by Eliza Lloyd
“While George Blasington was a man of all offenses, Harold was a renowned card sharp.”
“Aren’t all military men?” Ellis added.
“Perhaps. But the newly minted earl also wanted to be someone important.” Sissy closed her eyes for a minute. “I should probably ask Mother about this, but the story I was told said he sold the home, let a house in London and began attending all the clubs: Whites, Boodles, Brooks. You know the sort I’m talking about.”
“Let me guess! He gambled it all away.”
“Oh, no! Quite the contrary. He built up a tidy nest egg.”
“So, this ability to turn a trick runs in the family?” Gabriel asked.
“It would seem. But there was one defining event that punctuated Harold’s life. A card game at Carlton House. All the young bucks were there, flush with money. I am surprised you haven’t heard of this—it was a grand affair. Young Prinny himself was there.”
“No, no. I think I have heard of this, but it was from another perspective. Wasn’t Exeter at that game?” Gabriel asked.
Ellis sat up and braced his forearms to his knees. “Right. High stakes. Winner take all.”
“It didn’t start that way, but tempers flared. Manly pride got in the way of common sense. Before cooler heads could prevail, the Earl of Wargrove had placed every farthing he had on the table. A not inconsequential amount. Manning, in addition to his cash, threw in an emerald ring with diamonds and the carriage he came in. Davenport sent his man home to collect his wife’s jewels—the famous pink diamonds, supposedly. Exeter hadn’t come with enough funds, nor could he persuade one of his peers to accept his IOU, so to stay in the game he bet some of his properties.
“The real humor, and the caldron of anger, supposedly came from the fact the Earl of Wargrove was a crusty old military man beating back all the young bucks with their pedigree titles. There was also the fact Exeter was an arrogant peacock who’d just inherited his title, and no one liked him. It must have been a rousing night!”
Gabriel leaned back. “My God! It was Henbury Hall, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, along with his stallions and three mines. One of his only unentailed properties,” Sissy said.
“How much money was in the pool?” Ellis asked.
“Here is where my information is lacking. Mother thinks it was near eight-five thousand pounds. That seems an exaggeration to me. It surely wasn’t more than fifty thousand. Cash, jewels and properties. The first Earl of Wargrove retired to his new estate, married, raised two sons and two daughters. And here we are today,” Sissy finished.
Ellis whistled.
“Well, that helps explain some of the Blasington hoard speculation,” Gabriel said.
“Why have I never heard all this story?” Ellis asked.
“Because you never sit long enough through afternoon tea with Mother.”
“Did he cheat?” Gabriel asked.
Sissy lifted one shoulder. “I’m sure there was some speculation.”
“That’s an interesting story but it doesn’t really have anything to do with George Blasington, at least not directly,” Graham said.
“You must be joking, Carlow?” Ellis said. “Rumors get started for lesser reasons.”
“It’s a far stretch. From one card game to an earl’s hanging to accusations that our fathers were bad-faith players. How in the hell could anyone make such a leap? My apologies, Sissy.”
“It sounds like a happily ever after to me,” Ellis said.
“Nora hasn’t mentioned any of this. Surely she would know if any of this story were significant.”
“Hmm,” Ellis grunted as he pushed to his feet and returned to the side bar. “It’s a simple matter to ask her.”
“I will.” Gabriel had a hundred questions and no one to ask. “Do you have a Collins’s handy?”
“Of course.” Ellis abandoned the side bar and fingered along the spines of the leather-bound books.
“It’s the next shelf up,” Sissy said. “What are you thinking, Gabriel?”
“Just that I would very much like to prove our fathers were innocent against these allegations.”
“And how will Collins’s help with that?”
“I want to know if George Blasington knew any of our fathers. None of this makes any sense unless there was some connection to each other. It might seem logical to think George Blasington was an outsider given his father’s profession, but wouldn’t Harold Blasington do all he could to ensure his son’s acceptance in society?”
“You think they were at school together? That makes some sense,” Ellis said.
“I just need to know there isn’t any truth to our fathers being involved.”
“For the sake of your wife and your marriage, perhaps you ought to set about to alleviate her concerns, rather than yours,” Sissy said.
* * * * *
“It isn’t like you to be so introspective,” Lady Fortenay said. “Five weeks away and a whirlwind marriage would make most young ladies bloom with excitement.”
Nora leaned against the wall, staring outside at the landscape of oh-so-familiar Whitmarsh. Gigi and Grandy were in their usual chairs, abiding their time in the same preordained pattern every day.
When Timothy had arrived to Carlow’s townhouse for lunch with her the other day, he was on his way to Whitmarsh. Nora decided to go with him, leaving behind all the clothes and the ring and the temporary life that wasn’t real in any way. Molly was in a snit about leaving the garments. “They are yours!” she proclaimed.
Nora didn’t want the reminder of Carlow’s generosity.
The house she grew up in smelled of time and wear. Polished to a shine but showing its age. Frayed Persian rugs, curtains that were out of fashion, and wood with nicks and stains. All loved and familiar, though.
“Come, sit with me, dear heart.” Gigi patted the couch next to her.
Nora obliged, not having the will to say yay or nay, but pulled by a desire for someone to understand. And who better than her smart and compassionate Gigi?
“Now, what happened? And why are you not in London with your husband, which is your place as his countess?” Gigi asked in a soft voice.
A clearing of throat occurred across the room. “If you are going to have this conversation in my library, at least speak at a volume at which I can hear you,” Lord Fortenay said. His face was still buried in a newspaper, but a mirror image of his wife in many ways, he would not be left out of the latest kerfuffle to stir everyone at Whitmarsh.
“And why didn’t you tell us of your encompassing plan to change the world? Or at least Lord Carlow’s world.”
“You know why. I want what is mine. I want what is Timothy’s. Why is that so wrong? And I didn’t know…exactly…that Lord Carlow would be part of the resulting scheme.”
“Now that the deed is done, I can hardly fault the method. A marriage is a marriage, Nora, no matter the road to the altar. I am still amazed that all this plotting has actually led to a marriage to the one man who can actually do something about Henbury’s ownership.”
“They were all three at the gaming table. I was pursing the one who showed the slightest interest in me, and that happened to be Carlow.”
“I would say the interest was more than slight,” Lord Fortenay said with a chuckle. “Men are usually a little more interested in self-preservation than to be caught in a darkened room with an innocent maid.”
“It was the Weatherby Ball,” Lady Fortenay said, scolding slightly.
“That was not a factor,” Nora said. How could it be called a curse when Nora had tipped the scales of scandal to favor her ordained outcome?
“So why this change of heart?” Lady Fortenay asked. “Why come running home when you gave your word in front of God and man?”
“Because he’s turned out to be a decent person and he’s shined a light on the fact I am not! I am my father’s daughter, willing to take what isn’t mine to get what isn’t mine. And the marriage is not consummated,” s
he finished in a whisper.
“Eh, what’s that you say, Nora?” Grandy asked.
“She said there is nothing to celebrate,” Lady Fortenay answered back. “Well, that is a pickle.”
Nora giggled, placed her fingers over her mouth and giggled some more. Pickles! “I am sorry! I know this is serious.”
“I’ve taught you to think logically and the logical thing is to conclude you have a legitimate husband. To disentangle yourself would take months if not years and I would hate to think of the accusations Carlow would have to levy against you in order to achieve a dissolution. Think of your name and your family.”
“My name? Already tainted by my father? What would it matter?”
“Hush now. Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“I’ve already had this discussion with Carlow. He seems to agree with you,” Nora said.
“Because Lady Fortenay is never wrong,” her husband said from across the room.
“What do I do now?” Nora asked.
“A few days rest and then a carriage ride back to London, I would say,” Lady Fortenay said.
“Indeed,” Lord Fortenay added, pushing to his feet. “Is anyone ready for tea? What say you, Nora? I know how much you love tea on a cool afternoon.”
“Yes, that sounds delightful.” How had she confessed private things to Lord Carlow that she had never uttered to her guardians? Even if it was just about a love of pickles and a dislike of tea?
“Thank you, James. And afterward, I think I’ll have a lie down. What about you, Nora? What will you do this afternoon?”
“Nora the Avenger is going to walk along the lake.”
“I think you’ve slain all those monsters, dear heart, but take your sword out into the world anyway.”
“Always listen to Hester the Horrible,” Lord Fortenay said as he sat next to his wife and companion.
A burn of tears welled in Nora’s eyes. She wrapped her arms about Lady Fortenay’s frail but indomitable shoulders. Lady Fortenay patted Nora’s back but said nothing, probably because Lord Fortenay would be embarrassed by the display. Probably.
Oh, for the days of their make-believe world, where Hester Burney had been Nora’s rock, listening to her sorrows and helping her forge the backbone to face the world.
After tea, in which Timothy joined them, they talked about happenings at Whitmarsh, eventful in spite of the limited local population and only one posting inn nearby.
Mr. Turner had lost two of his prize Dorset Downs sheep, the result of his careful breeding between Hampshire ewes and Southdown rams. He would tell you all about it if you wanted to know. They had turned up two days later. “Alive, but in the parish graveyard,” Lord Fortenay added to everyone’s delight. “Not dead, but enjoying the lush grass that grows near the Hardy plot.”
Widow Daniels had fallen from a ladder while picking the first of the summer cherries. She was laid up for a few days with a sore backside and bruised spirit. Mr. Taggart and his daughter, Winnie, had gone to pick two-and-a-half bushels of the fruit. Everyone wanted the widow’s famous cherry cordial and only she knew the secret recipe.
Davey Arnstadd had left the service at the Marquess of Oldham’s estate. There was plenty of gossip as to the reasons why, though no one knew for sure.
When the teacups were set aside and the last of the biscuits were eaten, Nora asked, “Do you want to walk around the lake with me, Timothy?”
“I can’t. I promised Dill we would walk over to Berber’s Pond for some fishing. He found a cache of large maggots, and if we leave in the next thirty minutes, we’ll arrive just as the fish are looking for that late afternoon sun.”
“Brown trout?” Lord Fortenay asked.
“Yes, unless our luck is bad. Then we will walk on over to the canal. Oh, and I’m taking Lucky with me.” Their border collie was going on ten years old and lazed away most of her days beneath the cool shade of the garden trees. He loved Timothy and preferred him to anyone else at Whitmarsh.
“So, you have nothing to say about your excursion to London?” Lady Fortenay asked, piercing Timothy with an accusatory gaze.
“Leave the lad alone, Hester. We both know the instigator of this tumult.”
No one disagreed with Lord Fortenay.
Nora pulled a smooth walking stick from the wooden barrel near the back door—Merlin’s staff five years ago and William Wallace’s sword as she single-handedly fought the Battle of Falkirk when she was twelve. She stabbed it into the ground with more force than needed to propel her along.
The path toward the lake was well-worn, as it was also the path toward the only folly on the water. It was a tower overlooking an old monastery, the ruins also a part of her imaginative childhood. The first floor was rectangular, allowing for picnics and afternoon reads, but there was a winding staircase upward. At the top, each corner had unique double windows, placed at a ninety-degree angle, allowing for an unobstructed views. The tower had been repaired many times, and the aged plaster repairs looked like a patchwork. It had been built as a hunting tower, though it had not been used for that since before Nora and Timothy had arrived those years ago.
She climbed the stairs, holding to the side rail. A cool wash of air howled through the tower, messing Nora’s hair and causing her dress to whirl around her legs. When she came to this place, she was reminded of her real home.
Henbury Hall was all so perfectly formed in her mind. The rock arch over the entrance. The long lane with the beautiful apple trees. The oval-shaped ponds behind them with fountains at the end, toward the manor house. The manicured lawns where she rode her pony.
Her pony, a pretty little sorrel. As gentle as a kitten. Her pony. Something else she lost that day.
From there her memories were fuzzy. The house was big with several rooms. There was a garden, but she didn’t remember where it was in relation to the house. And a greenhouse, she thought, at the back of the house.
She didn’t remember the stables or any of the valuable stallions. She didn’t remember where the cows and goats were milked but she could distinctly remember the smell of manure wafting around on breezy days. For her, it was just part of Henbury Hall, not a distraction, not a nuisance. The scent of life in the country was just a part of the whole.
Nora took one last look around. The ripples in the water were easy today. She could just hear the lap of the water against the shore’s edge. There were a few areas, along the shallower edges, with tall cattails, its reedy growth a great protection for small animals and birds’ nests and little girls who didn’t care about getting wet, only about having an afternoon adventure hiding in the stalks.
She continued her stroll to the far side of the lake, passing a few of the side trails, one that led to the south pasture and another to Maralese and Theodore Dorman’s small tenant farm.
At the Dorman’s trail, she stopped, closing her eyes in concentrated effort, trying to remember just one of the neighbors at Henbury Hall. Just one.
Disquiet stirred in her heart and stomach. Being at Whitmarsh was supposed to be comforting, a calm in the storm, as it had always been.
Instead, Carlow followed her around the lake, smiling and laughing his way around her mind. She’d been so sure about the success of her plan, she’d never given a thought to actually liking the son of the family on which she’d pinned all her anger. And her hopes. Could she rightly dislike his two friends, Andover and now Fromme and Rode? The last of the Wicked Three were gone. Only the sons remained, who may have no knowledge of what their fathers had done but would get the benefit from it. Was the truth now lost forever?
Yes, except in the pages of her mother’s diary.
She held the stick and with a mighty swing beat it against a large oak. After the fourth strike, the smooth pole unbroken, her hands stinging from the vibrations, she dropped the staff and shook her hands.
“Bloody hell!”
Nora picked up the staff, uttering a few more choice words about husbands and liars and cheats and nobles
and ball curses. And fate.
She picked up her pace, stabbing the end of the wooden rod into the ground, this time attacking the terrible doubts that chased her back to Whitmarsh.
Nora spotted the rock wall guiding her back to the house and hurried around the corner.
“I was worried you planned to hurl yourself into the lake,” Carlow said.
Chapter Seven
“I would if I thought it would do any good,” Nora said.
Gabriel’s trip had taken over three days. He’d left South Weald, intending a speedy, not break-neck, return to London. When he’d arrived, dusty and tired and bounced to a jelly, he’d expected to have a leisurely bath drawn, enjoy a magnificent dinner and sit in the library with Nora to discuss his trip and answer her questions about why he had gone without her. And maybe persuade her that Ellis wasn’t such a bad person after all.
Instead, Mintz had said, “She’s gone.”
The story was short and simple. Her brother had arrived, they’d eaten from Gabriel’s larder and then she was gone before Mintz could say the jig was up.
“Pack food and drink. Have the coachman change out the horses. Get a new driver. I don’t care who.”
“But, my lord, you look a disaster. Why not have a bath, rest a bit and leave in the morning?”
“Mintz, I asked you to do one thing. I’m not ready to have any sort of discussion with you. About anything.” Gabriel had a short fuse, on occasion, but berating the staff was not his way. Nora had a way of making him just a little insane.
“Yes, my lord.”
All of that was forgotten at the sight of Nora.
Nora. He hadn’t thought of anything else since leaving South Weald. Love wasn’t a certainty yet, but he did like her a whole lot. She was alive in ways that Gabriel had never experienced, at least by the standards of ton debutantes. He’d never realized how little he was attracted to the sameness currently swanning around at the balls and parks and musicales he was required to attend during the season.
“Well, Lady Carlow, where do we go from here?” he asked.
“To the house, I would imagine. You look like one of those horses the mail carriages ride to death down the King’s Highway. Unless you want to throw yourself into the lake?”
