by Deborah Hale
Ford dropped to his knees, where Laura said he belonged. He’d succeeded in making her hate him. And it had been much easier than winning her love. Though a crushing sense of loss engulfed him, he clung to a small shred of satisfaction. He had done the right thing at last, giving Laura the freedom and independence she deserved. He would make certain word got about that he had deserted her. That way, once the scandal of his illegitimacy broke, she would not share in his disgrace, but instead be an object of public sympathy.
He only wished that, in order to save her, he had not been obliged to hurt and deceive her.
Chapter Nineteen
“I think Ford lied to you,” announced Susannah with stubborn certainty, the morning after Laura had arrived at Lyndhurst, pale and distraught.
Belinda had asked no questions the night before, but put Laura to bed after making her drink a saucer of sweetened cream mixed with brandy. The potion had done its job, lulling her into a deep, exhausted sleep. But when she woke and recalled what had happened, she began to weep in harsh, jagged sobs that she was powerless to control.
Someone must have heard her, for Belinda and Susannah soon burst in. Still wearing their dressing gowns and nightcaps, they clambered on to the bed, offering comforting words and embraces.
The moment she was calm, however, Susannah demanded information. “What has Ford done? You must tell us. I know you probably think I am too young to understand, but you’re wrong.”
“Sukie,” Belinda pleaded, “give poor Laura some privacy. She will confide in us when she feels the need.”
“And when will that be?” Susannah glared at them both. “When pigs fly? I am sick of secrets and tiptoeing about, pretending nothing is wrong when it’s clear something is dreadfully wrong. If you don’t tell me, I will go straight to Hawkesbourne and badger the truth out of Ford.”
Her sister’s protest took Laura aback. Something about it echoed the complaint she’d made to Ford about being denied power over her life. By trying to protect her sisters from distressing truths, had she denied them the power of knowledge and the power to help?
“You will do no such thing!” cried Belinda. “You are under my roof, remember. And I forbid—”
“Sukie is right.” Laura wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I am sick of secrets, too. They are like mould, festering in the dark. It is no use trying to explain what happened between Ford and me without telling some other things I have kept to myself for far too long.”
An hour later, an exhausted hush lay over the room. Her sisters were pale and subdued but Laura felt strangely at peace.
“I think Ford lied to you,” said Susannah at last. “In fact, I’m certain of it.”
“Of course he did.” Laura hugged her bent knees to her chin. “Every time he pretended to care for me.”
“Not then—last night! Put your hurt feelings aside for a moment and think. Is it easier to deceive someone day and night for months on end or for a few minutes in the heat of an argument? And which speaks louder, actions or words?”
Every instinct for self-preservation urged Laura to ignore her sister’s opinion. All the more because of how much she wanted to believe it. She could not afford to live in a false world of rosy delusions as her mother had. Life had treated her too harshly for that. All she wanted now was a little hard-won peace.
Yet a stubborn vein of reckless spirit still pulsed within her heart, unbowed by her past ordeals. One that had gloried in the sheer tempestuous adventure of loving a man like Ford Barrett. Against her caution and better judgement, it made her say, “I understand what you mean. But why should he tell me such a terrible lie—one that was sure to make me leave him?”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than a possible answer presented itself. But did she dare believe it?
“My lady!” Mr Pryce looked as if he wanted to throw his arms around Laura when she returned to Hawkesbourne later that day. “I was going to call on you this evening at Lyndhurst, though his lordship told me to wait at least a week.”
“Wait for what?” Laura strode into the entry hall. “And where is his lordship? I have a few things I wish to say to him.”
“He’s gone, ma’am. I have no idea where. I was hoping you might. He went this morning, taking all his belongings. He said you were to have charge of the estate for as long as need be. I was to go to Lyndhurst in a week’s time and inform you. The way he took his leave of me, I felt his lordship did not ever mean to come back.”
“I don’t believe he does, Mr Pryce.”
Why had Ford quit Hawkesbourne so soon, leaving his whereabouts such a mystery? Laura wished he were there so she could demand an answer to that question and many others. Had he fled to escape her questions because he dared not answer them truthfully?
“Begging your pardon, my lady.” Mr Pryce studied her face with fatherly concern. “Master Ford didn’t harm you, did he? I always regretted ignoring the signs when Master Cyrus mistreated you. I was afraid I would only make things worse for you and for Mrs Penrose.”
“That was the very reason I kept silent,” replied Laura. “I can hardly blame you for doing the same. I thought I had succeeded in hiding my troubles from the rest of the household. I should have known nothing would escape your efficient scrutiny. Master Ford did not harm me. Indeed, I believe he may be trying to protect me, but he is going about it in quite the wrong way.”
“The two of you seemed so happy together.” The butler sighed. “I wonder if this house is cursed, like the Scripture says about visiting the iniquities of the fathers on to the third and fourth generation?”
“Iniquities?” said Laura. “Cyrus, you mean?”
Mr Pryce shook his head. “That was only the fruit of it, my lady, not the seed. Forgive me. It is not my place to speak out of turn about the family.”
His remark piqued Laura’s curiosity. “I know you would never comment about the Barretts to outsiders. But since I am a member of the family, I do not think it would be out of place for you to tell me. Perhaps over a cup of tea in your pantry?”
Mr Pryce seemed torn between discretion and a desire to oblige her. But after several moments’ reflection he nodded. “You look as if you could use a cup of tea, my lady, and I know I can.”
He led her below stairs to the butler’s pantry, a snug little room that smelled of boot-blacking and silver polish. A long narrow table stood against one wall, overlooked by a row of windows just below the ceiling. There were two chairs, of which Mr Pryce offered Laura the upholstered one by the hearth, while he pulled up a plain wooden one for himself. Then he bustled off the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a tea tray.
“So tell me,” said Laura as she poured the steaming tea into their cups, “what sort of curse hangs over Hawkesbourne? If there is such a thing, I have been as much its victim as anyone. Perhaps if I know what I am dealing with, I can find a way to break it.”
She didn’t really believe in curses, but she had seen for herself how wrongs from the past, especially those shrouded in secrecy, could ripple out to cause harm for years afterward. Might Mr Pryce tell her something to help her find Ford and make things right? Or would it convince her that a fresh start held the only hope for Hawkesbourne, Ford and her?
Mr Pryce took a sip of his tea. “I reckon you know, ma’am, that Master Cyrus was descended from old Lord Kingsfold through his first wife and Master Ford through his second.”
Laura nodded. “That was why Cyrus was so much older than Ford.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Pryce glanced around the room. “When I came here as a boot boy, many years ago, I heard it said the old master’s first marriage was arranged by his father and not at all to his liking. When he inherited the title shortly after his son was born, he sent the child and his mother to live in Bath and seldom saw them again for the rest of their lives.”
Though she could not help but sympathise with anyone forced into a loveless marriage, Laura could not condone the actions of Ford’s grandfather, part
icularly toward his son.
“Master Cyrus’s parents must have died young,” the butler continued, “for he was living with his grandmother in Bath when she died. Old Lord Kingsfold sent the boy away to school, but he came here on his holidays. They were never close, but it got worse after his lordship remarried—for love this time—and Master Ford’s father was born. His lordship doted on his second son and made no secret of wishing he and his descendents would inherit Hawkesbourne instead of Master Cyrus.”
Was that why Ford had felt the family title and estate were his rightful destiny? Laura wondered. Because his grandfather had drummed it into his head from childhood? As for Cyrus, a reluctant flicker of pity stirred in her heart for him. Hearing an echo of it in Mr Pryce’s voice, she sensed how his loyalties must have been bitterly divided through the years.
The butler paused for a drink of tea, then carried on his story. “It went beyond talk, too. Old Lord Kingsfold tried to keep Master Cyrus from finding a wife. Meanwhile he showered his younger son with the best of everything and encouraged him to wed young, for love.”
Mr Pryce’s account explained so many things that had long puzzled Laura. She could see precisely how past slights and wrongs had sown the seeds of more recent ones. Would it ever end?
“Master Cyrus had good cause to resent his grandfather’s second family, but he never let on. I used to think he must have a very forbearing nature. Now, I reckon he was nursing a grudge and biding his time.”
It all made such perfect sense, except…
“I beg your pardon, Mr Pryce. Did you say old Lord Kingsfold encouraged his younger son to wed for love? Surely he could not have been pleased to have a Vauxhall singer for a daughter-in-law?”
Mr Pryce thought for a moment. “The neighbours gossiped and slighted young Mrs Barrett, but Lord Kingsfold praised her to the skies—said Master Cyrus hadn’t a hope of getting a bride half so lovely.”
“That is quite at odds with what Cyrus told me,” Laura mused. “Though he might have gone digging into Alice Ford’s past on his own.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
Laura started, suddenly aware that she’d been speaking aloud. Was she grasping at straws? Or was she beginning to glimpse the truth at last?
“I appreciate your candour, Mr Pryce. Now there is something I must share with you.” She reached for her reticule and took out the long-hidden paper. In a few words she described how it had come into her possession. Then she handed it to the butler. “Do you think it is possible this marriage certificate might not be genuine?”
Mr Pryce examined the document closely. “It looks in good order, my lady. I reckon there is only one way to be certain.”
As he explained, Laura listened, nodding. It would not be a pleasant undertaking at this time of year, but she must know the truth. She could only hope it might set her and Ford free from the dark thrall of the past.
As Ford stood at the taffrail of the brig Lady Grace, a raw January wind ruffled his dark hair in a brisk farewell caress. The ship had just eased through that last crook in the meandering Thames known as The Hope, on its way to the wide mouth of the river and the Straits of Dover beyond.
Did this mean he was leaving hope behind? Ford asked himself with a rueful grin. Perhaps that was how he should feel. But, strangely, he did not. The last time he’d quit England, he’d been driven from his homeland, disillusioned and heartbroken, consumed with helpless rage. Today he left of his own accord, on his own terms. His poorly healed heart had been broken yet again, but that was his own damned fault and he would not have had it otherwise. His bittersweet interlude of happiness with Laura had been worth the price.
The crew of the Lady Grace swarmed the vessel’s tall masts, unfurling sails and adjusting rigging, but Ford paid them little heed. His spirits resonated to the shrill, mournful cries of the gulls that glided and wheeled in the sky above. Sky that was the clear, constant blue of Laura’s eyes.
Eight years ago, he had fled these shores feeling cheated, betrayed and deceived—all entirely misguided. Now he knew the truth, about himself and about Laura. The former had been a bitter blow, but in the end, the latter had saved him.
Now he was sailing off on a great adventure to become a better man—a man whose nobility came not from titles or estates, but from living a worthwhile life. Throwing back his shoulders, standing taller than he had in years, he inhaled a deep draught of bracing, briny air.
But what was that he smelled? A whiff of warmer climes—the wholesome, tangy sweetness of orange blossoms.
Ford spun about to find a woman standing behind him. She wore a black cloak over a black gown. Her bonnet was swathed in a dark veil, making it difficult to distinguish her features. Surely it could not be…
The lady raised her delicate, gloved hands and drew back the veil to reveal a beautiful, beloved face.
“Laura?” Ford clutched the taffrail to keep from pitching overboard. “Good God, what are you doing here?”
His question seemed to cast a shadow over the angelic purity of her features, but she did not flinch. It suddenly occurred to Ford that true angels could not be the fragile, helpless creatures they were so often portrayed, but valiant, resolute beings, prepared to wrestle darkest evil to reclaim a man’s soul. That was how Laura looked now—fearful of the outcome, perhaps, but still undaunted.
“Why should I not be here?” she asked. “This is a public vessel and I am a paying passenger. If you object on the grounds of propriety, you should know I have brought my lady’s maid and a respectable man to serve as my escort.” As if it had slipped her mind, she added, “And, of course, my husband is travelling aboard this ship.”
“You know perfectly well what I meant.” Ford clutched his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for her. “I thought our marriage had served my purpose and was ended in all but name.”
The falsehood burned on his tongue, and all the icy waters of the North Sea could not cool it.
Laura considered for a moment, gazing deep into his eyes. Never had Ford wanted more desperately to conceal his true feelings from her. Yet never had he felt them so naked for her scrutiny.
“I thought that, too, at first,” she replied. “But then I began to wonder if your sudden claim of marital revenge might have been invented to spare me from scandal.”
When Ford tried to deny it, Laura held up her hand for silence. “Let me finish, please. I promise you the last word.”
Such was her gallant authority that Ford could not bring himself to defy her wishes. If only he had spent the past eight years making himself worthy of her love, what a man he would be!
“Upon reflection and heeding some wise advice,” Laura continued, “I began delving into your family history and made several discoveries of interest to us both. That is one of the reasons I have come here. It was easier to discover which ship you had booked passage on than track you down in London. Besides, I thought it more likely you would hear me out if the alternative was swimming to shore.”
“Sound strategy.” Ford cast a glance at the choppy grey waves. “This is not the best time of year for sea bathing. So…what did you discover.”
It would make no difference as far as he and Laura were concerned. Ford quelled any foolish flicker of hope. But the ship was due to make port briefly on the Kentish coast. If he let Laura have her say, then persuaded her she would be much better off without him, she could go ashore there with no harm done. In the meantime, he would have the precious torment of seeing her one last time.
“To begin with,” said Laura, “your grandfather used his first family very badly.”
As she told him how old Lord Kingsfold had exiled his first wife and son, Ford’s first impulse was to think what a dreadful thing his grandfather had done. Then, with a sharp pang of conscience, he remembered it was not so different from what he’d once planned for Laura.
“Later,” she continued, “your grandfather made no secret of wishing the descendents of his second fami
ly would inherit Hawkesbourne, rather than Cyrus.”
Much as he wished it were not true, Ford recalled how often as a child his grandfather had assured him he would one day be Lord Kingsfold. Could that be why he’d felt such an absolute right to his inheritance and considered himself robbed of it by Laura’s marriage to Cyrus? Everything he’d heard made him feel sorry for his cousin, which was the last thing he wanted.
“What does any of this matter now?” he demanded.
“I believe it matters a great deal, if that was what made Cyrus so anxious to prevent you from inheriting. He added a vicious little twist of his own, by stealing the woman you intended to marry.”
“Stealing? You mean he…?”
“I believe he contrived to ruin my father to coerce me into marriage. He may even have arranged that convenient business opportunity for you in Spa.”
“I wondered how he knew I’d gone there.” Ford cursed himself for underestimating his scheming cousin.
“One thing Cyrus did not anticipate,” said Laura, “was my reluctance to deprive you of your inheritance. He was forced to improvise by forging—”
“A sham marriage certificate?” Ford could have sworn the ship suddenly lurched into a deep trough between two massive waves.
Why had he been so ready, even eager, to believe his beloved mother a bigamist and himself a bastard? Could it be that, with every new proof of Laura’s innocence, the guilt over how he’d treated her had built up inside him until he could no longer bear to go unpunished?
“It was a sham,” said Laura. “I travelled down to Devon and examined the parish register with my own eyes. There was no entry that remotely corresponds to the names and dates on the forged certificate. I also spoke to some cousins of your mother. They assured me she was not married when she went off to find fame in London. There is not a shred of doubt, you are the rightful Lord Kingsfold.”
