by Jane Godman
“A conversation I look forward to, sir,” he bowed low and went in search of Rosie.
He found Rosie in the garden. Although there was a sharp chill in the morning air, she was strolling meditatively along one of the decorative paths which circled the pergola with its profusion of rose bushes. She wore a warm, serviceable cloak, the hood of which was pulled up and shadowed her face.
“You should not be about in this cold air, Miss Delacourt,” he remarked bossily as he approached and she turned her head to observe him. Her eyes re-focussed back on the present. Even Sir Clive, not a man given to close observation of others, thought she looked wan.
“I walk here every day, sir. Indeed, it is quite my favourite place.”
He noted with surprise that the smile she gave him was a pale shadow of her usual glowing expression. He hoped the silly chit wasn’t pining for that accursed Jacobite! Not that it mattered now that the fellow had been dispatched from whence he came.
He fell into step beside her and they walked in silence for a few minutes. Rosie had always disliked him intensely, and now she had even more reason to do so. Since Jack had gone, her feelings had been replaced by a curious numbness. She could not rouse herself to anger against Sir Clive, even if she tried. Becoming aware that he was talking, with a supreme effort, she forced herself to concentrate on his words. “… do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”
Stunned at the realisation of what he was asking, Rosie paused in her stride and turned to look at him. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, Sir Clive hauled her unceremoniously into his arms and pressed ardent lips to hers. Straining every muscle, outrage and disgust surging equally through her, Rosie broke free and dashed a shaking hand across her lips.
“How … dare you!” trembling from head to toe, she faced Sir Clive angrily.
The gentleman was stunned. Could it be that his proposal was about to meet with a rebuttal? It was an option he had never seriously considered. Puffing himself up, he blustered,
“Miss Delacourt, I am offering you my hand in marriage!”
Rosie had collected herself slightly and replied with a stiff little bow.
“Sir Clive, I am conscious of the great honour you do me, but I must decline your very flattering offer,” her voice was chillier than the January air.
“But, what nonsense is this?” red blood stained Sir Clive’s features and his eyes protruded alarmingly. “Before that damned Jacobite cast his spell on you, you would have accepted me, I doubt not!”
“You are mistaken, sir,”
Rosie’s quiet dignity contrasted oddly with his heat. Dropping a curtsey, she turned and walked away. Aware of his eyes boring into her back, she prayed that her knees would hold her until she was out of his sight. Once she reached the security of the house, she dashed up to her bedchamber, where she threw herself down on the bed. For the first time since Jack left she managed to find a measure of relief in tears and in whispering his name into her pillow.
Sir Clive, incandescent with rage, was stoking his fury up to furnace levels as he rode away from The Grange, hauling so hard on the bit that his horse rose up in pain and fear. A swift reminder with his whip soon showed the terrified animal who was in charge. Lurking just beneath his outrage that Rosie should dare to refuse him, was a growing fear. Without the betrothal to an heiress which he had convinced himself was inevitable, there was no obvious way back from the ruinous precipice of his debts. By the time he reached the crossroads which led him to Sheridan Hall, he had achieved a state of alternating fury and panic. He hardly noticed Harry sitting on a wall, fishing rod in one hand and catapult in the other.
Through the fog of Sir Clive’s emotions however, there penetrated the memory of Harry laughing with Jack and Tom in the stable yard. A half formed idea surfaced and, on impulse, he reined in his horse. “What-ho, Master Delacourt,” there may have been a suspicion of gritted teeth about the words, but he assured himself it was barely noticeable.
Harry regarded him with mild surprise. He could not remember Sir Clive ever directly addressing him before.
“Good day, sir,” he responded politely. Privately, he considered Rosie’s suitor a strange, dull dog.
“You are hoping for a good day’s sport, I see,” Clive indicated Harry’s rod with a nod of his head.
“Indeed, I was, but my friend, Arthur Warrender, was supposed to meet me here a full half hour since,” Harry sighed heavily, “He must have been detained.”
The half formed idea began to develop into a plan.
“Perhaps you would care to keep me company instead?” He almost laughed aloud at the look of horror which crossed Harry’s features. “I am on my way to partake of some refreshment at The Bull. I’ll swear you could manage some ham and cheese. Maybe a draught of ale before you set off for home?”
As if on cue, Harry’s stomach gave an enormous rumble.
“My father does not approve of me drinking ale,” he confided, a trifle shyly. Grasping his belongings, he sprang down from his perch.
Clive leaned forward conspiratorially, “I do not see your father here, however,” his voice just above a whisper, “And if you choose not to tell him, I certainly won’t.”
Goodness, thought Harry, as he dutifully jogged along in the wake of the horse, he had certainly misjudged Sir Clive. He must, it would seem on the strength of today’s encounter, be a proper good ‘un. Wait ‘til Arthur heard about this!
The landlord at The Bull bowed them into a private parlour, his eyes disappearing when he smiled, like currants embedded deep in a bun. Of course he could provide a nuncheon for Sir Clive and his young guest. It would be his privilege to serve two such distinguished gentlemen.
Some twenty minutes later Harry had consumed a quite remarkable quantity of ham, eggs and fresh bread spread liberally with thick, yellow butter. He was also half way down his second pitcher of strong, dark beer. He was experiencing an odd, floating sensation which, while it was not unpleasant, was definitely unfamiliar.
Clive, regarding him with approval, bade him drink up. “Your father tells me it is a great relief to know that Jack is now safe across the border.”
The lie tripped glibly off his tongue as he topped Harry’s tankard up further. Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. A pinprick of surprise that his father should have confided such a closely held secret momentarily pierced his pleasant alcohol-induced fog. But, dash it all, if his father trusted Sir Clive, why should not he? He was proving to be a most engaging companion. He took a long swig of the ale. It really was delightfully refreshing. “Yes, it was most alarming when the soldiers came. But we managed to smuggle him away safe to re-join the prince.”
A slight, triumphant smile twitched across Sir Clive’s features like a malignant shadow.
“Momentous events, indeed. In years to come there will be many who falsely claim to have played a part in the reinstatement of a Stuart king. Those who actually were involved should be at pains to record that fact lest their stories are doubted amongst the many.”
He regarded Harry slyly. The lad was drunk as a wheelbarrow now, swaying slightly in his seat, a fatuous grin on his face.
“You are, after all, a Jacobite hero … I have it! You must write your memoirs!”
Harry’s brow furrowed, “But my part was not that great,” he confessed reluctantly.
“Nonsense,” Sir Clive told him briskly, “Why, if the Pretender mounts the throne, your friend Jack will be at his right hand! You, Harry Delacourt, will have shaped the history of our country.”
When he put it like that, Harry was forced to concede that he had indeed been most heroic. He wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He indulged in a pleasant daydream in which he bowed low over the hand of the Stuart prince, who thanked him for his services. Meanwhile, his new found friend called upon the landlord to fetch them pen and parchment.
Harry had been unusually quiet throughout dinner. Now, as Rosie and her father played backgammon, he sat, slumped i
n his chair, staring morosely – and in uncharacteristic silence – into the fire.
“Are you sure you are feeling quite well, love?”
Rosie enquired with sisterly anxiety and he hunched a shoulder without replying. Before she could press him further, an impatient hammering on the front door knocker rang through the house, startling them. Rosie’s eyes flew to her father’s face and she sprang up from her chair, a glimmer of hope dawning in her eyes. Sir Clive’s imperious tones rang out and Mr Delacourt, also rising to his feet, pressed a sympathetic hand to her sagging shoulder, before rising to greet the unexpected – and decidedly unwelcome – visitor.
“To what do we owe this honour, sir?”
Mr Delacourt’s words might have been courteous but his tone was distinctly frosty. He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantle. The hands of which indicated that it wanted but ten minutes to nine o’clock.
“Your servant, sir … Miss Delacourt,” Sir Clive bowed.
There was a restlessness about his manner and his eyes gleamed with ill-concealed excitement. Swallowing the bitter pill of disappointment as she realised that their night-time caller was not the only visitor she longed for, Rosie turned to her brother. He was contemplating Sir Clive with a fixed, anxious stare,
“Come, Harry,” she held out her hand as she addressed him, “You will excuse us, sir, I know,” she curtseyed slightly in Sir Clive’s direction, “My brother has promised to help me find a book he has recommended to me.”
It was with obvious relief that Harry followed her dutifully from the room. Mr Delacourt waited. Sir Clive, it would appear, was important with news. The effort of keeping his emotions in check had caused his chest to puff up like a pouter pigeon and he took a hasty turn about the room before speaking,
“I have come, sir, to insist that you consent immediately to bestow your daughter’s hand upon me!” The words burst from him like seeds from an over-ripe pod.
“Have you gone completely mad at last, Sir Clive?”
Mr Delacourt, dispensing with any further attempt at courtesy, eyed his guest with unvarnished astonishment.
Sir Clive snorted with laughter, “It would please you to think so, I don’t doubt.”
“Let me repeat, Sir Clive, lest my meaning was insufficiently clear last time we spoke …” Mr Delacourt spoke slowly and deliberately, in the manner of a man addressing a small, stubborn child. “ … the decision about who my daughter will marry belongs to Rosie, and to her alone. She has given you her answer, now I advise you to let be.”
“Mayhap you will reconsider your indulgence in that regard once you have had the opportunity to peruse a very interesting document I have in my possession, Mr Delacourt.”
With a flourish reminiscent of a conjuror, Sir Clive withdrew a rolled parchment from his capacious coat pocket and presented it to Mr Delacourt, adding, with a note of satisfaction,
“In case you should be tempted to destroy the account while you hold it in your hands, let me point out that ‘tis but a copy made by my clerk. The original is, even now, on its way to my lawyer in London.”
Mr Delacourt’s instinct was to send him packing, but those words forestalled him. Sir Clive was certainly behaving like a man deranged, but he had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble over this slim parchment. It behoved Mr Delacourt to read it and then send the obnoxious man, once and for all about, his business. His growing fear, as he read the words Harry had written in his ‘memoirs’, was masked by the inscrutable expression he maintained. Sir Clive, unable to contain his anticipation, paced agitatedly up and down.
When Mr Delacourt had finished reading, he handed the document back to Sir Clive and, without speaking, returned to his seat. With apparent unconcern, he began to tidy away the backgammon board.
“Well?” Sir Clive blustered.
“I do not know by what means you coerced my son into writing those words, Sir Clive,”
Mr Delacourt’s voice was quiet, his busy hands steady. In complete contrast was the erratic pounding of his heart.
“Suffice to say, your actions have only served to convince me that, were you the last man on this earth, I would never allow my daughter to marry you.”
Sir Clive loomed over him, his fists clenched, eyes starting furiously from his head.
“But I can ruin you …” he expostulated, waving the document, “… and with you your precious son and daughter! When she is clapped up in prison awaiting her sentence for treason – the whore of a known traitor – I trust you will remember your words, sir!”
Mr Delacourt shrugged, “In a traitor’s prison she could still hold her head high,” he stated, again with that unnatural calm, “A thing I fear your future wife – whoever that unfortunate lady might be – will never be able to do.” He met Sir Clive’s gaze levelly, “Do your worst, you evil bastard.”
With a strangled cry of fury, Sir Clive turned on his heel and stalked out. Mr Delacourt waited quietly until he heard the heavy door slam. Then, slumping forward in his chair, he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, drawing in a ragged breath as excruciating pain seared through him.
***
Rosie was curled up on the window seat, watching the sweeping drive with an almost painful expression of expectation. How strange that she had somehow missed the first signs of Spring this year! Suddenly, the gardens had come alive with a vibrant carpet of colour. There were reminders of new life and bustling activity everywhere. Although a few wintry clouds lingered stubbornly, the sunlight peeped between them so that their shadows dappled the hillsides like carelessly spilt paint. In the distance a horse trudged across a rolling field. It was pulling a heavy cart and a plume of bluish smoke from one of the labourer’s cottages hung still in the mid-day air.
She had always loved this time of year, delighting in the sounds and smells of the countryside around The Grange as winter faded. Now, the beauty of the scene twisted a sharpened knife into the constant ache of her sorrow. Today her father was being laid to rest – finally reunited with her mother – in the family crypt. In the three short months since she had found Jack at the roadside her life had changed beyond all recognition.
Harry came and joined her on the padded seat and she slid an arm about his waist, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. His young face was pale and drawn, the turbulence of his emotions reflected in his troubled eyes. They sat in silence until, at last, the sound of hooves on the gravel made them both sit up. Rosie was surprised to see two riders and her slender frame stiffened as she recognised Tom’s companion. Sir Clive Sheridan! She did not know what had transpired between him and Mr Delacourt on his last visit. Only that, following their conversation, her father had suffered a heart attack so violent it had killed him.
Harry, pale and strained, excused himself and Rosie envied him the luxury of escape. Sighing, she rose and – pale but dignified in a dove-grey gown edged with black ribbon - awaited her guest. He bustled into the room and bowed low over her hand, murmuring condolences. Rosie turned to Tom, who assured her that the service had been a fitting tribute and that most of her father’s tenants had been present to pay their respects to a much loved landlord.
Sir Clive cut across what Tom was saying, “I would have speech with you alone, Miss Delacourt,” he informed her imperiously and she regarded him with astonishment.
Tom turned, distaste written across every feature, and looked him up and down briefly. Clearly deciding he was not worthy of his attention, he addressed himself once more to Rosie.
“As I was saying, even old Arthur Scoggins was there, and he must be close to eighty. He talked fondly about how your father helped him and his wife when their youngest grandson was left lame after an accident. He asked me to pass on his regards.”
Rosie expressed her appreciation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sir Clive almost hopping with impatience.
“I think, Tom, that I had best grant Sir Clive a few moments in private as he has requested,” she might as well get it over
with.
Tom nodded grimly, “If you are sure?”
He asked pointedly, and Rosie assured him that she was. With a final look of contempt in Sir Clive’s direction, he left the room.
“Well, sir?” Rosie’s voice was haughty, and she pointedly did not invite him to be seated. “You will forgive me for wondering what could be so important that you must say it to me on the very day my father is laid to rest?”
“Don’t you dare look down your nose at me!” The words were uttered with such venom that she stepped back in alarm. “Yes, you may well stare! I’m tired of treating you with kid gloves, Miss-high-and-mighty-Delacourt. Tis time you learned a lesson and, by God, I’m the man who will teach it to you.”
Rosie moved towards the door but he was there before her, barring her way.
“Aye, you would love to call your tame ape back and have me man-handled out the door, would you not? But before you do, I suggest you read this,” he threw a parchment down onto a side table, “Your father found it most interesting, I can assure you.” Replacing his tricorn hat, he gave a mock-courteous bow, “I will return shortly, at which juncture I will expect a most favourable answer to my renewed proposal of marriage. For now, however, I must bid you a good day.”
With a growing sense of dread, Rosie sank into a chair and began to read the document he had left. Her emotions exactly mirrored those her father had experienced a matter of days ago in this very room. Several passages in Harry’s account leaped out at her, the words searing themselves on her consciousness and driving thoughts of her father, even of Jack, from her mind.
‘… my father, a lifelong Jacobite sympathiser, agreed that the Earl of St Anton, injured while fighting for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, should be sheltered in our home, Delacourt Grange ...’
‘… the Earl of St Anton was most taken with my sister and she with him. I believe they will marry when he returns. They have already shared a bed ...’
Oh, Harry! Rosie covered her eyes with a shaking hand. What have you done? A movement at her side made her look up, and Harry was standing beside her. Fear and concern were writ large on his young features. Beau, sensing her cares, rested his chin on Rosie’s knee his gentle eyes shining lovingly up at her. Rosie held out a hand to Harry and he took it. Exhaling the breath he had been holding as the tears began to flow. He dropped to his knees beside her chair and she held him close, rocking him as she had done when he was a baby.
