by Mary Nichols
‘There is hope for you yet.’
‘Hope? Hope for what?’
‘Being received into society. With the Countess of Amerleigh on calling terms you cannot fail and when the Earl comes back…’
‘Aunt, I will have no more of the Earl, do you hear me? I have too much to do to waste time in idle gossip.’
She tried immersing herself in work, in an attempt to put Roland from her mind, but it was impossible when all around her were reminders of him: the new wall, the newly trimmed hedges, the new thatch on the rows of workers’ cottages, the windows of the Hall, glinting in the sunlight, Mr Biggs bending over the flower beds and young Tommy Biggs, smiling up at her and asking her, in his mute way with hands and expressive eyes, when she thought the Earl would be back.
‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘Soon, perhaps.’ She missed him. She missed his gentle chiding, she missed their arguments as much as she missed their harmony over things they both found important. She missed his warmth and understanding and the sheer joy of having him touch her and rouse her with his kisses. She wanted him to come back every bit as much as Tommy, though what she would say to him, if he did, she had no idea. He was too proud to repeat a proposal once it had been turned down, especially in the manner in which she had done it, and she was too proud to raise the subject herself. But if only they could talk. They were as uncommunicative as poor little deaf Tommy…
The capital was en fête. The great and the good, rich and poor, soldiers, beggars and thieves, thronged the streets and blocked the roads so that any vehicles caught up in the mêlée had to go at the pace of a snail. The crowds had been mostly good-humoured, shouting their approval of those in the carriages they liked, even making way for them, while they jeered those for whom they had only contempt, and that included the Regent. What they had really come to see was the return of the Duke of Wellington, the architect of the victory against Napoleon, the saviour of the nation. Balconies, tree tops and even roofs were being used as vantage points to see him and cheer him as he arrived by carriage from Dover.
All the hotels were full to bursting and it was with some difficulty Roland managed to find a hotel to take him and Travers. It was run-down and not at all clean, but he had stayed in worse places. Having Travers looking after their belongings, he set off to see Professor Lundy, whose direction Charles Mountford had given him. The professor was away, but expected back within the week, Roland was told by his assistant, so he left the documents and said he would return. From there he made his way to Dr Masterson’s at the top end of Piccadilly, where he had a thriving general practice, but he specialised in deafness and was making his mark teaching deaf mutes to speak.
Roland’s title alone ensured him an interview and he lost no time telling him about Tommy. ‘Teaching signs is not enough,’ he told the doctor, who had invited him into his office and offered him a glass of Madeira. ‘I should like the boy to learn to speak. Can that be done?’
‘I cannot tell without seeing him and ascertaining if his vocal cords are intact…’
‘He seems to be able to grunt and shout, but nothing intelligible.’
‘That is a good sign. I am about to take my class—would you like to come and watch?’
Roland said he would and he was conducted down a corridor to another room where half a dozen boys sat at their desks. The room was silent except for the scratching of pens and the rustle of paper. They sprang to their feet when the doctor and Roland entered. Roland found a chair and sat on one side to watch proceedings.
He discovered that most of the boys were already proficient at reading each other’s lips and it was this ability that was used to try to get them to say words. Some were better than others, but the doctor said that was because some had not been born deaf and their deafness was not absolute. Those to whom the world was a completely silent place, and always had been, were finding it more difficult. The words they uttered were unintelligible to Roland, though sometimes the doctor murmured ‘good’ when they tried.
After the lesson was over, he and the doctor discussed Tommy’s case. ‘I need to see the boy and discover just how much he can hear and if he is a suitable case to be taught,’ Masterson said. ‘Some never manage to speak at all and it is not good to give the boy false hope. You would have to bring him here and, if I decided to take him on, he would enter as a boarder.’
Roland had been expecting the man, like Miles, to go to Amerleigh, and he was not at all sure it would be a good idea to uproot Tommy. The boy was very young and he would miss his family. ‘We must discuss it with his parents,’ he said. ‘They are poor people and ill educated and fees for boarding out would come hard, though I have no doubt they could be found.’
‘Then I suggest you leave well alone. My fees are not inconsiderable, you understand. I do not do what I do out of charity. My boys all come from genteel families.’
‘I see. Have you thought of passing your skill on to others? Captain Miles Hartley is interested in the subject and he is teaching signs, but if he could be taught your methods, he could take on my protégé, and others in the area of my home.’
‘I am acquainted with Captain Hartley. We have had some correspondence on the matter. If he is willing, we can perhaps come to an arrangement for him to attend me here, as an assistant.’
Roland thanked him and left. Back at the hotel, he sat down to write to Miles and Charlotte. The letter to Miles was easy enough, but that to Charlotte presented a problem. He wanted to write a love letter, to pour out his feelings, to tell her…What? Repeat his proposal? Was that so outrageous a suggestion? After all, his father and hers had not thought so. But they had not been thinking of the happiness of their children. Mr Cartwright had wanted a title for his daughter and his own father had wanted his debts paid; they had not expected, or even wished for, their offspring to fall in love. Nor had he when he had so outrageously rejected her. But he loved her now. She was always in his thoughts; distance had done nothing to ease his aching heart. Could they not put the past behind them and start again?
An hour later the carpet around him was littered with screwed-up pieces of paper as he had begun a letter and then discarded it. It was no good, the right words would not come. Either they made him sound as if he were grovelling or they were too arrogant. His love and his pride were doing battle and it seemed neither would give way. He gave up and went to White’s, where he spent the whole night gambling, but as he was a skilled player and took care to remain sober and alert, he found himself winning. It seemed he could not lose, and by the time daylight was allowed into the room by the drawing of the curtains he was five thousand pounds richer. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ he murmured to himself as he pocketed his winnings. At least the money would go towards the school.
It was only a week since the Earl had left, but already his absence had left a void in the lives of everyone, most of all Charlotte’s, and not even the news that the Fair Charlie had limped into Liverpool, badly damaged by ferocious storms at sea, but with everyone safe and most of the cargo intact, could cheer her up. The mill was busy, the mine’s new seams were looking hopeful and her freed slaves were working happily, so she had been informed, and yet she felt so downpin, she could burst into tears at the drop of a hat. The hoydenish daughter of Henry Cartwright was a woman after all. It reminded her of Roland’s comment when he had kissed her the first time; she would have laughed if she had not been so miserable. It did not mean she could neglect her work. Duty was all.
‘You will work yourself into an early grave,’ her great-aunt said, one evening when she was almost too tired to eat her supper. ‘Ladies were never intended to work, their constitutions will not stand it.’
‘Fustian! I am as strong as an ox.’
‘That is nothing to be proud of. Your good name is more important. You really must take time to make a recover in society.’
‘How am I to do that?’
‘You could start by calling on the Countess. She has said she would
receive you and yet you have never been. And Mr and Mrs Temple are still at the Hall.’
‘I am to bow and scrape to them?’
‘Do not be a ninny, Charlotte. You do not have to scrape to anyone. Dress yourself up and go in friendship. Ask the Countess if she has heard how his lordship is, show an interest in the refurbishment of the Hall.’
‘Aunt, I cannot do that! You will have me as transparent as Lady Brandon.’
‘Speaking of Lady Brandon, she called this afternoon.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, full of the fact that Martha has become betrothed to Martin Elliott. It seems he has been given the living of Scofield and finally plucked up the courage to propose. So all is well that ends well.’
All well, Charlotte mused. All was a very long way from being well, but she was glad for Martha’s sake and wondered whether the Countess had heard of it and, if she had, if she would inform Roland. ‘Please excuse me, I have some work to do on my ledgers before I retire,’ she said and took herself off to her office where she made a pretence at work, but wherever she was, in her bedroom, the drawing room, the office or out of doors, she could not escape from her anguished longing for the man she loved.
She passed her hand over her aching brow and looked up at the shelves on the wall above her head. They were crammed with dusty files, she had never had time to investigate. Perhaps now was the time to do it. She might even find out if there was any substance to the Earl’s allegation that there was something underhand in her father’s acquisition of Browhill. She looked along the rows of boxes for dates and, finding one for 1808, pulled it down and began to read.
She had not expected to find anything but, after half an hour, she found it and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. What she had in her hand was a surveyor’s report done on Browhill, a report that informed Mr Cartwright that he had been correct; there were large deposits of lead beneath Browhill that would repay mining. The dreadful thing about it was that it was dated after Roland’s rejection of her, but before the land had changed hands. She had to look twice to confirm it, but it was there in black and white. She suddenly remembered riding home in the coach with her father after leaving the ball. He had been white with fury. ‘He will pay for this night’s work,’ he had said. ‘No one makes a fool of Henry Cartwright and gets away with it. You will be revenged, Charlie, have no fear of that.’
That was why he had refused the offer of the capital sum back and had instead slapped on that enormous rate of interest! He had not wanted the money repaid, he had wanted to crow over the Earl when the mine made him richer than ever. ‘Oh, Papa,’ she murmured. ‘Do you know what you have done to me?’ She sat with the document in her hand, her eyes blank, and reflected on her life, which could have been so different if it had not been for her father’s ambition and his vengeful nature. The worst of it was she had genuinely believed she had a right to the mine.
What Papa had done had not been illegal, but it was certainly dishonourable. It was a wrong that had to be righted. It meant swallowing her pride, but her conscience would not let the matter rest.
The very next day she sent for Jacob and instructed him to send the Browhill deeds to the Earl.
He stared at her. ‘Miss Cartwright, are you sure you are being wise? It forms a large part of your income and you have employees to consider.’
‘I know that, but I am sure the Earl will wish to continue their employment. Get those deeds off at once.’
He bowed his way out.
The next day a letter arrived from Roland. Not that it raised her hopes, far from that, but it was a gesture of some sort.
‘Dear Miss Cartwright,’ she read. ‘I have spoken to Dr Masterson with a view to having Tommy Biggs taught to speak. The doctor is not prepared to come to Amerleigh because of commitments in the capital, but says if Tommy were to go to him, he would assess whether he might be suitable for instruction and, if he were, to have him enrolled in his class. Naturally, I would pay his fees, but I am unsure whether it would be a good thing to take him from his home. The alternative is for Captain Hartley to come to London and learn the doctor’s methods, which is the option I prefer. I would appreciate your opinion on the matter and also if you would be so good as to speak to Mr and Mrs Biggs and ascertain their views. I remain your obedient servant, Roland Temple.’
Not a personal word at all, cold as the hills in winter, but he need not have written at all. She let the letter drop on to her lap and gazed at the picture on the wall of the drawing room facing her. It was a portrait of her father, but she did not see it. She was miles away, sitting on the side of a hill talking about love and marriage, and reshaping the conversation in her head so that, instead of spurning Roland, she had accepted his offer. She allowed herself to dream a little, to imagine her family, boys and girls and husband, playing in the grounds of Mandeville on a brilliant summer’s day, chasing each other in and out among the trees, laughing…She stopped her musing abruptly, realising she had placed her imaginary family at her home, not Amerleigh Hall. She was as entrenched in her ways as ever, if she could not, even in her dreams, concede the loss of Mandeville as her home.
Chapter Ten
Mr Biggs would not hear of allowing Tommy to go to London. ‘I don’ mind ’im being taught at the big house,’ he said. ‘But as for speakin’, we know he’ll never do that and it ain’t fair to get ’is ’opes up.’
‘You do not know that.’
‘Course I do. He’s my child, ain’t ’e?’
Charlotte turned to Mrs Biggs, who was feeding pap to the baby. ‘What do you think, ma’am?’
‘I can’t part with him. He’s too little to go so far from home.’
Charlotte did not try to persuade them, knowing perfectly well that she would feel the same. She set off for the Hall.
‘Miss Cartwright, it is a pleasure to see you again,’ the Captain said when she was shown up to the schoolroom. ‘Please sit down and let Tommy show you how well he is doing.’
She sat on one of the little chairs, reminded of happier times when the lessons first began and watched without speaking until the end of the lesson. Tommy was happy to come without his mother now and darted away like any reluctant schoolboy when he was dismissed.
‘He seems to be doing well,’ she told Miles.
‘Yes. He is a very intelligent boy and deserves all the help we can give him.’
‘I agree. I have heard from his lordship, have you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He suggests I take Tommy to London.’
‘In my letter he expressed concern about taking the boy from his home and asked me to find out what Mr and Mrs Biggs thought about it. I have done so and they will not agree and I cannot say I blame them.’
‘They have a houseful of other children…’
‘All equally important, all equally loved and cherished, Captain.’
He bowed, accepting the criticism. ‘Tommy has to be examined to see if he is capable of speech and if Dr Masterson will not come here…’
‘Then you must go and learn the doctor’s methods, as the Earl suggested.’ She paused, wondering whether to go on, then took a deep breath and continued. ‘If you could also persuade his lordship to come home, I am sure everyone would be glad to see him back. You can tell him that Miss Brandon’s betrothal to Martin Elliott has just been announced. There is no reason for him to stay away. He is needed here.’
‘Is that so?’ He smiled ruefully. He was to be her envoy, to bring her lover back to her.
She could almost read his thoughts, and added quickly. ‘Yes, by everyone in the village, his tenants and workers and his mother. I know she wants him to come home.’
‘And, unless I am mistaken, so do you.’
‘Goodness, Captain, you must not tell him that!’
‘Then I will not.’
She bade him goodbye and went to call on the Countess. It was time she returned her ladyship’s visit.
Roland had gone to call on Professor L
undy, to see what he had made of the old documents he had left with him. The professor had only the previous day returned from his trip out of London and had not yet had time to peruse them. When Roland was shown in, he took them from the cupboard and unrolled the first one. Roland was unprepared for the man to become so excited about them; he wanted to sit down and begin translating them right away.
It took him a long time. Roland, who was not aware he had anything more important to do, sat down with him and listened as he read his translation aloud, sometimes quite fluently, sometimes haltingly and occasionally stopping to consult books and other documents. Tea was brought in to them, and later, claret, and both were consumed with hardly a pause. At noon, the professor sent a servant out for food from a pie shop and picked up the next document, unrolling it carefully and standing weights on the corners to hold it open. By this time Roland was becoming nearly as absorbed as the professor.
It was when he came to a mention of Browhill that Roland sat forwards, giving him all his attention. And then he laughed aloud. ‘You mean when the land was given to the first Earl and his heirs, it specifically stated that any deposits found beneath it would remain the property of the Crown?’
‘Yes, it is not unusual for such a thing to be specifically excluded. In simple terms, the surface belongs to the holder, the grass and scree and whatever the top contains, but nothing below it. To mine there, you would have to apply to the Crown for mineral rights.’
Roland was still laughing. ‘Then we neither of us had a right to the lead. Oh, what will she say about that, I wonder?’
‘She, my lord?’
‘The lady who owns the land.’
