by Ashe Barker
“Thank you, Beatrice, my lord. The soup would be most welcome. But first, there is something I must tell you.”
“Oh, my dear? And what might that be?” Beatrice tinkles a small bell beside her on the table, which summons Masterson within seconds. The man must spend mealtimes lurking just beyond the door, awaiting the call. Beatrice instructs him to hurry to the kitchens and return with a helping of our cook’s fine Scotch broth and a mug of mead too, if one is to hand. He nods and is on his way.
“So, my dear, what was it you wished to tell us?” Beatrice beams at me across the fine china and silverware.
I lay down my utensils and swallow hard. This is it, the moment I have dreaded since I first began to suspect the predicament I was in. I have kept my secret for months, but no more. I regard the tattered remains of my duck for a few moments, then lift my gaze to meet hers. “Well—”
The door bursts open and Masterson rushes back in. He is empty-handed, bringing with him neither my soup, nor my mead. What he does bring with him is a shocked expression and a most agitated demeanour that suggests all is far from well in the Kirkleven household. And I have not even made my contribution to proceedings yet.
“Masterson, what is the meaning of this?” Sir Phillip dabs at his lips, eradicating non-existent crumbs from his neat moustache.
“Sir, you should come.” Masterson makes his terse announcement, then turns to head back out into the hall. He stops, apparently concerned that the earl is not following obediently at his heels. “My lord, now. It is, it is… important.”
“I trust it is important. Indeed, I must assume the matter to be of the most extreme gravity to occasion such a disturbance when we are at dinner.” Despite his words, Sir Phillip does appear to grasp the urgency of the situation. He deposits his napkin on the table and nods to each of us in turn. “Please excuse me, my dear, Imogen. I shall be back as soon as I have dealt with whatever is so taxing Masterson.”
“Of course, my lord.” Beatrice remains serene as she turns to the hovering servant. “Masterson, is there anything I can do?”
The loyal retainer shakes his head rapidly. “No, my lady. It calls for Sir Phillip, that it does.” He stops, then adds, by way of an afterthought, “I never thought to see ‘im again though, no, I didna.”
“Who? Sir Phillip?” Beatrice blinks, clearly confused. Preoccupied as I am, I have abandoned any attempt to follow the chain of events.
Her husband shrugs as he gets to his feet. “Masterson, you are speaking in riddles. It is a trait I find most disconcerting. Who is it that you did not expect to see again?”
“Young Sir Francis, my lord. But ‘e’s ‘ere, large as life. An’ ‘e’s in yer library.”
The door closes behind Sir Phillip as he accompanies Masterson from the room, his step somewhat quickened by the announcement of exactly who has arrived at Kirkleven. Beatrice and I remain seated, in stunned silence. Beatrice is visibly shocked, her palm pressed to her upper chest as though to still the beating of her heart. It is now my turn to express concern. I wonder which of us might be most in need of that restorative soup, though I somehow doubt it will find its way into the dining room at any time in the near future. I settle for pouring my cousin a glass of light white wine and a second one for myself.
“Young Sir Francis? Is that the earl’s brother?” I recall from our conversation over breakfast some weeks ago that Sir Phillip named the newborn baby after his sibling, but I gained the impression then that Francis was deceased. Clearly, I misunderstood.
“It is, yes. Oh, I do hope the poor young man is all right. It will be so delightful to see him again after all this time. The children will be delirious.” She makes to get up from the table. “I must have another place set. I am sure he will be joining us for dinner. That is, I do hope he and my husband do not come to blows again. That would be most unpleasant.”
“Come to blows?” I am astounded at the mere possibility. Sir Phillip epitomises dignity and calm. I cannot comprehend that he and his long-lost brother might become engaged in a brawl. Might they even now be pummelling each other the length and breadth of the library? I hope they do not disturb my carefully ordered bookcases.
“I fear so. The last time they were together… suffice it to say, they did not part friends.”
“But what…? Why…?”
“They fell out over Francis’ support for the Jacobite cause. I hope he does not continue to espouse such inconvenient nationalist passions—it cannot end well if he does.”
“I see.” In truth I do not, not really. I know of the uprisings in recent years as factions in Scotland have rallied to support first the deposed King James, then his son and now his grandson, Charles. The prince is widely known as The Young Pretender and is, without doubt, a charismatic and somewhat romantic figure. There are many north of the border who would rejoice at seeing the Stuarts restored to the throne and the rumbling dispute has caused unrest and instability in Scotland for decades. The rebels were routed at the Battle of Culloden in 1746, four years ago now. It was a bloodbath, disastrous for the Scots. Young Prince Charles abandoned his attempt to seize power and fled abroad. The cause is lost, as far as I can make out, but clearly Beatrice fears the struggle is about to be resurrected around her elegant dining table.
“Perhaps I should go and find them, ensure no violence occurs…” She regards me, her expression apprehensive to say the least.
I have no doubt that Beatrice will be able to talk sense into her husband should such be needed, but has she influence over the younger sibling of the Kirkleven clan? “Do you and Francis get on?” I ask.
She beams at me. “Oh, yes, we always did. He was a lovely boy and grew to be a fine young man. He was thirteen or so when I arrived here as a bride of just twenty. Francis and I were closer in age than myself and Phillip were. I always thought of Francis as my younger brother. My husband’s parents, the old earl and countess, died in a carriage accident just six months after we were wed, so Phillip inherited the title earlier than we might have envisioned. Francis remained here with us, naturally. I do not believe he and I have ever had a cross word. However, relations between Phillip and Francis became strained as the lad grew older. There was the usual rutting between young males, which is to be expected, I daresay, but it became much worse when Francis developed an interest in the Jacobite cause. His enthusiasm for the Stuart line and restoration of the Catholic faith was always something of a mystery to me. I would hardly describe Francis as devout. Indeed, a more accurate description of his religious sentiments might be indifference. But regardless of that, he was passionate about restoring Scottish independence under a Stuart king and no amount of reasoning by Phillip would sway him from that belief. I daresay he found the whole adventure quite seductive and The Young Chevalier was a most persuasive leader. As the uprising gathered strength in 1745, Phillip forbade Francis to get involved. My husband’s admonitions fell on deaf ears, of course and when Francis announced his intention to join the rebel army, Phillip attempted to prevent him from leaving in the only manner left to him. There ensued a ferocious set-to—right here in this very room. We had to replace most of the china. Phillip might have prevailed, but I implored him to desist and he did so. Francis stormed out of the house and galloped off to throw his lot in with the prince and we have not seen him since. Until today.”
“Oh, my goodness.” I should perhaps come up with something a little more incisive, helpful even, but sadly I find myself at a loss. “Merciful heaven,” I add for good measure.
“We believed he had perished at Culloden with so many thousands like him, idealistic young men, loyal Scots cut down on the battlefield. If he had survived he would have been in touch, surely. We heard nothing and I know Phillip hoped…” She shakes her head. “We all hoped for a miracle. After a year or so we saw no realistic alternative and assumed the worst.”
“But he did survive—evidently,” I point out. “I can understand that Sir Phillip will have
some questions to ask him.” Four years and not a word—if he were my brother, I might be moved to thump him myself.
Beatrice cocks an ear toward the door. “I cannot hear any commotion. I take that to be a promising sign, would you agree?”
“Oh, yes, without doubt.”
“I shall wait ten minutes, no more, then I shall go and disturb them and insist they both join us to finish our meal. I am quite sure you will like Francis, Imogen. He is a most dashing young man. Or he was.”
Ah, yes. Mention of dashing young men brings me sharply back to the uncomfortable news I was about to share. I would prefer not to impart my disreputable tidings with a stranger present, but the alternative is to delay the inevitable. That does not sit well with me. I clear my throat.
“Beatrice, I wonder if I might—”
“Oh, of course. How rude of me. You were about to say something, before Masterson came rushing in. Do please continue, my dear.”
“Thank you, but I had intended to speak with you and Sir Phillip together.”
“Well, of course if you prefer to wait a few minutes. Or I can always share your news with my husband later, if that would be acceptable.”
“No, you are right. Best to get it over with.” I take a deep breath in the hope it might steady my frayed nerves. If it does, the difference is marginal. I meet the countess’ level, interested gaze and I launch into my confession. “I am expecting a baby. At least, I think so.”
No response is forthcoming from her ladyship, though her eyes widen somewhat.
“I expect my baby will be born in perhaps five months’ time.”
Still no words from the countess.
“I know what you must think of me and of course you are quite correct. It is—outrageous, unforgivable.” At my cousin’s continued silence, I babble on. “Quite scandalous in fact and I can only apologise for the distress I have caused. You and Sir Phillip have been so kind to me and I am grateful, I truly am. You do not deserve to have such disgrace heaped at your door. I will leave Kirkleven at once, as soon as I am able to secure alternative lodgings.”
“You will do no such thing.” At last Beatrice has found her voice. “A baby, you say? But… whose?”
“I am afraid I do not know.”
“Oh, good heavens.”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. There is only one man who could be the father, but I do not know his identity.”
“Ah, right…” She appears slightly mollified, but far from satisfied. Clearly my explanation lacks something in the way of detail. “Then, how…?”
I would dearly like to shed further light on the matter, but to do so will involve disclosing details I swore I would never reveal. My explanation will of necessity be sketchy.
“Please, Beatrice, do not press me on this. I would prefer not to say.”
“You would prefer…?” My benefactress fixes me with a gimlet expression as she digests my reluctance to elaborate. She might insist; she would be within her rights, certainly. I remain quite still in my seat, silently begging her not to pursue the matter.
“I see. May I ask you one question then?”
I nod, trusting to any deity who might be observing these proceedings that it will not be a question I cannot—or will not—answer.
“Were you taken advantage of? Forced?”
My jaw drops. I had not expected that. Vehement, I shake my head, determined not to misrepresent the anonymous Gray’s role in my fall from grace. “No! No, certainly not. My baby’s father was a gentleman and I will not hear otherwise. What happened between us was… was—my doing. Mainly.”
I suppose it is true that I would have happily settled for an evening spent playing backgammon or chess, but Gray’s suggestions for alternative sport were not wholly unwelcome. It is true the interlude did not play out quite in the way I anticipated, though I had hardly thought it through, so had little in the way of firm expectation to apply to the situation. The spanking came as a surprise and my response to it even more so. The ongoing implications of that night’s pleasures never entered my head at all, much to my embarrassment all these months later.
I might have been innocent when I agreed to strip and spread my legs for my hero, the highwayman, unworldly without a doubt, but I was in possession of a basic grasp of the biological processes involved. And their probable outcome. I had a choice and I made a poor decision. I am paying for it now.
“We shall have to speak with Phillip about this.”
“I know that. I had intended to tell both of you. Please convey my deepest apologies to him.”
“If you feel minded to apologise, my dear, you must do it for yourself. I doubt such will be uppermost in my husband’s mind in any case.”
“Oh.”
“The earl will believe, as I do, that the best solution is to find you a husband—a nice man, obviously, not an odious fortune-hunter like this Sidney you have told us of. But a husband will be needed to make this right.”
“Oh, no, definitely not. I will not marry. I could not.”
“You could. You must. I really do not comprehend your reluctance. Admittedly your experiences with your stepbrother will have coloured your judgement, but from all you have said, I must conclude that he is a singularly vile example of the male gender. You have always given me the impression that your mother’s marriage was a happy one. Certainly, I have had no cause to bemoan my lot as wife to Sir Phillip. There are good examples of marriage as well as poor ones. We shall find you a suitable husband, one you could like and respect and perhaps come to love in time.”
I shake my head, unable to countenance the notion. “No, I do not care to. Please, I will be all right. I am sure I could—”
“What about this ‘gentleman’ of yours then? Is there no possibility that he might be convinced to take the honourable path?”
“No, that is not possible.”
“He is married already?”
“I… I do not know. I never asked him.”
She narrows her eyes at me, clearly not impressed with that tidbit of information. “So, why not him then? Clearly you entertained some fondness for this man at the time and held him in high regard. Have you since altered your view?”
“It is not that. I do not know where he is, or how to contact him. And—he would not be interested. Ours was a temporary liaison.”
“There is nothing temporary about a baby and he should shoulder his share of the responsibility. You are a gently bred young lady; this man has obligations. Can you tell me nothing of the circumstances? Anything at all which might aid us in locating him?”
“I am sorry, I truly am. But I cannot tell you anything.”
“Have you been coerced? Threatened in any way? I am sure my husband would be happy to offer his protection should that be the case.”
“No, Beatrice. Please believe me when I tell you that this choice is mine. I realise how unreasonable you will consider me, particularly given that I have presumed so much on your hospitality already and hope to continue to do so.”
There, I have said it. I must throw myself upon the mercy of the earl and countess.
“Do not be ridiculous, Imogen. Of course you will continue to do so, though I am sure neither myself nor my husband considers you in the least presumptuous. You are welcome here, regardless of this, this… inconvenience. I do, however, find your silence on the matter of your baby’s father most baffling. I am quite convinced my husband could locate the fellow, if we ask him. Phillip is most resourceful.”
“No! Please, do not. He will not marry me and I would not wish to be his wife in any case. I shall manage on my own.”
“You shall not. We are your family now and we will take care of you.” Whilst I digest that nugget, she taps her forefinger on her upper lip, considering the options. I cannot comprehend that there are many to select from. She offers me a curt, determined nod. “If not a bride we shall make a widow of you. Yes, that would be almost as good a s
olution. Better, perhaps, since the timing will be awkward otherwise.”
“A widow?”
“Yes. We shall say you were married in Yorkshire several months ago, but your poor dear husband fell victim to a sudden and most virulent fever. The unfortunate man passed away not even knowing his new bride had conceived.” She grins at me. “Yes, that shall be our story. We must rehearse it with care, ensure we all sing the same tune.”
“Rehearse what story, my love?”
Neither of us had heard Sir Phillip return to the dining room, but he approaches the table now to retake his seat at the head. He is alone.
“Where is Francis?” demands Beatrice.
“He was fatigued after his journey so asks to be excused. He has gone to bed and will see you at breakfast. My brother sends his warmest wishes and, of course, his congratulations on the arrival of his namesake. Should we ask Francis to stand as godfather, do you think?”
“Of course, he would be an excellent choice. Dare I hope you and he are reconciled?”
Sir Phillip picks up his napkin and places it on his lap. “That is settled then. And yes, we have arrived at an—understanding. Of sorts. I do hope my duck has not spoiled. Might we have kippers for breakfast? I believe Francis would appreciate that.”
“Of course, I shall speak to Mrs. MacBride as soon as we have finished eating.”
He smiles at the pair of us as he delivers a forkful of roast duck to his mouth. I believe I detect a hint of some deeper emotion in his expression but cannot be quite certain. He chews, gives a satisfied grunt, then, “So, you were saying, my love, we need to rehearse. Are we about to embark on a theatrical production of some description?”
“Not exactly, my darling. Imogen has some startling news for us.” She turns to me, her smile serene. “Shall I tell him, dear?”
I nod. “Yes. Please do so.”
