I hope you enjoy the following chapter. It was fun to write. If you'd like to see pictures of Wargrave Hall, please go to my homepage and then to "My Fanfiction." Click Tavington's Heiress and then scroll down past the teaser first chapter. I have posted a sample dinner course, a Reynolds portrait of Letty, and pictures of the house. Enjoy!
Chapter 37: Wargrave Hall
After Jane's departure, Tavington felt himself quite at his own disposal. It was rather like being a bachelor again. He reveled in his new-found independence, at least for a little while, before recollecting that there was nothing he planned to do today that he could not have done had Jane remained at the Castle. A private walk with Kitty was out of the question: any more public contact with her would destroy her reputation. And Kitty herself was being very coy, playing the attentive wife with Sattersby. Before he had any more time to consider what he would like to do, John took the matter out of his hands. His brother was still watching the chaise and four as it passed through the archway of the keep, and then disappeared at the curve of the road. Abruptly, he said, "That's that, then. We'll be off to Wargrave now."
"Now?" Tavington had not thought about the original purpose of this trip in some time.
"Yes, now." John said impatiently.
"I thought you would write a note to the steward first."
"Why would I do that?"
"He might be out on business."
"So much the better. I can snoop about with him none the wiser. I thought you were concerned that he was robbing me."
"Well—yes."
"All right. Then let's call for our horses and ride over. Unless you prefer to take the curricle."
"God, no. It's much faster to ride across country than to take the road. We should tell Uncle."
"Of course. Maybe he'd like to go along." John scowled. "Though I'd rather he didn't, just yet. I'd rather it was only the two of us. If the place is fit to be seen, we could all go over for a bit of luncheon, perhaps in a day or so."
"Come on, then."
-----
Lord Colchester was perfectly happy to let his nephews go off and enjoy themselves, when it was made clear to him the reason for the scouting expedition. The two Tavington brothers set off under a bright blue sky, galloping south west, while Jane and her party were travelling due south. Clouds scudded by quickly overhead, casting dark shadows on the familiar fields. Tavington grimaced as he rode by Greengage Cottage, cursing village Peeping Toms. But he put the thought by. It was too fair a day to linger over such foolishness.
He felt quite agitated, in a pleasant way. He was going home to Wargrave, a place that he loved and which held so many happy memories. Tavington had never been ambivalent about Wargrave. Mortimer Square was the site of family quarrels and domestic battles. Wargrave Hall was the place where he had played, and learned to shoot and to ride, where his father had been at his best, where his family had celebrated Christmas with every wonderful old English tradition. It was very agreeable to be on horseback, going to Wargrave, and to be in his brother's company. He had missed John more than he realized. There was something about being with the one man who had known him all his life, and who understood him in a way that no one else ever could. John was a damned good brother after all, and Tavington, in his turn, felt that his own company could benefit John. Perhaps he won't spend every night drinking and gambling. Or if he does, he'll be with me and we can look after each other.
A country lane cut across their path ahead, a brown ribbon amongst the green trees. A hay wagon was trundling slowly along, and the two horseman darted out well in front of it. Further on, the ground sloped down as they approached the river; and they found without conscious thought the ford used for centuries by their ancestors. John grinned at him, no doubt remembering the times they had splashed one another here, roughhousing like bear cubs in the chilly water. The horses gathered themselves, clambering up the other bank, and Tavington saw the first building that belonged to home: an old mill that had operated since the fourteenth century. The miller waved, a sturdy man with brown hair tied neatly back. Tavington was surprised at how young Miller Upton looked, until he realized that this was Rob Upton, the son of Old Miller Upton, and a former playfellow of his youth. A pair of brown-haired boys—certainly Rob's sons--were unloading sacks of grain under their father's direction. Tavington wondered at how time had passed, and waved back to them.
The hunter between his legs cantered in an easy gait that ate up the miles. It was not long before they found the lane—hardly a road—that led to Wargrave Cross. Tavington now recognized more of the farmers and cottagers along their path, and was recognized in his turn—more and more often as they drew closer to the family estate. They passed through orchards, ducking under the low branches, and John gave a shout.
"There's the hill! We're nearly there!"
Old Wargrave Hill, green and mysterious, loomed up, hiding the village of Wargrave Cross until they could skirt its edge. Years ago, Mamma had suggested building a Grecian temple on it, but Papa, thank God, had never had the necessary funds. Tavington liked the hill as it was, littered with old stone and crumbling crossbeams, full of secrets and oddments, the remains of the series of ancient fortresses that had lived and died on the site. In a flash of imagination, he saw himself taking his own son up there for a treasure hunt. William Francis was running about, digging through the rubble, calling out in his high, sweet, boy's voice as he found something that he must show his father—
Tavington smiled, feeling quite happy and pleasantly nostalgic. The single thoroughfare of the village was before them, leading through the cottages and little chandler shops toward the church and its walled churchyard. He must remember to take a look at the vicarage while he was here. Best to know the worst at once.
The villagers were coming out to see them, men and women flowing out of doors in wayward streams. They lined the sides of the little dirt lane, bowing and bobbing. The men removed their hats, except for one gangling youth, who was slow enough that his father removed it for him by boxing his ears.
"—Show some respect, boy!"
"--'Tis Sir John!"
"--Who's that with him?"
"—'Tis Captain William, the younger son…"
"--I know him! He thrashed me when we were lads! Fine-looking fellow, ain't he?"
The respectful murmurs followed them down the lane, and were abruptly punctuated by shrill cries as a knot of small boys came pounding up to see the show.
"Hurrah!" one shrilled, jumping up and down, trying to see past the taller folk. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" halloed the rest. John grinned and waved.
Tavington scowled at the boys in mock reproof, and growled, "Shouldn't you lot be in school?"
"--School?" The little boys wondered among themselves, and then fell back to jumping up and down and shouting, "Hurrah!"
Happy as he was to be back, Tavington could not help but notice how shabby everything looked. The cottages were in bad repair, the lane a rutted mudslick. As they approached the church, he could see that the stonework was worn and the vicarage garden was overgrown with weeds. The house itself, he was relieved to see, still looked like a gentleman's residence, but it had that air of desolation that all abandoned houses assume in time. Down its own lane, the steward's lodge, though smaller than the vicarage, looked far better—or at least lived in. Tavington frowned more darkly. The steward, no doubt, was a rogue, but John was partly culpable, at least. The estate was his, and the responsibility for his tenants was ultimately his. He had not been here in years. He began to look more carefully at the village and its people, and saw much amiss. And why were those noisy little boys not in school? The parish school had been a good one, though small. He and John had never gone there themselves, of course, except for a few weeks now and then, in what amounted more to lordly visits than real attendance. The schoolmaster had been a long, dark fellow—a scholar and a firm disciplinarian. Tavington wondered if he was still here. And suddenly all such thoughts left him, for there was the wide green lawn, and Wargrave Hall stood before them.
-----
The Hall, a place that Tavington had always considered as alive as any man or woman, had the same derelict air as the vicarage. Past the low wall enclosing the unkempt inner lawn, it seemed even worse. The roses climbing along the sides of the pudding houses had taken over, their thorns barring entry to any but the bravest prince or the hardiest gardener. The windows stared blankly at the newcomers, seeming not to recognize them as old friends. No grooms came rushing out, ready to take their horses. The brothers exchanged looks, and then Tavington tossed his reins to his brother and leaped down from his horse.
Striding to the great front door, he smashed the knocker hard, iron to iron, and gave a shout. "Hello the house!" Silence. He tried the door, and found it locked. He looked back at John in exasperation.
Dryly, his brother observed, "It would seem that we are not at home."
"Bloody hell. There must be someone here. Let's go around to the servants' wing."
He vaulted back into the saddle, and they ambled around the huge H-shaped country house, peering in the windows, seeing little but dust and dust covers. To the side of the house was the South Door, used by servants and tradesmen. Tavington and his brother and sisters had used it often enough themselves, to go quickly out to the gardens and to come in discreetly, when too dirty and disheveled to bear their mother's scrutiny. There was a vestibule, with a set of stairs leading down to the cellars, and a hall opening into three directions. The middle way led straight through to the baize door that let into the rest of the house. To the right, one turned toward the servants' hall that overlooked the rear lawn. To the left, one entered the vast, bustling kitchen, where they had scrounged thick slices of pudding, sitting at a big, sanded table, their small legs dangling, while their favorite of the cooks, Maggie Jeffreys, had rolled out piecrust, singing "Greensleeves," at the top of her leathery lungs. For a moment, Tavington saw her in imagination and wished fiercely that he could open the South Door and find her waiting for them, rolling pin in hand, smiling and shaking her head at their mischief.
"At least someone's about," John said, noticing the path trodden through the weeds by the door. The two men swung off their horses, and Tavington tried knocking again. There were faint sounds, and a murmur of low voices, and then a slow step approaching.
The door opened, and a bent old man hobbled out, peering up at them suspiciously. "Be off with you! We want no vagrants nor gypsies here!"
"Good Lord!" Tavington said in disbelief. "Is that Old Carter?"
The old man leaned forward, trying to make out the faces of the men before him. "Do you know me, fellow? Well, I'll tell you that this is Sir John Tavington's property, and I'll have the bailiff on you for trespassing."
"Yes, it's Carter, all right," replied John, not at all ruffled at the old man's threats. "Look here, my man, do you not recognize me? I am Sir John, and this is my brother Colonel Tavington, newly returned from America. We've come to take a look at the house."
Jaw slack, cloudy eyes blinking, the servant looked from one to the other, clearly unsure of himself.
Another, quicker step sounded and an elderly servant woman appeared in the doorway. "Amos, what is it, then?" She saw the two tall, great-coated men before her and cried, "Lord love us! Sir John and Captain William!"
"That's what they said, but I'm afeared—" muttered the old man.
"Oh, hold your peace, you silly man, 'tis the Master and his brother, home from the wars! Come in, gentlemen, come in, and we'll give you cup of tea and—oh, I'm sure I don't know—yes! A bacon pasty or two, plain enough to be sure, but—"
Sharing an amused glance, the two brothers tied their horses to a rail, and followed the old couple into the servant's hall, where they submitted to the pottering-about and slow-footed coddling of family servants, delighted to see their family again. John appeared somewhat embarrassed, Tavington thought, perhaps feeling a little unworthy of so much joy at his appearance. Dutifully, they drank their sweetened tea (made exactly to their taste at twelve and eight years of age), and downed the proffered food (for it would have been heartless to have refused it), and listened to years of gossip.
"We had hoped to see the house, and speak with Porter today, but perhaps he is unavailable—" began Sir John.
"Huh!" muttered Old Carter. "Too good to speak to the likes of us! Setting up his carriage like gentlefolk and setting hours when he can see this one or that—got the big head, he does, while all falls to wrack and ruin about us!"
"Is the house--?" John began again, glaring at his brother who was trying not to laugh. Old Mrs. Carter assured him that she would take him over the house herself.
"Mind you, the stairs get steeper every year, but I'll be bound that you should see your own place! And there's the roof too, that's been needing mending these two years, and will Mr. Porter listen--?"
The old man turned his attention to Tavington. "Heard you was gone for a soldier. Gone to America—" (he pronounced it Amerikay) "--and we figgered you'd end up scalped and slaughtered by the savages."
His wife was loud in her disagreement. "Amos, you're putting words in my mouth. 'Tis you that went on about scalpings! I'm sure I never thought that Captain William would allow any to use him so! Beg pardon, sir, but you was always a strong-willed lad, and more likely to give blows than to suffer them."
Now it was John's turn to grin. Tavington shrugged. It was perfectly true, anyway.
Mrs. Carter looked to see that they had finished their tea, and gestured impatiently at her husband. "Amos, you go find Joe and have him water the gentlemen's horses. I'll take them over the house. Now you follow me, sirs. I've a mind to tell you about things as I don't like here, and you'll have to forgive some plain speaking."
Tavington enjoyed the tour. He had read that when seeing one's family home after a long absence, it often seemed smaller than remembered. That was quite untrue at Wargrave, which remained as imposing as ever. The Great Hall, with its dark paneled walls, its massive fireplace, and the wonderful white marble reliefs over the doors, was as he recalled it. Indeed, most of the ground floor, while dusty, was quite presentable—or would be with the work of some servants under the age of seventy.
Once upstairs, he frowned a little at the first floor. Obviously, no one had cleaned here in some time, and it appeared quite shabby. In the Great Chamber, the huge bedroom above the library, the paneling was warped in places. Up another staircase, he began to feel fairly alarmed. There was considerable water damage in the gallery and the old schoolroom, which Mrs. Carter said was due to the leaky roof.
"The garrets above aren't fit to live in! The abode of bats, crows, and swallows, sir! And that's last year. I daren't think how much worse they may be now! Houses are liken to teeth, and they must be seen to afore they're beyond saving!"
John was fairly glum. "I shall have to have the roof looked at. I daresay it will cost the earth."
Tavington was a little impatient with him. "It will cost a great deal less that a new house! Look here, John, if you are short of cash, I can help—"
"Hate to do that, old fellow, but I may have to borrow. If it's as bad as she says, I'll need to have it seen to before the winter."
The old woman was puffing and red-faced, and Tavington told her to sit and wait while they ran up to the garrets. It was indeed as bad as she had said, and they gazed mournfully at the sky, framed by the holes in the roof.
"Not good," John sighed. "Not good at all."
There was nothing more to be said. Obviously the damage must be mended as soon as possible, or the entire house would fall rapidly into decay. They came downstairs, resigned to a great deal of bother and expense.
"Aren't there any servants other than yourselves?" Tavington asked Mrs. Carter.
"Just us, sir, and our grandson Joe. The others left in twos and threes, when Mr. Porter stopped their wages. We haven't been paid in donkey's years, sir, but where else would we go? We make do from the kitchen garden and bartering what we can."
"I believe I must have a word with Porter," John said grimly.
Tavington asked, "We saw some boys running about. Is there a new schoolmaster? Mr. Strakes would never had tolerated such behavior on a school day."
"Bless you, sir! There ain't been a school since old Dr. Crumby departed this life. Mr. Porter and Mr. Strakes had words and then Mr. Strakes was gone, and that was the end of schooling for the parish!" She looked reproachfully at Sir John. "'Tis not proper, a good old church and no clergyman. Dr. Crumby is sorely missed."
John cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Actually, I've found you a new vicar, on my brother's recommendation."
Tavington smiled virtuously at Mrs. Carter, proud to be the good brother, for once. "He won't arrive for a few months, but I'm sure you'll find the gentleman—and his wife—most excellent people."
"Well, that's a mercy!" declared the old woman. "And they can't come a moment too soon, if you'll pardon me for saying so!"
"Is the vicarage is good condition?" Tavington asked.
"Don't rightly know, sir. 'Twas sealed up tight after the Doctor died. It should be well enough, if some vagrant has not broken in."
And so it went. They dawdled over the house, and then thanked the Carters for their kind attentions, and John gave them a guinea. The Carters exclaimed over it, fingering it curiously, hardly able to recognize the unfamiliar gold coin as money. Young Joe could hardly be distracted from admiring their fine horses, and was given some coins in his turn.
The vicarage was indeed sealed, and Tavington looked through the windows, finding nothing to overly concern him. They then rode over to the steward's lodge. Porter was not present, but that did not deter the Tavington brothers from making themselves at home in his office. They found the account books easily enough.
Indeed they found two sets of account books, and Tavington groaned at the work before him. Porter had robbed the estate—egregiously. There was hardly another word to describe it. "He should hang for this," Tavington snarled, adding up the columns of embezzlement and sharp practice.
But John was uneasy at his brother's harsh assessment. He hated confrontations, and disliked punishing others as much as he had disliked being punished as a child. And then, too, in a few moments, mild Mrs. Porter stood in the doorway to the office, wringing her hands anxiously, terribly embarrassed that her husband had not been present to greet Sir John. She was a gentle creature, and Sir John did not think she knew much about her husband's business affairs. And they had young children. He sent the woman away with a quiet word, and took a deep breath.
"The fault is at least partly mine, Will. I have been neglectful--I let him think there would be no consequences. Had he thought someone was looking over his shoulder, he might not have—"
"Oh, come, John! This has been going on—at least three years, from the look of it. And where the devil has the money gone? Not into this house, obviously. I wonder if the man is keeping a mistress in town. His family should be turned out in the hedgerows this very day."
"You've become very hard, Will."
"Well for me that I am!" Tavington responded tartly. "You don't last long in the army if you flinch from ordering floggings and hangings—not to mention inflicting various painful deaths on the enemy! But as to this Porter fellow--you're not going to let him stay on, are you?"
"If he pays full restitution, and submits to proper oversight—"
"John! At least let me giving him a good thrashing!"
His brother flashed him a smile. "Perhaps that will be part of his full restitution."
"That's more like it."
John smoked, while Tavington worked through the second set of books. Porter had made off with a considerable sum, starting bit by bit about three years ago. Admittedly, it was not quite as much as Tavington had first thought. Some of the decrease in estate income was legitimately due to bad crops and fluctuating prices. Nonetheless, Tavington was outraged at the means Porter had used to enrich himself: the wages of nonexistent servants, the funds that should have gone to the school and the relief of the poor, the money that should have been spent on maintaining the Hall and the estate cottages, and the lack of which was now evident in the dilapidations they had seen. The robbery was more outrageous in the last year, when there was no longer a parish rector to demand his rights. The other two parishes were in better order, it appeared, since each still had a clergyman in residence, who could have written to John about any questionable activity.
He had not completed his review, by any means, when they heard the sound of horse's hooves. Porter had returned. Tavington listened to the man ride in, greet the servant and then be waylaid by his wife, who was speaking to him in a low, frantic voice. There was a dead silence. The two brothers looked at each other. Tavington wondered if Porter would attempt to flee. It might be amusing to run the man down from horseback.
But he did not run. The estate steward entered the office, his eyes those of a dead man. Reluctantly, he met Sir John's stern gaze, and then promptly vomited on to the floor, clutching at his mouth futilely. Tavington rolled his eyes in disgust, as the man fell to his knees and begged for mercy.
"Sorry—sorry—have mercy, Sir John!" was the inarticulate plea. "I've been a wicked fool! Oh God! My wife!"
Tavington felt nothing but contempt. The man was sorry only to have been caught. A pity John was so soft-hearted. It would have been an object lesson to have had the man prosecuted and hanged. He would have liked to have said so, but it was John's land and money, after all.
"Pull yourself together, man!" John snapped, embarrassed at the spectacle. Porter choked and remained on his knees, trembling. Sir John's next words were ominous. "My brother here thinks that you should be hanged and your family turned out into the hedgerows. Would you consider that unjust?"
Miserably, Porter shook his head.
"I, however, am inclined to be merciful, if you can offer restitution." The terrified man looked up with desperate hope. John growled, "What have you done with my money? Are you keeping a whore in town? Have you been gambling it away?"
"No! I swear, Sir John! Nothing like that! I've been putting a bit by, here and there—" he cowered at Tavington's angry oath. "I wanted to buy a place of my own—something for the children, you see—something for my own old age!"
"You used my money to buy yourself an estate?" John asked in disbelief. "Where is it?"
"I haven't—not yet—I haven't yet signed for it," the man assured them. "I can get the money back—you'll have it all—I beg you, don't send me to prison! Think of my little ones!"
"You should have thought of them yourself, you blackguard," Tavington exploded. "My brother pays you well to look after his affairs. How much more would you have stolen? When you had your property, would you have fled and changed your name? You should die at a rope's end, like the thief you are!"
Sir John interrupted, in a soothing tone. "Can you return the entire sum at once?"
"No—I—" Defeated, the man slumped. "No. I can get most of it, though. Some of it went to buy things for Eleanor and the children. Some of it went for the carriage."
"Then it may take some time to regain my lost funds?"
"I swear I'll pay back every penny!"
"I hope for your sake that you do," John said quietly. "And you will begin at once. I hope you do not plan to take you family and flee the county, for you would certainly be found. And to what purpose? You will never get a better place than the Wargrave Estate. To leave would be to reduce your family to penury. I propose, instead, that you remain here as steward, with your books audited monthly for any improprieties. The money you intended to use to buy a house will be returned at once, and used to begin the needed repairs on the estate. Your salary shall be reduced, and that reduction counted toward your debt to me."
"It may take a little while," the man pleaded. "I must write to the agent in Cheshire."
"It had better not take too long," John said, with deadly calm. "Now listen to me. I am returning to my uncle's house, and you will order your carriage and drive back with us. I will inform Lord Colchester of our agreement—" Porter clutched his head and groaned in horror. "—of our agreement, and his own man of business and some of his trusty servants will be set to keep watch on you. The carriage and horses will remain at Colneford, just in case you try to pack up and escape. They will be sold, and the money put toward your debt."
Tavington spoke up. "The books need a more thorough review. We could take them back with us and have Protheroe—" he smirked at the wretched Porter "—our lawyer, look at them in detail. I think my brother is using you with extraordinary mercy."
"I am doing this for the sake of Mrs. Porter and your innocent children," John said. "Your good behavior is their only surety, for if you betray my trust again, they shall be ruined utterly. Are you willing to abide by my conditions, or do you wish to return with us to face trial?"
"No—no—I thank you, Sir John. I'll do anything—"
"There is one more thing," said John, catching his brother's impatient glare. "My brother feels some immediate punishment is called for. I suggest you submit to that without complaint as well. Let's us go outside somewhere private—for a smoke. You will call for the carriage now, and tell Mrs. Porter that you will be back later tonight." Porter looked around wildly.
"Get up!" Tavington barked. Catching the man by his collar, he hauled him to his feet, pushing him in front of him to avoid the soiled front of the man's waistcoat. Within two minutes, the three of them were out through the kitchen garden and had entered a little shady copse that screened them from the lodge.
"Take off your coat, Porter," Tavington said coldly. "You'll want to present a respectable appearance before my uncle." When the man fumbled too long, Tavington tore it from his shoulders impatiently.
John frowned, and sighed, and lit another cigar. "No longer than the cigar lasts, Will," he cautioned.
"Very well. That should be enough." Without warning, he slammed Porter face-first against the trunk of a tree, and purred, "Stay where you are. If you try to get away, I promise I'll make it worse." He hefted his riding crop and slashed at the terrified man's back. Porter cried out hoarsely, and fell to the ground, curled up on his knees, shielding his face. Tavington hit him again.
It was a very good cigar, and the fragrant smoke drifted slowly up through the yellowing canopy of leaves. The trees absorbed most of the noise: the heavy thuds of the crop against a human body, protected only by a thin waistcoat and a thinner shirt, the grunts of effort and of pain, the rustle of the wind, the occasional chirp of a bird above. Porter could not help crying by the end, and Tavington was flushed and vengeful, feeling that the man had deserved worse.
John ground out his cigar and declared, "Enough."
Tavington paused, wanting to give the fellow one last blow, but more would risk damaging the fellow too severely. John was right, he supposed: better to get the money back than to seek a more bloody revenge. However, he promised himself, if the place is ever mine, Mr. Porter will be gone before he knows what he's about. They rode back to Colneford Castle, and Porter, white-faced and bruised, was handed over to Lord Colchester's men for safe-keeping.
The Earl largely agreed with his older nephew, though he was glad enough that Will had thrashed the fellow. The affair was a welcome distraction, for after they finished making the arrangements, Lord Colchester informed his nephews that Sattersby had received word of a matter that demanded his immediate attention, and he and Kitty would be leaving on the morrow.
"Haven't the least idea what's going on. Bill is being very close-mouthed about the affair. Don't even know when he got the letter. Seems most unsettled though: nearly left this afternoon, but I told him it would be better to pack properly and take his leave in the morning. Says he must be gone before seven, and won't hear otherwise. We shall have to take our leave tonight after dinner. Anne will miss Kitty, of course, but if Bill thinks he needs to go, Kitty must certainly go with him."
Tavington felt a chill of fear at his uncle's words. Something was afoot. John raised his brows, looking a rebuke at his brother. Tavington hissed in vexation and concern, and tried to think how to find out more about what was going on. It was not difficult, actually.
As he dressed for dinner, Doggery revealed the events of the day to his master. "Quite the quarrel the young lord had with his lady, sir. Right after noon, when the earl was taking his ride around the park. Could hear them all the way down the hall. Seems someone's been telling tales. 'Course, the man as started the gossip now says there's naught to it, but his lordship weren't satisfied—not by half. Felt there was something wrong. I'm told her ladyship will be painting a trifle thicker than her usual this evening."
Tavington liked to think of himself as one who spurned servants' gossip, but this alarmed him. "He struck her?"
Doggery frowned over his comb and pins. "Weren't there, was I, sir? All I knows is what I heard from her ladyship's maid, and she heard what sounded like a blow to her, and then there was her ladyship with a blue mark on her pretty face—a shame, that."
"Quite."
The dinner that followed was an odd affair. Cousin Anne kept up a merry flow of talk throughout the courses, but Kitty, very pale with cosmetics and unhappiness, said little, and then only in response to her father-in-law. Sattersby himself was as silent as usual, but now and then he would fix Tavington with a bitter, hostile glare. There was no effective way to counter this at his uncle's table, and so Tavington turned his eyes away and discussed plans for repairs at Wargrave Hall with John. Trumfleet was surprisingly conversable on the subject, and added his own experiences as master of a large estate. The inadequacies of workmen, the stupidities of servants, the scandalous cost of building materials were all canvassed in detail. Lord Colchester himself was full of advice and eager to help, hoping that his nephew would spend more time on his estate, giving the earl himself a welcome neighbor and more frequent companion.
"I'd hoped to invite you all for luncheon," John told them, "but it's quite impossible, with the Hall in its current state. Perhaps next year."
"Capital!" boomed Lord Colchester. "It would be a great joy, to see that fine old place restored. And you've never seen it at all, have you, Kitty? You must be among the first visitors."
Kitty whispered, "I'm sure that would be delightful. Perhaps—"
Sattersby broke in, with a cool smile, "We shall see. Our own property keeps us very occupied." He pinned Tavington with another hateful glance, sipping his wine with a vengeful air.
It was painfully distressing. Tavington felt very sorry for Kitty, and very guilty at having caused trouble for her. She seemed to him as sweet and beautiful as ever, but overwhelmed with anxiety. Tomorrow she would be journeying home, facing an uncertain future with a husband who was clearly displeased with her. Tavington wished fiercely to spend a last night with her, but it seemed impossible. Sattersby would be on the watch, and the servants possibly employed to spy upon her. The distance between their rooms was not great, however, and if he were able to get a word with her---
But that was becoming less likely, too. The ladies withdrew, and the gentlemen sat long over their wine. Trumfleet and John drank so much that the sideboards were opened for the discreet chamberpots. There was more talk about Wargrave, and Tavington was quizzed about his clergyman friend. Afterwards, he and John walked unsteadily to the study with their uncle, and the unpleasantness of Porter was dealt with. He was sent home in one of Lord Colchester's carriages, along with Mr. Somerville, Lord Colchester's own steward, and six stout grooms and footmen. Somerville would stay a few days, and get the situation in hand. Sir John and Tavington would visit the estate again on the morrow for further consultation. Porter sat slumped throughout, looking like a whipped dog.
At last they made their way to the drawing room, to find Trumfleet snoring in a chair, his lady tinkling out a tune on the harpsichord, and Lord and Lady Sattersby sitting and looking at one another in silence. Kitty's posture was defensive and frightened, and Sattersby's was relaxed but watchful. He was looking at her--just looking at her--like a cat at a mouse hole. Tavington wanted to do something—anything—to defend her, but short of snatching her up and running away, he could think of nothing effective. He could hardly insult his uncle by calling Sattersby out. Besides, he had to admit, it was not he, but Sattersby, who was the injured party.
"Ah, that's very nice, my dear Anne," declared Lord Colchester. "Play for us while we have a game or two. And then you too, Kitty. I shall miss the sound of your harp when you are in Dorset."
A table was arranged, and the Earl was soon playing cards with his son and nephews, happily oblivious to the currents of ill-feeling swirling about the room. To him, it was a pleasant evening in the country, surrounded by his beloved family. An hour passed, and another. Kitty dutifully played three airs, and was told by her husband to go to bed, as they were leaving early. Without a protest, she bade them all a very gentle farewell, not even daring to look at Tavington, and took herself off. Lady Trumfleet followed soon after, leaving her lord and master still unconscious and drooling in his armchair of silk brocade.
Distracted as he was, Tavington played badly, to John's annoyance and Sattersby's great satisfaction. Thirty guineas was a substantial sum to lose, and he wished he could throw it in Sattersby's smirking face. Instead, he gathered the rags of his good breeding about him, and paid his debt like a gentleman. Besides, he comforted himself, if Sattersby feels he's gotten the better of me, perhaps he won't be so hard on poor Kitty. He watched his cousin stalk out of the room, smugly triumphant, and shrugged when John looked at him as if to say, "What else can you expect?" Their uncle charitably woke Trumfleet, and sent him staggering off to his bed, but seemed inclined for more talk himself. There was nothing for it, but to sit and chat with the old man, who, after all, deserved every sign of respect.
By the time he returned to his room, the great clock had chimed two, and Doggery was dozing in a little chair by the door. He rubbed his eyes and helped Tavington out of his clothes without unwelcome conversation, except to remark, with suspicious casualness, "I wish you a sound rest in your own bed, sir. It wouldn't be a good night for wandering, seeing as Lord Sattersby is in his Lady's bedchamber and might take a visitor amiss. Not that anything of the sort might happen but by accident--but you know, it wouldn't do to give the wrong idea, especially if his lordship were to be a little on edge, to the extent of sleeping with a pistol by his side, that just might go off if he were to be startled --but that won't be happening, anyhow, now will it. sir?"
Exhausted, Tavington replied, "I daresay not."
"Then I bid you a good night, sir. And if I might say so, I shall sleep the better having given a word to the wise, as they say."
"Get out, Doggery."
"Very good, sir."
-----
His eyes opened, and by his watch it was nearly six. Tavington listened to the sounds of the trunks being carried downstairs, the quiet conversation—Kitty's sweet voice, now very subdued. He lay still, until he knew they were downstairs, and then got up and threw on his banyan, and stood at the window facing the courtyard. The time was measured in his imagination. Now Kitty is having breakfast: she is stirring her tea; she is cracking her egg with two little taps. She likes the French bread best, and is spreading some marmalade upon it. She is taking her time sipping her tea. Kitty's hands are very smooth and delicate. Her mouth is lovely as she drinks from her cup. Is she thinking of me?
So this was love? If so, it was a very disagreeable sensation, for he might not see Kitty again for some time and felt very distressed by the idea. What fools Time had made of them! If only Kitty were one year younger—or six years older! That would have indeed been better. For her he would have defied Mamma's displeasure. If he had known her before he left for America he might never have gone at all. He could have married Kitty and shared her splendid home with her.
But would that have happened? An unpleasantly rational voice sounded in his head, a voice very like Jane's at her most practical. Would Kitty have married him, penniless as he had been in 1775? St. Leger had spoken of her as one who had an eye to an eldest son. Would her family have countenanced a match with him? In their eyes, he would have seemed a mere adventurer—a fortune-hunter. And they would have been right.
At length the Sattersbys appeared. Kitty walked gracefully out the front door below, her hand on her husband's arm. He seemed to be behaving courteously enough: helping her into the waiting carriage, speaking quietly to the servants about her comfort, and then turning to bow to an unseen person in the great doorway—probably his father. Tavington did not bother to look more at his cousin. His eyes were on Kitty, trying to fix in memory every detail of the exquisite profile, pure as a cameo, that was turned his way. He scowled as his cousin climbed into the coach, blocking Kitty from view. In another moment, the coach drove away, and Tavington was left, unseen at his upstairs window, feeling wretchedly bereft.
-----
"Are you moping, Will?" John asked. "It does not become you."
Tavington growled and shrugged. They had spent two more days working on the Wargrave Problem, and his mood had not improved. Had he not had a worthy occupation, he would have been miserable, but there was much to do. On his uncle's recommendation, John had written to a respected builder in Colchester, who could undertake the needed repairs to the roof and the damaged walls, which the brothers had agreed were the most pressing concern. Under Somerville's watchful eye, Porter would do his part, first writing to his house agent in Cheshire about his change of plans; and then engaging servants to clean the Hall and making notes as to the cottages most in need of attention. There were the tenant farmers to talk to, there was the abandoned church to visit. Tavington had nearly two hundred pounds with him—less the money he had lost at cards—and lent it all to John, to help get the work accomplished as quickly as possible. Wargrave's gardens were a shadow of their former glory, but it was too late in the year to do much to retrieve them. Tavington rounded up some local men to clear away rubbish and weeds, so at least whatever did return the following spring might have room to grow.
"I've set some of the men to clear out the stables," Tavington remarked. "If not quite a labor of Hercules, it is very near one. There will be room right away at least for our horses, and a place to protect the curricle. The carriage house is near to collapse. Someone has been stealing the lumber from it—probably to repair his own cottage, I suppose."
"We'll want room for your carriage, too," John considered. "I really do want Mrs. Tavington and her sister to see the place. I was disappointed when we could not take them there earlier, but perhaps that was all for the best. They would have thought me the worst landlord in England had they seen it as it is now."
"Jane would probably be delighted to help. She's not easily intimidated by mere work. When she came out to the backcountry to nurse me, we were billeted in a little cabin that was no bigger than some of the cottages—and not as comfortable. She made the best of it, I must say, and showed a great deal of spirit and resource."
"Then you are a lucky man, Will," his brother told him with some heat. "I would have you consider how other ladies of our acquaintance would face such privations."
He did not have to specify. Mamma would have wasted every waking hour in complaints, and expected everything to be done for her. Caro and Pen might well have wilted. And Kitty—well, he was not sure. Kitty was not a coward, and might have borne it all without repining, but he doubted that she could have coped with the drudgery of housekeeping with any of Jane's aplomb. But Lucy—
Yes, Lucy would have done well. He thought of his sister with admiration. Reduced to a way of living that his family scorned, she had made a charming home of that mean little dwelling on Tudor Street. She could have faced the backcountry along with Jane. The two of them were well on the way to becoming friends. Lucy liked Jane very much, and—
And Tavington felt uncomfortable, recalling how shabbily he had treated his wife in the past few days. He hoped Jane would say nothing of it to his sisters. They would not understand, and would be ashamed of him. Lucy might understand, if he explained that he was in love with Kitty.
No. Lucy would not understand. She would point out that he had no business being in love with Kitty, or indeed any woman other than his wife. Being a woman herself, no doubt she had unreasonable expectations regarding male fidelity. If he told her he loved his cousin's wife, she would be horrified. For that matter, John, his own brother, did not seem to understand him. He wondered if John had ever been in love. Some night, when they were both very drunk, he might ask him.
And so the days had passed—a great deal of work, followed by quiet evenings at home with their uncle. Within the week, they could feel that the process had been put on a solid footing, and John was beginning to talk about returning to London. There was little reason not to, if he so pleased. It was less than a day's drive, and one or the other of them could make the trip at any time.
Over their wine, John said as much. "I told them that I want the Great Chamber to be ready on a moment's notice, and two other bedchambers put in order, besides. The second floor will take more work before it is habitable—though it is fortunate, in a way, that the servant's wing is in better repair that the family's. Will wanted the Jeffreys engaged again, so we shall have one cook, at least."
"You can always stop here, if the Hall is unfit," Lord Colchester reminded them.
"I thank you, uncle. That is very good of you. But I've got my teeth in the business, and I want to see it though. Now that Will has that boy of his, it preys on my mind, the thought of leaving the place as it is."
"It's your house, John," Tavington objected, "and it's only right that you would want to make the best of it for yourself."
"Be as that may," John said, waving away his brother's protest. "I mean to get the place in proper order. Maybe by Christmas... You remember our Christmases at Wargrave, Will? What times we had! I found our old sleigh today. How we used to speed along in it!"
Lord Colchester laughed. "And I recall how a pair of young rascals used to jump out of a moving sleigh and roll in the snow. Frightened everyone to death, you two! Come along now," he said, getting up from the table. "I haven't had a chance to see the newspaper today, and then perhaps we'll have a hand of cards or two! "
They settled down to quiet occupations in the drawing room: Lady Trumfleet sewing, her husband again falling asleep in his chair. John had a novel, and Lord Colchester his newspaper. A comfortable silence, it seemed, for everyone but Tavington, who moved restlessly about the room, once again brooding over Kitty. What would Sattersby do to her? Would he divorce her? Would he beat her? It was certainly legal, and certainly within his rights, even though Tavington himself thought that beating women was unworthy of a gentleman.
Lord Colchester, engrossed in his newspaper, suddenly grunted. "Good God! Can it be--?"
He read: "'Mrs. T--------, newly arrived from the tropical climes of Carolina, proved a worthy partner of the famed Colonel T--------, of whose exploits in America the whole town speaks. No fiercer was Queen Boadicea in her chariot, than Mrs. -------- in her chaise and four, when set upon by highwaymen, in fact the notorious brothers Richard and Samuel Carver. Like a tigress defending her young, the lady was impelled by the tenderest maternal sentiments to draw pistol on the infamous pair, and set them to flight, with the aid of her servants. Inspired by their mistress' fiery example---'"
Tavington snatched at the newspaper and read the article himself. "Good God!" he cried, echoing his uncle. "Jane was attacked by highwaymen!"
"Dear me," croaked Trumfleet, waking from a doze, "awkward, that." His wife gave an unladylike snort of disdain at her husband's idiocy.
"Was she injured?" John asked, alarmed. "The boy—"
"No—it would seem they are unharmed," Tavington replied, distracted. He read on: "'…Inspired by their mistress' fiery example, the good people fired upon the villains, and were left triumphant on the field of battle. The accomplished Mrs. T-------- has attracted the notice of many in fashionable society for her spirit and lively conversation; as has her sister, Miss R-------, for her exotic beauty and gentle demeanour. This correspondent has called upon the ladies personally and has seen the very pistol that put paid to the depredations of the notorious outlaws.'"
"Jane has a pistol?" Tavington wondered, bewildered. "Where would Jane get a pistol? How could she know how to use a pistol?" His companions regarded him with puzzled faces all alike. "I must go home!" Tavington declared. "Jane was attacked by highwaymen and I was not there to protect her! I must see her and Little Will for myself!"
"Yes," agreed his uncle immediately. "Of course you'll want to see to her. That nice little mouse! Extraordinary! I didn't think she could say 'boo' to a goose!"
"Why would anyone want to say 'boo' to a goose?" John muttered. Aloud he answered, "Certainly. We'll leave as early as possible in the morning. I'm sorry we must depart so soon, Uncle, but you cannot say that this visit lacked incident and variety!"
Thank you to all my reviewers. 999--I hope this chapter satisfies!
Next—Chapter 38: The Return of Ulysses