A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  She seized her sister’s hand, looking imploringly up into her face with tear-dimmed eyes.

  “Oh, dearest Julia, surely you can understand? You loved Calcot to distraction I know you did! Would it have mattered to you? Would it have made any difference to your decision to marry him had he been in the same situation as Mr. Somerby?”

  Julia needed no time to answer this. “No,” she said, decisively. “No, it would not. And I do believe, Melissa, that with your strength of purpose, you could be happy in spite of all the worldly disadvantages to the match. Besides,” she added, thinking aloud, “it would be for only a short time. I know that both the Somerbys stand to inherit a comfortable competence from their grandparents, since they are the sole grandchildren. And then, of course, James Somerby has some influential friends — Viscount Shaldon, for one.”

  “Well, we care nothing for that!” exclaimed Melissa, impatiently. “But if you think it will persuade Mama and Papa to sanction our engagement at once, then by all means mention it to them. And you will do your best to persuade them will you not, dear, dear Julia? You can’t wish me to die of a broken heart, or at best go into a decline! Pray say you’ll intercede on my behalf. It will be the most welcome birthday present you could possibly give me!”

  Julia gave her promise, and was rewarded by seeing the animation return to her sister’s somewhat pale face.

  Melissa was able to communicate this good news to both her friends on their way home for Catherine was in her confidence as well as Helen. The less happy tidings which were burdening Helen’s mind, however, had to wait until later, as they must be for Melissa’s ear alone.

  When they were back in Cavendish Square and she was at last able to speak of it, she was heard with astonishment.

  “Well!” exclaimed Melissa, once the contents of Anthony’s letter had been explained and discussed thoroughly. “So you were right all along Nell, and there really was something odd going on! I half thought you were imagining the whole you know! Poor Viscount Shaldon,” she added, reflectively. “I suppose he cannot be called by that title any longer. How shall we style him now, I wonder?”

  “I suppose he will be the Honourable Anthony Stratton.”

  “Do you think Cynthia will still wish to wed him now that he’s no longer the heir to an Earldom?” asked Melissa curiously.

  “I’m sure I can’t say.” Helen’s tone was curt.

  “I don’t believe he’ll be too downcast if she doesn’t, for I’ve never seen him give any sign of wishing to attach her seriously. Of course, he’s flirted with her a little, but everyone does flirt with Cynthia. She expects it.”

  Helen made no reply to this, so Melissa continued in another strain.

  “You say Lord — Mr. Stratton, I should say — told you that you might inform your brother. Do you mean to do so?”

  Helen nodded. “Oh, yes, it would be a great relief to talk the matter over with James, for I don’t mind admitting that it occupies my thoughts to the exclusion of all else, just at present! I suppose I can’t very well ask him to come here, though,” she added, doubtfully, “in view of your parents’ wishes that you and he should not meet too often. I must therefore go to him at his lodging. His term at the hospital finished at the end of last month, and he’s waiting to appear before the Board of Examiners. I wonder if I might go tomorrow? We have no engagement until the evening.”

  “I only wish I could accompany you,” said Melissa wistfully.

  “Well, that’s not to be thought of, but you’ve no occasion to look so gloomy, Mel. I shall certainly tell him that you have high hopes of your sister’s intercession with your parents.”

  This undertaking did much to restore her friend’s newfound cheerfulness.

  No difficulties were raised to Helen’s proposal; and it was arranged that the coach should convey her to St. Thomas’s Street on the following morning and call there for her again later in the day.

  When his sister arrived at his lodging, James was sitting in his room poring over a copy of William Babington’s Chemical Lectures. He looked up as the little maid-of-all-work tapped on his door, frowning at the interruption.

  “Helen, what brings you here?” The frown vanished, to be replaced by a smile. “You’re the last person I expected to see — well, nearly the last, at all events.”

  “The last being Melissa, I suppose? Never mind, Jamie, I’m the bearer of some news from her which may turn out to your advantage — now, don’t expect too much,” she added hastily, seeing his face light up at once. “It may come to nothing, but at least it’s a ray of hope.”

  She proceeded to tell him of Lady Calcot’s promise. They talked of this for some time; James was not inclined to be overoptimistic about the outcome, but could not help feeling encouraged that one member of Melissa’s family, at any rate, was prepared to approve the match.

  “And did you come all this way to tell me of that, Nell?” he asked, presently. “It was deuced good of you.”

  “Well, no,” she answered, slowly. “That wasn’t all — there’s another matter…”

  He scrutinised her sharply. “What is it? You’re in some kind of distress, I can see! If that fellow Lydney—”

  “No, no! It’s nothing to do with him. My distress is not for myself, but for a very dear friend of us both. James, I’ve something of the utmost seriousness to tell you, so pray be quiet while I attempt it.”

  He subsided at her tone, listening with the keen attention he had always given to his medical lectures, and interrupting only when some point needed clarification. At the end, she handed him Anthony’s letter; like herself, he read it through twice before making any comment.

  “What a damnable business, Nell! But in a way, I’m not surprised that the Earl had a secret in his life. Our father always said there was something preying on the man’s mind. Very astute, our Papa. It seems to me that Tony’s not satisfied about this claimant. What’s the fellow’s name? Rowland Carlton, that’s it. Yet his story seems to fit the facts as related by the Earl, and is substantiated by the proofs in his possession. That story of his, though—”

  He broke off, brooding for a moment. Then suddenly he slapped his fist down upon Samuel Sharp’s Operations in Surgery, which was one of the several textbooks lying about on the table.

  “Damme, Nell, I thought something about it sounded familiar! Remember what that woman Mrs. Dorston told me about her grandson? Why, it’s almost the same tale!”

  Helen caught her breath. “Oh, do you suppose there can be any connection? But, no, James, the man Carlton says his grandmother is dead.”

  “Wrong, Helen. You must state your facts correctly. He only said that he was told she was dead. He went to the place where she used to live to make his enquiries — somewhere in the Borough, though we don’t know quite where. Now, Mrs. Dorston also used to live in the Borough, though she says she moved away ten years ago, on her husband’s death. Suppose for a moment that Mrs. Dorston is indeed Carlton’s grandmother? Anyone enquiring for her some years afterwards, as Carlton says he did, might well be misinformed. Things do become confused in people’s minds after a lapse of time, especially in those overcrowded areas, where life is a hand-to-mouth business.”

  “Oh, yes, you could indeed be right, Jamie!” said Helen excitedly. “And what Mrs. Dorston told you does seem to fit with Carlton’s own account of his life! If that is so — if she is the man’s grandmother — then she must be this Mrs. Lathom of whom the Earl spoke. And then,” she concluded, her face falling, “finding her would provide the final proof that Carlton is truly the Earl’s heir. It wouldn’t serve Anthony at all.”

  “Nell, dear, Tony will best be served by finding out the truth,” he said, gently. “While he feels there is the slightest shadow of doubt about the business, he naturally intends to question it. But to produce this female Mrs. Lathom and confront the Earl with her must settle things once for all. I think we should be wrong not to attempt it.”

  Helen nodded, a lump in her
throat.

  “Of course, you are right,” she managed to say at last. “And it may be that Mrs. Dorston will turn out to have no connection at all with Carlton. Shall we go there now, Jamie — to Mrs. Dorston’s home, I mean? I feel I cannot wait to know the outcome, whatever it may be.”

  He nodded. “The sooner we know the answer to this puzzle, the better. I’ll go. You may await me here. There’s plenty of light reading for you.” He indicated the pile of medical textbooks.

  “Oh, no, that’s too shabby of you! Why should I not come, too? I’ve been too much involved in this affair to be excluded from it now!”

  They argued the point for several minutes; at last James gave way to the extent of saying that she might accompany him to Star Court, but that she must sit in the hackney while he visited Mrs. Dorston alone. No amount of persuasion on her part could move him from this position, so she was obliged to agree at last.

  James summoned a hackney, and after threading their way through streets crowded with traffic, they at last reached their objective, a narrow alley sadly miscalled Orchard Lane, which led to Star Court.

  “I can’t take this ’ack down there, gov’,” warned the driver, “nor I don’t mean to try, not nohow.”

  Recognising the validity of this objection, James instructed the driver to await his return; and bidding Helen remain inside the vehicle, he dismounted and set off along the uneven, worn cobbles of Orchard Lane.

  It was not more than a few minutes before the vehicle was surrounded by dirty, ragged children who pressed white, thin faces against the windows, peering in on Helen.

  “Ger outa it!” bawled the hackney driver, flourishing his whip. “Clear off, or I’ll tan yer ’ides!”

  A few of the children stood back at once, but the majority paid no heed. Beatings were no novelty to the young of this district; whereas a vehicle was, and particularly a vehicle with a pretty lady in fine clothes seated inside.

  “Damn ye, will ye clear off?” demanded the driver, reaching down to lay the whip about him.

  Several piercing screams showed that he had made contact with some of the offenders. These drew back against the wall, while the others moved out of reach of the punishing whip, but remained clustered around the rear of the vehicle.

  Incensed by their defiance, the driver jumped down from his seat, whip in hand, and rushed towards them. But before he could vent the full force of his wrath upon them, Helen had wrenched open the door of the coach and leapt into the road.

  “No, you shall not!” she said, fiercely, seizing his arm. “That’s no way to treat children! They mean no harm. They’re only curious!”

  “Children, lady? D’ye call them monsters children? Prigs and no-goods, the lot on ’em, and born to be ’anged. Ye’d best get back in the ’ack, or they’ll ’ave yer val’ables, as easy as skin a rabbit! Do as the g’ennelman bid ye, and stay inside.”

  “Thank you, I am the best judge of my actions,” she replied, coldly. Then, with a change of tone, “Oh, look what you’ve done! That poor little mite. You’ve lacerated his cheek!”

  She went over to a small boy of about seven years old who was crying lustily and fingering his cheek, where a few drops of blood were oozing from a superficial cut.

  “Serve the little perisher right,” said the driver, defensively. “Only way to deal with ’em — only thing they understands. As fer ye, Miss, ye’d best get in sharp, afore ye comes to mischief.”

  But Helen was paying no heed. Hastily untying the strings of her reticule, she produced a handkerchief with which she began gently to wipe away the blood and surrounding dirt from the child’s face.

  “Where do you live, little fellow?” she asked the boy, who had now stopped crying and was regarding her open-mouthed. “I will take you home.”

  He was too overawed to reply to this himself, but several bolder spirits shouted that he was Jem and lived in Star Court. Bidding the driver await her return, without more ado she took the small boy’s hand and started down the alley.

  The children at once crowded round her, jumping about, shouting excitedly and fingering her gown. In spite of her compassion for them, she did not altogether relish their proximity; for most of them had disfiguring sores of one kind or another, and they smelt abominably. She was under no illusions about their behaviour, moreover, and kept a firm grasp on her reticule, although it contained little of value beyond Anthony’s letter.

  After a short distance, the alley led into Star Court. Helen looked about her in horror, for it was one of the foulest dwelling places she had ever seen. Tall, decaying tenements with boarded-up windows, peeling paint, and rickety doors crowded round the small central area, which was littered with piles of evil-smelling rubbish, among which lean, mangy cats and dogs rummaged.

  The noise made by the children had attracted some attention, for heads popped from behind doors, and one or two slatternly women came out to stare at the visitor. One of these, seeing that Helen was holding young Jem by the hand, approached threateningly. The children parted to admit her to the centre of the group.

  Making a sudden swoop, she snatched the boy from Helen’s grasp, dealing him a sound box on the ear which set him howling again.

  “What’s the little varmint bin up to, lady?” she demanded, in such a thick Cockney accent that Helen found it difficult to understand her. “Prigged somefink off ye, ’as ’e? No need ter fetch the Watch. We don’t want no trouble, see. I’ll soon get it back — see if I don’t!”

  She started to belabour the child again, but Helen caught at her ragged, filthy shift and pulled her back.

  “No, no, he’s done nothing!” she protested. “He was hurt.”

  The woman did not wait for her to finish, but turned on her with a snarl that suggested an animal rather than a human being.

  “Done nothink, eh? Then what d’ ye mean, comin’ ’ere makin’ trouble, eh? Clear out, or I’ll soon spoil them fancy togs o’ yourn!”

  She seized the skirt of Helen’s gown and reached out to claw her face. Putting up an arm to protect herself, Helen desperately wrenched her skirt free from the woman’s grasp, at the same time emitting a loud cry for help.

  She heard the crash of a door being flung open hurriedly, and the next moment James was at her side. At his appearance, the court cleared as if by magic. The children slunk away into whatever holes afforded them shelter; while the onlookers, who had been enjoying the prospect of watching one of their number put a gentry mort to flight, discreetly withdrew to their sleazy quarters.

  The woman’s aggressive stance changed instantly; it was one thing to intimidate a soft young moll, but only a fool would have a go at a man, and him with plenty of muscle under those fine clothes. So with a few sharp words, James sent her shuffling off, whining as she retreated.

  “Really, Nell!” he exclaimed, in exasperation, once they were alone. “You’re the most devilish girl! Didn’t I tell you to stay in the coach? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  She was trembling, but she managed to shake her head. “No, but I fear my gown is torn a little. I felt it rip.”

  She looked down to ascertain the extent of the damage, and saw that a small piece of material was hanging loose.

  “It’s nothing. Oh, but, James, I’m so thankful you came! They’re just like animals!”

  “So would you be, if you lived in like conditions,” he replied, grimly. “Well, since you are here, you’d best come with me into Mrs. Dorston’s quarters — they’re clean enough, or I wouldn’t allow it.”

  Putting his arm supportively about her, he led her through a half-open door on the ground floor of one of the appalling dwellings in the Court. She was received commiseratingly by Mrs. Dorston, who apologised for the roughness of her neighbours, but said philosophically that one got used to it in time.

  The room, though dark, cheerless, and containing the minimum of plain deal furniture, was nevertheless clean, and as neat as any room can be when it must necessarily contain everything that its owne
r possesses. Mrs. Dorston invited Helen to sit down, offered her some water which James quietly signalled to her to refuse, and produced some pins with which to fasten the rent in her gown until it could be mended.

  By this time, Helen was once more feeling sufficiently mistress of herself to take an active part in the conversation which followed. Skilfully steering it in the desired direction, James persuaded Mrs. Dorston to repeat the details of her past life which she had previously recounted to him. They learnt nothing new until she suddenly exclaimed that she had now remembered the name by which her grandson had been known in his barnstorming days.

  “At least, I remember part of it,” she said, dubiously. “The last name was Carlton, I’ll take my oath. But the first — now was it Robert? — or Roger? — it began with R, that I’m sure. It was a very grand sounding name—”

  “Would it by any chance have been Rowland?” suggested James.

  “Rowland!” she exclaimed, triumphantly. “Yes, that’s it — Rowland Carlton!”

  They looked at each other with mixed feelings. James had been right, then, and Mrs. Dorston was Rowland Carlton’s grandmother. Her history fitted, too, with the account given by the Earl of his first marriage; her daughter had died in childbed, leaving her with an infant to rear, an infant who was now Rowland Carlton, an unemployed fairground player. And also heir to the title and estate of Alvington?

  Helen’s heart sank. It looked as though Anthony had indeed lost his inheritance, for in finding this woman they had discovered the final, irrefutable proof of Rowland Carlton’s claim. There remained one more question to be asked, but Helen voiced it without hope.

  “Who was your first husband, Mrs. Dorston? What was your name before your second marriage?”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  At much the same time that Helen and James were visiting Star Court, Anthony had started out on a journey to Rye.