By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “Then why did you make me believe that we had an understanding?”

  Darlington took her hands in his as though they were broken-winged sparrows. He withdrew his handkerchief and blotted away the blood on her palms, then kissed each one with a great degree of tenderness. “We did indeed have an understanding. The first time I wed, Miss Welles, I did so for love, and counted myself extremely fortunate and exceptionally unusual in that regard. After Marguerite’s death, I had not intended to enter the marriage mart again, as I no doubt have mentioned to you. But you so captivated me that I decided to change that decision. I had fully planned to offer for you formally when Lady Oliver made her revelation.”

  “Why did I suspect that your aunt had something to do with this?”

  Darlington seemed unwilling to accept that his aunt’s machinations had as much to do with the disposing of Miss Welles as with preserving the family estate. “Once Lady Oliver realized that I had prepared myself to remarry, she acted as she has done for the past several decades: with paramount pragmatism.”

  “How typical of your aunt,” C.J. said, smudging the tears on her cheeks. “That love should play no part.”

  “Miss Welles, you must truly know little of the English aristocracy, although you were born into it. In most unions, love is never the driving force or guiding beacon. There is something much, much stronger.”

  “Duty, yes. And have you no duty to me after . . . ?” C.J. swallowed hard. “After the time we spent together . . . and the . . . result? If not duty, what could be stronger than love—unless you refer to hate?”

  “Money.” Darlington helped C.J. to her feet. “I regret, too, that I must see you home, Miss Welles. I am sure Lady Dalrymple is anxious about your sudden departure from the Assembly Rooms and is on her way back to her town house as we speak.”

  “Take me there,” C.J. demanded.

  “Where?”

  “To Delamere. Not a few moments ago you expressed the wish to show it to me. I need to see what happens there, your lordship. How people live.”

  “Do you disbelieve me? I swear on my honor—”

  “Take me there now, your lordship. I want to see. I must content myself by witnessing with my own eyes what goes into running such an estate.”

  “I can arrange to drive you there in my carriage, if you are properly chaperoned, perhaps one day next week, Miss Welles. It is a good distance from Bath.”

  “Now.” C.J. was adamant. If she was going to lose Darlington forever and raise their child alone, then she wanted to see the reason for her fate firsthand.

  “I cannot bring you there in the middle of the night, Miss Welles, particularly in your current dishabille. You must admit, even in your present state of despair, that it would be unseemly. And, undoubtedly, your aunt is already made anxious by your absence.”

  “Yes, you’ve already said as much. Please, your lordship,” C.J. insisted, wiping away her falling tears with her filthy gloves. “If nothing else, do me this final kindness, and I will never ask anything else of you. After this night you may forget there ever was a Miss Welles in your life.”

  Darlington’s heart was breaking. He could not bring himself to cause Miss Welles any further distress this night by refusing her, and thus felt compelled to honor her uncommon request. An hour later—torn between duty and desire, and despite his better judgment—the earl commandeered his own carriage and, with C.J. still wrapped securely in his cloak, set forth on the open road for Delamere.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Containing a revelatory excursion to the English countryside, following which, our heroine is thrown to the wolves with no champion in sight.

  IT WAS STILL DARK when Darlington’s coach sped up a circular driveway and clattered to a halt in front of an imposing villa in the Florentine Palladio style. With no servant in sight, the earl handed C.J. down from the carriage. In the moonlight, she could still make out the impeccably trimmed hedges and manicured lawns that formed the immediate landscape.

  “Follow me, Miss Welles.” Darlington led the way up the gravel path to the front door and rapped sharply upon it with his walking stick.

  It was some minutes before the door was opened. The mobcapped matron who welcomed them rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Good heavens, sir, is everything all right with your lordship?” She turned around to regard the enormous grandfather clock, which struck three as she spoke. “’Tis the dead of night.”

  “My profoundest apologies, Mrs. Rivers. My . . . companion . . . wished to see Delamere and insisted that her visit could not be postponed.”

  Mrs. Rivers was either myopic or discreet, for she passed no comment on the companion’s disheveled appearance. She took a moment or two to puzzle over her employer’s remark about the urgency of his call, then a smile crinkled in the corners of her blue eyes. “Ah, then, is this to be the new ladyship?”

  Darlington and C.J. exchanged a look.

  Mrs. Rivers lowered her head and dropped a shallow curtsy. “Forgive me, your lordship, but with so little activity at Delamere nowadays, I fear the staff has little else to do but gossip.”

  “I am Cassandra Jane Welles, Mrs. Rivers.” C.J. extended her hand to the housekeeper, who, now fully awake, was studying the young woman’s strange attire, wondering why she should be swathed in the earl’s cloak. “It is my fault entirely. His lordship graciously indulged my thoughtless whim. I am sorry we have disturbed your slumber.”

  “Charming young lady, sir, if I may say so. So, she is not to be the new mistress of Delamere?”

  Darlington sighed. “Alas, no. I . . . promised . . . Miss Welles a tour of the estate,” the earl began.

  “Not without a cup of tea first,” replied the motherly housekeeper. “And you cannot come all this way from town without showing Miss Welles some of the rooms.”

  Not immune to Mrs. Rivers’s gentle powers of persuasion, Darlington agreed to escort Miss Welles on a tour of the main house. C.J. thought of Catherine Morland visiting Northanger Abbey. Carrying lit tapers, up the sweeping staircase they climbed, past full-length portraits of the former earls of Darlington and their wives—including two Gainsboroughs of Percy’s parents and a glorious Romney of Percy himself. On the second floor of the manse, Darlington opened a set of double doors onto a ballroom that rivaled the size and splendor of the one in Bath’s Upper Rooms.

  “I cannot allow as this is proof of financial ruin,” C.J. said, admiring the chandeliers of Austrian cut-crystal and the highly polished parquet.

  “The only visitors this room has seen in several years are the parlor maids,” the earl replied. “We cannot afford to entertain as we once did. The ballroom is of no more use to me now than a fallow field of wheat.”

  They returned to the top of the staircase and entered the room opposite the ballroom. Where the walls were not lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, they were hung with richly colored Gobelin tapestries.

  “Quite a library you have here, your lordship,” gasped C.J.

  “My father’s. Greek, Latin, Hebrew,” Darlington said, pointing to various Moroccan leather-bound collections. “A lot of use they were to Delamere.”

  “Why do you sneer? Surely you still value his books greatly, because you have so lovingly preserved them.”

  “They’d be best used for tinder at the moment.” The earl sighed regretfully. “My father’s cherished volumes do not put bread in the mouths of my tenants, Miss Welles. These scholarly works may be of use one day to a museum, but they avail me little at present. Come, I shall show you the . . . less glamorous aspects of my estate.”

  By the time they reached the foot of the central staircase, Mrs. Rivers had lit a cozy fire in the parlor off the grand foyer and poured two steaming cups of Earl Grey for the master and his guest, who, having thus fortified themselves, set out to view the remainder of the property.

  Once past the pristine confines of the manor house and its verdant terraced parklands, in the dim pre-dawn light the world became a mu
ddy, dreary gray. The coachman cursed while the horses balked, anxious about pulling the carriage over the rutted, slippery ground. After riding for what seemed like miles, they stopped before a large, gabled cottage.

  Darlington pointed from the coach window at the trellised ivy façade. “This is my steward’s home.”

  “Quite quaint.”

  “Mr. Belmont deserves all the charm of the English countryside that we can afford to provide. He works like the very devil to keep our heads above water. After Huggins was discharged, it took a strong leader to take the matters of the estate in hand. You will see what I mean, Miss Welles, as we drive farther along.”

  On either side of the road, C.J. noticed tremendous stretches of open fields. In the moonlight they looked like giant silver carpets.

  “You see?” Darlington remarked, gesturing at their immediate surroundings. “That one was wheat . . . and the one on the right was rye.”

  “Both fallow?” C.J. asked.

  “If the fields were fallow, they would be ploughed and harrowed and we would be able to use the soil next year. No, Miss Welles, the land you are presently looking at is barren. Not enough nutrients in the soil, Belmont tells me.”

  Soon they came upon a village of sorts, although the streets, such as they were, remained unpaved. C.J. could smell the damp thatch from the roofs of the cottages, which seemed surprisingly cramped together given the tremendous expanses of land encompassing the estate. The noise of the approaching barouche created something of a commotion. Candles, torches, and lamps were lit, and a few curious tenants ventured out of doors, buttoning and tying on their breeches over their blousy muslin nightshirts.

  Darlington gave the signal for the coach to halt. He and C.J. descended from the carriage and knocked on one of the cottage doors.

  They were greeted by a family of six: the head of the household brandishing a hunting rifle; the mistress, wailing babe in arms, realizing that it was the master who had come to call in the dead of night; and three more youngsters, all of whom seemed to be under the age of twelve. None of them smelled as though they routinely bathed. Their bare feet were callused and dirty. C.J. peered past the doorway into the cottage. In the single room on the main floor of the house, she spied a hodgepodge of hand-hewn furniture, wooden trenchers and pewter mugs left unwashed on a rough wooden table; and in the center of the floor, a homemade hobby horse and a legless rag doll took pride of place.

  “Cor, you near frightened the wits out of meself and the missus!” exclaimed the tenant farmer, who replaced his gun in a bracket above the stone mantle. He tugged on his beard.

  “My apologies for having incommoded you at this hour—”

  “Bless me, it’s not yet dawn!” the wife contributed. She turned to the mewling baby. “Hush up, now,” she cooed. “Mama will find you somefing to eat.”

  “You poor child,” said C.J. Realizing she had nothing upon her person to give the hungry babe, she reached out sympathetically to the infant, who immediately latched onto her pinky with his sticky little hand.

  “Is something the matter, your lordship?” asked the farmer, who had successfully rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “My . . . companion wished to see Delamere,” Darlington added, finally able to complete his sentence. “Once again, I apologize for the earliness of the hour, Mr. and Mrs. Midge.”

  “I am entirely to blame for the inconvenience,” C.J. added hastily, drawing Darlington’s cloak more tightly about her person. “It was my idea to come to Delamere on such ridiculously short notice. I had to see the estate for myself. His lordship is entirely irreproachable.”

  Mrs. Midge appraised C.J. “I would offer you something to eat, but we only had a bit of a light supper ourselves, and the larder is . . . uncustomarily . . . bare.” She caught her husband’s eye, and C.J. realized that Mrs. Midge was too gracious to say that the family had indeed been rationing their food.

  Midge drew the master aside. “A word in your ear, sir, if I may be so bold.” Darlington nodded his assent. C.J. strained to overhear their conversation. The farmer pointed to the leavings on his table. “It’s gotten so it’s my family or the hogs,” he said. “In a manner of speaking, sir. Belmont is a fine man, but it is going to take a good deal of work to undo so much neglect. I’ve been feeding my family the grain that should be for the chickens . . . the missus ’ere is getting to be a regular Merlin in the kitchen with what she makes fit to eat. And getting the young ’uns to swallow it, well, that’s another act of magic. Horseflesh tough as leather, bones of the hens that starve to death for soup. But she’s superstitious, my Delia is . . . won’t eat the meat of a bird what’s died of malnutrition.”

  Feeling dreadfully responsible for the situation, Darlington shook his head and explained that measures were being taken to restore Delamere to its former prosperity.

  C.J., who could not continue to feign obliviousness to the conversation, opened her reticule and handed her impoverished host the entire contents of her small leather coin purse.

  Darlington swallowed hard in an attempt to mask how touched he was by her compassion.

  “Cor! Bless your heart, miss.” As though struck with an epiphany, an effusive Mr. Midge stepped back a pace or two and regarded Darlington’s companion. “You say you are the one to blame for dragging us all out of our beds before dawn because you had to see Delamere right away?” he asked her.

  “I am afraid so, Mr. Midge,” C.J. replied, wishing there were more she could do for this man and his family—nay, all of Darlington’s tenants, were it in her power to do so.

  “Then, if I may be so bold, sir,” Midge said, his eyes twinkling, “it is all the talk about the estate that your lordship is to take another wife. May I be so bold as to inquire, then, if this kindhearted young lady is to be our new mistress?”

  The earl exchanged another glance with C.J. “Alas, no,” he replied truthfully. The eager solicitousness of his staff and tenants toward Lady Cassandra amused him to some extent. But for the most part, their immediate high regard for Miss Welles served to reinforce and confirm his own admiration for her and was a most painful and guilty reminder that their union was not to be.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Darlington thanked Lady Dalrymple for so graciously receiving him after his public embarrassment of her family at the Assembly Ball. Miss Welles’s disappearance was accounted for, and her ladyship was grateful that Cassandra had been safely returned home.

  C.J. had learned a good deal from her journey to Delamere. Enough to know that being poor in this society was nothing like she ever imagined it might be. No rustic idylls, but misery, depravation, and squalor, above which even the most honest and earnest could not lift themselves. The sanitary conditions in the cottages were appalling, although Darlington was no doubt doing the best he could for his tenants. Owing to the demands of his estate, however, the earl would not be a proper husband or father to their child, and C.J. no longer held out hope that he would have a change of heart or mind. He had explained himself quite thoroughly on that point. Her wish to know his situation firsthand had quite expanded her mind, and her own future looked nearly as bleak. If she and her babe survived childbirth, no end of struggles awaited them. Cut by society, if she managed to avoid the kind of financial desperation that would lead her straight to an establishment like Mrs. Lindsey’s, she would never be more than a shopgirl or tavern maid. Perhaps she would get work as an actress. Actresses were social pariahs already. She dared not rely on Lady Dalrymple to come to her rescue once again. It was too much to either ask or expect, even from the most generous of souls. And she could never live with herself knowing that she bore the responsibility of dragging the poor dowager countess down to hell with her. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. Back in her own era, C.J. might have become the toast of Broadway, however briefly, and be able to provide state-of-the-art medical care for herself and her child. She could live an independent life, relatively free of censure. Instead, she had willingly given it all up, believing
that she was beloved. Such thoughts, she knew, were unhealthy for her delicate condition, so she sought comfort instead in the knowledge that Lady Dalrymple’s well-being had vastly improved with the combination of the “magic pills,” a better diet, and regular exercise.

  AFTER A BRIEF AND FITFUL SLEEP, during which her mind was chiefly filled with disagreeable thoughts, C.J. elected to take a constitutional after breakfast, the meal itself an unpleasant event owing to her bouts of morning sickness. She could have gone to the Pump Room, but surmised that her performance at the Assembly Ball would form the primary topic of the day’s gossip. It was too much to bear, so she walked all the way to Sydney Gardens and back in the hope of running into Miss Austen, who might offer her the solace of her ever pragmatic perspective as well as a friendly ear.

  What a strange look the customarily cordial Folsom gave C.J. upon her return! When he opened the door to admit her to Lady Dalrymple’s town house, he practically backed away from her as though she carried leprosy or head lice.

  Collins immediately directed her to the drawing room and informed her that she was expected. Well, of course I am expected; I live here, C.J. thought.

  What she saw resembled a firing squad. Lady Dalrymple, wearing a lace cap that made her look considerably older and more ill, appeared exhausted and confused. She was propped up on the divan while her two pekes yapped at her ankles and a fretful Mary Sykes cooled her with her favorite silk fan. Dr. Squiffers pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in a most sanctimonious way. Saunders and Lady Oliver conferred in a corner. Darlington, wearing a haunted expression, had stationed himself at a window, in nearly the same posture C.J. had found him on the evening she returned to Bath with Lady Dalrymple’s medications. And Constable Mawl, looking gruff, dwarfed the settee upon which he was attempting to perch like a gentleman.