My Lady Deceiver

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘You will keep well away from him?’

  ‘I will, of course.’ Most thankfully, Rose thought, wondering if the poor lovestruck creature realised what a fool she was making of herself. Had she, for instance, laid down similar rules to her would-be fiancé? ‘I do hope,’ Rose continued, ‘that you and I will become firm friends.’

  There was the very slightest pause before Gwenna answered. ‘That rather depends upon how you behave.’

  Now what had brought that on, I wonder? Rose thought, after her visitor had swept away in a rustle of taffeta. ‘The girl must be utterly besotted.’ As if she cared a hoot about Jago Tregowan. Didn’t she have enough on her plate?

  Rose went to check on Robbie, fast asleep and entirely oblivious of his destiny or the precarious situation they were now in. He gave a little sigh, a milky bubble forming between his pouting lips, and Rose smiled.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe, my lovely. I promise.’

  Didn’t she owe it to him, and to his dear mother, to see that he was properly protected? No matter what problems might arise from finding the necessary documentary proof of Rosalind’s marriage, she really couldn’t allow this darling child to be branded illegitimate simply to save her own skin.

  Chapter Eight

  After only three days at Penver Court, Rose had quite made up her mind to leave. There’d been numerous occasions when she’d been tempted to speak up, determined to reveal all, but either her mouth would run dry, someone would interrupt, or an incident would occur which left her more deeply entrenched than ever. She’d endured yet more interrogations from Lady Tregowan, usually over dinner or lunch, which quite dampened Rose’s normally healthy appetite, and she felt she could take no more.

  The dowager’s probing always left her feeling confused. Rose had desperately sought suitable answers to the simplest of questions, such as the names of Rosalind’s parents; when they’d moved out to Canada; and if she’d been given dancing lessons as a girl. She’d been obliged to fabricate yet more stories to fit what few facts she knew, even to describing an elegant outfit she apparently wore for her supposedly simple wedding in New York. All of which only added to the web of lies into which Rose was enmeshing herself. How would she ever remember them all? The possibility of getting something wrong filled her with terror. This really had to stop.

  And learning how to behave in such elevated company was proving to be an almost impossible challenge. The smallest action was fraught with danger, Lady Tregowan watching her every move, eagle-eyed. Even as she helped herself to marmalade, on the second morning at breakfast, Rose heard the dowager click her tongue in annoyance as she carelessly dipped her knife into the pot.

  ‘Surely you were taught to use a spoon for that task? See, here it is, hanging from the stand. Goodness, I know you come from America where everything is different, but did your mother teach you no table manners?’

  Horrified by her own blunder, due largely to ignorance of the niceties of upper-class etiquette, in her clumsy efforts to put things right Rose dropped the knife, which clattered on to the table leaving smears of marmalade all over the pristine white cloth. She heard a soft chuckle, quickly stifled. Was Bryce laughing at her? Did he take pleasure out of seeing her embarrass herself? Oh, this was quite intolerable. Marmalade jars at Fishponds Road didn’t come with their own stand, let alone a silver spoon to hang upon it, assuming they were ever fortunate to have any, that is.

  ‘Weren’t you properly finished? Which school did you attend?’ Lydia Tregowan was asking, a frown of disapproval marring her cold features.

  ‘I-I went to an academy for young ladies,’ Rose fabricated, remembering what Tilly had told her about Lady Tregowan herself. ‘Although we did like to break rules,’ she added, in the hope this would let her off the hook.

  ‘There will be no rules of etiquette broken in this house,’ she was sternly informed.

  What mistakes would she make next? There was so much Rose didn’t know about society living, she’d be sure to make a mess of everything. She felt deeply embarrassed whenever a servant hurried over to lift the cover of a dish for her, unfold her napkin on to her lap, or hand her the toast rack, as one was doing now.

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she gabbled, snatching up the rack just before he reached it. Only to earn herself another chilling rebuke from Lady Tregowan.

  ‘Thomas is only doing his job. And he is certainly paid enough for it.’

  One glance at the footman’s face told Rose the exact opposite was the case. For all the young man’s efforts to remain implacable, the resentment in his hooded eyes was plain to see. The sight of that bitter expression for some reason reminded Rose of Tilly’s comment about her room, and her own offer to help protect Tilly’s family from eviction. She really must find out more about that matter, but now wasn’t perhaps the moment to ask. ‘He needn’t trouble on my account. In any case, I’m not hungry this morning, and I really should see to Robbie.’

  But as she made to get to her feet, Lydia irritably waved her to be seated again. ‘Breakfast isn’t over yet. You will leave when I say you may.’ Just as if she were a small child at school. Sighing rather dramatically, the dowager continued, ‘I dare say we should appoint a proper nanny for that child, if he is not to grow up completely uncivilised. Where is he now, by the way?’

  ‘With Tilly. She’s very good with him. Perhaps she could be his nursemaid,’ Rose tentatively suggested.

  Dark eyebrows raised in shocked disapproval. ‘Tilly is a kitchen maid. I very much doubt she possesses the necessary skills to deal properly with children.’

  ‘Oh, but she does,’ Rose protested. ‘She comes from a large family with lots of brothers and sisters, so is most familiar with caring for babies. And she already loves Robbie dearly.’

  ‘Being one of a ragbag of siblings does not qualify a person for the heavy responsibility of caring for a Tregowan child, not in my view. But I concede that Tilly may well have to do for the moment. If you are to stay, which very much depends upon your providing proof of the brat’s parentage, we will then make more suitable arrangements for his care. I look forward to seeing whatever documents you can provide.’

  The brat indeed! Flushed with anger that she could so describe little Robbie, Rose began searching through Rosalind’s baggage. Among her possessions there was a trunk full of books, a sewing basket and embroidery ring, personal knick-knacks, and a writing slope which fitted easily upon a lady’s lap while she attended to her correspondence.

  With considerable misgivings, and fast-beating heart, Rose began to search through the papers. They contained bundles of what must be love letters tied up with pink ribbon. She carefully set these to one side, not wishing to intrude, considering them private to Rosalind.

  And then she found the document Rosalind had signed, entrusting guardianship of her son to Rose, her new friend. It all seemed perfectly reasonable and above board. There was her own signature, and that of dear Rosalind, and the steward’s as witness.

  No one must discover this if her deceit was not to be revealed, and she and Joe were to avoid prison, at least until she’d found some way to explain their story. Finding a tin box in the writing slope, she tipped out the ink pot and pen, and in their place tucked the document. Glancing about, Rose frantically searched for a place to hide it. She tried the top of the wardrobe, but that was too obvious as the maids would certainly find it when they dusted. Perhaps under the mattress? But what if they turned it over? It was while she was on her hands and knees beside the bed that she found the very place. Right underneath, far from general view, Rose noticed a slight looseness in a floorboard. With a little effort and the help of a spoon, she managed to prise it open far enough to slip the tin box inside.

  ‘There, now it will be perfectly safe. No one will think to search under the bed.’

  But she still needed Rosalind’s marriage certificate. Beneath a wad of papers and letters she finally found what she was looking for: a leather fol
der in which was Robert’s will, and the marriage certificate. Rose sat down to read them both very carefully.

  It was a perfectly straightforward will in which Robert left everything to his darling wife. The licence proved that a marriage had indeed taken place between Rosalind Besnard and Robert Tregowan in June 1896. A moment’s thought told Rose she herself would have been eleven years old at the time. Oh dear, this wouldn’t do at all. Quickly folding the document away, she hid that too in the tin box under the floorboard. In what other way, then, could she prove Rosalind’s marriage, and that her son was legitimate? Rose picked up the bundle of love letters, and, choosing one at random, opened it with some trepidation as she felt this to be a violation of Rosalind’s privacy.

  Quickly scanning the contents she saw that nothing here offered the proof she needed as he always addressed Rosalind as My darling girl. She tried the next, and the one after that. She was in tears by the time she opened the last. His love for Rosalind shone out from every page. How tragic that Robert should die so young, and just when he was to become a father.

  And then she found what she was looking for.

  ‘My darling girl,’ he began, as usual, but then corrected himself. ‘Or more accurately, my beloved wife. Even now I can hardly believe my good fortune that you agreed to make me the happiest man alive. Those wonderful years we have had together, in which I felt privileged to be your loving husband, I shall treasure in whatever life comes next. I can hardly bear the thought of being parted from you but please do not grieve too much when I am gone. If you should feel sad, remember the joy our marriage brought us, and rejoice. Many are not so fortunate. I do not leave you willingly but with love in my heart for ever. I am yours into eternity, my darling Rosalind, my beloved and devoted wife.’

  Lady Tregowan did not shed a single tear as she read this heart-rending letter. She humphed and puffed, before walking over to the bell pull and instructing the footman who answered to call the family solicitor at once.

  ‘We need Wrayworth’s opinion on this,’ she informed Rose, who simply nodded, again stifling an urge to bob a curtsey, so much in awe was she of this formidable, beautiful woman.

  This morning, Lydia’s gown was a deep azure blue, which perfectly accentuated her dark hair and pale blue-grey eyes. The hourglass figure was proudly defined by a black leather belt, no doubt worn over a tightly laced corset, resulting in the smallest waist imaginable, a fashionably pouched bosom above. Rose wondered how she managed to breathe, let alone eat.

  The solicitor arrived within the hour, of course, no doubt having driven at great speed in his motor from the nearby village of Penver, as always when summoned by the Tregowan family. Rose hid a smile as Lydia offered him a mere two fingers rather than her hand, as if that was all he deserved by way of a salutation, him being so far below her in status.

  Mr Wrayworth read the letter and instantly declared himself completely satisfied with the validity of the marriage.

  ‘Satisfied? How can that be?’ Lady Tregowan demanded, pale eyes sparkling with anger. ‘We have no marriage certificate.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly clear that the couple were indeed married. A man does not tell lies about his marital status on his death bed. Most tragic!’ He returned the letter to Rose with whispered words of condolence.

  ‘But where is proof of that child’s birth?’ Lydia insisted, obviously feeling herself ignored.

  Rose nervously cleared her throat. This was the one question she’d most dreaded. ‘I don’t have any, I’m afraid, since he was born prematurely on board ship.’ Rose was perfectly certain that the guilt she felt over what she wasn’t telling them about that incident must be written plain on her face.

  Once again Mr Wrayworth proved to be her salvation. ‘I’m sure such a document can easily be obtained, once we have registered the young man’s birth. Will you allow me to carry out that small task for you?’ he asked, gently patting Rose’s hand.

  Lady Tregowan swiftly intervened, her tone crisp. ‘I believe we should allow a little time to pass first, to be absolutely certain the child is who this girl claims him to be.’

  The solicitor looked quite shocked. ‘I’m sure I have no doubts at all on that score, My Lady. Why, I remember Master Robert well, and the child undoubtedly has the look of his father. We must honour his memory by doing our best for his son.’ He then went on to suggest that young Robbie’s name should be put down on the waiting list of the best local preparatory school without delay.

  ‘Absolute poppycock,’ Lydia demurred.

  Wrayworth looked concerned. ‘I would highly recommend it, dear lady. The best places are soon taken up.’

  ‘Very well,’ she grudgingly accepted, lips tight with fury at being bested. ‘But there is absolutely no reason why it need be local,’ she snapped. ‘He can board, and start at five. The sooner, the better.’

  ‘That is a possibility, naturally, although perhaps seven or eight would be a more suitable age. Then he must go on to Marlborough, which his father attended,’ Wrayworth asserted. ‘The boy will need tutoring in foreign languages, mathematics, history, and, of course, Latin.’

  Rose could only listen, bemused, as these long-term plans were made for the child’s future. ‘Robbie is barely more than a month old,’ she dared to remind them, as the pair became embroiled in a barbed dispute over what pocket money was right for a young boy.

  ‘One cannot begin too soon with children,’ Lady Tregowan said. ‘Particularly where manners and proper behaviour are concerned. We cannot have the brat screaming the place down the whole time.’

  ‘My Lady!’ Wrayworth gently scolded, clearly shocked by her language, and Rose was astonished to see Lydia actually blush.

  It was, however, agreed that a nanny would be appointed as soon as a suitable candidate could be found. In the meantime, Tilly might continue to act as nursemaid. As Lady Tregowan moved on to discussing estate matters, Rose was summarily dismissed. She escaped with a sigh of relief, thinking with no small degree of triumph that she had crossed the biggest hurdle, thanks to Mr Wrayworth. Little Robbie would surely be safe now.

  ‘The question is, Tilly, are you willing to take on the task?’ Rose asked, when she’d informed the young woman of Lady Tregowan’s decision. She’d gone straight to the housemaid, who was working in the laundry, where she stood at a huge stone sink, elbows deep in hot soapsuds, washing Robbie’s nappies. The little boy himself was fast asleep nearby in the bassinet. ‘He’s a very good baby but once he starts teething, and toddling, he might prove to be more of a handful. You would largely be responsible for his care, as I may not always be … available … due to … other responsibilities and duties.’

  Feeling that she’d done all she could for Robbie, Rose had swiftly come to the conclusion that she must find Joe and insist they leave, no matter what the difficulties, before things got any worse. They must go before any more lies were told, or she made an unforgivable blunder. Rose was determined not to tolerate any arguments or any further delays this time.

  Tilly’s brown eyes were glowing. ‘Ooh, milady, I wouldn’t mind that at all. I’d love taking care of him, I would really. I’d be proper made up.’

  ‘It might only be until a proper nanny is appointed,’ Rose warned.

  Perhaps she could leave a note explaining everything, she thought, chewing on her lip as she worried over the possible repercussions of such an action. On second thoughts, that might result in the family setting the police on their trail. Safer to keep up the charade. Then again, she could leave a note saying she’d willingly run off with Joe, which should protect him from any charges of abduction. Let them think what they liked about the state of her morals, she simply couldn’t go on living a lie. Oh, what a dreadful muddle!

  ‘Aye, but I could happen carry on, as his nursemaid, after that. Nanny would need help. She couldn’t possibly manage on her own.’

  ‘That might well be possible,’ Rose agreed. Having two women to mind one baby seemed somewhat
excessive, but then she hadn’t the first idea how things were done in the households of the aristocracy. Picking the baby up, Rose hugged him to her breast. His soft skin smelt of talcum powder, soap and baby milk, and her heart seemed to turn over as his blue eyes lit up at the sight of her.

  She could not deny that she’d find it utterly heartbreaking to leave him, but it was foolish to imagine the child wouldn’t be better cared for here in this lovely Queen Anne house, with a proper nanny and an education which would make him into the fine gentleman he was born to be. Rose certainly couldn’t risk taking him on the road with her. Who knew where or when she might find another job? How could she care for a baby as well as coping with her own survival?

  Besides, this was Robbie’s home. He belonged here. She was the interloper, an impostor, the one practising a deceit. And it must stop.

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Hello, my precious boy, and how are you?’ An image of his mother saying very much the same thing moments before she died brought a rush of tears to her eyes. A baby needed a mother, not simply a nanny and a nursemaid, however well qualified or caring. Oh, but she daren’t risk taking on the role. She’d been through all of that already. It wouldn’t be right. It would be a lie. In a panic and blur of emotion, Rose quickly thrust the baby back into the bassinet where he gurgled happily and kicked his feet.

  Blinded by tears she turned to go. ‘Sorry, but I can’t stay. I have to find Joe. Do you know where he might be?’

  Tilly was frowning, puzzled by the little emotional scene she’d witnessed and wondering what the Tregowans had done to upset her new mistress. ‘He’ll be in the stable at this time of a morning, I should think. Shall I have him fetched?’

  ‘No need, I shall go and find him myself. Thank you, Tilly.’ Rose almost ran from the room, tears of despair now rolling down her cheeks. Oh, how could she possibly bear to part with him?