Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place)

by Claudia Harbaugh

  “Tea is welcome. Thank you.” Isobel watched Lady Warwick pour the brew in silence. Finally, she could not restrain herself from asking a question that had been niggling at her. “How is it, Lady Warwick, that you speak such flawless English?”

  “Oh, but it is not flawless. I still retain an accent. I doubt that I shall ever rid myself of it.”

  “But it is charming! I hope you never even contemplate ridding yourself of it,” declared Isobel quite truthfully.

  Lady Warwick smiled graciously. “It was Reginald’s doing. Almost every night we would practice. He wanted me to feel at home in England and eventually take my place as his duchess.” Seeing Isobel’s disapproving expression, Lady Warwick continued. “He did not force me to do it; it was for my own well-being. I was very nervous about fitting in and he made a game of it for me. I learned English, all the while laughing.”

  Isobel was silent as she tried to imagine the Reginald she knew making a game of anything. She failed and the silence stretched out as the two women sipped their tea. Finally Lady Warwick spoke.

  “I want to tell you the full story of what happened. How this all came about. Will you listen?” Isobel nodded and Lady Warwick began to speak. Isobel remained silent, allowing Lady Warwick to relate her long and tragic tale.

  “As you know, Reginald was wounded at the battle of Talavera. His wound was not grievous, but he had lost consciousness from a blow to the head. His living body had been partially obscured by the corpse of one of his comrade in arms for close to a day, most of that time he had thankfully, been unconscious. He had regained consciousness near dawn and lay pinned beneath the dead soldier, crying out in a feeble voice. My brother and I were searching for my fiancé who had fought along with the British the day before. Instead, we found Reginald. We managed to get him back to our home some miles away in the wagon we had brought. My brother returned to search for my fiancé.

  “That night the fever came and I did my best to care for him. After two days, the fever broke and his condition improved. A few days later, I learned of my fiancé’s death. One week later, my brother went out on a guerilla raid and never returned. I was devastated and fell into a decline. By that time Reginald was well enough to become the caregiver and did his best to comfort me.

  “Reginald and I were thrown together by God or fate, whatever you care to believe, but what began as mutual need gradually turned to love. All of my family was gone, lost to the monster Napoleon. So, Reginald brought me with him when he returned to his regiment and we were married soon after. His wound was not healing properly, however, and he was sent home to England. He brought me with him, anxious to introduce me to my new family, since mine was gone.

  He had warned me that his father would not be pleased initially, but nothing prepared me for the vehement display of anger that Lord Warwick exhibited upon my introduction to him. He had been in his cups, as I gather he often was, but Reginald was so happy, so hopeful. My heart soared that day to see Reginald’s pride as he introduced me. But his father was incensed that his son and heir brought home a foreigner and a papist! His face suffused with rage as he looked at me, but I stood my ground, though my heart was pounding and my legs barely held me up. He came close to striking me; in fact I am convinced he would have, but Reginald stepped in front of me and tried to reason with his father. That horrid man called me so many hateful names; I cannot bear to repeat them. At that time, I did not know the meaning of most of them. But for Reginald he saved the worst. He threatened disinheritance, but Reginald explained to me later that his father could not carry out the threat due to the entail. Knowing the futility of the earlier threat, he declared that he would kill Reginald with his own bare hands. They began to argue violently. I begged them to stop. Reginald finally realized that nothing was being served by this continued dispute and he told his father that he would not see him until he repented of his numerous offenses to me. Reginald took me to Hidenwood, which was left him by his mother’s uncle and we lived there happily for a solitary month. I love Hidenwood. It is my favorite place on earth.” Lady Warwick’s dark troubled eyes became wistful as she thought of this idyllic time with her husband. She paused but a moment, then continued.

  “Reginald received a message from his father that he wished to see him. I begged to go with him, for I truly feared for his life. He allowed me to go, for he did want to leave me alone at Hidenwood. He bade me to stay at the Black Horse Inn in Warwick while he went alone to Warwick Park. Reginald had assured me that his father would repent and express his regrets. Nothing could be farther from the truth. From what I learned later, he was well and truly drunk and meaner than a badger. He informed his son that either Reginald get an annulment, or he would have me killed. Can you imagine? Reginald was convinced that he would do it. Much to my shock, Reginald admitted that his father had murdered before, once by his own hands, a few others he had commissioned, but from all of them he walked away with impunity. Though he had known this, he had never feared his father. Until that day. Hearing his words, seeing his face, Reginald was certain his father would not hesitate to carry out this heinous deed and that this was no idle threat. Fruitlessly he tried to reason with him, to no avail. He promised to have our marriage annulled in order to keep me safe.

  “Lord Warwick, of course, would not take our word, but demanded to see the legal document. It took some time to achieve the annulment; all the while he had his henchman keeping an eye on us at Hidenwood. But after five months of Reginald exerting his influence and in the end resorting bribery, it was done. Reginald and I traveled once again to Warwickshire. He showed his father the document and told him he never wanted to see him again. His father laughed and said his whore was safe, that he did not care what Reginald did with me now as long as he was discreet. But he was not finished. He demanded that Reginald attend the coming season of 1811 and find a wife. An English wife, he was quick to add and that he would need to approve the match before Reginald made another disastrous marriage. Reginald attempted to refuse, but his father warned him that he had better reconsider, for he did not want anything to happen to his Spanish slut, did he? Reginald told me he almost killed him then. I feel he would have been justified, but he could not and I am proud that he did not, for he proved himself to be nothing like his father.

  “We travelled back to Hidenwood. Reginald was full of remorse, apologizing over and over again for putting me through such a dreadful ordeal. I told him not to worry, that all would be well. I thought perhaps if we just stalled a bit, the old man would die. He was obviously not well. How much longer could he live? I assured him, however, that barring that, I would live with him in sin, if need be, at least until the old horror was cold in his grave. We could marry then. He grudgingly agreed, but was heavy at heart.

  “A month later I realized I was with child. Both Reginald and I were exultant and in despair all at once. Reginald was determined that this child would not be a bastard! He resolved then and there to marry me again. And so we did. Reginald obtained a special license and we were married in Derbyshire in July of ’10 with no one the wiser. Eight months of sheer happiness followed, culminating in the birth of our son Reggie. Just a month after his birth, Reginald was forced to go to London for the season. I need not relate to you all that occurred there, for much of it you know better than I, for you were there. What you do not know is that Miss Laura Downing and Reginald had become friends and had confided in each other. With my knowledge, they were to become engaged and then concoct one reason or another to delay the actual wedding. She was in love with another as well, but they were not allowed to marry. Then Reginald wrote to me that Miss Downing had been compromised and was forced to marry Lord Tyndale. Reginald did not realize until later that this was your doing, that in order for you to be able to trap him into marriage you needed to get Miss Downing out of the way. He was very angry with you, Miss Kennilworth. I felt sorry for you.” Again Lady Warwick paused, taking a short respite from her lengthy narrative. Isobel was silent. A new w
ave of guilt and self-loathing surged within her and she could barely breath, let alone speak. Lady Warwick saw Isobel’s discomfort and continued to bring an end to the tale and to Isobel’s distress.

  “But to continue, Reginald’s father was beside himself with glee when he received word of your forced engagement. He was quite sick then and we had hoped to be able to postpone the wedding, hoping he would die and Reginald could cry off. But the threats began anew. I began to notice strange men lurking in the village, trespassing on Hidenwood lands. Reginald quickly sent for me and Reggie and set us up at Woburn Place to have us near him. The old Duke put increasing pressure on Reginald to wed you with haste. He continued to put him off. Three days after a particularly nasty altercation, Reggie and I were almost killed in front of our home by a runaway cart. As much as it pained Reginald, he gave in to his father’s demands and married you. He could not risk our lives.

  “And the rest you know. You married, and since I was with him almost every night of the next six years, I assume you saw very little of him.”

  Isobel was spurred to speak for the first time in this heartbreaking story. “We did not…he never…”

  “I know, Miss Kennilworth; he swore he had always been faithful to me and I believed him. There is just a little more to tell.

  “After his father’s death – how the old devil lived 4 years more is a mystery – Reginald was prepared to confess all and take the censure, so that we could live openly as man and wife. He consulted with Mr. Pickens and discovered the seriousness of a bigamy charge. He knew that he would not serve a sentence or be deported due to his station, but to save us embarrassment, he put it off, hoping to find another solution. I assured him, truthfully, that I was quite happy where I was. But then I was again with child and had a difficult pregnancy. At last, I gave birth to our daughter Rose.” Lady Warwick’s calm, even narrative subtly changed. Her voice was thick with emotion and she fought the tears that pooled in her large, dark eyes. Her words remained matter of fact, but her pain was palpable. “But the child was not well and died only days after she was born. I was grief stricken and became very ill. It was a very difficult time. And so for me he waited, not wishing to add to my grief. Finally, my grief abated, though it will never go away, but I was better and Reginald again began to steel himself to confess all. And then he was struck down with the wasting disease and I refused to let him be subjected to such an ordeal when he was so sick. While he lay dying, he told me that his only regret in this entire sordid affair was that he had not come forward sooner and recognized the wife and child of his heart during his lifetime, that he would not live to see me a duchess. And so he died in my arms.”

  Lady Warwick had struggled through the last part of the story, barely able to finish. By the final sentence the tears claimed her, but she did not weep aloud. Isobel sat stunned, shattered by what her ambitions had cost this young woman. She thought of Reginald and how he had hated her and finally understood. Her tears flowed freely as well. After a short span of silence, Lady Warwick stood and faced Isobel.

  “Thank you for listening. I felt you should know. Lord Charles is quite safe here and will be well taken care of. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest. It has been a difficult day.”

  Isobel searched her heart and mind for words to say to this woman whose life she had ruined. In the end she could only say, “I am so sorry.”

  “You need not be, Miss Kennilworth, it is all in the past. Dios knows these things,” she said, for the first time using a Spanish word.

  “But I ruined your life!” Isobel protested, her guilt consuming her.

  “Ruined my life? No. I have had a wonderful life. We had our sorrows, yes, but we had each other. I am grateful that I knew love even for such a short time. I fear, Miss Kennilworth that it is your life that has been damaged, and for that I am truly sorry.”

  Isobel stared at her, unbelieving. She was sick with grief and disgust at her own depravity. Lady Warwick pulled the bell cord and within moments Sloane appeared.

  “You are welcome to come and see Lord Charles whenever you wish. I must go see Reggie and read him his bedtime stories. It is very late. Thank you again for listening. Goodnight.” Lady Warwick inclined her head and left the room.

  “Goodnight.” Isobel’s voice was barely discernible as she bid farewell to Lady Warwick’s retreating back.

  Sloane escorted Isobel to the door and the footman, James, handed her into the Warwick carriage. Night had descended on the city while she had been at Wren House. Isobel looked out of the carriage window and regarded the noble houses of Mayfair in the eerie light of the gaslight lamps that dotted the streets. Soon, they were in Bloomsbury. The houses became a bit smaller, and not quite so elaborate, but they retained certain elegance and style. And there was one more distinction that Bloomsbury boasted. It was home.

  Chapter 14

  Isobel did not leave her room for three days and allowed no one to enter, save Manning. Lady Whitcomb was persistent in her efforts to see her niece, but she was unsuccessful. Lady Joanna and Miss Parrish came to call on two occasions, but had to be content with Lady Whitcomb’s company. While they enjoyed a lively conversation, concern for Isobel cast a pall on the otherwise enjoyable visits. Even poor Bella had been forsaken and pined away in her stall in the mews.

  Isobel was restless cooped up in her bedchamber, but she could not face anyone. She tried to read, but could not concentrate and so she slept a great deal, and cried. She had not cried so much in her entire lifetime as she had done over the past few weeks.

  On the fourth day Isobel heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Her curiosity piqued, she crawled out of bed and walked to her door, opening it a crack. She listened closely and heard her Aunt Maude laugh and then a man’s deep chuckle followed. Saybrooke! Could it be?

  “Manning,” she asked her maid who was straightening her bedchamber. “Who is here?”

  “I don’t know, Miss,” replied Manning. “Shall I find out for you?”

  “No. Help me get dressed. Quickly.”

  Isobel rushed through her toilette and raced down the stairs in an extremely unladylike fashion. The door to the parlor was open and Isobel could hear her aunt chattering amiably. She smoothed out her unwrinkled skirt, tucked an imaginary stray curl back into her newly coiffed hair, pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some color to disguise her pallor and walked with forced serenity into the parlor.

  “Isobel!” cried Lady Whitcomb with surprise and pleasure.

  Isobel did not greet her aunt, but stood just inside the doorway, her eyes fixed on the gentleman caller. It was not Saybrooke. Seated in a Bath chair, his broken leg reclining on an overstuffed ottoman, sat Lord Charles Aiken.

  “Charles! What are you doing here?” Her surprise held no pleasure.

  “Lovely to see you, too, Isobel. When you did not come to cool my fevered brow, I decided to bring it to you,” joked Lord Charles. The joke fell flat.

  “I have been indisposed,” said Isobel with hauteur. Her disappointment began to fade only to be replaced by anger. “And while I am glad to see you are on the mend, I hardly think it wise for you to be jaunting about London making social calls.”

  Lady Whitcomb and Lord Charles exchanged a furtive glance. Lady Whitcomb opened her mouth to speak when Mrs. Riggs, Renfrew, and Griffin entered.

  “Lord Charles room is ready, Lady Whitcomb. Griffin and Renfrew will carry him to his bedchamber,” Mrs. Riggs announced.

  Lady Whitcomb watched as Isobel’s face contorted from anger to rage. Thank heaven she was too well bred to scream in front of the servants. Her voice was calm when she addressed Mrs. Riggs. “Thank you, Mrs. Riggs. Give us a moment, would you. I shall ring when Lord Charles is ready to retire.”

  Mrs. Riggs and Griffin left the room. Renfrew remained. “You, too, Renfrew. Off with you!” Renfrew bowed majestically and exited.

  “What is the meaning of this?” cried Isobel when the door had shut behind Renfrew. “Why did n
o one think to consult me on this matter? After all, it is only my house!”

  Lady Whitcomb raised her eyebrows and spoke. “I tried on a number of occasions to do just that, Isobel. You would not see me.”

  Isobel had the grace to look embarrassed. When she said nothing, Lady Whitcomb continued. “I did not find out about Charles until late the evening his…accident occurred. I was working on my article and had told Renfrew not to disturb me. The clunch took me literally and informed me only after you had already returned from Wren House. As you know, I tried to see you then, but you pled exhaustion. When you refused me again the next morning, I decided to go to Wren House and see for myself.”

  “And you took it upon yourself to invite him here?”

  “Now, Isobel, I was tossed out of my rooms at the Albany for lack of payment. Where could I go? I could hardly bunk in with Denham and Carter, as I have been doing, in this condition.” Lord Charles endeavored to look pitiful. Isobel’s features only hardened. He tried again. “I couldn’t feel comfortable staying on at Wren House under the circumstances. Not that Lady Warwick was anything but kindly. It’s just, well. Devil take it, it was humiliating!” Lord Charles proved his point by blushing.

  “It is not an easy thing to be reminded of your own wickedness by looking into the eyes of your victim on a daily basis,” agreed Isobel with a troubled look.

  “I say, Isobel, that’s doing it a bit too brown,” protested Lord Charles. “I have come to realize the foolhardiness of the scheme, but wicked? I meant no one any harm.”

  “That will not wash, Charles for I said those very words to myself six years ago. I did not take my actions then to be malicious, but I now see that they were. It is wicked to relentlessly pursue your own desires without any thought or care of how it will affect others. It is selfish and it is wicked.”

  The normally ebullient Lord Charles was curiously grave. He was pallid and looked quite pulled. But Isobel refused to feel pity for him.