Lord Augustus

by Mary Kingswood

  “If her husband left her anything for herself, she would likely lose it on remarriage, and the child’s inheritance might be tied up until he is of age. But that supposes her husband was a man of some wealth. What do you know of him?”

  Gus was lost in thought, too wrapped up in joyous dreams to attend. “Hmm?”

  “The husband — was he a wealthy man?”

  “Oh, there was no husband.”

  Merton’s brandy glass froze halfway to his lips. With infinite slowness, he lowered it to the table. “No husband?”

  “No. Ned is a natural son, but— Good God, man, you are not going to get censorious with me, are you? Mrs Walsh is the same person, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “But she is not!” Merton cried. “Can you not see that? A widow of good character… that is one thing, and perfectly unexceptional, and the child makes no difference. There will generally be children when there has been a previous marriage. But a woman who has so far demeaned herself as to produce a child outside of wedlock — that is unforgivable, my lord. It is a stain that no subsequent marriage can cleanse. How could Lady Carrbridge introduce such a lady into society? How could she even visit such a person? And to be considering inviting such a woman into the Marford family, to be sister-in-law to the Marquess of Carrbridge? It is unthinkable. If you insist upon marrying this woman, then you not only cannot bring her into your own level of society, but you yourself will be excluded from it.”

  “That might be a small price to pay for such happiness,” Gus shot back.

  Merton lifted the brandy to his lips and sipped. “Not a small price, but it might yet be worth paying,” he said quietly. “Only you can answer that, my lord.”

  They fell into silence, the only sound in the room the crackle of the fire. From the taproom, a voice rose briefly above the hum of conversation into song, followed by a burst of male laughter. Somewhere a dog barked.

  Gus kicked frustratedly at a log on the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney, then collapsed into a chair, head in hands. “Dear God, Merton, what am I to do?”

  “I would not normally presume to advise you, my lord, but in this case my conscience compels me to do so. If you are not yet committed to this woman, then you should have no more to do with her. She is no fit wife for you.”

  “And yet… she seems to me to be everything that is respectable. She is demure, she goes to church without fail accompanied by one of the maids and her manservant—”

  “She has a manservant? Interesting. Does she dine at the castle?”

  “No, but she is not of noble blood. The duke will have no one of common blood at his table.”

  “Interesting. And does he take an interest in the child? It is a boy, I believe you said?”

  “It is, and the duke takes no more notice of him than of Mrs Walsh herself.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Merton, I should like fifty pounds for every time you have said ‘Interesting!’ in that mysterious tone of voice.”

  With a smile, Merton said, “Your pardon, my lord. Curiosity is my besetting sin, I fear, and I confess to a great deal of curiosity regarding a natural child who is being raised within the Duke of Dunmorton’s domain. The obvious answer is that his father is Lord George Winfell.”

  “The youngest son? Why him, in particular?”

  “Because I am acquainted with all three of the sons, or I should say rather that Sir Osborne was acquainted with the two older sons, the Marquess of Darrowstone and Lord Edward, and neither of them struck me as the type of man to father a child on a respectable woman. Whereas Lord George… How old is the boy?”

  “Four, I believe.”

  “Ah, then it could not be Lord George, for he fled to the continent some six… no, seven years ago now, after a duel, and then had the ill-luck to fall from his horse. He was very wild. So it would have to be the Marquess or Lord Edward.”

  “Since the boy’s name is Ned, and Mrs Walsh has told me that his father was killed in the Peninsula, my money would be on Edward,” Gus said.

  “Indeed.” Merton frowned. “But such a respectable young man. Sir Osborne, you know, would never have anything at all to do with anyone who was the least bit ramshackle, and his instincts were excellent on such matters. It would be very odd in Lord Edward to take a mistress, and if he did, I am sure he would do everything properly, leaving the lady and her child very well provided for. Yet she does not live expensively, it seems.”

  “She is adamant that she must remain secluded, for the sake of the child,” Gus said, and as he repeated her words now, he was struck by how peculiar they were. Why remain secluded? If the child was indeed the grandson of the Duke of Dunmorton, then he might have a respected place in society, and a comfortable career. At the very least, he should be educated, and not abandoned to a remote corner of the estate. “And now you are going to say ‘Interesting’ again, I suppose.”

  Merton gave a bark of laughter. “But it is interesting, do you not think? Where did she come from, this mysterious lady?”

  “Now that I can answer. She lived at a small mill town some twenty miles to the north of High Morton. Her husband — as she calls him — was at the army camp there. But there was no Edward Walsh there, for I made enquiries. She called him Edward, so that much is certain, but his name was not Walsh.”

  Merton set down his brandy glass and leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “So she is local — that makes a difference. She met Lord Edward Winfell when he was at the army camp, they fell in love, she succumbed to his advances and— But no, again, I am reminded of the Lord Edward I knew in London, who would never have made advances to a respectable lady, or even to one who was less than respectable. He was a very moral man. Lord Augustus, there is a possibility that must be considered, I believe. Perhaps Lord Edward and your Mrs Walsh were secretly married?”

  “But why in secret?” But he knew the answer at once. “Because his father would not have countenanced the match, of course. He would have expected his sons to marry into the nobility. But—”

  Realisation struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he saw from Merton’s face that he understood the implications, too.

  “If that is so, then Ned is the heir to the dukedom. He is the Marquess of Darrowstone.”

  16: Churlswade

  Gus’s burst of excitement subsided at once. “No, it is impossible,” he said firmly. “Ned cannot be the heir, and the marriage cannot be legal, for why would the duke be looking for a wife himself in such a case? No, we must be mistaken on that point. Perhaps he promised to marry her, but was called away to the Peninsula in a hurry? There would have been no time to call the banns, or to obtain a special licence from London.”

  “But a common licence is much easier to obtain,” Merton said. “A man in a hurry might achieve his object and be married within a day, I should imagine. Even here in the depths of Northumberland, there must be a bishop within a few hours’ ride. And I cannot believe that Lord Edward would leave a lady possibly carrying the heir to a dukedom without ensuring that the marriage was legal. He could not depend on returning soon enough to ensure the child’s legitimacy. The risk would be too great. There is another possibility… but no, that cannot be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No, no, I am mistaken, I am sure.”

  He looked so uncomfortable, and that was so uncharacteristic of the man, that Gus was alarmed. “You had better tell me at once what is in your mind, Merton,” he said grimly. “Do not make me choke it out of you.”

  “Only this,” he said, spreading his hands helplessly. “One possible explanation is that Ned is not Lord Edward’s son at all, but Mrs Walsh is claiming he is to obtain shelter from the duke.”

  “She is lying, you mean,” he said coldly, getting to his feet and kicking the log again, which disintegrated under his boot. With a huff of annoyance, he pulled another log from the basket and hurled it at the fire, which collapsed almost to embers under the onslaught.<
br />
  Was it possible? How well did he know Mrs Walsh anyway? All he knew of her was what she had told him herself, and his own observations. Could he have been deceived in her?

  “My instinct is to believe her,” he said slowly, considering this new idea. “She appears to be so artless and sincere, it would be a cynical man indeed who would look for deceit. And yet… I know nothing of her. We have no common acquaintance, she has no kin, no one who could vouch for her honesty. Her history may be entirely fabricated for all I know. It is not a strong foundation for marriage, is it? I could not possibly marry her, knowing so little of her. I do not even know her name!” he said, horrified. “She calls herself Mrs Edward Walsh, but there is no Edward Walsh that I have found. Who then is she?”

  “Then your task is clear,” Merton said. “You must go to this town where she lived and see what may be found out.”

  ~~~~~

  Gus made no attempt to sleep that night, for he was quite certain that it would elude him. He sat in his rather shabby room, with its worn furnishings and creaking door, and thought of nothing but Mrs Walsh. Who was she? It was a puzzle indeed. Even if he could uncover the truth about her, how could he marry her? And especially so if she had not been married to Ned’s father. He came back to Merton’s words: ‘It is a stain that no subsequent marriage can cleanse.’

  If only Connie were there! She was not clever, and her education, although solid, had not improved her mind above the commonplace for her station, but she understood people as no one else did. She, more than anyone, could advise him. So he wrapped himself in his robe and went back down to the parlour, coaxed the fire back to life, and sat down with his writing box and a single candelabra to pour his heart out to Connie. All his fears and hopes, his confusion and uncertainties sprawled over five sheets of paper. For an hour or more, he dipped his pen in the ink, wrote, dipped and wrote again, without ceasing. Then, exhausted and despairing, he threw himself into a chair and allowed the ever-changing flames in the hearth to mesmerise him into sleep.

  He woke to Merton’s concerned face bending over him. Merton was as immaculately dressed as always. He was never ostentatious, yet he never had so much as a single fold of his cravat out of place, even though he had no valet.

  “Morning already?” Gus murmured, trying to get his eyes to stay open.

  “And has been for some time, my lord. Wait, let me send for coffee.” A few steps, the click of the door, a murmured instruction to a servant. Gus closed his eyes again.

  The coffee helped a little, although he still felt as if he had been sleeping under a hedge. His mouth was dry, his head was heavy and his eyes would keep closing of their own accord.

  “Should you like to go back to bed for an hour or two?” Merton said. “We can visit this house of Harcourt’s this afternoon.”

  “No, I shall be better once I have washed and eaten something,” Gus said, although without much conviction. “As soon as I am out in the fresh air, I shall be as right as a trivet. Damnation, but being in love is a ghastly business. Has it ever struck you, Merton?”

  “Just once.”

  “Oh. But nothing came of it, since here you are, still single.”

  “Indeed. I had the misfortune to fall deeply in love with the wife of my best friend.”

  “You poor fellow! How did you get through it?”

  “One endures,” Merton said, with a wry smile. “There is no alternative.”

  “No, indeed, but a damnable business. Were you obliged to meet often?”

  “Every day.”

  Gus looked up at him sharply, and understanding finally dawned. “I beg your pardon, Merton, I am abominably slow-witted this morning. You are talking, of course, of Sir Osborne Hardy’s wife, who is now a widow. And you have a very pleasant house already waiting… I should have worked it out a long while ago.”

  “How should you, indeed?” Merton said, and his smile this time was full of warmth. “Lady Carrbridge has understood for a long time, for she always knows these things, but I trust that I managed to conceal my affection for Lady Hardy from most of the world. It would be unpardonable of me to expose her to censure on that account. A lady’s reputation is a fragile thing.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “As, of course, you are very aware just now. It is my turn to beg your pardon, my lord. How unforgivable of me to remind you of your painful situation.”

  “Oh, Merton, if only I could forget!” Gus burst out. “I have written at ridiculous length to Connie about it, but I know already what she will tell me, for it is exactly what you said to me last night. I must give up all thought of Mrs Walsh, and there is an end to the matter. It must be done, no matter how painful, and then… I shall follow your admirable example, Merton. I shall endure, and the grief will pass, in time.”

  After a modest breakfast, the two set off in search of the elusive Mr Harcourt, taking only Gus’s groom with them, for he trusted no one else with Jupiter. Although Gus was not quite his usual self, the fresh air and the challenge of preventing Jupiter, in one of his rebellious moods, from kicking out at anyone who came unwarily within reach was enough to distract him out of his megrims.

  Harcourt’s house was not, in fact, in Churlswade at all, but according to the helpful innkeeper was no more than two miles to the south. They rode through grey, drizzling weather, passing few other travellers apart from a mail coach, which went racketing by at a great rate, horn blaring. After two miles they came to the tiny hamlet of Churslwade Cross, where three separate roads intersected. To one side was a small inn, and round about were several rows of cottages, surrounded by the usual clutter of chickens and geese, orchards laden with fruit and a few late beans dangling from their withered vines. On a small hill just beyond the hamlet stood a gibbet, its loop of rope dangling menacingly.

  “Cheerful place,” Carson, the groom, muttered.

  Enquiries at the inn, a rundown sort of place that Gus would not have dreamt of patronising, elicited the information that the White Cottage was to be found just a short distance along the southwestern road. It was easy enough to find, for there were no other habitations nearby, although nothing could be seen of the house itself through the trees that surrounded it.

  “My lord, may I make a suggestion?” Merton said. “We need not both go into the house, and it would be very informative to observe what goes on after I leave. If you creep round through the trees, you may watch the back of the house quite unseen, while Carson and I approach from the front.”

  “That sounds like fun, but do you need Carson too?”

  “Just in case of any… difficulty, you understand. Not that I expect trouble, but it is as well to be prepared. A man with a groom is taken more seriously than a man alone.”

  So Gus walked Jupiter into the trees as quietly as he could and circled round to the back of the house. Loosely tying Jupiter’s reins to a bush, he crept nearer until he had a clear view. The house was rather large for a cottage, having three storeys, and an extra low wing to one side, presumably the kitchen. A large barn stood to one side. There were the usual rows of vegetables, a pigpen and chicken run, and a woman in simple clothes was draping laundry over lines slung between trees. She stopped, as if listening, then went in unhurried fashion into the house. In the still air, he heard the clop of hooves on the path, and then a rat-a-tat-tat on the door knocker. Voices, followed by the clunk of a door closing, and silence. Merton had gained admission.

  Five minutes later, he was out again. Gus heard his ringing ‘Good day to you, sir. Good day, madam.’ Then the horses clip-clopping away, and the door closing. Silence again.

  Gus waited. The woman did not return to her washing, so he waited and waited. Then, another door opened at the side of the house, out of his view. Cautiously he moved round until he had clear sight of it. The woman was there, with a man in practical working clothes, and they were having a rapid conversation while he was saddling a horse. Then, shaking his head, he mounted and rode off. The woman went back inside, and did not emerge aga
in.

  Curious, Gus crept further round to the side of the house. The building he had taken for a barn he now saw was a sizable stable block set around three sides of a large yard. Through an open door he caught sight of a very stylish carriage of a rather unusual design. Experience told him that stables of such a size could accommodate a dozen horses in comfort, or perhaps more, and he grew very interested in these two people, ordinary working folk who yet had a fancy carriage and perhaps many horses at their disposal. Creeping round to the back of the stables, out of sight of the house, he contrived by standing on a large rock to peer in through a window. He counted seven horses, two most likely for the carriage, and the others rather good riding mounts.

  By the time he had made his way back to Jupiter, there were two men out working on the vegetables, and the woman was back at her washing, so he was very glad to make his escape and ride as fast as he dared back to the gibbet, where Merton and Carson awaited him.

  “A man rode off on horseback,” Gus said. “Rather a good horse, too, and the fellow did not look like the sort who could afford such an animal, nor the seven more in the stables, and certainly not the rather elegant carriage kept there. There are at least two other men living there, and not one of them out at work in the middle of the day.”

  “Ah!” Merton smiled in satisfaction. “There, you see, it was well worth your while to watch the back of the house, for all I got from the front of it were regretful shakes of the head, and two people who claimed never to have heard of Mr Harcourt, or Mr Sharp either. What sort of carriage was it, would you say?”

  Gus was not as well acquainted with carriage styles as with horseflesh, but after some discussion they agreed that it was probably a light travelling carriage.

  “Then it is very much as I supposed,” Merton said. “Sharp — or Harcourt, perhaps — comes here by carriage with his accompanying grooms, and a valet perhaps, very much the gentleman. Here he changes into his Sharp apparel and rides off alone to Drummoor, leaving the grooms and valet behind. From here, across country, he could reach Drummoor in a day, easily. Whenever it suits him, he returns here, dresses in his finery again, collects his carriage and servants, and heads off to… somewhere. Not Galthwaite, I think, for he was seldom seen there. Probably he has a grand estate in the country, with hordes of servants, and all at Lord Carrbridge’s expense. But we shall find him eventually, you may be sure of it.”