Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife Page 11

  ‘I will speak to her as I please.’

  ‘So you may, but not on my behalf.’

  Once again he was taken aback by her forthrightness. This was a side of her he had not bargained for. ‘Madam, you are my wife,’ he said sharply, forgetting he had almost decided to have the marriage annulled. ‘I expect you to be of the same mind as I am. I do not expect you to have opinions of your own.’

  ‘Then I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord. I am no schoolroom miss to be moulded into an echo of my husband. I have lived too long and seen too much for that. However, I shall endeavour not to embarrass you by expressing my opinions before the servants or your friends.’ It was said with all the hauteur she could manage.

  Instead of continuing the argument, he laughed. ‘Oh, I do not think this marriage of ours will be dull,’ he said. ‘Come, let us go on a tour of inspection and you may tell me your honest opinion of your new home.’

  The house was very large and very grand. The ground floor was given over to public reception rooms, a vast dining hall, a ballroom, the estate office and the gunroom, besides the usual offices of kitchen, dairy, pantry and staff dining room. On the first floor there was a library and several small sitting rooms. The bedrooms with their dressing rooms and adjoining sitting rooms were above that and higher still the servants’ quarters, divided into male and female, each with their own staircase.

  Some of the furnishings, especially in the public rooms, were light and airy, but some were dark and gloomy. ‘We do not use those rooms,’ Harry told her. ‘It is a long time since the house was full.’

  Rosamund found herself wondering about his first wife. Had she filled the house with guests? What was she like? According to Mr Portman, his lordship had never got over her death. Had he loved her so much he could not abide the infant who had been the cause of her death? Her heart went out to the child. She was tempted to ask about her, but did not want to spoil his good humour, which he had recovered remarkably quickly.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked, as they returned to the ground floor.

  ‘It is very grand. I am not sure I shall be able to find my way about it.’

  ‘You will soon learn. Now shall we look at the garden?’ He offered his arm and she took it.

  The garden she fell in love with on the spot. It was beautifully tended with terraces, lawns and shrubbery and flower beds. The park was criss-crossed with paths and dotted with mature trees under which horses grazed. One path led through a belt of trees to a lake, bright with yellow pond lilies and flag, and the tall brown spikes of bulrushes. There was a boat house and a small boat riding on the ripples, moored to a stake. ‘Oh, it is so beautiful and so peaceful. I do not know how you can leave it for the smoke and dirt of London,’ she said.

  ‘Sometimes I must,’ he said. ‘In fact, I must return to the capital tomorrow. There is business I have to attend to.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘I am afraid so. I am sure you will be able to amuse yourself while I am gone.’

  ‘I expect so,’ she said. ‘But if your business is so pressing I wonder we did not stay in town after the wedding until it was done.’

  ‘You would have been bored, my dear, and I wanted to see you settled here.’

  Out of sight, out of mind, she thought. He expected to impregnate me and leave me. So why did he leave me alone last night?

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I do not know. If you wish to make calls or go shopping, you may use the landau until I have taught you to drive the gig. Travers will assign a groom to drive it for you. He will take you wherever you wish to go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was time for nuncheon, which was served in the small dining room and afterwards, while Rosamund went up to change into her habit, the horses were saddled ready for their ride.

  The little mare was called Honey, because that was her colour. She had a temperament to match, being docile and obedient. Rosamund soon discovered she had not forgotten how to ride, as they walked their horses across the park and out of a gate on the far side of the house, which gave on to a lane. The hedgerows were heavily perfumed with cow parsley, interspersed with honeysuckle and wild roses. Trees grew in arches over them, so that they rode in dappled shade. It was peaceful and Rosamund did not want to spoil it by speaking.

  They took a turn and she recognised the road on which they had approached Bishop’s Green the evening before and soon a few cottages came in view and then the village green with its stocks and its well, at which a group of women were gossiping. When they saw Harry, they bobbed curtsies and looked surreptitiously towards Rosamund.

  ‘How are your boys, Mrs Ballard?’ he enquired of one of them.

  ‘Doing well, my lord, thank you for asking,’ the woman answered with a bob.

  ‘And your father-in-law, Mrs Dalton?’

  ‘As contrary as ever,’ a toothless woman replied with a grin.

  He spoke to each in turn and then he said. ‘Ladies, this is my wife, Lady Portman. No doubt she will make herself known to you all in due course.’

  They curtsied and Harry and Rosamund rode on, leaving a twitter of comment behind them. ‘You have set the tongues wagging,’ he told her with a smile. ‘But they all seemed happy to meet you. It will please me if you would get to know them and take an interest in their welfare.’

  ‘I shall be glad to do so.’

  Their next call was at the blacksmith’s where Harry spoke about a horse that needed shoeing and the repair to a gate on the estate. They passed the tavern without going in and that took them to the far side of the green and the church. ‘Shall we go inside?’ he asked.

  ‘I should like that.’

  They dismounted and left Hector and Honey tethered by the lych gate and made their way into the cool interior. It was a small, plain church; the only decoration seemed to be the memorials to the Portman family and one or two other notables. They sat a moment in the family pew in quiet contemplation and then returned to the horses.

  Harry took them by a different route back. The road wound upwards on to a heath and here he asked her if she would like to canter. She wondered if the docile Honey would respond, but she lengthened her stride when asked and the gentle canter soon became a gallop. Rosamund let her have her head and felt the breeze in her face and the freedom only a good gallop could give. She could hear Harry alongside her, matching her speed, and felt this was how it ought to be: she and the man she loved happily riding in unison. She could almost imagine that was how it really was. When she drew up she was laughing.

  ‘You have deceived me, madam,’ he said, reining in beside her. ‘You said you had not ridden for years.’

  ‘Nor have I. I suppose it is something you do not forget.’

  ‘We have a great deal to learn about each other,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we have.’

  ‘When I come back…’ He started, then stopped. He did not want to get to know her any better, he did not want to come to like and admire her any more than he already did. To do so would put their pact and his peace of mind in jeopardy. ‘Come, let us go back, it must be nearly dinner time.’

  As they turned for home, she wondered what he had been going to say. Whatever it was, he had thought better of it.

  Chapter Six

  Harry left next morning, taking his town chaise, accompanied by Jack Sylvester. He was not in a good mood. He knew he was supposed to have made love to Rosamund before he left in the hope that she might become pregnant at once, but he could not make himself go to her room, especially after what had happened the night before. Whether she was relieved, disappointed or annoyed he had no way of knowing. She was clever enough not to show her feelings.

  She had joined him for breakfast again, smiled, bade him good morning and sat down to talk to him, just as if there were not this dreadful barrier between them. She must surely have wondered why he had stayed away from her bed a second night. He could not believe she was so ignorant
that she did not realise there was something wrong. But perhaps she was simply enjoying her reprieve. Was the prospect of consummating their marriage so repugnant to her?

  ‘My lord,’ she had said, as she buttered toast. ‘I have been thinking…’

  ‘Oh, what about?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Your daughter, my lord. What is her name?’

  ‘Annabelle. It was my late wife’s choice. It was to be Annabelle for a girl and Henry for a boy.’

  ‘Annabelle,’ she repeated. ‘A pretty name.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘With foster parents. I believe I told you that.’

  ‘Yes, but where? Is it far? I should like to make her acquaintance.’

  ‘I do not think that is a good idea, Rosamund.’

  ‘Why not? I am her stepmother, and you did say, when we made that bargain, that you wanted me to be a mother to your children, and I assumed that meant all your children.’

  ‘She is happy where she is and wants for nothing.’

  She deplored the practice among some aristocrats of sending very young children to foster parents until they were five or six. ‘Yes, but do her foster parents love her as a real parent would? Surely they must have realised that some day she would return to you.’

  ‘It was never discussed.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Madam, leave off your quizzing, if you please. My daughter’s welfare has been taken care of.’

  ‘With money, I do not doubt.’ She knew she was treading on very infirm ground, but she could not help herself. Her heart had gone out to the child. ‘But what about her father’s love and attention? Do you visit her regularly? Do you have her here for visits?’

  ‘No. It would only unsettle her.’

  ‘My lord, I cannot help thinking that it is not the way your late wife would have wanted it.’

  ‘You know nothing of my wife,’ he said angrily. ‘And I did not bring you to Bishop’s Court to lecture me.’

  ‘I did not mean to. I beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘You are forgiven because I am persuaded you do not understand.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I must go. I do not know when I shall return, but no doubt you will be able to occupy yourself.’ He bowed to her and left.

  And now he was being conveyed back to London, leaving behind unsolved problems which seemed to have no solution. Rosamund’s probing questions had made him feel more guilty than at any time since he had sent Annabelle away. It had been done because he could not look at her without seeing a vision of Beth’s dead body and all those bloody sheets. None of the servants would have dared question him as his new wife had done. He had gone along for years, leaving everything as it was because it was easier that way, sending money and assuming all was well with the child. For a man who prided himself on never shirking his duty, he had failed in the matter of his daughter, and he did not like being reminded of it.

  Rosamund finished her breakfast, musing on his reaction to the questions she had asked. She had only intended to enquire if she might meet his daughter and it had developed into a full-scale criticism. which had angered him. Was it simply that he did not like girls, as his cousin had said, or was it that the child reminded him of his late and beloved wife? But surely that should make him treasure her all the more, not cast her from him? She wondered if there was something wrong with the child. Was she deformed? Or an imbecile?

  Going up to her room to don her riding habit ready for a ride out, she found Janet tidying her room, moving quietly and efficiently, humming a little tune to herself. Someone was happy even if she were not. ‘Janet,’ she began, sitting on the stool against her escritoire, which Harry had arranged to be brought to Bishop’s Court for her. ‘You talk to the other servants, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Ro…my lady.’

  ‘When they talked about his lordship not seeing his daughter, did they say where she was?’

  ‘No, I do not think so. It was only said in passing and I did not ask questions. It is not my concern.’

  ‘No, but I think it is mine.’

  ‘Have you not asked his lordship?’

  ‘We talked about Annabelle, but he was in a hurry to leave and he did not say where she lived…’ She paused. ‘I am too impatient to wait until he comes home again—do you think you could find out without letting anyone know that I want to know? It would seem strange to servants that I am ignorant of where the little girl is.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Rosie, it will seem like spying.’

  ‘I do not want you to spy. You can bring the subject up in conversation, in a roundabout way.’

  ‘I could try, but if I find out, what will you do?’

  ‘If she lives nearby, I intend to visit her…’

  ‘But, Miss Rosie, ought you not to wait until his lordship takes you, or sends for the child?

  ‘Janet, you are my friend as well as my maid, but that does not mean you may tell me what I ought to do. His lordship asked me to get to know all the villagers and help them if they need it, and that I intend to do, and if it means I come across his daughter while doing it, so be it. I shall be discreet, you may depend upon it. So will you try to find her direction?’

  ‘Very well, but it might be a long way off.’ ‘Then I shall not be able to visit her, shall I? Now help me out of this gown and into my habit. I am going riding.’

  Half an hour later she was trotting down the drive and out of the big gates, bent on obeying her husband and making the acquaintance of some of the villagers.

  Harry went straight to Portman House where he changed into his well-worn clothes, dirtied his face and hands with stage make-up and set out on foot for the Nag’s Head. He knew that if the coiners, who were part of the tavern’s clientele, were to discover his true identity, they would not hesitate to kill him. But his disguise was good, his acting ability even better and he knew enough about clipping coins to deceive the real coiners into thinking he was one of them. It was a challenge he enjoyed and today it would serve to take his mind off Rosamund and his daughter.

  He had discovered the names of some of O’Keefe’s associates, simply by sitting in a corner of the tavern and listening to them talking to each other. Besides O’Keefe, there was a blacksmith called Bert Ironside, Thomas Quinn, a die maker once employed in the Royal Mint, and Job Smithall, whose job it was to pass off the fake coins. He was more expensively dressed than the others, as he would have to be if he were to pass himself off as a man who regularly paid for things with guineas. They had also mentioned a farm, which Harry surmised was where they had their workshop. Although O’Keefe appeared to be their leader, Harry was sure there was someone else behind the gang, the real brains, and he was anxious to uncover him before moving against the rest.

  Thomas Quinn, Bert Ironside and Job Smithall were in the tavern, but not O’Keefe, which was disappointing. Nevertheless, he joined them. ‘Good day to ye, gen’lemen,’ he said, signalling the waiter to refill everyone’s tankard and bring one for him.

  They grunted a reply. When the drinks arrived, he pulled a counterfeit shilling from his pocket to pay for it. The tavern keeper weighed it in his hand, ran his thumb over the milling and slapped it back on the table. ‘If you think I was born in a cabbage patch, you think wrong, my friend. That’s not good money.’

  ‘Beg pardon, my mistake.’ Harry pretended to be overcome by confusion and began rooting about in his dirty coat pocket for a genuine coin. He found a sixpence, enough to buy four pints of beer, and offered that. The man went off satisfied.

  Smithall had picked up the shilling and was studying it. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I? There’s so many of ‘em about these days, it’s ‘ard to tell.’

  ‘I reckon you was ’oping to pass it off and get a good sixpence in change,’ Bert Ironside said.

  ‘So what if I was? A man ’as to live, don’t ‘e?’ Harry wiped beer froth from his mouth with the side of his sleeve.


  Smithall laughed. ‘You won’t get much profit from shillings and sixpences.’

  ‘It’s better than naught. Now, if I was to come across a guinea or even a half-guinea…’ He paused and shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say no to having one or two o’ them.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What for, he asks?’ Harry laughed raucously. ‘What for do you think? I could make good use of ‘em.’

  ‘I ha’ no doubt you could, but yeller boys are hard to come by hereabouts.’ This from Quinn.

  ‘Your friend Micky O’Keefe had a couple of’em when I met ‘im in’ere the other day. I reckon they were clipped.’

  ‘How do you know they were clipped?’

  Harry tapped the side of his nose with a dirty finger. ‘I seen some. Done some too. Up north. The gang got bust by the Excise. Only just got away with me life.’

  They looked at each other and it was Job Smithall who spoke. ‘Supposin’ you was to be given a yeller boy or two and supposin’ you was to pass ‘em off for good money, would you fetch the change back here and keep your mouth shut?’

  Harry knew that good ‘passers-off’ were always needed. ‘What would I get out of it?’

  ‘A percentage. Mind, we would have to talk to Micky about it. He’s the one to say yea or nay.’

  ‘Where is he today?’ Harry asked.

  ‘In the country somewhere,’ Job said. ‘He don’t have to tell us where he is all the time.’

  Harry knew they would not tell him any more than that, though he had hoped to find out the locality of the farm. ‘How many pieces can you get?’ he asked.

  ‘Now there’s a question,’ the smith said. ‘How many d’you want?’

  ‘You mean you can get a lot?’ Harry pretended greedy eagerness.

  ‘Could do. Depends on the supply of good coins, you understand. We can’t work without gold. Now if you was to come up with a few genuine guineas, we might consider countin’ you in.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘How?’

  Harry shrugged again and finished off his beer. The man he was supposed to be would not have guineas honestly obtained. ‘There’s always the highway lay.’