by Ashe Barker
“Er… yes, of course.” I ponder for a moment. Should I share my story with the earl or merely seek his hospitality until the morning, to return when the household is restored to normal?
He leans forward in his chair. “Miss Bennett, you have come a long way and I can see that you are tired. Hungry too, no doubt. I regret that we are not better able to welcome you to Kirkleven this evening, but we are somewhat chaotic given—everything. If you could manage to condense your story into just a few minutes, I am willing to hear it and will ensure it reaches my wife.” His smile is gentler now, if somewhat wan. I decide to throw myself on his mercy.
“Sir, I am here in the hope that I might claim the protection of my family.”
“But, your mother…?”
“My mother died, sir. Last week. Her funeral took place the day before yesterday.”
“I see. My condolences, Miss Bennett. I am sure Beatrice will be saddened too, to learn of your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“You have no other relatives, I presume?”
“No, sir. I mean… yes, I have a stepbrother. And that, my lord, is the reason I am here.” I spend the next few minutes outlining the main events since my mother’s death, managing to omit any mention of lusty highwaymen and of a night spent at an inn somewhere within two hours of Harrogate. It is perhaps fortunate that Sir Phillip is keen to return to Lady Beatrice or I am sure he would have pressed me more closely for the details. As it is, he listens, interrupting just once or twice to clarify some point or other or to direct Masterson to set the tray of food and drink down on a low table between us. When I have finished, I sit, my hands folded in my lap and I wait.
His gaze is level, assessing. “So you wish to remain with us here at Kirkleven until such time as you come of age and may claim your inheritance? Is that the sum of it?”
“It is, sir. My request is an imposition, I know, especially as my mother and Lady Beatrice lost touch some years ago. But I was hoping—”
“This is a matter for my wife to determine and as I have explained, she is not to be troubled just now. From your account of your situation I am to understand you have nowhere else to go at this precise moment?”
I can but nod.
“I see.” He stands and strides to the door, opens it and calls for his servant to return. “Ah, Masterson. Miss Bennett will be remaining with us for the next few days, at least. Please, would you show her to a suitable chamber and see to her comfort.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, my lord. The blue chamber will be suitable enough, I ken.”
“Very suitable. I will leave that with you then.” He turns to face me again. “I must return to Beatrice now and when she is a little more rested, I shall acquaint her with your story. I am quite convinced she will wish to meet you and I am happy to leave the longer term arrangements for my wife to agree. Now, if you would excuse me…?” He executes a brisk bow and exits the room, to leave me to the tender mercies of Masterson.
“This way, miss.” The servant beams at me. I cannot claim credit for having won him over, so must assume that any visitor welcomed by Sir Phillip is acceptable to his loyal liegeman. Now that I am apprised of the facts, I can even sympathise with his protective attitude toward the countess.
I thank Masterson and follow him upstairs, much encouraged that perhaps my life is showing distinct signs of getting back on an even keel after all.
* * *
My optimism has turned out to be justified. After three days of creeping around this gloomy house while the servants eye me with curiosity and Sir Phillip hardly emerges from the master bedchamber, all is suddenly well again. I descend to the main hall this morning in search of something to break my fast, expecting to eat in the usual solitude. Instead, I find the earl seated at the high table, his not inconsiderable clan of children gathered noisily around him.
It is only now, when I see him freshly shaved, his hair neatly caught back in a sleek queue, his austere features softened in merriment, that I fully appreciate how utterly ashen he was when I first appeared on his doorstep. I have pieced together something of the events of that day from listening to the servants and asking the occasional question. I have gathered that no one had any inkling that Lady Beatrice was expecting a baby, her youngest child being almost eight years of age. Sir Phillip was awakened in the middle of the night to find his wife haemorrhaging beside him. Mercifully he realised quickly what was happening and roused the household before galloping to Stirling on his fastest mount. He dragged the finest physician this side of Edinburgh from his bed in the dead of night and convinced the man that his best interests might be served by agreeing to accompany the earl back to Kirkleven to attend the countess.
The birth was going badly and neither Lady Beatrice nor her child were expected to survive. The doctor performed surgery, the details of which I have not been able to ascertain, but he was able to extract the infant alive from her womb. As though that miracle were not enough, he went on to somehow stem the bleeding that was seeping Lady Beatrice’s life from her, though her survival hung in the balance for several more hours.
It was into this commotion that I blundered that night, hammering on the door and demanding to see her ladyship. I am better able now to sympathise with Masterson’s lack of an enthusiastic welcome and I am doubly grateful for Sir Phillip’s generosity to me in his own time of desperate anxiety.
This morning though, all is very different. Sir Phillip is every inch the imposing Scottish lord in his fine dress coat and leggings and seeking to assert his authority over the horde of children who surround him. He even balances a tiny infant upon his lap, mercifully sleeping as far as I am able to tell.
I have caught occasional glimpses of the younger members of the household, but no one has been in the mood to entertain a visitor who is a stranger to them. Everyone at Kirkleven has been subdued, even the children, the house in near silence as events unfolded in the master bedchamber. It is silent no longer. As I enter the hall I encounter a babble of competing voices, demanding their father’s attention.
“Papa, I have learnt to play a new tune on the harpsichord.”
“So have I, papa. And I have finished my sampler. May I take it to show mama?”
“Is this really our brother? Shall we be keeping him?”
“When shall we go to the fair? You promised.”
“Juno has had puppies. They are in the barn. May I take one? Please, papa. I will keep him out of your library this time, I swear it.”
Sir Phillip glances up at me, his expression harried but oddly content. He silences the clamour around the table with one authoritative upraised hand.
“Ah, Miss Bennett. I was hoping I might encounter you this morning. Beatrice has requested that you visit her in her chamber, at your convenience, obviously.”
“She is better, then? Thank heaven for that.” I reach for the back of a spare chair, my relief almost as palpable as I know Sir Phillip’s must be.
“Indeed she is, much better now and anxious to make your acquaintance.” He casts a mock stern look at his assembled brood. “I gather that there is something of a queue forming though, so perhaps you might allow these eager little ruffians to visit their mother first.”
“Yes, of course. I expect it has been an anxious time for them all. Beatrice will be eager to see them.”
The earl’s lips curl in a wry grimace. “I am not certain that eager best describes her mood, but she is keen to know that all is well with her children and will not be satisfied until she sees them with her own eyes. Please, will you not join us?” He gestures to me to sit. “I will endeavour to introduce you, if I can recall everyone’s name.” He gives me a teasing wink.
“Papa, you know our names. You do!” This from a girl of perhaps ten years old, her gleeful gaze trained on her father. The other younger children giggle.
“Aye, I daresay I will manage. Shall we start with you, Lucy?”
Sir Phillip goes
around the table, introducing each of the children to me. I learn that they are Phillip, the eldest, a lad of fourteen. Next comes Beatrice, aged twelve and already showing promise of stunning beauty. Edward is next, at eleven years old, then Lucy, who I learn is just nine. The baby of the family, at least until this week, is eight-year-old Charles. I greet each one in turn and am treated to a polite handshake from each under their father’s stern but fond eye. Charles is the one to break with tradition by throwing his arms around me and bursting into tears, clearly overcome by the stress of recent events.
I enfold him in my arms and pat his narrow back ineffectually, whilst looking to Sir Phillip for guidance. He stands and walks around the table to us.
“Would you take this one, Miss Bennett?” He holds the baby out to me and I accept the tiny burden. As I behold the minuscule perfection that is this latest addition to the Kirkleven brood, Sir Phillip crouches beside his weeping son. “Come here, lad.”
Charles turns to his father and tries to stem his tears. Sir Phillip beckons him closer, then wraps his arms around the small figure. “I know you are a brave little man, never more than over the last few days and I am proud of you. Of all of you. It is good to be courageous and strong, but it is all right to cry sometimes too, especially here, at home with our family. We will not tell, shall we?” He looks from one to the other of his children, who all shake their heads dutifully. I suspect Charles will not be the only one to shed a few tears now that the crisis seems to have passed.
Sir Phillip appears satisfied. “Good. Now we have that settled, shall we see what cook has set out for us? After we have all broken our fast, I shall permit you to go up to see your mama, no more than two at a time and you must not stay too long. She still needs her rest.”
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of domestic babble as the children help themselves from the array of fare left on the sideboard by servants who continue to replenish the plates. Sir Phillip and I pass the baby between us in order that we are each able to share in the meal.
“Does this little one have a name yet?” I enquire.
“I believe we shall call him Francis. That is Beatrice’s wish, at any rate and she usually has her way in such matters.”
I smile at the angelic little face nestled in the crook of my arm. “Ah, that is a good name. It suits him.”
“Are we to name him after Uncle Francis then, papa?” This from Beatrice, as she brushes crumbs of bread from her fingers.
“Your mother wishes to do so and the name is not presently in use so perhaps she shall prevail.”
“Is Uncle Francis not coming back, papa? Not ever?” Beatrice is persistent as well as lovely. I have no doubt she will grow up to be a formidable woman in due course.
Sir Phillip frowns at her and I form the distinct impression this is not a subject he chooses to discuss if he can avoid it. “We have spoken of this and my opinion this morning is as it was when last you asked. No, sweetheart, I do not believe he will. Not after all this time. So, are you ready to go upstairs now?”
The first cohort is to be Beatrice and her sister, Lucy. They take their leave and head off, chattering about harpsichords, samplers, and which of them is to be allowed to sit on their mother’s bed first. The boys also amble off when their tutor comes to collect them, destined to spend the rest of the morning grappling with algebra and the mysteries of natural history.
“You have a wonderful family,” I observe when at last the room is quiet.
“I do and I adore all of my children. I might even warm to this one, eventually, when the trauma of his arrival into the world has subsided somewhat.” He grimaces at the baby, now restored to his care and showing signs of waking. “I wonder where that wet nurse has got to.”
“He is a beautiful child. So perfect. And so tiny.”
“Indeed. I suspect he came into the world a little earlier than nature intended but he seems none the worse for his adventure. That is more than I can say for myself. I swear this business has taken years off my life.”
“But he is worth it, surely?”
Sir Phillip appears to be considering this question with some care. He regards me in silence for several moments. “I have three sons, four now and that is ample. More than enough. I love them, my daughters too, though the lot of them drive me to distraction with their chatter on occasions. I have but one wife and I almost lost her. Had that happened, I doubt I could ever have arrived at the conclusion that an additional child was worth paying such a price. Beatrice will no doubt disagree but there you have it. I am a selfish man. Now, if you would excuse me, I must seek out that nurse before this little tyrant starts to exercise his lungs.”
He gets to his feet and makes off to the door. He stops, turns to me. “Could you wait an hour or so to allow the children their time with their mother? Beatrice will be delighted to see you, I know.”
Chapter Seven
“Get down from the carriage, all of you.” I brandish my pistol into the dark interior of the coach by way of further encouragement. As I stand back to allow the startled occupants space to disembark, I am satisfied my efforts in pursuing and halting this coach are about to pay off. This has all the makings of a lucrative night’s work.
I have not been idle during the three—no, closer to four—months since my encounter with the charming Miss Imogen Bennett, but must conclude that travellers are becoming much more cautious in their approach to transportation. I have stopped several conveyances, brandished my pistol and threatened the direst of consequences, but failed to collect more than a few paltry trinkets from each. Whilst I cannot find it in myself to regret my uncharacteristic generosity in providing Imogen with ample funds to make her journey to Scotland, the investment has nevertheless left me somewhat embarrassed for ready cash. My landlord demands payment, as do several purveyors of fine liquor and a number of gambling houses.
I can but hope the sweet lady has met with better fortune than I have in the intervening weeks, and that her optimism with regard to her relatives north of the border was not misplaced. Such reminiscences however will not settle my debts and I have pressing matters to attend to.
Two gentlemen, portly and clearly not without substantial means with which to swell my dwindling coffers, exit the vehicle first to stand beside the hapless coachman who slumps by the wheel. He opted to put up a fight when I burst at a gallop from the cover of the trees lining the road and has taken a bullet in the shoulder for his trouble. The men are followed by a middle-aged matron sporting a rather splendid set of pearls and two younger women adorned with sparkling diamonds about their throats and wrists. If I am not mistaken, I spot a pair of sapphire earrings too. Ah, yes, excellent pickings indeed.
I extract a decent-sized sack that I keep tucked into my belt for use on such occasions and I hand it to the younger of the women because she appears the most horrified by this turn of events. I generally find frightened females to be biddable enough and not requiring of further persuasion. “Remove your jewels and drop them in there. All of them. You do not wish me to have to search you, I trust.”
From her aghast, tearful expression, I have to assume my more detailed attention is not something this particular young miss wishes to attract. A pity, really—the prospect of running my hands over her trim little body is not without its appeal. A glittering necklace quickly finds its way into my bag, followed in short order by a matching bracelet and a gold brooch. The obliging young lady even removes the gold pins from her hair to contribute to my fortune.
“Thank you. Now if you would be so good as to collect all valuables from your companions? Those can go in the sack too. Be quick about it.”
“How dare you? You scoundrel!”
Not only has the older of the two gentlemen found his voice, he has seen fit to exercise it. I level my pistol at his head, which does seem to have a quieting effect, though experience tells me this will be short-lived. I have no pressing desire to escalate this situation, so resolve to hu
rry matters up.
“Unless there is anyone here harbouring a wish to accommodate a helping of lead between their ribs, I suggest you all make haste to deposit your jewels and money in my sack. Let us have no heroes this night, especially dead ones.”
All three women are sobbing and the men’s glares are nothing short of murderous, but my threat does the trick. My sack is soon pleasantly full and I take it from my trembling little helper with a courtly bow. “Thank you, my dear. Now, if I could trouble you to tie up your travelling companions, please?”
I keep my pistol trained on the group huddled beside the downed driver as I tie the bag to my saddle and produce a length of stout rope. The coachman is groaning with not inconsiderable enthusiasm, but I am confident he will live. It is the quiet ones who I usually find most worrying. I am not squeamish; I will injure or even kill if I have to, but I see no cause to do so if such might be avoided. I regret the coachman’s impetuous determination to protect the property of others and wish him no further harm.
The young woman takes the rope and eyes her companions with some consternation. I decide to offer some direction.
“You two, sit down on the ground, back to back.” I gesture to the two men with my pistol. Their glares become even more hostile, if that were possible, but they do as I instruct them. I return my attention to the girl. “Bind their wrists behind them, good and tight and tie them together. And please, do not be tempted to do anything stupid. I will check and if I suspect you have made the knots too loose, you will pay dearly for that error. Do I make myself clear?”
She nods quickly and bends to do my bidding. It takes her several minutes to complete the task, probably because she is sobbing so hard. I resist the urge to exert more pressure on her since it would not ultimately make matters proceed with any greater alacrity. Instead, I wait, patient, until she straightens. A quick glance satisfies me that she has done her best and in any case, I do not require my victims to remain restrained for more than the few minutes it will take me to get away.
