demands and their range of operation. Lewis Bates was still recognised as the leading voice, but the name of Samuel Dyer came often to the fore, particularly when the event involved more violence or threats of retribution than had emerged in the past. Almost every JP had some tale to tell of their activity. More old ricks had been burnt—not a great matter in itself, but a symptom of the disruption that they all understood. Two of the gentlemen making inroads into the port at the Talbot had received threatening letters, badly written but clear in their intent if the landlords did not answer their demands. Sir Thomas Clifford over towards Kingsland had suffered an actual attack on his house, forcing him to barricade his doors and windows to safeguard his wife and young family, until his neighbour could arrive and help drive the mob of drunken, swaggering labourers from their entrenched positions.
The demands were simple and clear, exacerbated by the poor harvest in the previous year and the cool spring, but there was no immediate remedy for the hunger sweeping the countryside beyond the setting up of soup kitchens, which most landlords were prepared to do. As for the desired lower rents and higher wages, it was an individual matter for each landlord. Lord Westbourne, as might have been expected, had no intention of giving in to the rabble at his doors. Nicholas winced at his lordship’s forthright condemnation of his estate workers. Any attempts to ease the local suffering would receive no aid in that quarter. For himself, Nicholas arranged a meeting with his agent to see what could be done for those Faringdon tenants hardest hit. Meanwhile, the gentlemen of Herefordshire discussed the wisdom of calling out the local militia if news of further riots reached them.
For a short time, it gave considerable direction to Nicholas’s thoughts.
‘Well, Theodora. Sir Hector and I thought that you had abandoned us for good. I had no idea that you would find Cousin Jennifer’s company so entertaining or Tenbury Wells so attractive.’ Lady Drusilla regarded her daughter with close and critical attention on her eventual and belated return to Upper Brook Street.
‘Cousin Jennifer liked to reminisce,’ Thea informed her mother as she took a seat in that lady’s boudoir and steeled herself to withstand the probing questions in the inevitable cross-examination. She had been dispatched to Herefordshire for a few days—which had mysteriously and inexplicably transformed themselves into weeks.
‘She must have done. Apparently you were captivated.’
Thea ignored th
e dry comment, kept her lips curved into some semblance of pleasure and merely folding her hands in her lap expectantly. She must keep her wits sharp if her mother were to remain in ignorance.
‘And The Zephyr. I understand that she is not with you. Why did you not bring her home?’
‘A minor sprain. Some of the roads and tracks in the area of Tenbury Wells were very uneven. She will be sent on when fit again.’
‘Did you enjoy the visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Country life?’
‘Very … ah, relaxing.’
So why do you give the impression that you are neither sleeping nor eating well? And avoiding my questions!
‘And the scenery?’
‘Very pretty.’
‘Hmm.’ Lady Drusilla clasped a chain of sapphires around her neck, watching her daughter through the mirror with narrowed eyes. ‘What did you find to do in all this pretty scenery that gave you so much enjoyment?’
‘What one does in the English countryside at this time of year, I expect—walk, ride, read a little on wet days, converse with Cousin Jennifer.’ Thea studied her fingernails in rapt concentration.
‘It sounds fascinating.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Lady Drusilla tapped her fingers on the dressing table. Thea was as tight-lipped as an oyster, but something had occurred. Something momentous. She looked well enough, perhaps a little distracted. Tense also, by the evidence of her fingers, which she had now clenched into admirable fists as she tried to keep her mama at bay. In good health—although Thea was rarely otherwise—but with no bloom, no sparkle. And not sleeping well. The lady frowned at her daughter’s image. Lady Drusilla would try again.
‘Agnes had a fall, I understand.’
‘Indeed. A broken bone in her wrist.’ For the first time a little anxiety touched Thea’s carefully bland expression. ‘But it was set with great skill and now Agnes says that she suffers no pain, although it is still stiff, of course. She insisted that she was fit to travel and seems to have no lasting ill effects.’
