Grace Gibson

by The Lost Heir of Devonshire

  When they arrived at a simple but respectable inn not ten miles down the road, Lord Eversham bespoke the two best bedchambers, a private parlour, and a light supper. For wine he requested claret, and then he turned to Robert and bade him attend the meal when the innkeeper called its readiness.

  Denley, whose black mood had not lightened to any degree, shrugged his concurrence, and repaired to wash the dirt of travel from his person and change his clothes. No doubt, his uncle would deliver a vicious sermon on duty to his family that he would rather not hear. Yet he could think of nothing to forestall it. Simply put, he was all but imprisoned, as his uncle now openly travelled with Messers Brinkley and Drake on the coach box.

  If he slipped out and made a run for it, he could not get far. He had a handful of guineas and a couple of pounds to his name; he had a recognizable aristocratic profile and an extraordinary grey gelding that would be noticed by all but the stupidest person. He would be marked in some way at every town and posting gate, and he would be hunted down and returned to this very parlour by those that were friendly to him, or hunted down for a bounty and hauled to the magistrate by those who meant to profit by him.

  When dinner was set he joined his uncle, and, as was their custom, they ate in silence to the finish of the meal. The platters were cleared, the claret poured and the footman dismissed. Robert waited with resignation while Eversham seemed to gather his thoughts to the point of readiness.

  “Do you mean to tell me Robert, that all your life you have dreaded your father’s affliction?” he eventually asked.

  “How could you ask it?” Robert replied glumly.

  “Am I to surmise this anticipation fuelled your abandoned behaviour of the past ten years then?”

  “Surmise as you must. I have not cared whether I won or lost, lived or died, and certainly I have raged against the life of respectability I will never have. As to the scum who lies somewhere in the River District of London, he deserved to be run through and I will not regret it. The affairs, I will tell you, were never my idea, though you are under no obligation to believe me. I find there are infinite numbers of females who believe they can be made a Marchioness simply by playing adventuress with me.”

  Eversham waved his hand impatiently. “I have no interest in your petticoat scrapes except those that have cost me money. You may deny it, but I surmise this reckless career in raising and dashing the expectations of aspiring women is part and parcel to every other sin you have committed. You have been punishing your father for who he is.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What would your life have been had you every expectation of sanity and reason for the rest of your days? Had you been spared the speculation that your children would be touched, would you have lived differently?”

  Robert looked up at him sharply. “To what end is this line of questioning?”

  “Indeed, you are right. We cannot know what would have been.”

  “Nor should we spend time thinking of it! I have faced my future, uncle, and now I suggest you do the same.”

  “Certainly I have faced your past,” Eversham said dryly. “I suppose I can mount the courage for what is yet to come.”

  “I ask again: to what end is this uncharacteristic speculation into my private motivations? As my thoughts do not constitute your business, I declare my confidences are at an end.”

  “Then I shall begin mine.” Eversham’s voice was uncharacteristically grim. This caught his nephew’s attention, and he sat up to hear the next hour’s revelations.

  “Your father’s first marriage was arranged, as you know, to Miss Valeria Upsham, who was the daughter of the Earl of Upsham, descended from a long, respectable line dating back to the Conqueror. We know of no madness in her ancestry; yet in our own family there have been a number of eccentrics who were inconsequential or bundled off to live quietly, away from the scrutiny of the world.” He sipped his claret. “You have cause for concern, Robert.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” Robert grumbled, poring himself some wine.

  “What I’m about to tell you is shockingly vulgar and I deplore having to break my silence. I give you leave to refuse to hear what may never be unheard, and I warn you that you will never regard anyone in your family in the same light ever again.”

  “I am agog!”

  “I am serious. Consider it a weighty matter before we proceed. The consequences to you are irrevocable.”

  Lord Robert did consider, but he had begun to view his entire life as a hopeless pit. The idea of any new information relating to his existence, albeit dreadful, came as a welcome relief. After a few moments he said, “In truth, I would consider it a very great favour if you would be forthright about any matter that pertains to the House of which I will inevitably assume leadership.”

  “Well said. I salute you.” Eversham poured another glass of claret and sat in silence for an extended period.

  “Your father proved incapable of consummating his marriage with Lady Valeria. This she confessed to a Catholic priest, who, under a kind of duress of moral conscience — for she suffered great shame, believing the world would say she was barren, and that she herself was at fault or, in some degree undesirable — ” He stopped abruptly and recomposed his tale. “This grows vulgar, and I beg your pardon. The priest, though under oath of secrecy, confided the facts — albeit in a veiled telling to protect the lady — to her father.

  “Sir Upsham, rather than demanding an annulment, which I believe was the object of the priest, was loathe to relinquish the title of duchess for his daughter. He applied then to my mother, the Dowager Duchess, and they put their heads together.”

  “We have Catholics in our closet?” exclaimed Denley with a rare laugh.

  “The number of eligible connections for the Duke were narrowing rather quickly. They were originally French you know, and the concession was made. I believe the nuptials specified she would not be made to give up her faith, though of course she could not openly practice it.”

  “Do you tell me he was already at that age relieving himself in public?”

  “Not yet, but he was fast becoming questionable. The marriage was put together in haste.”

  Robert stood to shake his legs free of their heaviness from sitting overlong. “Poor Lady Valeria.”

  “Indeed, but sit down.”

  “Well there is no need to cosset me.” Denley regarded his uncle with amusement. “You are about to tell me I am some bastard child, and faith, I’ll be glad to hear it!”

  “Spare me your theories and attend to what I have yet to say.”

  Robert took his seat rather merrily. He felt the weight of ducal responsibility was about to be lifted and he was impatient for the moment when he would break into a peal of laughter. But the moment would not come.

  “After interrogating Valeria to the point of tears and exhaustion, my mother had the truth from the girl and the Duke and Duchess were then sent away on holiday to an estate in Cornwall with the express purpose of…er, propagating. This was fruitless.”

  “Are you telling me he had no inclination for her, or was it a matter of…capacity?”

  “In some activities, Robert, the distinction between inclination and ability is irrelevant. The fact is the consummation did not take place.”

  Robert grew impatient. “So who was my mother?”

  Lord Eversham let go a sigh of exasperation. “Valeria was your mother, Robert, if you will allow me to provide you with the circumstances.”

  “Lady Valeria? You astound me! So who was my father?”

  “Since you will not let me tell it in my way — I am, Robert.”

  “You? How can this be?” The Marquis shot out of his chair and paced rapidly to and fro in front of the fire.

  “Ah, now you want to hear it.” A hand came up to forestall a great oath of exasperation. “We were sent to Ireland, you were conceived, born, and kept in the custody of your loving mother for two years.”

  The Marquis of Denley shuddered. “Y
ou are right, sir. This is a disgusting tale.”

  “Distasteful. Sit down. Valeria and I were fond of one another…”

  “That is a comfort!” Denley snorted. “In faith, you are recounting this alliance as if it were a notation on the cattle registry.”

  “I loved her. And I will not allow you to make such a reference to her again. What elapsed was the natural consequence of a mutual attachment, and though we both had strong objections, we were young and we were worn out by the brutal insistence of my mother. She had an iron will and wielded a great deal of coercion over Valeria, who eventually pleaded with me to relieve her of the burden of resisting.”

  “And so you did.” Denley’s lip curled in open disgust.

  “I have said already, I loved her. The affair ruined my life, if that is any satisfaction to you. We lived in secrecy. The world believed she spent her confinement in Ireland with her mother, and they were told that, after a short decline, she died of lingering complications of childbirth.”

  “How did she really die then?”

  “My mother arrived after your second birthday and, as agreed, took you away. This event was beyond our ability to prevent, as by then, the leverage she had on us was insurmountable. I will spare you the cruel details. Valeria was consumed with grief and she in fact did go into a decline. In five years’ time she contracted influenza and readily gave up the struggle. In truth, Robert, the life had gone out of her years since, and though I am still living I believe I suffer somewhat the same fate.”

  The Marquis rose again, this time heavily. He walked the perimeter of the room in silence. The footman knocked and entered, put a log on the fire and brought a second bottle of claret. After he left, Robert said, “This is an evil story, uncle. I suppose I will still call you uncle?”

  “Certainly you will. I will never claim you, though I would have wanted it otherwise.”

  Robert turned and smiled sadly at Lord Eversham. “You were once or twice kind to me, I think.”

  “I would have been kinder, but I dared not love you, Robert. I can perceive no kindness in anything that has passed in our family.”

  “Certainly not, and I see how you suffer, also. But surely, sir, this means that I am not the heir to Devonshire, and now we must decide how to go about…”

  “You are Devonshire pure and true,” Eversham said forcibly.

  “How so? I do not understand you!”

  “You forget. My brother was born of Lady Orrick, first wife of the Duke of Devonshire. She died in birthing him, and he then married Lady Catherine, who gave birth to me. If this were all to be applied to a court of law, I would be ruled the rightful heir as the present Duke failed to — well, his claim would be found uninteresting for lack of progeny. You would be, you are, legitimate by blood.”

  “But not legitimate in church!”

  “You are scrupulous again. Much like your mother. Lady Valeria would not proceed with the family plan without a secret annulment and a Catholic marriage to me, all conducted in a very remote part of Ireland by a somewhat mercenary priest. All hopes rested with you then. My brother became worse and I, as you know, spent many years abroad. My mother raised you to eight before she died and you were left in the care of servants.”

  A silence descended on Robert.

  After a moment, Eversham spoke bracingly. “I see you are much shocked. I cannot blame you. I have said all this so that you will know that you have escaped the fate of madness at least. It is ever said that by the age of thirteen the tendency is visible if it is ever to manifest. No one who is truly mad, Robert, ever believes they are, or even imagines they could be. I am afraid your afflictions are limited to those you have created for yourself, not those passed on to you by my brother.”

  “I could only wish someone had explained that to me. But I digress to what might have been, and that is fruitless work. To the present I proceed: I wish to know where this leaves our business?”

  “I cannot see that our business has changed to any degree. You are still to be the head of the house of Devonshire and it falls to you to perpetuate the family. Perhaps you can be persuaded to do so without any eccentrics?”

  Robert laughed a little. “If you are set on Mary Fanley, then knowing her father, we will foster a veritable brood of eccentrics!”

  “All the better,” Eversham said. “No one cares for unremarkable nobility, and besides, Mr. Fanley is only eccentric in that he is possessed of remarkable intelligence. So, will you yet consider Mary Fanley?”

  “Are you set on her being your daughter then?” Robert asked wryly.

  “All my sentiments died with your mother. Mary Fanley is a means to an end, no more.”

  “I will consider all you have said, but I make no promises.”

  “I ask for none.” Lord Eversham reached in his pocket, removed a purse and handed it to Robert. “In the morning, ride on to Greenly alone and make peace with this dreadful business on the road. I need not ask that it never pass your lips.”

  “Indeed, you do not. It dies with me. But what of you? Will you not come to wait on Mr. Fanley?”

  “I will rest here a few days.”

  “I see this night’s work has been very distasteful to you and has caused you to feel old injuries most acutely. Nevertheless, I thank you sir. I will make my excuses to Mr. Fanley and pray you will be rested soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lord Robert Allendale, Marquis of Denley, Heir of Devonshire, rode blissfully through leaves of red and gold, into deep plum coloured shadows and back out into the brilliant amber light of the country. He had left Lord Eversham at a comfortable posting house near the Westfork road. He spent the hours of his ride recollecting the particulars of the last night’s remarkable revelations. Certainly his despair with regard to the madness he had always supposed he carried in his blood had caused Eversham to reveal all. Nothing substantial had come of it — he was still bound in honour to bear the weight of Devonshire and to see that his house did not fall into entailment for lack of an heir; he would still inherit a penniless, mortgaged empire; and his free will was still bound in trust to Eversham. Yet in spite of these dreary considerations, he enjoyed a lightness that he had not previously known.

  Somewhere behind was a hired gig, carrying his luggage and his household staff. Where once he had required scores, he now had two — his groom and his new maid, Molly Harper. He pondered the mundane details of employing a servant, questions that had never occurred to him before now, for some other person had always had the charge of these things. Coming up short on many points, he made up his mind to get direction from Mary Fanley, who would know all that was right, fair and proper, and could warn him of the difficulties he could not foresee. As he thought of Mary, he saw far up the road a lone figure walking alongside of the hedgerow. As this person grew near enough, he made out the telltale signs of skirts and a shawl.

  Lord Robert had not yet passed into Hampton and was still some way out from Greenly; the particular stretch of road on which he travelled was quite remote. Though he was not in the habit of concerning himself with anyone else’s troubles, the appearance of a female walking entirely alone beyond the confines of a village, or even an occasional farm, caused him to sit up and attend.

  He clicked Caesar into a more interesting pace while he inspected the woman who approached him. Her head was bowed, her arms clasped tightly across her chest, her pace was resolute; all in all, her air and posture struck Robert as familiar. Slowly he began to suspect that he was about to encounter, of all persons, Mary Fanley, and he increased his pace even more.

  “Mary?” he called out a few paces from her. She glanced up at him furtively and quickened her pace, lowering her head even further so that he could not see her face. “Mary Fanley!” he said in a booming voice.

  Mary’s head came up, and she stopped reluctantly just as the Marquis of Denley dropped out of the saddle in front of her. “Good God, Mary, is that you? How is it you are here?”

  She curts
ied a little shakily, and could not meet his eyes. “Lord Robert! I…we…did not expect you until the morrow.”

  “I am come ahead and Eversham is to follow, but I am astonished to find you so far from Greenly.”

  “Am I far?”

  “I would say you are at least seven miles from the gate house and another two to the manor. Are you…is aught amiss?” He stooped a little and scrutinized her downcast face.

  “No, sir, I beg you to excuse me. Allow me to explain,” she stammered, looking around her again as if she had never seen this track before in all her life. “Do you know the time?”

  He told her it was past four o’clock and watched her face turn from bewilderment to anxiety. “Oh, they will wonder what has happened to me!” she exclaimed. “Papa will be beside himself! You must excuse me sir. I must turn back.”

  He put his hand on her arm and stayed her. “I cannot let you walk back alone. Come, Mary,” he said firmly, “hold the reins.”

  She did as she was told, but her agitation was not dispelled, for she could not let herself be under obligation to him nor did she want him to perceive she had been weeping. “Indeed, sir! I…I am perfectly capable of managing,” she insisted with a sniff even as he lifted her up into his saddle. In a trifling, he was mounted behind her and taking the reins.

  “Faith,” he chided, “you are chilled.” He wrapped his cloak around her and directed Caesar onto the roadway.

  Mary Fanley sat stiffly in mortified silence for some moments before she began to feel that she really was chilled. She shivered involuntarily and thought to misdirect Lord Robert’s attention by protesting. “I am perfectly able to walk home, sir, in truth I am a famous walker. And I cannot burden your horse. I am sure he has been ridden all day and he is most likely very tired.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “I will allow you to be mistress of Greenly Manor, and of all the county for that matter, but you will allow me to be the master of my own horse.”

  “Indeed, I beg your pardon.”

  “Besides, it will be dark very soon, and Mr. Fanley would never forgive me for riding past you while you are out here, even though you are a famous walker.”