The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  “In a way.”

  “Do you need another housekeeper, or some such? For I am not very good at counting jars of bottled gooseberries.”

  “A housekeeper? Of course not!”

  “Oh. Then what would you have me do here? What should I be?”

  “You would be my wife! Lucy, I am asking you to marry me, and I know I have not done this properly, but surely you must have realised? Did you not understand?”

  “Marry you? No!” she whispered, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  “Do you need time to think about this? It is a surprise to you, I can see that…”

  “Not a surprise, a shock. I am shocked that you can speak so to me, when you should marry that poor girl you ruined.”

  He huffed in obvious annoyance. “Oh, yes, she is such a poor maligned creature! You know nothing about it, Lucy, so do not presume to judge me.”

  “Hers is not the only example of your treachery, if your reputation has any truth in it. I pity your wife, truly, for she will never know a moment’s peace, never know where you are or with whom. You are not fit to marry any honest woman, sir.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. After a struggle, he said with an effort at composure, “I am deeply sorry that you feel that way. Shall we rejoin the others?”

  15: Swearing

  Leo was stunned. Not for one second had he considered the possibility that Lucy would turn him down. That was not mere arrogance, for even if his wealth and station had not been enough to make the prospect attractive, he flattered himself that they were good friends and that she had no dislike of his person. But she had rejected him on the grounds that his character was defective, and that shocked him to his core.

  Of course, he had made a mess of the whole business, he could see that. It was not at all what he had intended, but the opportunity had fallen into his hands, and it had seemed such auspicious timing that he could not restrain himself from speaking. Yet he had done it so very ill, his manner far too abrupt, and he had talked only of the wretched house, the house she had found overwhelming and daunting, as he did himself, truth to tell. He should have spoken in the kitchen garden, perhaps, where she had seemed happy and at home. And he should have talked of love.

  What a fool he was! Yet he had scarcely rationalised his emotions even to himself, and even when he had realised he wished to marry her, he had not dared to think of it. Love. Yes, he loved her, his funny little Lucy, with her animated face and her charming chatter. He desperately wanted her to chatter to him for the rest of his life. When she was with him, she lit up the room and made him feel as if he were surrounded by the warm glow of friendship. Without her, his life was cold and dismal and lonely. It was as if he had been waiting for her all his life, with an empty space in his heart just ready for her to fill with her love.

  Except that she did not love him at all. She despised him quite thoroughly for despoiling and abandoning Miss Phoebe Mason. Well, there at least he might acquit himself of wrong-doing, for he had scarcely spoken a word to the deceitful little chit. He had hoped she would go away once she realised he was not prepared to buy her off, but clearly she, or perhaps her father, was more persistent than he had supposed.

  And so, after a miserable return to Longmere Priory, and an endless evening when he dared not so much as look at Lucy, followed by a restless night, he woke to the realisation of what he must do. Accordingly, he went looking for Lucy before breakfast, finding her at length in a corner of the grand saloon, a number of letters spread out on the desk before her. She was so engrossed in reading them that she jumped to her feet when he drew near her.

  “Oh! You startled me, sir. I did not notice you come in.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs Price.” He bowed. “I should have signalled my approach more clearly, for you were much occupied with your letters.”

  “Oh yes! It is so bewildering, for Annabelle has met a gentleman — a sea captain — who knew Jeremy, our brother. He met him, in point of fact, just after he left the Moretons’ house and before he boarded his ship… Jeremy boarded his ship, I mean, which then sank a few days later. So this Captain Hunt must have been one of the last people to see Jeremy alive, and he remembers everything about the meeting, it seems, except that the way he describes him… I mean the way Captain Hunt describes Jeremy… is nothing like him. He was small and thin, he said, but actually he was very well grown for his age. And excited to be going to sea, but Jeremy was terrified of going to sea and did not want to, not in the least. And now Fanny — dear, romantic Fanny! — has conceived this idea that it was not Jeremy at all, but some other person who took his place and is now drowned and Jeremy is alive somewhere. But of course that is impossible because he would have contacted us long since if he were still alive. Oh dear, I am so sorry, Mr Audley. I am chattering away so thoughtlessly.”

  She looked so guilty that he could not suppress a smile.

  But then she blushed and lowered her head, as if she had suddenly recalled their last meeting, and grief washed through him like a rainstorm, sudden and fierce. He loved her openness and her chatter and her friendliness, and it pained him beyond measure to have lost that easy comradeship, even if it were never to be more than that. Would he ever regain her good opinion, or was he always to look back with regret?

  With a slight tremor in his voice, he said, “Your conversation is always a pleasure to me, Mrs Price. I am sorry all your grief at your brother’s untimely death has been reawakened in this manner. Such things are best left in the past, in my opinion.”

  “Oh, no! It is lovely to hear news of Jeremy, even after all these years — five years, now. It is so distressing that he simply vanished from our lives. We had two brief letters from him, from the Moretons’ house in Liverpool, firstly to say that he had arrived safely and the Moretons were friendly, welcoming people, and another to say that his ship had berthed and he was to go there the next day, and he would write again from the first port. And that was all. So any news of his last days is most welcome, Mr Audley.”

  “And you did not hear anything from your friends, the Moretons, afterwards? Or make enquiries of them?”

  “They sent a brief condolence letter, that is all. But they were never our friends. It was a friend of Papa’s who knew of them, Lady Elizabeth Drake, and after Jeremy died, she fell out with Papa and we never saw her again. So we never heard any more about the Moretons. I beg your pardon, Mr Audley, for you did not come in here to listen to all my family’s goings-on. What brings you in here so early in the day?”

  “I came to bid you farewell,” he said, and again his voice shook slightly. He so badly wanted her to look… he could not say. Surprised, perhaps, or concerned, or disappointed… anything but relieved that he would be gone.

  “You are going away?” Surprised, then. Worried, perhaps. Not relieved, at least.

  “For a while. I have some business to attend to.”

  “Oh.” Now that was definitely relief on her face. She had wondered, perhaps, if her refusal was driving him away. Which, in a way, it was. “For Stoneleigh Hall? There will be much do, I imagine.”

  “Stoneleigh can wait. I have… other business to deal with, as you were so kind as to remind me yesterday.”

  She blushed crimson. “Oh pray do not—! I… I should never have said what I did. It was unpardonable to impugn your reputation… your honour as I did, when I know only what I have heard from others. It was dreadful of me.”

  Impulsively, he lifted her hand to his lips, glorying in the warmth of her fingers nestling in his. “You spoke from the heart, as I hope you will always do with me, Mrs Price. And now, farewell. Pray explain to Gussie for me, for I cannot wait until she rises. I must be on the road soon.”

  He could delay the moment no longer. He bowed, she curtsied, and he strode to the door. But when he turned to look at her one last time, she was still standing where he had left her, watching him go, an unreadable expression on her face.

  ~~~~~ />
  Leo’s patience was sorely tried on the journey north to Lancashire, and not solely on account of his thoughts of Mrs Price. It was not a great distance, and he would have hoped to reach his destination in two days, but his coachman misjudged a corner and put them in a ditch, which meant a stay in the small Cheshire town of Kenford, while the carriage was mended. The name sounded familiar, and enquiries soon led to the discovery that the principal house of the district was Charlsby, home of the Earl of Brackenwood, which he recalled was where one of Lucy’s sisters lived.

  For five minutes or so, when the innkeeper was regretfully too full to accommodate him and no, the other inns were no better on account of there being some local festival or other, Leo amused himself with the idea of imploring the earl for a bed for the night, on the grounds that he was acquainted with the sister of his governess. But then he produced a purse full of coins, a room and a parlour were miraculously found, a boy was sent to fetch the wheelwright and the idea receded. Still, he half wished he had had the forethought to ask Lucy if he might deliver a letter for her, which would at least have provided him with a decent dinner and some company for the night. And was there not another sister, even further north? Fanny, the romantic one… but she was in Yorkshire, he fancied, which was rather out of his way.

  Two days later, the carriage was mended and Leo set off again, and this time reached the small Lancashire village he was heading for in one day. He put up at the rather ramshackle local inn, had a leisurely breakfast the next morning, and then walked through the village to his destination.

  The parsonage was not hard to find, a modest house beside its modest church, neither of them as well-kept as might be wished for. Leo knocked at the front door of the parsonage, and handed his card to the wide-eyed maid who answered it. Moments later, Mr Mason himself emerged from an inner room.

  “So, you have come to do what is right at last, have you? About time, too.”

  “I have come to talk to Miss Mason,” Leo said affably.

  “No, that I’ll not permit, not until we’ve come to terms,” Mason said, lifting his chin belligerently.

  “My business is with your daughter, not with you, Mason,” Leo said. “I should like to get this matter settled once and for all, but if you will not permit me to see her, then I shall bid you a good day.”

  He bowed and would have turned away from the door, but Mason grunted and stood aside. “You’d better come in, Audley, but I’ll not let you see her alone, be sure of that.”

  “I have no wish to do so.”

  The clergyman showed him into a small study, lined with bookcases, every surface littered with opened books and papers. The maid hovered. “Mildred, tell Miss Phoebe to come here at once.”

  She bobbed a curtsy, and with a last lingering look at Leo’s fashionable attire, she dashed off.

  “Not sure why you want to talk to Phoebe,” Mason grumbled. “Time for talking to her is over, it seems to me.”

  “Then we must disagree on the point,” Leo said pleasantly. He had not been invited to sit, so he stood, hat and gloves in hand, waiting for Miss Mason to appear.

  She crept round the door, and after a single frightened glance, lowered her eyes. She might have looked demure, if he had not known something of the game she was playing. If she would not look at him, he had no compunction in gazing long and hard at her form. Although she tried to hide her stomach with a shawl, he was satisfied that his suspicion was correct — the babe she carried was conceived some time before she had met Leo, or Tom either. Good, for he need have no compunction in dealing harshly with her.

  “Good day to you, Miss Mason. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” The eyes remained lowered. She was not so pretty as he remembered her, but then she was wearing a simple morning gown of cheap cotton instead of her finery, her hair pulled into an unflattering knot.

  “What is my name?”

  She raised her eyes at that, puzzled, but answered readily enough. “You’re Mr Audley, sir.”

  “Good. At least you recognise me, although it would not be surprising if you did not, for we had little enough to do with each other. Did we exchange more than a dozen words? I cannot be certain.”

  She gazed at him uncertainly.

  Mason shifted restlessly. “Get to the point, Audley. You wanted to speak to Phoebe, so say what you came to say and we can get down to business.”

  “As you please. Miss Mason, why did you spread the tale about that I had seduced you and taken your virtue?”

  “Because it’s true, sir!”

  So she was still determined to play the hand to the last card.

  “Nonsense. I had never met you before the middle of January, and anyone may see that you must already have been with child at that time.”

  “I never was!” she cried, with a passable imitation of indignation.

  “Sir, that is a lie!” Mason thundered.

  “A lie? Any physician or midwife would confirm it, I am sure. I tell you now, Mason, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, that I have never touched your daughter, and if that is not enough for you, I am quite happy to swear it on the Bible, and to swear an affidavit before a magistrate, or any other form of swearing you like, for it is God’s truth.”

  For the first time, he saw doubt in Mason’s eye, as he glanced first at his daughter, and then at Leo.

  “Shall we both swear?” Leo said, pressing home his advantage. “I am sure you have a Bible somewhere hereabouts, Mason. Bring it forth, man, and let me swear to my truth, and Miss Mason may also swear, if she dares.”

  “Very well, sir,” Mason said, crossing the room in a few strides. It was the family Bible he produced, a great tome that he had the greatest difficulty lifting. He set it down on a corner of his desk, and opened it, rifling through the pages. “Deuteronomy… Ah, here we are. ‘Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, if it be truth, and the thing certain, that such abomination is wrought among you; Thou shalt surely smite the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword, destroying it utterly, and all that is therein, and the cattle thereof, with the edge of the sword.’ There, sir. You may swear to the truth of what you say by placing your hand upon the Holy Words, and calling upon the Almighty.”

  Leo at once laid his hand upon the page, and said in a clear voice, “I, Leo Audley, of Stoneleigh Hall and Bath, do solemnly swear that I have not seduced or despoiled or dishonoured Miss Phoebe Mason in any way, nor have I caused her to be with child, as God is my witness, and may he smite me down if I lie.”

  “Now you, Phoebe,” Mason said firmly. “If you maintain your accusations against this man, then you must swear to it.”

  “If you dare,” Leo said, with a genial smile. Although he quailed inwardly, for if she persisted in this folly, he would be awkwardly placed. At least he had sown the seed of doubt in Mason’s mind.

  “I do dare!” she cried, slapping her hand onto the page. “I shall dare, just watch me!”

  Then she paused, looking at Leo’s smiling face, and her own father, very definitely not smiling.

  “I, Phoebe Mason…”

  A long silence.

  “Come now, Phoebe,” her father said. “This will not do! If what you have said is true, then swear to it on the Bible, but remember that you imperil your immortal soul if you lie.”

  “I swear… I swear…” And then she collapsed to the floor with a high, keening wail. “No, no, no! It wasn’t my fault, truly. It was Malcolm who made me, I never wanted to. Father, I’m not wicked, I’m not. It was Malcolm’s fault, I swear it.”

  “Malcolm Fuller? A farmer’s son? Phoebe Mason, how dare you? You little trollop! I thank God your mama never lived to see this day.”

  “Forgive me, Father! Please don’t beat me again, please! I never meant to, and I’m truly sorry.”

  “And so you should be. By God, I’ll make him pay for this! He’ll marry you or I’ll know the reason why.”

  Leo slip
ped soundlessly out of the room. The maid sprang away from the door, looking up at him with big eyes.

  “Did you hear all that, Mildred?” Leo said to her affably. “It was not me that put that child in her belly after all, it was Malcolm Fuller, it seems.” He laughed, tossed the girl a coin and strode out of the house.

  16: Scrapes And Misdemeanours (June)

  Walking back to the inn, Leo was exultant. He had resolved the matter to his own satisfaction, without being obliged to pay the girl off, and he had succeeded in his secondary objective, of keeping Tom’s name out of it. Yes, it was an acceptable ending.

  Yet while he waited at the inn for his carriage to be made ready, Leo was thoughtful. ‘Please don’t beat me again,’ Phoebe had said. Poor child! No wonder she had been terrified to tell her father the truth, and no wonder she had pursued the idea of a dishonourable gentleman, for surrendering her virtue to a man of substance was so much more acceptable than to the local farmer’s son. Everyone had blamed Leo, for naturally a rich man would go about taking his pleasure from the virtuous daughters of clergymen, and then gleefully abandoning them.

  His conscience smote him at this point, for had he not pursued a very similar path for years? He had eschewed virtuous daughters, to be sure, but when bored wives or friendly widows made approaches, he had never been slow to take advantage. He had never seen the harm in it, before. But now… now there was a lady whose good opinion he desperately desired who thought him a rake and a scoundrel and beneath contempt. And perhaps he was. For all his wealth and the long history of his family and his education, he was unworthy of aspiring to the hand of Mrs Walter Price, a humble widow. It was mortifying, yet what could he do? He could not rewrite his own past and remake himself in a different shape. He was what he was.