The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  Eleanor was puzzled. And then realised that there was no need. Here in all probability was a young woman from a good family, fallen on hard times, and forced to take service as companion or governess with an established family. It was a frequent occurrence, after all. She had Eleanor’s sympathy.

  Having wrung every possible detail from the topic of children, Eleanor attempted to extend the conversation. To the matter of the Baxendales. How loyal would the nursemaid be in the face of pertinent questions? There was no way for Eleanor to know until she tried.

  Did she enjoy town life? Would she rather be back at home in the village of Whitchurch? Did she find it very secluded there or did the Baxendales have a vast acquaintance who might visit the Great House with children for John to play with?

  Sarah rapidly took refuge in monosyllables again, eyes downcast. Eleanor was getting nowhere, but persisted.

  Did Sarah remember when Octavia came out? Was she in the family employ? How long had she been with the family? Miss Baxendale had said that Sarah was once her companion before taking over the care of the child. She must have enjoyed being in such a close relationship with her employer.

  The Marchioness gritted her teeth. With no encouragement from Sarah, it was fast giving the appearance of a cross-examination. So Eleanor gave up. If they were to learn anything about the Baxendale family, it would not be from this girl who sat so still and composed and distant beside her. And was intent on saying nothing but yes or no! But why did she get the impression that there was far more below the controlled surface, something that troubled the girl, her eyes strained, her lips pulled tight and thin in her otherwise serene face? It occurred to Eleanor that there was an indefinable sadness about the young woman, but there would be no confidences exchanged here, even without the social divide of Marchioness and servant.

  They were suddenly interrupted by a squabble and sharp voices between the knot of children in the centre of the garden. Who should hold the lead of a lively brown terrier owned by one of the families? The result was much shouting and pushing. As the youngest and smallest, John came off worst. There was a howl, not of pain but frustration, when the children abandoned him to race off with the dog to their own nurse across the garden. John howled louder, tears of temper sparkling in his blue eyes when he could not keep up with their longer legs.

  Eleanor watched the outcome, her interest caught.

  Octavia did not divert for one moment from her discussion of herbs suitable for a kitchen garden, despite her son’s loud expression of fury. Sarah immediately, without excuse or apology, leapt to her feet and abandoned the Marchioness. All her composure was gone in that moment of animation. She swooped on the child with expressions of concern, picked him up, wiped the tears away and promised a treat for little boys who were good and did not cry. The child’s tears instantly receded, replaced by a bright smile of anticipation. Sarah nuzzled his neck, kissed his damp cheeks, John returning her embrace enthusiastically and beginning to giggle when she tickled him.

  Eleanor’s gaze became suddenly intent. Then she dropped her focus to her own child, who was attempting to crawl into her lap, taking in his dark hair and the promise of the striking Faringdon features. The differences were remarkable—there could be no denying it. So she stood, determined to seize the moment, smoothed down her skirts and approached the nursemaid who had set the child on his feet again, straightening his collar with loving fingers.

  ‘Sarah. Tell me…who is the father of this child?’ Eleanor bent to stretch out her hand, to touch the silky fair curls, to cup the soft curve of his cheek.

  There was a flash of panic as the laughter in the nursemaid’s eyes vanished. Sarah cast a glance towards Octavia, who remained unaware of any development. Then she gathered John up again into her arms, held close despite his sudden squawk of protest, as if she would shield him from some unseen physical attack.

  ‘Sarah. I mean you no harm. Indeed…’ Eleanor would have taken her hand, but Sarah stepped back out of reach.

  ‘Excuse me, my lady. I must take him inside. He will be hungry…’

  She fled, almost at a run, with a mumbled apology to Octavia in passing, and vanished through the doors of Faringdon House.

  Eleanor picked up Tom, smoothing his hair reflectively. Sarah was afraid.

  ‘I have spent so dull a morning! You cannot imagine.’ The ladies were once more seated in the barouche, Mrs Stamford holding forth. ‘She appears to know little and will say even less! Her head is stuffed with nothing but pergolas and French marigolds!’

  ‘Sarah was even less communicative,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘I found out nothing other than an old wives’ cure for an infant colic, which I would certainly never try on any child of mine! A poultice of common groundsel, applied to the stomach of the poor little mite—I shudder at the thought. But Sarah swears by it.’

  ‘Which does not mean there is nothing to find out, of course.’ Alicia Stamford turned her severe stare on her daughter, choosing to ignore the diversion into country remedies. ‘Surely you could persuade her to drop some gossip about her employer?’

  ‘No! I could not! What do you suggest? There is no point in scowling at me, Mama. Short of asking her if Baxendale is her mistress’s real name, I could see no way of doing so.’ She turned her face away, holding her son close for a long moment. ‘But one thing is certain. There is some secret there that surrounds the child. And Sarah is not at ease.’

  ‘Hal! You were right! I have found it!’

  Nicholas erupted into Henry’s bedchamber as the latter was putting finishing touches to his cravat.

  ‘Come in, Nick!’ His lordship continued to concentrate on his image in the mirror. He was no dandy, as he would be the first to admit, and was very ready to dispense with the services of a valet, but he knew that it was important to keep up some standards in London.

  ‘A Waterfall, unless I am much mistaken.’ Nicholas laughed and flung himself into a chair by the window to watch the operation. He was still in shirt sleeves and, although the morning was somewhat advanced, gave the appearance of not being long from his own bed.

  ‘I like the coat—very Weston—and the sartorial elegance of the cravat is amazing for someone wedded to the undeveloped backwoods and social equalities of the New World. A pink of the ton, no less.’ Nicholas smiled in friendly mockery. ‘But that’s not important! I would have come last night—this morning…it was only a few hours ago—but I presumed you would be asleep.’

  ‘I was.’ Their eyes met in the mirror. ‘And don’t sneer too loudly, little brother. New York may not yet be a centre of sartorial elegance as you put it, but neither it is the backwoods of anywhere. I can still cut a pretty figure.’

  ‘So I see. And do the ladies of New York appreciate this jewel in their midst?’

  ‘Rosalind has no complaints.’

  ‘Ah. Rosalind. Is she a serious matter or in the form of entertainment?’ There was more than a casual question in the voice that caused Henry to glance across from his task.

  ‘None of your business, Nick.’ Henry took a final glance at his reflection.

  ‘Of course not.’ He shrugged and grinned with easy acceptance of the rebuff from his brother. They knew each other very well. ‘I only wondered if you had marriage in mind—to set up your own dynasty to inherit the vast fortune you are intent on making.’

  ‘You will be the first to know when I do,’ was the only dry comment he received in reply. ‘Do I presume from your good humour that your efforts in the dens of iniquity paid off?’

  ‘More than you could ever guess.’ Nick settled himself more comfortably, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair, to regale his brother with the details. ‘I managed to run him to ground. Our sly fox is a frequenter of White’s, would you believe. And also the new establishment in Pall Mall—Whittaker’s, I think. The place where the major-domo looks you up and down as if you might be up to no good and about to steal the silver.’

  ‘So.’ Henry anchored his cravat with a
sapphire pin, smiling down at his brother’s face, flushed with triumph. ‘We have tracked him to earth.’ His smile was not pleasant as he thought of the effect on Nell over the past weeks of fraudulent scheming. ‘So what has our friend been doing recently?’

  ‘He is not a frequent visitor to the clubs, but then puts in an appearance for a few nights in one week—as you would expect—when he escapes from his duties. He plays deep. Vingt-et-un is his poison. It does not need much skill—just a steady nerve, and our friend, it would seem, has neither. So he is in debt, I gather, to Spalding to the tune of 2,000 guineas. And perhaps to Robert Mallory—you remember him? You once bought a hunter from him—but I am not certain. But he owes something near to 5,000 guineas all told.’

  ‘And where would he find money like that to pay off the debt?’

  ‘Exactly. Shall I tell you more? I had a very busy night.’

  ‘Please do.’ Henry’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of progress at last.

  ‘It gets better. When I mentioned the name to Kingstone, he was an amazing source of information. It cost me a bottle of brandy, but it was well worth it. There was a scandal recently. We did not hear of it because I was at Burford and you were in New York. It involved a new young actress called Elizabeth Weldon. She was taken up by an admirer and had a child. Both actress and child were found dead in her lodging, their cause of death uncertain. Rumour connected our quarry’s name with the girl, but there was no proof and his status would speak against it so the case was not pursued. But even so, Kingstone tells me that he is not liked. Hers was not the only name he has been linked with. It would seem that his appetite for pretty young girls is…shall we say, extreme.’

  ‘Better and better.’ Hal thought for a moment, toying with a silver-backed hairbrush. ‘What you say does not surprise me. Aunt Beatrice hinted as much. He has a very attractive young housekeeper, I remember, with a pronounced invitation in her smile. Our esteemed aunt would definitely not approve.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it would fit with the rest of the picture. And I only had to spend one night to get the information! Oh, and by the by, he drinks—to excess. Another reason for his being a poor gambler. Kingstone says that he has been asked to leave more than one club. His behaviour must have been vulgar indeed.’

  ‘I am indebted to you, Nick.’ Henry put down the brush and shrugged into the dark superfine coat which had attracted Nick’s admiration. ‘I think another visit to Whitchurch is called for. Tedious, but it will be worth it. Do you care to join me? This time Eleanor will be remaining in London, if I have to lock her in her room.’

  ‘I will go to Whitchurch with you willingly. But restrain Eleanor? I will not volunteer to help—on your own head be it. Besides, she would forgive you quicker than she would forgive me.’ Nick watched his brother closely, to see his response.

  ‘I doubt it. The lady has not hidden the fact that she has a low opinion of both my involvement and my motives in staying to unravel this unholy mess!’

  ‘Then you should not doubt it! The problem is, Hal, that you do not see what is under your nose where Nell is concerned. I thought you did not like each other at first. I admit I was wrong. Totally wrong. I am still not quite sure what drives both of you—or perhaps I am. In fact, I am convinced! But I know that you would not thank me for my opinions or advice.’ With which set of blindingly enigmatic statements, Nicholas rose to his feet and made to depart.

  Then Marcle knocked at the door and entered with a silver salver bearing a note.

  ‘From Lady Beatrice, my lord.’

  Henry sighed and frowned. ‘Now what.’

  He broke the seal, unfolded the single page and read the brief note of a few lines. And then re-read it.

  ‘Well?’

  He passed it on to his brother. ‘I think that we have just discovered our pot of gold.’

  My dear Henry,

  I remember the name. It came to me at some inconvenient hour in the dead of night when I could not sleep, as is ever the case. Perhaps it came from seeing the girl and speaking with her at your evening on Saturday. Her name is—or certainly was—Octavia Broughton.

  I hope this information is to your advantage. I would hate to see the title fall into the wrong hands.

  Your loving aunt,

  Beatrice

  ‘God Bless you, Beatrice!’ Henry took back the note and stowed it carefully in his pocket.

  ‘And the Devil take the Reverend Julius Broughton, Octavia’s loving and expensive brother!’ Nick added with some venom. ‘When do we set out for Whitchurch?’

  After Nicholas’s departure, Lord Henry added a gold watch to his waistcoat and a signet ring to his hand, made to pick up gloves and hat, then simply stopped, standing to rub his hands over his face in frustration. Nicholas knew. It had become impossible to disguise it. He had tried not to look at Nell. To touch her. To keep his distance when in the public eye. He had hoped, fought hard to hold his feelings in check. Not well enough, it seemed. Nick knew him too well. At least he could rely on his brother to be discreet. They both knew that they could not afford one whiff of scandal. If any word of an association between Lord Henry Faringdon and the newly widowed Marchioness of Burford got out to become the latest on dit, they would be all but destroyed. The censure of the haut ton would be damning indeed, for which he would never forgive himself. So he must guard his actions in future. There must be not the smallest hint of love or desire or need. He gritted his teeth. Nothing beyond brotherly affection and concern. But it was sometimes impossible when Eleanor looked so lost and weighed down by uncontrollable events. Or when she sparkled with courage and determination to fight back against the odds. Or when she smiled at him, her eyes glowing and her lips curving in just that way she had… Lord Henry groaned. In fact, it was simply impossible.

  The morning visit to Octavia Baxendale at Faringdon House and her difficult but inconclusive conversation with Sarah gave Eleanor much food for thought. Sarah’s protection of the child, her awareness of his needs, had been keen and instinctive. When he was in distress her response to him was immediate and loving. Quick to restore him to laughter. Whereas Octavia…she had continued her conversation after the briefest of glances towards the source of the youthful tantrum. Eleanor could not imagine being so uninterested in her son’s concerns. But she lifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. As Judith had been quick to point out, not everyone was blessed—or cursed—with strong maternal feelings. And, without doubt, the child was healthy and well cared for. There was no cause for concern for the well-being of Octavia’s son.

  The sunshine flooded the window embrasure of the little parlour at the front of the house where Eleanor stood, her own child in her arms, contemplating their uncertain future. She had been driven to rescue her son from his nursemaid in the nursery, to spend time with him, perhaps to reinforce her memories of Thomas and her marriage when the future had seemed so settled. So certain. She held the child close, enjoying the warmth of his small body, the grasp of his fingers at the neck of her gown. She rubbed her face against his, making him chuckle, so that those glorious eyes, not the dark blue with which he was born—indeed, they were now the most beautiful clear amethyst of her own—sparkled with innocent pleasure. Whatever the future would hold for him, she vowed that he would be safe. She could protect him and give him the best life that was in her power to give, whatever the outcome of Sir Edward Baxendale’s assertions. And she would love him with all the fierce maternal love that flowed through her veins. The infant whimpered a little, his mouth downturned as her possessive hold tightened inadvertently. Eleanor laughed a little as she loosened her grip and turned towards the view from the window for instant distraction from tears.

  ‘One day you will own a house as fine as this,’ she told Tom. ‘Finer, in fact. As fine as the King’s own palace, if you wish it.’ Her cheek pressed against his hair as he leaned to stretch out his hand to the world beyond the glass. ‘One day you will own a splendid bay stallion, just like that one.’ She
pointed as a rider went past, the hollow sound of the hooves echoing on the hard surface. ‘You will ride as well as your father—all style and dash and elegance. And you will look like him. I know it, even though you are still so small. I see his dark hair and straight nose.’ She touched him with gentle fingers, savouring the curves of childhood that would disappear all too soon. ‘Not his eyes—they are mine—but those splendidly arched eyebrows. And the curve of your jaw just there.’ She ran her finger over the soft cheek. ‘You will be tall and handsome and when you smile the young ladies will all want you to look in their direction. Just as I did when I saw your father. You will break many hearts, I am sure—and you do not care about one word I have said to you!’ She laughed in delight as she swung him round in a circle.

  Then her thoughts drifted to Thomas, her husband, as the baby dozed a little on her shoulder. The images rose before her mind, crystal clear, finely etched, a painful and difficult meshing of contentment and grief. The morning she had gathered all her courage to present herself at Faringdon House to enquire for Hal. She had expected to be turned away, but Thomas had seen her, invited her into the library to know the reason for her distress. Only to inform her that Henry had sailed two days before. She had not believed him. She remembered as if it were yesterday the icy finger of despair that had traced its path down her spine. She had felt almost faint with shock, disbelieving that he could have left her, without word, without even a formal farewell. He had simply gone, in spite of all his protestations of love, in spite of the promise implicit in his lips warm against her own. In spite of her giving him the proof of her own love. How empty his words must have been. How cold his heart—and she had never realised it until that moment when Thomas had said, ‘But he is gone. Did you not know?’