Beth’s confused mix of anger, embarrassment and a new, unexpected yearning was such that she could hardly focus to count her steps to her carriage or later traverse the gravel path to Jamie’s small office attached to the stable. The numbers swam in her head, mixed and mired with darting thoughts and seesawing emotions. It felt as though her heart still beat as loud as thunder. An unusual restless energy filled her body, combined with a hunger which was new to her.
The very contrariness of her reactions irritated her. It was not only that she was shocked by his actions. Rather, she was shocked by her own reactions and by that crazy, contrary part of her that had not wanted him to stop, that feared she would not have stopped him.
She was not a creature of emotion. Her mother and Jamie valued rational thought above all things. It was in no way rational to consummate this marriage. Indeed, had they done so, an annulment might not be possible. Even worse, she might have been with child.
Apprehension snaked through her. She knew she must not have children. She had known that since Jamie had arrived with that prize bull from across the county.
Strength begets strength, he’d said.
So why had she been prepared to put sense and reason aside? From the first moment of her marriage she had been contrary. She should have been thankful, relieved, when he’d disappeared so swiftly back to his London life. Right now, she should be offended by that kiss and furious at his liberty.
She wasn’t. Rather, she was angry that he had dropped her like a hot potato at a children’s game. He’d practically bolted to the door, bellowing for Dobson and sending her with all possible haste back to Allington—
A sudden noxious stench stopped her in her tracks. She gripped the railing which Jamie had installed, wrinkling her nose. It smelled of manure and rotting vegetation.
‘Jamie?’ she called out.
She pushed open the door to his office and heard the rustle of paper from the direction of the desk. She crossed the five steps towards it, placing her hands on the polished wood of its top.
‘It smells quite dreadful outside.’
‘It’s supposed to,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Edmund and I were experimenting.’
His words brought her attention back to the matter at hand. ‘I doubt you will do much more experimenting on the Graham estate. Ren thinks he is illegitimate and remains determined to give the estate to the Duke,’ she said without preamble.
‘He told you?’ Jamie’s chair creaked as though he had leaned back.
‘So you did know.’
‘People talk,’ he said.
She sat. Her jaw slackened. She was briefly dumbstruck that her brother, who cared nothing for human drama, could be privy to this information while she was not.
‘You didn’t tell me?’
‘Didn’t think of it.’
‘You didn’t think of it?’ she spluttered. ‘He is my husband.’
‘Yes,’ Jamie acknowledged.
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
There was a silence. Of course, Jamie had not thought to tell her.
‘You didn’t ask,’ he said at last.
‘I didn’t—’ She drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘Of course, I didn’t—No matter. You must talk to him now.’
‘What? What about?’ Jamie asked, fear rippling through his voice so that she almost wanted to laugh.
‘Not about being illegitimate. Just about the estate and how Edmund loved it. And what it is like for the Duke’s tenants. And how the Duke charges them an exorbitant rent and never returns any money to the estate. And how Edmund would not want the Duke to take over Graham Hill.’
‘But Edmund and I only spoke about seeds and cattle.’
‘Good gracious, there is more to life than seeds and cattle. Surely you could tell Ren that Edmond would not want a man like the Duke taking over.’
‘But he did not say so.’
‘He did not say so! What? Would he need to spell it out?’
But of course for Jamie, he would. Any amusement fled and, with a quick, almost violent, movement, Beth stood, grabbed her cane and walked the five paces back towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ her brother asked.
‘I don’t know.’
He was silent. Sometimes she could almost feel his confusion. He would in no way understand how someone could start to go somewhere without any knowledge of their destination. She paused, hand resting on the door knob, again aware of the smell from outside. An idea flickered.
‘You said Edmund was involved in the experiment?’ She turned back to him. ‘I thought his interest lay more in mechanical invention.’
‘Yes, but we wanted to see if manure, combined with gypsum, caused greater crop growth than manure alone.’
‘And Edmund was involved?’
‘Yes, he wanted to increase the crop’s yield.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘To provide more food for the tenants, of course.’ His tone suggested he doubted her intelligence.
‘Exactly!’ She grinned, the hopeful bubble growing. She clapped her hands. ‘Look, see if you can find any letters or notes from Edmund and give them to me.’
‘Really? You are interested? I have the data. I can read it to you. I have kept meticulous notes. I always do, you know.’
‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘No, it is Edmund’s letters I need. Look for them while I am away.’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked again.
‘To see Ren.’
* * *
Beth was met by Dobson at the door.
‘His lordship has left already,’ he said.
‘No matter, I’ll wait. When will he be back?’
‘He won’t. He’s gone to London, my lady.’
‘London,’ she spoke flatly.
Beth had dreaded seeing Ren again. Yet now that she knew he’d left without even giving her that opportunity, she felt a heaviness in her stomach as though she had eaten too much of Mrs Bridges’s raw dough.
Her husband had returned to London and not even told her. She had spoken to him mere hours ago. He had kissed her. He had upturned her world...shaken it...changed it and yet she had not even warranted a goodbye, a note, or any form of communication.
She blinked. Her eyes stung. He had kissed her. Her lips still felt bruised.
‘Would you care to see her ladyship? She is still here,’ Dobson offered.
‘I—’ Beth was about to refuse and turn away. ‘Yes,’ she said instead.
As was her habit, she placed her hand on Dobson’s arm and allowed him to lead her into the small salon.
‘I will inform her ladyship.’
‘Thank you.’ Beth sat on a low sofa, her fingers rubbing the watered silk, the scratch-scratch of her movement loud in the still chamber. She seldom came to this room. As a child, they had not been allowed. Instead, they had spent time in the nursery or the kitchen where Mrs Bridges might give them cakes or let them lick a mixing spoon.
Lady Graham’s entrance was announced by a swish of skirts and the creak of the door opening.
‘Beth, it is nice of you to visit,’ her mother-in-law said.
‘I wanted to talk to you and—and see how you were faring,’ Beth said awkwardly.
‘I will survive. And yourself, you are managing?’
The words were not offensive, but Lady Graham’s tone rankled. It was as though she expected her to fall apart and her failure to do so was both disappointing and a sign of bad breeding.
Beth again rubbed at the silk settee, then stilled her hand, unwilling to give her mother-in-law cause to think her nervous. ‘Lady Graham—I wanted to talk to you,’ she repeated.
‘So you mentioned.’
There was a pause punctuated only by the clock’s tick.
‘I know,’ Beth said.
The pause lengthened, the tick-tock-tick rhythmic.
‘You will have to elucidate on the exact content of this knowledge,’ her ladyship said.
‘I know that Lord Graham was not Ren’s father.’ Beth pushed the words out, her hands tight fists about the folds of her dress.
She heard Lady Graham’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Good gracious, Beth, I knew you were blind, but I didn’t know that madness also ran in your family.’
‘Ren told me.’
‘Grief has obviously affected his mind, poor boy.’
‘No,’ Beth said. Now that the words were out, she felt a growing strength. ‘It makes sense. I think it is true.’
‘I—Even if it were true, I do not see why you concern yourself with this.’
‘Because Ren is my husband, in case you have forgotten.’
‘A youthful mistake which I am certain he regrets.’
Beth felt herself flinch. She had not fully understood the elder woman’s hostility. ‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘But I am also his friend and your lies are impacting him dreadfully.’
‘I think you forget to whom you are speaking.’
‘I am speaking to my husband’s mother, the person who should be most interested in his well-being.’
‘You are suggesting I am not?’
‘I—’ Beth paused. She felt out of her depth and conscious that her words were making things worse. ‘I am suggesting that he is making a mistake. I am worried about him and I thought that you might be able to talk to him.’
The silence lengthened, again punctuated by that ever-rhythmic clock.
‘About what?’ her mother-in-law asked at last.
‘Ren thinks he has no right to this estate.’
‘Nonsense. It is his.’
‘Legally, perhaps. But he doesn’t believe it would be honourable to inherit. He is considering other options.’
She heard Lady Graham stand. The scent of lily of the valley wafted towards her with the movement.
‘What other options?’ Lady Graham asked.
‘I fear he might give it away to—to a near relative.’
‘The Duke?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had not considered that.’ The footsteps paused as though Lady Graham was standing to better contemplate her next words.
‘It would be so bad for the tenants,’ Beth said.
‘And what would you have me do?’
‘Talk to him.’
Her ladyship gave a short mirthless laugh. ‘Good Lord, girl, Ren and I have said only ten words to each other in the last five years and most of those were in this last sennight. He would no more listen to me than fly in the air. Besides, it may not be a bad idea. My son is hardly known for his responsible lifestyle. The Duke is businesslike. He could well improve the estate.’
‘What?’ Beth felt her hand reach out as though in supplication. ‘Businesslike? Have you seen the tenants on his estate? The rents are so high that people starve.’
‘Do not indulge in such melodrama. My husband and Edmund pandered too much to the whims of the tenants.’
‘They made certain people had food. They reinvested in the land and in roads. The Duke does none of these things. He charges rent merely to support his own extravagance.’
‘Good Lord child, you sound positively revolutionary. You cannot change the world.’
The words were said in that mocking tone which had always made Beth feel much younger than her years and foolish, as though both her youth and lack of sight conspired to make her witless.
Anger and frustration flared. She rose, grasping her cane, her palms sweaty against the wood.
‘No, but I can try,’ she said.
* * *
By habit, Beth detoured to the kitchen. She always felt more at home there anyway. Kitchens had such lovely comforting smells, as if cinnamon infused its very foundation of solid beam and brick. She’d always liked places with a smell. Scents, even the unpleasant, gave information and served to orientate her.
Mrs Bridges’s kitchen smelled wonderful, a mix of yeast, fresh bread, onions and beef roast. In childhood, it had been filled with a busy bustling: the clatter of pans, the rhythmic beat of a spoon in batter and the movement of many feet and hands. Now the staff was small, just Mrs Bridges and a scullery maid.
‘You always did have a knack of showing up exactly when the bread was fresh from the oven,’ Mrs Bridges stated, upon her entry. ‘Although by rights, I didn’t have the heart to bake, what with Master Edmund being gone, but then we need to eat. Besides, it was that nice to have Master Ren back. I was hoping he’d stay a while. I was thinking it would be nice if he’d pop down to poor Mrs Cridge. She’ll be feeling Master Edmund’s loss something terrible.’
‘Yes,’ Beth said. ‘I had forgotten her. I’ll go.’
Mrs Cridge had been the Grahams’ nanny. She’d seemed old even in their childhood.
‘Will you? You always were a brave one. She can be mighty irascible.’
‘Her bark is worse than her bite. I go quite often,’ Beth said.
‘Do you? Me, I prefer my pots and pans. They are considerably more obliging.’
‘But not half so interesting.’
* * *
Mrs Cridge’s cottage was in the north-east corner of the estate, bordered by fields and a small brook cutting across the left corner. Mrs Cridge had been on the Graham estate for ever and knew more about the family than anyone. She had come first as nanny to Ren’s father, remaining to look after both Ren and Edmund. Retired now, she seldom left her cottage, limited by poor eyesight and goutarthritis.
Beth left Arnold with the horses and stepped carefully up the uneven path. The door was off the latch and, after knocking, she stepped inside. The interior smelled of old age; the scent was of coal fires, mothballs and damp.
‘My lady?’ Mrs Cridge said immediately, her voice croaky from either disuse or age. She sounded even frailer than she had at the memorial. Beth took her hand, conscious of the elder woman’s weakened grip.
‘I brought some bread,’ Beth said, unclasping the elder woman’s hand and giving her the loaf.
‘Fresh, I hope. I don’t want Mrs Bridges’s day-olds.’
‘Fresh, I am sure.’
‘Good, then I will put the kettle on.’
Beth sat as the older woman got up, her breath heavy with exertion. She set about making tea, her shuffling movement, accompanied by the splash of water and the clang of the kettle being placed above the fire. Would the Duke let her stay? She had heard that at Ayrebourne he removed anyone unable to labour on the land.
Surely Ren would not let that happen. She wished he had not left for London. If he had remained she would have dragged him here. Surely Mrs Cridge could have talked sense into him.
‘There now,’ Mrs Cridge said. ‘I’ve put your cup on the table to your left, just by your hand. And then you’d best be telling me what’s the matter. The face on you is enough to turn the milk sour.’
It was typical that Mrs Cridge wasted no time on pleasantries.
‘So what’s he done now, your man?’ she asked. ‘Other than up sticks and leave.’
‘He’s not my man,’ Beth said, irritably.
‘You’re married to him.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t... I mean...’
Mrs Cridge made a tutting sound and Beth fell silent. ‘Right now you’re the only wife he has, so he’s yours for all intents and purposes. Besides, I have a feeling he needs someone or else he’ll make a big mistake.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘I don’t know anything exactly, only that he is sad and has left this estate when he should be here.’
‘He doesn’t want it—the estate, I mean. He’s going to give it to the Duke,’ Beth said.
‘That would be mighty foolish.’
‘I know, and wrong, too. The tenants would suffer. I know neither Edmund nor his father would have wanted that.’
‘It would seem that you’ll need to convince him of that,’ Mrs Cridge said.
‘Me?’
‘Like I said, you’re the only wife he has.’
‘But I can’t. I was going to try. But he’s already left. Besides I spoke to him yesterday and it did no good,’ Beth said.
‘What did you say? Sounds like you didn’t use the right words.’
‘Me? I didn’t?’ she said stung. ‘I tried. I even took the time to unearth his paintings’
‘That was foolish. It likely only served to remind him of his parentage.’
‘I know. At the time, I hadn’t heard—how did you know?’ In her shock, Beth miscalculated the distance to the table so her tea spilled, the liquid hot on her hand.
‘There’s not much I don’t know about my lads,’ Mrs Cridge said.
‘Obviously,’ Beth muttered with some irritation, dabbing ineffectively at the spill with her handkerchief. ‘Well, unlike the rest of the world, I didn’t know that Lord Graham wasn’t Ren’s father. If I’d known anything about the portrait painter, I might not have brought out the paintings. I just wanted to remind Ren of the love he had for this estate. When did you find out? About his father?’
‘I’ve always known.’
‘Always? You mean before Lord Graham even knew.’
‘From day one.’
‘Apparently, Edmund and I are the only people who did not know,’ Beth said.
‘Edmund knew.’ Mrs Cridge spoke in flat tones, as though stating an established fact.
‘He did?’ Beth leaned forward with sudden eagerness.
‘Yes.’
‘You know this for a certainty?’
‘Yes. We spoke of it.’
‘But Ren thought he didn’t know,’ Beth said.
‘He knew.’
‘And he didn’t care?’
‘He loved Ren,’ Mrs Cridge said. ‘That did not change. That could never change.’
‘And he wanted Ren to inherit?’
‘He certainly would not have wanted the Duke to do so,’ Mrs Cridge said.
Beth reached towards the older woman and grasped her hand within her own. Mrs Cridge’s fingers were crooked and the joints swollen, the painful knots and bulges discernible under thin, dry skin. ‘You must tell him. You must go to London and tell him.’
‘Good Lord, child. Look at me. I can barely move around this cottage. I could not travel to London. Any carriage would rattle every joint loose. My legs would not stand it.’
‘But someone has to,’ Beth said.
‘Indeed.’
‘I could ask Jamie.’
‘Your brother could not convince anyone out of anything—or into anything for that matter. Likely he would merely find a new variation of seed or some such nonsense. Besides, it’s not his responsibility,’ Mrs Cridge added.
‘You think it’s mine?’
‘You married the man.’
‘But—I...I mean it’s not a real marriage.’
‘It’s real enough when you act lady of the manor with the tenants.’
Beth dropped the elder woman’s hand, stung. ‘I don’t act. I help.’
‘Then best help now. The tenants need it and so does Ren.’
‘He doesn’t. At least, not my help.’
Mrs Cridge made no answer. Beth reached forward to touch the elder woman’s face. Her skin felt soft, despite its crinkles and folds, her expression serious.
Beth dropped her hands. ‘You think he does?’
‘He is unhappy.’
Beth shifted in her seat, tension twisting through her stomach. Her palms felt damp with sweat. ‘I can’t go to London.’
She had only considered going once and that had been with Mirabelle. And now Mirabelle was dead. The thought of travelling, of going into that busy, bustling city with its noise and smells frightened her, had always frightened her. She rubbed her palms against the cloth of her gown, swallowing nervously.
‘I see no reason why not. You have a carriage, horses and your health.’
‘But where would I stay?’
‘You also have a husband and a house. Or you could make arrangements with a relative.’
‘But—’ Beth shivered. She felt nervous on so many levels. It was about the physical act of travelling, of going to London, of tracking Ren down and turning up on his door step. It was about his reaction when she tracked him down.
And her own reaction. Unconsciously, she touched her lips as though they were still imprinted with his kiss.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘And I remember a little girl who didn’t know the meaning of that word,’ Mrs Cridge said.
Beth had said that. She had believed it. Her mother had believed it. But her mother had been thrown from a horse and her belief in the impossible broken as surely as her back.
Again, Beth rubbed her palms on her dress so that the fabric rustled. She shivered despite the fire’s crackling warmth.
‘Sometimes you have to fight for what is right.’ The silence stretched between them, the words seeming to reverberate. ‘And you have to try because at least then you will know that you have done everything.’
The fire crackled. A twig brushed against the cottage window with a soft rata-tat-tat.
‘He saved you from the Duke,’ Mrs Cridge said.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you should return the favour.’
‘He doesn’t need saving.’
‘You’re certain about that?’
* * *
Brooks’s was as familiar to Ren as his own rooms or Celeste’s sumptuous quarters. Indeed, he had stopped at his mistress’s place, but his restlessness had been too great. Despite Celeste’s attributes, so admirably displayed, he had found himself lacking interest and his mind wandering.
Grief, most like. The fact that his mind so often circled to Beth was because she was so intricately linked with his family. It was not so much about her but about what she represented.
A load of claptrap, he knew.
So, seeking diversion, he had driven briskly to Brooks’s and now strode through the Great Subscription Room. Several acquaintances lounged in low sofas close to the huge blazing fires and he nodded to them, pausing by Lord Amherst, a flushed and amiable gentleman, lolling within a comfortable armchair, his leg propped on a foot stool.
‘Graham, care to bet?’ Amherst asked, raising his glass in Ren’s direction.
‘Not today,’ he said.
‘Betting on snails. Going to find two snails and see which will travel a foot in the shortest time.’
‘Do we have anything to measure the foot?’ another gentleman enquired from a seat on the other side of the hearth, his words slurred.
‘Don’t know. I suppose we could use a flagstone.’ Amherst grunted, removing his foot from the stool and pulling himself into a seated position. He glanced towards the huge windows across the room. ‘Bit cold out there, though, to look for snails crossing flagstones.’
‘We could bet on who finds a snail first,’ the other gentleman suggested, lifting his glass and peering at the amber liquid with apparent fascination.
‘Or perhaps we could find an indoor insect. A spider. We can bet on which one of us first finds a spider—’
Ren left them, mounting the stairs. Sometimes he enjoyed such nonsense and had placed any number of ludicrous bets in the past. This evening he had no interest. He felt an unjustified anger that men like Amherst should still live to spend their time betting on snails and spiders while Edmund was dead.
The card room upstairs was much smaller and more crowded than the Subscription room downstairs. The air was warmer and laced with sweat. The golden glow from the heavy chandeliers lit the swirls of blue smoke, which hung, like London fog, just below the ceiling. Several men huddled about the card table, their features reflected and multiplied within the long gilt-framed mirrors lining the walls.
A roar rose as the dice tumbled across the felt. Hazard, a pleasant enough game, but not for today. Ren needed escape. He needed something more than a light game of Hazard. He needed something which would push out all other thoughts and focus all his faculties on the moment.
Several men had turned at his entrance. He felt the change in the room. He felt the stiffening and the flicker of nervous apprehension as though their world had become more dangerous with his presence.
He did not mind.
‘Whist?’ he suggested. ‘But only for those with damn deep pockets.’
He walked over to an empty table and signalled for brandy which he swallowed in a fiery gulp. Several individuals joined him and they formed a group at the far end of the room, away from the more raucous play at the Hazard table.
This table was different. There was less joking and jocularity. Here the men still drank, but there was a quiet intensity to their game. Conversation was limited and under the polite words there was always the knowledge that fortunes were being won and lost with the soft shuffle and thwack of cards.
Ren picked up his hand. He kept his gaze focused, his concentration complete. This was why he liked high stakes—it rooted him in this single moment so that all else dwindled to unimportance.
His facility with cards had served him well. It was likely the only thing which had made his school life tolerable and had served to provide income until several investments in north Yorkshire paid off.
Now it whiled away the long hours and nights when he could not sleep.
Sometimes he won. Sometimes he lost. Tonight he was winning, but he kept his face grim, his expression unreadable. Gradually night turned into day. The candles burned out into puddles of wax as the grey light of dawn flickered through the windows. But time was a meaningless concept, subservient to the soft thwack of the cards.