The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Magnificent,’ he said, though she was sure he was speaking of the jewels and not her. ‘Now let us make our entrance.’ He offered her his arm and they walked slowly to join the company, who stood and applauded.

  She heard the applause at the end as if from a long way off, was only half aware of movement about her as servants circulated with champagne for everyone. Then Sir Arthur’s hand took hers and his high-pitched voice announced their engagement and invited everyone to drink to his future bride, but Lydia hardly heard a word of his flowery speech.

  ‘Smile,’ Anne, who stood a little to one side, commanded her in an undertone. Lydia obeyed like an automaton as Sir Arthur led her to the front row of the chairs which had been arranged facing the musicians, and the entertainment began. She could not afterwards have said what they played, nor what the enormous soprano had sung. She was numb from head to toe.

  As the applause died away, Sir Arthur announced that supper was served in the next room and afterwards there would be dancing or cards for those who did not care for the exercise.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ Sir Arthur said, lifting her hand and putting it on his sleeve so that the ring was prominently displayed. ‘Let us go into supper.’

  She did not eat a thing, could not swallow it, though she did drink two glasses of champagne which only served to make her light-headed. Her jewels were admired by everyone and the young ladies present admitted their envy of her. If they only knew!

  After supper Sir Arthur led her in the first dance and then she was claimed by almost every young man in turn, except the Earl of Blackwater. He stood on one side of the large room, leaning against an imitation Greek pillar. He was wearing the same black suit he had worn to the ball; she supposed because he was still in mourning, but he looked magnificent. A head taller than anyone else in the room, he seemed to dominate it without doing anything to bring that about. His tanned features were set in an expression of disinterest, but she knew that was far from the case. Even from across the room, she could see that his dark eyes were watchful, scanning the company.

  Determined not to let him upset her, which was evidently his intention, she danced with great verve and laughed at her partner, putting on a very convincing act of being happy. ‘La, sir,’ she said, hardly aware of who that partner was, though Sir Arthur had introduced them. ‘All this exercise has made me thirsty.’

  ‘Then allow me to fetch you a drink. A cordial or more champagne?’

  ‘Oh, definitely champagne,’ she said as he took her to a seat and disappeared.

  When he brought it she drank it far too swiftly and, on an empty stomach, it had the inevitable effect. The room began to revolve around her and she felt decidedly queasy. ‘Oh, dear, please excuse me,’ she said and, getting up, made her way to the door, trying not to stumble.

  She just managed to reach the room set aside for the ladies to refresh their toilettes and grab a chamber pot before she was sick. ‘Drunk,’ she said, wiping her mouth on a towel and looking at herself in the mirror. Her wig was awry, her eyes unnaturally bright; her cheeks, which had seen no rouge, held twin spots of bright red. But underneath her skin was a translucent greeny-grey. ‘Whatever will he think of me?’ But it was not of Sir Arthur she was thinking.

  There was a carafe of water and glasses on a table in the room. She poured herself a glass and drank it greedily. And then another. ‘Got to go back,’ she told her reflection. ‘Got to show myself beside my betrothed, got to be pleasant to him. More than pleasant. Loving.’ Setting her wig straight and making liberal use of the bottle of perfume which had been provided, she pulled a face at herself in the mirror and then, straightening her shoulders, went back into the hall.

  At the foot of the grand staircase, she hesitated. She needed to draw a few big gulps of air to steady herself before returning to the heat and noise of the drawing room.

  ‘Miss Fostyn.’

  She whirled round to face the speaker, her heightened colour betraying her discomfort. ‘My lord, you startled me.’

  ‘So I see. Who or what are you hiding from?’

  ‘Hiding?’ she repeated, wishing she felt more in command of herself. Being sick had sobered her, but not enough. ‘I am not hiding. I was merely getting my breath back after the exertions of the dance…’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His brown eyes were gleaming with amusement.

  ‘No, you do not see,’ she said, trying to look past him to the drawing-room door, afraid someone might see them together and draw quite the wrong conclusion, but he was too tall and too bulky. All she was aware of was the breadth of his chest and the way his own hair curled round his ear beneath his wig. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch it.

  ‘Oh, but I do. I see a bosom heaving gently and bright eyes and hands always on the move.’ He was referring to her swift use of her fan and she shut it with a snap that threatened to break it. ‘I see agitation.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense! Being a peer, and the Squire of Colston and our landlord, does not give you the right to make insulting remarks.’

  ‘I was not making insulting remarks, quite the contrary. You look every inch a duchess.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘A countess, then.’ His voice was soft, appealing, and she realised he was doing it again, creeping in beneath her guard with gentle words and tender looks, like a purring cat waiting to pounce. She did not feel well enough for another battle of words with him. In any case, she always lost.

  ‘Please stand aside.’

  ‘After you have explained to me why you did not take my advice.’

  ‘What advice was that?’

  ‘Not to marry Sir Arthur.’

  ‘I have not married him.’

  ‘Not yet, but you have agreed you will and that is not something you can retract without a scandal.’

  ‘Why should I retract?’

  He smiled. ‘Second thoughts, my dear.’

  ‘And why should I have second thoughts?’

  He shrugged. ‘Regrets. We are all entitled to those. The difficulty is to admit to them, to undo what has been done.’

  ‘And you should know,’ she snapped. ‘But the dead cannot be brought back to life.’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘Does Sir Arthur know the grisly details?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Come, my dear, I never took you for obtuse. I was referring to the accident. Ten years and two months ago. I could give you days and hours too, if you wish.’

  ‘I do not wish and it was no accident.’ She heard her voice rising and paused to add in a lower tone, ‘I do not want to talk of it, particularly to you.’

  ‘I think perhaps I am just the one you should be talking to about it.’

  ‘No. Out of my way.’ She pushed against his chest with both hands and he caught them in his own and held them against him, virtually imprisoning her.

  ‘Would your haste to be tied to Sir Arthur have anything to do with the latest on-dit?’ he asked. ‘A way of scotching it, perhaps.’

  ‘Latest on-dit?’ she echoed.

  ‘About my father and your mama. You have heard it, I suppose?’

  ‘I should think the whole world has heard. And if you thought Sir Arthur would turn against me when it reached his ears, you would be wrong, for he says it makes no difference.’

  ‘I wonder why not?’ he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  ‘Because Sir Arthur is a gentleman and believes the word of a lady,’ she said. ‘And I wonder you can be so sanguine about it. It is your father they are talking about—’

  ‘And your mama…’ He paused, watching her face. ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘No, of course not. Do you?’

  ‘I revered my father and know he could not have done anything to hurt my mother; it was not in his nature, any more than it would be in your mother’s nature to bring shame on her family. I have the greatest respect for her.’

  ‘You could put an end to the rumours, if you chose, you could refute th
em publicly.’

  ‘I think, perhaps, that might make matters worse. There is nothing like denying a rumour to confirm it. It is human nature.’

  ‘Then why mention it?’

  ‘I was merely questioning Sir Arthur’s altruism.’

  ‘You do not like him, do you?’

  ‘I am entirely indifferent.’ That was untrue, he admitted to himself. If only he could remember where he had seen the man before he might be able to understand his unease. ‘And just to show there are no ill feelings, allow me to escort you back to the dance floor.’ He released her hands and offered her his arm.

  She laid her fingers upon his sleeve and even through the shiny material she felt a shiver pass through her body. Hate him, she commanded herself, hate him. It is the only way.

  They made a handsome couple as they took to the floor, the one in black, the other in white and silver, and if anyone thought they were better matched than Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith and Miss Lydia Fostyn, they were not so indiscreet as to say so, but the looks they gave each other, the heightened colour in her cheeks and the smile he could not quite hide were noted.

  After the dance ended, he took his leave, although it was still not yet midnight. He sent his carriage home and set out to walk, musing on his latest encounter with Miss Lydia Fostyn. His hate for her had been dissipated, blown away on the wind which came in off the sea. But hers for him? He could not tell. She appeared friendly one minute, full of venom the next, and when she was like that, he found himself answering fire with fire. He was curt, brusque, hurtful, when he did not want to be any of those things. What did he want? Did he even know that? And what difference did it make now? She was betrothed to Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith and nothing short of death or at least a huge catastrophe could put an end to it.

  Chapter Six

  After Ralph had left, Lydia turned to go back to the company, but the bubbly effect of the champagne had worn off and she felt sick and tired. The music was too loud, the conversation nothing more than a babble of voices, the smell of hothouse lilies, overheated bodies and congealing food all crowded in on her until her senses reeled. She wanted her bed. She wanted to lie down and lose herself in sleep.

  She found her mother vigorously fanning herself by an open window and listening to the Marchioness of Brotherton talking about a performance of The Beggar’s Opera which had recently been put on in Chelmsford by a minor theatre company. Seeing her daughter approaching, she excused herself and left the lady in mid-sentence.

  ‘Lydia, is something wrong?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘You do not look at all the thing.’

  ‘I feel a little unwell, Mama. Do you think we could go home?’

  Anne had seen her daughter’s too-obvious efforts to appear happy and guessed what had made her run from the room, but she made no comment on that. ‘Perhaps it would be best. I will go and speak to Sir Arthur, but you must pull yourself together, dear, and say goodnight to everyone or they will think you ill-mannered. And, Lydia,’ she admonished, ‘do smile.’

  They circulated round the company, saying goodnight, explaining that it had been such a wonderful exciting day, she was quite overcome with fatigue. Sir Arthur, all consideration, said of course she must not overtax herself and kissed her cheek, before relinquishing her to her mama. Then they collected a protesting Annabelle and went out into the night where she gulped in huge breaths of cold air and willed her rubbery legs to support her.

  Someone had been sent to alert Sir Arthur’s coachman and the carriage rolled up a few minutes later. They climbed in and were driven away with Annabelle still grumbling that they had dragged her away just when Lady Baverstock was softening towards her. They overtook the Earl of Blackwater, walking home alone, but no one in the coach saw him.

  Once back at the dower house, Anne helped Lydia to bed because Janet had been told not to wait up for them. ‘Go to sleep, my dear child,’ she whispered, pulling the covers about her daughter’s shivering shoulders. ‘You will feel better tomorrow.’

  Long after her mama had left, she lay staring at the ceiling. Would she feel better tomorrow? And what of all the other tomorrows? Soon she would be in another bed in another house and she would be mistress of it. She ought to be elated. There was no natural law that said you had to be in love with your husband. According to some of her mother’s friends being in love with one’s husband was exceptional, and was more likely to lead to misery than happiness. A husband’s role was to provide a home, clothes for his wife’s back, and any trinkets or luxuries he could afford in return for someone to run his household and have his children, to provide him with an heir, more than one if possible.

  His wife should quietly attend to her duties and not question his decisions, or even ask what he did when he was not with her. If she suspected he had a mistress, the very last thing she should do was accuse him of it. She must turn a blind eye and never complain. Would Sir Arthur take a mistress? Did he have one already? She would not mind, she told herself, if it meant he did not expect too much from her. What a way to begin a marriage!

  It could have been so different. If only her umbrella man had been real and not that hated man. She had met him three times before she found out who he was and in that time had woven all manner of fantasies around him. She shut her eyes, trying to bring him back into focus, trying to regain that joyful, slightly breathless feeling she had experienced on those three occasions. She was in the swaying coach, smiling and offering her lips to him and he was smiling back with those soft brown eyes and kissing her…

  Musing on the conversation he had just had with her, the man in her thoughts strode home along the narrow roads, passing the familiar landmarks of his childhood, the ancient church where generations of his family had worshipped and been buried, the village green, the two taverns. He remembered the carefree child she had been, the lovely woman she was now, lovely but embittered. He supposed she had cause to be bitter, especially when his return had set the tongues wagging all over again as those who had lived in the village for years enlightened those who had not. And it did not matter to the tongue waggers if what they said were accurate or not.

  Could there possibly any truth in the story about his father and Mrs Fostyn which, until Robert Dent had told him of it earlier in the day, was new to him? His father had been a healthy and virile man; it would not surprise him to learn he had a mistress, many men kept paramours and their wives accepted it. Some even said it made the marriage all the sweeter, though he could not subscribe to that view. When he married—if he married—it would be because he was in love and he would want no one else. But he was the exception, he realised that. His parents’ marriage had been negotiated by their parents, so perhaps his father could be forgiven for letting his attention stray.

  But so close to home! To the wife of the Rector, whose living he had in his gift! Had it happened before or after the Fostyns came to live in the village? Had the living been part of the arrangement? He found the idea so abhorrent, he could not believe it. His father would never have done anything so base. But if there was no truth in it at all, how had the rumour started? Did Miss Fostyn believe it, even though she had denied it as vehemently as he had?

  Had Freddie heard it? Was that why he had been so angry that day ten years before, not over the girl who had simply been the catalyst, but because he wanted to hit out at someone and, unable to confront the Earl himself, had chosen to vent his spleen on his son? Did the Reverend Fostyn believe it too? The Rector had not spoken a word on that fateful morning, had not been given an opportunity to do so. Poor Lydia! No wonder she hated him. But she was no longer a child, she was a woman and it was time she faced up to reality. Until she did, she would never have any peace. And neither would he.

  Walking home in the dark, he went over and over it, trying to dredge up from his memory anything that had happened in his childhood to give credence to the story or, better still, disprove it. He needed to know the truth. He could hardly confront Mrs Fostyn, the only person alive who k
new it. Perhaps his father had kept a diary or documents which had not turned up in his admittedly casual search of the house since his return. Tomorrow he would look again.

  Having made that decision, he hastened his steps. Arriving home, he dismissed his valet who had waited up for him and undressed himself. Pulling his nightrail over his head, he went to the window to draw back the curtains and gaze out on the dark landscape. This was his home, the people out there were his responsibility and he must mete out succour and justice impartially. If they would let him! But to do that meant he had to overcome prejudice and gossip and that was not easy with Lydia Fostyn living not a quarter of a mile away. Damn all the Fostyns and Miss Lydia Fostyn in particular!

  What was it the military pundits were always saying? The best method of defence was attack. If he wanted to silence the rumours and live in peace with his neighbours, including the Fostyns, he had to do something positive about it. He sat in the window alcove and leaned his head back on the cold stone, trying to think of something to fit the bill, but his mind kept drifting to Lydia Fostyn engaging herself to Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith.

  The man was twice her age and not even handsome. He was too fat, his eyes were too colourless and that high-pitched voice grated on the ear. He could not imagine why she had allowed herself to be coerced into marrying him. True, he was rich—the house and its furnishings proved that—but was wealth enough for a young and beautiful girl who could surely find others more pleasing to look at who were eligible? He chuckled suddenly; if wealth was the criterion, then the Earl of Blackwater could match it, even surpass it, and Colston Hall was every bit as elegant as that new pretentious mansion on the road to Southminster.

  The alterations to his home were nearly finished and it would once more be the elegant home it had been when his father had brought his bride there, and though there was no bride now, he could throw it open. He would have a party, a huge bal masque, with sumptuous food, elegant decorations, a full orchestra for dancing, and fireworks to finish it all off. He would invite everyone who was anyone, including the Fostyns, and they would all see that he did not believe the rumours and held no grudges. He might even ask Mrs Fostyn to be his hostess—that should put an end to the rumour that the Latimers and Fostyns were in conflict. Oh, it was a capital idea!