An Unusual Bequest
Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

Chapter One

Early 1817

Charlotte watched as the last of the mourners climbed into their carriages and were driven away. There had not been many of them because Lord Hobart had been old and had outlived most of his contemporaries and in the last four or five years had become something of a recluse, receiving few visitors and never going out beyond the boundaries of Easterley Manor grounds, which stretched from the tiny village of Parson’s End in one direction and the lighthouse on the cliff in the other.

‘My lady, a sad day.’

The parson’s voice brought her back from the contemplation of the sodden garden and the last coach disappearing round the bend in the drive. ‘Yes, Reverend, it is. I shall miss him.’

‘What will you do?’ The Reverend Peter Fuller was a tall man, as thin as some of his half-starved parishioners, and Charlotte often wondered how much of his own food he gave away and how often he waived the tithe from some farmer who had been beset by disaster. He was a true Christian gentleman and they often worked together to alleviate the plight of the poor in the village and in trying to bring a little schooling to the children.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, my lady, your father-in-law was a very old man, you must have given a thought to what might happen when he died. He has another son and he will surely be coming back to take over.’

‘He is in India where his father banished him, as I am sure you know, Reverend. No one has secrets in this village.’ Cecil Hobart, younger son of his lordship, was the proverbial black sheep of the family. He had been an inveterate gambler in his youth and his father had stood buff for him on so many occasions, paying debts amounting to thousands of guineas, that in the end he had said ‘enough is enough’ and packed him off to India to make his own way in the East India Company. At the time his older half-brother, Charlotte’s husband, had been alive and the banishment had presented no problems of succession. But Grenville had been killed in Portugal in 1809, leaving Charlotte a widow and the mother of two daughters. There was no male heir but the absent Cecil.

Even after Grenville’s death, Lord Hobart had not recalled his younger son and Charlotte and her two daughters continued to live in the family home, which Charlotte ran with commendable efficiency. In the last two years she had been nurse as well as daughter and housekeeper.

‘He will come back just as soon as he hears the news that he is the new Lord Hobart,’ the Reverend went on. ‘And if he has not changed…’ He paused, wondering how much he dare say. Cecil Hobart’s reputation was such that he feared for any lady living under his roof. He did not know exactly how old she was, but guessed it was less than thirty, and she was still a very attractive woman with a tendency to believe the best of everyone in spite of evidence to the contrary. It would be easy for a ruthless man to pull the wool over her eyes.

Charlotte turned to face him, her soft aquamarine eyes betraying her sadness at the loss of the man who had been a second father to her and whom she had dearly loved. She knew that her calm, well-ordered life was about to change, that was inevitable, but she didn’t want to think about it while grief filled her mind to the exclusion of everything but day-to-day tasks and shielding her two young daughters as far as possible. ‘I wrote to Cecil several weeks ago when I realised the end could not be far off,’ she said. ‘In spite of the estrangement, I know his lordship wanted to see him again before he died. Alas, it was not to be, but perhaps he is on his way now. I must look after everything until he arrives. He may wish me to carry on as I have been doing.’

‘And if he does not? Have you no family you can apply to?’

‘None, except Lord Falconer, my mother’s uncle, and I have never met him. He succeeded to the title when his brother, my grandfather, died, but he quarrelled with Mama when she wanted to marry Papa and said he washed his hands of her.’ She smiled briefly. ‘His dire warnings that she would regret marrying a nobody of an Irish sea captain were ill founded; my parents were blissfully happy until Papa was killed at Trafalgar. My mother died of a fever less than a year later. Great-uncle Joseph did not write and offer condolences and I assumed the rift was complete. By then I had married Sir Grenville…’ She stopped, remembering how bereft she had felt on learning of her husband’s death eight years before. Coming so soon after her parents’ demise, it had been a terrible blow, but Lord Hobart had been a great comfort. And now, he too, had gone. She had never felt so alone.

‘I understand, but, my lady, I strongly urge you to write to your relative. Time may have healed the rift and you may have need of him.’

She smiled wearily. ‘I thank you for your concern, Reverend, but I will not go cap in hand to someone who has never even acknowledged my existence. Besides, I do not want to leave Parson’s End. I have commitments here. I cannot leave the house and servants with no one in charge, or the village children who rely on me for their schooling.’

She had started the school after Grenville died to give her something to take her mind off her grief and what had begun as a kind of balm for her grieving heart had become a passion to see the education of the poor improved.

‘That may be so,’ he said, smiling indulgently. ‘But that is not reason enough to stay if life becomes intolerable, is it?’

‘There is no reason to suppose it will be intolerable and Fanny and Lizzie are upset enough over the death of their grandfather without dragging them away from the only home they have known.’

He had said his piece and there was nothing more he could do for her, except keep a fatherly eye on her. He took his leave and set off at a brisk walk down the drive, his gown flapping out behind him. Charlotte watched until he was out of sight and then turned back indoors.

It was an ancient house, with irregular rooms, uneven floors, heavy old furniture that had been in its place for generations. Some rooms, like the late Lady Hobart’s boudoir, and the drawing room, had been decorated in the modern fashion with light, stylish furniture and colourful drapes, but much of the rest predated the Civil War. But she loved it, old and new. She loved its huge fireplaces, commodious cupboards and chests, its long deep windows overlooking the gardens, impeccably kept and bordered by pine woods on one side and the cliffs and the North Sea on the other. She did not want to leave it.

Old Lord Hobart had been confined to his bedchamber for the past two years, but, even so, the house seemed empty without him. His presence had always filled it, even when he was not actively engaged in the running of it. He had been a big, much loved man, especially by Charlotte and her daughters, but the servants, too, had admired and respected him. He had been a stern employer, but a fair one, and because Charlotte had his unswerving confidence and support, they had obeyed her as if it were the master of the house himself who had issued the orders. Charlotte did not expect anything to change in that respect, not until the new master arrived and took over. After that, she did not know what would happen. The Reverend had not said anything that had not already crossed her mind.

Cecil Hobart was the son of his lordship’s second marriage and several years younger than Grenville. She had met him once or twice when she and Grenville had first been married, but the brothers did not get on well together and Cecil spent most of his time in lodgings in London and only came to Easterley Manor when he needed funds. She had not been present in the room the last time he had visited, but she had heard the angry words even through thick closed doors. Afterwards Lord Hobart had sent his younger son not only from his house, but from the country.

‘Ten thousand, he owed,’ Grenville had told her later. ‘And not a hope of recouping. Father threatened to let him stew in his own juice, but of course he could not do that. He has paid his debts and undertaken to make him a reasonable allowance, so long as he stays in India.’

‘For the rest of his life?’ she had asked.

‘One must suppose so, unless he can produce evidence he is a reformed character, but I cannot see that happening.’

‘What will happen when your father…when his lordship dies?’

‘Then, my dear, the responsibility will rest with me. I shall do whatever my father asks me to do.’

Nothing more had been said, but how was he to know, how was anyone to know, that Grenville would decide to go off on that ill-fated mission to Spain in 1809 and get himself killed alongside General Moore at Corunna? Charlotte, mother of two daughters, Elizabeth, then three years old and Frances, fourteen months, had begged him not to go, that as his father’s heir he need not, but Grenville had a strong sense of duty and adventure and seemed convinced of his indestructibility. ‘General Moore needs experienced officers,’ he had said. ‘The Spaniards are brave men but ill disciplined and against Napoleon won’t stand a chance without our help. I could not refuse to go. We shall be home again in no time.’

She could not dissuade him and he had set off full of hope and enthusiasm, never to return. Lord Hobart had taken the loss of his son and heir very badly and, though they had comforted each other, it had been the beginning of his downhill slide into senility.

The girls, hearing her mother’s visitor leaving, had come along the hall from the kitchen where Cook had been trying to cheer them up with sugar plums. They came each side of her and put their arms about her waist.

‘Come, girls, tea in the nursery, I think,’ she told them. ‘It is peaceful up there and will give the servants the opportunity to tidy up after our visitors. Then we will play a game of cross-questions before bedtime.’

‘Will we never see Grandpapa again?’ Fanny asked ‘Never ever?’

Charlotte looked down at her, wondering how to answer. A blunt ‘never’ might be accurate, but would only add to the child’s grief. While she paused, Lizzie answered for her. ‘Course not, he’s been put in the ground, but Miss Quinn says he won’t stay there but go to heaven and we may see him again when we go there ourselves.’ She gave a huge sigh. ‘But she said it would be years and years and by then we will be old ourselves.’

Charlotte hugged them both, these daughters who were so dear to her and the only legacy her husband had left her. There was a tiny annuity that had been settled on her as part of the marriage contract, but as the late Lord Hobart had paid all her bills, most of that had been spent on helping the poor among the villagers. Unless the new Lord Hobart saw fit to give her and her daughters a home and continue as his father had done, they would be in dire straits.

Lord Hobart had not expected to lose his heir, nor his wits, and his will had been made years before when Grenville was alive and Cecil out of favour. The house and estate would go to his elder son, who would tend it and care for it and make it pay just as he had done and his father before him. Cecil had, according to his lordship, already been given all that was due to him when his gambling debts were paid and his allowance fixed upon. The old man had been far more interested in his grandchildren, those already born and those yet to come and all unentailed funds had been left in trust for them, to be administered by trustees. It was an unusual bequest and Charlotte wondered how it would stand up in law, but she had no wish to try to overturn it. It provided for her daughters’ dowries and that was all that concerned her. But Grenville had predeceased his half-brother and the Manor now belonged to Cecil.

Mother and daughters mounted the carved oak staircase which rose from the middle of the tiled hall and then up another set of stairs to the second-floor nursery suite and schoolroom where Joan Quinn held sway over her charges. She was waiting for them, her stern, upright bearing belying the loving feelings she had for the two little girls. ‘Has everyone gone, my lady?’ she asked Charlotte.

‘Yes, Quinny, it is all over and now we must try to return to normal.’

‘Of course. Tea has been brought up. Will you stay and have some with us?’

‘Yes, and I promised the girls a game before bedtime. Tomorrow, we will do whatever we usually do on a Thursday.’

They sat round the nursery table and ate bread and butter, muffins and honey cakes, washed down with weak tea. After five days of being unable to eat properly, Charlotte suddenly found that she was hungry and the simple meal was exactly what she needed. She sipped her tea and surveyed her daughters. They had been broken-hearted by the death of their grandfather, who had always managed to talk to them on their own level and thought up interesting and informative games for them, who had taught them the names of the wild flowers that grew in the park and woods, took them scavenging on the beach and showed them the course of his military campaigns on a map. He had been a great soldier in his day, just as their father had been.

Lizzie was raven haired like her father, with brown eyes so like his that Charlotte was sometimes taken aback when she saw in them the intelligence and pride and refusal to be beaten that had been so characteristic of him. Fanny was softer, more rounded; her hair was paler than her sister’s and her complexion pinker. She was the more sensitive of the two and found it hard to accept that Grandpa was not in his room dozing, as he had done so often of late.

‘Do you think the new Lord Hobart will come?’ Miss Quinn asked Charlotte. She had been Charlotte’s governess when she was a child and, when she grew too old to need one, had stayed with her as her maid. Now she fulfilled both functions.

‘New Lord Hobart?’ queried Lizzie. ‘What do you mean? Who is he?’

Miss Quinn looked at Charlotte without speaking. ‘He is your Uncle Cecil,’ Charlotte answered for her. ‘I expect he will be coming soon to take Grandpapa’s place…’

‘No, no,’ Lizzie cried. ‘I don’t want him to. I don’t want anyone in Grandpa’s place.’

‘Nevertheless, he will come because he owns the house and the estate now and we will make him welcome.’

‘Well, I shan’t. I shall hate him.’

‘Why? It is not his fault your grandfather died.’ Even as she spoke she wondered how true that was. How much had sorrow over his younger son contributed to his slide downhill? The loss of Grenville had been the main factor, she was sure, but after that, the estrangement from his younger son had preyed upon his mind, though he was too stubborn to hold out the olive branch. Charlotte knew this, though his lordship rarely spoke of him. A second son, happily in the bosom of his family, prepared to work and take his proper place in the scheme of things might have mitigated his loss. Perhaps Cecil had changed, perhaps he was now ready to face up to his responsibilities…

She distracted the children from the conversation and they finished their tea and set about the game of cross-questions, which occupied them for an hour or so. After they had gone to bed, Charlotte went back downstairs, back to reality, and that set her wondering about the future again and whether her brother-in-law could be relied upon to give her a home. But even if he did, she would still need to find an income from somewhere in order to retain her independence. Whatever happened, she must protect and provide for her children.

The crowd in the card room at White’s was noisier than usual. There were four men at one table who had imbibed too freely and were becoming boisterous. Viscount Stacey Darton sat a little way off, idly watching them and wondering how long it would be before they came to blows. One of them looked vaguely familiar and, though he racked his memory, he could not place him. He was thickset and his face was tanned to the colour of rusty hide, even more than Stacey’s, which, after three years, still retained a trace of the sun he had caught in Spain. The man was dressed in a black frockcoat and calf-length grey pantaloons at least two years out of date. His neckcloth was drooping and his hair untidy. Though he did not look like one, Stacey assumed he was a gentleman or he would not have been admitted to the club.

His companions were better dressed, young bucks out to fleece someone they saw as a rustic; each had a pile of coins and vouchers at his elbow. The untidy one threw down his cards. ‘That’s me out, gentlemen. I assume you will take another voucher?’

‘What, more post-obit bills, Cecil?’ one of his companions enquired. He was tall and so thin his face was almost cadaverous, surrounded by lank dark hair. ‘How do we know you will cough up when the time comes?’

Cecil laughed. ‘Because the time has already come, Roly, my friend. My revered father was buried today.’

‘Good Lord! Should you not have been at the funeral?’

‘Why? He never wanted me when he was alive, why should I trouble with him now he’s dead?’

‘So, you’ve come into your inheritance at last, have you?’ another asked, looking at Cecil under beetle-black brows. He was shorter and broader than the first speaker, his complexion swarthy.

‘Yes, but I’ll thank you not to noise it abroad, Gus, or I’ll have the dunners on my back before I can retreat.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

‘Oh, so you mean to repair into the country soon?’

‘Naturally I do. I must take up my inheritance, though what state it is in, I do not know. From what I hear, my father had windmills in his head the last few years and didn’t know what he was about.’ He laughed again. ‘It’s all been in the hands of my sister-in-law.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Oh, she’s comely enough, or she was, haven’t seen her for years and she’s had two bratlings since then, females, luckily for me. I’ll soon rid myself of her.’ He chuckled. ‘Unless she’s worth keeping. You never know…’

‘Supposing she has married again?’

‘Then she will most certainly be out on her ear and her husband along with her. I want no leeches on my back.’

‘I think, my friend, you need some protection,’ one of the others put in. ‘What say we come with you?’

Stacey smiled, knowing the men were not wishing to protect the man so much as the money he owed them and their debtor was well aware of it, but he shrugged as if it did not matter to him one way or the other. ‘Please yourselves, but be warned—the estate is on the coast of Suffolk, miles from anywhere. A dead end.’

‘Oh, we’ll soon liven it up.’

Stacey was still racking his brain to remember where he had seen the one called Cecil, when he heard his name called. He swivelled round to see a huge man bearing down on him, his face split in a wide grin. ‘Stacey Darton, by all that’s wonderful!’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand as Stacey rose to greet him, revealing himself to be almost as tall and broad as the newcomer.

Stacey had met Gerard Topham in Spain and they had fought alongside each other right to the end of the war, including the aftermath of Waterloo, and become great friends. ‘Topham, my old friend, I did not know you were in town.’

‘Nor I you. I thought you would be in the country with your family, or I would have let you know I was coming.’

‘I needed a respite.’

Gerard laughed and folded his huge frame into the chair next to Stacey’s, beckoning to a waiter to bring more wine. ‘You’ve only been back six months and you need a respite? Civilian life not to your liking, my friend?’

Stacey resumed his seat, forgetting the noisy card players. ‘Civilian life is fine, if a little dull; family is another matter. My father nags worse than an old woman and as for my daughter—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Never mind that, tell me what you are up to.’

Gerard poured from the bottle the waiter had brought. ‘I couldn’t settle to civilian life either, so I offered my services to the Home Office…’

‘Militia? A bit of a comedown after Spain, isn’t it?’

‘Not militia exactly. I’ve joined the Coast Blockade.’

Smuggling had fallen away after Pitt reduced the excise duty on tea, but it had received a boost when the wars with Napoleon began and a new line in merchandise offered itself: French prisoners of war going one way, spies coming the other. Later, when the French economy began to totter, English guineas fetched more than their face value. If reports Stacey read in the newspapers were accurate, it was still going on. The Coast Blockade had been formed to combat it. ‘Catching free-traders. That must make you very unpopular. Most people accept them, accept what they bring too.’

‘Maybe, but free-traders are far from the romantic figures those of us in our comfortable homes imagine them to be, bringing cheap luxuries, and doing no harm. Many of them are discharged soldiers with no work and a dangerous knowledge of firearms, explosives and tactics, learned in the service of their country, and they are putting their knowledge to good use. They are vicious and often murderous if someone stands in their way, and the damage they do to the economy of the country is enormous. Nabbing them is a challenge and I have never been able to resist a challenge. I came to town to report to the Home Office and tomorrow I’m off to ride along the coast, picking up what information I can along the way. Come with me, if you like.’

Stacey was tempted, but, remembering his responsibilities, smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I cannot. I must go home.’

‘To be nagged?’

‘Most likely.’

‘What about?’

‘Marrying again. My father thinks I have been widowed long enough and my daughter needs a mother, not to mention that he wants a male heir before he dies. Not that he is ailing, far from it. He is hale and hearty. Too hearty sometimes. As for my daughter, she has been thoroughly spoiled by her grandparents. I shall have to take her in hand.’

‘And you are not relishing it?’

‘She is like a stranger to me, treats me with polite indifference as if I were a visitor who has outstayed his welcome. Understandable, I suppose, considering I was with the army all her life and saw her very infrequently. Her mother was expecting her when I was posted out to India and would not come with me because of her condition and her fear of the climate. In the event she was proved right, because she died having Julia…’

Gerard had known that, but he hadn’t known of the difficulties his friend faced on returning home. ‘I’m sorry, old man. So, you are in town looking for a wife?’

‘My father might wish it, but I don’t. Anyway the Season is not yet begun and I am not in the market for a débutante; they are almost always too young and usually too silly. If I remarry, it would have to be someone of my own age or perhaps a little younger if I am to have an heir, with a modicum of intelligence and common sense, not to mention having some regard for me and me for her. I am unlikely to find someone like that in the drawing rooms of the ton. It won’t be an easy task, considering whoever takes me on has to take my wayward daughter with me, and at this moment I do not feel inclined to inflict her upon anyone.’

‘Oh, surely she is not as bad as that?’

‘I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but she has become a hoyden of the first water, rides astride her black stallion all over the estate, shoots and fishes and hunts, just as if she were a boy. I wish she were a boy, I could be proud of a male child with those accomplishments. There isn’t a feminine bone in her body and at thirteen that is to be deplored.’

‘That will change, given the company of other young ladies of her age. Send her away to school.’

‘I thought of that, but I can’t find one to take her. She doesn’t want to go, so, whenever I take her to view a school and meet the teachers, she behaves so badly they won’t even consider her. And my father is no help. He humours her in whatever she wants and told me he likes to have her near him.’ He stopped suddenly and laughed. ‘I am sure you do not want to hear about our family squabbles. Let us have dinner together and talk of old times and free-traders and anything else but wives and children. I assume you have neither shackles.’

‘No, and, if your experience is typical, I am glad of it.’ He turned as the group of card players behind him tipped over their chairs as they rose drunkenly to go. ‘I don’t know what White’s is coming to, allowing people like that through the doors. Who are they, do you know?’

‘No idea,’ Stacey murmured. ‘That swarthy one with the scar on his cheek seems familiar, but I cannot place him. When you arrived he was telling the others he had just come into his inheritance. If it means a title and some blunt to go with it, I suppose that’s why they were admitted.’ He watched the men leave, lurching from side to side and grabbing hold of each other for support. ‘He said the estate had been run by his sister-in-law of late and he was about to go to Suffolk to claim it from her. I pity her, whoever she is.’

They dismissed the men from their minds and did as Stacey had suggested and ordered dinner and enjoyed a convivial evening reminiscing about their time in Portugal and Spain and the horror that was Waterloo, the terrible state of the economy, the poverty and unrest in the country and the extravagance of the Regent, who must surely be the most unpopular ruler in England’s history. And from there they went on to smugglers and lawbreakers generally, many of whom were driven to desperate measures by poverty and hunger, and what could be done to cure the country’s ills. By the time they parted, they had set the world to rights and Stacey was feeling more cheerful, though none of his problems had been solved or were on the way to being solved.

His father had a town house in Duke Street and he ambled back there at two in the morning, deciding that he must do something about Julia, though he freely admitted he knew nothing about bringing up children, especially girl children fast approaching womanhood. If only Anne-Marie had not died…

He reflected on his eighteen months of marriage, eighteen months in which he had bitterly regretted being talked into it by his parents. ‘She will make an admirable wife,’ he had been told. ‘She has the right connections and a good dowry and she is more than agreeable.’ That had been true, but what they had failed to point out and what he had been too young to appreciate was that Anne-Marie was little more than a schoolgirl with an empty head. She wanted him for what he could provide: the status of being addressed as ‘my lady’ and clothes and jewellery, piles and piles of clothes and boxes and boxes of jewels. She was entirely ignorant of the duties of a wife and, once he had got her with child, would have nothing more to do with him and sat about all day eating sweetmeats. Who could blame him for purchasing his colours and going off to India to serve with Sir Arthur Wellesley? Later, after a brief sojourn at home, he had gone to Spain with him to share in his setbacks and his victories. Sir Arthur had been showered with honours and become first Viscount, then Marquis and now the Duke of Wellington, beloved of the people. Stacey came home to a problematic daughter and very little else.

Would Anne-Marie have matured if she had lived? Would their marriage have reached any kind of accommodation? He doubted it. But her legacy was Julia and their daughter was his responsibility, not his father’s. He should not have left her so long that he had become a stranger to her. But he did not think returning with a new wife was the answer either. She would then have two strangers to contend with and, as she resented him, how much more would she hate a stepmother? He resolved to return home the next day and take her in hand.

The cold and rain of the last few weeks eased overnight and the sun was trying to shine, though it was hazy and the roads were still full of puddles that drenched pedestrians every time a carriage clattered by. He spent the morning at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium in Bond Street, honing his boxing skills, and the afternoon at Tattersalls, wondering whether to buy a mare to put to his stallion, Ivor. At six o’clock he went home, changed into a travelling coat, ate a solitary meal and took a cab to the Spread Eagle in Gracechurch Street to board the stage for Norwich. He was only marginally surprised to find three of the card players of the previous evening were also travelling on it. After all, the man called Cecil had said something about going to Suffolk to claim his inheritance and it was roughly in the same direction.

The men were not as rowdy as they had been the night before; in fact, they looked very grey about the face with dull, red-rimmed eyes. Stacey was thankful they were disinclined to talk and, as soon as all the baggage had been stowed and the outside passengers had climbed to their perches, he settled in the corner of the coach and shut his eyes. They were out of town and well on their way before anyone spoke and then it was the man he had heard addressed as Cecil who uttered the first words. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

Stacey ignored him, but the man leaned forward and poked his knee, repeating his question. Forced to open his eyes, Stacey found the fellow close to him, breathing brandy fumes through blackened teeth, although Stacey noticed he had bought himself a new suit of clothes and was looking tolerably smart. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t need to beg my pardon, friend, I was merely passing a comment that we have met before.’

‘Have we?’

‘I believe so. Hobart’s the name. Lord Hobart of Easterley Manor.’

‘Your servant,’ Stacey said without enthusiasm. He had taken an aversion to the man, though he could not have said why. It wasn’t simply his looks, which he could not help, but his manner, which was rough and coarse. And the derogatory way he had spoken of his sister-in-law was not the way of a gentleman. He did not know the woman, but, whoever she was, she surely did not merit such disparagement, especially if she had been looking after his property for him.

‘And you are…?’ Cecil prompted.

‘My name can be of no interest to you.’

‘Indeed it is, if we are acquainted.’ He suddenly banged his head and laughed. ‘Malcomby, that’s it! You are the Earl’s son. I knew I recognised your physog.’

Stacey groaned inwardly. It seemed the man did know who he was. ‘Stacey Darton,’ he said.

‘The Viscount. Well, well. After all these years.’

‘I am afraid I do not recall…’

‘No, you would not, I was only a young shaver at the time and you were a Captain of Hussars, very grand, I thought you. I might have taken up the sword to defend king and country myself if I had not had business on the sub-continent. Do you still not remember where we met?’

Stacey shook his head. In spite of his apparent indifference he was curious.

‘It was at my mother’s funeral. She was Madeleine Stacey, your father’s cousin. You were named for her.’

‘Cousin?’ He remembered now. Madeleine was daughter to his father’s aunt and as, at the time of her death, he had returned from India and was waiting to rejoin his regiment, he had gone with his father to the funeral. And this uncouth man was her son. He could hardly believe it, did not want to believe it.

‘That makes us second cousins, does it not?’ Cecil held out his hand. ‘How d’ you do, Cousin.’

Stacey, never an uncivil man, shook the hand and was then obliged to shake hands with his companions who were agog with curiosity. ‘May I present my friends,’ Cecil said, ‘This is Mr Augustus Spike.’ He indicated the beetle-browed man sitting beside him. ‘And that spidershanks sitting beside you is Sir Roland Bentwater. We are off to Parson’s End to claim my inheritance.’ He evidently had not noticed Stacey at White’s the night before. ‘My dear father recently slipped his wind, but, though he sent for me, I sadly did not arrive in time to see him alive.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Stacey said politely.

‘And you, where is your journey taking you?’

‘Home to Malcomby Hall.’

‘Is it the first time you have been home? Since the war, I mean.’

‘No. I returned six months ago.’

‘And how is your delightful wife?’

‘She died several years ago.’

‘I am sorry for that.’ The man did not seem to notice Stacey’s perfunctory answers. ‘And how are the Earl and Countess?’

‘They are both well.’

‘Good, good. I wonder you choose to travel by public coach when there must be horses and carriages to spare at Malcomby Hall.’

Stacey was beginning to wonder himself; his father would have allowed him to take the carriage, but he knew his mother used it all the time and he did not want to deprive her of it, especially as he did not know how long he would be gone. There was a gig and a phaeton, but they were not suitable for long journeys, nor would his parents use them when the weather was inclement, as it had been. The stage seemed the sensible choice, but now it looked as though he was going to have to spend several hours in the company of this unlikeable fellow.

He was saved having to answer when the coach pulled up at an inn for their first change of horses. He did not bother to go inside for refreshment, but waited in the coach. Half an hour later, they were off again, but, as more passengers had joined them and kept the conversation going, Stacey had only to put in an occasional remark. It grew dark and the countryside could no longer be seen except as a blur of trees and hedgerows; the talk became more desultory and many of the passengers dozed. It was easy for Stacey to pretend to do likewise.

It was gone three in the morning when the coach rumbled into the yard of the Great White Horse in Ipswich. ‘This is where we part company, Cousin,’ Cecil said. ‘Parson’s End is not on a regular coach route, so we must rack up here and make other arrangements to continue our journey. But we are in no hurry and who knows—we might find a snug little inn somewhere where the play is good.’

The coach pulled up in the yard of the inn and immediately the business of changing the horses was begun. Cecil Hobart and his friends tumbled out. Before shutting the door, Cecil turned back to Stacey. ‘Give the Earl and Countess my greetings, won’t you?’ he said. ‘You must bring them to Easterley Manor to visit when I have settled my affairs.’

‘They do not travel far these days.’

‘No? Well, neither did my father. But there is nothing to stop you coming, is there? Families should not lose touch, should they? But leave it a day or two, give me time to settle in.’

Stacey smiled and bowed his head politely in response. That the man should turn out to be a relative was repugnant to him and he had no intention at all of visiting him, or even of thinking of him again. People were always claiming they knew him or were related to him, simply because of his title and wealth and whatever advantage they thought the connection might bring. Only in the army with people like Captain Gerard Topham was his title ignored and he was recognised by his rank of Major, which was the one he preferred.

The coach continued on its way with different passengers, taking the road to Norwich where it stopped at the Old Ram coaching inn where he had left his mount. Here he ate breakfast before setting off on horseback to complete his journey.

The sun was warm on his back as he rode and the birds were singing as if to tell him the winter was gone and spring was on its way. His spirits rose. Perhaps he would find Julia in a better frame of mind, ready to listen to him and behave in a more comely fashion. He was sorely disappointed within a few minutes of turning in the great iron gates of Malcomby Hall.

Deciding to take a short cut through the trees rather than ride along the gravelled drive that meandered on its way to the house, his attention was drawn to Julia’s stallion, Ebony, tethered with another horse in a small clearing. He drew up and was wondering where Julia was and who owned the other animal, when he heard the sound of laughter coming from the direction of the lake. He dismounted and, leaving his horse with the others, trod softly towards the sound. Coming out of the trees at the side of the lake, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight that greeted him.

Cold as it was, Julia was bathing in the water and she was completely naked, her long blond hair loose and flowing out around her head; what was worse, there was a young lad with her, also completely naked. They were laughing and splashing each other like small children. But they were no longer children. She was thirteen, her body was that of a young woman. He was struck dumb for several seconds and then he roared. He roared loud and long. Startled, the boy and girl looked round and began a mad scramble to get out and retrieve their clothes, lying on the bank

‘Julia, stay where you are,’ Stacey shouted. ‘You, whoever you are, get dressed and come here.’

The boy scrambled into his pantaloons, picked up his shirt and coat, but, instead of approaching Stacey, disappeared into the trees. Stacey let him go and turned his attention to his daughter. She was out of the water and standing with her back to him, pulling a chemise over her head. Even in his fury, he could appreciate her youthful curved figure, with its neat waist. ‘When you are decently dressed, you may join me by the horses,’ he said, and turned from her to retrace his steps. She came to him two minutes later, flashing defiance from her blue eyes. ‘I don’t know why you are making such a fuss,’ she said as she scrambled into her saddle. ‘We were doing no harm.’

He could not trust himself to speak, but mounted his own horse and, picking up her reins, led her horse back towards the house without saying a word. It was an indignity that infuriated her and she tugged once or twice on the reins to try and wrest them from him, but, when she failed, slumped in her saddle and completed the journey in smouldering silence.

‘Go up to your room,’ Stacey told her when they reached the side door of the house nearest the stables. ‘Get dressed properly and, when you are fit to be seen, come down to the library. I wish to speak to you.’

After she had gone, he left the horses with the grooms and made his way slowly into the house, completely at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. He passed the drawing room on his way to the library. The door was open and his parents were sitting one on each side of the hearth; his mother was doing some embroidery and his father was reading a newspaper. They looked so complacently content, he was incensed all over again. ‘So this is how you look after my daughter in my absence, sir,’ he said, stopping in the doorway to glare at them. ‘Reading and stitching while she is running wild. Thanks to you, she is ruined beyond redemption.’

‘Oh, dear, what has she done now?’ his mother asked.

‘You may well ask. I rode through the woods on my way home and what did I find? My daughter, your beloved granddaughter, swimming in the lake…’

‘Oh, dear, it is so cold,’ Lady Malcomby said. ‘She will catch her death. I hope you have sent her to Susan to be warmed.’

‘If she were a boy I would warm her myself, I’d dust her breeches so she could not sit down for a week,’ he said.

‘Oh, come,’ his father said. ‘That’s doing it too brown.’

‘You have not heard the worst of it. She was naked as the day she was born—’

‘Naked!’ shrieked her ladyship, dropping her embroidery. ‘You mean she had no clothes on?’

‘Not even her chemise. Nor was she alone. There was some yokel with her. They were laughing and splashing each other…’

‘Was he also…Oh, dear, was he…?’

He nodded. ‘Not a stitch. Now perhaps you will tell me how to proceed, for I am sure I do not know what to do. I fear I shall thrash her as soon as look at her.’

‘Won’t help,’ his father said. ‘She is a child and I doubt she sees any wrong in what she has done and making a mountain out of it will only make her more wilful.’

‘She is not a child.’ He was almost shouting. ‘She is nearly a woman. If you had seen her as I did, coming out of the water, you would know that. Children grow up, you know, they do not remain children just because you would like them to. Had you not noticed that?’

‘Can’t say I had,’ his father said complacently. ‘But I suppose you are right.’

‘Then what am I to do?’

‘Lock her in her room for a few hours, I find that usually does the trick.’

Stacey laughed harshly. ‘Do you suppose locking her bedroom door will contain her? I’ll wager she can get out of the window and down the ivy as easily as I once could.’

‘Could you?’ his mother asked, diverted. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Who was the boy?’ the Earl asked.

‘I have no idea and tracking him down will serve no purpose; she is too young to be married off. It is Julia I am concerned with. She will have to go away to be taught how a young lady should behave. Someone, somewhere, must be prepared to take her.’ He turned from them and made for the library just as Julia descended the stairs. She looked demure in pale pink spotted muslin with a deep rose sash, and her hair tied back with a matching ribbon. She held her head high and was followed by Susan Handy, the stout, middle-aged woman who was her governess and who had been his nurse and governess. She had evidently come with her to make sure he did not carry out his threat to thrash her darling.

He smiled grimly. Miss Handy was quite unable to control her charge because she was too indulgent and too fat and breathless to run after her when she escaped. He ought to have done something about her when he first returned home two years before, but he hadn’t had the heart to dismiss her, for where would she go? ‘I do not need you, Miss Handy,’ he said coldly. ‘You may wait for Julia upstairs.’

‘You will not be unkind to her, Master Stacey? I am sure she is very sorry for being naughty and will be good in future.’

‘That we shall see,’ he said coldly, ushering his daughter into the library ahead of him. His red-hot fury had abated and he was now icily calm.

‘Papa…’ she began.

‘You will not speak, you will not say a word until I say you may. I am very angry with you and if I ever get my hands on that young man…’

‘But it was not his fault. I found him bathing in the lake and it looked so inviting…’

‘That’s enough!’ he roared. ‘You will tell me honestly, did he touch you? Did he behave in any way…?’ He did not know how to put into words what he was asking.

‘Of course he did not,’ she said haughtily. ‘He would not dream of laying hands on the granddaughter of an earl.’

He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Let us be thankful for that. You are going away to school, even if I have to scour the length and breadth of the country to find one that will take you, and nothing you can say or do will make me change my mind.’

She would not cry. He could see her herculean efforts to control her tears in the way she blinked and gulped and lifted her chin even higher and he admired her for it, but he would not weaken. ‘Until I say you may, you will stay in your room, and Miss Handy will find some fitting study for you. A book on ladylike behaviour would be suitable if such a thing is to be found.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

My lord, she called him, just as if they were mere acquaintances and not father and daughter. It cut him to the quick, but he made no comment and waved her away, too choked to speak. He watched her go, wanting to rush after her and hug her, to tell her everything would be all right and he understood, but he could not; she was too much like her dead mother. He had to find an establishment headed by an understanding woman who would make a lady of her without breaking her spirit. And where was such a one to be had?

Chapter Two

Charlotte was chasing children along the beach when Stacey first saw her, running round and round and being caught and then setting off again, her arms wide, her bonnet askew, while the children squealed their delight. He reined in his horse to watch. His father had told him of a school in Ipswich that might take Julia and he had decided to ride along the coastal path rather than take the stage. He didn’t know why, except that it might be quieter and more conducive to problem solving than being bumped about in a coach and having to listen to his fellow travellers trying to make conversation. And he could take his time. Why he wanted to delay, he did not know. He strongly suspected it was because he was not sure he was doing the right thing in trying to pack his daughter off to strangers. Wasn’t that abrogating his responsibility? In the meantime she was safe enough at Malcomby Hall; his father had promised to keep a closer eye on her.

He had been deep in thought, clopping slowly along the cliff-top path when the sound of childish laughter brought him up short. How happy they sounded. He had ridden to the edge of the cliff and sat looking down at the beach. How many children were there? Ten, a dozen? Surely they could not all belong to the woman? She was how old? It was difficult to tell at that distance, but surely not old enough to have borne so many? And they were all different: some were dark, others fair, some warmly clad, others dressed in little more than rags. All but the woman were barefoot and a row of little boots and shoes stood sentinel on the side of the steep path that led down from the cliff top to the beach. The woman herself was dressed in a simple black gown and cape. Mourning, perhaps? But should a woman in mourning be laughing so joyfully?

Charlotte stopped suddenly, too out of breath to continue, and the children crowded round her, chattering excitedly. It was then she looked up and saw him. He was astride a big white stallion, dressed in a serviceable riding coat and a big cape. He doffed his tall riding hat and bowed to her. Discomforted, she looked away and began urging the children to gather up the seaweed and shells they had collected, while retying her bonnet, which had slipped down her back on its ribbons. Then she led them up the path towards him. He had not moved. Her first thought had been that it was Cecil who had come to claim his inheritance, but, as she drew nearer, she realised it was not. This man was a stranger and a very handsome one at that. Again, he doffed his hat, his brown eyes alight with amusement. ‘Good day, ma’am.’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘You have a very large family, ma’am.’ She was extraordinarily beautiful, he realised, with a clear unblemished complexion and eyes that were neither green nor blue, but something in between, and they looked him straight in the eye.

She smiled. ‘Yes, haven’t I? But I cannot claim them all for myself. These two are mine…’ She drew Lizzie and Fanny to her. ‘The others are my pupils.’

‘Ah, you are a schoolteacher.’

She opened her mouth to correct him, then changed her mind. Today she was a schoolteacher and perhaps, if Cecil proved not to be amenable, that was all she ever would be. She would try out the role on a stranger.

She loved teaching the little ones of the village; they were so receptive and eager to learn. Their parents had been against the idea at first, demanding to know why they needed an education; they themselves had managed without one and so would their sons and daughters. Charlotte and the Reverend Fuller had persuaded them to agree to send the children to school, so long as they were not needed to help on the farms with which the countryside around was dotted. Picking stones off the fields, scaring crows, watching the sheep, and helping with the harvest would always take precedence, and some were expected to look after younger siblings, but as they were allowed to bring the little ones to the classes, they gathered each afternoon in an unused coach house at the Rectory, which had been converted into a classroom, and here they learned to read and count. The bright ones among them were learning to write and to compose little stories, with particular attention being paid to their spelling and grammar.

Nor was that all; she taught them a little history and geography and took them out in the lanes and on to the beach to study nature. Being country children, they knew as much of country lore on a practical level as she did, but they all enjoyed the outings. And that included Lizzie and Fanny, whom she took with her. Lord Hobart, before he became too ill to know what was going on around him, had remonstrated with her for allowing her daughters to associate with the lower orders, but she had persuaded him there was no harm in it and it might do the girls some good.

The other children had been wary of them to begin with; Lizzie and Fanny, clad in their warm clothes and stout shoes, were inclined to be a little haughty, aware of their superior status, but they had soon learned to unbend. It was surprising, or perhaps it was not, just how much they were able to teach the other children and how much they learned themselves. Not all of it desirable!

Today, with her mind full of the loss of her father-in-law and uncertainty about the future, she had been unable to concentrate on lessons and had decided to bring the children to the beach to study the life in the pools left behind by the tide. It was the first really mild day of the year; the turbulent winds and heavy rain that had drenched the countryside from the beginning of the year right up until the day of Lord Hobart’s funeral had gone and now the air was clear. Down on the beach, the sea rippled gently over the sand, leaving behind little rock pools, teaming with microscopic life. It was so pleasant there and the children so excited, they had ended up playing a game of tag. She had been as energetic as the children, behaving like a child herself. Her hat had come off and the pins had come out of her hair, which could not be described as fair, but was not dark enough to be called auburn. To her it was a nothing colour, but to the observer on the cliff top it was delightfully unusual.

To have her behaviour witnessed by this rather superior horseman, who obviously found her conduct amusing, was disconcerting, but it was too late to revert to being the lady of the manor. She smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Today we are having a little break from formal lessons to learn about the sea and the tides and the creatures who live in the rock pools.’

‘So, I see.’ Again that smile. ‘I would that my school days had been as instructive.’ He was bamming her, she knew.

‘You did not like school?’ The children had grouped themselves around her, staring up at the man in curiosity, almost as if protecting her. She turned to them. ‘Put your shoes on, children.’

He watched idly as they obeyed, the older ones helping the smaller ones. One or two, he noticed, had no footwear at all. They were village children, being taught at a dame school, he supposed, but an unusual one. Dame schools usually confined themselves to teaching children their letters, and not even that sometimes. The teachers were often nearly as ignorant as their pupils, but this one was not like that. She was neat and well spoken and elegant, even in her plain black gown. ‘I liked it well enough,’ he answered her. ‘A necessary evil.’

‘How can you call it an evil? You undoubtedly had a privileged education, which is more than these little ones will have.’ She did not know why she was being so defensive towards a stranger, but he had put her hackles up, sitting there on that very superior horse with his very superior air, criticising her. ‘I can teach them little enough, but I do not think they see it as an evil.’

‘No, I am sure they do not, considering they are allowed to disport themselves running about in bare feet and shouting at the top of their lungs. What is that teaching them?’

‘It is teaching them to be happy, that there is more to life than hard work. It is teaching them to deal well with each other…’

‘And you think such lessons are necessary?’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘And what else do you teach them? When you are in the classroom, that is?’

Why was he quizzing her, why did he not simply ride away? she asked herself. What did he know of poverty? His clothes were plain, but they were made of good cloth and were well tailored. His riding cloak was warm and the horse he rode was a magnificent beast with powerful muscles and a proud head. Its glossy coat was almost pure white, except for a grey blaze on its nose. ‘I teach them to read, write and count and a little of the world beyond their narrow horizon.’

‘And polite behaviour?’ He really did not need to ask; the children were lined up in pairs, holding each other’s hands, waiting patiently to be told to move.

‘Of course. But if you are referring to the affectations which go by the name of politeness in society, I am afraid that passes them by. Now, if you will excuse me, the wind is becoming a little chill and, unlike you, they do not have warm cloaks. Come, children.’

She picked up the smallest, a child of no more than two, and, taking another by the hand, led them away. The two girls she had claimed as her own were well clothed, but not extravagantly so. Did she have a husband? Or was the black dress a sign of widowhood? A gentlewoman come upon hard times, perhaps. She intrigued him.

He started his horse forward, moving slowly along the top of the cliff, thinking about schools and Julia and a handsome and intelligent woman who had managed to put him in his place. Out on the sea a few fishing boats rocked on the swell and ahead of him was a lighthouse, which reminded him of Gerry Topham. He supposed it was the kind of area he patrolled as an excise officer. He envied his friend his independence; not for him worries about a reprobate daughter and a father who insisted he ought to marry again. His experience of marriage did not incline him to repeat the experiment; as for children, they appeared to be more a bane than a blessing. But was that necessarily true? The schoolteacher seemed perfectly at ease with them and they had been quiet and obedient when she had brought an end to their game and led them up the path towards him. If only he could find someone like her to tame Julia. His aimless thoughts were brought to an abrupt end when his horse stumbled. He dismounted to see what the trouble was and realised Ivor had cast a shoe.

‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed and looked about him for signs of habitation where a blacksmith might be found. There was nothing ahead of him, but, looking back, he could see a stand of pine trees and a curl of smoke that could only be the village to which the woman and the children were returning. Smiling a little, he turned the stallion and led him back to the spot where he had met them and from there followed a well-defined path that cut through the pines. He wondered if he might catch them up, but he did not do so before he found himself in the middle of the main street of the village.

There was a huddle of cottages, a church, an inn, some farm buildings and a smithy, to which he directed his steps. There were a few women on the street, who watched his progress with curiosity, but no sign of the schoolteacher and her charges. He surprised himself by feeling a little disappointed.

He found the blacksmith in his heavy leather apron hard at work beating a horseshoe into shape on his anvil, the ringing tones of his hammer and the flying sparks filling the air with a kind of eternal rhythm, at one with the days of the week and the recurring seasons. Beside him stood a sturdy Suffolk Punch, patiently waiting to receive the new shoe. Stacey stood and watched, knowing it would not do to interrupt in the middle of the task, but when it was done, the old blacksmith looked up. ‘Yer need my services, stranger?’

‘I do indeed. My horse has cast a shoe. Can you fix it for me?’

The old man followed him outside to where he had left the stallion with its reins thrown loosely over the hitching rail. After a cursory inspection all round the animal, he said, ‘’ Tis a mighty fine animal yer have here.’

‘Yes. His name’s Ivor. I bought him off a Russian Count in Austria. He’s seen me through many a battle.’

‘Ridden him all the way from Austria, have yer?’ It was said with a chuckle.

Stacey laughed. ‘No, just from the other side of Norwich. Why do you ask?’

‘All his shoes are worn. It i’n’t no good replacing the one.’

‘No, I realise that.’

‘I’ve to take the horse back to the farm.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the Suffolk Punch. ‘It’ll take me an hour or so.’

‘It’ll be growing dusk by then, too late to carry on tonight. Is there an inn where I can rack up?’

‘There’s the Dog and Fox. They’ll give yer a bed. I’ll have the horse ready by the time yer’ve had yar breakfast.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said, and wondered why he said it. He turned to take his bag from the saddle. ‘By the way, what is this village?’

‘Parson’s End, sir.’

Parson’s End. What a strange name for a village. He had heard it before, he realised. And then he remembered Lord Hobart. Wasn’t that his destination? What quirk of fate had brought him here? He could, he supposed, go the Manor and remind Hobart of his invitation, but then he remembered how unlikeable the man was and decided the Dog and Fox would suit him very well.

Charlotte was in the garden the following morning when a footman came to tell her she had visitors. Gardening was one of her special pleasures and she would spend hours tending her flowers and consulting Harman, the head gardener, on which plants to place where and how to propagate and care for them. Clad in an old fustian coat, a floppy felt hat tied under her chin with a piece of ribbon and a pair of stout canvas gloves, she would dig and weed and clip to her heart’s content. She had certainly not expected visitors today.

‘Who is it, Foster?’

‘Not one of your usual callers, my lady. Pushed past me and strode into the drawing room as if he owned the place…’

‘Perhaps he does,’ she murmured under her breath.

He looked startled, but went on as if he had not heard. ‘And him with two companions that I never would have admitted if I could have stopped them. I am sorry, my lady.’

‘Do not worry, Foster. I think I know who one of them is. Ask Cook to provide refreshment and tell them I will join them shortly.’

He left on his errand and she went in by a side door, along a narrow passage and up the back stairs to her room where she washed and changed hastily into a black silk mourning dress, a little more elegant than the one she had been wearing the day before, which had become stained with salt water, much to Joan Quinn’s disgust. She brushed her hair, coiling it back and fastening it with combs before topping it with a black lace cap, then she took a deep breath and went down the front stairs to the drawing room.

There were three men there, two of whom were already lounging on the green brocade sofas, looking about them as if assessing the worth of everything in the room, the furniture, pictures and the small figurines which her mother-in-law had loved to collect. The third man stood by the hearth with his foot on the fender. His attitude was proprietorial and she had no difficulty in recognising her brother-in-law, though the scar on his face had not been there when she last saw him, and the slimness of youth had been replaced by fat that strained at his coat and pantaloons.

‘Cecil?’ she said.

He made her a mock bow. ‘At your service, sister. May I present my good friends, Sir Roland Bentwater and Mr Augustus Spike?’

The two men, one tall and thin as a pole, the other thickset and swarthy, rose and sketched her a bow to which she replied with a slight movement of her head. ‘Gentlemen.’ Then, addressing Cecil, ‘I did not know you would be coming today. If you had let me know, I would have been better prepared to receive you…’

‘We don’t need receiving. This is my house, I come and go as I please.’

‘Of course. I am sorry you were not here in time to speak to your father before he died—’

‘Sorry? Was he sorry he banished me, was he anxious to make amends?’

‘I believe he was.’

‘That’s as may be, but I have not forgiven him, nor would I have, so perhaps it is as well we did not meet again.’

She decided to ignore that. ‘I have ordered refreshment. While you are having that, I will have your room prepared.’

‘My father’s room, I hope. The master bedroom.’

‘Why, no, I did not think you would want to use that until it had been refurbished. But, of course, you may have things ordered as you wish.’

‘I wish to sleep in my father’s bed and I wish rooms prepared for my friends and our valets who will be arriving with our luggage before the day is out.’

‘Very well. If you excuse me, I will see to it. Foster will serve you while I am gone.’

‘Foster, who is he?’

‘The footman. He admitted you.’

‘Oh, him.’ His tone was disparaging. ‘What happened to Jenkins?’

‘He grew old and decided to retire. He lives in a cottage on the cliff top now.’

‘I think I had better interview all the staff, let them know who is master. I’d be obliged if you would gather them all together in the hall in an hour.’

She inclined her head to acknowledge the instruction and left the room in as dignified a manner as she could manage, but she was seething. The new Lord Hobart was treating her like a housekeeper, not a word of condolence or sorrow at the loss of his father, not a word of gratitude for what she had done to keep the place going, not a word of reassurance that she would be given a home. And if he did offer it, she was not at all sure she would accept—she had taken an instant aversion to him. She passed Foster bearing the tea tray, followed by one of the maids with cakes and sweetmeats, and instructed them to serve the refreshments before carrying on her way up the stairs to warn Miss Quinn to keep the girls to their own suite of rooms until she said they could come down.

Then she went back downstairs to the kitchen where the servants were gossiping and speculating about the new master. She brought them to order and gave instructions for her belongings to be moved out of the bedchamber she had used on the first floor. She had chosen it when the late Lord Hobart became ill so that she would be close at hand if he needed her, but if the new Lord Hobart meant to occupy his father’s room it was not appropriate nor desirable. ‘I’ll use the guest room on the top floor near the girls,’ she told the chambermaids. ‘One of his lordship’s guests can have my room and prepare another along the same corridor for the other. And rooms for the valets who are on their way, I believe.’

‘And his lordship?’ Betsy asked, longing to make some comment about her ladyship having to give up her room for those dreadful men, but not daring to.

‘The old lord’s room. I’ll come and help you directly. When you have done, all the servants are to assemble in the hall to meet the new master.’

‘All of us?’ Cook asked.

‘Yes, all. Tom, go and tell the outside staff to come too. In…’ she consulted the clock that stood on the mantle ‘…three-quarters of an hour. Leave whatever you are doing and line up in the hall.’

There were not many servants for so large a house and Cecil, pacing up and down the row, a full wine glass in his hand, was obviously surprised. ‘Is this everyone?’ he demanded of Charlotte.

‘It is. When Lord Hobart became too ill to receive visitors, we shut up half the house and did not need a large staff.’

‘I want the rooms opened up again. I mean to entertain. As for staff, we shall see how these do before deciding on others.’ He waved his hand to dismiss them all. ‘Go back to your work. We will dine at five.’

They scuttled off and he turned to Charlotte ‘Are you sure I have seen everyone? I recollect you have two daughters…’

‘They are not servants, my lord, to be paraded before you.’

‘But they do live here? They are not away at school?’

‘They are too young to go away. I look after them myself with the help of Miss Quinn, their governess.’

‘Who pays her wages?’

‘Lord Hobart did.’

‘Hmm. I am not sure that I wish to continue that arrangement. After all, your offspring have no claim on the estate, have they? I would rather employ a decent butler.’

‘But they are your nieces, my lord, all the kin you have now.’

‘I intend to marry, then I shall have kin of my own.’

‘I see.’

‘I am sure you do,’ he said, smiling silkily.

She did not answer. Her head was whirling with the knowledge that her brother-in-law was not going to be bountiful, that if she stayed, she would stay under sufferance and be an unpaid housekeeper, that Miss Quinn would probably be dismissed and her girls would be faced with a life very different from the one they had known. And when the horrible man married, what would happen to them then?

‘Food for thought, eh?’ he queried.

‘It is your business,’ she said. ‘May I ask when you are to be married?’

He laughed. ‘When I have found a suitable bride, one who will acknowledge who is master in his own house and will do as she is told.’ He looked up as his two companions sauntered down the stairs from an inspection of their rooms. ‘You need say nothing of this conversation to my friends,’ he murmured, then, turning to them, said jovially, ‘Have you been made comfortable? Is everything to your satisfaction?’

‘It’ll do for now,’ Sir Roland said, wafting his quizzing glass around. ‘But it’s devilish dull here, ain’t it?’

‘I warned you it would be, didn’t I? You can always return to the Smoke.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we want to do that just yet, do we, Gus?’

‘No, not yet,’ the other answered. ‘But I think you should put on some entertainment for us. Send for some company.’

Charlotte knew by the way they spoke that Cecil did not really want them there, that they had invited themselves and there must be a reason why he had not been able to refuse. It was a reason not difficult to guess. And did they also know the contents of Lord Hobart’s will? They were in for a shock if they did not.

‘All in good time, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you over the house? You will find much to interest you, I am sure.’ Then, to Charlotte, ‘I shall expect you to dine with us. And bring your daughters.’

‘My lord, they do not usually dine with company.’

‘I am not company. As you so succinctly reminded me, I am their uncle and I wish to meet them.’

‘Very well. I will ask Miss Quinn to bring them down when the pudding is served.’

She turned and left him, passing the two gentlemen as she made for the stairs. She was aware that they were watching her go and she held her head high, but inside her heart felt as heavy as lead. The home she had known for the last twelve years was hers no longer; she was not even welcome in it. She made her way up the second flight of stairs to the schoolroom where her daughters worked under the tutelage of Miss Quinn.

All three turned towards her as she entered. ‘Mama, what has happened?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Who are those men?’

Charlotte looked at Miss Quinn, her eyebrow raised in a query.

‘They heard the door knocker, my lady,’ the governess said. ‘Such a noise it made, as if someone was determined to frighten us all out of our wits. The girls ran to look over the banister and saw them admitted.’

‘One of them is your Uncle Cecil,’ Charlotte told them. ‘The other two are his guests.’

‘The new Lord Hobart?’ queried Lizzie.

‘Yes.’

‘I knew I should not like him,’ Fanny put in. ‘And I do not. I wish they would all go away again.’

‘I am afraid that is unlikely,’ Charlotte said. ‘We must get along with your uncle as best we may. You never know, he might turn out quite charming.’ She did not believe what she was saying, but she must not allow her prejudices to influence them. ‘He has asked that you join us for pudding this evening, so I want you on your best behaviour. And, Fanny, please, please do not let your dislike show and speak only when you are spoken to.’

‘My lady,’ Miss Quinn gasped, ‘surely that is hardly appropriate. Those men…’

‘I know, Quinny, I know, but I shall be there, and I shall not allow the girls to stay more than a few minutes. Bring them when I send for them and stay close at hand to take them back.’

‘I don’t know what the world is coming to, that I don’t,’ Miss Quinn went on. ‘I’m with Fanny, I do not like those men. Lord Hobart is bad enough, but those two fops…They fill me with dread. I saw them poking in all the rooms, laughing and commenting on everything, saying there were some mighty fine pieces. I heard the thin one say, “We’ve fallen on our feet here, Gus, no doubt of it.” And then they both laughed. Horrible sound it was too, like hens cackling. How long are they proposing to stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte answered with a sigh. She was too distressed to scold the governess for speaking her mind.

‘If it weren’t for my darlings needing me, I’d be gone this very night—’ She stopped suddenly when she realised Lizzie was looking at her in great distress and Fanny had begun to sob. ‘Oh, my little loves,’ she said, gathering them into her arms. ‘Quinny didn’t mean that. She would never leave you, never, never.’

Dinner was a nightmare. Charlotte tried to keep up a normal polite conversation, but it was impossible. Everything she said, they seemed to twist, and they asked such impertinent questions that she refused to answer, which made Cecil laugh, though his laughter was hollow. How long had the Hobarts occupied Easterley Manor, they wanted to know, and did she know the value of everything in it? And when she said she did not know and it was the province of his lordship’s man of business to provide him with an inventory, they had laughed loud and long. ‘I expect him tomorrow,’ Cecil said. ‘Then we shall see.’

Worse was to come when he insisted she send for her daughters. ‘I wish to make their acquaintance,’ he said. ‘After all, they are part of the job lot, aren’t they? Kith and kin I must include in my reckoning.’

‘You are mistaken there, my lord,’ she said, reluctantly nodding to Foster to fetch Miss Quinn and the girls. ‘They are my responsibility.’

‘But only this morning you were reminding me of my duty towards them.’

‘I did not mean you should tot them up on your inventory.’

‘You mean I am not to be responsible for their keep? How glad I am of that. Food, clothes, wages for that Miss…What’s her name?’

‘Miss Quinn.’

‘Miss Quinn. From now on you pay her yourself.’

Charlotte did not protest. She would not throw herself on his mercy, though how she was going to manage she did not know. She looked up as the door opened and Miss Quinn ushered her charges into the room. They looked very fetching in white muslin dresses, with deep satin sashes and their hair brushed until it gleamed and tied back with matching ribbons. Lizzie’s was blue and Fanny’s pink. Quinn gave them a little poke in the back and they both executed a neat curtsy.

‘Very pretty,’ Augustus chortled, surveying them through his quizzing glass. ‘What say you, Roly, ain’t they pretty?’

‘Yes, remarkably handsome. Cecil, old man, I think you should be more generous with your dead brother’s children. Put them on the inventory.’

Cecil pretended to laugh. ‘Come, girls, come to me and let me see you properly. Don’t be afraid. No one will hurt you. I am your Uncle Cecil, home from abroad to take care of you.’

They approached the table to join their mother, reluctant to go to him. ‘They are shy,’ Charlotte said. ‘Not used to strangers.’

‘I am not a stranger!’ he shouted, banging his fist on the table, making the crockery rattle. ‘I am Lord of the Manor, Squire of Parson’s End. Home from abroad. Home, do you hear me?’

‘My lord, please do not shout. You are frightening them.’

His voice softened, but was no less menacing. ‘Then remember not to behave as if I were an uninvited guest you cannot wait to get rid of. It is you who are the guests, you and your daughters, and that one…’ He nodded towards Miss Quinn hovering in the doorway. To the children he said, ‘Would you like to sit with us and have some apple pie?’

Both girls, too frightened to speak, shook their heads. He beckoned to Miss Quinn. ‘Take them away, they are not as amusing as I thought they might be.’

Quinn disappeared with her charges and a few moments later Charlotte made her excuses and left the men to their port and cigars and went up to her room to sit in a chair by the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes. Her head was reeling. How could she endure living under the same roof as her brother-in-law, she asked herself, supposing he did not decide to throw her out? Even so soon after meeting him, she knew him to be self-serving and pitiless. And she did not like the manner of his two companions who ogled her, almost undressing her with their eyes. And the way they had looked at Lizzie and Fanny made her shudder with apprehension. She would have to watch them and, if they stayed beyond a week or two, she would have to think of moving out—not only moving out, but finding an occupation.

It was at such a time she missed not having a husband. She had loved Grenville dearly and mourned him for a long time and because she lived comfortably under his father’s roof, loved and cared for, she had never given a thought to marrying again. ‘I am content as I am,’ she had told Quinny. But now, now where was contentment? Where was security? Where, oh, where was love? Why did she suddenly feel so bereft, so lonely and not a little frightened? That was silly, she told herself, she feared no one. But how long dare she remain under her brother-in-law’s roof while she found a way of earning a living that would have to include a roof over her head, not only for herself but her children?

Something must be done and done quickly. She sat at her little escritoire and took from it a small velvet bag. It contained a few guineas—not enough to keep the four of them for more than a day or two, for she must include Miss Quinn, certainly not enough to pay coach fares and at least two nights’ accommodation for them to go to her great-uncle. She could write and ask him to send the fare, but her stubborn pride would not let her do it. He might refuse to have anything to do with her and that would be too humiliating to be borne.

Besides, she had made her home here, at Parson’s End. She had grown to love the area, the cliffs, and the sea in all its moods, calm as a pond one day, raging and pounding over the shore almost to the base of the cliffs the next. She loved the pine woods carpeted with needles that crunched under your feet as you walked, and she liked the people, farming people and fishing folk, hardworking, dour and courageous. And as for their children, they were what made her life worthwhile, watching them grow, being able to help them to better themselves with a little education. It was an ongoing, self-imposed task and she did not want it to end, which it surely must if she did not have the means to continue it.

She remembered the stranger on the cliff with a wry smile. He had taken her for a schoolteacher and she remembered thinking that was what it might come to. A school was the answer, one that took boarders, young ladies from wealthy homes whose parents were prepared to pay to have their daughters educated and given some polish before being brought out. If she did that, the village children could still have their school. The wealthy could subsidise the poor. But did she have the right qualifications to attract the wealthy? She would need teachers beside herself and premises and connections. She weighed the coins in her hand and laughed at her foolishness.

She went up to say goodnight to the girls and quietly told Miss Quinn to make sure their doors were locked, though the poor lady did not need to be told; she was already in fear of her life. ‘Tomorrow we will make plans,’ Charlotte told her before returning to her own room and making sure that that door was locked.

She could hear the three men downstairs, laughing drunkenly. They had called for wine and a new pack of cards which was evidence enough that Cecil had not changed his gambling ways. She did not sleep until long after she heard them stumbling up to bed in the early hours and the house had gone quiet.

The next morning, she and the children slipped out of the side door to go to the village. She noticed a carriage arriving at the front as she passed the corner of the house, but, guessing it was John Hardacre, the family lawyer, she decided not to stay to receive him. Foster would alert the still-slumbering Cecil that he had arrived.

They crossed the stable yard to a path that led into the kitchen garden and from there through a side gate of the estate wall on to the road into the village. The damp hedgerows dripped onto the newly thrusting primroses at their base and the burgeoning trees in the meadows on either side moved softly in the breeze and sheltered the new lambs. It should have been a joyful time, this time of new life, but for once it did not raise her spirits. She had too much on her mind.

‘My lady,’ the Reverend greeted her. ‘I did not expect you so early, you do not usually come until after noon.’

‘No, but I need to speak to you, Reverend.’

‘Then come into the church, I was on my way there.’

She sent the children to the classroom and followed him into the church. ‘Reverend, I hardly know how to begin,’ she said, after they had genuflected to the altar and seated themselves in one of the pews. There was a chill in there that matched the chill in her heart. ‘My life has taken a dramatic turn…’

‘I had heard the new Lord Hobart had arrived.’

‘My goodness, news travels fast. Yes, he came yesterday morning and he is not prepared to go on as his father did and that means—’

‘You will no longer be able to teach, is that it? We shall all be very sorry.’

‘No, Reverend, it means that I must teach. And I must be paid for doing it.’

‘You know the village children cannot pay.’

‘Yes, I know that. But I must find pupils that can. And premises. The village children could be included later, when everything is up and running—’ She stopped, daunted by the task ahead of her.

‘I see.’

She knew he did see and was glad that she did not have to explain. ‘What I need to ask you is whether you know where I might find a house…?’

‘For a school?’

‘Yes, but also living quarters for me and my children and their governess.’

‘You surely have not been asked to leave Easterley Manor?’

‘No, but I do not wish to stay. Lord Hobart is a bachelor. It would not be fitting.’

‘No, I see it would not. But what about the uncle you spoke of? Would he not give you a home?’

‘I do not know. I have never even met him and how do I know I won’t be jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Besides, I love living at Parson’s End, my children were born here and they love it too. I do not want to leave the area.’

‘Then, my lady, you really do have a dilemma.’ He smiled suddenly and patted her hand. ‘You are welcome to stay at the Rectory until you have found somewhere. I am sure Mrs Fuller will raise no objections. But as for premises, we will have to put our thinking caps on because I do not want to lose you from the district and I am sure I am not alone in that sentiment.’

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

He rose and she knelt for his blessing. As they left the church she could hear the children arriving for their afternoon lessons. ‘Will you take your class today?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, of course. The children expect it and I want everything as normal as possible for Lizzie and Fanny.’

‘Then while you are with your pupils, I shall go up to the hall and pay my respects to his lordship.’

Charlotte managed a smile as she passed him to go into the schoolroom, wondering, as she did so, what kind of reception he would get.

The children were noisily chasing each other round the room, but quietened when they saw her. ‘Back to your seats, children,’ she said. ‘And out with your slates. Lizzie, you can help Josh with his sums and Fanny can amuse the little ones. I will hear your reading one by one.’

The quiet industry of the classroom soothed her a little, but the worry at the back of her mind would not go away. She could not take advantage of the Rector’s generosity; it would not be fair to him and his elderly wife. And though she had no qualms about being able to run a school, the problem was financing it and finding pupils. She would have to try and borrow the money against future income. If Mr Hardacre was still at the hall when she returned, she would try to see him privately and broach the matter with him. Not for the first time she wondered how he was faring with Lord Hobart.

‘Miss.’ She felt someone tug at her skirts and looked down to see Danny White looking up at her, anxiety writ large on his face. ‘Meg wants to go home. She’s got the bellyache.’

She looked at the lad’s tiny sister, only a toddler, certainly not old enough for school, but if she had not been allowed to come neither would Danny and he was a bright child and deserved whatever education she could give him. Soon he would be able to join the select few who took more advanced lessons from the Rector himself. Meg was holding her stomach and crying. Charlotte scooped her up in her arms to comfort her. Her forehead was hot and she was obviously in some pain. What should she do? She could not let the child go home alone, not even if she sent Danny with her, and she was reluctant to leave her class when the Reverend was absent.

There was nothing for it but to take them all. ‘Enough of lessons,’ she said, suddenly making up her mind. ‘We’ll all take Meg home, shall we?’

The idea was greeted with enthusiasm and, having left a message with the Reverend Fuller’s wife, they set off, headed by Charlotte carrying Meg, Danny beside her and Lizzie and Fanny following with the others in a double file.

The strange crocodile was greeted by smiles from the village women they met, all of whom knew the good work Charlotte did, not only for the children, but the old and infirm. She brought food and clothes, but, more than that, she brought hope. ‘Mornin’, me lady,’ they called. Charlotte returned their greeting and went on her way, with the children singing ‘One man went to mow’ behind her.

The children waited outside while she took Meg into Dr Cartwright’s to ask him to check on her, fully accepting that the account for his services would be remitted to her, for the poor child’s parents could not pay. He felt all over her stomach. ‘What have you been eating?’ he asked her.

‘Nuffin’.’

‘Yes, you have. You’ve been stuffing yourself with something bad, haven’t you?’

‘It were beans,’ Danny put in. Charlotte had not realised he had followed them in. ‘I told her she shouldn’t have.’

‘Beans, what beans?’

‘In the bag in Farmer Brown’s barn.’

‘Seeds,’ the doctor said. ‘Not meant to be eaten. They are for setting in the ground. You’re old enough to know that, Danny, aren’t you?’

‘Course I am. Weren’t my fault. She’d downed a handful afore I saw what her were adoin’.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be looking out for her?’ the doctor demanded waspishly.

Danny looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

‘Don’t blame him, Doctor,’ Charlotte said. ‘You can’t watch children every minute of the day and he’s only a babe himself. Tell me, how serious is it?’

‘Not serious. I’ll give her a dose to help it on its way. She’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.’

Relieved, Charlotte watched while he held the child’s nose and forced a spoonful of foul-tasting medicine down her throat, then they rejoined the other children and were soon at the door of the cottage where Danny and Meg lived. It was no more than a hovel; the pigs up at the hall lived in better conditions, and they even smelled sweeter, but Charlotte pretended not to notice as she explained to Mrs White why she had brought her children home.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,’ the woman said, taking the child from Charlotte’s arms. Then, to Danny, ‘See what you’ve done, you great lump. That’s what all that book learnin’ does for ye, makes ye forget what ye’re supposed to be adoin’. Yar pa will dust yar breeks when he come home.’

Charlotte was forced to be mediator; she didn’t want Danny forbidden to come to lessons again. Having soothed ruffled feelings, she returned to the remainder of her flock. It was then she saw the stranger again, standing outside the smithy, watching her with the same look of amusement that had so disconcerted her two days before.

Chapter Three

Stacey wandered over to where she stood and swept off his hat. ‘We meet again, ma’am.’

When the blacksmith had taken longer to see to his horse than expected, he had not minded, had even welcomed another night in the village, wondering if he might meet the schoolmistress again. Whiling away the time, he had found Easterley Manor, but had not ventured up the drive. His walk had taken him round the surrounding wall, and along the path to the cliff where he had seen her the day before, but the beach had been deserted except for a couple of men walking along the water’s edge. They were not fishermen, being wrapped in cloaks against the wind, but then he had forgotten them to return to the village to see if his horse was ready. And here she was, followed by her little urchins, chanting a song. He was reminded of a German fairy story about a piper who lured children from their parents because they reneged on the payment they promised him for ridding their town of its rats. It made him smile.

Charlotte, who had no idea why he was smiling, felt herself blush from the roots of her rich brown hair right down to her neck, aware of the children giggling behind her. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said, drawing her cloak more closely about her, a defensive gesture that added to his amusement. ‘I am surprised to find you still in the neighbourhood. Parson’s End has little to offer visitors.’

‘On the contrary, I am finding my stay vastly rewarding.’ His eyes twinkled again as he took in the rosy flush and the smoky blue-green eyes. She was not a seventeen-year-old débutante, but a woman of mature years with a couple of daughters, but she seemed discomforted. ‘You are still giving outdoor lessons, I see.’

‘I had to bring one of the children home, she was not well, and I could not leave the others.’ She gave him a smile, just to prove she was in control of the situation. ‘They would have caused mayhem left to themselves.’

‘Ah, so they do find mischief. And here was I thinking you had them so well under control they would not dare misbehave whether you were present or not.’

‘Sir, you are bamming me. Again. And we have not been introduced.’

‘Oh, I see you did not mean it when you denigrated the manners of polite society. Introductions are important to you. You must not speak to a man to whom you have not been introduced. But if we had been made known to each other by a third party, then one presumes it would be acceptable to tease?’

‘Your own good manners should tell you the answer to that one.’

‘So I am to be given a lesson in manners, am I?’

‘If you think you need one.’ She was heartily sick of self-opinionated men who thought they could treat her with disdain. Cecil Hobart and his cronies had begun it, and now this man, this very superior man whose name she did not know, was doing the same. Perhaps he was one of them, perhaps that was why he was in the village, a forerunner of the congenial company that Mr Augustus Spike had asked Cecil to send for. ‘Now, if you will stand aside and let me pass, I will be on my way.’

‘Back to your school?’

‘Is that any of your business?’ She swept past him, ushering the children before her.

He stood a moment watching them, and then strode after them. ‘I am curious about it,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘At this moment there is nothing that interests me more than education.’

‘Then, Mr Whoever you are, I suggest you consult others better able to enlighten you.’

‘But I want you to.’

‘Just leave me alone,’ she hissed under her breath. The children were drinking in every word and none more so than Lizzie and Fanny. ‘I have nothing to say to you, or others like you. Good day, to you, sir. I suggest you leave Parson’s End and find your amusement in town, where there are those who might enjoy playing your game, for I do not.’

The strength and vituperation of her words took him by surprise and he stopped in the middle of the road and let her go. What, in heaven’s name, had she taken him for? A rake? Oh, he realised he had not been particularly courteous, had teased and refused to give his name, but he had meant no harm. He really was interested in education and, though he knew her school would not be suitable for Julia, he had thought of asking her opinion on the education of young ladies and whether she knew of a good school, one that taught good manners and correct demeanour along with its lessons, one that had her sympathetic attitude to its pupils. He had gone about it in quite the wrong way.

Why had he not presented himself properly? She did not seem the kind of woman to be overawed by his rank and title. Whatever her situation was now, she had been raised a gentlewoman, if not a lady, otherwise she would not have been so top-lofty or put so much store on an introduction. Was it too late to retrieve the situation? And why did he want to? He could ask others his questions, as she had suggested; she had already given him an idea of what questions to ask. So why did he feel as if he could not let her go?

He watched the crocodile out of sight, but instead of going back to the blacksmith’s, he followed, keeping far enough back not to be seen, laughing at himself for his folly while he did it.

They stopped at several of the cottages and he was obliged to conceal himself behind trees while she saw her pupils safely indoors, one by one, until there was only her own two daughters with her. Then she walked more briskly until she turned into the gates of Easterley Manor. He did not venture there, but stood thoughtfully tapping his boot with the riding crop he had been carrying when he spoke to her, then turned on his heel and went back to the village.

As she turned the bend in the drive, Charlotte saw Mr Hardacre’s carriage coming towards her on its way out. She had missed him and it was all the fault of that supercilious stranger for delaying her. She stood to one side as it went to pass her, lifting her hand towards the occupant. He was looking grim and for a moment she did not think he would even acknowledge her. The interview with his client had evidently not gone well. She went to move on, when she realised the carriage was drawing to a stop. Turning, she retraced her steps as his head poked out of the door. He had removed his hat, revealing a shock of white hair. ‘Lady Hobart, good day to you. Miss Elizabeth, Miss Frances, how you do grow!’

They each gave a little curtsy and stood waiting while their mother went to speak to him.

‘Mr Hardacre, I am glad you stopped. I would be glad of your advice.’

‘Anything I can do for you, I will, my lady. Do you wish me to return to the house?’

She smiled, realising he was reluctant to do so. ‘No, there is no need for his lordship to know I have consulted you.’

‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘But you know Lord Hobart is my client, I can do nothing against his interests.’

‘I am aware of that. It is not about Lord Hobart. At least, only in as much as his arrival has presented me with a problem.’ She spoke warily, wondering how much he knew or could guess. ‘But I am afraid I cannot come to London to consult you.’

‘I see. Then I shall put up at the Dog and Fox for the night and return tomorrow.’

‘I would rather you did not come back here. Could we meet in the church? It is a public place, but quiet in the middle of the week.’

‘Very well. At ten o’clock, if that is convenient.’

It was like a secret assignation and they both smiled at the idea. He was elderly and had served the Hobart family for several decades and his father before him; she was a relatively young widow and still very handsome. ‘Ten o’clock will suit me very well.’ She stood back as he rapped on the roof to tell his driver to proceed, and the coach rolled away.

She took the girls back to the house, entering by the side door. She had no wish to draw attention to her return by using the front entrance. But her precaution was in vain—Cecil saw her coming along one of the back corridors to the stairs. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and he was still dressed in a stained dressing gown.

‘What have you been up to, my lady?’ he enquired. ‘Creeping about like a thief in the night.’

‘I am not creeping about and it is not night,’ she retorted, thrusting her chin upwards. ‘It is the middle of the afternoon and I am returning from my duties in the village and going up to my room.’ She gave the girls a little push. ‘Upstairs with you. Go and find Miss Quinn.’

He watched them go and then turned back to her, leering at her so that the scar on his cheek deepened. She wondered idly how he had come by it. ‘Duties in the village,’ he queried. ‘What might they be?’

‘I teach a few of the village children at the Rectory. And I visit the sick and take them a little sustenance.’

‘From my larder?’

‘Why, yes, but only what would have been thrown away. It is no more than your own mother did in her lifetime.’

‘Yes, she was a good woman, but I am sure she did not teach peasants.’

‘Perhaps not, but education is something I feel strongly about. One should help those less fortunate.’

‘Oh, so you do consider yourself fortunate. That is good. One should always be grateful for charity.’

Knowing he was trying to goad her into an inconsiderate reply, she did not answer. She would have passed him to continue on her way, but the passage was a narrow one and to do so meant pushing past him, too close for comfort.

‘Nothing to say?’ he asked.

‘What do you wish me to say?’

‘That you agree, that you know you are here because I, in my charitableness, have allowed you to stay and you are suitably grateful.’

‘I am suitably grateful,’ she said, aware of the ambiguity in the statement, though whether he realised it she did not know. He was not the most intelligent of men. How could the late Lord Hobart have sired two such different men as Grenville and this man? The one was honourable and considerate, the other the exact opposite.

‘But my generosity comes at a price,’ he said.

‘I thought it might.’

‘Until I marry, you will continue to act as my housekeeper and keep those servants in line. I never saw such a shabby collection in my life. And who told them it was permissible to answer back, to voice opinions of their own? I have a mind to dispense with the lot of them, except that I am expecting guests and there is no time to hire others.’

‘Guests?’

‘Yes, a real house party. So, please prepare for them. Open up the house, get in some decent food and restock the wine cellar.’

Her mind flew to the stranger in the village, but quickly returned to what he had asked. ‘Very well, but I shall need money.’

‘Money?’ He started back in pretence of shock. ‘You speak of money? Don’t you know such a thing is never mentioned in polite company?’

She forbore to point out that he was hardly an example of polite company. ‘Nevertheless, we have to pay for food and wine, not to mention coals, oil and candles, and laundry women. Guests make a great deal of washing.’

‘Was my father’s credit not good?’

‘I am sure it would have been, but he made it a point of honour not to ask for it, but to pay his bills promptly.’

‘He, my dear sister-in-law, had the blunt to do so. Until I have overturned that preposterous will, I have not, so until that happy day you will obtain credit. If my father was as scrupulous as you say, you should have no trouble.’

‘Surely Mr Hardacre—’

‘Ah, I forgot, you are privy to that ridiculous legacy.’

‘I do not know anything about that, my lord,’ she said quickly ‘But I cannot believe Lord Hobart left you without any means at all.’

‘I am supposed to have made a profit from my time in India.’

‘And did you not?’

‘It must be self-evident that I did not, certainly not enough to sustain the life of a gentleman.’

‘I see. Then should you not postpone your house party until you have improved the estate and made it pay again? I am afraid that when Lord Hobart became ill, it was let run down. But it will reward a little attention.’

‘Do you presume to tell me what to do? No wonder the servants question their orders, when they have the example of the mistress of the house to teach them. But you are the mistress no longer.’ He stopped suddenly and laughed. It was an ugly sound. ‘Unless you would like to take up the role?’ He put out a hand to touch her cheek and she jerked her head away.

‘No, I would not,’ she said and, taking a deep breath, pushed past him and went to the kitchen to see about carrying out his orders. The servants were working, but gone was the cheerful willingness that had been there when the late Lord Hobart was alive and Charlotte had the running of the house. There were frowns and mutterings and she felt they might have been disagreeing among themselves. Such an attitude would not get the work done and she tried to sound cheerful and efficient as she gave them their new orders.

‘How can we do all that?’ Betsy demanded. She was middle-aged, plump and red-haired. She was also the most outspoken; Charlotte guessed it was Betsy who had angered Cecil. ‘Are we to have more staff?’

‘I will ask his lordship,’ she said.

‘He’s bad enough, but those other two…Ugh!’Cook said, banging the dough on the table and sinking her fist into it. This batch of bread would be well kneaded. ‘They send down here, demanding food in the middle of the night, and expect it to appear like magic. Had to get out of my warm bed, I did. And I was hardly asleep again when Betsy came and woke me to be getting breakfast ready.’

‘I am sorry for that, Mrs Evans, I’ll ask the gentlemen to be a little more considerate. Perhaps you could leave something cold on a tray when you go to bed and their own servants can fetch it for them.’ She paused, looking round at them all, some seeming unhappy, some mutinous, the younger ones sniffing tearfully. ‘I know it is difficult getting used to a new master, but we must do our best to keep everything running smoothly.’

‘Oh, we i’n’t blamin’ you, m’ lady,’ Betsy put in. ‘We know it’s as hard for you as ’tis for us.’

Charlotte smiled; perhaps she had allowed them too much freedom to speak their minds, but it was gratifying to know she had their support. If she left, what would happen to them? Could they find other positions if they decided to leave? Would Cecil pay their back wages if they did? She felt responsible for them. She sighed. Perhaps her plans should also include those servants who wanted to come with her, even if it did increase her problems. Oh, if only Cecil would decide he did not like the country after all and leave. But she suspected the death of his father had been fortuitous for him. There were probably others like Sir Roland and Mr Spike who might descend upon him at any time, dunning for debts to be paid. Perhaps one of them had already arrived. But why had he not come straight up to the house? Why skulk in the village? She gave up trying to work it out and went up to the schoolroom.

Lizzie and Fanny were at their lessons but, like the servants, they were unsettled and unable to concentrate. Miss Quinn was nearly as bad; she kept glancing towards the door, as if she expected trouble to walk through it. Charlotte smiled reassuringly. ‘I shall be in my room, if you want me,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and see you again before I go down to dinner.’

‘We won’t have to come down again, will we?’ Lizzie asked.

‘No, now your uncle has met you, I think he is satisfied you are being well cared for.’

She was becoming a liar in her efforts to keep everyone happy. Did that mean she was weak? She went back to her room and sat at her desk where she spent the time before dinner drawing up lists. And then she endured that meal in the company of men who would never have been entertained by the late Lord Hobart and afterwards left them to their drinking and retired to her own room. It was not as comfortable nor as well appointed as the one she was used to, but at least it was away from the guest rooms and near her children. She felt as if she had been relegated to the status of a servant and fervently prayed Mr Hardacre would help her to do something about it.

He was talking to the Reverend Fuller when she arrived in the church the following morning, but as soon she appeared, the Reverend bade her good morning and left them.

‘I am sorry to keep you in Parson’s End longer than you intended,’ she told the lawyer. She was dressed in her usual mourning silk, over which she had put her black wool cloak; even though it was late March, the days were still not warm enough to dispense with it and, here in this quiet village, fashion seemed not to matter; other things were more important. ‘But I am in something of a quandary.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘You do?’ She sat in one of the pews and motioned him to sit too.

‘I cannot imagine that you want to stay at Easterley Manor. It was once such a happy home when Lady Hobart was alive and the boys were young…’

‘It was still so until quite recently,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law’s passing changed everything. I do not think I shall be able to deal comfortably with the new Lord Hobart. We do not view things in quite the same way. And I understand he is planning to marry.’ She was trying to put it diplomatically. Lord Hobart was his client; it would not help to complain of his behaviour. ‘I must make other arrangements.’

‘What had you in mind?’

‘A school. If I had a house large enough to turn into a small school, where I could take fee-paying young ladies—’

‘But, my dear Lady Hobart, how can you contemplate such a thing? Your husband was a baronet in his own right and you come from a noble family—such a thing is hardly fitting.’

‘I enjoy teaching.’

‘I am sure you do and the Reverend has been telling me all about your work among the children, but teaching them as an act of charity is not the same as asking to be paid for it.’

She gave a strangled laugh. ‘You sound like Cecil, as if the very mention of the word money is a profanity. Unfortunately it is a necessary evil, especially when you do not have any.’

‘Surely it is not as bad as that? Is there no one?’

‘No one,’ she said firmly, dismissing the idea of applying to Lord Falconer as impractical. ‘When Sir Grenville died, I was bereft and leaned very heavily on Lord Hobart. He was a kind man, he knew I had to do things my way, and so he allowed me all the freedom I wanted. It was as if Grenville had already become master of Easterley Manor and I, as his widow, was carrying on. Lord Hobart kept in the background, happy to have his grandchildren about him. I and my children have lost all that.’ She blinked rapidly, trying to prevent the tears falling.

‘I see,’ he said, though she was not at all sure that he did.

‘Then are you able to help me?’

‘To find you a school?’

‘More than that. To lend me the money to set it up.’

‘Oh.’ He looked startled. ‘You meant it when you said you had no money?’

‘I have three guineas and some smaller change. And some of that must go to pay the doctor for the treatment he gave one of my little pupils yesterday.’

He was shocked. ‘My lady, I had no idea. How can that be? You had the portion Sir Grenville settled on you when you married. I know it was not much, but he never expected to die so young and, in any case, he knew his father would look after you.’

‘I had no idea I ought to save it, Mr Hardacre. I spent it on things for the village school: slates, chalk, books, and clothes and medicines for any who needed them. They have so little and since the war their plight has become worse and worse. I often think it would do those who make the laws in this country a great deal of good to have to live among its people. They might learn the meaning of true poverty.’ She paused and drew a deep breath before going on. ‘That’s as may be. What I had has gone.’

‘I am appalled. Your daughters…’

‘They want for nothing at the moment, but they are not happy at the Manor now and I must find a way to provide for them.’

‘But you would need collateral if I am to approach a bank on your behalf.’

‘I have none.’ She paused. ‘I have a little jewellery: the pearls my father gave me on my come-out, an emerald necklace that was a present from my husband to mark our betrothal and the two little brooches, one of amethysts, the other of garnets, that he gave me on the birth of our daughters. I have no idea of their worth; I never thought of them as assets, but as keepsakes.’

‘My dear Lady Hobart, surely it has not come to such a pass?’

‘I am sorry, I have embarrassed you, but, believe me, it is no greater than the embarrassment I feel being obliged to ask.’

‘Do not think of it.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. She must certainly be helped to leave Easterley Manor and whether she went ahead with her school idea or not, she needed money. Cecil Hobart would never provide her with any. ‘As you know, Lord Hobart left money in trust for your daughters,’ he said slowly. ‘It was intended to be for their come-out and dowries and any expenditure the trustees felt necessary for their well-being. I think such an occasion has arisen. I will put it to them and let you know what they say. How much do you think you will need?’

‘It depends how much I have to pay to rent a house, and how long before fee-paying pupils arrive, but I have worked out some rough figures.’ She took two folded sheets of paper from her reticule and handed them to him. ‘Do you think the trustees will agree?’

‘When I put the position to them, I think they will. The welfare of your daughters must come before all other considerations and their welfare is not best served living at Easterley Manor.’ It was as near as he was going to go to admitting he knew what Cecil was like. ‘Can you sit tight for a week or two until you hear from me?’

‘Yes. I am not a child, Mr Hardacre, I can stand up for myself, and there are plenty of good, kind people up at the house to keep an eye on the girls, though I rarely let them out of my sight.’ She paused. ‘May I begin looking for a house?’

‘Yes, I see no reason why you should not. But you will not be able to sign a lease or anything like that, not until I have obtained the consent of the trustees.’

‘I understand.’

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