A Baron for Becky (13 page)

Chapter Nine

“Go after him,” Becky
said.

Aldridge
hesitated. He’d planned to walk Becky home to the town-house and
spend the night. But Overton was in a bad way. Aldridge had seen
the stricken look in his eyes.

“Go after him,”
Becky said again. “He is heart sick, Aldridge. He needs his
friend.”

Overton
‘needed’ a swift boot to the rear, the way he talked about Becky.
Though, it wasn’t like him to be cruel. The man was surprisingly
prudish, given his amorous exploits, but Aldridge had never doubted
his essential kindness. Something was very wrong with him
tonight.

“Go,” Becky
insisted. “I’ll stay here tonight with Sarah. And I’ll be here, or
at the town-house, when you’ve finished your disgusting bet,
sobered him up, and sent him home.”

“You heard
about the bet?” He winced a little at the word ‘disgusting’. He
couldn’t disagree.

“It is in the
papers, Aldridge,” she said. “Go after your friend, my dear. I
don’t know what is haunting him, but go to him.”

She was right.
He couldn’t leave Overton alone, tonight of all nights.

Aldridge,
always circumspect in Sarah’s presence, contented himself with
pressing her hand as he kissed her cheek.

“Thank you,
Becky. You’re a wonderful woman.” Then, to Sarah, “Goodnight,
Princess. I’ll see you soon.”

“Goodnight,
Uncle Lord Aldridge. Go and look after the sad man.”

He saluted
Sarah’s cheek, too, and gave the long plait of dark hair an
affectionate tug. She was more like her mother every day.

As he’d
expected, Overton had made it no farther than the tavern a couple
of streets over. “What are you drinking?” Aldridge asked, sliding
onto the bench beside him.

“Don’t know,”
Overton said, sinking another from the line before him. Three gone,
five to go.

Aldridge had a
sniff. Gin. Probably illegally distilled on the premises. Rot gut,
certainly.

“Let’s go home
and get into my brandy.” Aldridge suggested, putting his hand over
the poison. Overton knocked it out of the way and downed another,
roaring like an aggrieved bear when Aldridge sent the last four
crashing to the floor, juniper fumes rising from the spreading
puddles.

Aldridge knew
he wouldn’t move. If anyone tried to carry him, he’d fight every
inch of the way. Best to let him drink here, then drag him out
unconscious. But at least Aldridge could make sure he drank decent
brandy. Even if he didn’t appreciate it, Aldridge would. The tavern
keeper, who had come at the noise, was happy enough to accept a
gold guinea for his trouble and a bottle of his finest.

Overton was
touchingly grateful. “You’re a good friend, Aldridge. You stick by
a man. Share the best. Good friend.”

Aldridge poured
a glass of the brandy the innkeeper brought and inhaled the
bouquet. Much better. He handed the glass to Overton, who took a
revoltingly large swallow.

“She’s
beautiful, Aldridge.”

Aldridge didn’t
have to ask who; everyone who met Becky had the same reaction.

“Very
beautiful.” He poured himself a brandy. Where was Overton going
with this? His comment about sharing had better not be related.

“Loves her
daughter, doesn’t she?”

“She does,
Overton. That little girl means everything to her. And I would kill
to protect either of them.”

Overton waved
off the implied threat, shaking his head. “Not going to hurt them.
Secret. You told me.” He lifted his glass again, this time sipping
rather than gulping. “Good stuff, Aldridge. I needed a drink.”

Aldridge
refilled the glass. If his oldest friend in the world needed to
talk, the least Aldridge could do was listen.

“Polyphemia
didn’t.”

Aldridge must
have looked blank, because Overton explained. “My wife. Polyphemia.
She didn’t love her daughters. She died, you know.”

Three years ago
this very night. “Yes. I know.” To his shame, he’d not gone to
Lancashire when he heard, reluctant to leave Becky and knowing he
couldn’t take his newly acquired mistress to visit his newly
bereaved friend.

Overton was
following his own train of thought. “She didn’t want to marry me,
you know. Said I was ugly. But Pankhurst didn’t leave her anything
and no one else offered. So she traded her proven fertility for my
title and money.”

“Is that so?”
What else could a person say to such a revelation?

“Wouldn’t let
me bed her, except in the dark. Wouldn’t let me bed her at all that
last year. Except the one time... But she was with child, of
course.”

“Was she?”

“Mmm. Needed me
to think I was the father.”

Aldridge tried
to fend off further revelations. “Shall we go back to Haverford
House, Overton?”

“I did, too. So
happy, Aldridge. Thought I couldn’t, you see.”

Couldn’t what?
“I’ve heard from a lot of women that you can, Overton.”

“I can plough
well enough. I like ploughing. But I can’t sow. No Overton heir. No
Overton bastards, even. Lying bitch. Lying whore. I wanted to
believe her, Aldridge. I thought the doctors were wrong. ‘Look,’ I
told them. ‘I got my wife with child.’”

Overton would
regret these revelations in the morning. Aldridge regretted them
now. He filled the man’s glass again. Perhaps he would pass out and
stop talking.

Not just yet,
though. He cradled the brandy, staring into it as if his wife’s
image were floating on top.

“I was in
London. You remember, Aldridge. You were here, too. ‘Plenty of
time’, she said. ‘Go to London. You can be back before the baby is
born,’ she said. ‘Women’s business.’ Lying bitch.”

He said nothing
more for several minutes, just sat and swirled his brandy
meditatively. Aldridge relaxed. Perhaps the soul-baring was
over.

But no such
luck. When Overton spoke again, in a quiet voice that carried no
further than Aldridge’s ears, the drunken slur was gone, as if his
memories had burned the alcohol out of his brain. “I went home
early, when you and I argued. Anyway, I missed the girls. And I was
worried about my wife. She seemed—she was huge when I left, and
Crawford’s wife had just had twins.

“Besides, we
had children to think of. Not just the new baby, but Pankhurst’s
girls. And if we could have one baby, perhaps there would be
others. I wanted to mend the marriage. Well, build a marriage,
really. What we had was a contract. But we could do better than
that, couldn’t we?”

“Mm hmm,”
Aldridge mumbled, hoping the noncommittal sound conveyed sympathy
and support, and didn’t sound too much like a whimper. He topped up
the man’s glass.

“The midwife
was with her when I returned home, and things were not going well.
I rode for the doctor, of course.”

“Of
course.”

“A six-month
baby, she told the doctor. I saw the midwife shaking her head, but
I didn’t understand.”

So, Overton’s
baroness had tried to tuck a cuckoo into the Overton nest. Aldridge
made another noncommittal sound.

Tears rolled
disregarded down Overton’s cheeks.

“Something was
wrong. The baby was in the wrong position, or too big. They told me
to stay downstairs, but she was fighting this battle for me. I had
to be there.”

“You did,”
Aldridge agreed, desperately wishing something would stop Overton
mid-confession.

Overton gave no
sign of hearing. “She was screaming with pain. Cursing me. Cursing
some other man, too. John something. I didn’t understand, didn’t
really listen. She was half out of her head.

“Then the
doctor and the midwife... something changed. They managed to move
the baby. They said it would soon be over. I tried to reassure her.
I don’t remember what I said exactly. Something about her being
brave, and we’d soon have our son or daughter. I told her I was
grateful.

“She screamed
at me. Everyone in the house must have heard her. In the village,
likely. I should be grateful, she said. Did I know how hard it was
finding someone as tall as me to give her a boy since I was only
half a man? And it had better be a boy, because she wasn’t going
through all that again.

“It was a
little girl, Aldridge. I didn’t care. The doctor put her in my
arms. I loved her the minute I saw her. If she had lived, I would
have loved her as my own.”

“She died?”
Stupid thing to say. He knew the baby had died, and the mother,
too. But the woman’s betrayal cast a new light on why Overton never
talked about them.

“No. Not then,”
Overton said. “Polyphemia didn’t either. She tore, and she bled. It
took them a long time to stop the bleeding, but they did it.
Everyone heard, though, Aldridge. The doctor. The midwife. The
servants. They knew what she’d done. The whole household knew. Even
if she’d said nothing... I’ve seen six-month babies. I am not as
big a fool as my cheating wife clearly thought.”

He emptied his
glass and held it out for Aldridge to pour another. “Grace... I
named her, because Polyphemia wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even look at her.
Grace was born at term, and nine months before she was born, I was
at sea on my way back from Jamaica.”

“Ah,” was the
best Aldridge could do.

“What was I to
do? Divorce her? I had the evidence. But then what would become of
the girls? I said nothing. I didn’t even speak to her—didn’t go to
her room. When she wouldn’t feed Grace, I found a wet nurse. When
she wouldn’t see Sophie and Emma, I made excuses, told them she was
tired, but she’d send for them soon.”

Overton lapsed
into silence again, sipping his brandy. Aldridge knew it wasn’t
over, though. The deaths of his wife and child sent Overton into a
bottle for weeks every year. And Aldridge was now going to have to
sit and listen to how they died, and keep making ineffectual
noises. Perhaps the roof would collapse, or the tavern would catch
fire.

After several
minutes, Overton took up the tale again, calm voice adding another
layer of horror to the bitter tale. “Three days later, she called
for the baby. I was glad. I thought perhaps we could work it out.
We could have, couldn’t we Aldridge? We could have tried, at least,
for the girls? If she’d waited?”

Aldridge tried
not to shake his head. Unlikely. In his experience, a treacherous
bitch remained a treacherous bitch, no matter how much she swore
reform.

Overton wasn’t
paying attention, staring blankly at his glass. Suddenly, he
thumped it down on the table and, in a wail that attracted the
attention of everyone in the tavern, asked, “Why did she have to
take Grace? Why?”

Overton rose
with his voice, emphasising the last anguished question by shaking
Aldridge’s lapels, then collapsed again, huddled beside his friend,
weeping.

Aldridge patted
him awkwardly, glaring at the rest of the patrons until they turned
back to their own affairs. Overton was going to hate himself in the
morning. If he remembered. May the gods of drink and debauchery
wipe it from his memory. Aldridge was only sorry he was too sober
to forget. He took a long draught of brandy.

“She drowned,
Aldridge. She and Grace both. Walked through the house, down the
stairs, across the lawn, and down to the lake. And just kept
walking. No one stopped her. No one even saw her until it was too
late.”

Perhaps another
sip of brandy would loosen the tightness in Aldridge’s throat. It
was worse than he expected. Far worse.

“I’m so sorry,
Overton.” How inadequate that sounded in the face of such
grief.

Overton
misunderstood. “Why? You aren’t John.” He frowned, staring at
nothing, clearly thinking this over. His tale told, the illusion of
sobriety was fast abandoning him. “Might have been. You’d swive any
man’s wife. But she never met you. Wouldn’t mind raising your son,
though. I like you, Aldridge.” He wouldn’t in the morning, when he
realised how much Aldridge now knew.

“You should
marry again, Overton. Have a couple of sons for the barony.”

Overton
snorted. “Weren’t you listening, Aldridge? I can’t. The doctors
told me, and I’ve tested it often enough.” He giggled. “Throughout
His Majesty’s kingdom, on two continents and assorted islands.
Tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin. I’ve ploughed them all.” He
shook his head, the melancholy settling over him again. “She was
right. My damned, lying, cheating wife was right. I’m half a man,
Aldridge. And the last of the Overtons. When I’m gone, the King
gets the lot.”

And with that,
he suddenly put his head on the table, and went to sleep.

He slept
through the removal to, and from, the carriage, and the subsequent
transfer to a guest bed in the heir’s wing. Aldridge set a servant
to watch him, to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit in the
night, then returned to his own suite.

But there was
no rest for Aldridge here tonight. He tossed and turned for a
while, but his friend’s calm voice kept echoing in his head,
retelling the horrors of betrayal and loss. After a while, he
dressed again, and told the sleepy footman on duty in the front
hall, “If I am needed, I will be at Mrs Darling’s house.” Becky
would comfort him. He needed Becky tonight.