Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’ I sounded like poor dear Mama, grasping at trivialities.

  ‘Thank you, no. I had a late luncheon at the inn in the village. The patron told me where I might find you. Is Miss Wyatt with you?’

  ‘No, she’s out at present.’

  ‘Good.’

  As he made a move towards me, I added, ‘But she may be back at any moment. Geoffrey, you—’

  ‘Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have come. I had to. I agonised about it but in the end it was as simple as that – I had to see you, and nothing else mattered. I had to know how you are, and whether… whether you still care for me.’

  How was I to answer that? I stood like a fool, wrist-deep in a bowl of pastry, staring at him across the littered table. ‘I shall always care for you. You know that. But still…’

  ‘But still there are proprieties and conventions and all the other t-trammels that society puts upon us – yes, I know!’ Agitated, he spun to look out at the yard, thumping the side of his fist against the jamb. He was silent for a while, breathing deeply to calm himself, eventually glancing round to say, ‘Forgive me. I’m on edge. I’ve hardly slept for days, thinking what I should say to you and wondering how you would respond. Your letter… it seemed to imply that you had doubts about your feelings for me.’

  For that I was sorry. I was aware of the trouble he must have gone to in order to make the journey, just to see me, and there was a part of me that, watching him, wept with loneliness and need. But I was no longer eighteen. I knew too well the consequences we were courting.

  ‘I seem to have doubts about everything,’ I said.

  He turned his head to look at me across his shoulder, frowning as he sought to read my mind. ‘You should know, before we go further, that my marriage to Lucinda is ended. I have applied to the courts for an annulment.’

  Annulment? My heart seemed to rise into my throat and stop both my breath and my larynx, and then it beat on, fast and unsettling, as my rational mind reviewed all the consequences that must crowd in the train of this news. The case would be a sensation. It would destroy poor Lucy. And what of Lady Devlin? – that haughty, frosty matron. What of Norfolk society, and all the avid tongues that loved to wrap themselves about such luscious scandal?

  Unerringly answering the most clamorous of my questions, Geoffrey added, ‘I have done it with Lucy’s full and free consent.’

  Laying the back of my hand to a head that was spinning, I said, ‘I don’t understand. She was terrified of your leaving her. She begged me not to take you from her.’

  ‘But then her father was alive.’

  Seeing me still baffled, he slowly closed the door, giving us more privacy, and then he came to sit on a corner of the table, watching me with sombre eyes, while quietly and steadily he told me the dreadful story.

  I can never think of Lucy without remembering that day. It comes back in vivid colour, sight, sound and scent – the small kitchen with the sun slanting in through the window, the cat prowling outside, the smell of meat cooking in the oven beside the fire, herbs hanging from the ceiling, apples in a colander by the sink waiting to be peeled, and my fingers clotted with sticky pastry. These impressions, along with my awareness of Geoffrey, all mingle inextricably with the story of tragic Lucinda de Crecy, only child of the wealthy Lord Elston – wealthy and, so Geoffrey now knew, perverted beyond all pity.

  The noble lord’s excesses as a young man had caused him to be banished by his family to Italy, where his depravity could be better concealed. His sexual tastes ran to children, both girls and boys. No child had been safe with him. He had even used his own daughter.

  ‘He – and his friends,’ Geoffrey said, his eyes sparking as he thought of it, ‘abused her, beat her, defiled and raped her – from the time she was three years old. Three years old, Rose! That scar on her face… When she was twelve her father threw her down some stone stairs because she refused to perform an act too hideous for me to describe to you. And her mother… her mother knew what was happening, but she never raised a finger to interfere.’

  ‘Dear God!’ I remembered Lucy – that dreadful blemish on her lip, the fear that constantly shadowed her eyes, her preference for muted colours, and her bursts of wildness. Poor child. Poor, helpless, frightened child.

  Much as she had loved the warmth of southern Italy, she had grasped at the chance of escaping into Geoffrey’s protection. She had come to England as soon as the engagement became official on her eighteenth birthday. But she had found every reason to delay the wedding. She wanted a perfect knight – a protector, not a lusty, flesh and blood husband.

  Her father had found excuses not to attend the wedding, perhaps because of his guilt, and fear of being unmasked. But Lucy had remained terrified of him; she had always refused to go back to visit her parents without Geoffrey beside her. Her greatest terror had been that Geoffrey would desert her and leave her prey again to her father’s demands. But she didn’t blame her father. Tragically, she blamed herself for what had happened, wished herself dead, and had even tried to kill herself – by riding too hard, and then by the knife which in her madness she had turned on Geoffrey.

  ‘She’s scarred more deeply than any of us can guess,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Scarred both in body and in mind.’

  As a child, Lucy had taken music lessons at a convent near her home, a place where she had found solace and comfort. It was here that she had at last felt free, after her father’s death, to speak of his abuse of her, and the nuns had advised her to share the truth with her husband. Piece by sordid piece she had opened her heart and faced her fearful memories. It had sickened Geoffrey; he was still angry for her sake, and felt even more protective of her.

  But Lucy no longer needed his physical protection. With her father dead she was free.

  ‘Her dearest wish is to retreat to the safety of the convent,’ he told me. ‘She talks of taking the Catholic faith, and perhaps joining the order. One thing is beyond question – our marriage is over. Lucy will never be able to fulfil a proper wifely role, not for me or any other man. The scars cut too deep for that.

  ‘And so, when I asked that she consider an annulment, she agreed. It may take a few months and, undoubtedly, there will be gossip when the case comes to court. But, when it’s over, I shall be free to marry again.’

  There. We came back to the nub of it. Unable to meet his eyes, I worked my pastry, pushing it from my fingers in sticky lumps. ‘What do your parents say to this?’

  ‘I’ve yet to tell them. I imagine my mother will blame Lady Elston for misleading her. But with my father becoming more senile every day, my mother has plenty to occupy her.’

  Concerned, I glanced up at him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Deep, strong undercurrents ran between us, unspoken but evident to us both. His eyes probed and questioned. I could read the pain and puzzlement in him, but I couldn’t bring myself to confront it.

  Instead I toyed with the pastry, saying, ‘There were people who said you married Lucy because of her inheritance.’

  ‘I know.’ He let the silence lengthen, then, ‘Were you among them?’

  ‘There were times when I wondered,’ I admitted, and lifted my eyes again to see his reaction.

  A corner of his mouth tucked in wryly as he stood up, easing an aching shoulder muscle. ‘Such brutal honesty, Rose. No, the prospect of Lucy’s money may have been part of my parents’ reason for wanting the match, but it wasn’t mine. Ambleford has its share of troubles. The cost of upkeep of the estate, and the house, grows all the time, and we have the same problems as you have at Orchards – increasing wages, the expense of improvements, the threat of drought. Storm, disease, unionists—’

  ‘At least you don’t have someone else’s hares eating all your profits!’

  His eyes glimmered. ‘No, indeed. The game – and the debts – are all our own. Though despite the debts we’re quite comfortably situated. We shall manage well enough.
’ Holding me with a level gaze, he added, ‘We shall manage without Lucy’s dowry. I want no part of it. No part of her.’ His voice dropped to a vibrant undertone. ‘It’s you I want beside me.’

  The pulse in my throat was pounding. The kitchen seemed airless. I couldn’t speak.

  He watched me with dark, searching eyes. ‘I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me. It’s time I became my own man. I want you to be my wife, Rose. I want you to share with me whatever I have – to be, in time, Lady Devlin, mistress of Ambleford. Not now, not at once, but in a year or so, when the dust has settled and we are both decently free… I don’t promise it will be easy. There’ll be raised eyebrows. There’ll be rumour and innuendo. But if we stand and face it together…’ He stepped towards me, saying urgently, ‘Rose! Answer me! We can be together at last. I thought you wanted that as much as I do. Why do you hesitate?’

  ‘It’s too soon!’ I managed, the words coming out cracked through a throat that ached with unshed tears.

  ‘Too soon? You’ve known for years that if the chance came—’

  ‘I mean it’s too soon after Basil… Too soon for me to make such momentous decisions.’

  Once it had been he who prevaricated, now it was I who faltered at the brink. I couldn’t have explained why, only that I could hardly bear the thought of facing all the gossip, of confronting his mother and my family, and all our friends – and our enemies… I was still under the displeasure of the Prince of Wales, under threat of losing Orchards; I had barely recovered from a murderous attack by a man I had called husband… It was too much to contemplate all at once. I hadn’t the strength, or the courage.

  ‘Don’t you want to be my wife?’ he said.

  ‘If only it were that simple! I’ve so many other things to settle first. Other responsibilities. The farm. And Mama. And Johnny. And…’ Despair caught in my throat as I bit my lip hard. How could I explain what I didn’t understand myself?

  ‘Very well.’ A shutter had come down behind his eyes. He didn’t move, except to stand straighter, but he withdrew himself from me emotionally and I knew I had wounded him deeply. ‘Very well, I’ll not press you further. Perhaps, when you’re ready, you’ll let me know when it might be c-convenient for me to call.’

  I couldn’t let him go like that. ‘Geoffrey!’ As he turned to the door, I begged him, ‘Wait. Please.’

  He must have heard the catch in my voice for he stopped and looked back at me. ‘Well?’

  I drew a long, painful breath. ‘We’ve always been honest with each other. Tried to be. As honest as we could. Before we think of planning a future, there’s something… something of the past that you should know. I should have told you before, but I was afraid of what might happen. I was afraid that…’ I couldn’t find the right words.

  He came closer, laying a hand on my shoulder, his other hand under my chin making me look at him. ‘What is it? Just tell me. Simply.’

  Watching him through a blur of hot tears I pressed my lips together. There was no easy way of saying it. ‘I had a child. Ten years ago. In Brighton. I had your child.’

  For a moment he didn’t move. He searched my eyes, his own face still. ‘A child,’ he said flatly.

  ‘It was a girl. They… they took her away, as soon as she was born. I never saw her again.’

  ‘A child.’ His voice was quiet but there was a kindling in his eyes and I could see his thoughts busy behind it as he stepped away from me. ‘Good God… Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known—’

  Frightened by the way he was looking at me, I broke in, ‘What would you have done? You were obligated to Lucy. You wouldn’t have been allowed to marry me. Your parents would have seen to that. Would you have defied them, at risk of being sued for breach of promise, disgraced, talked about – and probably cut off from your inheritance?’

  ‘You should at least have given me the choice!’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘How could I? You had left me. Used me, misled me, and then abandoned me – that was how it seemed to me.’

  ‘I had a right to know!’ he insisted. ‘I trusted you. I knew there’d been rumours of a child, but I was sure you would have let me know had it been true. Did you even try to contact me?’

  ‘I didn’t know how! You had gone to Italy. They watched me every minute. I was eighteen years old, Geoffrey.’

  ‘And you believed me inconstant. Is that how much our love meant to you?’

  ‘I was frightened. Confused. Alone. I was a farmer’s daughter, and you…’ I shook my head, using my wrist to wipe away a tear. ‘I’m sorry, I should never have told you. It’s much too late. She’s gone. I don’t know where she is. She might be dead. We shall never know—’

  ‘We could at least try! Tell me about it. Who was the midwife? Did you have a doctor?’ He was feeling in his pockets, bringing out a notebook and a pencil.

  Dismay flushed through me. ‘You’ll never find her. No one will remember. No one ever knew the whole truth. Except maybe my aunt Agnes.’

  ‘Even so – tell me! Damnation… don’t you realise she may be the only child I shall ever have?’

  He questioned me closely and I, despairingly, recounted all I could remember, watching him write it down.

  Often though I had imagined this moment, I had never thought it would be like this. Why hadn’t I realised how much it might mean to him?

  ‘Suppose you do find her?’ I asked. ‘What will you do?’

  Eyes afire with determination, he said, ‘I shall bring her home with me, of course.’

  For the merest moment my heart leapt with joy. And then reality sobered me. Would he burden our child with the knowledge of her origins, with the label of bastard, and make her live amid gossip and scorn for the rest of her life?

  The thought made me feel faint. ‘But you can’t! Imagine what dreadful scandal it would cause! Your mother will never accept her. Your mother has always hated me. She’ll never forgive me for—’

  ‘My mother will have no choice,’ he said flatly, making for the door. ‘If I have a daughter alive somewhere then she belongs with me – she belongs at Ambleford. I suggest you decide whether or not you wish to join us there. Let me know when you do.’ He opened the door, then turned to add, ‘But make it soon, Rose. I shan’t wait for ever.’

  And he left me staring at the sunlight pouring through a doorway that was suddenly empty again.

  Two

  A day or two later, a letter from Johnny reached us, terse with fury at the prince’s attempts to pry us out of our home; of course he intended to take on the tenancy, which was his by legal right. He had written to Mr Beck confirming this and he intended to be home ‘before Christmas’.

  The end of my quest was, suddenly, in sight.

  ‘Shall you stay and be your brother’s housekeeper?’ Felicity asked as we sat in late September sunlight, with trees moving softly in a breeze from which the wall of our small garden sheltered us.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But he’ll need someone.’

  ‘Mrs Benstead will manage admirably.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I shall go away.’

  ‘Away? But, Rose, you love Norfolk.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Of course you do! It’s your home. You’ve fought so hard to stay there.’

  ‘Well, now I’ve had enough. I’m feeling my age.’

  ‘How absurd!’ she scoffed. ‘You’re not thirty yet.’

  ‘Even so, I’m tired. Tired of struggling against impossible odds.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you’re still not strong. When you feel better—’

  ‘When I feel better, I shall still know that I have to leave Orchards. If I stayed I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from watching the fields and checking the stock – and criticising. Johnny’s task will be difficult enough without that. No, when he takes over the tenancy, I shall have kept the promise I made to Father. That’s all I ever wanted.’

  ‘Is i
t?’ Her expression intrigued me. From under the brim of a straw hat she was watching me with troubled, almost frightened eyes. ‘There’s more to it than that, Rose. It’s because of Geoffrey Devlin, isn’t it?’

  The charge caught me off guard. Before I could find a reply she went on: ‘I saw him the other day. Someone told me a gentleman had been asking for us and as I came up the cliff path I saw Geoffrey leaving. Striding away as if you’d had a quarrel. He didn’t see me – he was too intent on his thoughts. I wanted to ask you about it, but when you didn’t mention it I thought it best to be discreet. You were in a terrible mood, Rose. Besides, there have been other hints of an attachment between you. After your accident, when he wanted so badly to see you and you became so upset… And while you were ill… you were delirious one evening. You spoke his name. You seemed to think he was there.’

  Having long been needing to confide in someone, I let out a long, long, almost peaceful breath. ‘Did anyone else hear?’

  ‘Just Miss Narborough. We agreed that you were talking nonsense. Perhaps an old dream, a young girl’s fantasy…’

  But Narnie was no fool. Perhaps she had guessed the answer to the old mystery. Not that I cared – so long as she didn’t threaten harm to Geoffrey.

  ‘Cassie always used to say that Geoffrey Devlin was your secret hero,’ Felicity recalled.

  ‘Cassie saw too much. I could never hide anything from her.’

  ‘And you still think of him in that way? Oh, my dear, that’s a dangerous road. It was wrong of him to come here. Everyone knows that he and Lucy are not happy. Even so, they’re married and…’

  Wanting to comfort her, I reached to touch her hand. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Felicity. I promise you I shall do nothing rash.’ The true state of Geoffrey’s marriage would be revealed soon enough, but not through me.

  ‘Well, if you really mean to leave Norfolk…’ she said. ‘It has been in my mind to ask you whether you think it might be an idea for us to… to find somewhere we might live together.’