by Sandra Heath
EASY CONQUEST
Sandra Heath
Chapter 1
There was no gentle way to say it, no simple method of lessening the blow. For the past six months Emily’s usually sensible mother had been overspending to a fault, and it could no longer be tolerated. A line had to be drawn. Firmly.
“Mama, neither of us will be able to purchase new clothes this month, next month, or indeed for the rest of the summer. As for a gown for the autumn opening of the new assembly rooms at the Royal Oak, well, I am afraid you will have to wear the plowman’s gauze you acquired for Bath two years ago.”
“Mm? What was that you said, dear?” Mrs. Preston did not glance up from her sheet of music. She was seated at the harpsichord, and was framed against the lattice window that gave a view across the park to the Welsh hills. Her hour of morning practice was about to commence, and her thoughts were of Mozart, not country town assemblies.
The half year of mourning she had elected to wear for Emily’s late husband had ended a few days ago, and now she was pretty in mauve taffeta, with a lace shawl resting daintily over her dimpled arms. There was a frilled biggin cap on her head, and around her throat she wore a gold necklace with a jeweled “C” for her given name, Cora. At fifty-four she had become a little plump, but was still strikingly lovely, with hair a premature but very attractive silver, and eyes of the deepest blue imaginable.
Emily adored her mother, who as a rule was very prudent and practical. Reprimanding her was therefore not easy; but it had to be done. They had to discuss the disagreeable fact that the coffers at Fairfield Hall were almost empty. So Emily patiently repeated every unpalatable word.
This time a look of horror came over Cora’s face. “Then when may I expect the privilege of a new rag for my back?” she demanded.
“It would not be so bad if you were requesting a mere rag, Mama, but you have set your sights upon one of the best dressmakers in London!”
“Well, je ne peux pas la sentir. I can’t stand her, but I suppose there is Mrs. Nicholls.” It was a reluctant concession, Mrs. Nicholls being in Shrewsbury and therefore not regarded as a fashionable couturière. However, there was nothing unfashionable about Cora’s French pronunciation, which was perfect enough for a Parisienne, even though she was English through and through.
Emily smoothed her black bombazine skirts exasperatedly. “Even Mrs. Nicholls is out of the question right now. We have to be frugal, Mama. Maybe when the rents are in next year there will be sufficient for ...” Her voice died away wearily as she saw her mother’s vexed expression.
“Next year? Oh, c’est à ne pas y croire! Which in case you do not understand, means it’s beyond belief!” Cora was much given to sprinkling her conversation with French phrases, having spent her eighteenth year in Paris, and enjoyed every hour.
“I know it well enough, Mama. I could hardly grow up in your vicinity and not know French!”
“Nor will you have spent all that time with me and not understand that I cannot possibly wait so long for a new gown! I have Shropshire society to consider, so cannot possibly countenance turning out in anything less than à la mode. This is May 1805, and trains are no longer the thing, or had you not noticed? What will Temford town think if I turn out in my old frills from Bath? Worse, if both of us do that?”
“Mama, a Bonfire Night assembly is at issue, that means a traditional fifth of November junket at a country town inn, not a grand coming-out ball in London! The Royal Oak’s new assembly room will open with what passes for a ball, however, followed by a display of fireworks as poor old Guy Fawkes is once again being burned in effigy on a bonfire, after which everyone will go home. But I will not be attending, so you need not fret on the score of both of us turning out in tired fashions.”
“But your twelve months of black will be over by then.”
“You may not approve of full formal mourning, Mama, but I do. Getting myself up in finery to dance the night away on almost the very anniversary of Geoffrey’s death simply does not seem appropriate to me. Anyway, that is beside the point. There is nothing to stop you attending, and I think you’ll find your old gown will be all that is commendable. You haven’t worn it since Bath, nor do I recall the county of Shropshire being present when you did. Even if someone was there and does recall, they are not going to think anything they do not think already. Everyone knows how reduced our situation has become.”
Cora sighed. “Oh, this really is too bad, but if there is no alternative, I suppose I will have to wear the plowman’s gauze. However, I still think you should attend, my dear. Close to the awful day or not, the occasion will be perfect for your return to society.”
“I’ve already explained why I do not intend to go, Mama. If I change my mind, you will be the first to know.”
“Hmm.”
Emily was pricked. “Anyone would think this Bonfire Night frolic was the be-all and end-all of your existence!” she declared as she went to look out of the great bay window with its intricate sixteenth-century latticework. The tiny leaded lights distorted the view of the courtyard outside, fragmenting it like a broken mirror. Rain was falling again, and puddles had collected in the courtyard. A maid hurried across from the gatehouse to the kitchens, and one of the dogs pretended to chase her.
Fairfield Hall was a half-timbered medieval manor house, gabled and elaborately decorated, that was set in a fine park several miles outside the small Shropshire market town of Temford. It was built around three sides of a courtyard that was open to the north, and the whole building was encircled by a moat where water lilies floated and fish swam. The house rose three stories, each one projecting over the one below it, and its main entrance was by a stone bridge across the moat, then through an archway into the courtyard.
Over the centuries the foundations of the house had shifted and the timbers warped, giving the building an astonishingly drunken look, as if at any moment it would lurch to one side or the other, jump over the moat, then reel its way across the park. It was a miracle that it not only still stood, but was likely to do so for centuries to come.
The oak-paneled grand parlor was on the second floor, with the bay on one side, and windows facing toward the moat and rolling park on the other. It contained centuries-old furniture, tapestries, and paintings, the only recently acquired item in the room being the harpsichord Cora had purchased the year before her son-in-law’s death.
The hall’s parlous financial state had only come to light after Geoffrey Fairfield’s demise, and now things were so bad that Emily had serious cause to fear she could no longer manage. She gazed unhappily across the park toward Temford, which clustered below the medieval castle that guarded the ford over the River Teme.
Cora’s vexation had increased. “Oh, this lack of money is intolerable.”
“I agree, but we have to manage as best we can.” The little black ribbons on Emily’s lace day bonnet fluttered as she turned to look back at her mother. “And I’m afraid that means the complete drawing in of our fashionable horns.”
Cora didn’t respond, but her shoulders drooped a little, and she lowered her eyes as if there was much she was leaving unsaid.
Emily relented. “Please understand, Mama. Wardrobes—or the lack of them—are only part of my problems, for I also have other things to consider. There is the running of the estate, at which I have very little experience, and there is also Peter’s education and welfare to worry about.” Peter was her thirteen-year-old son, at present away at Harrow, although for how much longer such an expensive education could be sustained remained to be seen.
Cora turned away. “Oh, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley ...”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mm? It’s Burns, my dear. ‘To a Mouse.’
”
“I know that. I just wondered why you said it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Cora smiled briskly. “You must forgive me, my dear, for I know how tiresome I have been recently.”
“Tiresome is your word, not mine.”
Cora fiddled with her shawl, tweaking it one way and then the other. “It’s just so hard to accept that we have lost nearly everything because of Geoffrey’s unbelievable mismanagement. His financial foolishness was quite astonishing, but it might have been rectified if he hadn’t expired so unnecessarily ...”
“Geoffrey did not die deliberately, Mama.” An edge had entered Emily’s voice.
“No, of course he didn’t, but he did accept Sir Rafe’s challenge to that stupid horse race!”
The circumstances of her son-in-law’s death had always rankled with Cora; indeed most things about him rankled with her. Geoffrey Fairfield may have possessed one of the most respected names in Shropshire, but she regarded him as an artistic dreamer who thought more of gambling and his beloved portrait painting than he did of providing for his wife and child. As for his close association with abhorrent Sir Rafe Warrender, well, that was quite beyond the pale as far as Cora was concerned.
She suppressed a grimace as she thought of Sir Rafe. He had purchased Temford Castle as his country residence about five years ago, and his land was separated from the more modest acreage of Fairfield Hall by the road that led west from Temford into Wales. He was forty years old and undoubtedly eligible, but there had never been a Lady Warrender to temper his excesses. Cora was certain this was because he was in love with Emily—or in lust with her was perhaps a more accurate way of expressing the emotion he felt. Emily’s mother considered there to be no depth to which he would not sink in order to get what he wanted, and that he had only cultivated Geoffrey’s friendship in order to attempt Emily’s seduction. He had always been here at the Hall, Cora mused, even commissioning Geoffrey to paint his portrait, but all the time his hot, sly eyes had been upon Geoffrey’s beautiful wife.
Emily wasn’t quite ready to be drawn into a discussion about Sir Rafe, nor did she wish to discuss Geoffrey, whom she had loved very much in spite of his many flaws. “Don’t say anything more, Mama, for I am not in the mood. We will have to agree to disagree about what happened. Sir Rafe has been in London these past six months, and seems likely to stay there for six months more, and poor Geoffrey isn’t here to defend himself either, is he?”
“Defend himself?” Cora was withering. “My dear girl, Geoffrey Fairfield didn’t even have the gumption to do that! If ever things did not suit him, he simply hied himself upstairs to the long gallery to paint! And although he protested to the contrary, assuming a veritable halo, it has since become as clear as crystal that when he slipped over to the castle for Sir Rafe’s gaming parties, he was losing very heavily!”
“Please, Mama.” Emily knew it was true, and did not need to be told.
Cora drew herself up. “Oh, very well, I will say no more, except to observe that we both proved singularly unfortunate in our choice of husband.”
She ran a finger sharply over the keys of the harpsichord, then rose in a rustle of mauve taffeta. She and Emily’s father had not seen eye to eye on anything. He had been a bully who squandered her fortune on a tally of mistresses that would have put Charles II to shame, and his widow had not worn black at his funeral.
Emily was incensed to hear their respective husbands referred to in the same breath. “Mama, I trust you are not placing Geoffrey alongside Papa?”
“Well, neither of them was a shining example, was he?”
“Papa left you nothing at all. At least Geoffrey left this house.”
“I daresay he did, but it would have been helpful if he had also left you sufficient funds to run it properly!”
Emily bit back a retort about unhelpful mothers who considered costly London dressmakers to be still in order.
Cora came to join her in the bay. “I concede Geoffrey was entirely unsuited to the business of owning and running an estate. However, I cannot forgive him for always putting himself first.”
“He didn’t!”
“Oh, yes, he did. He may have been the younger son and therefore grew up without expectation of inheriting the Hall, but once he did inherit, instead of indulging his passion for painting to the virtual exclusion of all else excepting gambling, he should have applied himself to business. And you, miss, should never have married a man who thought more of easels and portraits than he did of how he was going to care for his family. I know he was handsome, charming, sweet-natured, and generally good company, but such things alone are not enough. His selfish head was in the clouds, but it’s your poor feet that are on the ground.”
Emily gave her a wry look. “When it comes to heads in the clouds, Mama, yours has recently been as high as his, mayhap even higher. How can you expect me to provide you with a new evening gown when I do not even know if I can afford to send Peter back to Harrow next term?”
Cora gave a start. “It has become that bad?”
“Yes. In fact it has reached the point where Mr. Mackay now advises me to sell up and live somewhere more modest. Mayhap a town house in Temford.”
Mr. Mackay was their banker in the county town of Shrewsbury, and had been a tower of strength and help during recent months. He was doing all he could to stave off the creditors who would otherwise have been threatening legal action.
Cora was appalled. “A town house in Temford?” Her nose wrinkled with disdain because apart from the castle, Temford did not possess any houses she regarded as suitable for persons of their station.
“Mr. Mackay holds many of our debts, Mama. Well, my debts, since I am Geoffrey’s widow. Anyway, with the best will in the world he cannot keep the wolf from our door indefinitely, so I have to consider what options I have.”
“Options?”
“Yes, Mama. You see, there may be a way out of all this ...” Emily trod with infinite care, for she knew her mother would not like what she had to say.
“What do you mean?” A suspicious note had entered Cora’s voice.
“Yesterday I received a communication from Sir Rafe.”
Cora froze. “And?”
Emily steeled herself. “He wishes to offer marriage when my twelve months of mourning are at an end.”
Chapter 2
“Marriage?” Cora repeated faintly, “Oh, this is my worst nightmare come true, the realization of every secret fear ... Please say you jest, Emily.”
“I would not jest about such a thing, Mama. Besides, if you do not believe me, I have it in writing.” Emily met her mother’s eyes frankly.
Cora’s face had drained of color. “Sir Rafe Warrender is the most despicable man I have ever come across! Why, his motto is ‘La fin justifie les moyens, the end justifies the means. I cannot think of anything more fitting for him!”
“He didn’t choose the motto, Mama. It has been in his family for hundreds of years.”
Cora ignored the comment. “Peter loathes him too, you know that, don’t you? Oh, Emily, you cannot possibly be thinking of accepting him.”
“I have to consider it, Mama. Our finances do not allow the luxury of dismissing it out of hand.”
“Oh, how I wish that when I went to see Brockhampton...” Cora didn’t finish, but turned away and pressed her hands to her cheeks.
Emily was mystified. “Brockhampton? Sir Quentin Brockhampton, you mean?” She knew that Sir Quentin was a prominent man of law in London, although what he had to do with anything she could not imagine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mama. Why did you go to see Sir Quentin?”
Cora didn’t answer, but moved weakly to the window and rested her forehead against the latticed panes.
“Mama?”
“There is nothing to tell you anymore, my dear. The. best laid plans, and all that.”
Emily was at a complete loss. “You’re talking in riddles.”
“A riddle is all I ha
ve left.”
Emily was perplexed, and greatly concerned. “Mama, I have no idea why you have brought Sir Quentin Brockhampton into this conversation, but I do know that although you don’t like Sir Rafe, his intentions toward me now are honorable.”
“Honorable? Oh, you gull, Emily! How can you be so blind?” cried Cora, rounding upon her. “He was deliberately leading Geoffrey from the straight and narrow, and every time he came here to sit for that wretched, wretched portrait, he watched you with such burning eyes that I marvel he did not burst into flame! You were the only reason he bothered with Geoffrey. By luring him to the castle to gamble, Sir Rafe Warrender was making sure of a hold over him, and eventually over you!”
Cora was in full flow now. “And do you imagine Sir Rafe really wanted his portrait painted? Geoffrey was accomplished, but he was not a genius like Mr. Lawrence, for whom Sir Rafe sat barely two years ago. The portrait by Geoffrey was a device to get beneath this roof, and if you do not know that, you are a great fool!”
“Mama!” Emily was thoroughly shaken.
“Please do not consider this marriage, Emily, for you cannot and must not entrust yourself and Peter to Sir Rafe Warrender.”
Emily had to pause to compose herself, and when she spoke again, her voice was calm and level. “Well, since you mention Peter, let us speak of him. He is my responsibility, Mama, and so are all the unpaid bills I have been left with. I repeat, I simply cannot afford to cast Sir Rafe lightly aside.”
“Peter would rather beg on the streets than see you unhappy. And you will be unhappy if you marry Sir Rafe, believe me.”
“You are wrong.”
“The private joys you knew with Geoffrey will be a very distant memory indeed! Sir Rafe Warrender will make you utterly miserable.”
“Please, Mama ...” Emily was embarrassed.
“Well, it’s true. You are my daughter, and so I know you as well as I know myself. As a woman of the world I can tell you quite plainly, Emily Fairfield, that you need a virile, passionate man to demonstrate every night how much he adores you, and who will pleasure you as much as you pleasure him. Sir Rafe will use you for his own satisfaction.”
