“Of course I gave it to her,” snapped Mrs Whiting, defending herself with vigour. “She was half asleep by the time I took her to her chamber.”
“Then she ought to be sleeping still.”
“What did you want me to do, give her enough to send her into oblivion like the master?”
The companion lifted a hand and dealt the woman a violent blow across the face. Mrs Whiting cried out, backing off and throwing a hand to her cheek. Mrs Delabole uttered an outraged gasp and started forward, as did Ottilia, but both were forestalled by Hemp, who strode up to the companion and shifted her bodily away from the target.
“That is enough, madame. You know well Miss Tam can get out if she wants.”
“Not from the attic, she can’t.”
Hemp was not deterred by the irritation in the woman’s voice. “She cannot be left all night in the attic, madame. I will not allow such cruelty.”
“You will not allow? Who made you master here?”
“I am master of what happens to Miss Tam, madame. You know well she is left in my care. It is a sacred trust. I made a promise to my master.”
Hemp did not raise his voice, but the determination was steel strong.
Miss Ingleby tossed her head. “Your promise! I can’t think what Mr Matt was about to entrust the girl to a slave.”
“Entrust the girl to a slave?” came an echo from Mrs Delabole, her eyes round.
Hemp’s tone became charged with fury. “I am no slave, madame. I am a free man. I am here by my own will. None but Miss Tam has a claim on me.”
“Hemp!” The warning came from Cuffy, interposing his bulk between the companion and his fellow. “You keep your temper, boy. More important we find Miss Tam now.”
The young footman was breathing heavily, his gaze fixed on Miss Ingleby. Ottilia watched with interest as he visibly reined himself in, the fire dying out of his eyes. He turned to his colleague.
“Mister Simeon?”
Cuffy shook a grizzled head. “He is not here. He took his carriage.”
Hemp came swiftly alert. “The curricle?”
“Maybe he took Miss Tam for drive?”
Miss Ingleby re-entered the lists, turning on the hapless housekeeper once more. “There! That is where your inefficiency has led us. Taken her for a drive? I wish it may be so innocent. That fiend means mischief, I’ll be bound.”
The unfortunate Mrs Delabole’s voice cut in, high and quavering. “What sort of mischief?”
Miss Ingleby turned on her, her tone vicious. “With Simeon Roy, you may be sure it is the worst possible mischief.”
Ottilia was attacked with a rise of sympathy for Tamasine’s aunt. She looked both confused and distraught, and no wonder. She put up her fingers to her cheeks, her tone one of complaint.
“I don’t understand any of this. Is he not fond of his cousin?”
“Too fond, that’s the trouble,” snapped the companion. “At least, he pretends to be. You don’t know the worst of that creature, ma’am. If you did —”
The front doorbell clanged.
Mrs Delabole threw up her hands. “Is this him now perhaps? Oh, dear, I wish I had not come.”
No one moved for an instant, every pair of eyes turning to the door. The bell clanged again.
“Is no one going to answer it?” Francis demanded in an exasperated tone.
For the first time, Ottilia noticed her brother, who crossed to the front door as the bell sounded once more. As he threw the door open, two figures appeared in the aperture, all too well known to Ottilia. She made for the door but Patrick got in first.
“Boys? Good grief, what have you done now?”
“Not us, Papa! It’s them!”
This was Tom, but the elder of her nephews pushed past his father and plunged into the mêlée in the hall, closely followed by his brother. Both were red in the face and panting. Ben sought Ottilia’s gaze.
“We came for Auntilla!”
“We ran all the way!” gasped Tom.
“From the Dower House?”
“No, Auntilla. The church … in the village.”
“He’s got her! The fellow she likes!” Ben managed.
Silence swept through the hall as the implication hit. Ottilia broke it. “Are you talking of Tamasine?”
“The madwoman, yes. He’s got her!”
“Simeon Roy?”
Patrick came from behind and seized his elder son by the shoulder. “Ben, talk sense. What’s the fellow doing with Tamasine?”
The boy gulped in a steadying breath. “We heard the man say he’s got a licence,” he produced. “They’re going to be married.”
Chapter 15
By the time Francis fetched up at the village church, the ceremony was already under way. Putting a finger to his lips, he stole quietly into the dark interior, Patrick at his heels. Miss Ingleby had wanted the footmen to go, but he had scotched that plan at birth.
“Let us waste no time in argument. Hemp and Cuffy are worthy fellows enough, but you will scarcely deny that my presence on the scene is likely to have more impact with the parson.”
“Then they will go with you.”
“The fewer the better, and the less noise made abroad.”
“Let Lord Francis go, Miss Ingleby,” said Mrs Delabole, taking a hand. “The clergyman will pay no heed to footmen.”
The companion had remained dissatisfied. “But neither of them know how to control Tamasine. If she should fly into one of her tantrums…”
At which, Patrick had intervened. “I am a doctor, ma’am. I will do whatever may be found necessary.”
Wasting no further words, Francis chose expedience and left the house, followed by his brother-in-law. They made all speed towards the church on foot. There was little to be gained by wasting time on a return to the Dower House to commandeer one of the carriages and order the horses to be put to.
The rector, an elderly man well known to Francis from his childhood, was enunciating in his feathery voice the opening sequences of the marriage ceremony. In the dimness of the interior, Francis could make out three figures standing at the altar before the cleric. The identities of the two men could not be determined in the shadows enveloping them, but the female’s cloak glinted red in a shaft of light from one of the narrow windows to one side.
A vivid image of Tamasine upon the day she had first burst into their lives came into Francis’s mind. The spangled gown, covered by a billowing red cloak.
“It is she,” he murmured. “The deed is not yet done, thank the Lord.”
He would have started forward, but Patrick stayed him. “Wait for the impediment bit.”
In his heightened state of anxiety, it seemed to Francis to take forever for the parson to reach the relevant point, although it must have been barely moments.
“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Taking a breath, Francis strode towards the altar, raising his voice. “The marriage cannot go forward.”
The two men jerked about. As Francis neared, he saw the second was the Willow Court butler. So he had indeed colluded in the young man’s plots. Tillie was right. There could be no doubt of the fellow Roy’s identity, though Francis had not previously met him.
The man flung himself towards the intruders, throwing out an accusing finger. “Who the devil are you to interfere? What do you mean by it?”
“I am Lord Francis Fanshawe, and my purpose is to stop this farce before it goes any further.”
He cast a glance as he spoke at Tamasine, who had turned to watch. She was, for a wonder, smiling her beatific smile and she let out a high-pitched laugh.
“Simeon is going to marry me.”
Francis knew better than to argue with the wench. He concentrated on Roy, but was forestalled by Lomax.
“This is intolerable! Even here you dare to stick your nose into what does not concern you?”
R
oy turned to him. “You know this man?”
“It is Lady Francis’s husband, and a worse busybody you could never meet.”
Francis exploded. “Your insolence is only equalled by your temerity, Lomax. You had best consider your position in this, since you have chosen to aid and abet Roy in his wrongdoing.”
“Wrongdoing?” Simeon Roy dove a hand into his pocket and brought it out, flourishing a leaf of paper. “I have the necessary licence. If Mr Dewberry here is satisfied, what have you to say in the matter?”
“I have this to say. You do not have the permission of the lady’s guardians.”
Roy uttered a scornful laugh. “Tamasine is of age. She is free to choose whom she would marry. It happens that she prefers me.”
“Except that she is already betrothed to my nephew,” countered Francis with relish.
He had not intended to bring Giles into it, but if that was what it took to do what his wife had enjoined him to do, then so be it. Before he had offered his services — or rather, imposed them on the assembled company, he reflected ruefully — Tillie had grasped his arm and whispered a frantic message in his ear.
“Fan, please go yourself. You must stop this! I cannot think Tamasine’s life is worth a penny if that fellow manages to make her his wife.”
The announcement had an immediate effect on the Reverend Mr Dewberry, who had been gazing stupefied upon the scene. He at once entered the fray. “My lord, do you tell me there is a prior engagement?”
“Indeed I do, Mr Dewberry, though it has not been publicly announced. But I am assured that Mr Roy knew of it.”
Simeon Roy at once began upon a protest. “Nothing of the kind, sir. That betrothal was dissolved only the other day, by Lord Bennifield’s grandmother herself.”
“Lady Polbrook? Are you certain, sir?”
The fellow Roy continued to argue his case with the cleric, and Francis found his brother-in-law at his elbow.
“Lomax has made himself scarce.” Francis glanced about the church. There was no sign of the butler. Had his words borne fruit? He could well believe the fellow would never endanger his own interests in support of the man Roy. “Draw off the boy, Fan, and I’ll put the rector in possession of the facts.”
Francis thanked Patrick in a low tone, and went instead to the girl’s side. Best not to enjoin her to come away. Subterfuge was more likely to work, and no doubt distract Roy from his argument with the parson.
“Tamasine, do you not wish to marry Giles?”
Her eyes were feverish with excitement, and laughter trilled out of her. “Of course, silly. But first I am going to marry Simeon.”
Francis thought fast. Recalling how his wife was apt to deal with the girl, he kept his tone mild. “Ah, but I’m afraid you can’t marry both. The law does not allow it, you know. You must choose.”
His voice must have carried for Roy turned sharply from his conference with the rector. Leaving the fellow without ceremony, he pounced.
“What are you telling her? Tam, my pet, don’t you listen to him.”
Francis ignored him, concentrating on the girl. Devoutly hoping that any falsehoods in the house of God might be forgiven, since his purpose was sufficient, Francis infused his voice with regret.
“Giles will be most unhappy.”
“Be quiet! Enough of your lies, sir!” This from Simeon Roy in a savage under-voice. And to the girl in a tone of unctuous flattery, “Tam, you love me best, don’t you? You are my little china doll.”
Tamasine gave a delighted squeal. “Yes, I am, I am!”
“Giles is waiting for you,” Francis said, with difficulty suppressing a spurt of anger. How dared the boy work upon the child’s mind in this unscrupulous fashion?
“Giles, Giles, Giles,” sang Tamasine, clapping her hands. “He wants to kiss me.”
“Of course he does. Come with me, and I will take you to him.”
Roy threw an arm around Tamasine’s shoulder, holding her fast to his side. His tone became brittle. “You are staying with me. You are my little sweetheart, my little darling, my little pet. Are you not, my lovely?”
Tamasine beamed up at him. “Yes, and Lavinia won’t let me marry you because she wants you for herself.”
“Exactly so, my sweet. And therefore we have made our plans in secret and we are going to be married this moment.”
“Oh, no, you are not,” Francis murmured in a voice only loud enough for Roy to hear. “I’m afraid the cleric will no longer be persuaded to perform the ceremony.”
Simeon Roy’s confounded look was almost ludicrous. Releasing the girl, he turned quickly, hissing in a breath as he saw Patrick had drawn the rector some feet away towards the entrance to the vestry. He swung back on Francis, his handsome visage contorted with a snarl.
“Damn you both! Don’t think I’m beaten. There are more ways to skin a cat.”
Triumph rose up in Francis. “But not for you, I think, Mr Roy. You’ve lost this round.” With an oath, the man lifted his balled fists, the threat implicit in his eyes. Francis adopted the soft tone of command that had served him so well in his soldiering days. “Don’t even think of it. Your henchman has gone, and we are two. You will get the worst of it, my friend.”
For a moment, the issue hung in the balance, and Francis braced himself to withstand an attack. Then Simeon Roy let his breath go and sank back. His tone turned as smooth as oil, his voice a drawl that Francis surmised was habitual, a deliberate pose of nonchalance.
“Well, I have no mind for a bloodied nose. I retire from the lists for the nonce, defeated.” He gave his arm to Tamasine, who was watching the give and take of words with no diminution in her gleeful expression. She was evidently thoroughly enjoying the contretemps. “Come, my pet. It seems we are doomed to save our nuptials for another day.”
The rector’s fluttery tones came from behind him. “Sir, I must beg you not to repeat this endeavour elsewhere.”
Roy turned on him. “I fail to see how it concerns you, sir.”
“It concerns me, sir,” said Dewberry, his tone grave, “because you have attempted to perpetrate a fraud upon the blessed sanctity of matrimony.”
“As I told you, sir, it is untrue. Lord Bennifield’s betrothal does not stand.”
“That, sir, is immaterial. Even had that weighed with me, I should certainly not perform the ceremony without first consulting with Lady Polbrook. Also, I might add, Mrs Delabole, whom I understand to be this lady’s guardian since the demise of — er — well, since her former guardian’s demise.”
The curling lip that characterised Roy’s smile appeared. “Oh, Ruth will put no bar in my way, I am persuaded.”
“That, sir, remains to be seen.” The cleric lowered his voice, clearly attempting to escape Tamasine’s wide-eyed gaze which went from him to Simeon as if she followed the conversation, which Francis was persuaded could not be the case. “You are in God’s house, Mr Roy. Dare you seriously expect me to marry you to a lady who clearly has little or no understanding of the vows she is expected to make?”
Simeon Roy cast a fulminating glance at Patrick’s impassive countenance. “So that is your game, Doctor Hathaway? Below the belt, sir, very much below the belt.” Turning his back on the cleric, he smiled down into the girl’s face. “Come, my pet. We shall go home and confound Lavinia. She will be very angry with us, and that will afford us a deal of amusement.”
Tamasine’s squealing laughter painfully smote Francis’s ears, and he hung back to wait for Patrick, who was bidding the rector farewell. Francis added his thanks to the man, with an apology for putting him to such trouble.
“Indeed, my lord, you have earned my gratitude. I am thankful to have been spared the ignominy of being the cause of that poor creature’s future unhappiness, if the gentleman in the case is truly only concerned with her fortune, as the doctor here informs me. I had heard rumours, of course. It is sad to understand them to be true.”
Francis replied suitably and made good his escape. “We
must hurry, Patrick. There is no saying but that Roy may not try another throw if we are not close behind him.”
“He’s rogue enough, I grant you.”
“Yes, but I can’t help but admire his insouciance,” Francis admitted. “He seems to have boldness enough for any fate.”
With what patience she could muster, Ottilia was engaged in attempting to calm Mrs Delabole’s multiple distresses. The woman was clearly out of her depth, saying over and over that she could not undertake to care for ‘that creature’, as she referred to Tamasine, and expressing the forlorn wish that Ottilia had not sent her spouse and brother to interfere.
“You cannot wish your niece to be placed under the care of a man who is clearly bent upon using her for his own ends.”
Mrs Delabole struck her hands together. “But you don’t know that. Perhaps he is genuinely fond of the girl.”
“He may well be, though I take leave to doubt it since he is perfectly aware of the ramifications of her condition.”
“Yes, but if she remains single, what is to be done with her? I don’t want to be saddled with her, Lady Francis, though I am of course sorry for the wench. I don’t mean to be unkind, but —”
“I am sure you don’t, ma’am, and no one could accuse you of it. It must be hard indeed to be thrust into this situation.”
“Well, it is,” insisted the matron, almost tearfully. “I have a numerous family of my own, you must know, and it is difficult enough to manage my own children. Really, my brother should have made better provision. I cannot think what he was about, arranging for her to be sent over here. He ought to have kept her in the West Indies where she might be safely watched, instead of unleashing her upon an unsuspecting public.”
“That, I fear, is past praying for, ma’am.”
“True.” Mrs Delabole sighed, her features crumpling. “She is quite deranged, you know. My brother made no secret of it to me. Indeed, I believe he found relief in writing of it without restraint. He knew I should make no undue judgement.”
Ottilia’s ears pricked up. “I should be most interested to hear what he told you, Mrs Delabole, if you don’t object to speaking of it.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 97
