Lord Augustus

by Mary Kingswood

  As soon as the ladies withdrew, the duke sighed with relief. “It is very pleasant to have so many ladies in attendance, but they do chatter so. Not Prudence, of course, for she is still not speaking to me since—” He broke into a cackle of laughter. “Well, well, that was a great many years ago. Such long memories these ladies have for an insult. And the other one is tolerably quiet, too — what is her name, Marford? The fright with all the teeth?”

  “Lady Emma, Duke.”

  “Emma… hmm. As I was saying, a pleasant, quietly-spoken girl. Does not plague one with a lot of useless chitter-chatter. She changed the bandages on my feet, you know, and applied some noxious unguent or other, and made me drink some foul potion, but I am persuaded that the pain is a little better as a result. My medical man is useless. Lassiter, his name is. Cups me and leeches me, and tells me to drink less port, then sends me a bill for twenty guineas, if you please. Twenty guineas! He must think me a gullible fool if he expects me to pay exorbitant fees of that nature. I swore I would not send for him again, and I always keep my word. If you see him come into my room, you will know I have gone to my maker at last, for while I have breath in my body, he is not coming near me again with his evil leeches. Drink less port, indeed! Pass the decanter, Marford. How are you getting on with the legal business, Forbes? I hear you have been bothering my secretaries, instead of putting that daughter-in-law of mine in her place, which is what you are here for, after all.”

  “I am clarifying the details of the allowance that was paid to the late marquess, Duke.”

  “I do not see why you need to know anything about that.”

  “It is because your claim to the stud—”

  “My claim! My ownership, you mean.”

  “That may be so, but in law one does not quite like to prejudge the outcome. Your claim is based upon the allowance paid to the late marquess, and once I have the correct amounts and so forth, I shall be able to approach the marchioness fully armed, as it were.”

  The duke grunted. “So you will have to go through her financial affairs, will you?”

  “Most certainly, sir. Only by a thorough examination of the accounts shall I be able to determine whether the stud was indeed paid for by you.”

  “Well, just so long as she is thoroughly inconvenienced by all this, for that will make it all worthwhile. Shall we have some whist later? With three of us, we should be able to find a tolerable fourth from the ladies. Prudence, perhaps?”

  “Lady Prudence likes to sleep after dinner, Duke,” Gus said. “Perhaps Emma?”

  But in the end they played vingt-et-un again, with the duke once taking the role of banker. Where Lady Prudence fell into somnolence after a good dinner, the duke seemed to be enlivened by the consumption of large quantities of red wine, and was in playful mood. Emma sat in near-silence, and the two younger men said little that did not relate to the game, but Maria, Lucia and Arabella flirted outrageously with the duke, vying for his attention, and he laughed and teased them and sat on long after the game had palled for Gus. It was Emma, in the end, who broke up the party.

  “You will forgive me, Duke, but I am too tired to play any more. I shall go to bed.”

  And that reminded the duke that it was indeed late, and past his usual hour for sleeping, and perhaps reminded him that his gout was still painful, and so the party broke up, the duke yelling for his manservant, Lady Prudence, still half asleep, on Emma’s arm, and the three younger ladies in a whispering huddle.

  Gus and Willerton-Forbes followed the ladies across the bridge, and then back to Gus’s parlour for a brandy before bed. Gus was not at all surprised to find that Edgerton was absent, and judging by the ashes in the fire, had not been there all evening.

  “He has made a few friends in the town,” Gus said, in answer to Willerton-Forbes’s raised eyebrow of enquiry. “Lady friends, in particular. He rolls home shortly before dawn.”

  “Ah,” said the lawyer. “Lucky fellow. So tell me about the ladies, Marford. Lady Emma I know about, and Lady Prudence needs no explanation. But what of the other three?”

  “They are all Emma’s sisters. Two are married — Lady Carey and Lady Graceton — and Lady Delacross is recently widowed.”

  “Which is Lady Delacross? And how recent is the widowhood?”

  “The very pretty, plump lady with the blue and gold gown. Her husband died some five or six months ago, and if you take an interest in a woman so recently bereaved, who wears no black and has no problem going out into society again, then you have less sensibility than I do, Willerton-Forbes.”

  “You are inclined to be censorious? I take your point. It shows a want of delicacy, I feel.”

  “I would put it more strongly — it is unconscionable,” Gus said, with feeling.

  “You are quite right. Why then would she do it?”

  “Because there is a duke to be ensnared, I should imagine. Maria has never had the least qualm about pursuing her quarry. Concerns about propriety do not weigh with her, I believe.”

  “Ah.” The lawyer swirled the brandy in his glass, gazing down at it with a solemn expression. “Is he serious about remarrying, the duke? He must be sixty if he is a day.”

  “I cannot vouch for the seriousness, but his heir recently died without male issue, his other sons are dead and his heir presumptive is an attorney from Cheshire. Not that there is anything wrong with being an attorney,” Gus added with a smile. “Nevertheless, it does not fit one to inherit a dukedom.”

  The lawyer gave him a wintry smile. “Perhaps not. Yet that is how the rules of inheritance stand at present. And who is to say that the present duke is so much better suited for his honours than the attorney from Cheshire?”

  Gus could not give any satisfactory answer to the question.

  ~~~~~

  The whole of the next day was spent at the stud, riding, tending the horses, sweeping and cleaning, carrying buckets of oats and water, and generally making himself useful. Gus did not quite manage to be there by six, but he was busily engaged from eight until four in the afternoon, cheerfully sitting down with the grooms for a noon dinner. When there was nothing else for him to do, he sat in the marquess’s office, reading through his meticulous notes and growing increasingly impressed by his clarity of vision and careful planning.

  “Same again tomorrow?” Gus asked as he left.

  “Fine by me,” Waterbury said. “Do you want a permanent post? I have a vacancy for an under-groom — twenty pounds a year, board and lodgings included.”

  Gus laughed. “Do you know, sometimes I wish I had been born to that sort of life instead of being the son of a marquess. Simpler, you know? A man knows where he stands.”

  “It is only simpler because there are fewer possibilities,” Waterbury said grimly. “One starts as a stable boy and gradually works one’s way up to head groom. At that point, with care, one might be able to consider taking a wife. Not much of a life, I should say.”

  Gus could not entirely agree with him. Sometimes the difficulties of his own life weighed heavily on him and he rather yearned for fewer possibilities, and nothing more complicated than a recalcitrant horse to worry about.

  His plan for another blameless day amongst the horses was foiled when he was summoned by Willerton-Forbes to accompany him to Lady Darrowstone’s house the next morning. “You do not mind, do you, Marford?” he said anxiously. “It will help to have you present, in my opinion, since you know all these people so well.”

  “You place too great a regard on my acquaintance with the lady, for I barely know her. She is not part of my set in London, and we are certainly not on visiting terms elsewhere. But I have no objection to hearing how she defends her claim to the stud.”

  There were no lawyers in evidence, and Lady Darrowstone had clearly decided to approach the matter with friendliness rather than ceremony. They were shown into her private sitting room, and she poured tea for them with her own hands.

  Lady Darrowstone got down to business briskly. “Here ar
e all the papers relating to my husband’s purchase of the horses,” she said, hand resting on a high pile of documents. “You will see that each one was bought by my husband, the purchase recorded in his name and the title transferred to him, and to him alone. This is a letter from his bank, confirming that funds were transferred on his authority from his bank account for each purchase. And this is his will, which leaves everything he owned to me. Well, to his eldest son, should there be one, but failing that, to me. So you see, it is all perfectly clear.”

  She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied smile on her face.

  “Thank you, that is most helpful,” Willerton-Forbes said. “I shall need time to examine these papers, and—”

  “Of course.”

  “—also the household accounts, and any other account books you or your husband may have kept.”

  “The accounts!” She jerked sharply upwards. “What does my expenditure on candles and tea have to do with anything? I own those horses, and no one can dispute it!”

  “The question at issue, Lady Darrowstone,” the lawyer said smoothly, “is who paid for the purchase of the horses? The duke claims that he did, since his son’s income derived solely from the allowance made to him.”

  “And the interest from my dowry,” she said haughtily. “Besides, once money is in a man’s hand, it is his to spend as he pleases, is it not? And anything he buys with it is his. My husband bought me gifts of jewellery from time to time — will the duke claim those, too? Will he take the very clothes off my back and the plate we eat from?”

  “There is no jewellery, apparel or plate under discussion at present,” the lawyer said calmly. “Only the horses, and I must determine where the money came from to purchase them, and the intent behind it. It might have been a loan, for instance—”

  “Such nonsense!” she said in exasperation. “But I have nothing to hide. You may examine the account books until your head swims, for all I care.”

  Gus left Willerton-Forbes rubbing his hands with glee at the mountain of account books produced for his inspection. He was as bad as Daniel Merton, Carrbridge’s secretary, for liking nothing better than burying himself in piles of dusty old documents. Gus could not quite understand why a man would shut himself away with pen and paper all day when he could be out in the open air, with a horse under him, and trees and walls flashing past. It was time to release Jupiter from his post-journey rest and let him stretch his legs a little.

  The horse was wild, of course, as he always was when he had been left in his stall for a couple of days. He kicked and snorted, and tried to bite the two grooms holding his head. Twice he got away from them, and had to be coaxed back to a degree of quietness before Gus’s own grooms could saddle him. As soon as Gus was mounted and the stall gate opened he shot forward, legs pounding. A hapless under-groom tripped trying to get out of his way, but Jupiter sailed majestically over the prone figure and on his way.

  He headed north, as Gus had known he would. He wanted to go that way too, but he dared not, for his own peace of mind. So he wrestled and heaved, and the horse fought him every inch of the way, but eventually he got Jupiter turned around and pointed towards the southern lodge. It was the exact match of the northern lodge, except that there was no aproned figure running to open the gate, for they stood open all day, as did the eastern and western gates. It was only the northern gates that were closed, to stop Ned from wandering away from his mother, he supposed.

  The wave of grief that overwhelmed him at the thought of her caught him unawares. Was he really so far along the road to love that the very image of her in his mind could make him crumble into helpless dust? He was in a bad way. Yet the obstacles were no less immovable. He was still an impoverished younger son. She was still an impoverished widow — no, not a widow. She must be a spinster, still, and Ned would be a formidable obstacle to any attempt to introduce her into society.

  Yet with a shock of dismay, he realised that for himself, he did not care. She was still the same person, her mind and form every bit as beautiful as when he had thought her a widow, and he would marry her tomorrow if he could.

  13: A Walk After Church

  Ned woke crying again. It was still dark, and Amaryllis had to light a candle before she could go to him. She met Maggie in the passage outside the boy’s door, bent on the same errand.

  “I’ll see to him,” Maggie said. “You go and sleep.”

  “No, it is quite all right. I am awake now.”

  “Tsk. You’ll take him into your bed, I daresay, like you always do.”

  “And why not?” Amaryllis said. “He will sleep again if I do that. Hush now, no more argument, I beg you.”

  She opened the door, and went into her son’s room, the flickering candle driving the shadows to the furthest corners. “Now, now, little man, what is it?”

  “Where is Gus?” he sobbed. “I want Gus! Where is he?”

  “He has business elsewhere that takes him away,” she said. “Men always have business that takes them away.”

  “When will he come back?”

  “I cannot say.”

  It was a careful answer. She would never lie to Ned, and she already knew that Gus was back at Castle Morton, but he had not come to see her, nor had he ridden past the lodge. His last words to her had sounded so final. ‘Most likely we shall not meet again. I shall always look back on our acquaintance with the fondest of memories.’ She understood him — he intended to see her no more. He was drawn to her, that much was clear to see, but he had decided not to travel further down that road, and she could hardly blame him for that. She was not a fit person for him to visit.

  Taking Ned back to her own bed, she settled him down and sang his favourite lullabies until he drifted into slumber in her arms. Ah, what would she have done without Ned! Such a comfort to her, for all the difficulties surrounding him. Without him, she would have been quite alone in the world. She might have no family or husband, but at least she had Ned to care for and protect and love. And he had her, his mother, and that must be enough for him. If only he had a father to look up to, as well. Someone like Gus… but Gus was gone.

  For herself, she could bear the loss of his company, or so she told herself. She had been alone for a long time, after all, and she had John, Maggie and Lucy to talk to. They were like family, in a way. But still… it was not the same as being with those of her own kind. Gus was educated and knowledgeable about the world, a man she could talk to about music and books and philosophy and a thousand other things beyond the domestic sphere. But she was determined not to regret him. Naturally she would miss him, but she would not repine, she had made up her mind to it.

  But for Ned, it was different. He had never had a man to look up to before, not a gentleman. John was all very well and a good sort of man, but he was only a servant, and could not teach Ned how to behave, the little nuances that distinguished the high born from the lower ranks. She did not want Ned to grow up thinking of John as an equal, and yet how could he learn, if he were never to meet men of his own rank? Perhaps she should consider going into company a little. The parson at St Peter’s could perhaps introduce her to one or two people. Yet she quailed at the thought. It would be necessary to hide behind so many lies, and if anyone from Drifford should find out… No, it was not to be thought of. If only Gus would come! That would be ideal, and even when he went back to London, Ned would have the memory of him fixed in his mind.

  Her thoughts chased each other round her head until she fell into a troubled sleep.

  “Shall I stay with Ned today, Amaryllis?” Maggie said over breakfast. “Lucy hasn’t been to church for several weeks.”

  “If you wish,” Amaryllis said.

  “You know, the child’s old enough to go to church with us,” Maggie said. “There are plenty younger than him that go, even babes in their mothers’ arms.”

  “You know my reasons. The fewer people who know of his existence the better. Too many questions would be asked, and rumours travel.”


  “Aye, but half the castle staff know about him already, and they guess who he is, too. There are no secrets here.”

  “And there is no point inviting further speculation by parading Ned about in public.”

  “Can’t keep him hidden away forever,” Maggie muttered, collecting the plates in an angry clatter.

  Amaryllis took no notice. They had such a discussion at least once a week, and since Maggie had been Amaryllis’s own nursemaid, and had stood in place of her mother after the tragedy that had torn their family apart, she was allowed to say what she liked, without reprimand. Maggie knew Amaryllis as well as she knew herself, but in this one matter they disagreed.

  Sunday was Amaryllis’s favourite day. It was the one day of the week when she went out into the world and mingled with humanity for an hour or two. She could even pretend she had acquaintance in the town — the Farmer family, who shared her pew, or the two elderly spinsters who always smiled and exchanged a few words with her. The parson, too, shook her hand as if she were just another parishioner, and not someone disgraced and alone. And the walk through the park invigorated her, too. She walked a great deal, but only into the woods where she could be alone with her thoughts and would encounter no one. But on Sundays she walked through the castle gardens and admired the bright tulips or buried her nose in sweet-smelling roses or collected chestnuts for Ned, according to the season.

  On this particular Sunday, the walk was less pleasant than usual, for a sharp wind tossed the last of the roses about and tore the first browning leaves from the trees. Amaryllis joined the throng entering church, nodding at the two spinsters as she passed their pew. They were always there before her, no matter how early she was. The Farmers were already seated when Amaryllis took her own seat, John and Lucy beside her.

  And then a shock, for who should she see striding down the aisle to a prominent pew but Gus? She recognised his coat, the same one he had worn when he had called on her. And he must have been close behind her as she entered the church, so close that they might almost have met. Why was he here and not at the castle chapel? She had wondered at it when she had seen him there before, but then he had not been avoiding her. Or had he thought better of that policy? Her heart beat a little faster at the thought, but then she chided herself for it. Lord Augustus Marford was not a man she could ever think of in that way.