“Unless the number is utterly exorbitant, just use your judgement. I have complete faith in your ability to not beggar me, whilst carrying out my orders.”
“It would take a better man than I to beggar you, Your Grace. Your wealth is really rather substantial.”
“Good, then let’s put some of it to use. Oh, and Burrowes, when you purchase them, please ensure that the deeds of ownership are put in Lady Pendholm’s name.”
Burrowes raised one eyebrow at the unusual request.
“Yes, Your Grace. As you wish.”
He bowed out of the room, leaving Julian staring at nothing in particular, his mind drifting. Now that was set in motion, he could think of other things. Except that his mind insisted on filling with the image of Lady Sylvia, laughing and smiling with the girls and their children. He had not looked too closely at his reasons for requesting that Burrowes purchase the other houses for her. Surely, it was just his wish to better support her charity project.
He pushed the thoughts aside. His next consideration was finding Marion. The guilt rose up again, making the bright summer day seem dark. He remembered the few times that he had seen Martin with Marion – how happy they had been together. That he should have let his daughter-in-law be lost to him for so long was unconscionable. He had asked, the day after his first visit to Ebury Street, that Burrowes engage an investigator to try to find her. The man had been totally unsuccessful. There were, it seemed, no clues at all to follow, on so long cold a trail.
Disconsolate, he turned back to the papers on his desk, hoping to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts.
As he lifted the first sheet from the desk, a knock sounded upon the front door, echoing somewhat hollowly down the corridor to his study. He wondered who it might be – he was not expecting any visitors. Footsteps echoed on the marble, and the creak of the door opening soon followed. The butler’s voice came faintly to him.
“One moment, madam, I will enquire.”
Footsteps approached the study
“Your Grace, there is a woman at the door. She has asked to see you. She appears to be of the lower classes, although neat and tidy. She is older – but I wondered if she may have heard of your association with Lady Pendholm’s project, and come to enquire?”
“Hmm, I shall come to see.”
Julian followed his butler along the hall, curiosity overriding any need for formality. Why make the poor woman wait in the parlour, when he could just come to the door?
The butler stepped to one side, indicating Julian, and bowed. To the woman, he said, “His Grace, the Duke of Windemere.”
She curtseyed, a smoothly practiced movement, which belied the poverty of her clothes. This woman had been taught by someone of the upper classes. She rose out of the curtsey, and raised her eyes to his. In a hesitant voice, she spoke.
“Your Grace… Julian…?”
Startled that she knew his forename, and felt empowered to speak it, his mind scrambled to find some connection. At first, she simply seemed faintly familiar. He looked more closely. Then, in a flash of memory, it came to him.
“Jane…?”
A bright smile lit her face, and she nodded.
“Yes, Your Grace, Jane.”
“Come in, come in. Let’s not stand here on the stoop. Bradshaw, please have Mrs Gammage send up some tea and cakes to the parlour.”
Bradshaw bowed, and departed to the kitchens, as Julian closed the door behind Jane, and led her to the parlour.
“Jane, I have not seen you since we were both little more than children – yet I still recognise you. You have not changed that much.”
“Nor have you, Julian. I feared to find some overfed and dissipated man, who little resembled my old friend – yet here you are, not so different either. Important, imposing, and looking the very picture of a Duke, but still yourself.”
They smiled, the years falling away as they felt the comfortable familiarity drop around them. Julian realised, in that moment, that he had not really, in the years since Jane had left Windemere Towers as a young woman, actually had a friend. Many acquaintances, but no true friends.
“What brings you to my door today, after all these years?”
“It is a sorry story, I am afraid, which will take some time to tell, if you have the patience to hear it.”
“By all means.”
A tap on the door heralded the entry of a maid, bearing a large tray of assorted cakes, and a very large pot of tea, with two delicate porcelain cups. She deposited it onto a table, curtseyed, eyeing Jane curiously, and left.
Jane poured the tea, and Julian simply watched her, and waited. When she was ready, she spoke again.
“After I left Windemere Towers, I came to London, to stay with my aunt. I met a man – a successful merchant and, in a relatively short time, I married him. We were, for the most part, happy.”
“And then?”
She laughed, a brittle sound.
“Then I had a child, some long years later, a daughter, who delighted me. Only ever the one child – God did not see fit to bless me with more. The years passed, and wars came and went. Peter’s business finally failed, as a consequence of the British American war – by 1813, what had been prosperous was in ruins. I did not realise how bad it was, for my mother, who had been your Nanny, and then Nanny to your sister’s children, was ill. Age was stealing her mental capacity. I went to stay with her. Whilst I was away, Peter gambled away much of what was left, and drank himself into an early grave.”
Julian passed her a plate of small cakes, and she paused to savour one, her expression suggesting that it was a long time since she had tasted such a thing.
She sighed, then forced herself to continue.
“The news reached me in Bridgemere, along with the information that my daughter was no longer living in his house, but had arrangements of her own. I sent back instructions that all of our property and belongings in London be sold, or sent to me. What money remained after all of his known debts were paid was not large, but it was enough to buy a cottage near my mother’s, and live a simple life. It helped that your sister, the Countess, sent regular charity to her, in gratitude for all those years of service.”
“By your presence here, I take it that your mother is gone, and that there is more to this story?” Julian’s voice was soft, and he watched the tumult of emotions playing across Jane’s face.
“Yes, indeed there is. It gets worse from here. You will, however, be glad to know that my mother remembered you, fondly, to the last.”
“Had I known, I would have come to see her.”
‘I was not sure that you would care. I should have realised that you would. A few years ago, not so long after my husband’s death, my daughter appeared on my doorstep one afternoon. She carried very little with her, and she was with child. She would not tell me whose child it was, or what had happened. She simply declared that ‘it didn’t matter anymore’ and refused to say anything further. I didn’t press her. I never have. I love her, and I love her child. That was enough.”
“I could not imagine you feeling any other way. You never were in any way judgemental, or nasty, Jane.” For a moment, seeing the intensity of Jane’s emotions, the almost defensive way in which she declared her love for a child which was, most likely, illegitimate, Julian was reminded of Lady Sylvia. The same magnificent refusal to be constrained by convention was present in both women.
“Then, some months ago, my mother died. In the end, it was a blessing that she went to God. Her mind wandered, and she did not know us, much of the time. But she still remembered you, she spoke to other children as if they were you, then.” Jane smiled at Julian, a soft sad smile, and his heart ached for her. “When she was gone, I wondered how we would survive, without the assistance of the charity gifts from the Countess. But we did, just. Until a few weeks ago. When a bailiff knocked on our door. He had spent the four years since Peter’s death tracking me down, with one huge final gambling debt that needed to be paid. “<
br />
She paused, shaking, her eyes glittering with the edge of tears as she recounted her tale.
“The only way that I could pay was to sell my cottage.”
“But… that left you homeless?”
“Yes, it did. With barely enough money to reach London. I have myself, my daughter, and her young child to care for, and no money, beyond the tiny pittance that I used to buy us rooms for last night, and meals for today. Julian… I have come to throw myself at your feet and beg your assistance.”
“Jane. There is no need to throw yourself at my feet! And no need to beg.”
“Anything you can do will help – I had hoped that, perhaps, you might have room in your household for two more servants. We are willing to do any work – at least any of the work that can be found in a good household.”
Julian knew what had gone unsaid – that she would not allow herself, or her daughter, to sell themselves – which was often the final choice for a desperate woman.
He respected her courage, and her honesty.
“Jane, that won’t be necessary. I believe that I have a better solution for you. After my son died, four years past, I was inconsolable, but somehow, went on. Then, when my wife died, more than a year ago now, there was nothing to force me to go about in society much. I have been rather lost, rather bored, until recently, when an accident of circumstance brought me in contact with a chance to do something good. I have become a partner in a charitable endeavour.”
Jane waited, wondering how this related to her situation, finding herself pitying him, for all his wealth – to have lost both his wife and his child! He went on, seemingly untroubled by that grief as he spoke.
“It is a project to help girls who have been abused by their employers, and cast off – them, and their children. The idea came from Lady Pendholm and Lady Farnsworth, and I have agreed to help them in this worthy cause. They have purchased some houses, all on one street, and aim to house, care for and educate the girls, and protect their children. I own one of the houses that they will use.”
Jane looked at him, confused for a moment by his words. Then he continued, and relief flooded through her.
“I can offer you rooms there, for you, your daughter, and her child. All I would ask in return is that you help to care for and educate these poor girls – for which I will pay you a wage. Would that be acceptable to you?”
“Julian… that is… beyond generous, beyond anything that I might have expected. I am in no position to refuse.”
“Then you must accept. Unfortunately, I have a meeting but a short time from now, so I cannot take you there myself. But Bradshaw will call my carriage, and the driver will take you, collecting your daughter and her child on the way.”
He went to a small desk at the side of the room, and quickly wrote a message, which he folded and addressed.
Jane watched him, still taking in the enormity of the fact that they would not end up on the streets. She had not admitted to herself, until this moment, just how deep her fear had been.
“Hand this to Perryman, the footman who will receive you at the house, and he will see to introducing you to Ladies Pendholm and Farnsworth, and to the girls who already reside in the street. I will visit you as soon as I can, but please, rest at ease, you are safe now.”
Jane took it, stammering her thanks again, and stood, shaking with relief, as the Duke spoke to Bradshaw, and the carriage was arranged. Minutes later, she was sitting in the most luxurious carriage she had ever seen (and this was an unmarked carriage, which, she assumed, was mainly for his servant’s use, on his errands!), on her way to a new chapter of her life.
~~~~~
Marion was still exhausted from travelling. Dealing with an active small child whilst crammed into a mail coach for two days, with sundry other travellers, was not a pleasant experience.
When her mother arrived at the Inn, accompanied by a footman in livery, and told her to gather up Daniel, and all of their belongings, she simply obeyed, rather dazed by it all.
The plain carriage that awaited them was luxurious inside, and far better sprung than the mail coach.
Marion gathered the wriggling Daniel into her arms, and simply collapsed onto the soft leather seat. The footman had carefully stowed their meagre possessions, and the carriage was soon moving.
“Where are we going, mother?”
“My friend has agreed to help us. He has been far more generous than I ever expected. We will have a home, and good, worthwhile work to do, for which we will be fairly paid. But hush for now, just be glad that things have worked out so well. We can talk about it all tomorrow, once we are settled in.”
Marion nodded, leaning back and idly watching, through the small window, the city go by outside the carriage. In moments, the movement of the carriage had her drifting towards sleep, as the bone deep tiredness took her again. They travelled for a short while, finally slowing in a street full of houses which looked far more respectable than Jane might have expected. Marion jerked awake as the carriage came to a halt.
The footman opened the door, and let down the steps. Jane descended, and turned back to take Daniel from Marion’s arms. Marion took the footman’s offered hand, and allowed him to assist her down from the carriage. Then, for the first time, she looked up at the house before her. Her eyes widened, and she choked back the bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to rise in her throat. Rapidly turning the strangled snort that had escaped her into a cough, she straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, following her mother.
Her thoughts tumbled. She knew this house, oh she knew this house so well! For it was her house. The house that Martin had bought, just for her. The house she had fled, four years ago, to escape those fools of young men that Martin had once called friends. If she were here, might they not find her again? The thought was chilling. Yet… why were they here, at this specific house? How had her mother’s friend come to send them here? Did he perhaps own it?
They reached the top of the steps, the footman who carried their meagre bags rapped on the door, and they waited. After a moment, the door was opened. Shock went through her, and fear. The footman who had opened the door was Perryman. Her footman. Still here. His eyes met hers.
“Lady…” Marion shook her head frantically, before he could say her name. He looked at her, concerned, but simply cleared his throat and spoke again. “Ladies? How may I assist you?”
Jane proffered the Duke’s message, and stood calmly whilst he read it. He looked up, his eyes seeking Marion’s, full of questions. She shook her head again.
“Welcome, Mrs Canfield, Miss Canfield, come this way.”
With what was, to Jane at least, startling efficiency, Perryman settled them into the parlour, arranged for the footman who had brought them to deliver their bags to an appropriate room, and had excused himself to arrange tea and cakes whilst their rooms were prepared. The tea and cakes were delivered by Abby, who had obviously been warned by Perryman, for she simply curtseyed, placed the tray on the table before them, and left. But her eyes met Marion’s and were as full of questions as Perryman’s had been.
Marion wanted to leap up and hug the girl, but restrained herself. She had never told Jane the truth of her marriage, of her flight from London after Martin’s death. This was not the time for Jane to hear it all. Especially as Marion did not know who owned the house, why exactly they were there, or exactly who Jane’s ‘childhood friend’ was. Until she had all of that information, she wanted, very much, to stay simply ‘Miss Canfield’.
Being the Countess of Scartwick would be much too difficult, and dangerous. And the only people who knew the truth of her situation were Perryman and Abby. She would have to trust them to protect her.
In a daze, she sipped tea, and ate cakes, as if this was just another ordinary day, all the while her mind was in turmoil. She hadn’t thought, when she’d fled, of what would happen to the house. Martin’s death had been too raw, too recent. All she knew was that his parents were unawa
re of their wedding, that his mother had hated her, from the first moment that she had seen her, and that his father had done nothing about that.
Would the ownership of the house have passed to the Duke? She expected so. Did he still own it? Was he, odd thought, her mother’s ‘childhood friend’? Surely not – how would her mother know a Duke?
But if the ownership of the house had passed to the Duke, after Martin’s death, then surely, he knew about Marion, knew about their marriage – for would he not have asked Perryman about it? If he had known of it these four years past, why had he not sought her out? It was all too confusing. She could not risk revealing herself, until she knew more. For, if the Duke did own the house, her situation was, perhaps, dire. His wife hated her. Would the man be kind? Or, more likely, perhaps, would she be turned out, her marriage denied?
The cakes tasted like dust in her mouth as she considered the possibilities. She had no money, nowhere else to live. She would have to simply do her best to survive, here, in this, the most dangerous place in London that she could possibly have found herself. Abby came back into the room.
“Miss – would you like me to take the young master…”
“Daniel – his name is Daniel.”
“The young master Daniel, and show him the nursery room, and the toys we have for him?”
Tears rose in Marion’s eyes. To have someone else care, to be greeted without judgement for her child, was an experience that had not been common, since his birth.
“Yes please. Daniel – would you like to go and play with some new toys? I will come and see them shortly.”
“Daniel?” Abby held out her hand. The boy looked at her, considering her. “My name is Abby, will you come and play with me?”
Daniel looked at Marion, who nodded.
He stood, and took Abby’s hand.
“What sort of toys?”
“I have wooden horses and carriages, some blocks, and all sorts of other things, you’ll see.”
Their voices receded as Abby led him from the room.
Jane looked at Marion, curious.
“I didn’t expect you to let him out of your sight so easily.”
Finding the Duke's Heir: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 7) Page 5
