An Unusual Bequest (9 page)

Slowly she made her way back to the front of the house and rang for a maid to clear away the tea things. No one else would come for it now. Then she went slowly up the stairs to her room, passing the dining room on her way. The laughter had stopped and the serious business of the card table had begun.

She was in the dining room the following morning, throwing open the windows to let fresh air into the stuffy, smelly room when Cecil came in. He was dressed in a quilted burgundy dressing gown and a white night-cap. He wore slippers with curled toes, but no hose. ‘Ah, Charlotte, up betimes, I see,’ he said, with a pretence at joviality.

‘It is half past ten, my lord.’

‘Is it, by gad? Still, never mind. Need to speak to you.’

‘Oh?’ She waited.

‘Yes. Thing is, I’m a little pinched in the pocket. Had a bad run last night, couldn’t shake it off. Need to pay some of it off. Matter of honour, don’t you know.’

‘And?’ She knew what was coming, but she wanted to hear him ask.

‘And I need a bit of ready blunt, just a little to satisfy them. You can help me, can’t you?’

‘With money?’

‘Yes, just a few guineas, to show good faith.’

‘And where do you suppose I can find a few guineas, my lord? Does it grow on trees? Or perhaps in the ground along with the turnips?’

‘It is not a matter for jest.’

‘Indeed it is not. But you are out of luck, Cecil. I have none. Do you think I should still be here if I had?’

‘I don’t believe you. My father was devoted to you, so I am told. He must have left you something. Why else was there so little in the pot? You sucked it from him.’

‘I most certainly did not!’ She was angry now. ‘Lord Hobart was never so wealthy that the allowance he sent to you was not a drain on his resources, especially in his latter years when he could not manage the estate. You may recall I told you so and that you needed to bring the land back into good heart.’

‘You dare to lecture me?’ He stepped towards her, so close she could smell his tainted breath and see the anger in his eyes, anger mixed with fear. Viscount Darton had been right: a frightened man was a dangerous one. But she would not retreat before him. ‘You are a lying vixen,’ he said, his face muscles working, making the scar stand out, a long pink weal. ‘You have salted it away and I will have it.’

‘I cannot give you what I do not have. You know the terms of your father’s will. Everything but the house and estate in trust for the grandchildren. I have nothing.’

‘Your girls are his grandchildren.’

‘Yes, but I cannot touch what is theirs—’ She stopped, wondering how true that was. If she could not make use of it, even for her daughters’ sake, then she was truly in a coil. On the other hand, she certainly did not want to put the idea in his head that her daughters’ inheritance could be realised.

‘Hmm.’ He seemed to consider this and then smiled. ‘No doubt my father gave you presents before he stuck his spoon in the wall. Jewellery, if not cash…’

She was about to deny it—what little jewellery she owned had not been given to her by the late Lord Hobart—but stopped when she heard the door open and the Viscount strolled into the room. Unlike his host, he was properly dressed in coffee-coloured pantaloons and a brown stuff coat. His cravat was neatly but not extravagantly tied, his short hair was carefully brushed. ‘Morning, Hobart,’ he said nonchalantly.

Charlotte was never so glad to see him and hear his voice. Realising she had been holding her breath, she let it out in a long sigh. She stepped away from Cecil and went to the sideboard to check the contents of the breakfast dishes.

‘Oh, it’s you, Darton,’ Cecil said, annoyed by the interruption. ‘Up devilish early, ain’t you?’

‘If I am, Cousin, then so are you. You are here before me.’ Stacey surveyed the other’s garb. ‘Could you not sleep?’

‘I slept well enough.’

‘Good. A man should never lose good sleep over his losses. There is always the morrow to recoup. But do you not think it a little impolite to appear before a lady in a state of undress?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Indeed it is, if the lady in question is one in whom I have a particular interest.’

Cecil laughed. ‘Particular interest, eh? You’ll get nowhere with her, Darton. She has nothing, so she tells me, though I ain’t sure I believe her.’

‘You had better believe her,’ Stacey said, moving swiftly forward and grabbing him by the front of his dressing gown, almost lifting him off the floor. ‘It is not the act of a gentleman to doubt the word of a lady.’ He set him down and dusted his hands together. ‘I suggest you go and dress.’

Cecil pulled the gown out of Stacey’s way and left the room. Stacey smiled. The fellow owed him a great deal of money and while he did and thought he could recoup, he would not turn him from the house. Besides, Sir Roland and Augustus Spike also owed him money, not quite so much, but they would not want him to leave until they had found a way of retrieving it, legally or illegally.

‘So you have a particular interest, have you, my lord?’ Charlotte’s voice brought him back from his reverie.

‘Words,’ he said. ‘Simply a form of words that had the desired effect. He has gone.’

‘But you are still here.’

‘And at your service, my lady.’ He swept her a flourishing bow.

‘I need nothing from you.’ His intervention had been fortuitous, but that did not mean she would allow him to take liberties.

‘No? Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But I need my breakfast.’ It was said with that half-mocking smile he had that she could never quite interpret.

‘Then I suggest you help yourself.’ She indicated the sideboard. ‘Everything is there. I will have coffee brought to you. Unless you prefer chocolate, or tea?’

‘Coffee, please, it will help to wake me up.’

‘If you went to bed before cockcrow, you might find it easier to be alert during the day.’

‘I could not leave the game. It would have been bad manners.’ It was a statement that made her laugh aloud and he found his own mouth twitching. ‘I do not want to antagonise my host, you know. It will not serve.’ His voice had changed, the note of banter had gone and now he spoke quietly, as if he were in earnest, as if he were trying to tell her something. Did he mean because he wanted to continue his pursuit of her, but he wasn’t exactly pursuing her, was he? He simply baited her. The others did it too; it was a kind of game to them, and he was no different, was he?

She did not understand him; he was perfectly polite one minute, downright rude the next. Sometimes solicitous, anxious for her welfare as if he knew and could sympathise with her dilemma, sometimes he was as despicable as the others, worse because they had not attempted to kiss her. She felt herself colouring at the memory. How could she have been so foolish as to allow it? Now he thought he could take liberties and she would not object. She went to push past him, but he caught her hand. ‘Lady Hobart, I beg you not to reject the hand of friendship. That is all it is, you know. We all need allies at some time or other.’

She pulled herself away. ‘This house is not at war, my lord. We do not have to take sides in battle.’

‘Perhaps you are right, my lady.’ He bowed and let her go.

He felt he was walking a tightrope. One false step and Cecil would know he was not there to play cards and flirt with the ladies. But go too far in that direction and he would make an enemy of Lady Hobart, and that was the last thing he wanted. She was either extraordinarily brave or extraordinarily foolish, but whichever it was he admired her. If they had met in a London drawing room or at a ball, they would have exchanged courtesies, danced together, and slowly, little by little, he would have learned her background, found out about her family, where she had been born, where raised, her likes and dislikes. He would have told her about Anne-Marie and Julia and about Malcomby Hall. And in the fullness of time, he might have found himself attracted enough to begin a serious courtship. None of that would happen now. They had been thrown together in circumstances far from normal and there was no going back and starting again.

What did he know of her? Only that she had been married to Sir Grenville Hobart, the elder of Lord Hobart’s two sons, and that he had been killed at Corunna, leaving her with two daughters. She had made her home with her father-in-law and now he was dead she was in trouble, and though Hardacre had not acquainted him with the exact nature of the trouble, it was not difficult to guess. As for her likes and dislikes—he knew she liked order and courtesy and felt strongly about education and she loved her daughters, but that was about all. How could he be in love with her, knowing so little? But he was.

She drove all his previous convictions about women and their frivolity from his head. She made him forget he had promised himself not to marry again, that he did not like children, especially girl children. Was he a fool to let compassion for her plight cloud his judgement? He could turn his back on her, leave Parson’s End and continue his journey, just as if Ivor had not thrown a shoe; he could find a school for Julia, take her to it and return home, comfortable in the knowledge that he had done his duty by her. But he could not, could he? Charlotte Hobart had changed him, made him more aware of the needs and feelings of others, made him feel guilty about Julia. But had she weakened him? He, who always liked to believe himself in control, felt it slipping from his grasp.

Sunday was the only time Charlotte was free of the obnoxious guests for an hour or two. On Sundays, she and Miss Quinn took the girls to church, and as Cecil and his friends were not churchgoers, they were able to breathe freely, enjoy the air, the service and the company of the other parishioners who gathered afterwards to pass the time of day and gossip.

It was soon apparent that the wild parties and the heavy gambling up at the Manor had become food for gossip. The new servants had not been able to resist passing on what they had seen and heard and much of it was undoubtedly exaggerated. She could tell by the way people were looking sideways at her and the way they whispered among themselves that she was the object of conjecture. Did she condone what was happening? they asked each other. She was mistress of the Manor, surely she could have refused to have those horrible people in the house if she did not like them? And why did she no longer teach the children or visit the sick? They could not believe a person they had always looked up to could change so much.

She could, of course, refute the gossip, tell them the truth, but that would mean admitting to her own helplessness and she could not bring herself to do it. She had always been the one to give succour and comfort and she could not bear the idea of being the object of pity, the receiver of whatever these poor people could give her. It would not help in any case. She needed more than they could give, she needed her daughters’ inheritance, or at least part of it. These simple people would not understand that just because she lived in a big house and had enough food to eat did not mean she was not poor.

Holding her back straight and her chin high, she pretended not to notice the whispers and greeted her fellow worshippers just as she always had, with a smile and a cheery word, an enquiry here and there as to whether a child who had been ill was better, or whether an old lady was managing on her own. They did not cut her, but their answers were guarded.

‘I feel like a stranger in their midst,’ she told the Reverend Fuller. ‘And a not very welcome one at that. Perhaps I was wrong to want to stay in the neighbourhood, perhaps I should have taken my girls and gone to my great-uncle after all.’

‘They do not understand, my lady. They cannot conceive that you, who have always looked after them, should not be able to continue as before. They know nothing of wealth and the rules of inheritance. As far as they are concerned, you are no less rich than you were before his lordship died.’

‘I know.’ She gave a huge sigh, then, catching sight of Stacey emerging from the dim interior of the church, bade the parson a hasty farewell and set off down the lane, followed by Miss Quinn and the girls.

‘Mama, do we have to go straight back?’ Fanny asked. ‘It is so nice to be out. I don’t like the house any more.’

‘Nor do I,’ Lizzie said. ‘When Grandpa was alive we could go anywhere, play hide and seek in the rooms, watch the maids at work or go to the kitchen for sweetmeats. Now we may not go anywhere but our own rooms. Cook is bad-tempered and even Betsy chased me up the corridor the other day. She said I’d no call to be in that part of the house. I was only curious about the lady, the one with the black wig and the patch on her cheek. She reminded me of pictures of the Queen. I saw Uncle Cecil go into her room and he was in his nightshirt…’

‘Lizzie, you know I forbade you to go downstairs without me,’ Miss Quinn said, looking fearfully at Charlotte. ‘It was very naughty of you.’

‘I wanted to know what was going on. It’s something very havey-cavey, I am sure.’

‘Nothing is going on,’ Charlotte said, trying not to show the unease she was feeling. Her children, her beloved daughters, were in danger of being corrupted by her brother-in-law’s friends, and she must get them away. She had spent her own money paying the extra servants, which was the only way she could get them to come, and all she had left was the five guineas Mr Hardacre had given her. How far would that take them all? Would it take them as far as Hertfordshire where Lord Falconer lived? And what would she find at the end of the journey, a welcome or a refusal? It was years since she had travelled on a public coach and her children never had. How much were fares nowadays, how much did it cost to stay overnight at an inn? She would have to go to London and take a stage from there. It would take at least three days. What other costs were involved? Above all, was it safe? Perhaps it would be better to wait a little longer to hear from Mr Hardacre. ‘We’ll go and have a walk on the beach, shall we?’

She set off determinedly, turning off the road and down the path through the pine woods to the cliff. The day was warmer than of late, for spring had burst out in all its glory. The sky was the colour of hazy blue smoke, the sea, darker, greener, was calm and only a faint ripple at the water’s edge told of a tide that could, in times of storm, be deadly. Flotsam and jetsam was often washed ashore and the villagers would salvage whatever was useful. A year or two before a body had been brought in on the tide, probably a poor sailor who had fallen overboard, for no one had ever identified him. But today the sand was clean and as golden as the sun that shone above it.