An Unusual Bequest

by Mary Nichols

  ‘It could not have come at a better time, my friend, and you were so easy to gull and such a poor gamester, it was child’s play. Now, we do not want to deprive you of your house, so all you have to do is to cooperate. You will do that, won’t you?’

  ‘And Lady Hobart?’

  ‘She is safe so long as you do as you are told. If not, we shall make sure her demise is laid at your door. I am sure you understand.’

  Charlotte heard the scrape of chairs and made good her escape, running up the stairs, clutching the bottles of wine. Reaching the safety of her room, she locked the door and sank on to her bed. What could she do? To whom could she turn? ‘Oh, Stacey, Stacey, where are you when I need you so?’ she murmured, but there was no one to hear her, no one to help her. She was on her own and she must get herself and her children away. Now. At once.

  She put the bottles on the chest, pulled a portmanteau from a cupboard and began stuffing clothes into it and then she stopped. Running away was not the answer. If they saw her leaving the house with her children and a lot of baggage, they would realise she had discovered their secret and would stop her. She must be more subtle than that. She put everything back, then went to bed and spent hours and hours going over her dilemma again and again until she dropped off to sleep with nothing decided.

  The morning dawned bright and clear, the sun shone and the sparrows twittered in the eaves, but Charlotte, heavy-eyed, her very soul weighed down with grief and bitterness, could hardly rouse herself. But rouse herself she must. Perhaps today Stacey would return. If he did not, then she was truly alone and must save herself and her children as best she could.

  ‘Whatever happened to your clothes, my lady?’ Betsy, who had brought her hot chocolate and pulled back the curtains, was busy looking at the gown her mistress would wear that day and was appalled by the untidy way they had been bundled back into the drawers and closet. ‘Those men haven’t been in here again, have they?’

  So even the servants knew what had happened. It was hardly surprising. ‘No, Betsy. I was looking for something. A shawl. I’m sorry I did not put things away as tidily as I should.’

  ‘’ Tain’t surprisin’, my lady,’ the maid said. ‘With all you’ve had to endure, ’ tis a wonder you manage to get up of a morning, let alone see to them men. I was never so glad to see the others go, though the two what’s left are the worst of the lot.’

  ‘Sometimes we have to make the best of things, Betsy.’

  ‘Is it true the master has lost the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope he would not allow matters to reach that pitch.’

  ‘If it weren’t for you needin’ me, I’d leave, my lady, an’ tha’s a fact. And so would the others. We talked about it and decided we’d stay, so you need have no fear of being left without help, but if you was to decide you’d had enough, then we’d understand, but we’d go too. Beggin’ your pardon for speakin’so free.’

  Charlotte smiled, though behind the smile the tears lurked. Their loyalty was touching and, at a time when she was at her very lowest, it made her want to cry. ‘Were you elected as spokeswoman?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, seein’s as I look after your room and can talk to you easier than the others. You never know who’s listening.’

  ‘I do not know what I am going to do, Betsy, but be sure I shall tell you as soon as I can. Now, can you find the least crumpled of my dresses? I must appear to be going about my daily tasks.’

  Dressed and looking her usual cool self, even if her insides were churning, she went down to breakfast. Unusually, the men had been up some time and gone out, on foot, so Foster told her. Glad not to have to face them, she forced herself to eat a little breakfast, then went up to see the girls, who were just beginning their lessons. Satisfied that they were safe and well, she returned to her room to write to Mr Hardacre. She dare not tell him the true state of affairs, but asked him if he had been able to sort out her ‘little problem’. She almost laughed at that. It was not a little problem, it was a huge dilemma. After that she wrote to her great-uncle without any hope that she would receive a reply. She should have done it long before. Why had she delayed? Could it be because she still cherished her dream? Or had the arrival of Stacey Darton had something to do with it? Had she been hoping…?

  She pulled herself up short; it was no good dwelling on what might have been. Sealing both letters, she put a short cape over her dress, set a black bonnet on her curls and set off for the village. She would give the letters to the Reverend Fuller to be forwarded with his mail. A carrier took all the village post to Ipswich every afternoon to be put on the London mail and brought back the incoming letters the following morning. It would be safer to send her post that way than trust it to the young lad at the Manor whose task it was to take the post. She had a feeling her letters might be intercepted by a curious Cecil.

  The Reverend was just coming out of his gate when she arrived. ‘Good morning, Lady Hobart,’ he greeted her. ‘I was on my way to see you. Captain MacArthur has returned. He is only here until tomorrow, so, if you still want the house, you must see him today.’

  She hesitated. Could she go ahead with her plan after all? Dare she? The Captain’s house would be vacant after tomorrow—would he allow her to move in before the contract for the lease had been signed? Did he even need to know she had taken possession? After all, he would have to leave her the keys. She smiled to herself—what had Stacey said about some of the decisions we had to make being a gamble? This was most definitely a gamble, a gamble that somehow or other she could produce the money for the rent and have enough left over to keep her and her children until the school was up and running. ‘Then perhaps I should go now,’ she said, stuffing her letters back into her pocket.

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you?’

  ‘That is kind of you, but no, I can manage alone and there is my class. Can you take it today?’

  Captain Alexander MacArthur was a bluff, weatherbeaten man of middle years. His hair and beard were white as snow, his hands brown and gnarled, though when he took her hand to bow over it, his grip was gentle. ‘My lady, come in. Please excuse the untidiness.’ He waved his hand at the piles of bags, boxes and chests that were piled up in the hall and drawing room. ‘Coppins, leave that and fetch the lady some tea,’ he told his manservant. Then to Charlotte, ‘Let us go into the back parlour, my lady. That is less disturbed.’

  He led the way and settled her into a chair, passing comments on the weather in a way that left her in no doubt he was a seaman; it was all about winds and tides and moons being in the right quarter. ‘Got to catch the tide tomorrow night, so need this business cleared up today.’ He paused while his servant brought in the tea and dismissed him before continuing. ‘I had it in mind to employ a caretaker to look after the house, never had to do it before, of course, when Mrs MacArthur was alive, God rest her soul.’

  ‘My condolences, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you. As I said, I thought about a caretaker, don’t do to leave a house standing empty, does it? But when I asked the Reverend if he knew someone to take on the job, he told me about you. He tells me you are Captain Delaney’s daughter. A fine seaman and a good man to have at your side in a fight. Lost at Trafalgar, I collect.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘And now Lord Hobart has handed in his accounts you want to leave Easterley Manor?’

  ‘Yes. I do not choose to live with my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Understood. You need say no more. But what about this school idea? I must know more about that.’

  She explained her idea as succinctly as she could, her enthusiasm for her subject overriding her unease about being able to finance the project. Knowing her background, he would assume she was not without funds and the fact that he had mentioned her father meant he set some store by that relationship.

  ‘And your pupils?’ he asked, at the end of the recital. ‘I do not want my home wrecked.’

  ‘Of course not. They will come from the very
best families. I have good connections…’ she paused ‘…and I have my first pupil. Viscount Darton, who is distantly related to my late husband, is going to entrust me with his daughter.’ She hoped Stacey would forgive her for the fib, if she ever saw him again. If…Oh, Stacey, my love, please do not desert me, not now.

  He stood up. ‘Then let me show you over the house. You need to be sure it will be suitable before we go any further.’

  She had already made up her mind that she could not afford to reject it, but she followed him dutifully from room to room, mentally deciding which could be classrooms and which her private quarters. It was a shambling old house that had once been quite small, but which had been added to over the years to make a home for a sea captain. It was furnished with heavy, serviceable pieces in a mixture of styles and she guessed he had picked much of it up on his travels about the globe. It reminded her of her childhood home in Portsmouth, not elegant, but comfortable. She was not looking for elegance and what was there looked as though it could stand up to a knock or two by exuberant children. Anything valuable or flimsy could be stored away until the Captain returned.

  From one of the upstairs room she could see the roof of Easterley Manor, from another the pine woods that protected the village and from yet another, the bay on which a few fishing boats were moored, and beyond them the distant sea. ‘I can see why it is called The Crow’s Nest,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you can get a much better view from the tower. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The stairs were steep and winding, but she lifted her skirts clear of her ankles and climbed after him. At the top was a circular room with a large bay window in which a telescope was stationed. He put his eye to it and made one or two adjustments, then turned to her. ‘Take a look, my lady.’

  She put her eye to it. ‘My goodness, you can see the men working on the decks of those vessels. How far away are they?’

  ‘Four or five miles, I should say.’

  She swivelled the instrument round and looked along the coast. There were three men walking along the cliff top and she had no difficulty in recognising Cecil and his two friends. They did not appear to be doing anything except talk, but every now and again one of them gestured out to sea. From up here she had an excellent view of the bay, except she could not see the beach and cliff immediately below her on account of not being able to depress the angle of the telescope enough. ‘It is amazing,’ she said, deciding to say nothing of the men. ‘You must know about everything that comes and goes past this little bit of coastline.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But a word of warning. If you take this house, the tower is out of bounds. I want no one up here. That is a very sensitive instrument and very valuable.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  ‘Then let us go downstairs again and complete our bargain.’

  If she was agreeable, he was prepared to let her have the house for a year, he told her, when they were once again seated in the comfortable little parlour that she had decided would be her private sitting room. The rent would reflect the fact that he had been prepared to pay a caretaker and that salary would be deducted from what she would pay, but any alterations she made to the house to make it suitable for use as a school must be paid for by her and, at the end of the tenancy, everything restored to what it was. It was more generous than she could have hoped for and she expressed her gratitude. ‘I will write to Mr Hardacre today, and he will tie up the details,’ she said, trying to sound businesslike, though she was sure her mounting excitement was showing on her face. She was positively elated. Was this how a gambler felt when he thought he was on to a winning streak? If it was, she had better cool her ardour at once; she had not won yet. ‘There is just one thing. When may I move in?’

  He smiled, knowing, as everyone else did in the village, about the dreadful goings-on up at the Manor, and he did not blame her for wanting to leave. ‘Whenever you like, my lady. I depart tomorrow and must leave the keys somewhere, so why not with you? Your caretaking duties can begin as soon as you like. As for the legalities, I do not have time to see Mr Hardacre, so a simple agreement between you and me will suffice. I have no fears about trusting you.’

  ‘Thank you. Would you like me to come for the keys?’

  ‘I leave at noon. But if it is more convenient for you, I can pass them to the Reverend Fuller.’

  ‘That would be better. I take a class at the Rectory every day.’

  She left, treading on air, but she had not gone above a dozen steps when she came down with a bump. She still did not have the wherewithal to pay the rent, little as it was and she was thankful that the Captain had not asked for an advance. He trusted her, he said. But was she worthy of that trust? She had every intention of moving in, knowing she could not pay; if such action was not illegal, it was certainly dishonest. She was overwhelmed with guilt, but there was a great deal of anger too. Anger at Viscount Darton for letting her down. Where, oh, where was he?

  And there was Cecil to be overcome. What would he say when she told him she was moving out? She was a hostage to his fortune though she was not supposed to know it. Would those men insist she stay at the Manor? How soon before the contraband ship arrived? Up at The Crow’s Nest she was in a prime position to see it arrive and being unloaded. She knew it and so would they. On the other hand if they did not know she listened at doors and had discovered what they were scheming, she was probably safe enough. Oh, what a tightrope she was walking!

  The Reverend was teaching her class when she returned, but she waited until he had dismissed the children before approaching him. ‘It is all arranged,’ she told him. ‘The Captain will leave the keys with you for me to collect. I can move in as soon as I like.’

  He smiled. ‘Good. I knew he would agree. I am glad you called, it will save me coming to the Manor. I have a letter for you. The carrier brought it half an hour ago.’ He looked round the classroom to see that all was as it should be before ushering her out and locking the door behind them. ‘Come over to the Rectory and I will give it to you. It was franked, so I did not have to pay for it.’

  Her fortunes must have taken an upward turn at last, she decided when she took the correspondence. It was not from Stacey, as she had hoped it might be, but from Mr Hardacre. He had been looking at Sir Grenville’s papers again and come across an item he had missed at the time of his death. There was money available from a fund her husband had set up many years before, when he first went soldiering, and it had been gaining interest ever since. It had nothing to do with the late Lord Hobart’s will and was hers free and without encumbrance to spend as she liked. ‘My lady, please accept my humble apologies for not seeing it before,’ he concluded. ‘If you have found a house, then let me have the details and I will do whatever is necessary to procure it for you.’ By the time she finished reading it, she was in tears. She had been saved, not by Viscount Stacey Darton, but by her own husband.

  ‘Oh, Grenville,’ she murmured, remembering his crookedly indulgent smile when he wanted to please her with some small gift or an unexpected treat.

  ‘Not bad news, I trust,’ the Reverend asked, looking concerned.

  ‘No, not bad at all. Good news. Very good. All is well. I shan’t wait to make the alterations but move into The Crow’s Nest the day after tomorrow. I am going to have my school, Reverend.’

  He breathed a huge sigh of relief; like everyone else in the village he had been worried sick about her. But she would still need protection, people to look out for her, and he could organise that with some of the village men. He wouldn’t tell her that, though, it would hurt her pride.

  ‘I wonder if I might beg writing paper and pen and ink to reply to this letter before I go home,’ she said, unwilling to let anyone at the Manor know what she was about, certainly not about her windfall. ‘Then I can leave it with you for the post. It will save time.’

  ‘Of course.’ He led the way to his study, provided her with the writing materials and
left her to compose her letter. When it was done, she returned to the drawing room and gave it to him. ‘Thank you. Now I must go home and tell the girls.’

  He offered her his escort, but she declined it, saying it was only a step and she had no qualms about walking about the village alone, which was true. It was not in the village the danger lay, but at the Manor. And that, praise be, not for much longer.

  She hurried home, her mind racing with all the things she had to do. She would tell the girls and Miss Quinn first, then speak to the servants. Betsy, she felt sure, would want to come with her, but what about Mrs Evans? She could do with a good cook, not perhaps to begin with because she could cook a little herself, but later when she had pupils; prospective parents would want to know all about her domestic arrangements before entrusting her with their daughters. And that was another task; she must draft out a prospectus and an advertisement, and send for books and writing materials and beds. She must have more beds. And she would need references. Oh, there was no end to it.

  And she must tell Cecil. She was not looking forward to doing that, knowing his temper, but she would stand her ground and not allow him to intimidate her. Whatever happened, she must not let slip that she knew about the free-trading. Her life might depend upon it. She wished Stacey Darton had not gone away. He had no need to sell her jewellery, after all, but it was too late to tell him so. Again she wondered where he was. But listening at doors had proved one thing; Cecil had not waylaid him or he would not have been entirely without funds and would not have been forced to agree to the smuggling scheme. So where was the Viscount? In Ipswich, perhaps, enjoying the proceeds from selling her trinkets, gambling it away, forgetting all about her.

  She must not think of him, she told herself as she turned in at the gate of the Manor. She must put him from her mind, forget his gentle voice, forget the comfort of his arms, forget his kisses and his promise to come back. He was no more to be relied on than Cecil and his cronies, less so when she considered that she knew they were rogues and Stacey Darton had bamboozled her completely.