by Mary Nichols
‘I need nothing from you.’ His intervention had been fortuitous, but that did not mean she would allow him to take liberties.
‘No? Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But I need my breakfast.’ It was said with that half-mocking smile he had that she could never quite interpret.
‘Then I suggest you help yourself.’ She indicated the sideboard. ‘Everything is there. I will have coffee brought to you. Unless you prefer chocolate, or tea?’
‘Coffee, please, it will help to wake me up.’
‘If you went to bed before cockcrow, you might find it easier to be alert during the day.’
‘I could not leave the game. It would have been bad manners.’ It was a statement that made her laugh aloud and he found his own mouth twitching. ‘I do not want to antagonise my host, you know. It will not serve.’ His voice had changed, the note of banter had gone and now he spoke quietly, as if he were in earnest, as if he were trying to tell her something. Did he mean because he wanted to continue his pursuit of her, but he wasn’t exactly pursuing her, was he? He simply baited her. The others did it too; it was a kind of game to them, and he was no different, was he?
She did not understand him; he was perfectly polite one minute, downright rude the next. Sometimes solicitous, anxious for her welfare as if he knew and could sympathise with her dilemma, sometimes he was as despicable as the others, worse because they had not attempted to kiss her. She felt herself colouring at the memory. How could she have been so foolish as to allow it? Now he thought he could take liberties and she would not object. She went to push past him, but he caught her hand. ‘Lady Hobart, I beg you not to reject the hand of friendship. That is all it is, you know. We all need allies at some time or other.’
She pulled herself away. ‘This house is not at war, my lord. We do not have to take sides in battle.’
‘Perhaps you are right, my lady.’ He bowed and let her go.
He felt he was walking a tightrope. One false step and Cecil would know he was not there to play cards and flirt with the ladies. But go too far in that direction and he would make an enemy of Lady Hobart, and that was the last thing he wanted. She was either extraordinarily brave or extraordinarily foolish, but whichever it was he admired her. If they had met in a London drawing room or at a ball, they would have exchanged courtesies, danced together, and slowly, little by little, he would have learned her background, found out about her family, where she had been born, where raised, her likes and dislikes. He would have told her about Anne-Marie and Julia and about Malcomby Hall. And in the fullness of time, he might have found himself attracted enough to begin a serious courtship. None of that would happen now. They had been thrown together in circumstances far from normal and there was no going back and starting again.
What did he know of her? Only that she had been married to Sir Grenville Hobart, the elder of Lord Hobart’s two sons, and that he had been killed at Corunna, leaving her with two daughters. She had made her home with her father-in-law and now he was dead she was in trouble, and though Hardacre had not acquainted him with the exact nature of the trouble, it was not difficult to guess. As for her likes and dislikes—he knew she liked order and courtesy and felt strongly about education and she loved her daughters, but that was about all. How could he be in love with her, knowing so little? But he was.
She drove all his previous convictions about women and their frivolity from his head. She made him forget he had promised himself not to marry again, that he did not like children, especially girl children. Was he a fool to let compassion for her plight cloud his judgement? He could turn his back on her, leave Parson’s End and continue his journey, just as if Ivor had not thrown a shoe; he could find a school for Julia, take her to it and return home, comfortable in the knowledge that he had done his duty by her. But he could not, could he? Charlotte Hobart had changed him, made him more aware of the needs and feelings of others, made him feel guilty about Julia. But had she weakened him? He, who always liked to believe himself in control, felt it slipping from his grasp.
Sunday was the only time Charlotte was free of the obnoxious guests for an hour or two. On Sundays, she and Miss Quinn took the girls to church, and as Cecil and his friends were not churchgoers, they were able to breathe freely, enjoy the air, the service and the company of the other parishioners who gathered afterwards to pass the time of day and gossip.
It was soon apparent that the wild parties and the heavy gambling up at the Manor had become food for gossip. The new servants had not been able to resist passing on what they had seen and heard and much of it was undoubtedly exaggerated. She could tell by the way people were looking sideways at her and the way they whispered among themselves that she was the object of conjecture. Did she condone what was happening? they asked each other. She was mistress of the Manor, surely she could have refused to have those horrible people in the house if she did not like them? And why did she no longer teach the children or visit the sick? They could not believe a person they had always looked up to could change so much.
She could, of course, refute the gossip, tell them the truth, but that would mean admitting to her own helplessness and she could not bring herself to do it. She had always been the one to give succour and comfort and she could not bear the idea of being the object of pity, the receiver of whatever these poor people could give her. It would not help in any case. She needed more than they could give, she needed her daughters’ inheritance, or at least part of it. These simple people would not understand that just because she lived in a big house and had enough food to eat did not mean she was not poor.
Holding her back straight and her chin high, she pretended not to notice the whispers and greeted her fellow worshippers just as she always had, with a smile and a cheery word, an enquiry here and there as to whether a child who had been ill was better, or whether an old lady was managing on her own. They did not cut her, but their answers were guarded.
‘I feel like a stranger in their midst,’ she told the Reverend Fuller. ‘And a not very welcome one at that. Perhaps I was wrong to want to stay in the neighbourhood, perhaps I should have taken my girls and gone to my great-uncle after all.’
‘They do not understand, my lady. They cannot conceive that you, who have always looked after them, should not be able to continue as before. They know nothing of wealth and the rules of inheritance. As far as they are concerned, you are no less rich than you were before his lordship died.’
‘I know.’ She gave a huge sigh, then, catching sight of Stacey emerging from the dim interior of the church, bade the parson a hasty farewell and set off down the lane, followed by Miss Quinn and the girls.
‘Mama, do we have to go straight back?’ Fanny asked. ‘It is so nice to be out. I don’t like the house any more.’
‘Nor do I,’ Lizzie said. ‘When Grandpa was alive we could go anywhere, play hide and seek in the rooms, watch the maids at work or go to the kitchen for sweetmeats. Now we may not go anywhere but our own rooms. Cook is bad-tempered and even Betsy chased me up the corridor the other day. She said I’d no call to be in that part of the house. I was only curious about the lady, the one with the black wig and the patch on her cheek. She reminded me of pictures of the Queen. I saw Uncle Cecil go into her room and he was in his nightshirt…’
‘Lizzie, you know I forbade you to go downstairs without me,’ Miss Quinn said, looking fearfully at Charlotte. ‘It was very naughty of you.’
‘I wanted to know what was going on. It’s something very havey-cavey, I am sure.’
‘Nothing is going on,’ Charlotte said, trying not to show the unease she was feeling. Her children, her beloved daughters, were in danger of being corrupted by her brother-in-law’s friends, and she must get them away. She had spent her own money paying the extra servants, which was the only way she could get them to come, and all she had left was the five guineas Mr Hardacre had given her. How far would that take them all? Would it take them as far as Hertfordshire where Lord Falconer lived? And what would sh
e find at the end of the journey, a welcome or a refusal? It was years since she had travelled on a public coach and her children never had. How much were fares nowadays, how much did it cost to stay overnight at an inn? She would have to go to London and take a stage from there. It would take at least three days. What other costs were involved? Above all, was it safe? Perhaps it would be better to wait a little longer to hear from Mr Hardacre. ‘We’ll go and have a walk on the beach, shall we?’
She set off determinedly, turning off the road and down the path through the pine woods to the cliff. The day was warmer than of late, for spring had burst out in all its glory. The sky was the colour of hazy blue smoke, the sea, darker, greener, was calm and only a faint ripple at the water’s edge told of a tide that could, in times of storm, be deadly. Flotsam and jetsam was often washed ashore and the villagers would salvage whatever was useful. A year or two before a body had been brought in on the tide, probably a poor sailor who had fallen overboard, for no one had ever identified him. But today the sand was clean and as golden as the sun that shone above it.
The children ran on ahead, sitting down to peel off their shoes and stockings, before dashing on to the beach and making for the pebbly water’s edge. Charlotte and Miss Quinn followed more slowly.
‘Poor mites,’ Joan said. ‘They have been cooped up like wild birds this last two weeks…’
‘I know, Quinny, but what would you have me do? I dare not let them run about the house.’
‘I know. How long do you think those dreadful creatures will stay?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Do you think when they go, life will be the same as it was?’
‘I don’t know that either, Quinny. I do not think so.’ They had reached the water’s edge and began walking along where the tide had gone out, their conversation accompanied by the gentle whoosh and rattle as the tide came over the pebbles. ‘But I have been making plans, whether they come to fruition depends on many things, but I think it would be wise to leave Easterley Manor.’
‘Leave, my lady? But where will you go?’
‘I do not know yet, but I beg you to say nothing of it to anyone. Until I am sure of my ground, no one must know.’
‘You may trust me, my lady, but if you leave what will become of everyone, the servants and me?’
‘While the girls are young, I shall need you, Quinny, though whether I will be able to pay you as well as the late Lord Hobart did…’
‘That’s not important, my lady, what is important is that I do not have to part from my angels.’
‘Angels!’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Just look at them. They are like wild things, shrieking and splashing each other. Their skirts are soaked and their hair ribbons untied. Anything less like angels I cannot imagine.’
‘Oh, my lady, I was so distracted by what you were saying. I’ll go and—’
‘No, Quinny, do not scold them. It is good to see them happy.’
Joan hurried off to remonstrate gently with the girls and Charlotte continued her walk, deep in thought. It was all very well to talk of plans, but how could she bring them to fruition? She would have to write to Mr Hardacre, find out what was happening; the uncertainty was playing the devil with her nerves. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a shadow fell across her and a voice said, ‘Good morning, my lady.’
Her fist went to her heart and even through her clothes she could feel its erratic beat. ‘Lord Darton.’
‘I am sorry if I startled you. Did you not see me coming?’
‘No. I was thinking.’
‘Thinking, eh? Now what would a lovely woman be thinking about on a beautiful day like this? It is a beautiful day, is it not?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ Her heart was still thumping and she could hardly find the breath to speak.
‘Makes you feel glad to be alive.’
‘Yes.’
‘You do not sound very convinced of it. Is life treating you so ill that you cannot smile?’
‘It is not life that treats me ill,’ she retorted. ‘It is people…’
‘Of whom I am one.’
She lowered her head without speaking; it was as good as an affirmation. He fell into step beside her without waiting for an invitation to do so. She walked on, gazing out to sea so that she did not have to look at him. He was so self-assured, so impertinent, as if he expected her to fall into his arms simply because he smiled at her. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction. And it was the second time too; he had done so the other evening at dinner. He had done it to goad her, and then later in the wine cellar, he had been…How had he been? Kind or insolent? Insolent, she decided, putting his arm about her in that proprietorial way and kissing her, as if she belonged to him. She belonged to no one. Why, then, was she so dependent? Whom could she trust?
‘You are still in a brown study,’ he said. ‘What is it that fills your mind so completely, you can shut yourself off from everything around you?’
‘My thoughts are my own.’
‘Share them with me.’
‘You would not find them interesting.’
‘How can I tell if you keep them to yourself?’ He paused, then, smiling, went on. ‘But let me guess. You are asking yourself how long you can put up with your brother-in-law’s guests. You are wondering if Lord Hobart will play so deep he will lose the roof over your head. You are wondering what will become of you. And you are debating how far you can trust me.’
‘If that be so, then perhaps you, in your wisdom, can also tell me the answers.’
He sighed. ‘I would that I knew. I fancy Sir Roland and Mr Spike will stay until Lord Hobart pays what he owes.’
‘And if he cannot pay?’
‘They will take whatever they can lay their hands on: pictures, ornaments…’
‘Not the house?’
‘They might try, but they are not the only ones in the game, you know.’
‘I do know. What I do not know is how deep in it you are.’
‘Deep enough to foil them, I hope.’ He paused. ‘My lady, can you not leave? I know it has been your home and you must be fond of it, but surely you are not happy with the situation.’
‘You must know I am not. What I cannot understand is why you stay. You are not like the others. I do not believe you are as addicted to drink and gambling as they are. Nor that you are so pinched in the pocket that you must deprive my brother-in-law of everything he possesses.’
‘Men who play as badly as he does deserve to lose.’
‘You do not have to encourage him.’
‘He needs no encouragement, believe me. My concern is for you.’
She looked up at him startled by his words. ‘Why?’
‘Because I think fate has dealt you an unkind hand.’
She laughed suddenly at the gambling connotation. ‘I am not a gambler…’
‘No? I think we all gamble at some time in our lives. Oh, it might not be with cards or wagers, but sometimes the decisions we make are gambles in themselves. You are gambling that the house party breaks up with no harm done and Cecil turns into an honourable man and—’
‘Lord Darton, that is wishing for the moon, not gambling.’
‘Then what are you going to do?’ he asked seriously.
She stopped and turned towards him, looking into his face for the first time. Either he was a very good actor or what she saw in his brown eyes was a genuine concern. Did he care? Suddenly it was important that he should. She wanted him on her side, she wanted him to understand. She wanted to feel able to lean on him for support as she had once leaned on Grenville. Her husband. Not since his death had she looked at any man with longing, not until now. Surely to God she had not fallen in love again? No, she told herself, it was simply that she felt lonely and isolated and needed a shoulder to cry on. But she must not cry, she must not.
He lifted a finger and gently wiped her cheek with the back of it and she knew she had failed; the tears were gathering in her eyes and one had slipped down her fac
e. ‘My lady, I hate to see you distressed.’
‘How can that be true?’ she asked, suddenly asserting herself. ‘When you yourself have added to it.’
‘It is not my wish to do so, but I must play my part.’
‘Why?’
‘Now, do you know, I have no idea. Perhaps because I was bored and I enjoy a game of cards as well as the next man. Perhaps because I have taken a dislike to Cecil Hobart and his associates. I do not like a man who lays claim to kinship simply to fleece me. Or it may be that you and I never did have that conversation about education.’
‘Education?’
‘Had you forgot? You were expounding your views on teaching. Unusual they were too. Children should learn to be happy, you said, that life is not all work…’
She smiled at the memory. How affronted she had been at his daring to speak to her without an introduction. That seemed such a little thing compared to what had happened since. ‘So I did. But you did not agree.’
‘I neither agreed nor disagreed, but I was interested.’
‘Why?’
‘I have a daughter, Lady Hobart, a daughter who needs teaching.’
‘Oh, I did not realise that, but surely she has a governess and music teachers and dancing masters, things that my poor village children do not have.’
‘Is that why you stay? Because of them.’
‘Partly. My wish is to open a school.’
‘I thought you already had one.’
‘I mean a proper school, one with paying pupils. If Lord Hobart had not come back from India, I might have asked his permission to convert part of the Manor, I could have sent him a little rent from the income.’ She sighed. ‘But it was not to be and now I must find other premises.’
‘The village children would never pay enough to cover the overheads,’ he pointed out. ‘Unless you were not telling the truth when you told his lordship you had no money and you mean to subsidise it from your own purse.’
‘By paying pupils I meant the children of parents like yourself who can afford the fees.’
‘Are you qualified to teach them?’
