Louise Allen Historical Collection (30 page)

Thank you for your honourable proposal, she could say. But my marriage was bigamous. I am ruined, I was already ruined, shunned by the ladies of the regiment, when I accepted Dr Ferguson’s protection.
No. She found she could not say it. Even thinking of that shame and the betrayal and the shock brought tears swimming to blur her vision.

‘You have a title, a position in society.’ She tried for the rational arguments. ‘I am the second daughter of an obscure Suffolk vicar. I can bring you neither connections nor dowry.’

‘Have I given you the impression that I am hanging out for a rich wife or that I yearn to mingle with the
haut ton
?’ Ross enquired. His gaze was steady on her face, assessing, listening to what was below the surface of her words. He was an experienced officer, she must never forget that. He had years of talking to his men and hearing the truth under bravado and lies, confessions and prevarication.

‘No. You have not.’ But he had a strong sense of what was due to his name, an innate pride of lineage, a natural arrogance, whether he realised it or not.

‘Then come with me to London, Meg. Bring Damaris for respectability. Leave here as my housekeeper, coming with me to assess the town house. Think about it for as long as you need—and then come back as my wife.’

She must say
no
. It would cause enough talk hereabouts once word got out that Lord Brandon had married his housekeeper, but sooner or later the gossip would reach London and the ears of someone who knew what had been revealed in Spain. And then the story would come back to Cornwall with all the embellishments such a titillating tale was sure to attract. Ross was a proud man with a strong sense of duty that had brought him back here against all his desires and instincts. He would not tolerate his wife’s scandalous past being common knowledge.

Her choices seemed to be to refuse him without explanation or to tell him the truth and then refuse, for as a man of honour he would not withdraw his offer. But she must speak now, at once and put an end to this.

‘I must…’ The right words would not come. She tried again. ‘I must think about it.’ Where had that come from? It was not what she had meant to say. And yet there was this nagging feeling inside that somehow it could be all right, that somehow she could marry Ross.
But how?
Meg demanded of herself.
How can it ever be right? And he doesn’t love me anyway, and I need to be loved, I cannot live with a man without love.

‘You will come with me to London while you think?’ Ross maintained his composure, his dark, harsh face as expressionless. He would not show hurt or rejection, even to her. Least of all to her.

You love him. Love will find a way.
That was what Bella had said when she had helped Meg elope. ‘Yes,’ Meg said, recklessly following instinct, grasping the romantic dream. ‘I will come to London and we will take Damaris and we will see what you want to do with the town house. It is a long time since I was in London.’

‘Was that where you married?’

‘Yes. James got the money for a licence somehow and lied about my father’s permission. Looking back, he must have known Papa would not deny it if it were ever challenged, not with the scandal that it would bring.’ The clergyman must have guessed, she realised that now. The way he took the money James handed him, the sly smile as he slid it into the pocket of his threadbare cassock would have alerted a girl more worldly-wise than innocent Miss Margaret Shelley had been.

‘I did not see much of the town, though.’ Just a cramped and shabby inn room for their wedding night, the maze of narrow City streets. There had been a child selling oranges from a basket, brilliant against the grey stone as they passed on their way to the church and the inn sign had creaked all night outside their room. She had thought she was in heaven, there in James’s arms. She hadn’t known what bliss really was, had not known until she had lain with this man.

‘We can explore together. I have never been there. My parents did not believe in taking us up to London as children.’

‘Never? No, of course, if you ran away when you were seventeen you had no chance as a young man either. Will you take Perrott? He will enjoy sending you to tailors and hatters and bootmakers. But I expect you will disappoint him and refuse to be measured and fussed over.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Ross shot her an enigmatic look before getting off the bed. ‘A married man should be well turned out, don’t you agree?’

‘Ross…’ Meg stretched out a hand to him. ‘Please do not assume what my answer will be. I do not know my own mind, truly I do not. I cannot promise you anything.’

‘Not even hope?’

‘No.’ Meg threw back the covers and pulled her nightgown over her head. ‘I am sorry. Not even that.’

However ambivalent the feelings of their employer and his housekeeper it was clear that Damaris and Perrott regarded the entire trip to London as a holiday. Even the action of the post chaise, one of the infamous yellow bounders, was not enough to dampen Damaris’s spirits. ‘Just like being at sea in Uncle Henry’s fishing boat,’ she said cheerily as Meg stared fixedly out of the window and tried to settle her mind on something other than her stomach or Ross.

They spent the first night at Ashburton, the second at Andover. On both occasions Meg and Damaris chastely shared one room and Ross and Perrott another and they dined together in a private parlour. Ross kept all conversation at meals strictly impersonal and passed the time in the post chaise reading a fat file of correspondence and making notes. Damaris and Perrott played cards or watched the world go by and Meg brooded. She felt oddly lonely, despite having three companions.

Her deep thought had brought no answers by the time the carriage drew up in front of a house in Clarges Street. They were in Mayfair, Ross told them, and she needed no more than that and one glimpse of the house to know they were in the very heart of fashionable London. The railings were ornate, the front door with its brass work was wide and the passers-by had a certain air about them that reduced Damaris to nervous giggles until Perrott elbowed her sharply.

‘The knocker is on the door.’ It gleamed, as did the paintwork and the windows. There was a cook who doubled as housekeeper when the family was away and it appeared she knew her business.

‘I wrote to warn them to expect us,’ Ross said as the door opened.

‘My lord.’ The butler at the door was younger than Heneage, his tail coat of a sharper cut, his bow more precise.
The London touch
, Meg thought with an inward smile. Ross looked back as though waiting for her to precede him, then must have recalled her status, for he went through the door leaving his little entourage of country servants to follow in his wake.

I could walk up these steps on his arm. Lady Brandon entering her smart town house.
Fantasy. And besides, she loved him for himself, not for possessions or title.

‘Woodward.’ Ross nodded to the butler as two tall footmen went to retrieve the bags. ‘This is Mrs Halgate, the new housekeeper at the Court, Perrott, my valet, and Damaris, Mrs Halgate’s maid. You will see to their comfort, I am sure. Mrs Halgate, would you be so good as to take tea with me tomorrow afternoon so we can discuss any changes you wish to make here?’

‘My lord.’ Meg bowed her head. ‘I will make a list.’

‘Well?’ Ross enquired as Meg curtsied and took her place behind the tea tray. ‘Thank you, Felton, that will be all.’ The footman took himself off and Meg set out the tea cups looking delightfully domestic. But she was pale. How was she feeling? He had missed her in his bed and to talk to, but he was wary of giving the servants here any cause for suspicion about her status.

‘Very well, my lord. This is a pleasant house, if somewhat dark and cluttered.’

‘That was not what I meant, Meg. Have you been giving any thought to my proposal?’

‘I have thought of little else.’ She poured the tea, then skimmed the surface of both cups with the mote spoon, concentrating, it seemed to Ross, on the simple task to avoid looking at him. ‘Milk or lemon, my lord?’

‘Lemon. Meg, have you an answer for me?’

‘No.’ She passed him the fragile Worcester cup. Her hand appeared steady until he saw that the surface of amber liquid trembled. ‘My thoughts run in circles, my conscience keeps me awake at night and—I ache for you.’ She put her own cup down with a clatter. Her composed face crumpled and Ross was half out of his chair before she waved him back.

‘No, it is all right. I am tired from the journey and learning about a new household, that is all.’

‘They treat you with respect?’ He wanted to hold her, tell her to weep if she wanted. He was doing this to her and he hated himself. But not enough to stop. ‘I spoke to Woodward and Mrs Richmond, told them that you were an officer’s widow, a lady forced by circumstances to take this post.’

‘They are most respectful. But, no, Ross. I do not have an answer for you.’

‘Come with me tomorrow,’ he said on an impulse, fighting not to show disappointment or impatience. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her until all her rational thought, her conscience, her modesty, flew out of the window and all that was left was a quivering, yearning woman in his arms. But that was not his Meg. That was not who he needed. ‘I have to go into the City first to sign papers, but today’s meeting has dealt with most of the important matters, I will not take long. Then we can see the sights together.’

‘Alone?’

‘In an open carriage with a footman up behind. I believe there is a barouche in the mews. Surely there is sufficient excuse on a first visit to London to make such an expedition unexceptionable?’

‘Yes, I expect there is,’ Meg said, an edge to her voice that was either anger or tears. ‘You are a master of temptation, Ross.’

He had to be content with that, he thought later, spreading out the paperwork from his London lawyer and attempting to concentrate on the knotty question of lease renewals on a row of speculative houses towards Tavistock Square. But Meg’s face kept coming back to him. There had been dark shadows under her eyes, she had lost weight—and she had little enough to lose in the first place—and when she spoke there was strain in her voice, even when she said something light.

Am I bullying her?
He dropped his pen, heedless of splashes, rubbing his hands over his face to try to clear his head. But she had not feigned passion when they made love and she was a strong woman, strong enough to say
no
if she meant it. If she was certain. Which meant she was not certain and that was cutting into her sleep and her peace. While she was still unsure, then there was hope.

Ross flattened the architect’s drawings under his hand and made himself study them. After five minutes he realised they would make more sense the right way up. Why was he feeling like this? The world was full of women: attractive, intelligent, eligible women. Women who would be passionate in bed. Women who could make him smile. If Meg turned him down, he had to find only one of those women. There was no need to feel as though her refusal would be a tragedy. None whatsoever.

‘I
found a guidebook in the library. And as we are in the City I suggest we start here. There is the Tower of London, the Guildhall, St Paul’s Cathedral, the Bank of England—where shall we begin?’

‘The Tower, if you please, my lord,’ Meg said, aware of the footman up behind the open barouche. ‘It sounds most romantical. I feel a complete country bumpkin—wide-eyed and dependent on the guidebook.’

‘Which is all of fifteen years out of date,’ Ross admitted with a grin. ‘The Tower, Jenkins,’ he told the driver then settled back in the seat beside Meg.

She caught her breath at the sight of the White Tower when it came into view and stared with awe at the moat and the towering bastions. ‘It is so old. Think of all the historical events that have taken place within those walls.’

‘What would you like to see, Mrs Halgate?’ Ross handed her down at the West Gate.

‘The Menagerie and the Jewel House,’ Meg decided. ‘And you, my lord?’

‘The Menagerie by all means and the Armoury. Jenkins, you may have a while to wait. Walk the horses, if you please.’

Ross waited until they were through the gates and he had paid their shillings, before tucking Meg’s hand through his arm. ‘There, you may now stop calling me my lord, at every sentence.’

‘We must be discreet.’ She tried not to think about the warmth of his body through her glove and against her arm. It seemed so long since they had last kissed, since she had lain in his arms. ‘Look,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘Here is the Menagerie.’