Scandal at the Dower House (4 page)

‘Joanna was expelled,’ she had told him.

‘Expelled? From your seminary? I didn’t know she had been a fellow pupil.’

‘Yes, but she is two years older than I, and we had little in common. She had her own friends. She remembered me, of course, but I don’t think she’d have recalled my name if I had not been with you.’

‘Was she as outspoken there?’

‘Yes; she never cared what she said, but that wasn’t the reason she was expelled.’ Olivia blushed. ‘She was caught climbing out of a storeroom window to meet a young man!’

Somehow that had not surprised Nicholas. All the time they had been at Marshington Grange for Walter’s funeral, Joanna had been flirting, discreetly but with intent, with Jeremy. Was Catarina similarly inclined, another flirt? She had not seemed like that. Had there been some scandal which had induced her guardians to marry her off? It was not unusual for girls to wed straight from the schoolroom, and Walter, though so much older, had been a good match, but from what he had seen of Catarina’s spirit, he would have expected her to protest. Yet she seemed to be encouraging Sir Humphrey.

He pushed aside such distasteful speculations as they came to the first of the cottages. What had looked picturesque from the
terrace at the Grange was, close to, rather more squalid. Several cottages had, it appeared, already been demolished, and piles of rubble showed where they had stood. The thatch was old and in dire need of renewing. The wattle and daub walls were pocked with gaps where the mud had fallen away. The window frames sagged, with spaces through which the wind would whistle.

‘These things can be repaired,’ he said to Catarina, as he halted the curricle and took stock of the scene in front of him.

‘Of course, but I must show you the houses in the village and you will see how much better they are.’

‘I deplore the fashion of clearing away whole villages just to improve the prospect from a house.’

‘So do I, if that is the sole reason, and especially if no other suitable provision is made for the villagers. But these people want to move. Ask them yourself.’

She scrambled from the curricle and vanished through a low doorway in the nearest cottage. Nicholas climbed down slowly, handed the reins to his tiger, and wondered whether he was meant to follow.

Before he could decide, Catarina reappeared tugging at the hand of a small, slight, bent old woman who glanced up at him shyly as she tried to curtsy. Several small children followed her out of the house and stood nearby, joined soon by two more women and an ancient man smoking a foul-smelling pipe which had in it, Nicholas thought, something far more
obnoxious
than tobacco.

‘Moll, this is the new earl. Tell him why you want to move from this house.’

Moll took a deep breath. ‘Well, surr, it be mortal damp in’t winter. See t’river, it floods in’t winter. An’ we don’t ’ave nowhere ter go, see, can’t, we don’t ’ave more’n the one room.’

Nicholas glanced at the cottages and belatedly realized the thatch came so low it was impossible for there to be an upper storey, even a loft. ‘What do you do,’ he asked, ‘when the houses are flooded?’

‘It don’t often reach wall beds, so we can sleep in’t dry. We just ’as ter wade through it. But it covers fireplace, so we can’t cook. Surr, when will our new cotts be ready? Old Marge went just afore ’is lordship were killed, an’ says it’s ’eaven, so close ter new well an’ all.’

‘Will the new houses be ready soon?’ Nicholas demanded.

‘Before the winter, if you don’t stop the building,’ Catarina told him. ‘And even if you preferred to rebuild here, you would need to find somewhere for these people to go while it’s done. How many still live here, Moll?’

There were three cottages remaining, so when Moll told him there were ten adults and as many children he looked at them again, wondering how on earth so many people fitted into their single rooms.

‘You’d prefer the new houses near the church? Rather than have these rebuilt, with upper floors and more room?’

Moll looked frightened. ‘Oh, surr, you bain’t goin’ ter stop us ’aving our nice new ’ouses? The old earl promised, and we’m lookin’ forward to being close ter them who’ve already gone.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the adults surrounding them.

Nicholas nodded slowly. ‘Very well, I’ll make sure the builders finish your new houses as soon as possible.’

‘Bless you, surr!’

‘Do you want to see the new houses?’ Catarina asked as they drove away.

‘I think not. I really must be getting on. I intended only to make a quick visit to see my agent. I am on my way to Brussels.’

‘You are rejoining the army? Now that the threat from Napoleon seems greater? Is there really going to be more fighting? Sir Humphrey does not think so.’

‘I fear there will be. Perhaps he is trying to reassure you, prevent you from worrying.’

‘He is very considerate.’

Was he? Nicholas ground his teeth.

‘The duke needs all the experienced officers he can find. Jeremy is already there, in Brussels, but so far all he appears to do is go to balls and parties.’

‘Then I wish you good fortune, my lord. My mother’s family in Portugal suffered during the French occupation. Several cousins were killed, either in the fighting, or when the French massacred all the people of Evora.’

‘Do your family live there?’

‘No longer in Evora. The Quinta das Fontes is near Oporto. That is the main estate, though various members of the family have their own houses along the Douro. They are mostly producers of wine.’

‘Which I suppose is how your parents met?’

‘Papa did a lot of business with the family, but her parents were not pleased when he wanted to marry Mama. They had hoped for an alliance with one of the wealthy, well-connected Portuguese families.’

‘When did they die?’

‘Mama was ill for a long time after Joanna’s birth. There is six years between us and several babies were lost before Joanna was born. She was only four when Mama died. Papa died four years later, of a fever he contracted when visiting a vineyard in the Canaries.’

‘And his brother became your guardian?’

Catarina merely nodded. He glanced at her and saw that her lips were pressed firmly together. Though she had talked freely about her parents, she was clearly unwilling to speak of her uncle. Was that because he had forced her into marriage with Walter? All he had heard about Sir Ivor Norton indicated the man was stern and unyielding. His own sons were reputed wild youngsters, though Nicholas barely knew them.

They had reached the Dower House and he helped Catarina to alight. 

‘Will you take a glass of wine, my lord? I can offer you some of Papa’s best Madeira.’

‘I must decline; I have a long way to travel. But my thanks for your … guidance over the cottages. By the way, I have dismissed the agent and my own man, Mr Trubshaw, will be arriving to take over. Perhaps you will talk to him? I know he would appreciate it.’

‘Dismissed? But why?’

‘He had been defrauding your husband, falsifying the accounts over the cost of the building materials for the new cottages, and telling me lies. Of all things I most abominate being lied to.’

She clearly wanted to know more, but Nicholas shook his head.

‘I’ll explain another time. I really must leave now.’

He drove away. He did not know what to feel. He was so accustomed to managing his own estates, where no one queried his decisions, that he was a trifle piqued at having had to accept Catarina’s advice. At least he would now have a
reliable
agent here.

He shrugged, and forced his attention back to the situation in France. Wellington and Napoleon had never met in battle. From all reports many of Napoleon’s former soldiers were flocking to join him, and the allied army was a heterogeneous collection of untrained and inexperienced men. If anyone could mould them into a proper fighting force it was the duke. The sooner he got to Brussels the better.

Two weeks later, Catarina and Rosa, her maid, were in the Dower House putting away Catarina’s gowns.

‘Such a pity you can’t wear colours,’ the maid said. ‘Black doesn’t suit you.’

‘There’s no one to see me,’ Catarina said. ‘I can’t go out in company yet, and I have no wish to.’

‘Sir Humphrey calls almost every day.’

‘He’s been very kind. As one of his lordship’s oldest friends he’s made it his task to look after me.’

Rosa suppressed a smile and Catarina frowned. She knew what her maid, who had been with her since her marriage, thought. Sir Humphrey was a widower, his wife having died six years ago, and his children were all married and living at a distance. He made no secret of the fact he did not enjoy living a bachelor existence. And he had never hidden his admiration for Catarina. Fervently she prayed he would not make her an offer. She had been fond of Walter, but she had no desire to wed another man of his age. She had no desire to remarry at all, whatever romantic notions Rosa had. Perhaps it was her own imminent wedding to the son of one of the tenant farmers that directed her thoughts in such pathways.

They finished putting away the gowns, and Catarina picked up the older, less fashionable ones she had determined to give away. Walter had been a generous husband, and she had more gowns than she would need now. Besides, the Dower House had only four principal bedrooms, all far smaller than hers at the Grange, and there was insufficient room for them all. She would harness the gig and take them to the rectory. Mrs Eade would know who needed clothing, and her sewing circle, made up of the few gentlewomen in the parish, a couple of farmers’ wives, and two favoured shopkeepers, would enjoy using the material and making over the gowns into apparel more
suitable
for needy villagers.

Rosa packed up the bundle, while Catarina sent Staines to order the gig. Walter’s butler, who had been with the earl for more than thirty years, had insisted he wanted to remain in her service.

‘I’m getting on, my lady, and I can’t be doing with the sort of changes a new owner will want to make. I’d be better suited, much more content, looking after you at the Dower House.’

Touched, she had agreed. With him, Rosa, a cook, kitchen maid, two housemaids and two gardeners, who also looked
after her two horses and did odd jobs about the house, she was well served.

She was entering the village just as a mail coach pulled away from the Bear inn. Then she frowned. Surely that female standing before the inn, a carpet bag at her feet, couldn’t be Joanna? But it was. As soon as her sister saw her she
abandoned
her bag and ran to meet Catarina.

‘Oh, Cat!’ she cried and burst into tears.

‘Joanna, what on earth’s the matter? Why are you here?’

‘I-I can’t tell you here.’

‘Get in. Let’s collect your luggage. I must take these gowns to Mrs Eade, then we can go home and you can tell me what brings you here, and in such a state. Now dry your eyes.’

Joanna sniffed, employed the handkerchief Catarina offered and tried to calm herself. Fortunately Mrs Eade was out, so Catarina did not have to refuse any offer of refreshment, and half an hour later she was guiding Joanna into the Dower House.

Staines, without being asked, brought a pot of tea and some of Cook’s almond biscuits. Ellen, her cook, was no older than Catarina herself, and she had hesitated before employing her. She had been accustomed to have much older women, plump and comfortable, as cooks, but once Ellen, on a week’s trial, had produced some of her delicious dishes, Catarina had had no more reservations. Ellen seemed to spend all her time reading old receipt books, and told Catarina she had inherited them from her grandmother, who had been cook to gentry.

Joanna tossed her travelling cloak over the back of a chair and curled up in a small ball in one corner of a big sofa. She seemed disinclined to speak and Catarina did not press her. She poured tea for them both. Joanna took the cup with a bleak smile, then she attacked the plate of biscuits and ate voraciously.

‘I had no breakfast,’ she explained. ‘I had to leave in the middle of the night to catch the mail in Bristol.’

‘Does Uncle Ivor know you have come? Has he been unkind to you?’ she added, thinking back to the few months she had herself spent with her uncle’s family between leaving school and marrying Walter.

Joanna paled. ‘No, and you must not tell him I’m here! Promise, Catarina! He’ll make me go back!’

‘They will guess you have come to me.’

‘No, they won’t. I left a note saying I was going to a friend’s in London.’

Catriona frowned. She appreciated Joanna’s fear of their uncle’s anger, but she did not approve of telling lies.

‘He and Aunt Hebe will be worried.’

‘They’ve never cared for either of us except in the way of duty. They disapproved of Papa and never accepted Mama. But they’ll want to drag me back and, Cat, I can’t!’

‘Why not? Have they been unkind to you?’ Catarina repeated.

‘No. Not them.’ and Joanna burst into tears.

It took time and patience to calm her, but eventually she sat up, pushed herself away from Catarina’s comforting arms and wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath.

‘Cat, I’m – oh, I can’t tell you!’

‘You must if I’m to help you. And you must want my help, or you would not have come to me.’

Joanna nodded, and turned away her face so that she did not have to look at Catarina. Her words were muffled and low, but Catarina heard them.

‘I’m increasing; I’m having a baby.’

Chapter Three

N
ICHOLAS PUT HIS
lack of interest in accepting any of the many invitations waiting for him in London to his concerns about the coming struggle with Napoleon. Many of the people who normally spent the Season in London had flocked to Paris and Brussels, taking advantage of the
opportunity
to visit Europe, the first for many years, though it appeared that a few, apprehensive at the approach of the Corsican monster, had fled back to London.

One of the young matrons with whom he enjoyed a discreet liaison sent a brief note saying her husband was away for a week, and she hoped to see him before he, too, left for Brussels, but he tossed it into the fire. He had no appetite for her frivolity. Lady Keith, furious that he had countermanded her decision to have Olivia in London for the Season, sent an
imperious
command ordering him to dinner the following day, and to this he sent polite apologies, mentioning a previous
engagement
. He was in no mood to listen to her complaints.

He could not dismiss thoughts of Catarina from his mind. Used as he was to ordering his own affairs, it rankled that she had been better informed than he about the old cottages. However much he told himself that as she lived there it was only natural she would know the situation, he disliked the experience of having to admit he was wrong. She had not,
however, known about the agent’s dishonesty, but that had no doubt been Walter’s province.

She was an enigma, and to his annoyance he could not rid his mind of thoughts of her. Going through Walter’s papers he had discovered several letters from an elderly Colonel Carsley, a member of White’s, and it seemed they were old friends. Almost without being aware of it he found himself entering the club later that day.

The colonel was reposing in a deep armchair, his eyes closed and a glass held loosely in his hand in imminent danger of tipping the port it contained on to his lap.

Nicholas drew up another chair and coughed loudly. The colonel started, opened his eyes and drained his glass.

‘What? Who? Oh, it’s you, young Brooke. Thought you were down in Somerset. How did poor Walter’s funeral go?’

‘That was over two months ago; I have been busy elsewhere since. But I was at Marshington Grange last week and met his widow again. A pleasant girl, but rather younger than I expected.’

The colonel uttered a salacious chortle. ‘Walter was an old dog. Didn’t know he had it in him. I wouldn’t have minded bedding that filly meself!’

Nicholas found his hands clenched into fists. He forced himself to relax.

‘We were such distant connections I hadn’t met Walter since I was a child. My father always said he would never marry, but when he did we assumed he wanted to secure the succession.’

‘Wants aren’t always granted to us. You should be grateful. You get the title and the estate. He was a warm man, Walter, never spent above his income and managed to increase his fortune.’

‘Why did he choose a girl just out of the schoolroom? I’d have thought he might have preferred someone older.’

‘He didn’t confide in me, but I understand he was visiting her uncle in Bristol for some reason and saw the chit. He was
smitten and the uncle – Sir Ivor Norton, wasn’t he? – caught his fish. An odd man, Norton, not the sort to take kindly to having to take on two schoolgirls. Got a sister, I believe? Did you see her? Is she another beauty?’

‘She’s pretty, yes, but Lady Brooke is the more handsome. But enough of her. What’s the latest news from Brussels?’

Catarina closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘Who was it? Were you forced?’ she asked, thankful that her voice sounded normal.

‘It was only once or twice. Well, a few times,’ Joanna muttered. ‘Just after I went home after Walter’s funeral. Matthew and I were married, but secretly, and he was leaving to join the army in Belgium. Oh, Cat, what shall I do?’

‘Our cousin Matthew?’

Catarina tried to suppress her anger. Matthew was Uncle Ivor’s eldest son, just a couple of years older than she was, and she had always detested him. As a child he had delighted in playing cruel pranks on other children, lying to escape any punishment and quite willing to blame anyone else for his own misdemeanours.

‘Joanna, how could you! He was the most dreadful little sneak and he was expelled from Harrow for stealing. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been kicked out of the army too!’

Joanna sniffed. ‘I thought he had changed. He was different from when we were little, friendly and fun. Cat, you can’t imagine how awful it is living with our uncle! He promised to take me away from it all, and anyway we were married! Or at the time I thought we were.’

‘Thought you were?’ Catarina didn’t know whether to shake her sister or weep for her. ‘How can you be uncertain? Tell me all about it. When did this marriage take place, where, and who else was present? Didn’t you know that you needed Uncle Ivor’s permission as you are only eighteen? If the marriage was secret how could you have had it?’

‘Matthew said it would be all right,’ Joanna said, her voice
sulky. ‘It was late at night, I couldn’t get away at any other time, but I managed to climb out of my window and down the wistaria outside.’

Catarina groaned. ‘Like you did in the seminary. Oh, Joanna! Won’t you ever learn?’

‘It’s no good being cross with me now. I need your help, Catarina. I thought you’d be willing to help me.’

‘I will. Go on.’

‘It was at that nice little church just a few miles away – St John’s. You know it, the village has moved, it’s now further up the hill and the church stands all on its own.’

Just right for a clandestine wedding ceremony, Catarina thought, but did not voice it.

‘Who else was there?’

‘Two of Matthew’s army friends, he said they were. I hadn’t met them before. And the curate, of course.’

‘They were witnesses, I suppose. Did you sign the register? I remember I had to when I married Walter.’

‘I signed in a big book. I suppose that’s what you mean.’

‘I don’t understand why it had to be a secret. Why did Matthew not wish his father to know?’

‘He had got plans for Matthew to marry someone else, a girl Aunt Hebe met the last time she was in Bath taking the waters.’

‘Does he know about the baby? Have you written to tell him?’

Joanna nodded and gulped. ‘I wrote as soon as I suspected. I had a reply yesterday. That was why I had to come to you. Cat, darling sister, you will help me, won’t you?’

Catarina’s foreboding increased. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said I had been a fool to believe him; he’d never married me, the ceremony was a joke and the curate was just another of his friends. And he said he was now betrothed to a girl he’d met in Brussels. He gave me the address of a woman in Bristol who – who helped girls in my situation. He meant she would
get rid of the baby for me. But, Cat, one of the girls at the
seminary
went to one of these women and she died!’

‘Do you still have the letter?’

‘Yes, I brought it to show you just how – how horrid he’s being.’

‘Give it to me. I’ll keep it somewhere safe and if I get the opportunity one day I will do something drastic to Cousin Matthew. Perhaps it would serve him right if we sent a copy to this girl he says he’s betrothed to. Did he tell you her name?’

‘Here’s the letter.’ Joanna took it from her reticule and handed it to Catarina. ‘Read it. He didn’t tell me who it is.’

‘Then perhaps it’s no one. He may be saying it just as an excuse.’

Catarina’s emotions were too complex for her to distinguish them. There was utter fury and disgust at Matthew’s
calculating
cynicism; anger at Joanna for being taken in by him and permitting such intimacies; dismay at the scandal that would arise when their friends learned of the situation; and, under it all, a shameful jealousy that her sister knew more about this aspect of life than she did herself.

She and Walter had led celibate lives. On their wedding night he had confessed to her that, due to an accident some years before, he was incapable of fathering a child. They had never lived as man and wife, though no one but themselves knew this state of affairs. She suddenly had a vision of Nicholas Brooke and wondered guiltily what it would be like to have such a handsome man make love to her. Before her wedding she had often wished for a young, handsome knight to come and carry her away from her uncle’s house, but when told she was to marry Walter had striven to banish such
unmaidenly
thoughts.

She pulled herself together. Kindness in a husband was more important than good looks. But Brooke had invaded her dreams too frequently for her comfort.

‘Don’t worry, Joanna. We’ll think of a way round it without
resorting to any dirty old woman in Bristol! Now I’ll show you to your room, the pretty one with the rose-patterned wallpaper you chose, and in the morning I’ll have thought of a plan. And think yourself lucky you are not really married to Matthew!’

In the aftermath of the battle, when the Emperor’s army had been routed, Nicholas, filthy from the mud and so weary he wanted nothing better than to lie down in his soaking wet clothes and sleep where he was, knew he had to make sure Jeremy was safe. He’d seen his brother a couple of hours
previously
and, at that time, he had been alive and exalted with the success they sensed was coming. He set off, asking everyone he met if they knew where Jeremy’s regiment was located, and was eventually directed to an inn on the road back to Brussels.

His horse, as weary as he was, stumbled along the
chaussée
and dropped his head the moment Nicholas dismounted. The road was filled with carts carrying the dead and wounded, soldiers straggling back to Brussels, people trying to go the other way, either to look for loved ones or, Nicholas suspected, to scavenge amongst the debris and rob the dead still lying where they had fallen. There was grass at the roadside, but his poor horse seemed too weary to bother eating. Nicholas knew how he felt. Though all he’d had in the past four and twenty hours was a small loaf of coarse bread, he had no desire for food, just for sleep.

There were several cavalrymen sitting on the ground outside the inn, but not Jeremy. Someone inside was screaming in agony and Nicholas winced at the sound.

‘What goes on? I’m looking for my brother, Jeremy Brooke.’

One of the men gave him a sorrowing look. A second gestured towards the inn.

‘Don’t ask, mate. It’s butchery in there. He’s no surgeon.’

‘What?’

Nicholas pushed past them and found his way into the coffee room. The long trestle tables had been commandeered
as beds, and several men lay on them, groaning, while others surrounded the furthest table. He glanced round swiftly but could not see Jeremy. Then he thought he heard his brother’s voice, demanding to be let go.

‘Pour some more brandy down his throat,’ Nicholas heard and, fearing the worst, he pushed through towards this group of men.

Jeremy lay on the trestle, struggling to get free, but his arms and legs were being held down by four brawny fellows while a fifth was sharpening a large, wicked-looking saw. Jeremy’s breeches had been cut away and blood was pouring from a wound in his left thigh.

Nicholas grabbed the man with the saw and demanded to know what was going on.

‘Bullet lodged. Now get off, there’s plenty more to be done. Have you got the pitch ready?’ he asked yet another man standing beside him.

‘Aye, nice and hot.’

‘No! There must be another way. Bullets can be dug out, there’s no need to amputate.’

‘Look, mate, I’m the surgeon, I know what needs to be done. If I don’t take the leg it’ll be gangrenous and he’ll die a lingering death, much worse than a few minutes of pain here.’

‘Nick?’

Jeremy, his gaze unfocused, began to laugh and mutter about old Nick and the devil. Nicholas, seeing what appeared to be the landlord hovering in the background, beckoned to him.

‘Do you have a bed upstairs for my brother, away from these butchers? I’ll pay well.’

‘It’s no more than a garret, but you’re welcome.’

Nicholas gestured to two of the men assisting the surgeon and told them to carry Jeremy upstairs. They shrugged and, lured by the thought of his largesse, picked up Jeremy and carried him, still muttering alternate prayers and curses, up
the narrow stairs into a small room under the eaves. Nicholas could hear the surgeon shouting at his other assistants, ordering them to move the next one over. Poor devils, in his murderous hands. But he had to do what he could for Jeremy.

Nicholas handed the men some coins and turned to the landlord.

‘Have you some woman who could help me? And plenty of hot water and bandages please.’

‘I’ll send up my wife.’

Within a few minutes a buxom woman came in, carrying a knife and a linen sheet which she intimated could be cut into bandages. Another, younger woman carried in a jug of water. Nicholas took the first strip of bandage and began to swab Jeremy’s wound. He could not see the bullet, which was buried deep, but the wound looked clean and, if he could stem the bleeding, he might be able to keep Jeremy alive until he could reach a proper doctor.