Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife Page 13

  ‘No longer, Mrs Chappell.’ She carried the child downstairs, followed by Mrs Chappell protesting in the strongest terms that she was taking away her livelihood. The rest of the children were still in the kitchen, their mouths open in curiosity. Rosamund marched straight past them and out into the yard, where the dog began barking again. She ignored it and climbed back into the gig with the child still in her arms. For a six-year-old she was very light. Ben sniffed. ‘My lady, she stinks like a pigsty.’

  ‘It cannot be helped, Ben. We have to get her away from here.’

  Mrs Chappell hurried out behind them. ‘Hey, what about my money? Five guineas is owed to me.’

  Rosamund flung the purse at her and instructed Ben to drive on. He wheeled the gig round and they left the dreadful place behind them. She half-expected someone to give chase, but no one did, and once they were back on the road and crossing the heath, she set about talking to the little girl, trying to soothe her, telling her she was going to a nice new home where she would have a bath and clean clothes and a soft bed and a doctor would make her better.

  Her quiet voice belied how she was feeling. Inside she was seething. Had no one checked on the welfare of the poor child? Had anyone taken the trouble to make sure the money meant for her keep was spent on her? Did no one care? Why had Mrs Rivers, who visited regularly, not seen what was happening and reported it to Lord Portman? Why had he never taken the trouble to visit her himself? Now he would have to take some notice of her. Not even he could ignore the child’s plight.

  ‘My lady.’ Ben’s voice held a note of alarm. ‘There’s trouble ahead.’

  Rosamund looked up to see a coach stopped by the side of the road and a man on horseback pointing a gun at the occupant. Even from a distance she recognised the equipage. ‘It’s Lord Portman,’ she cried, as her imagination pictured his lordship lying across the seat, broken and bleeding. Her anger with him was forgotten. ‘Quick, Ben, we must go to him. He might be hurt.’

  ‘My lady, the man has a gun.’

  ‘Gun or no, we cannot stand by and do nothing. Whip up the horse. We might scare him off.’

  Ben obeyed, making the little gig bounce about on the uneven road. Annabelle whimpered and Rosamund was occupied in trying to calm her and shield her from the worst of the bumping. The highwayman, still brandishing his gun, looked up and saw the gig bearing down on them. He appeared to say something, grabbed a bag from inside the coach and galloped away.

  Ben, much relieved to see the back of him, drew up alongside the big coach, but before Rosamund could extricate herself from the burden of Annabelle and go to her husband, Harry was out and striding over to her. She was the last person he had expected to see and the last one he wanted as a witness to the hold-up. ‘Madam, what are you doing here?’

  She ignored his question. ‘Are you hurt, my lord? What did he take?’

  ‘Nothing but a few paltry guineas, and, no, I am not hurt.’ He put his hand on the side of the gig and saw the child in her lap. ‘Good God! What have you there?’

  ‘This, my lord, is your daughter.’

  He looked from her to the child and back again. ‘Nonsense. She’s filthy and she stinks.’

  ‘So she is and so she does. Nevertheless, she is your daughter. She is ill and needs a doctor and I am taking her home to look after her, for clearly her foster mother has not been doing so.’ She pulled the filthy blanket from about the child’s face so that he could see her, while Ben stared straight ahead, trying to pretend he could not hear what was going on. ‘Mrs Chappell has six more children at home, all well fed on your guineas, my lord, whereas this poor mite is so hungry she has been eating unripe crab apples.’ That was only a guess, but it served to shock him to the core.

  He took another look at the child. She was painfully thin; her fair hair was lank and her blue eyes were bright with fever. He could not believe, did not want to believe, that this disgusting object was the product of his loins, the tiny infant his wife had died to bring into the world. And yet…And yet, there was something about her that touched a chord. She reminded him of his young sister who had died of fever when she was six. He had only been eight at the time, but her illness and death was something that had stayed in his memory. He reached out and touched the child’s cheek and in that moment he felt the first faint stirrings of fatherhood.

  He hesitated to lift the child from Rosamund’s arms in case he frightened her. ‘Take her home,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I will follow.’ And with that he returned to his coach and climbed in.

  Ben drove the gig past the stationary coach and set the horse to a trot.

  Half an hour later they were turning in at the gates. ‘Pull up at the kitchen door,’ Rosamund said.

  As soon as they stopped, he jumped down and took the child from her, while she scrambled down, just as the coach pulled up behind them. Harry was out before the wheels had stopped turning and took the child from the young coachman. ‘Go and fetch Dr Marshall, Ben,’ he said. ‘Tell him it is urgent.’ Rosamund opened the door for him and he marched into the kitchen where the kitchen staff gaped in astonishment. ‘A bath, hot water, clean clothes,’ he ordered. ‘Take them to…’

  ‘My dressing room,’ Rosamund said.

  ‘Her ladyship’s dressing room,’ he confirmed, and took his burden through to the front of the house and up the stairs, followed by Rosamund. She opened her door for him to precede her into the room. Janet came rushing forward. ‘My lady—’ She stopped to stare.

  Harry looked about him. There was a sofa in the room and he put Annabelle on that. ‘Clean her up and put her to bed,’ he instructed Rosamund. ‘We will discuss this later.’ With a last look at the child, who had no strength even to cry, he left them to do what needed to be done and went to his own room, where Jack helped him to change his clothes. Then he went downstairs to the library, shut himself in and began pacing back and forth.

  His first reaction on seeing his wife with the child had been cold fury: fury that she was on the road at all, fury that she had meddled in his arrangements for his daughter, fury that she had gone to the farm and seen fit to abduct the child from her foster parents, even after he had said it was not a good idea. This changed to fury with Mrs Chappell for her neglect of the child and for not informing him she was ill and fury with Mrs Rivers for not realising and not reporting that she was being neglected. But none of that disguised the fact that above all he was angry with himself.

  How could he have assumed that because he paid handsomely for Annabelle to be looked after, that was all he needed to do? What had Rosamund said? What about her father’s love and attention? Do you visit her regularly? Do you have her here for visits? And when he answered, coldly because he did not like being questioned, she had added, I cannot help thinking that it is not the way your late wife would have wanted it. Her barbs had hit home and they hit deep, more so since he had seen the child. The arrival of Rosamund Chalmers into his life and into his household had certainly caused a stir and shaken him out of his complacency.

  He looked up as she came into the room. She had changed her clothes and tidied her hair and they faced each other in open hostility. ‘Madam, I require an explanation,’ he said, still angry.

  ‘I have given you one,’ she answered calmly. ‘I am sure you do not need me to repeat it. I came to tell you the doctor is with Annabelle now. I assume you would wish to speak to him.’

  He brushed past her and hurried up the stairs with Rosamund behind him. The doctor had just finished his examination and was closing his bag. Annabelle, who had been bathed and put into a clean nightgown that was several sizes too big for her, lay very still with her eyes closed and Harry thought for one dreadful moment she had died. His memory conjured up a picture of Beth lying so still and pale in death and he turned his face away.

  ‘A bad case of colic,’ Dr Marshall told him, before he could disgrace himself with tears. ‘Made worse because the child is so badly nourished. What she needs is a wholesome diet and plenty
of rest.’

  ‘She shall have it. And a nurse.’

  ‘I will nurse her,’ Rosamund said, ashamed to see him turn away from the child. The poor little thing could not help being born, nor being ill. ‘I have already asked for a bed to be brought in here for her.’

  ‘There is no need—’ Harry began

  ‘Oh, indeed there is. The child needs a little loving attention; however good the servants are, they cannot give her that. It will be my pleasure to care for her and it will give us the opportunity to get to know each other.’ She reached out and put a hand on his arm. Why she did it she did not know, except that she wanted to take the anger out of him.

  He looked at her hand with its long capable fingers and was torn between brushing it off and taking it in his own and lifting it to his lips. She had that effect on him. It was impossible to remain angry with her. He knew then, that whatever else happened, he could never annul the marriage. Annabelle needed her even if he did not. He picked her hand off his sleeve and squeezed it gently in reassurance before letting it go. ‘Very well, my dear, if that is your wish.’

  He accompanied the doctor down the stairs. ‘I can trust your discretion in this, Doctor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know who the child is?’

  ‘I can guess. Was I not here when she was born? Poor Lady Portman, she so wanted the child to be a boy, to please you.’ He sighed. ‘Alas, we cannot always have what we want.’

  ‘No, but I would like to believe she thought she had given me a son.’

  ‘You are very fortunate in your new wife,’ the doctor went on. ‘She has shown herself compassionate and practical too. With her care, the little one will thrive.’

  ‘Yes. I had no idea what was happening. Mr and Mrs Chappell will pay dearly for their neglect.’

  The doctor paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned towards him. ‘And you? Will you keep her here when she has recovered?’ It was the nearest he dare go to a criticism and Harry knew it.

  ‘Naturally I will.’

  It was as he was seeing the doctor off the premises that Ash rode up. He was relaxed and smiling. He dismounted, took the portmanteau containing the old clothes and the coins off the back of his saddle and came towards Harry, smiling broadly. ‘Well, here I am,’ he said.

  ‘I had forgotten all about you,’ Harry said.

  Ash looked taken aback. ‘Am I not welcome?’

  ‘Of course you are. Come in. I will have to leave you with Lady Portman. I am afraid I have to go out.’ He turned to see Rosamund coming down the stairs. She looked strained, but otherwise calm. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘Sir Ashley has favoured us with a visit.’

  She offered her hand to Ash, who took it and bowed low over it. ‘Your obedient, my lady.’

  ‘Will you arrange for him to be given a bedchamber?’ Harry told her. ‘He will wish to refresh himself and change after his journey. Jack will help him. I have to go out again, but I shall be back in time for dinner.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I am going to Feltham Farm. Those two must be punished.’

  ‘What can you accuse them of, except neglect?’ She did not need to add that they were not the only ones guilty of that; he knew it. ‘Let them be. They have lost the income you gave them and that will punish them. And you could put yourself in danger.’

  ‘Danger—what are you talking of, Madam?’

  ‘I do not know. It is just that I have a strange feeling about that place, as if there is evil there. As if I were being watched. Please do not go.’

  Ash had been standing beside his horse’s head, the portmanteau in his hand, looking from one to the other. ‘Have I arrived at an inconvenient time?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Harry assured him. ‘We have had a little upset.’

  ‘Oh.’ He waited to be told about the highway robbery, anticipating his expression of surprise, but Harry seemed to have forgotten all about it.

  ‘My daughter has been taken ill.’

  ‘I am indeed sorry to hear that,’ Ash said. ‘Shall I take myself off and find an inn?’

  ‘No, we have much to discuss,’ Harry said. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I shall not be long. After I have been to the farm, I will report the highway robbery to the Watch, though what good it will do, I cannot think.’

  ‘You have been robbed?’ Ash queried, pretending innocence.

  ‘Yes. Lady Portman will tell you all about it. She was there. I will take your horse for you.’ He picked up the reins and led the stallion towards the stables.

  Ash turned towards Rosamund. ‘Lady Portman, I am sorry to impose myself upon you, but Harry did ask me to call.’

  ‘You are welcome, Sir Ashley,’ she said, wishing him anywhere but where he was. With Annabelle to look after, and Harry in the mood he was in, a guest was the last thing she needed. ‘Come indoors and I will see about a room for you. You will forgive me for leaving you to be looked after by Mr Sylvester. I need to be with my stepdaughter.’

  She sent for Jack Sylvester and when Ash went off with him, she returned to the sick room. She was so busy looking after Annabelle that it was some time before she realised there was something strange about Sir Ashley’s visit. Why had he ridden from town when Harry had plenty of room in his carriage? And she could swear that the portmanteau he carried was the one stolen from Harry. How had he come by it, unless he had either been the highwayman himself or had taken it from the robber? It would have been easier to believe the latter if she had not been quite so sure the horse he rode was the one used in the hold-up. It was a noble animal with distinctly marked nose and socks. Surely Harry must have noticed that? Perhaps she ought to warn him that his friend was not all he purported to be.

  Chapter Seven

  Harry returned in time for dinner as he had promised, but there was no opportunity for Rosamund to speak to him alone, and after the meal the two men retired to the library where she knew she would not be welcome. She took tea in the drawing room alone and then went to Mrs Rivers’s sitting room to talk to her about her visits to the farm.

  ‘Surely you knew there was something wrong?’ she asked her. ‘The child has been half-starved.’

  ‘I never knew that. I didn’t like going there. Mrs Chappell was only interested in the money and she insisted on it being in guineas, which surprised me because she hardly needed gold coin to do the shopping she did. She said she was getting Annabelle special food, which cost dear because the poor wee thing never seemed to thrive. I believed her at first, but later, when I came to question it, she became aggressive and told me to mind my own business. She said if his lordship doubted her capabilities he could come and see for himself. Of course he never did.’

  ‘You did tell him?’

  ‘I tried, but whenever I mentioned his daughter, he shut me out by talking about something else and as I am only the housekeeper, I could not argue with him. I am so glad you went today, my lady. The poor child will do well now she is here with you to look after her. You won’t send her back, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not. It is a dreadful place. I cannot imagine how she came to be there.’

  ‘Mrs Chappell was recommended by the wet nurse and, to tell the truth, it was not so bad in the beginning. The woman was clean and did her best. It is only in the last two years she’s let everything go to pot. I blame her husband, a real tyrant if there ever was one. He frightened me. I would not be surprised if he took most of the money from her.’

  ‘Has his lordship spoken to you today?’

  ‘No, my lady. Everyone has been too busy. And now he has Sir Ashley with him. No doubt he will send for me tomorrow. I am dreading it.’

  ‘Lord Portman is a fair man,’ Rosamund said. ‘If you tell him what you have told me, I am sure he will not blame you. Now I am going up to my room to sit with Annabelle. I am sure his lordship will not need me any more tonight.’

  Harry was sprawled in an armchair, facing Ash. Both were nursing a glass
of cognac. ‘I was never so taken aback as when I saw my wife with that child,’ Harry said. ‘And so plainly ill. It gave me a turn I can tell you. The robbery went clean out of my head until you arrived.’

  ‘But you have reported it?’

  ‘Yes. A description of the thief is being circulated. I have offered a reward for information as to his whereabouts.’

  Ash chuckled. ‘Then no doubt you will be besieged by people knowing where he is to be found and claiming it.’

  ‘Perhaps. More to the point, will the news reach O’Keefe and his gang?’ He paused. ‘They may have set someone to watch me. I did suggest that Lord Portman might be an easy target.’

  ‘When I go back to town I will spread the word and no doubt it will reach the newspapers. Did you go to the foster parents?’

  ‘Yes, and it is as my wife said. The place was filthy. The woman was deferential, whining that it wasn’t her fault the child had not thrived. She had always been sickly. And when I asked her why she had not informed me of that, she said she had supposed Mrs Rivers would tell me and because I had not been near she assumed I did not want to know. Her husband came in then. He threatened me with violence.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And as I went there as the macaroni, I had to stay in character and beat a hasty retreat, much as I would have liked to give him a facer.’

  ‘Her ladyship might be right,’ Ash said. ‘And nothing can be done. You put the child in their hands and they are no worse than hundreds of other foster parents. Just be thankful Lady Portman found her in time.’

  Harry digested this without comment. He finished his brandy and refilled both glasses. ‘I have to go back to the Nag’s Head as soon as I can and hand over those guineas. I am hoping it will lead to my being taken to the farm where the coins are worked on.’

  ‘You could be putting yourself in danger, you know. Let me come with you.’

  ‘Certainly not. You are the enemy, the thieftaker, so be assiduous in that task. I will find some way of letting you know if I need you. Now I’m for my bed.’