The Marriage Bargain

by Blaise Kilgallen

  Leathem’s father had immersed himself in the springs’ murky waters after Gavin’s birth, hoping to sire a spare to insure the Fielding name would live on. However, at the age of forty and seven, the earl succumbed to a hunting accident and sired no more Fielding offspring. Gavin’s mother died two years later from blood poisoning caused by an infected spider’s bite.

  After ending another long ride on Pegasus from Surrey, Gavin stopped at his ancestral estate to switch horses.

  “S’prised seein’ you come up the drive, m’lord.”

  Tom Baines, Gavin’s bearded, head groom at Four Towers, greeted the earl as he slid off the stallion. “Dint expect you fer another month what with all them highfalutin’ goings-on in the Metropolis.”

  “I had urgent business here in Kent, Tom. I’ve ridden Pegasus hard. He needs a rest. If you will saddle the big gray for me, I’ll be off again. I’m continuing to Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Aye, m’lord, will do. I hope nothin’s amiss?”

  The groom hinted, but Gavin didn’t explain. Old retainers, like Tom were as nosy as hell.

  “All’s fine. By the way, do you know a tiny village called Lesser Bodem?”

  The groom scratched his grizzled head, working a callused finger under his woolen cap. “Don’t b’lieve I do.”

  “It’s near Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Been to Tunbridge Wells, m’lord, but niver heard of a place called Lesser Bodem.”

  “Never mind, I’ll ask directions when I reach the Wells and ask about how to find the place. Just saddle the gray for me now. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Aye, m’lord. Right orf.”

  A big gray stallion was tacked up in minutes and brought out the stable for the earl. Gavin stuck a boot in the left stirrup and settled lithely on the equine’s broad back.

  “I’ll return here for Pegasus tomorrow or the day after. Meanwhile, walk him out and give him a good rubdown before you put him away and feed him.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  It was late afternoon as Leathem rode the big equine over open fields crisscrossed by low stone walls. The sturdy stallion jumped three or four-foot high stony barricades in easy strides as they headed south. Circling clumps of age-old oaks, the earl skirted Seven Oaks before galloping along the wide road leading to Tunbridge Wells and its spa. Gavin suspected Lesser Bodem was a bump in the road much like Toynton-under-Hill.

  Entering High Street, the center of Tunbridge Wells, he reined his stallion down to a walk. Well-dressed pedestrians dodged in front of his horse, intent on their own business. Several large carriages drove past him; others sat parked along the main thoroughfare. The earl nudged his horse’s flanks as they rambled past four and five-storied brick buildings, numerous small shops, a busy tearoom, a few offices, and one that appeared to be a gaming hell. The earl finally halted his horse in front of an inn, chuckling inwardly when he read the sign—Fallen Virgin Inn. Strange name or not, it must have a taproom. He needed to slake his thirst after his long ride and would, at the same time, inquire for a direction to Lesser Bodem. Tethering his horse, Gavin ran up steps to the inn’s reception area and thus through an arch to a taproom. He paused and adjusted his vision before entering its dimly lit interior. He quickly spotted the apron-wearing barkeep dispensing liquid refreshment. He thirsted for a foamy tankard or two of tangy English ale. After chatting with the tap’s verbose drink purveyor, Gavin soon learned what he needed to know about both Greater and Lesser Bodem.

  Later, Gavin rode out to Greater Bodem first. The village was not much larger than Lesser Bodem. He queried several shopkeepers, mentioning Henry Morrow’s name. He learned during his visit to the White Dove Tavern that the squire was Emily’s grandfather.

  Some older villagers remembered the stern-faced man from his years as a magistrate in Tunbridge Wells. One or two older females remembered the scandal concerning the squire’s daughter and John Dancy, more gossip Gavin garnered while in Greater Bodem. He next headed toward Squire Henry Morrow’s manor house in Lesser Bodem.

  A magistrate in Tunbridge Wells, the squire had resigned from the post years ago and was now, more or less, a recluse.

  Gavin trotted his gray mount onto an unkempt, dirt drive. A stand of massive maples grew tall beside a narrow path on his left, their branches spread like a canopy high above him. A small pond, ringed by cattails showed a dozen or more white ducks paddling slowly on the water’s unruffled surface. A small rowboat, with oars left inside, was tied to a small wooden wharf. At the far end of the drive, the manor house had a rickety fence half-covered by twisted vines around it.

  The driveway curved into a large circle. Gavin approached the entrance of the poorly maintained house and grounds. The manor’s brick and mortar walls soared three stories high. Several gabled roofs and four tall chimneys soared above the horizon. Not a cloud skated across the sky. Behind the house, a blazing sun dipped behind other rough-hewn outbuildings scattered across the property’s rear yard.

  When the earl dismounted, no one appeared at the front door to greet him. For a minute Gavin hesitated, grasping the horse’s reins. He squinted up at the mansion’s dingy façade, glimpsing a subtle movement, possibly a flutter of curtains at the second story’s mullioned window. Had someone peeked out at him?

  Gavin tied his horse to a metal hitching post, and strode purposely up the overgrown entrance path that ended with broken and uneven stone steps. He rapped on a brass knocker against the door’s dark wood. Removing his top hat, he tucked it beneath an armpit and waited. A riding crop in his other hand tapped impatiently against a carmine-banded, black leather riding boot.

  When no one came to the door, Gavin banged the knocker a second time. A man’s voice was heard grumbling from inside. “Hold on, dammit, will ye! I’m comin’. I’m comin’!”

  Gavin heard several bolts sliding across and a loud click before the door was roughly yanked open on squeaking hinges leaving just enough room for a pair of eyes to peer through the narrow slit.

  “Who be ye?” a raspy voice inquired.

  Leathem saw a craggy, bewhiskered countenance with bushy sideburns and a halo of untidy, gray hair, and wearing a shirt with no cravat, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and baggy knee britches. No jacket. The man looked to be in his dotage, perhaps, his seventh decade. Bent over slightly, he squinted suspiciously at the earl through metal-rimmed spectacles.

  “I was told I’d find Henry Morrow here in Lesser Bodem. Are you Squire Morrow, the gentleman with whom I wish to converse?” the earl inquired politely.

  “What do ye want of him?” the gray-haired codger snapped back.

  “I need to speak with him about his granddaughter.”

  “Ain’t got no granddaughter.” The aged curmudgeon growled a grumpy response. “No daughter, neither.” With that, he tried to shut the door on the earl. But Gavin stuck his boot in the gap and held it open.

  “Here now!” the old gent sputtered through angry lips. “Why did ye do that?”

  Obviously, the old fellow blocking the doorway was the person with whom Leathem wished to speak “I mean you no harm, Squire Morrow. I ask only a moment of your time. Hear me out if you will. I wish to know a few things that are important to both of us. You are the only person with whom I can discuss these vital matters.”

  Just then, a woman’s voice inquired from behind the old man. “Squire, is there some trouble here?”

  Gavin shoved the door wider and nudged into the dimly lit foyer. No way had he been invited inside by the irate, sputtering squire. But the housekeeper, noting his fine clothes, noble appearance, and aristocratic demeanor, stepped forward and smiled while politely asking, “Will ye come inside and visit with us, sir?”

  Morrow grumbled like an irritated bear. “Nobody asked him in, Mrs. Pearce.” He glared, irritated at his housekeeper from under bristling, gray eyebrows, fiercely swinging his hoary head from side to side. “Let be, woman. The blasted nob pushed his way in here like a London ru
ffian. I ain’t telling him nothin’.”

  “Squire Henry.” The housekeeper addressed the grouchy gent, patiently. “Seems to me it must be of some import or this fine gentleman ’twouldn’t be here without good reason. Now, why don’t ye take yerself off to the back parlor, sit in yer chair, and listen to what he has to say while I brew ye both a fresh pot of tea.”

  The old man glowered, still muttering behind his whiskers. But he reached out and bolted the front door again and shuffled ahead of Gavin into a small parlor. His muscles obviously stiff with age, awkwardly, he lowered himself into a wingchair facing the door. “Ye can stay for a short visit,” he snapped at Gavin, gruffly. “But yer not to take up my precious time with nonsensical family matters. I told you once that I ain’t got no family. Leastways, not anymore.” The squire pointed a gnarled, imperative finger at Gavin. “Now, sit down and spit out what ye think is so important.”

  Gavin sat, but he wanted to prod Morrow with a few questions.

  Squire Morrow vehemently denied a second time about a daughter and a granddaughter. Instead, crustily, he spoke about a different couple. “I’ll tell ye this much,” he rasped out, finally. “James Dancy was a good man, a blacksmith. His wife…damned if I can remember her name. But she was thought to be barren. So, the Dancys adopted a boy they found running loose on the streets of London.”

  The squire grunted, his expression twisted. “I can tell ye, too, that the Dancys made the worst kind of mistake. The boy was a blighter—a no good rogue right from the start—a bloody, thieving scoundrel.” The old man added a few more blue-tinged epithets. Spittle flew from between the thin lips behind which he was missing a front tooth. “He was less than a decade old when he pilfered things from the Wells’ shopkeepers. Owners complained aplenty. I warned the Dancys, and they promised to punish him. But I believe ‘twas done lightly, hoping the boy would grow out of his mischief.”

  The old man shook his head vehemently. “Sly and slick as a black-hearted devil, he was. ‘Course nobody caught him at it until one day Rugby Thorn caught him stealing. The boy swiped two enameled snuff boxes off his counter right before his eyes.”

  The old man’s brow wrinkled. “That lad, Eustace, nary showed one bit of good in him.” A dry cough caught in the old man’s throat, and he hacked noisily for a minute. When he recovered, the squire went on. “I clapped the boy into gaol, but James Dancy begged me to let the rascal go. He paid me, so I let him loose. Never shoulda done it. Shoulda let him rot behind them bars.”

  When the squire stopped talking, Gavin jumped in. “Squire Morrow, Eustace Dancy is currently in a London gaol accused of being a spy, a traitor to King and country.” Gavin watched the old man’s face, but seeing no surprise there, he pressed on. “Can you tell me more the Dancys? And his wife?” Gavin deliberately avoided mentioning Grace’s name.

  “What about ’em?” Morrow was still frowning.

  The squire had clammed up, but Gavin probed farther. “I heard the blacksmith and his wife left Tunbridge Wells and took Eustace with them. They settled in a hamlet named Toynton-under-Hill in Surrey. Turned out James Dancy’s wife wasn’t barren after all. She bore him a son, John. He grew up to be a cooper. One summer he turned up in Greater Bodem during Market Day, and—”

  Without warning, Gavin watched the old man’s face crumble.

  * * * *

  Harry Porter joined the duke’s male guests in the billiard room, lit a cheroot, and sipped a brandy or two after leaving Wilma and Emily on the terrace.

  The women had gone arm and arm heading abovestairs together.

  “Wilma, would it be terribly rude of me if I snuck away from the house party for a few days?”

  Wilma blinked, surprised by Emily’s question. “Are you not enjoying yourself, Em?”

  “Oh, no, that’s not the reason.”

  “Then what is the reason? Has it something to do with the earl’s offer?”

  Excited about news of her family, Emily had all but forgotten about the earl. She meant to speak with him, but so far, she hadn’t seen him here when she returned from her graveyard visit.

  But, first things first. She had rambled on to the maid while changing gowns and learned Betsy had a married cousin living in Tunbridge Wells. A plan forming in her mind, Emily decided to seek help from the Porters.

  “It’s something else.” Emily paused to inform Wilma, drawing in a shortened breath.

  What better time than now to beg a favor?

  “Willy, I’m hoping you and Lord Harry will grant me a great favor.”

  “A favor?” Wilma’s elegantly tweezed eyebrows arched. “Of course, anything. But what in the world—”

  “I need to take a journey,” Emily chimed in. “What I mean is, I need to borrow a carriage and a driver to take me to Kent.” Emily anxiously studied her friend’s face. Would Wilma turn down the favor she desperately needed?

  “Willy, I may never have an opportunity like this again, and I desperately need your help.” Emily drew in another apprehensive breath. “I hope to discover more relatives in Kent. I can’t answer the earl until I know for sure—yes, or maybe no. But if I do, I want to know what they’re like. And to be fair to Leathem I need to know before the ball. If I find out I have other nasty relatives like my uncle…I shall ask Leathem to retract his offer.”

  Wilma later presented Emily’s request to Lord Harry that day. First, he frowned, argued, and then refused. Wilma grew quiet, knowing how much Emily wanted knowledge about her family ties. Harry, doting husband that he was, suggested they travel to Kent after the duke’s ball. Wilma coaxed him with a few more kisses, promised enticements, and explained why Emily needed the equipage and driver now, not later. The besotted viscount, who had always spoilt his wife, agreed if Betsy accompanied Emily.

  * * * *

  Porter’s crested carriage with Emily and Betsy inside rolled down High Street in Tunbridge Wells. Their driver reined the horses to a halt at the entrance of the Fallen Virgin Inn.

  “My cousin is a barmaid at the Inn’s tap,” Betsy explained. “Wait here, Miss Emily, and I’ll go in and find her.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Emily replied. “She may be able to tell us what we wish to know right this minute.”

  Emily and Betsy entered the Inn, pausing briefly to adjust their eyes to the dimly lit reception area. A rotund barmaid hurried toward them from the taproom. “No ladies are allowed inside the tap,” she declared in firm tones, all but barring the archway. “Meals and drinks are served in the Inn’s dining parlor.”

  Quickly, Betsy exclaimed, “Dolly! Is that ye? Oh my, I’m so glad I found ye.” Wilma’s lady’s maid stepped forward, grinning at her cousin. “Cousin, ’tis me. And this is my lady friend, Miss Emily Dancy.”

  The barmaid’s round face broke into a sunny smile. “Betsy! Whadda ye doin’ in Tunbridge Wells, cousin?”

  “I’m here with my friend. She hopes to locate some lost relatives. Oh, Dolly, I hope ye can help us.”

  Leading the two women away from the archway and into a better lit area, the barmaid whispered, “I’m sorry I can’t talk with ye now, Betts, ’cause I’m workin’. But I’ll be free in a coupla hours.”

  Betsy turned to Emily. “I ain’t seen Dolly in ages, Miss Emily. Can we meet with her later?”

  “Why not? But first, let me reserve our lodging. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow. I’m travel weary and not thinking straight, so I want to be fresh when we begin to search for my family.” Emily turned her gaze on the barmaid. “We’re in dire need of direction, Dolly. I hope you can tell us what we need to know.”

  “Iffen I can’t, my husband can, Miss Dancy. Will was born in Tunbridge Wells. But did ye come all the way from Surrey?”

  “It’s a long story. I borrowed a friend’s equipage. Oh,” Emily said, turning to Betsy. “And I forgot. Our driver needs a place to sleep and stabling for the horses.”

  “My husband is a hostler here,” Dolly chirped in. “
I’ll send him to find your driver. He’ll do what’s needed.”

  “Thank you,” Emily nodded. She headed to the concierge’s desk to reserve rooms for her and Betsy.

  “A fancy green carriage is waiting out front with a crest on the door.” Betsy supplied her cousin with the description.

  “My, my, Betsy girl, yer come up in the world.” The barmaid winked.

  “Nay, Dolly, I’m jest a lady’s maid. Lady Wilma Porter is a fine lady what lent us the carriage so’s we could come here. Lady Porter is Miss Emily’s good friend.”

  “I’ll talk to my husband. But I’m mighty glad to see and talk with ye. I had no news a’tall from Surrey for months.” Dolly threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw the barkeep frowning and waving her back to work. “I can’t talk now, cousin. But I’ll see ye later.” The barmaid left and hurried back to the taproom.

  Chapter 13

  A long whip snaked across the backs of four horses hitched to the cumbersome vehicle as it crossed London’s rural environs and rambled into Kent. Inside, Eustace Dancy, contemplated his next move. Percy Grafton, his adopted brother’s lawyer, sent notice he was named Emily Dancy’s guardian in John’s will almost two years ago, stating he would receive a monthly stipend. His niece would inherit funds from Grace Dancy’s mother’s estate when the girl came of age.

  Grace and John met at Market Day in Greater Bodem. John worked as a traveling cooper, and Grace had been shopping for a new pickle barrel. The pair talked, met subsequently, and fell in love. Aware of England’s social hierarchy, John never sought permission to marry Squire Morrow’s daughter. Instead, one spring day, the pair ran off together.

  Morrow had disavowed his daughter. His stubbornness never gave in to his wife’s tearful pleas. Grace wrote her mother a year later that all was well, but Henry grabbed the letter and burned it.