Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘Gravy soup, skate with caper sauce, kidney pudding, boiled potatoes, leeks, and apple pie on Wednesday. Onion soup, jugged hare, baked ham, turnips in white sauce, and sago pudding on Thursday. And on Friday, lentil soup, roast beef, pork pie, roast potatoes, carrots and stewed prunes. Good. Well, now that we’ve sorted them menus there’s the linen mendin’ to think about.’ Mrs Babcock swept on regardless. ‘But I shall fetch us a nice cup of tea and some scones to sustain us.’ Mrs Babcock never missed an opportunity to attempt to fatten up her mistress.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Babcock, I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  ‘Get away with you, doe!’ cried Mrs Babcock, beaming a face full of pleasure. ‘I’ve been meanin’ to ask you,’ she said. ‘Are you plannin’ anythin’ for his lordship’s birthday?’

  ‘His birthday?’ echoed Madeline in surprise.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you? What a man he is! Would try the patience of a saint, he would.’

  Madeline shook her head. ‘It must have slipped his mind. He is very busy with the estate work.’

  Mrs Babcock snorted at that. ‘Never too busy for birthdays,’ she said. ‘ Always loved ’em when he was a boy. Apple puddin’ and spice biscuits, lemonade an’ presents. We used to set a treasure hunt for him and young Guy to follow. Like two little scamps they were. Babbie this, Babbie that, tryin’ to get me to help them solve the clues. Little rascals!’ The housekeeper chuckled. ‘You just let me know if you want a special dinner or the like, m’lady.’ Mrs Babcock beamed a smile of reassurance at Madeline. ‘I’ll be off, then.’

  ‘Mrs Babcock,’ Madeline said before she could think better of it.

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  Madeline nipped at her lip with her teeth and then asked, ‘Would you be able to organise one of those treasure hunts again?’

  ‘Me? Heavens, no!’ said Mrs Babcock. ‘I was a fine children’s nurse, and I’m a fine housekeeper, but I could never set them there clues. Was her ladyship that saw to all that. I wouldn’t know where to start, doe.’

  ‘I could help you.’

  Mrs Babcock didn’t look too convinced. ‘It’s a lot of work.’

  ‘I’m sure that we would manage if we worked together,’ said Madeline.

  ‘Very well, then, m’lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Madeline smiled.

  Mrs Babcock gave Madeline an affectionate pat on the arm and then she was off and exiting the parlour at a speed surprising for a lady quite so plagued by infirmities.

  Madeline was left alone in the small drawing room, wondering what on earth she had just got herself into.

  The days passed and Madeline found herself busy planning the treasure hunt for Lucien. He ate breakfast and dinner with her every day like clockwork, enquired about her welfare, and gave her copious amounts of pin money. But that was the extent of their relationship. Lucien kept a distance even when he was only seated at the other end of the table. Farquharson’s name was never mentioned, and neither was a return to London. Madeline had to confess that she was happy in Trethevyn—well, as happy as a woman could be whose husband did not love her. She missed Angelina and her parents. She wondered how they were managing amidst the scandal she had left behind, and wrote to them each week. No replies were ever forthcoming. Madeline had to accept that her family had yet to forgive her. But with spring in the air, and the secret excitement surrounding Lucien’s treasure hunt, Madeline could not be blue-devilled for long.

  ‘Oh, m’lady, you are clever!’ Betsy said with a giggle. ‘Won’t his lordship be surprised when he finds what you’ve done.’

  Mrs Babcock hunched her broad shoulders with all the excitement of a small child. ‘Such a way with words, doe!’

  A surprised smile slipped across Madeline’s face. No one had ever uttered such a compliment.

  Mrs Babcock wrapped her arms around Madeline’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

  Madeline blushed with pleasure.

  ‘It reminds me of the old days when her ladyship planned the treasure hunts, and the master was just a youngster wanderin’ about the place with jam all round his mouth, his shirt tails hanging out and hair sticking up like a bird’s nest. Always was a mucky pup. Her ladyship used to say he was like a little ruffled raven. How we laughed.’

  Madeline was having difficulty imaging her austere, most serious husband as a small, sticky, messy boy. The picture conjured up was quite unlike a child that could have grown to become a man feared by half of England.

  ‘It would be good to have little ’uns about the place again,’ said Mrs Babcock, unaware of the more intimate arrangements within Madeline and Lucien’s marriage.

  Madeline stilled.

  ‘What little ’uns?’ asked Betsy in all innocence.

  ‘Master and mistress’s, of course,’ said Mrs Babcock as if it were the most obvious assumption in the world.

  Madeline’s face flamed. She rose hastily, and cleared her throat. ‘I’ve just remembered that we said we would visit the parson’s wife over by the village. I had best be away if I’m to be back before dark.’

  ‘Right you are, then, m’lady,’ said Mrs Babcock and trundled off to let Betsy fetch Madeline’s pelisse, cloak and bonnet, and, of course, her stout walking shoes.

  If Madeline thought to escape embarrassing talk of babies she was to be disappointed, for Mrs Woodford, the parson’s wife, was only too keen to reveal the good news that she was increasing and another addition to the Woodford brood could be expected late in the summer.

  Madeline sipped her tea and hoped that Mrs Woodford would restrict the conversation to her own breeding. Her hopes were in vain. For it soon transpired that the entirety of the village of Tregellas had an avid interest in the prospect of a Tregellas heir. Indeed, Mrs Woodford’s euphoria at her own joyous anticipation led her to divulge that Mr Turner in the King’s Arms inn was running a sweepstake on when precisely Lady Tregellas would produce a son and heir for the estate. Madeline paled and heard the cup rattle against her saucer.

  Reverend Woodford chose this precise moment to wander in from the garden with Lucien. The two men were still deep in conversation about the parson’s plans for Lady Day as they strolled into the small drawing room.

  ‘Ah, Lady Tregellas, I trust that Mrs Woodford has informed you of our expected happy event?’ Reverend Woodford’s eyes twinkled.

  Madeline found her throat suddenly very dry. ‘Yes, indeed. It’s wonderful news.’

  Lucien looked from his wife’s pink cheeks to Mrs Woodford’s bubbling happiness, and finally to the proud swell of the parson’s chest. Comprehension dawned. ‘Let me extend my wife’s sentiment and offer my congratulations to you both.’

  Reverend and Mrs Woodford beamed their pleasure.

  Madeline could bear it no longer. ‘Please do excuse us, Mrs Woodford. We must be back at Trethevyn before darkness.’ She bit at her lip and threw Lucien a pleading look. ‘Thank you so much for the lovely tea. S-such wonderful news,’ she managed to stutter. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, please just ask.’

  Mrs Woodford’s two-year-old daughter scampered in to the room at that very minute, running full pelt towards her mother before the sight of Madeline brought her up short. She stopped and pointed a small chubby finger at Lady Tregellas, her tiny pink lips forming an expression of surprise.

  ‘Sally!’ chided Mrs Woodford, looking anything but displeased. ‘Naughty child.’ With one scoop of the arms the small girl was resting on her mother’s lap. ‘No pointing,’ said Mrs Woodford, and kissed the miniature extended finger. ‘This is Lord and Lady Tregellas, come to visit your mama. Say how do you do, very pleased to meet you, my lord and my lady.’ Sally giggled at the absurdity of this, her big blue baby eyes staring first at Lucien and then at Madeline.

  Madeline found that the lump in her throat had become a veritable boulder in danger of choking her, and something gritty was nipping at her eyes, so that she had to blink and blink to stop them watering. ‘Goodbye
, then.’

  But escape was not so easy. For little Sally had taken quite a shine to the nice Lady Tregellas and insisted upon placing a kiss on the lady’s soft cheek.

  Madeline practically ran out to the waiting coach.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why did you wish to leave?’ Lucien enquired as the door slammed shut.

  Madeline swallowed hard, but the lump refused to be dislodged. ‘I have a headache,’ was all she managed to say, and hoped that Lucien would not press the matter.

  He nodded, and, aware of the moist glisten in her eyes and the quiver of her lips, lent her the space and the silence that she needed to fight whatever it was that was distressing her. Somehow he did not believe her story of the headache.

  She stared blindly from the window, willing herself not to cry, and all the way back on the narrow winding road to Trethevyn Madeline began to realise just how much she wanted what she could never have.

  Chapter Nine

  Fortunately the next day was taken up in hiding the clues that Madeline had written, and Mrs Babcock organising the kitchen for the preparation of the secret birthday lunch, so much so that there was little time to dwell upon such things. Madeline slumped exhausted into bed, wondering what Lucien would think of his birthday surprise.

  The day of the birthday was fine and dry with a cold weak sun to brighten the morning room. She rose especially early so that she would be seated at the breakfast table before Lucien even entered the room. She sat quite still at the table, basking in the sunlight that flooded in through the large window. Tiny particles floated on the sunbeam, suspended like small specks of silver within the air. Everything was quiet, so quiet that Madeline could hear the sound of her own breath. She waited with a calm easiness, surprised at her own hunger. A whole plate of eggs, ham and mushrooms had been devoured before she heard the tread of her husband’s footsteps. She was sipping her coffee, with Max lounging at her feet, when he entered.

  ‘Madeline?’

  She heard the question in his voice.

  He glanced towards the clock as if to check that he had not mistaken the time. ‘You’re up early this morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to look at the neatly folded note that lay beside his place setting. She smiled, a warm anticipation surging through her veins. ‘Happy birthday, Lucien.’

  Surprise widened his eyes, and then he recovered himself to thank her most politely, and went to help himself to breakfast from the warming plates. It was only when he sat down that he noticed her scraped-clean plate. ‘You’ve already eaten?’

  ‘I couldn’t wait for a certain slug-a-bed or I might have starved.’

  That drew the vestige of a laugh and eased the tension between them. He found the note beside his plate and scanned the contents. The severity in his face fled, replaced instead with something of the boyish delight she imagined he must have had all those years ago as a child. ‘A treasure hunt.’

  ‘I thought you might like it.’

  Lucien laughed again, and she couldn’t help but notice how it transformed his face. It was like looking at two different men. One cold, handsome and remote, the other, warm and lovable. ‘And you were right.’

  For the first time since arriving at Trethevyn Madeline saw a glimpse of the man who had swept her off her feet from a dance room and married her before a clergyman that same night.

  Lucien held the piece of paper between his fingers. The sun dazzled his eyes, forcing him to squint to make out the words.

  First follow beneath me where strong winds blow. I am a cock that cannot crow.

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked at Madeline.

  Madeline returned a look that belied innocence.

  ‘Do you mean to give me an extra clue?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ retorted his wife. ‘Mrs Babcock warned me of your lazy ways. You are to solve the clues by yourself.’

  Lucien smiled.

  They were standing out in the patchwork garden at the rear of the house, with Max in between them. Lucien scanned the surroundings, his eye alighting on the small summer-house built on the top of a grassy knoll in the distance. ‘I think perhaps a stroll to the summer-house is in order.’ He held out his arm to Madeline and the two wandered off towards the small buff-coloured structure. The weathervane in the shape of a cockerel atop its peaked roof glinted in the sunshine. Max ran off in search of rabbits.

  The second does not live and cannot be found above the ground.

  Lucien puzzled over that, watching the happiness light his wife’s face. He had not seen her looking so relaxed or happy, since before…He pushed that thought away, and continued to look at the warmth radiating out from those sherry-gold eyes. ‘Cannot be found above the ground,’ he repeated softly as if mulling the clue.

  Madeline laughed and clapped her hands together.

  He looked directly at his wife. ‘I hope you are wearing stout walking shoes, for the Trethevyn mausoleum is on the other side of that woodland.’

  Madeline lifted her skirt and dangled a foot encased in a most sensible shoe. ‘I think perhaps that my clues are too easy for you.’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ he said, averting his gaze from the slim, shapely ankle that had just presented itself before his eyes.

  By the tenth and final clue, it was time for lunch, and Lord and Lady Tregellas had traced a path that intertwined every feature of the Tregellas estate, even if it did require a two-mile walk there and back. They were standing in the wine cellar beneath Trethevyn, straining to read the clue beneath the light of a solitary flickering candle.

  The tenth, and last, can be found where love and peace abound. In golden swathes and purple hues, the answer simply lies in ‘you’.

  Lucien’s brow knitted and something of the old tension returned to his face.

  ‘Have I beaten you at last?’ Madeline asked softly.

  Their eyes met, and lingered. Hearts beat loud in the silence.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Lucien replied. But it was not the treasure hunt to which he was referring. He stepped towards her.

  A scrabbling sounded at the cellar door, followed by an inquisitive woof.

  ‘Max!’ laughed Madeline. ‘He’s worried that he’s missing something.’ She moved to open the door.

  Lucien watched his wife stoop to pat the snuffling dog. He very nearly did, said the little voice in his head.

  ‘Come on, I’ll give you another clue. You should look more closely in the gardens.’

  Lucien cocked an eyebrow and followed his wife back up the narrow stairs into the daylight.

  Cool spring sunshine bathed the couple as they meandered through the gardens, Madeline’s hand tucked within Lucien’s arm. There did not seem to be the need to talk. A peaceful companionship had settled upon them. They were happy just to feel the warmth of the sun upon their faces and the nip of fresh air within their noses. A blackbird scuttled beneath the box hedge, a spindle-legged fat-bodied robin whistled its cheeky challenge from the safety of the handle of Old George’s gardening fork over by the herb garden. The sky was a clear pale blue, revealing a new clarity of colour to the countryside surrounding them: cold brown earth that crumbled beneath their feet; lawns of green grass; bare branches on ancient old trees; the first hint of buds upon the bushes. They walked towards a battered old wooden seat, and sat down, together.

  Madeline breathed in the cool spring air, feeling it cleanse the last of the cobwebs from her lungs. Over the past few weeks tension had just melted away, starting from that very first day when she entered Lady Anne’s bedchamber and admired her paintings. There had been a sense of coming home, with the house and all its occupants making her welcome. Max and Babbie and Betsy, Old George and Mr Norton, whose beady butler eye missed nothing. Even Lucien seemed to have allowed his guard to slip a little.

  She felt the warm strength in his arm beneath hers and rubbed her fingers against the wool of his coat. Beneath that cold exterior lurked a kind and loving heart. With every passing day she’d
watched as her husband saw to his tenants with a fair hand. He was interested in his people, cared enough to know their names, and what happened in their lives, from the birth of the first lamb to Bob Miller’s wife’s dropsy. No one in Tregellas was afraid of him; no one called him the Wicked Earl here. Was it her imagination, or, since coming home, had something of that cold handsome austerity thawed? Madeline glanced up at her husband’s face. He was looking at her and smiling.

  ‘Love and peace,’ he said. His smile deepened as his gaze moved to linger on the statue that stood behind the small colourful patch of spring flowers. A stone Cupid looked back at him, complete with stone dove perched upon his bow. ‘Golden swathes, and purple hues.’ The blue eyes twinkled as he saw what she had done. Daffodils and crocuses had been planted to spell out his name—LUCIEN. He chuckled, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was before him. In the middle of the letter U, lying on the damp brown soil, was a battered old box. He moved towards it, pulling Madeline up with him. The simple hook latch opened easily, the lid swung open. Inside, a lady’s lavender silk scarf had been wrapped around something. His fingers eased under it, lifting it carefully out. Slowly he unwrapped the scarf, to find a small embroidered portrait of a young boy. It had been fitted into a simple wooden frame.

  Madeline held her breath while her husband stared down at the needlework that she had laboured at secretly for the past weeks.

  His fingers touched the small neat stitches that had been worked with such care.