It was a small leap then to the conclusion that the man would have to wait. In the hallway, the cellar locked behind him and about to call for his coach, he paused. Given the excitements of the last twelve hours, he felt a strong need for carnal gratification. The means of that, as well as the location, was not something to share with anyone, least of all a couple of gossipy coachmen.
‘Tell the grooms to get my horse ready.’
Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a heavy coat, with a muffler to protect his neck and a hat pulled low over his head, Henry Tulkington emerged from his front door to find his horse saddled and waiting. Not an eye met his, which was as it should be. Likewise, no brow was raised at his attire, excessive for a mild day, in which Upton, the head groom, was stood, and happily so, in a sleeveless smock and a leather apron.
His master, a man known to be ever careful of his well-being, was convinced every wind that blew, or drop of rain that fell, was designed to bring on to his being all manner of afflictions.
When Betsey came back to wakefulness, it was to find a fire in the grate and her aunt dozing beside it. She lay still, gazing at the silken bed canopy, as the enormity of what had happened assailed her. That quickly shifted to remedies, which led to how to conjure up the means to secure an annulment. Yet even as pressing as that seemed, her mind kept wandering to Edward Brazier. He had obviously kept his word and come for her, only to be thwarted.
It was with a sense of horror that she wondered at his reaction. Did he think her complicit? Was it that which had made him angry enough to threaten Henry with a loaded pistol? Surely not, but since she had no recollection herself, any number of disturbing notions were free to play out in her imagination and none of them brought comfort.
Slowly Betsey raised herself up and, feet on the floor, pushing upright, she tested her balance, pleased to find it restored. There were no shoes now, they had been removed, so it was with silent, stockinged feet that she crept round the bed, pleased to see her unwanted visitor and his puke had been removed.
Creeping up to the chair in which sat her aunt, she looked into a face which, in repose, showed all the lines of her age, as well as her temperament. The jaw hung slightly, which exposed both teeth and a lolling tongue. The lines on either side of her nose, as well as those running down from lower lip to jaw, seemed much more pronounced than when animated, if one excused her expression – too frequently one of disapproval.
Turning away, Betsey went to the door for, if there was to be a solution to the predicament Henry had placed her in, it would not be found in her bedchamber. She was put out to find the key missing and it could only be her Aunt Sarah who had removed it, which led to speculation as regards to motive. Henry’s sneering words, spoken in his study, came back to her, more than any the fact that the parish register he had alluded to contained Sarah Lovell’s signature as a witness. Could that really be true? Could her aunt have colluded in this farrago? Was she being confined as part of that?
‘Reluctantly’ Henry had said. What did that mean? Had she been coerced? In frustration, Betsey grabbed the door handle and tugged at it, which created just enough noise to bring Sarah Lovell out of her slumbers, she too looking confused as she came into wakefulness. Then she turned towards the door and her niece, her face carrying the same expression of sadness with which she had greeted her earlier.
‘How could you?’ Betsey said softly.
‘I tried to dissuade him, you must believe that, Elisabeth.’
‘Not hard enough,’ was bitterly delivered. ‘You could have refused to witness.’
Sarah Lovell bit her lower lip. It was obvious she was seeking words to explain and finding none, or at least not any that would serve as justification.
‘Why did you lock the door and remove the key?’
‘To keep out the servants and—’
‘Henry, or that slug I found by my bedside earlier. Perhaps it was to keep me in and supine?’
‘That is cruel, Elisabeth.’
Betsey came closer with her riposte, to stand menacingly over her aunt. ‘You have the effrontery to use such a word to me?’
‘I am on your side.’ There was a significant pause before she added. ‘As much as I can be.’
A hand came out. ‘Then oblige me with the key.’
It was produced and handed over, with an admonishment to be careful, ignored as Betsey unlocked the door, adding a parting shot. ‘What do I have to fear, Aunt Sarah, now Henry has done his worst?’
She left behind a relative unsure that her niece had spoken the truth.
CHAPTER THREE
If it was seen as eccentric behaviour to swim in the sea of a morning, indeed at any time of the day by most folk of sense, it was even more peculiar that it was done in the company of a trio of armed and tough-looking companions sporting cutlasses slung over their shoulders. There was, as well, a servant of African extraction bearing an armful of towels who waited right by the shoreline. On this morning Edward Brazier had a sore head to contend with, the result of imbibing far too much brandy, as well as what he would have found hard to admit to: a damaged heart. The shock of the water, close to ice-cold, was welcomed as a distraction from his troubled thoughts, but not for long.
In a vain attempt to keep from reflection, he put extra effort into striking out against the current, one which left a swimmer feeling a total lack of any progress when measured against any object on the shore. If he emerged bodily refreshed, it did not long extend to his reminiscences, including those more distant than the events of the previous night. His attraction to, and pursuit of, Betsey Langridge had been challenging from the very start.
Now, wrapped in towels and on his way back to Quebec House, he reprised their relationship from the very first meeting at the Governor’s Ball in Jamaica, given in honour of the King’s birthday, one it would have been impolitic to miss. A gaggle of naval inferiors had been present, with whom he could have easily conversed, as well as the soldier types, not least the governor’s aide-de-camp, a young fresh-faced fellow who had been delightfully indiscreet on the subject of inter-service rivalries.
The bulk of the guests had been civilians discussing, as always, at least in the case of the menfolk, the concerns that animated them: the price of sugar and, given they were a profligate lot when in funds, the cost of borrowing to plant a new season’s crop. He being a man of healthy appetites, and spotting a decidedly attractive female across a crowded room, had prompted questions as to her identity from the governor’s wife, the best source possible, which got him a typically sharp response.
‘You will face a challenge boarding that particular deck, Captain Brazier.’
This opinion had been presented in her habitual direct manner and to that had been added a particularly telling gleam in her eye, which hinted at something more. The leading light of local society, Kitty Clarke stood at the centre of everything, including gossip. Not much, it was said, escaped her attention in matters relating to the lives, loves and endemic indebtedness of those who lived on the island, whatever their gender.
‘I think what you allude to a trifle premature, Lady Clarke,’ had been his less than candid reply. ‘I merely wish to lay myself alongside such a charming creature and exchange pleasantries.’
By holding to the naval metaphor, the Brazier riposte had engendered a soft cackle. Kitty Clarke was direct in her opinions, not least in the matter of dalliance and its inevitable aim of conquest, which was much lauded by some and heartily disapproved of by others, to which she was said to give not a fig.
Brazier had liked her on first acquaintance for her utter lack of hypocrisy, added to which she came with something of a racy reputation. As a young woman, she had caused a huge scandal by eloping to Holland with the Earl of Pembroke, despite the fact he was already married and had sired an heir. Even more scandalously, Kitty had gone on to bear Pembroke a son, though it was a boy he acknowledged and supported, as well as one she was openly proud of.
‘A pursuit has to b
egin with a sighting, sir,’ had come with a vigorous wave of her fan. ‘And you will have observed, you are not alone in your interest. There are vultures circling.’
That had been true; in the short time since first spotting this unknown beauty, several men had managed to enter the orbit of her attention. But none, he had also noted, succeeded in staying there for long.
‘Again,’ he had insisted, ‘you’re ahead of my purpose.’
‘Stuff it, Brazier,’ was what he had got in a brisk reply. ‘You’re a man and she’s a woman, as well as a rare beauty, ripe for the plucking, I’ll hazard. What’s the point of all your enquiries, if it’s not to plan an approach and, at the back of your mind, a great deal more?’
It had been time to move matters on from something he had no desire to discuss in detail, even with someone so lacking in tact. ‘While I am forced to respect your opinion, Lady Clarke, I find, while you’ve been erroneously dissecting my purpose, you have yet to impart anything of interest about the lady.’
‘Elisabeth Langridge is her name, though she goes by the diminutive of Betsey. She’s a widow and a wealthy one to boot. If I were you, Brazier, I would set course soon, or you’ll find her prize to another.’
There being no point in seeking to deflect her low opinion of his intentions, he had listened as more was conveyed about this Betsey Langridge: how long she had been in the West Indies and the several properties she now owned. Kitty Clarke alluded to the sad fate of a husband, ill-equipped to ward off the endemic diseases of the tropics, what an attractive couple they had been, given they were of the same age and clearly much smitten with each other.
‘The death of her husband badly affected her. She’s scarce been seen these twelve months, such was her grief. This may well be the first occasion on which she has ventured to cross her threshold, and rumour has it she may be returning to England. The lady beside her is an aunt, sent to fetch her and, by all accounts, an immovable object to anyone seeking to engage in conversation.’
Informed and fascinated, Brazier then set out to manoeuvre himself into a position that made polite exchange inevitable, only to be forced to contend with the presence of said aunt. She being a woman of pinched expression and a very steely determination, to the point of being downright rude, had made normal banter impossible. Yet, brief and constrained as it had been talking to Betsey, he had sensed a spark of interest, prior to a requirement to move on. That, of course, had come with the caveat of wishful thinking.
The circles in which Edward Brazier had moved in the West Indies, if you excluded those purely to do with naval service, had been small, consisting of plantation owners, government officials and factors engaged in the sugar trade, which included the importation and auctioning of slaves, an activity of which he had heartily and vocally disapproved.
Normally he had tended to avoid too many of these gatherings at which he regularly met the same people, albeit as the second most senior naval officer on the station he was ever in receipt of an invite. Added to his other reservations had been the presence of his superior, Admiral Hassall, he a constant attendee at both these soirées and the inevitable punch bowl spiced with rum.
Since they had not seen eye to eye on certain matters, disputes that would surface when Hassall was inebriated, meeting him outside official necessity had been best avoided. The governor’s annual garden party, held in the grounds of his official residence, had demanded attendance, where it had been interesting to see how many people had avoided engaging with him.
Edward Brazier had naturally been held in some regard for his rank as a senior post captain. In terms of reputation locally, that had become somewhat muted by his activities. As the commanding officer of the 32-gun frigate, HMS Diomede, he had been assiduous, many said too much so, and that included Admiral Hassall, in pursuit of those seeking to break the embargo of the Navigation Acts.
These stated that no produce could be imported into the Crown-owned colonies that was not carried in British vessels. In essence, this meant it had to come from home ports such as Bristol. Prior to the American War, much of what was required for comfort had been brought in, albeit illegally, from their fellow colonists to the north, with a blind eye being turned to the trade by officialdom. But not any more: the newly minted United States, if not quite enemies, were nevertheless not seen by Albion as friends to indulge.
Fetching every one of the necessities for both comfort and business over three thousand miles of ocean added significantly to the cost, which was much resented by those faced with the bill. The Carolinas, North and South, upped their game now they were independent, the blind eye having not entirely gone away. If it was no longer officialdom winking, it was maintained by a planter society that had, with the Americans, a shared interest.
The task of King George’s Navy was to stop it, not that his commanding admiral rated it as a priority. This had formed the bone of contention with his superior, over which they had argued with some passion and perhaps too loudly for good sense. Brazier needed to know where, and if, he was officially supported. It had thus become politic to engage Kitty Clarke at the social events he had chosen to attend, which had nothing to do with an interest in gossip or attractive females.
It had emerged there was a plan by a group of planters and tradesfolk to sue him for their losses. Given the judges in the local courts were closer to a tolerance of their point of view than his own, it seemed possible they could well succeed, which might have seen him locked up, and worse, made personally liable for damages to cover their costs.
‘I take it Hassall is equivocating?’ Kitty Clarke had enquired, met with a flick of his eyebrows for raising the subject. Outright condemnation was unwise, even with her.
‘I’m far from sure I have his full backing.’
There had been an implied question in his response; what would keep his detractors at bay, what was the attitude of the governor and, while he baulked at the notion of asking the man himself – too direct a query might produce too definitive a negative answer – he had seen no problem in aiming a hint at his wife.
‘My husband will hold them off, Brazier.’
‘Can I be sure of that?’
Kitty Clarke had been a stunning beauty as a young woman and there was much evidence of it still. But it was not an attribute to survive any trace of exasperation. Emotion changed her countenance in a remarkable way and it had done so then; she had gone from faded attractiveness to termagant in a split second.
‘He will answer to me if he fails to do so. The King’s law must be upheld.’
‘You have no idea how reassuring I find that to be.’
Which had contained a touch of sophistry; it had been common knowledge the governor, Colonel Alured Clarke, doted on Kitty and was wont to seek her advice on matters of contention. Not that he was weak in any way; he was, after all, a much-lauded soldier as well as a royal favourite. But his position on the island rendered him isolated when it came to advice, so he was given to relying on his forthright and brutally honest wife as a sounding board.
Her attention had wandered as her angry expression relaxed, the fan waving once more, even under a parasol in place to ward off the heat. ‘Do I see a certain lady arriving, Brazier, one I recall of some interest to you?’
The pointed fan had shown Betsey Langridge descending from a covered carriage, her parasol opening at once, for the sun was strong and the normally cooling breeze slight. He had managed to talk to her on two other occasions, though it could not have been said to extend to much more than exchanged pleasantries. The presence of Sarah Lovell had posed a constant barrier to anything more, which did not apply just to him.
It had even extended to a royal prince, albeit the one in question − William − deserved every rebuff he encountered and he got a very public one from Betsey Langridge. She was far from alone: touring the Caribbean in command of his frigate, Prince William had, given his boorish behaviour, left behind a bad odour in every island he visited.
Especia
lly outré in drink, this rendered no woman safe from his outrageous sallies and salacious suggestiveness, like the pleasure and kudos to be had from bedding a blood royal. More than one husband had required to be dissuaded from calling him out, a task that often fell to Edward Brazier, and they had crossed swords in another context.
Admiral Hassall, whose responsibility it should have been, had declined to haul William up with a round turn for his want of decent manners, no doubt for fear of the latter’s father and the effect it might have on his career. Then came William’s martinet behaviour aboard ship, where he had publicly humiliated his first lieutenant, delivered in such a manner as to leave the poor fellow no choice but to demand a court martial to adjudicate on his competence, a court at which Brazier had been obliged to act as the senior adjudicator. The verdict, which he was called on to deliver, had come close to being a public rebuke to Prince William. That, troubling as it was to recall, had soon ceased to be a matter to dwell upon.
His eye and mind had turned to Betsey Langridge and to the problems posed by the continuous presence and blatant disapproval of her aunt, one he felt was not shared by her charge. Attraction is not necessarily demonstrated in words, however few, and he had seen in her expression, in particular in her eyes, that his attentions were not unwelcome. Once more thinking of how to surmount the Lovell barrier, Kitty Clarke had put her finger on the matter.
‘Time to be bold, Brazier. Rumour has it she has booked passage and will be off back to England soon. Time and tide, sir.’
Thinking on that, and stood naked in the backyard of Quebec House as Joe Lascelles doused him with warm water to wash off the salt of the sea, he recalled those words, which had led to a determination not to be deflected. He had headed straight for Betsey, ignoring the fact she was in conversation with another possible suitor, to quite rudely cut in on their conversation in a way that had forced the poor soul to retreat.
A Lawless Place Page 3
