by Mary Nichols
‘Yes,’ the parson agreed. ‘I hardly recognised him, he was so dusty and travel-stained. He had on a dark green jacket, which had certainly seen better days, and a black shako, just as if he were a common soldier. He dismounted to go into the church and stood before the Amerleigh vault. He was there some time in quiet contemplation and it was then I guessed who he was.’
‘Did you discover if he means to stay?’ Sir Gordon asked. Both Sir Gordon and his wife had succumbed to good living and were almost as round as they were tall. Sir Gordon owned a cotton mill in Scofield, not far from Charlotte’s, but as far as she knew, he rarely went near the place and knew very little of what went on there, but she invited him and his wife to dine occasionally because he was a great gossip and enabled her to keep abreast of what her competitors were doing.
‘And why would he not? It is his home and his inheritance, after all.’ This from Martin Elliott. He was a pale young man, and very thin, but not ill-looking.
‘Inheritance!’ Sir Gordon exclaimed. ‘Millstone would be a better description. How he will bring it about, I do not know.’
‘He probably has a private income,’ Lady Brandon put in, while Charlotte remained silent. She did not want to say anything that might inadvertently reveal that she had already met the gentleman in question. ‘Or he has become rich by the war. It sometimes happens, I believe. The victors plunder the vanquished.’
‘He will need every groat he can lay his hands on,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘His father has left the place in a sad state.’
‘Why did they quarrel?’ Martha asked, while Charlotte held her breath, hoping fervently none of her guests knew the real truth.
‘No one knows for sure,’ Mrs Elliott said. ‘But it was very sudden. I have heard it said it was over a woman. The Viscount, as he was then, was banished in disgrace.’
‘Now, now,’ her husband gently chided her. ‘It is no business of ours.’
She lapsed into silence, much to Charlotte’s relief, but the pause was soon filled by Lady Brandon. ‘Do you think we should call on him and welcome him home?’ she asked. ‘Though whether that be the great house or the dower house, it is difficult to say.’
‘I would not go so far as to suggest that, my love,’ her husband said. ‘He might find it a trifle embarrassing. Hold your horses and wait to see what he does. He might not stay.’
‘And whom do you suppose will take over the estate if he does not?’
‘I feel sorry for him, coming back to that,’ Mrs Elliott said, earning a sharp glance from Charlotte.
‘Why?’ Sir Gordon demanded. ‘If rumour be true, it was his quarrel with his father that sent the poor old man out of his mind.’
‘Was he out of his mind?’ Lady Brandon asked.
‘Of course he was. No man in his right mind would allow his estate to be run down like that. Do you not agree, Miss Cartwright?’
Charlotte, directly addressed, found herself saying, ‘I do not see how anyone but his doctors can know the state of his lordship’s mind, but it is very true the estate is in a parlous state.’
‘I am surprised you have not offered to buy it yourself,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘No doubt you could get it for a song.’
Charlotte smiled, thinking of the Earl and his fierce claim that the land on which they had almost collided had been Amerleigh land. If she was any judge of character, he would not part with his birthright to her. But, oh, taking the Amerleigh estate from him would be sweet revenge for the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. ‘What use would I have for such a place?’ she asked. ‘And we are talking as if the Earl is going to sell up.’
‘If he has any sense he will,’ Sir Gordon said.
‘I would not,’ Charlotte said suddenly. ‘There are too many people’s livelihoods depending on a healthy estate. I would look on it as a challenge.’
‘Is he one to rise to a challenge, do you think?’ Lady Brandon asked.
Charlotte shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but we shall soon see.’
The return of the Earl of Amerleigh caused no end of gossip in the village. The main gist of their curiosity was centred on whether he had returned with a fortune and whether he had married and would be bringing his wife to the Hall just as soon as it had been refurbished. And if he was not married, why, then he might be looking for a wife! Single young ladies in the parish and for several miles around were suddenly alert to the possibilities. Hence the bigger than usual congregation at church the following day.
Wondering what to wear, Roland had surveyed his wardrobe, which did not take long. Apart from his ordinary uniform and a dress uniform that he wore on formal occasions, he had a pair of overalls, a riding coat of Bath cloth which he had been wearing when he enlisted, a pair of calfskin breeches, half a dozen shirts, a change of underclothes, and a spare pair of boots. He had never needed more. He found some of his old clothes in a trunk, which his mother had brought to the dower house. There was among them a black frock coat and breeches, but when he tried them on, he found they were several sizes too small. The Roland who had gone away had been a stripling of twenty-one, slim as a reed; the Roland who had returned was broad of shoulder, deep-chested, with muscular legs and arms. He had perforce to ask Travers to spruce up his best uniform and tie a black mourning ribbon about his sleeve. Bennett had brought out the carriage, for which Roland had hired horses, and took immense pride in cleaning it so it gleamed as it once had, and he and his mother travelled in that.
After the service, the Countess placed herself between Roland and the parson on the church path to greet everyone and introduce them to her son. Among them were Lord and Lady Gilford, who had a substantial mansion on the road between Amerleigh and Scofield, Mr and Mrs Edward Trent of Shrewsbury; Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, who had a country house on the slopes above Scofield, and several others whom Roland did not know. They were all accompanied by offspring.
That might have been the end of it, but the parson, conscious of his role as conciliator, addressed Lady Brandon. ‘My lady, I am sure the Earl needs no introduction, but I am persuaded you would wish to welcome him back in our midst.’ And to Roland. ‘My lord, you remember Sir Gordon and Lady Brandon, do you not?’
Roland bowed. ‘Your servant, my lady. Sir Gordon.’
Her ladyship acknowledged him with a slight inclination of the head. ‘My lord.’
Sir Gordon shook his hand and then drew Martha forward. ‘May I present my daughter, Martha?’
He bowed, remembering the schoolgirl he had seen about the village with her governess when he had been home in his youth. She had become an attractive young lady. ‘Miss Brandon.’
She bobbed a curtsy and kept her eyes downcast. ‘My lord.’
The parson had not done. ‘My lord, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Cartwright.’
It was only then he realised that Charlotte stood behind them. Gone was the strange riding gear and in its place was a watered silk gown in a soft dove-grey, topped with a matching short pelisse. Her amber hair, which had been so windswept when he had come upon her riding, was now pinned up beneath a simple straw bonnet, but he could see that it was already straining to escape.
He realised quite suddenly that plain was an inaccurate way to describe her. Not that she was a beauty; her features were too strong for that, but handsome might do. Her eyes were her most striking feature and they were looking at him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Disdainful, amused, irate, wary—he wasn’t sure how to describe that look. As far as he knew, she had not heard the hateful description of her he had flung at his father all those years ago, but remembering them now made him feel ashamed of words that never should have been uttered by anyone calling himself a gentleman, however irate he had felt. ‘Your servant, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, touching his hand to the peak of his shako.
She had thought he was tall when mounted, but now she realised he must be over six foot in height, a giant of a man and not one to be easily intimidated. But neither was she. ‘My lord,’
she responded coolly. She had not been brought up to attend church regularly, but she had realised that not to go might make for gossip. As she did not want anyone to connect her with his disappearance six years before, she had come, telling herself that she would take herself off immediately after the service. She had not bargained for the parson’s interference. She turned from him to the Countess. ‘My lady, how do you do?’
‘I am well, thank you. And you?’ The Countess was, as ever, graciousness itself, and whatever Charlotte felt about the late Earl and his son, she liked her and felt sorry for her.
‘I am in fine fettle,’ she said, risking a glance at the Earl. He was looking at her intently, as if trying to read what was going on in her head. She hoped not, because her thoughts were confused. She had to admit she found his rugged good looks attractive, more so than the immature looks of the boy who had disdained her, and had to tell herself sternly that he could never be forgiven that.
‘Did you have a good voyage home?’ the Countess asked.
She laughed. ‘The sea was somewhat rough, but I survived it.’
‘Miss Cartwright has recently returned from a visit to Jamaica,’ his mother explained to Roland. ‘She has a sugar plantation out there.’
‘Indeed?’ he said. So that accounted for the name of her house; Mandeville he knew to be a Jamaican town. ‘And slaves, too, no doubt?’
‘The trade slave has been outlawed, Lord Temple,’ she said, noticing the Countess’s look of shock that he should mention such a thing.
‘The trade, yes, but not the ownership.’
‘True, but there would be hue and cry if the law decreed they had to be freed,’ she said. ‘We should have no sugar, tobacco or cotton. It would be disastrous for the British economy.’ She wondered why she did not tell him that her slaves had been given their freedom instead of repeating parrot fashion the arguments her father had used when she had questioned him on the subject. Obstinacy, she supposed, and a mischievous wish to score a point over him.
His mother touched his arm, warning him not to continue. ‘Point taken, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, smiling as if he knew perfectly well what she was about. It disconcerted her to think he could read her mind like that.
‘Have you ever visited the Indies, my lord?’
‘No, never.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
‘One day, perhaps. Did you not find the climate uncomfortably hot?’
‘I do not suppose it was any worse than the heat in Spain.’
‘Probably not,’ he agreed. ‘One becomes used to it. But it is good to be back in England’s softer climate, do you not agree?’
‘Oh, most decidedly, and especially in springtime.’
The conversation ground to a halt. His mother plucked at his sleeve. ‘Good day, Miss Cartwright.’ He touched his hat again and, taking his mother’s arm, guided her to their carriage to return to the dower house.
‘Roland, how could you?’ his mother scolded him. ‘It is not like you to be discourteous.’
‘Perhaps I let my feelings on the subject carry me away,’ he replied unrepentantly.
Charlotte walked to the churchyard gate with Lady Brandon. ‘Charlotte, why did you not tell him you had freed your slaves?’ her ladyship queried, watching his departing back.
‘Because I did not choose to. He has no right to criticise me.’
‘Do you think he is married?’
‘I am sure I do not know.’
‘I should not be at all surprised if he did not have a Spanish wife tucked away somewhere, and we shall be expected to receive her. And just look at him! Was that meant to be a uniform he was wearing?’
‘It is the uniform of the 95th Rifles,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘I believe they are considered some of our finest fighters and always in the vanguard of any attack.’
‘Is that so?’
‘So I have read. And it seems to me that a green uniform is much more practical than a red one. It is less easily seen by the enemy.’
‘That is as may be,’ her ladyship said. ‘But I still say it made the Earl look devilish sombre.’
‘Good heavens, Catherine, he surely has reason to be sombre,’ Charlotte said, surprised to find herself defending him. ‘His father died while he was away and now he finds himself owner of a crumbling mansion and a run-down estate. It will be interesting to see how he comes about.’
‘No doubt he will marry an heiress.’
‘What happened to the Spanish wife?’ Charlotte asked mischievously.
‘Charlotte, is it in your nature to be perverse? Or is it simply that you enjoy provoking me?’
‘Oh, I am definitely perverse,’ Charlotte said, laughing.
They had reached her curricle, with its patient horse standing in the lane, and she bade her ladyship goodbye and drove herself home. In spite of telling herself what Roland Temple did was no concern of hers, that she despised him, she had frequently found herself thinking about him since his return and wondering how they would go on when they met again, because in a village as small as Amerleigh, they could not fail to meet. And now she knew. It was war.
Chapter Two
Later that day Roland fetched Travers, and they went on foot to inspect the big house. ‘I might as well go and see what needs to be done,’ he told him.
Taking the great key his mother had given him, he unlocked the stout oak door and stepped inside. Even the dilapidated state of the exterior did not prepare him for the interior. The downstairs rooms had been cleared of anything of value, leaving only the heavy old Jacobean furniture, which had long gone out of fashion; there was hardly a stick of decent furniture left and most of the carpets had gone. The walls were bare of pictures, though it was easy to see on the faded wallpaper where they had once hung.
Travers followed him from room to room. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Major,’ he said. ‘It could be a villa in Spain after the Frenchies have done with it.’
‘Yes.’ It was far worse than he had expected. How had it got like this? What had his father been thinking of to let it happen? Surely his mother was mistaken and it had nothing to do with Cartwright and a worthless strip of land? An unwise investment made by his father, perhaps. But if that were so, why had Mountford not advised him against it? His mother was right, a visit to the lawyer was called for, and the sooner the better.
They went up the wide, curving staircase and wandered about the first floor, containing the main bedrooms, the gallery and the ballroom, followed by the caretaker who had arrived from nowhere and seemed to think it his duty to be in attendance. The bedchambers were dank and those hangings that remained smelled of damp. A mouse scurried along the wainscot and disappeared down a hole. ‘What on earth happened?’ he murmured.
‘Happened, my lord?’ Old Bennett was clearly agitated.
‘Oh, I do not expect you to know,’ Roland told him.
‘No, my lord, but it grieves me to see the old place like this. We are all glad to see you home. Amerleigh needs you.’
The man’s words brought home to him that he could not please himself, that there were others involved, servants and tenants and those in the village whose livelihood depended on the work they did, directly or indirectly, for the estate. How had they been managing? The thought that some of them had gone to Mandeville incensed him, especially if this desolation was any of Cartwright’s doing. No wonder his father had wanted revenge.
‘Seems to me, Major, you’re going to need some blunt,’ Travers said as they locked up and left to go back to the dower house.
He should have reprimanded the man for his impertinence, but he was only stating a fact and they were more than master and servant: they were friends, comrades in arms who had shared bad times as well as good. ‘Yes, Corporal, I think I will.’
‘There’s the French gold…’
The day before the battle at Vittoria, millions of dollars, francs and doubloons had arrived in the French camp and Lord Wellington, who knew of it and was alw
ays having trouble paying his troops and buying supplies, had been anxious to lay his hands on it, but unfortunately the troops had found it first and in the aftermath of the battle had stuffed their pockets and knapsacks with it. The 95th was no exception; though Wellington had threatened to punish anyone who looted, there was no stopping them. Travers had returned to their billet with his pockets jingling. He had used some of it to buy himself out of the army in order to accompany his officer home.
‘I can’t take that,’ Roland said. ‘It’s yours.’
‘No, it ain’t, not rightly. And it seems to me you need it more than I do. There’s been many a time you’ve helped me out of a scrape.’
‘Thank you, Travers, but I doubt if it is enough to do more than scratch the surface of the problem.’
‘Then scratch the surface, sir.’
He laughed suddenly. It was good to have a friend, but talking of French gold reminded him that he had a little nest egg of his own, given to him by a grateful Spanish Count the first time he had been sent behind the enemy lines. His work done, and wanting somewhere to hide up before trying to make his way back to his own lines, he had taken refuge in the stable of a large villa and hidden himself in the straw. A dog had found him early the next morning, yapping its head off until its owner appeared. She was young and frightened, but he had soothed her and assured her he meant her no harm. He had only wanted somewhere to sleep. She took him into the kitchen and while the cook gave him a good breakfast, she went to fetch her grandfather.
Count Caparosso was an elderly man, wearing old-fashioned satin breeches, an embroidered coat and a bag wig. He was also very nervous. The French were near at hand and he was frightened for his granddaughter. After giving Roland a meal and asking him all about himself, he had asked him to take Juanita to safety. ‘She has an uncle in Coimbra,’ he had said. ‘Take her there. I shall pay you handsomely.’
