by Amy Lake
"The forecourt is showing muddy ruts,” said the steward, “and should be re-graveled."
"I noticed such,” said Lady Pam, and made a note. Pen in hand, she was also wading through several months’ worth of accounts.
"And the south pasture should be left fallow this spring."
"Whose responsibility would it have been?"
"Ralph Settridge and his eldest son. They'll need to be reassured of other work."
"Very well. I'll think on it."
"Jemmy Cliff's been drinking again. Banged up the missus bad, last time. His lordship will need to speak to him."
"I,” said Pamela, “will speak to Jemmy."
And so on. Both the steward and Lady Pam had long since learned that the marquess detested details of any kind. Jonathan was more amenable to work around the estate when Pamela had already arranged for it to be done, only then submitting the information to her brother for his approval. Indeed, under those circumstances he was a thoughtful and generous landlord, and beloved of his tenants who knew, nevertheless, that requests for special assistance should be first broached to his lordship's sister.
The weather grew colder by the day. A chimney sweep appeared on Luton's doorstep, making his rounds, and Lady Pamela set him to work on the chimneys of the manor and of the dowager's house. As she was calculating the number of cottages needing the same work, Alice and Peter burst into the study.
"Aunt Pamela! Aunt Pamela!"
The marquess's young children had traveled from London, with their governess, a week before Lord and Lady Sinclair. Lady Pamela was now able to spend a happy few days in the exclusive company of her niece and nephew, freed from other worries and all three of them wishing heartily for snow.
* * * *
"Virginia? Virginia!"
Josiah was red with indignation, his disapproval of the duke's plan evident. Benjamin ignored him.
"I've sent instructions to James Pharr,” he told his valet. “He's made a fine job of the Corsham estate for years already—"
"Why in all of God's good creation are ye goin’ back to Virginia?"
"-and I've instructed the solicitors to find a good man for the care of Marchers. Whomever they select, I've no doubt Mrs. Throckmorton will take him well in hand."
"Glory be, your lordship,” pleaded Josiah, “not the colonies again. You said we were fair through with ‘em!"
"I thought you would welcome a sea-voyage,” said Benjamin absently. The duke was carefully examining the contents of a large chest of drawers. He was accustomed to doing his own packing and was not paying much attention to anything his valet said.
"A voyage, yes! But not another year in that sweltering, bug-infested—"
Benjamin looked up at Josiah, his eyes narrowing. “You never liked the Americas?"
Josiah sputtered. He waved his arms and said, “Look around ye! Whatever's in Virginia, is it better than this?"
The duke shrugged.
"An’ what about her ladyship?” The valet paused, his look one of dawning horror. “Oh, no! You've not convinced her ladyship to go along with, have ye?"
"No,” said Lord Torrance. “I've not convinced her ladyship of anything."
* * * *
Lord and Lady Sinclair arrived at Luton Court on the 11th of December. They were accompanied by several other carriages, each containing a small mountain of luggage. Amidst the activity occasioned by moving the luggage into the house, and unpacking clothing into the marchioness's voluminous wardrobes, and Celia's tears that her favorite gown had somehow been misplaced, Jonathan did not find time for a chat with Lady Pamela until the following morning, when-as was their custom-he was joined by his sister for breakfast.
And at which point he had forgotten all about the duke's letter.
Pamela's mind was on the continuing need for the sweep to visit each of the tenants’ cottages in addition to cleaning the chimneys of Luton. The house of a lowly crofter burned just as fiercely, she reminded Jonathan, as the house of a marquess.
The marquess in question, in a genial mood, was eventually convinced of this. Celia had found the errant gown, and all was well in his life; Lady Pamela took advantage of his good humour and requested an additional pair of shoes for each child in the village.
Done.
On the next day Jonathan left early to shoot with one of the early-arriving guests and did not see Lady Pamela until tea. But on the following morning, as Pam arrived in the breakfast salon, he remembered Benjamin's letter. The marquess felt a twinge of anxiety. His sister and Lord Torrance ... Perhaps it had been something important.
"Hullo,” said Jonathan brightly. “Almost forgot. I've a letter for you from town.” He rang for a footman.
Communication from London was hardly unusual, and Lady Pamela thought nothing of the matter as the footman, who had been given instructions as to where the envelope might be found, went to retrieve it.
"From the duke, you know,” added Jonathan, off-hand.
"The duke?"
"Aye. Grentham. Saw him at the club just last—No, two weeks ago. Didn't seem to know you'd gone."
The breath caught in her throat. Time stopped. Pam waited for the footman to return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
2 December
My dearest Pamela,
I write this hardly knowing what to say. Three letters I have sent to Hillsleigh, the last one delivered by my own hand, without receiving a reply.
I heard your words, heard you tell me you never wished to see me again, but surely Lady Detweiler has long since explained that misunderstanding.
Have you thrown my letters into the fire? In my mind's eye I watch them burn, the edges curling and the words turned to ash. However much you berate me, I can not berate myself more. I was a fool all along. A fool to put a single qualification on love. And now I have nothing left to hold me to England, and much to avoid.
The American packet James Monroe leaves on the 15th of December for New York. I plan to spend a year in the Americas, perhaps more, and so I must bid you adieu.
I love you, now and forever. ‘Tis true, whatever you will choose to believe.
-Benjamin
Of all the questions that had plagued Benjamin's mind during the days he waited for Lady Pamela's reply, one pertinent query had gone missing.
Did the lady know that he had written to her?
It never occurred to Benjamin that Maggie had pocketed each of his letters, and that they had never reached Pamela.
A foolish oversight, but a portion of the blame, he later thought, could be placed at the feet of Josiah Cleghorn. The crusty old sea-dog had seemed so eccentric in his role as valet, so singularly impudent—Benjamin had convinced himself that Josiah was nothing like the usual English servant, to whom he ascribed perfect obedience.
Lady Pamela knew better. She finished the duke's letter, tears streaming down her cheeks, and rang at once for Maggie.
* * * *
Josiah did not want to go back to Virginia. He had few friends still alive there, and fewer reasons otherwise to return, the wonders of ‘democracy’ notwithstanding. Charlottesville was hot and buggy, and the whole was a great deal more work than the valet's old bones cared to face.
More to the point, he didn't think the duke wanted to go back to Virginia, either. Lord Torrance had been born in England; he belonged here, and Josiah had seen his delight in the charms of the Wiltshire countryside and his pleasure in restoring Marchers. What ailed the man, to throw that away, and with it, a beautiful lady? And why? Because she didn't answer a letter or two?
All-fired stupid, that's what it were. The valet had argued with Lord Torrance as long as he dared; Josiah had always spoken his mind, and the duke had tolerated it, but he knew ‘twas near time to quit. The duke had been adamant. He would neither remain in London, nor remove to Corsham Manor.
"But you are welcome to stay yourself, Josiah,” Lord Torrance had added. “In town or in Wiltshire, as you like. You've earned the holid
ay."
"Eh,” said Josiah. He had no intention of quitting the duke's service. “Haven't you?"
The duke shrugged. “You see how things are here. Between my steward, and man-of-affairs, and Mrs. Throckmorton, I'm hardly needed. And I've wondered if my mother's land has prospered in Virginia. Perhaps they could use a dab hand with the plough—"
Josiah rolled his eyes.
"But if the farm in Charlottesville has fared as well as I expect, I plan to travel."
"Won’ help nought to be running away."
Josiah knew at once that he had gone too far. Lord Torrance's eyes hardened.
"Sorry, your grace,” the valet muttered.
The duke slammed his fist upon the table. Josiah jumped.
"Do you think I want to leave England?” Lord Torrance thundered. The duke rarely raised his voice, and the valet stared at him in shock. “Pah! To leave Corsham Manor and Marchers? Everything I love and care for in the world?"
"But—” Josiah was at sea.
The duke said nothing for a moment. He took a ring from his pocket-that same sapphire ring, Josiah noted, that he always kept with him-and held it in the palm of his hand. Finally Lord Torrance spoke.
"My presence causes pain to Lady Pamela. So much pain that she prefers to leave London rather than talk to me. That is all the reason I need."
* * * *
"What day is it?” Lady Pamela had asked. Lord Torrance's letter was crumpled in her hand, and she looked as if she would break down in sobs. “What day is it?"
"Well...” Jonathan had no idea what had overset his sister. “The fourteenth of December, I believe. What-?"
"The fourteenth!"
Maggie arrived. In the course of her brief, somewhat painful interview with Lady Pamela, Jonathan began to understand what had happened.
"I didna know!” wailed the maid. “Thought he were engaged to that other lady, I did!"
"Where are the letters?” asked Lady Pam, tapping her foot in impatience.
"An’ he were so nasty an’ all, in the park!” Maggie had come to believe her own stories.
"Maggie. The letters."
The maid dug a thin packet of envelopes from her apron pocket. Lady Pamela took them, saying, “We'll talk of this later.” She addressed her brother. “I must return to London at once."
"I'll send Toby with you,” said Lord Sinclair. “You should make town by nightfall."
Jonathan, fair-witted and decisive once he comprehended the gist of a matter, did his best to help. The coach was being pulled from the stable even now, and harnessed with the marquess's strongest team, and Cook instructed to make up a basket for nuncheon. Warm clothing was sent for, and bricks heated for Lady Pamela's feet, for the weather had turned much colder during the past few days.
Her brother was not happy at Lady Pamela's refusal to take her maid, but finally accepted that she was not to be swayed.
"'Twill be easier on the horses,” she told Jonathan. “And I need some time alone."
The carriage was on the road to London by just past ten o'clock.
* * * *
Tomorrow he would be gone. Tomorrow. She would have the coachman drive directly to Marchers upon their arrival in London, no matter what the hour.
And she would speak to the duke. At once, and alone, without a lady's maid, or footman, or butler to intervene. And they would talk until everything was understood between them, and she was sure that his intentions had not changed, and then, if he still wished to marry her, she would accept.
Lady Pamela was not as angry with Maggie as she might have been. ‘Twas her own doubts about her past behavior, her own insecurities, that had led her to read insults into the duke's words where none were intended, to feel censure when the duke had offered only love.
If anyone was to be chastised, ‘twould be herself. But this time, Pam feared, the punishment would be more than she could bear.
* * * *
Lady Pamela's under-butler, Jenkins, could boast of more education than many of London's servants. Jenkins could read, for example, and did; most particularly the Times, which milady sent belowstairs each day when she was finished with it, in hopes that her staff might find some education. Boring stuff, the parlour maids thought, and turned up their noses at the inky print. But Jenkins read it through and through, even the announcements of births and deaths and forthcoming marriages, from which bits of gossip could occasionally be gleaned.
'Twas one such announcement that had caught his eye, several days past.
The Duke of Grentham wishes to make known the end of his engagement to Lady Millicent Chambers, eldest daughter of Lord Reginald Chambers, 4th Earl of Banbridge, currently residing at Beamish Hall in Northumberland, and etc.—
By ‘mutual consent.'
The under-butler's conscience began to afflict him. Jenkins knew what Maggie had done with the duke's letters, and he had a good suspicion that milady's early departure to Bedfordshire was the result. He wondered what to do. Milady was gone, and Maggie as well, and ‘twas unheard of for an under-butler to write to his mistress. Jenkins had the maid's welfare to consider, as well. When Lady Pamela discovered that Lord Torrance had sent his footman twice with a communication to Hillsleigh, and had come himself on a third occasion, she would demand to know what had happened to those letters.
And Maggie had them.
In lieu of her ladyship, decided Jenkins, he could speak with the duke. Not Lord Torrance himself, of course, but to Josiah Cleghorn, his valet, who spent more than one evening at the back bar of the Rose and Crown, on Curzon Street. Jenkins didn't know the man himself, but he knew of him. The duke's valet was an exotic species to the local pub-goers, an American sailor, and well-known for his stories, which were colourful and occasionally profane.
Now, as the under-butler's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the Rose and Crown's interior, he spied Josiah sitting in a back booth, addressing a pint of bitters.
The under-butler squared his shoulders. Confession was of benefit to the soul, he reminded himself. Perhaps it would also do some good for his mistress.
* * * *
Lady Pamela sat in the coach, fighting the impulse to jump out and run. The journey had been a disaster, from start to finish, and was not at its end even now.
They had hardly left Luton Court before the snow began, and this event, so longed for by Alice and Peter, was no boon to the traveler. The weather was colder, yes, but not cold enough, and the snow was heavy and wet. Even the well-graveled high-way was no match for the muddy, icy slush.
'Twas slow, hard going for the horses, and slower as the morning turned to afternoon and the drifts began to build. Toby changed the team at St. Alban's, and again at Bricket Wood, but ‘twas little help. Dirty clumps of ice built up in the animals’ hooves; every few miles the coachman was forced to stop and clean them out.
And December days were short. The afternoon twilight had faded, and the snowfall was growing heavier, by the time they reached Golders Green. Toby brought the team to a halt in the courtyard of the Black Swan, the best of the local inns.
"I'm sorry, milady,” said the coachman.
"It can't be helped,” said Pam. She would not inflict her despair on Toby. “See to the team."
"Yes, milady. We'll be off first thing on the morrow. I promise."
She gave the coachman a reassuring smile. The skies would clear tonight, Pam told herself, and they were fair close to town. Tomorrow the snow would have ended and they would be in London before anyone could think of setting sail.
Surely they would not sail before mid-morning, she told herself, knowing all the while that an early hour was no guarantee. Lady Pamela had never been shipboard, but she did know that a vessel's movement down the Thames was tied inextricably to the tides, and that tides could be predicted, but not changed by the hand of man.
Once a ship was gone, it was gone, and could not be called back.
So she had managed only a few hours of sleep at the inn. In the morn
ing, however, the snow had indeed cleared, and the skies were a brilliant blue, and Toby was as good as his word. They were gone at first light, and Lady Pamela's spirits rose, as she thought again—
Surely, not before mid-morning.
But now, in London, they were lost. Lady Pamela thought to waste no time in chancing that the duke was still at Marchers House and had instructed Toby to go directly to the docks. But neither she nor the coachman knew the Thameside streets, which were abominably narrow and swollen with traffic, and no place for a marquess's carriage and four.
They had driven around in circles for an hour, it seemed.
Where were the quays for the larger boats? Where would one find the packet James Madison? Her brother, back at Luton, and shouting instructions over the din of four horses being set in harness, had suggested that the duke's ship might leave from the Upper Pool, below London Bridge.
"If you're delayed until tomorrow, try the Tower Pier,” he told Lady Pamela. “Place to start, anyway. Someone will know."
The Tower Pier. It had seemed an easy enough scheme, back in Bedfordshire, but this part of the city was unfamiliar to Lady Pam. She had no idea how to find any particular pier, and the river, which she glimpsed from time to time as they circled from Byward Street to Tower Hill and back to Lower Thames Street, was so crowded with boats that she could hardly see the water.
Finally they managed to arrived at a series of large stone and brickwork quays. Lady Pamela stuck her head out the window and spoke to the first man she saw within shouting distance of the coach.
"Sir,” she called. “Oh, sir, please. Where is the James Madison?"
The man looked ready to spit; he cocked his head at the beautiful, but somewhat rumpled-looking lady.
"There she be,” he said, pointing to a nearby quay.
Only then did Lady Pamela notice the fine carriage sitting at dockside. She recognized it at once. The duke's carriage.
