Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  She drew the table back into focus. “Sir, I have a title you might secure. That is, if you truly think it might be of some use to you and your family.”

  The table fell to utter silence. Franklin Harrow’s mouth worked a moment to form the words. “Please, I don’t understand—”

  “I am the Dowager Countess Lillian Houghton, widow of Grantlyn Houghton, fifth lord of Wantage and one-time equerry to His Royal Highness, the former Prince Regent and now King George the Fourth.”

  Franklin had gone absolutely still, his fork frozen in place.

  “At the end of his life, my late husband made a series of disastrous business decisions which left me with ruinous debts. I am here to attempt to begin anew and carve out a place for my son and myself.” She opened her hands. “The titles reside with me. I must warn you, sir, that a scandal now envelopes my reputation. But this does not affect my titles, unless the king himself withdraws them. Until that time, I have every right to do with them as I please. Were I to sell them, the scandal would not pass to you. It is a personal matter and would not affect your own station.”

  “Y-you would do this?” He stared down the long table to where his wife sat, equally stunned. “You would sell us your titles?”

  “They shall do me little good, particularly with the risk of scandal, as I said.”

  “Wh-what do you wish in return?”

  No one touched their food while she mulled this over. Lillian decided, “I should ask that you pay off the portion of my late husband’s debts so that I might retain ownership of my London townhouse. It would not be for me. I have no interest in ever living in England again. But I would like my son to have this possibility, if he so wished. Until then we could rent it out and apply the income to his future. I would also ask for a sum of money sufficient to buy land here in America.”

  It was Sylvia Harrow who asked, “What are the legal requirements?”

  “Any transfer of titles must be approved by the royal equerry. With England’s current king, this can be assured with a proper gift.”

  “You mean I am to bribe the king?” Franklin had regained his equanimity, and there were some smiles around the table at his small jest.

  “You are to offer the gift to his aide,” Lillian corrected carefully. “This regime is constantly in debt. The king gambles, you see. The Parliament has refused to meet his personal expenses. The royal household is strapped for cash. All this works in your favor.”

  “This practice, it’s been done before?”

  “Rest assured, sir, in recent years any number of highborn families have been brought to penury. The disastrous harvests have beggared many. They have sold their titles in an attempt to keep their land. In my case, this is not possible. But if I can at least offer my son a London residence and grant myself new land free of debt, then it is a worthy exchange. That is, if you are interested.”

  “Am I interested?” Franklin clapped his hands to his lap. “Am I interested? Why, I would call your arrival in this house a godsend, my lady.”

  Lillian risked a glance across the table. Reginald observed her with equal measures of joy and pain. She forced herself to turn away and rose from her chair to meet Franklin Harrow’s approach. Even in the midst of such commotion, Reginald managed to share her innermost feelings. Even now, as the hour of their final separation approached.

  “It is my habit to seal such agreements with the shaking of hands,” their host said. “I hope you will not think me forward if I ask this of you, my lady.”

  Despite the moment’s deep distress, she felt as right about this as anything she had ever done. She offered Franklin Harrow her hand and said, “Perhaps you should address me simply as Mrs. Houghton.”

  Chapter 27

  Lillian’s offer dismissed any prospect of her singing that evening. She thought Abe might be somewhat disappointed, but she was grateful for the reprieve. The longer the evening wore on, the more despondent she became. Sylvia and Franklin Harrow continued to query her about the title, its heritage, and the royal court. She did not object. At least she was saved from mulling over worries for which she had no answers.

  The next morning, though it was the Sabbath, was hardly different. Abigail had sought out the vicar before he had departed the previous evening and spoken to him about Lillian’s singing ability. As soon as Lillian was awake and had taken her morning tea, she found herself in the back room practicing a new hymn with Abe. Once again, remaining active held her only sense of solace. As Abe began the song’s introduction, Sylvia appeared in the doorway. A few minutes later, Sylvia was joined by her husband, as well as Erica and Abigail. Reginald was nowhere to be seen.

  Sylvia’s stiff manner evaporated as the music filled the room. “That is most beautiful,” she commented when the practice was over. “Mr. Langston should have been here to hear it.”

  “The gentleman decided to take one of my horses for an early morning run,” Franklin explained.

  Lillian lowered her gaze so that none could see her sorrow. Reginald was no doubt aware of the permanence of their coming farewell. He was easing his way into it. As should she.

  Midway on the long ride to the town and church, a horse and rider cantered up alongside their carriage. Reginald tipped his hat to one and all, then fell in behind without once meeting Lillian’s eye. As they disembarked in the church forecourt and started up the walk, Reginald was intently conversing with an iron-jawed gentleman burned dark by the sun and a second burly man in a wide-brimmed leather hat. Lillian could not help but inquire, “Who, may I ask, is Reginald speaking with there?”

  “The slender fellow is one of my overseers. A most capable gentleman.”

  She felt her host’s hand grip her elbow and guide her forward. “And the other man?”

  “Ah, that would be the sheriff of Farmington. A friend of my overseer, by all accounts.” He led her up the church’s front stairs. “Of course you remember the good reverend.”

  The vicar greeted everyone, then said to Lillian, “Thank you for your willingness to participate in our service this morning. You are ready?”

  “I know the song,” she confirmed. “But I fear . . .” She could not finish.

  In his Sunday robes, the man looked even larger than in his suit the previous evening. Yet his jollity was now replaced with a dignified aura. “Then we shall join together in asking the Lord to aid you in accomplishing what none of us can do alone.”

  “Please, Reverend Stout, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The vicar replied simply, “What all of us should be at the altar. An example, a beacon, a worthy servant.” He turned to the next arrivals.

  As Lillian entered the pew, Reginald hastened up the aisle and seated himself on Franklin’s other side. She quailed at the thought of rising and stepping forward and facing this packed chamber. And Reginald. She glanced over at him. He still did not meet her eye.

  The vicar pronounced the opening benediction, led the congregation through a first hymn, and then said, “We have with us this day travelers from afar, guests in the home of our friends and church elder, Franklin and Sylvia Harrow. Two of their guests have kindly agreed to grace us with song. I could not think of a more appropriate message for us to hear than the words of this next hymn. For we are, all of us, travelers upon this weary road of life.”

  The vicar motioned the two forward.

  Lillian followed Abe around the altar. He seated himself at the organ, and she took up a station where she could both see the music on the stand and watch his lead. Thankfully, now that she was standing and facing the church, there was a sense of peace and focus on the task at hand. The nervousness she felt was merely a part of the moment’s intensity.

  Reginald continued to examine the hands in his lap and not look up at her, yet even so she felt a small thrill. Her talents and experience were finally being put to a worthy use. Not even her worries over Reginald and the lonely days ahead could erase this sense of finding purpose for her gift.

  Ab
e watched for her signal. When she nodded, he played the introduction he had rehearsed. She sang,

  “Our God, our help in ages past,

  Our hope for years to come,

  Our shelter from the stormy blast,

  And our eternal home.”

  Reginald had lifted his gaze. They locked eyes, and it was hard for Lillian to tear herself away long enough to find her place in the song. There was such tenderness in his gaze, such yearning. And such grief. She scarcely heard herself sing.

  “Before the hills in order stood,

  Or earth received her frame,

  From everlasting Thou art God,

  To endless years the same.”

  She lifted her voice to soar, singing now not to the rafters nor to the congregation, but to her Lord. Life may dictate that she and Reginald would remain apart. God in His infinite wisdom knew what was best for both of them. Yet she would love this man with her dying breath.

  “Our God, our help in ages past,

  Our hope for years to come,

  Be Thou our guard while troubles last,

  And our eternal home.”

  Their departure from the Harrow manor was put off a day. Early Monday, Franklin Harrow brought his solicitor up from Farmington. Together they drew up the appropriate papers. Any remaining hesitations the Harrows might have felt about Lillian’s offer were dissolved by her insistence that no payment be made until the titles were officially transferred. Letters of introduction to Lavinia and Samuel Aldridge were prepared with requests for their help. The solicitor’s eager aide was thrilled beyond words to find himself appointed emissary. The young man was sent off that very day upon Franklin’s fastest steed, aimed for the New York ports and the first clipper leaving for England.

  Lillian saw nothing of Reginald throughout much of the day. He had departed with the dawn, taken on a tour of the estate by one of the Harrow overseers, and did not return until they were seeing off the solicitor late in the afternoon. Reginald greeted the man and news of the day’s events with an air of grim fatigue. Lillian tried to speak with him and tell him she understood, but her throat closed up tight and she could not utter the first word. Reginald excused himself and went off to bathe before dinner.

  When they all sat down for an early meal, there was a sense that distant relatives and new acquaintances had been transformed into friends and allies. The mood was now one of eagerness to help one another however possible. The talk soon turned to Wheeling and what they would find up ahead. Franklin Harrow proved an excellent source of useful information.

  “The distance you’ve yet to cover is not that great. From Farmington to Wheeling is only forty or so miles as the crow flies. But between here and there lies the last of the Appalachians. One final spine of mountains is just beyond the western horizon. The National Road maintains its maximum five percent grade through long sweeping turns. The distance is increased by half again. Even so, the road is a marvel of modern engineering.”

  Sylvia Harrow noted somewhat disdainfully, “If it was such a marvel, I don’t see why they couldn’t have erected a few decent inns along the way.”

  “No one in their right mind would remain in the last hills before the plains,” her husband explained. “Especially at this time of year. What we experience here as cold autumn rain could well be snow in the higher reaches.”

  Sylvia was not satisfied. “If you find yourself behind one of my husband’s coal trains or any other line of oxen carts, this last leg of your journey can well take another three days. Which means either camping in forests or sleeping in a miserable tippling inn. Both ways, you run the risk of meeting up with the dread highwaymen.”

  “Now, now, there’s no need worrying our guests. The weather is their real concern,” her husband responded. “It always seems to be raining in these hills to the west of us. Either that or they’re blanketed by a fog so thick you can’t see the hand in front of your face. Many a time I’ve been unable to observe my own lead animals.”

  Lillian listened to the exchange with only half an ear. Once again she was seated across from Reginald. Her position at the table afforded her a perfect station to observe Reginald’s inner turmoil.

  It pained her to even glance his way. Taking another forkful of the excellent fare became a chore. Silently Lillian implored him to lift his gaze, to just look in her direction.

  But he remained withdrawn, tense, and downcast.

  Once again she found herself drawn by her own helplessness to prayer. She could not wait for a private moment.

  Her eyes open and steadfast in their gaze across the table, she offered a new sort of prayer. It seemed to her that the communication was being shaped even before she thought through the words. The prayer changed from one where she intended to plea for herself into one directed outward. Father, I pray for this good man. Whatever I might do to ease his burden, help me to see this clearly. Grant me the strength and the wisdom to do whatever I might to heal his woes and calm his heart. Use me however Thou wilt, Lord, to return the light to his gaze and the happiness to his features.

  “Mr. Langston, I hope you enjoyed your tour of my lands,” Franklin was saying.

  Reluctantly Reginald raised his head. “It was most informative.” “My overseer was able to answer your questions?”

  “I could not have asked for a better guide. He thinks the world of you, sir.”

  “And I of him, I assure you. I suppose he told you that I am granting him and his partner a third of everything they gain from their work.”

  “He did, and he marvels at your generosity.”

  “I have always found that long-standing relationships are best built upon fairness.”

  “I agree.”

  “And honesty,” Sylvia added. “And a chance for all to advance together.”

  Abigail spoke up, “Mr. Langston and Mr. Cutter are taking Abraham in as a partner in their Wheeling venture.”

  “There, did I not say it? It is a wise course, and one that will bear great fruit for everyone involved.” Franklin Harrow smiled down the length of the table. “Will there be other reasons for celebrating in the near future?”

  As Abigail blushed, Sylvia chided her husband, “I cannot imagine anything that might be more inappropriate for you to ask the young lady.”

  “I mean no offense,” he said, still smiling.

  “None taken, sir,” Abigail replied, gazing now at Abe, who was equally embarrassed.

  Franklin Harrow turned his attention to Reginald. “Would you call your quest successful, sir?”

  Reginald sat in silence for a moment, then responded quietly to the plate set before him, “I must see this through to completion.”

  Franklin nodded. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do, sir.”

  Lillian understood Reginald’s message. The ending was upon them. She might wish for another day, another week, or month, but to what purpose? To love him even more deeply? To face a parting that would wrench them both even worse?

  Yes, her heart mourned. Yes, even a single heartbeat more!

  But as she studied the downcast gentleman seated across from her, she knew their parting should come as soon as possible.

  Lillian took a deep breath and tried to control the trembling of her hands. She would not remain in Wheeling as she had intended, drawing out their time together to the last dying gasp. As soon as they arrived, she would make plans to depart for the West.

  Lillian realized the conversation had moved on without her. Franklin was addressing Abe, “I gather you see Wheeling as your very own land of opportunity.”

  “I can but hope at this stage, sir,” Abe replied. “Having never been there before.”

  Abigail asked, “What can you tell us of the place, sir?”

  “The city lives up to its name,” he replied. “A more freewheeling town you will never hope to find. But if I were you, I would not see myself putting down permanent roots in that place.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

&
nbsp; “Because before long the world of opportunity will be moving further west. Soon as the National Road opens to St. Louis, Wheeling will become just another way station and river port.”

  Horace Cutter pointed out, “There will still be the settlers bound for Indiana. From Wheeling they will keep heading west.”

  “Not if trekking to St. Louis means bridges across the great rivers and a closer point from which to begin the overland adventure,” Franklin replied. “You have not seen what it is like west of here, sir. Other than the National Road, there is nothing in the way of decent transportation. Nothing! Crossing a flood-swollen river can mean losing half your herd—either that or paying a ferryman whatever he chooses to charge. There is pestilence and bad water and Indians to tend with. No, you mark my words. The immigrants will take whatever course is safest, and take it as far as they can.”

  “St. Louis,” Abe said thoughtfully.

  “Aye, that’s your world of opportunity. Why, if I was your age, I’d be making for there this very instant! You mark my words. There are lands out beyond our reach that will soon be opening up. Lands the likes of which you’ve never dreamed of.”

  “I’ve read accounts,” Abe said.

  “As have I,” Horace agreed. “And always dismissed them as fables drawn from the blandishments of frontiersmen and fur traders.” This was greeted with chuckles.

  “Fables they might be, but there’s truth enough as well.” Their host thumped the table for emphasis. “Mark my words. St. Louis is the gateway to new worlds. That’s where the future lies!”

  The entire table became caught up in excited discussion. All, that is, save Lillian and Reginald. The two of them remained locked in silence. Lillian continued to study his face, reading there the truth hidden from her before.

  As they rose from the table, she gave Reginald’s downcast features one more moment of scrutiny, seeking to brand his face upon her memory. Three days. She would give herself just three days more, then move on to the void of a future without him.