by Regina Darcy
Beatrice’s lovely brown eyes widened. “Really? What’s he done?”
“Everard wouldn’t say,” Margaret admitted. “But he said that he’s no gentleman.”
“It must be very bad for Everard to say such a thing.”
“Yes, indeed. Everard is an upstanding man and he doesn’t tolerate the habits of those members of the set who think nothing of –of—” Margaret halted. Beatrice was not merely young; she was entirely innocent; her Abbey upbringing had left her unaware of the human condition. “Of sin,” she finished weakly. No doubt the Abbess had done her best to raise a niece and a nun, but such unawareness of what the world was about was a mistake. She was too likely to be hurt, and far too likely to be taken advantage of. But Christopher was a true gentleman, Margaret thought to herself as she made her way back to her bedroom. Now that brother of his . . . it was generally regarded that Jasper Davenport was just like his father, the dissolute Earl who had run the manor into the ground and left his heir with nothing to inherit but debts and whispers of scandal. Margaret hoped that the scandals didn’t attach themselves to Christopher. It was not his fault that his brother and father lived lives which were bound to lead to trouble one day.
Everard was in bed when she returned to the bedroom.
“Beatrice is quite taken with Christopher,” she told him, kissing him when she got into bed. “Your idea was a good one.”
“I thought it might be. Chris was always the steady one in the family. I’ve often wondered if he went into the army so that he could get away from his family’s mischief. His mother died when he was at Oxford; she might have been the last one who could put a leash on Jasper. No one could rein in the Earl, though. He was never much of a husband; married his wife, fathered two sons, ran through his own fortune and hers, and was chasing skirts almost from the time the banns were read.”
“I just hope the Abbess doesn’t hold his family against him,” Margaret said, snuggling close to her husband. Matchmaking for someone else was even more enjoyable when one was entirely in love with one’s own husband, she decided. “You did say she’s frightfully strict.”
“She is an abbess,” Everard conceded. “She’ll like the title for her niece, she’ll expect the aristocratic impoverishment; I expect it’s up to Christopher to win her over. Beatrice gave me a letter to deliver to her aunt; no doubt that will provide more information for the Abbess. She’s a shrewd judge of character.”
“If Christopher joins you in a business partnership, won’t that make the arrangement even more solid? “
“I think so. He’s an honest man with a good reputation and he has relations in the army that I don’t have. If we can sell the Abbey’s medicines to the military, it’ll serve everyone well and Christopher won’t simply be relying on his wife’s money. It all depends on Christopher, of course.”
“Are you fearful that the Abbess won’t take to him?”
“No . . . I think she’s fair. But she’s very fond of her niece. And anyone who thinks that she’s cut off from the world doesn’t know the Abbey very well.”
“Do you think that she knows about Christopher’ father and the manner of his death?”
“All of England knows that, my dear. But Christopher can’t be blamed for his father’s indiscretions, as long as he has none of his own.”
CHAPTER 6
Christopher dressed himself with particular care the next morning. He’d met an abbess once, in his military career when the army had been quartered in Belgium, but he’d never approached one with a request to marry her niece. He was glad that he’d purchased the new suits from the tailor; nothing was extravagant, in fact his waistcoats were a trifle on the conservative side, but on the whole, he thought it better to dress without ostentation when one was meeting an abbess.
Mrs. Keller managed coffee for his morning beverage, but even if she had been up to preparing a meal before he left, Christopher found that he was too nervous to eat. He drank his coffee and was just putting on his hat when Everard knocked on his front door.
“You look like a man about to meet his executioner,” Everard commented as the carriage pulled away from the Mayfair house to head to the country village where the Davenport family estate, and the Abbey, were located.
“It’s not an easy thing to woo a girl and know that you need her money,” Christopher confessed. “Miss de Villegagnon deserves to be loved for who she is. She’s an entrancing girl.”
“The Abbess is wise to the ways of the world,” Everard assured him. “It’s for her to decide. How is Jasper?”
“Jasper? As ever. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason. I heard that he lost badly the other night.”
“He said he has options. Including marriage.”
“Marriage? To whom?
“He wouldn’t say.” Christopher frowned. Jasper’s lack of detail was worrisome. He hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash. Privately Christopher felt that a military commission would be the best solution for Jasper. He needed discipline and the army was a great means of learning to obey orders.
“I hope he would come to me if he were in trouble.”
“No doubt he would,” Everard replied, sounding cynical. It was all very well for Christopher to be compassionate toward his wayward younger brother but it was doubtful, if circumstances were reversed, if Jasper would spare a moment’s thought for Christopher.
They reached the Abbey in several hours. As they neared the village where the Davenport family had lived for generations, Christopher felt a sense of homecoming that had been absent the other times when he had returned to the manor. He realized that he’d associated the estate with his father’s spendthrift ways and returning to the scene of the problem had not been pleasant. Christopher descended from the carriage with vigour. His meeting with the Abbess was first; Everard has said their business could wait.
They went to the door and were greeted by a veiled woman who, speaking through the grille, asked them their names and their business.
“I’m Everard Lancaster, this is my friend the Earl of Kent and we’re here to see the Abbess.”
The door opened and they found themselves in a deserted corridor. The stonewashed walls were unadorned except for religious works of art; Christopher suspected that the artwork was rather more than just an amateur’s rendition of biblical scenes. He was fairly sure that he recognized a Rembrandt among the frames.
The abbey was silent. The sister walked in front of them, her head lowered, her hands folded in front of her. The Abbess office was at the end of the corridor. The sister knocked once.
“Enter,” called out a strong, decisive voice.
The sister opened the door, bowed, and waited for the two men to enter. She closed the door after them.
The Abbess rose from her desk. Christopher thought she could have been any age from forty to sixty. Her hair was hidden behind her white veil and revealed no indications of her years. Her habit was also white and not elaborate, but the cross around her neck was formed of precious jewels set in gold. As they approached, her sharp eyes pinioned Christopher.
“My lord,” she greeted him, her tone cool.
“Reverend Mother,” he replied.
“You are here to seek my permission to court my niece.”
Christopher smiled. “I have met her and I believe that she and I—”
“You will not be marrying Beatrice, my lord,” the Abbess stated.
Christopher stared at the abbess in dismay. “May I ask what reason you have for forbidding our union? I enjoyed her company last night; I dined with the Lancasters, and we—”
“I am well aware of where you dined, my lord. Just as I am aware of where else you have been when you have returned to England.”
‘Reverend Mother,” Everard stepped forward. “It sounds as though you are labouring under a false impression of His Lordship. He has been in the army for ten years and during that time, his visits home have been but few.”
“Few but pro
ductive. Have you accompanied him on his outings when he has returned home, MR. Lancaster?
“I—no, I –I live in town, and His Lordship—he, when he was on leave, he generally stayed in the village. I believe –when was your last visit home, old chap?”
Christopher’ mouth felt dry. The dusty roads had left him with a parched throat. “My most recent return home was seven weeks ago when I receive the news of my father’s death. I returned to Davenport-upon-Kent but I stayed at the tavern rather than the estate.”
“Why is that?”
“The estate is in considerable disrepair, Reverend Mother. I felt that it would be best to conclude my business in the village quickly and head to London where my father’s solicitor would be able to acquaint me with the circumstances regarding my family’s finances.”
“Before you returned this most recent time, when had you last been in the village?”
“I was home in October for a month. I’d received a minor wound and I was sent home to recuperate.”
“And when you were home in October, how did you pass your time? Was not the estate in some state of disrepair then as well?”
“Yes, but not as severe as it is now. I stayed there. My father and brother were in London.” Which was why he had stayed at the estate, preferring the company of the servants rather than going to London, where he would be obliged to witness his brother and father on their usual exploits.
“How many servants are employed at the estate, my lord?”
“I’m not sure . . . I know that there were fewer when I returned seven weeks ago than had been here last year.”
“Anyone in particular?”
Christopher tried to keep his temper in check. The Abbess was intent on an answer, but it was obvious she had obtained some information against him that was plainly untrue. Only by proving her truthful answers could he alleviate her hostility.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not at home often enough to be current on the staff.”
“Isn’t it true that one of the parlour maids was turned out?”
“I’ve no idea,’ he replied. “Alistair would know. He’s our butler—”
“I am aware of your staff, my lord. I seem to be more aware of your staff than you are.”
“See here, Reverend Mother, you surely can’t fault Christopher for not knowing the servants when he’s barely spent any time in England over the past ten years.”
“I can fault him when he seems not to remember the parlour maid who is carrying his child,” the Abbess replied.
She did not speak emotionally or dramatically but her words struck the two men as if she’d exhorted them on a Drury Lane stage.
Christopher recovered first. “I demand to know—”
“You will demand nothing, Lord Davenport. When you were here in October last, you made advances to the parlour maid, Betsy Parkins; she is now with child, which is expected to be born any time now. You will not marry my niece, my lord. You will wait in the annex while I compose a letter to Beatrice to explain.”
“Reverend Mother, I have a letter from Beatrice,” Everard said, producing the missive.
The Abbess took it. “My niece is young, and inexperienced. I will not allow her to be abused by a man of low character. Wait in the annex, gentlemen. Our business is to be shortly concluded.”
CHAPTER 7
The carriage was silent for most of the return ride back to London. Christopher had planned to stop at the estate before returning to London but he had no heart for it and agreed with Everard that it was best to return immediately to London.
“Everard, upon my word of honour, I never—” he said as they drew nearer to London.
‘No need to say anything,” Everard replied. “I know you’re innocent. But someone is maligning your name.”
“Who on earth would do such a thing? I don’t know the parlormaids; Alistair takes care of all that in the country, and Mrs. Keller in London. Not that we have much staff left. They might have been turned out, but it was for lack of wages, not because I’d forced myself on a parlormaid and fathered a child. That’s a grotesque breach of conduct. I would never do such a thing.
“I believe you. But will Beatrice?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it, if she believes me or not? The Abbess will not give her consent for us to wed.”
“It matters a great deal whether Beatrice believes you, Chris,” Everard argued. “If you can make your case to her, she may be able to persuade her aunt that the information she received is incorrect.”
Christopher felt a faint tremor of hope.
“Come ‘round to the house,” Everard urged. “We’ll talk to her and explain. She’s an innocent girl but she’s no fool.”
But when they entered the Lancaster home and were met by Beatrice at the door, she took one look at their grim expressions and her brown eyes showed alarm.
“What’s the matter? Did my aunt disapprove of your suit?”
“Come into the library, Beatrice. Where is Margaret?”
When all four were assembled in the library, Everard began to speak. He told Beatrice, mincing no words, what her aunt had said about Christopher’ request to court her, and he told her why.
“But I don’t understand—” Beatrice stumbled over her words, her brown eyes luminous with tears as she raised her face to Christopher, who was seated across from her on one of the stuffed chairs that at another time would have felt comfortable. “A baby—”
“Someone has claimed that Lord Davenport is the father of the baby,” Everard corrected.
Margaret’s tone, when she spoke, was matter-of-fact. “How can you prove that you are not, my lord?” she asked the silent Earl.
“I—I can’t,” he admitted, as Beatrice choked on a sob. “I was home in October on leave, I was at the estate, but I didn’t pay attention to which maid was present. I took walks, I rode, and I visited the tenants to see how their harvest had gone.”
“Why didn’t you stay at the house when you returned this year?”
How could he explain that it was too painful to be in the house which his father, who had just died, had allowed to fall into ruin? He had stayed at the tavern overnight, stopped briefly at the estate to speak to Alistair, but he was unaware of the depths of the estate’s staffing and financial woes. “I just . . . I needed to get to London,” he said evasively. “I needed to speak with the solicitors.”
“It rather looks,” Margaret said coolly, “as if you might have felt guilty and that’s why you avoided the estate. I don’t claim that’s the truth,” she cautioned as he reacted to her words “but it’s what people may think. Especially if they’re already convinced that you’re guilty.”
“Your aunt sent a letter for you,” Everard said, handing it to Beatrice.
Beatrice took the letter with trepidation. “I don’t want to read it,” she cried. “I don’t want to hear what she has to say.”
“Beatrice, please,” Christopher said, crossing over to sit next to her on the couch. She was just as pretty in her everyday garb as she had been last night and he felt a tenderness for her that he had never felt for any woman. He took her hands in his. “Please believe me,” he pleaded.
“It doesn’t matter—“
There was a knock at the door and the butler entered. “Pardon, sir, but there’s a visitor—”
Jasper ran past the butler into the room, out of breath, his hair dishevelled. “Chris, you’ve got to return to the estate,” he said, panting as he delivered his message. “Word just arrived from Alistair; your baby has been left at the estate, and —”
Beatrice emitted a low moan and began to sob in great, heaving breaths. Margaret went over to her to offer comfort; her assessing glance at Lord Davenport as she passed, was not hospitable.
“I don’t have a baby!” the Earl yelled.
“Alistair says you do,” Jasper replied, faint traces of insolence underlying his serious tone. “He says will you please come right away; he doesn’t kn
ow what to do.”
Christopher looked helplessly at Beatrice, sobbing in Margaret’s arms. He turned to Everard. “Go and take one of my horses,” Everard said. “You’ll get there faster. Send word when you can. I’ll join you as soon as I can take care of matters here.”
“Thank you, Everard.”
Christopher left the library. As he did, he saw Jasper approach Beatrice. What he said, Christopher couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it didn’t ease Beatrice’s tears.
It was late afternoon when Everard’s business was concluded and he was ready to ride in the carriage to the village, Beatrice insisted on going with him. “I’m returning to the Abbey,” she said. “I’ve packed my belongings. I was wrong to think that I could live outside the safe walls of the Abbey.”
“Beatrice, darling,” Margaret replied, “You mustn’t judge the world by what’s happened today.”
“You mustn’t judge it at all,” Everard said forcefully.
”Something’s amiss here and I intend to find out what it is.” He kissed Margaret. “I wish you were coming with us.”
“You have Lily,” Margaret said, trying to smile. “She is a more than adequate doyenne.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Beatrice, resolute, was already in the carriage. Jasper Davenport had stopped by to see her, and he was talking to her as she sat in the carriage. ‘I suppose that one is sniffing around the heiress now,” Everard said angrily. “As if he’s a paragon.”
“It may be a matter of degree, if Christopher has fathered an illegitimate child.”
“He hasn’t. You know he hasn’t.”
“My love, we don’t know anything until someone proves it.” She kissed her husband tenderly. “It’s up to you to figure this out. But keep your eye on Jasper. He’s up to something, I’ll be bound.”
Everard strode purposefully to the carriage.
“I’m planning to return to the estate,” Jasper said as Everard entered the carriage. “I want to be of help at this time.”
