Caroline, about to follow her sister into the coach, looked up at Captain Burnside a little uncertainly. ‘You have promised to join us as soon as you can,’ she said. ‘We may rely on that?’
‘Indeed you may,’ he smiled, then murmured, ‘I believe my venture for you is still unfinished.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ It was a restless affirmative. She felt she did not really care any more about the second part of the venture. She whispered, for his ears alone, ‘Please reassure me, please tell me that in misjudging you I haven’t spoiled the friendliness of our relationship.’
‘Sometimes one’s relationship with a patron moves out of the businesslike and ordinary,’ he said, and kissed her gloved hand in farewell. ‘I hope to be with you tomorrow.’
‘Please take care,’ she said.
‘The cottage, where is it?’ he asked.
‘Half a mile west of the manor. It stands by itself in Birchwood Lane, and is called Pond Cottage.’
‘Capital,’ said Captain Burnside, and Caroline entered the coach.
Chapter Nineteen
Caroline, standing at the gate of Pond Cottage, filled her lungs with the pure country air. Why it was called Pond Cottage no one seemed to know. The nearest pond was in Wychling village, a mile away on the other side of Great Wivenden. Its bricks were mellow with age, its slate roof adorned with a cluster of red chimney pots. It stood alone in the lane that led to Pond Farm, the lease of which was owned by herself. Two other cottages lay farther west. They housed farm labourers and their families.
This was farming country, and at this time of the year the pastures were still lush, the fields rich with summer growth. The hedgerows, to Caroline, were singularly English. They divided fields and they bordered every rutted track and dusty lane. Honeysuckle sprang from them, and wild roses, and in the fall, which the English in their peculiarity called autumn, blackberries plump and ripe glistened with morning dew.
Visible, the rising green folds of the South Downs were soft with evening light, the air caressingly warm. A single fleecy cloud, tinted by the sun to pearly pink, drifted westwards through the heavenly ocean of blue.
The landscape presented every shade of green to the eye, and every shade had its own variability in the ever-changing light of an English day. No one could say the Carolinas did not hold their own beauty, but the greens of Sussex always made Caroline feel that nature had come to rest here in the quintessence of tranquillity.
She loved her Sussex estate, and Sussex itself. Had she been blessed with an affectionate husband and loving children, it was here she would have lived, not London. But as a childless widow, Great Wivenden, for all the pleasure she took in it, made her feel incomplete. She had neither husband nor children. She was almost twenty-five – twenty-five! – and was without children.
Great Wivenden’s manor house cried out for the laughter of children, and for their scampering feet. How could she live here by herself, with only servants to keep her company? She must marry again, she must. She must have children. Three, four, five, oh, even six. Then the quietness of the house would burst into the joyful, hurly-burly noises of children growing up. But whom could she marry? Was there a man she wished to bed with? Should she consider Mr Wingrove? He would surely make an affectionate and thoughtful husband, and looked manly enough to bring her to motherhood. She reflected on what this would entail. Simply, the act of physical union. The reflection brought no quickening to her body, no excitement. Mr Wingrove was a very good friend, and a gentleman all of upright, but she had lately come to feel he was a little wordy. As his wife, she would have no escape from his informative dissertations. One did not always want a conversation to be informative. There was a deal of pleasure in taking up a challenging dialogue, in giving tit for tat, as with …
Caroline bit her lip. How unkind, how wrong, to think of comparing Mr Wingrove’s honest conversation unfavourably with Captain Burnside’s devious use of words. Mr Wingrove was a gentleman, a pleasant English gentleman. His integrity as a husband would be much to her liking. It was only recently she had begun to think of marrying again, although she could not imagine why. Consequent upon her wretched life with Clarence, she had found widowhood an equable state. Why had she suddenly become restless, even worse than restless? Her present state was a starved one. She really must consider encouraging Mr Wingrove to propose. Yet why, if her body felt starved, did the thought of being bedded and loved by Mr Wingrove not excite her? Should not the thought of being loved by any personable man arouse some quickening of her blood? London was full of handsome, athletic Corinthian bucks, and it was ridiculous she could think of none who might be responsible for inducing this restlessness in her.
Her deeply introspective mood brought her to the realization that she wanted a husband she was in love with. To conceive children in the arms of a cardboard husband did not excite the imagination at all. To conceive in the arms of a husband she loved would be a joy. Was that not what most women dreamed of, loving, giving and being loved? Was it not what even some widows dreamed of?
In coming to know Clarence, it had seemed to her that some men could take physical pleasure of a woman without being remotely in love. Clarence had never been capable of loving anyone. She supposed Captain Burnside … No, she could not think so ill of him as to place him in the same degenerate mould as Clarence, but she supposed he had bedded infatuated young ladies without any consideration of love. If not degenerate, it was wretchedly immoral to seduce a young woman of her honour and her trinkets. Captain Burnside was …
She found herself trembling then, a strange wildness afflicting her at the thought of her unprincipled hireling even now in the company of some woman he intended to seduce. She thrust the thought from her. But she still trembled, her agitation a physical thing.
Inside the cottage, Jonathan was removing dust sheets from the furniture. Annabelle, coming down from one of the bedrooms, was greeted with a brisk smile and an unwelcome suggestion. ‘Perhaps you’ll lend a delicate hand, Miss Howard? Sammy’s dusting the kitchen, and you might care to do this room.’ This was the living room, with an inglenook fireplace, comfortable furniture, and a dining table and chairs in the bay window. The cottage had a pretty character, a cosiness, and a polished wood flooring. ‘Sammy will find you a duster.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Annabelle.
‘Why, there’s dust, don’t you see. But it won’t do, working in your pretty gown.’ Jonathan, his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, was in a practical mood, albeit cheerful. ‘I presume there are kitchen smocks somewhere.’
‘Are you addressing me, sir?’ Annabelle was as haughty as a young lady of Charleston could be.
‘Well, Sammy ain’t present, and I fancy your sister is still outside …’
‘Sir, you all are a bare-faced impertinence,’ breathed Annabelle. ‘One more word and I shall box your ears.’
‘Wouldn’t recommend it,’ said Jonathan, ‘I’m quick to counter. However, I ain’t known to be heavy-handed with young ladies, and it won’t come to more than a light slap on your derriere.’
Annabelle gasped. How could dear and delightful Captain Burnside have delivered her and Caroline into the hands of an oaf? ‘Oh, if I were a man, sir, I should call you out and knock you down,’ she said.
‘Well, you ain’t a man,’ said Jonathan, ‘you’re a pretty young thing with her nose in the air.’ He picked up the pile of folded dust sheets and offered them to her. ‘Could you find a place for these while I see what Sammy and I can do about lighting the kitchen stove?’
‘Mr Carter,’ said Annabelle with delicate aloofness, ‘I am not your paid servant, and I don’t wish to be smothered with dust.’
‘Servants, yes, that’s a point,’ said Jonathan. ‘There’s only Sammy. I put it to you, Miss Howard, he ain’t expected to do all the work, is he?’
‘How should I know? I did not ask to come here. Nor did I ask to be escorted by a creature utterly beastly and boring.’ Annabelle pushed past
him and swept out of the cottage to join Caroline at the gate. ‘Caroline, I do declare we are in the hands of a ruffian and a boor, and I vow myself capable of striking him.’
‘Mr Carter?’ Caroline shook herself free of brooding introspection. She smiled. Annabelle had been at odds with their escort from the start, perhaps because he had been far too casual for her liking. ‘Well, perhaps he doesn’t have the same whimsical ways as Captain Burnside, but I think he may prove resolute in our behalf, and one can’t deny he’s a cheerful young man.’
‘He is too vainglorious by half,’ said Annabelle. ‘He expected me to clean and dust, would you believe, and was offensive enough to threaten me with a slap.’
‘He could not have been serious.’ Caroline frowned, wondering if Mr Carter, a crony of Captain Burnside’s, had no more scruples than the captain. ‘Annabelle, isn’t the evening beautiful? Leaving London is not really too bad, though I disliked the reason for coming here.’
‘It’s a ridiculous reason, all to get me away from the Duke of Cumberland,’ said Annabelle. ‘I thought Charles was on my side.’
‘I should hope he wasn’t,’ said Caroline firmly. ‘Come, you know very well by now that Cumberland has no intention of marrying you.’
Annabelle fidgeted. ‘But there’s nothing to do here except sit and look at vegetables. I shall turn into a turnip, and I know I shan’t ever be able to put up with the incivilities of the odious Mr Carter. Why don’t you bring a servant over from Great Wivenden?’
‘Because, sister dear, it is better so.’
‘But who is to cook and clean and dust?’ asked Annabelle in horror.
‘We are, all of us,’ said Caroline, and in truth she did not mind busying herself domestically. It would be an antidote for her restlessness.
Annabelle gave a despairing sigh. ‘We cannot go out, we cannot drive to Great Wivenden or even to the village?’ she said. ‘And I am to cook and clean and dust? I shall die of boredom and peevishness. It would not be so bad if Charles were here. He is such amusing and affectionate company, and would surely never make a kitchen maid of me. Already I am missing him.’
Caroline, the dark auburn tints of her hair enriched by the sun, turned to look at a copper beech. It held her gaze. ‘Charles – Captain Burnside – means more to you now than Cumberland, Annabelle?’ she asked.
Annabelle, who thought the less she said of her feelings concerning Cumberland the better, replied, ‘But, Caroline, you surely do agree Charles is a sweet and exciting man, don’t you?’
‘Is it necessary for me to agree?’ asked Caroline, looking as if she found the magnificent beech somewhat imperfect.
‘I cannot think why you all are so cool towards him,’ said Annabelle, then drew herself up warily as Mr Carter showed himself at the open front door.
‘Beg to report, Your Ladyship,’ he said, ‘that there are no beds made, nor bed linen unpacked. Beg to report also that Sammy has the kitchen stove going, and that boiled potatoes will be served with cold ham for supper. Beg further to report there are mice in the harpsichord, playing tunes.’
‘Mice?’ cried Annabelle, and instinctively clasped close the skirt of her gown. ‘Why do you tell us? Am I to remove them?’
‘Beg to suggest, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan, ‘that while I take the harpsichord to pieces, you peel the potatoes.’
‘Potatoes? Peel them?’ gasped Annabelle, thinking of what it would do to her hands. ‘Oh, you abominable creature!’
Caroline, smiling, said, ‘As you see, Mr Carter, my sister is not too much in favour of peeling potatoes. But you have made your point. There is work for all of us. Come along, Annabelle, let us see what we can do to help.’
‘I vow myself utterly despairing,’ said Annabelle.
She was sure, as she found herself flicking a duster some minutes later, that in some awful way she had become the victim of a conspiracy, that she had been brought here to keep her away from the duke.
If Annabelle was fretful, Jonathan was cheerful and adaptable, Sammy a willing workhorse, and Caroline a quiet, efficient preparer of the supper, which proved to be somewhat more attractive than mere ham and boiled potatoes.
The high, square house within its perimeter of iron railings showed only ground-floor lights. Captain Burnside, unobtrusively lurking, saw the glimmer of a lamp as the side door opened a little. Outside the front door stood the usual sentry, an infantryman, the butt of his rifle resting on the stone step. Out of the soldier’s sight, Captain Burnside moved to the railings at the side of the house, opened a latched gate and advanced. The side door opened wider, and from around it Betsy peeped, curls frisky under her cap as she bobbed a little curtsey.
‘Oh, there you be, sir,’ she whispered, ‘but I hardly knows what I’m at I’m so beset with quakings.’
Slipping into the passage, Captain Burnside murmured, ‘God’s life, puss, you’ll quake yourself into a quivering jelly one day and get served for supper.’ He quietly closed the door. ‘All is clear, my pretty?’
‘His Highness be out with his officers, sir, but Mr Erzburger be in bed with the colic or summat, and groaning fit to throw his stomach up.’ Betsy’s nervous and very low whisper counselled the utmost caution. ‘But he be a spry listener, so I beg you won’t rummage about nor clump on floors, sir, or we’ll be took in the act. And you best not be no more than five minutes.’
‘Good puss, sweet kitten.’ Captain Burnside patted her shoulder, and Betsy at once snuggled herself up against his, seeking comfort for her quaking bosom. Then she led him up the back staircase, and they both ascended with considerable care and deliberation. He heard only the faint murmur of servants gathered together below stairs. She took him into the secretary’s study, dim with dusk. He turned up the wick of the desk lamp, and its thin streak of light grew to a small flame. Betsy, ears twitching, watched him as he took out the royal diary from a drawer, opened it and leaned over it. She had closed the curtains.
He scanned recent entries quickly, looking for something, anything, that might offer a constructive pointer, although he knew it was highly unlikely he would find positive information. He found nothing at all other than official and innocuous entries concerning engagements. He leafed his way then to the day of 29 July, to take a look at the entry that had interested him before.
What had that entry been?
‘3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K.’
And below it: ‘3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning poss. marriage to Lady CP. Bty and riches.’
That had been in Cumberland’s own hand, and smacked of Cumberland’s own contempt for the eyes of posterity. But was it a contemptuous flourish of his quill, that reference to beauty and riches, or was it to emphasize the subject of the meeting and leave no doubts in the eyes and minds of others?
Captain Burnside found the relevant page.
‘3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K.’ In Erzburger’s hand.
‘3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning betrothal to Frederica of M-S.’
The captain peered in astonishment. That entry too was in the secretary’s hand. The former entry was gone, and without any sign of erasure. He ran his hand over the page, feeling it with fingertips. He felt the next page. He could detect no difference, each felt the same as the other. There could be no possible doubt, however, that there had been extraction and substitution, something that could be easily effected by a skilful bookbinder.
‘Sir, oh Lord, be quick,’ breathed Betsy, ‘I be nigh on dying.’
Captain Burnside closed the diary, replaced it and turned down the lamp. Betsy drew back the curtains. Outside, the July dusk had turned into night. The captain stood in silence for a moment. That new page and new entry meant, for a start, that the former entry could be considered never to have existed. It meant, further, that Cumberland assumed Lady Caroline would be a permanent absentee from London and England by 29 July. Perhaps a permanent absentee from life. It also meant Cumberland did not wish to cancel his meeting with his elder brothers. He
now intended to place before them his possible marriage to the Duchess Frederica of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She was his natural choice. Yet he had, perhaps, in his sense of self-omnipotence, considered he could exercise a princely right to choose a commoner. A commoner who was exceptionally uncommon. An American woman, undoubtedly among the most beautiful in London, and undoubtedly rich. It was typical of his darkness that he was now willing to dispose of her because … ah, yes, what was it?
Because of something that now pointed to his meeting with his elder brothers, all of whom stood between him and the throne.
Captain Burnside’s smile was a faint gleam. ‘Come, Betsy,’ he murmured, and in relief Betsy led the way back to the stairs. At the top, she stiffened, then shrank back against him. A handbell was being rung in a vexed, erratic way. She drew a breath. ‘Erzburger?’ he whispered. She nodded. They stayed where they were for the moment, poised to fly to a dark corner for shelter. Although the sound of the repeatedly shaken bell came from a room on the other side of the house, it was penetrating enough to induce caution and stillness. It stopped.
Betsy waited a few seconds, then tiptoed her way down the stairs and reached the passage to the side door in a breathless burst of new relief. There, close to the door, she turned and snuggled herself up to the captain again. ‘Oh, I be shaking to my every bone,’ she breathed.
‘Ah, well, though it’s your every bone,’ he murmured, ‘you shake as deliciously as a peach tree blown by the wind.’
Betsy snuggled her palpitating bosom closer. ‘Oh, I be that gone on you, Mr Burnside, sir—’
‘Hush. No names, puss.’
A Sister's Secret Page 25
