An Unusual Bequest

‘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.