When Foster had informed him Isobel was hoarding money in her closet he had been horrified his staff believed he wished them to spy on her. He had told Foster in no uncertain terms to mind his own business and make sure the staff did the same. No further reports were given to him, but with hindsight he realised this surveillance had probably continued. Should he ask his butler if he knew where Isobel intended to go? What was he thinking? He would never discuss his wife with that dried up stick of a man.
He jackknifed— all desire for sleep vanishing. There was one thing he could do which would prove to her how much he'd changed. He would get his lawyers to ferret out his heir. There must be one somewhere, his grandfather had had several younger brothers and one of them must have managed to produce a male between them. He would groom this gentleman, teach him everything he would need to become the next Duke of Rochester. Surely this would prove to Isobel he had accepted she was unable to bear him children, and that he was happy to live his life without setting up his nursery?
*
The two weeks passed with no news of Isobel. She appeared to have vanished without trace. He could procrastinate no longer. He'd had word from his lawyers that one, Richard Bentley Esq, had been located and was on his way to meet him in Town.
Newcomb was under holland covers, several diligences had already departed with items of furniture that he could not live without, plus the majority of his wardrobe. The exodus was like a military operation. Transferring over hundred staff and their belongings, as well as his own, to Grosvenor Square required careful planning and execution. He would be glad to turn his back on this place. The building now held nothing but unhappy memories, his first wife and daughters had died here and then Isobel had left him.
He was resigned to the fact she might never come back, that he would have to spend the rest of his life alone. He would never divorce her. He had no wish for another wife. Isobel was everything a man could want.
Lady Fulbright, his ex-mistress, had cornered him at a card party the last time he'd been in Town and made it blatantly obvious she was more than willing to resume their relationship. He recalled the heartache his father had caused by his frequent adulteries and firmly rebuffed her overture.
He shook his head. He would never be so self-indulgent— stopping his drinking and gambling was only half the task. To give in to the demands of the flesh would make him a lesser man. Indeed, he was in every way a much reduced specimen. His years of overindulgence showed in the flab on his once lean torso. If he attempted a round at Jackson's he would be floored in seconds. That was something else he would pay attention to, whether he ever persuaded Isobel to return or not, he would get himself back in shape, be someone she could respect, even if she could never forgive.
One day his men would discover her whereabouts. He would ride to her and she would see the difference in him, would know he was a changed man, and maybe reconsider. He closed his eyes and her image filled his head. The way she used to smile at him, the way her eyes lit up when he entered the room, her delight when he returned and the refreshing innocence with which she welcomed him into her bed — how could he have been so stupid? She had offered him something precious and like a fool he'd crushed her gift beneath his feet.
Chapter Eight
Isobel sat back, her forehead clammy, her head spinning, and thanked God the retching was over. Mary removed the basin and replaced it with a clean vessel. Isobel accepted a cool drink, rinsed her mouth and spat the last of the noxious matter into the bowl. There was no doubt, she had to accept the impossible—she was increasing.
'I shall have to return to Newcomb, Mary, I don't wish to, but I am with child. I've suspected so for some time but could scarcely believe it. I haven't had my courses since we arrived and that must be more than eight weeks ago. Whatever my feelings for the duke, I can't deny this child its birthright.'
Mary nodded. 'I've known for weeks, madam, but didn't like to say considering the circumstances. I've been waiting for you to draw the same conclusion. You needed time to recover from what happened without further anxiety. But Sam and I have things organised. We can be ready to leave any time you want.'
Sally Harris, who had been turned off by her previous employers, had joined them a few days after their arrival at Home Farm. The young woman now acted as her abigail. Isobel turned to her. 'Sally, I shall be returning to Hertfordshire, to Newcomb, are you willing to accompany me?'
'I'd be delighted, madam, if you're sure the likes of me will be allowed to serve you at such a
grand place.'
Isobel stood up, smiling at the young woman she'd become quite fond of these past weeks. 'It will be very different from living here, but I intend to have my own people around me. You’ll be answerable to me and no one else.'
Sally curtsied. 'I'll get started packing your clothes, madam, if you don't require my services'
'No, I wish to speak to Mrs Watkins. I shall ring if I need you.'
The two basins were removed to the dressing room leaving Mary alone with her. 'I'll not be browbeaten by the staff this time; I intend my return to be on my terms.'
'You have our full support, and I'm certain sure the others you've taken on here will be more
than happy to come with us.'
'Bill has made an excellent footman, so he shall be my butler. His experience, serving as a valet to a brigadier during the war, has given him all the skills he needs for this post. His leg injury has been no impediment to his efficiency so far.' Isobel considered the other staff. The cook and kitchen maid, a mother and daughter had been made homeless when the man of the house died. These two would be pleased to accompany her. However the two women who came in to do the heavy work had families of their own. They would wish to remain in Norfolk. She would leave the maintenance of the house in their capable hands.
'Will you please inform everyone, Mary? Betty and Ada will require sufficient funds to tide them over until our return.'
'Yes, madam.' Mary fiddled with an apron before continuing. 'Shall we call you by your title in future? Being plain Mrs Baverstock is all very well out here in the country, but at Newcomb things will be different.'
Isobel was relieved her friend made no comment about her intention to return. 'I have no choice, so I suppose it's better to resume my title now and become used to hearing myself addressed by it. I wish to leave the day after tomorrow; I'm sure the roads will have dried by then.'
They would need both the gig, and the ancient travelling carriage Sam had purchased, in order to transport everyone to Newcomb. The two outside men were competent with horses so could act as coachmen, leaving Sam to ride Sultan, the gelding she'd acquired from a local farmer.
She had been thinking about her return for the past few weeks. She had guessed she was
pregnantut refused to accept it. When the baby was born, whether boy or girl, she intended leave the infant with her husband and return to Home Farm. Alexander would never let her take the baby with her. Unless she was prepared to live with him again she must abandon her child. She swallowed the lump in her throat at this hideous thought. She blinked back tears—time enough to consider her options when the baby arrived safely.
The farm was almost self-sufficient, with good management it might even produce a surplus to be sold on. The day workers must continue to take care of the livestock in her absence.
'Mary, I don't mean to move into Newcomb; I shall occupy the east wing, the old part of the house that has not been used for many years. This will require a deal of cleaning and refurbishment, but will be ideal for my purposes.'
Mary ignored this unusual suggestion. 'Sam is sending one of the men ahead to reserve accommodation for us, your grace. In your delicate condition it would be best if we completed the journey slowly.'
'Thank you, Mary. I'm not looking forward to being jounced and so will be happy to travel an easy stages.'
Left in idleness gave her too much time to think. She was not the quiet, timid girl who had married Alexa
nder a year ago. Today she was able to stand her ground and insist her husband did as she requested. The horror of a public scandal should work in her favour this time. She would agree to act as his hostess if there were guests, but the remainder of the time she would remain in the east wing surrounded by those she trusted.
She prayed the baby would be a boy. Although she no longer had any feelings for Alexander, she had spoken her vows in the house of God. By refusing to share his bed she was breaking them. Therefore, if she produced an heir, at least she could leave knowing he had the son he so desperately wanted.
The Marquis of Newcomb, as his son would be called, would have everything a baby needed without his mother being in residence. No doubt the baby would be removed from her as soon as he was born, and given over to an army of retainers. A nanny, brought out of retirement, would hand him to a wet nurse. Isobel would have no control over his well-being, only see him when the nanny chose to bring him down. Someone of her status was not expected to be involved in childcare, merely to produce the necessary children.
This was a highly unsatisfactory system, but quite normal in wealthy and aristocratic households. Even in her own home she had seen little of her parents when she was young. Fortunately her nanny had been a kind and loving soul and provided everything a small child required. Not until she was out of leading strings did her mother begin to take an interest.
However, she'd recently read in a pamphlet about such matters—this had stated quite categorically that all mothers, not just the poor folk, should feed their children themselves. The author was calling for women at every level to do what nature intended. She shrugged, this was another decision she could put off for a few months.
She would dearly like to have visited with her family during the few weeks she had been in Norfolk. Although Home Farm was less than fifty miles from her birthplace she hadn't dared to go to Bracken Hall. Her father would have sent word immediately. He knew which side his bread was buttered and would not risk offending the golden goose. Being with child was making her maudlin—she must stifle the feeling and be strong.
*
They travelled at a leisurely pace, taking three days to complete the distance. The gig, which contained staff and baggage, had gone ahead in order to ensure the overnight accommodation was suitable. When the carriage turned through the gates’ of Newcomb, Isobel's confidence slipped. Making rash decisions was one thing, but carrying them through in the face of her formidable husband might prove a different proposition.
Mary fussed with her bonnet, shook out the folds of the travelling cloak and smiled a trifle nervously as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the enormous building. Isobel expected the usual army of liveried footmen to pour from the front door. Foster and Maynard would be waiting to greet her with sneering faces.
To her astonishment the door remained closed. She stepped down and stared at the building, only now seeing the shutters were closed. The house was unoccupied. Alexander had removed to Grosvenor Square, shut up the house and given up on her.
She felt a moment's regret, but forced it away. So much the better; she would have free rein to set herself up before he heard of her return. There must be a skeleton staff, fires had to be lit on a regular basis or the place would become damp and uninhabitable during the winter months.
'Mary, ask Sam to hammer on the door. There must be someone in.'
Mary relayed the message through the window and Sam dismounted and went to speak to the others sitting in the gig. Othello and Ebony whined to be released. She pushed open the carriage door and let them explore their new home. They had never been here, but it would soon become familiar territory. Animals didn't worry about etiquette and preserving their good name; if they wished to relieve themselves, a hovel was as good as a palace.
Sam's thunderous knocking eventually produced the required result. The door was unbolted
and a flustered middle-aged woman, with her cap askew and her apron strings flapping, gawped out at him. This was not someone Isobel recognized.
'His grace has moved to London. The house is under covers and I haven't been told to expect any visitors.'
'My good woman, her grace, the Duchess of Rochester, has returned. You’ll do well to mind your tongue.'
The servant glanced at the travelling carriage. On seeing her, the woman paled and threw her apron over her face as if by so doing she would become invisible.
Isobel laughed. 'This is quite ridiculous.' She walked forward and gently pulled the apron down. 'My arrival is totally unexpected. I don't intend to live in the main part of the house. As soon as it can be cleaned, I shall remove to the east wing.'
The woman was too distressed to do more than curtsy clumsily and step to one side to allow her to enter. About a dozen servants were arriving, hurriedly buttoning livery and straightening their caps. They more or less curtsied and bowed in unison.
Sam and Mary took charge leaving Isobel to head for the small parlour at the rear of the house which would be far easier to heat than any of the enormous rooms. She spoke to the maid who opened the door. 'Are you the only staff here at the moment?'
The woman curtsied nervously. 'Yes, your grace, I'm acting housekeeper here, Smith's the name, your grace. His grace has taken the rest to Grosvenor Square. There's no one left inside, apart from us few. And all the grooms and such have gone with him and all the horses too.'
This was exactly the news Isobel wanted. Without the objectionable Maynard and Foster to interfere she might well be installed in the east wing with her own people around her before Alexander became aware of her presence at Newcomb.
'I am delighted to hear you say so. I've need of loyal staff of my own. From now on you're in my employ, and shall become my retainers. Mrs Watkins is my housekeeper, Mr Watkins my man of business, and Mr Brown my butler. I shall leave them to organise matters as they see fit.' She turned to Mary. 'Send someone along to light fires in the small parlour and also in the yellow guest suite. I shall sleep there until the east wing is ready for occupation.'
A tall young man bowed to her. 'If I may be permitted to speak, your grace. There's nothing we'd like more than to serve you. We've not had an easy time working here. We're all recently taken on, that's why Mrs Maynard and Mr Foster left us here on half pay.'
'Good— I require my staff to be loyal to me. I wish no mention of my arrival to reach London. Do I have your assurances on this matter?'
A chorus of assent ran round the circle. Satisfied she had made progress in her desire to be recognized as a person in her own right, and not merely an adjunct of the duke, she left her staff to get on with what they did best. In less than an hour she was warm and cosy and drinking tea served on the best china.
*
The next few days were a bustle of activity as her minions cleaned and prepared the east wing for her. Mary insisted she remained with her feet up, reading and sewing.
'The east wing is in good shape, my lady, considering how long it has been left unoccupied.'
'How long before I can move in?'
'I've fires burning in every chamber. I reckon the place will be warm and dry in no time. The furniture and curtains you've selected from here are being transferred this afternoon. Sam says you can come and see for yourself later on.'
At three o'clock, just as night was drawing in, Sam escorted Isobel from Newcomb and around to her new home. This section was accessed by its own front door and there were no communicating entrances. The east wing was beginning to look like a place where she could be comfortable. The ceilings here were considerably lower, the rooms less vast and although it did not have the modern appointments of Newcomb, it made up for it in other ways. The building was of ancient construction and had been the original Newcomb before the current mausoleum had been added by Alexander's grandfather.
For the first time she felt in control of her own destiny, not beholden to her parents or her autocratic husband. By the end of March the entire staff had
transferred to jo
in her. Extra servants had been taken on from the village, and so far no one had seen fit to send news to Grosvenor Square that she was in residence.
Mary had the house running like clockwork; Bill was a magnificent butler, firm but fair and, more importantly, he was almost as tall as her husband and much younger and fitter. She was praying that he would not allow the duke to barge his way when he eventually arrived to confront her.
She had not been in residence long when the estate manager, Mr Reynolds, approached her. 'Your grace, forgive me for bothering you, but your tenants and their cottages are in dire straits. There have been no repairs or improvements here for many years. Two children died from lack of warmth last week.'
‘That’s appalling, Mr Reynolds. I give you permission to instigate any repairs necessary. Get the men to do the work themselves and pay them for it. Make sure there is enough fuel for everyone and give food where it is in short supply.'
Alexander had been irresponsible. How could he have been so lax with his duties? He prided himself on his birth, his ancestry, and yet he had neglected the most crucial part of his inheritance— taking care of those dependent on him.
Reynolds beamed, his cheeks glowing from the cold. 'Thank you, your grace. I've access to sufficient funds which I usually draw on for day-to-day matters. If we get started right away by the time the depredations are noticed the work will be completed.' He grinned, and looked almost boyish in his excitement.
'Do whatever you have to, spend what you need, but I suggest everything is done as
rapidly as possible. I'm sure you understand the necessity for speed.'
'I do. What's done can't be undone. I reckon we've got a month before … well a month to get things done.'
The estate manager went about his business leaving her to contemplate the scale of what she'd
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