‘A lady, Hannah?’ asked Hilary in surprise.
‘Yes, miss. A real lady, with a silk walking dress and a parasol, and dainty shoes, and smells just like lavender.’
‘Do you know who she is?’ asked Hilary.
‘No, miss, I didn’t catch her name, but she’s in the parlour with Mrs Hampson, and the missus is like a dog with two tails. She’s so pleased she got up this morning. There’ll be no keeping her in bed after this! You’re to go down at once, miss.’
‘But the children ... ‘
‘Don’t you mind them, miss. I’m to keep an eye on them for you while you’re downstairs.’
Hilary shuddered to think of the chaos which would await her on her return, but she was nevertheless eager to discover who the lady could be.
‘Very well, Hannah.’ She turned to the children. ‘Now, girls, I want you to behave yourselves for Hannah,’ she admonished them, ‘and I want to see your pictures of England when I return.’
Then, stopping only to check her appearance in the looking glass on the landing, she went downstairs.
She could hear voices coming from the parlour. She went in. There was Mrs Hampson, her eyes sparkling with delight, and there, sitting opposite her, was Mrs Palmer.
‘Hilary! Would you believe it! Here is Mrs Palmer, kindly called to see how you do. She’s been telling me all about how she met you at the abbey, and how she was delighted you could help Lord Carisbrooke with his library, and how she was just passing so she thought she’d call in to pay her respects.’
Hilary regarded Mrs Palmer with some surprise and not a little unease. It seemed strange that Mrs Palmer should decide to call on her.
‘My dear Miss Wentworth, how good it is to see you again,’ said Mrs Palmer, as though they were old friends. ‘I have just been telling Mrs Hampson how much my daughter and I enjoyed your company at the abbey.’
‘I’m not a bit surprised,’ chimed in Mrs Hampson. ‘Hilary’s been an absolute blessing to Peter and me. She’s been looking after the girls whilst I’ve been laid up in bed.’
She beamed at Hilary.
‘If I could just have a word with Miss Wentworth alone?’ asked Mrs Palmer.
Mrs Hampson looked put out at being asked to leave her own parlour, but it was only for a minute. Quickly rallying herself she said, ‘Of course you can, I’ve got to see to the baby anyway.’
‘Miss Wentworth, pray, do sit down,’ said Mrs Palmer, once Mrs Hampson had left the room.
Hilary’s eyebrows rose at Mrs Palmer’s presumption in playing the part of the hostess, but nevertheless she took a seat, being curious as to what could have brought Mrs Palmer to the farmer’s house.
‘I expect you are wondering what I am doing here. I am aware that my daughter expressed herself rather thoughtlessly at the abbey, but I am sure you will forgive her. She is very young.’
Hilary privately thought that Miss Palmer was her equal in age, but said nothing, being interested to discover what Mrs Palmer had come to say.
‘Lord Carisbrooke mentioned that you were looking for another position and by the greatest good chance I happened to hear of one which would suit you down to the ground,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘As soon as I heard of it, I thought, Miss Wentworth would enjoy that, and she’d give good service into the bargain. Why, it’s made for her. It offers a generous salary - far more than Mrs Hampson is able to pay you - and ample leave, besides being in the most beautiful location. Have you ever been to Scotland, Miss Wentworth?’
‘No,’ said Hilary.
‘Then this is your chance to go. You will love the lochs and glens,’ she said, in a voice which brooked no contradiction. ‘It has inspired poets, and you will enjoy every minute of your time there.’
It was not difficult for Hilary to discover Mrs Palmer’s motives for this sudden attack of concern on her behalf. Mrs Palmer, not knowing of Lord Carisbrooke’s decision never to marry - perhaps not even knowing of the taint of madness in his blood, and believing that his sister was confined to her room through ill health, rather than insanity - had decided that Hilary was too near to the abbey for her liking and meant to send her to the far north. It was a dreadful piece of presumption on Mrs Palmer’s part, but as Hilary did not want to remain in the vicinity of the abbey, or rather, she knew that she must not do it - for it was possible that if she did so her feelings would overcome her common sense - she was curious to learn more.
‘And what is the position?’ she asked.
‘It is that of a secretary to a learned gentleman who is writing a book on architecture. He needs an intelligent person to help him compile his notes. Knowing your love of books, I realized it would be perfect for you.’
Hilary had to admit that it sounded perfect. If she must work, and must do it far from the abbey, then the post Mrs Hampson was outlining sounded ideal. Even so, she did not lose her caution. It was possible that Mrs Hampson had invented the position in order to get her away from the abbey.
‘If the gentleman in question was to write and offer me the post, I feel sure I would be tempted to accept it,’ said Hilary.
Mrs Palmer seemed unperturbed by this stipulation, leading Hilary to believe that it might, after all, be genuine.
‘Of course. As long as I know you are interested in taking it up I will give him your name and your direction. Well, that is all I came to say.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hilary. ‘It is very kind of you to take so much trouble.’
‘It is no trouble,’ said Mrs Palmer, rising. ‘Now ring the bell, and send the maid for Mrs Hampson. I suppose I cannot go without bidding her farewell.’
Annoyed by Mrs Palmer’s high-handed attitude, Hilary nevertheless rang the bell and a few minutes later, having bid her hostess adieu, Mrs Palmer went out to her waiting carriage.
So Mrs Hampson was still determined to remove her from the neighbourhood, thought Hilary. Her thoughts drifted back to her ordeal on the roof of the abbey. Had Mrs Palmer locked her out? It now seemed unlikely. Even so, she wished she had had an opportunity to find out whether the Lunds had accidentally locked the door behind her, trapping her on the roof, or whether they had known nothing about the incident. She had meant to ask Marcus, but events had moved so rapidly that she had not had a chance to do so. Still, where Mrs Palmer was concerned, she meant to be on her guard. She would make sure the position was genuine, not only by waiting for a letter from her supposed employer, but by writing to him independently before she set off for Scotland.
‘What a surprise it was, to be sure, when I saw Mrs Palmer stepping out of her carriage,’ said Mrs Hampson, eager to discuss the visit. ‘She often goes by on her way to the abbey, with Miss Palmer beside her, but she has never stopped here before. You must have made quite an impression on her for her to take so much trouble. Did she have anything particular to say?’
Hilary did not take exception to Mrs Hampson’s inquisitiveness. She was grateful to have found a safe haven, at least for the moment, and Mrs Hampson’s interest in her affairs was a small price to pay for her present sanctuary.
‘She came to tell me about a position she has heard of in Scotland that she thinks might suit me,’ said Hilary.
‘That is kind. I’m only sorry Mr Hampson and I can’t keep you, you’ve been such a help to me already, looking after the older girls whilst I’ve been in bed, but what with the maid’s wages and extending the house and now the new baby there’s not a penny to spare. What sort of thing is it?’
Hilary told Mrs Hampson what she knew, and Mrs Hampson whiled away the next half hour by speculating on the nature of the gentleman in question, whether he was old or young, married or unmarried, handsome or ugly. Hilary tried to rise several times, saying that she must return to the girls, but was met by a rejoinder of, ‘Nonsense! They will be perfectly all right with Hannah.’
At last Mrs Hampson tired and, having been out of bed for the first time since the birth of her child, retired to her room, leaving Hilary to face the chaos in the sch
oolroom.
To her surprise, the girls were sitting and working industriously when she returned.
The reason for this was soon made apparent.
‘If we’re very good,’ Mary informed her, the tip of her tongue protruding as she finished her picture, ‘Hannah says there’ll be cakes for tea.’
* * * *
Marcus, seated in Maud’s sitting-room, gave an inward sigh. Maud was going to betray a confidence, she had said, and that meant he must listen whilst she told him a story about the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker.
He was used to such stories. Moralizing tales had formed a feature of his childhood, and many a brave child had been held up to him as a model when he had fallen out of the apple tree and broken his arm, or fallen from his pony. Then, too, there had been the stories about great scholars who had been held up as examples of the value of hard work, and the tales of saints that had been intended to lead to an improvement in his own behaviour.
Here, no doubt, was a story of courage in the face of adversity, or the benefits of endurance. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, but as he had a great deal of admiration for Maud he arranged his features into an interested expression and steeled himself to listen to whatever it was she had to say. After which, to please her, he would tell her that he had derived comfort from her words.
‘Here.’ She offered him a freshly-poured cup of tea.
He took the cup.
‘I am so sorry you have been made unhappy by the thought that you cannot marry Hilary, but that is not the case. You see, Marcus, there is no impediment to your marriage, because ... ‘
He lifted the cup.
‘ ... you are not Lord Carisbrooke’s son.’
He paused with the cup just touching his bottom lip and turned uncomprehending eyes towards her. For a minute, he had thought she had said that he was not Lord Carisbrooke’s son.
‘So you see, there is no impediment to your marriage,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand. Did you say - no, you can’t have done - that I am not Lord Carisbrooke’s son?’ he said, lowering the cup.
‘That’s right,’ said Maud placidly, taking up her knitting. ‘I did.’
‘But ... ‘ He put the cup back on its saucer. His hand had started to shake alarmingly, and he was suddenly afraid of dropping it.
‘But ... I don’t understand.’
‘It’s really very simple,’ she said, flicking the wool as she continued with her knitting. ‘Lord Carisbrooke is not your father, and you are not his son.’
‘But that would mean ... no.’ He shook his head firmly as he thought of what her words implied. ‘My mother would never ... I cannot believe it ... Ah!’ His expression cleared as he saw what lay behind her words, a desire to persuade him that he was not disbarred from marrying. ‘I understand what you are doing. You are trying to convince me that it is all right for me to go ahead with my desire to marry Hilary.’
‘Not at all,’ she replied with asperity. ‘I would not dream of lying to you in such a way, especially not over something so important. You should know me better than that.’
He wanted to believe her. Because if she was telling the truth, that would mean ... An impossible hope began to dawn in his breast, but he refused to give in to it until he knew for sure, because if his hopes were raised, only to be dashed again, it would be a bitter blow. One from which he might never recover.
‘You must be wrong,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘My mother would never have betrayed my father.’
She sighed. ‘I see I will have to tell you the whole story. I rather hoped you might believe me and ask nothing further, but I suppose it was not to be hoped for. I promised your mother I would never tell you, but she never foresaw this situation. If she had done, I am convinced she would have told you herself. But as she is no longer with us, I must make the decision for her and tell you instead.’
Marcus was not sure he wanted to hear more. If he did, he was afraid that he would discover his mother was not the woman he had thought she was. Because if he was illegitimate, then she must have deceived his father and had an affair. He could not believe it. His mother had been a wonderful woman, and never once in his childhood had he caught sight of another man at the abbey, which surely he would have done if she had been unfaithful.
But still, there was no doubt she had had some terrible things to endure, he thought with a frown. When his father’s madness had driven her to distraction, perhaps she had taken solace in the arms of a normal man. She must have needed warmth and tenderness, love and kindness ... things his poor, mad father was incapable of giving her.
Slowly his feelings began to change. It no longer seemed impossible that his mother might have been unfaithful. And if she had taken solace in the arms of another man, he found he could not blame her for it.
‘So my mother had an affair,’ he said.
‘Certainly not,’ returned Maud. ‘She would never have done such a thing. The ties of marriage were sacred to her. That is why she nursed your father so lovingly through his insanity.’
‘Then I must be Lord Carisbrooke’s son!’ he said in exasperation.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You are not.’ She took up another ball of wool and tied it to the end of the one she had almost finished. ‘You see, your mother was already with child when she married Lord Carisbrooke.’
‘Then it is even worse. You are saying that she duped him into bringing up another man’s child as his own,’ he said, his voice hollow. He did not like what he was hearing.
‘Not a bit of it,’ she said, her needles clacking. ‘What a low opinion you entertain of your mother.’
‘You leave me no choice!’ he declared. ‘First of all you tell me that I am illegitimate, then that my mother was already with child when she married my ... the man I thought was my father ... tell me, what am I meant to think?’
‘Yes. It is difficult to take in all at once,’ she agreed. ‘But you must not doubt your mother. She was the sweetest, gentlest, most loving woman that ever lived. But this, of course, you know. She never deceived Lord Carisbrooke - or, at least, what is more to the point, she never deceived his mother: for by that time Lord Carisbrooke was too far gone in madness to know what was happening, or even to care.’
Marcus put down his cup. ‘Then you mean ... ‘ He thought. ‘ ... that she was a widow?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘In a manner of speaking?’ he demanded. Instead of growing clearer, her story was growing more obscure.
‘I think I had better start at the beginning. I was your mother’s nurse, as you know. I nursed her all through her childhood, and stayed on as her governess as she grew older. She was a lovely young woman.’ Her knitting needles fell silent as she clearly became lost in a reverie. ‘She was so pretty, and so full of life. It was no wonder your father - your real father - fell in love with her. He was a fine, upstanding young gentleman,’ Maud explained. ‘He was one of your mother’s neighbours, the son of wealthy landowners. It was an excellent match, but it was more than that. Your mother and he were very much in love. They had grown up together, you see. They had played together as children, they had danced together at country balls, and no one was surprised when they fell in love.’
‘Then how ... ?’
‘How did it happen that they never married? They would have done. Your father asked for your mother’s hand, and it was gladly granted. Your grandparents, on both sides of the family, were in favour of the match. The wedding was arranged for the summer of 1780. The preparations were made, the banns were read. And then your father fell ill. It was only a minor indisposition, but the wedding could not go ahead and so it was postponed until the following month. Your father recovered, and everything went on as before. Until the outing.’
She fell silent.
‘The outing?’ Marcus prompted her.
She sighed. ‘Yes. The outing.’ She adjusted the knitted blanket, laying it more comfortably across he
r knee. ‘It should have been a happy occasion. Your mother and father, together with their parents, were to go on a picnic to a local beauty spot, but in the morning your mother was very sick. It was taken to be a similar illness to the one endured by your father, and though unpleasant, there were no fears as to its outcome. At your mother’s insistence, they went on the picnic without her. She never could bear to spoil anyone’s pleasure. But as she continued to be sick she confided in me, telling me that she and your father had given in to their feelings just before the original date set for their wedding, and that she was now with child. I scolded her, of course, but there was no changing it, and besides, in another week she would be safely married. Or so we thought.’
Marcus began to have a presentiment.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘There was an accident. The picnic spot was at the top of a steep hill. On the way back, one of the wheels came off the carriage. It overturned, killing everyone inside. When your mother was told she was beside herself with grief. In the space of one afternoon she had lost everyone she held dear: her fiancé, her parents, and her future parents-in-law, who were almost as close as her real parents to her. If not for the fact that she was with child, I believe she might have contemplated taking her own life, she was so stricken with grief. I pressed upon her the notion that she had something to live for, and though distraught, she at last began to rally.
‘But then came another blow. Her father had speculated unwisely, and his death brought heavy debts to light. If he had lived, I have no doubt he would have righted himself, but he died at the worst possible moment, when his estate was worth almost nothing. Your mother had lost not only every one she loved, but her home and almost all her means of support as well.
‘It was a bitter time. And to make matters worse, her condition was beginning to show. And so I brought her here, to Lyme. I had come here myself as a child, and been happy here, so I hoped the sea air would lift her spirits. It was then we met Lord Carisbrooke.’
Marcus let out a pent up breath. The events she was unfolding were so unexpected that he had almost forgotten to breathe.