Chapter 44: In the Mists of the Marshes
John's good spirits had lasted over a week. Tavington was genuinely glad their few days at Wargrave had so improved his brother's outlook. He was feeling better himself. He had finally finished sitting for his portrait, and Sir Joshua expected it to be complete within a few weeks. It was very entertaining, debating with his brother and sisters where it might hang. Caro was for the entry hall, Pen for the drawing room, John for the library. He had mentioned it to Jane, who surprised him by suggesting the ballroom. The picture was going to be very large, and Tavington thought perhaps Jane had the right of it.
Privately, he played with some ideas of his own. Perhaps when Jane returned to London, they might give a ball—nothing enormous, but something pleasant for her. Good musicians and plenty of them, a beautiful new gown for Jane and a new suit of clothes for himself. The portrait would be a good pretext to invite friends, family, and political allies. If Mamma could be kept quiet enough in her room, it might go very well. Jane was a quite a good dancer, and once given the chance to order a party as she saw fit…
The thought pleased him very much, and made his own mood more cheerful. Even the trivial duties of a garrison officer seemed less pointless. After all, he was well paid for his pains. His officers were well-bred men of good families, even if a few of the younger ones had needed a set-down or two before they understood what he would not tolerate in the mess. It was all so entirely unlike being at war that Tavington dealt with the strangeness by treating his regiment as a kind of riding club. The mess was very club-like indeed; and the sort of man who served in a Guards regiment, even as a private soldier, was rather superior to the ordinary rank-and-file. There would be some ceremonial duties to perform when the King returned to London. Because of that, the men's drill was being polished like a diamond.
Things were well enough in hand that he saw no reason not to go with John into Kent to meet Emily Martingale and her daughter. John was anxious to be with his child for her fourth birthday, and had sought out a particularly beautiful gift for her—one that Tavington gathered was a smuggled French import. Despite being at war with France, no one Tavington knew seemed willing to do without wine or lace, or any of those wonderful things that the French did so much better than the English.
The lady and her parents, a Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, lived in Lydenham, a little village in the North Kentish Marshes, not far from Cliffe. It was an easy day's journey: only a little farther than the one to Wargrave Hall. The weather was holding, and John thought they could take the curricle.
"We'll only stay the night, after all, and then come back the next day. The Black Horse is the only inn thereabouts, and it isn't much, but we can make do. The Clarkes aren't rich, and I don't like to impose. I wrote to Emily that we were coming, and she invited us to dinner, of course. As long as it doesn't get any colder, it should be a pleasant outing."
A small trunk apiece was all the luggage they would need. The only other item to be packed in the curricle was a polished wooden box containing the contraband item-- a remarkably elegant French doll, dressed in the latest from Paris. John brought it home one day, and his sisters exclaimed in delight over its beauty.
"She is a lucky little girl, to have such a kind godfather, John." Penelope approved.
Caroline admired the doll rather wistfully. "How I wish we had a niece!" She gave Tavington an arch smile. "Not that I am complaining about darling William Francis. However, it does any boy good to have a sister!"
"A hint that broad, my dear Caro, penetrates even my thick skull. A niece? That would be pleasant, I agree." Carefully, he did not look at John, not wanting to hurt him.
Penelope picked up the doll for a closer look. "Do you know?" she said. "I think this doll rather resembles Jane."
"What!"
"I see what she means," laughed Caroline. "Do you remember--at the Pantheon, when her hair was powdered? Dressed in pink? Look at the mouth."
John thought it very funny. "By Jove! It does. Too bad we can't keep it and show it to her."
"I don't see any resemblance at all," Tavington said impatiently.
Actually, he could see a faint likeness to his wife in the stiff little doll, but its small size and curious air of vulnerability made him feel uneasy. He sweetened his contradiction with a smile, unwilling to spoil his sisters' amusement. They were just beginning to adjust to the changes in the household. They sat with their mother daily, talking to her with a little sewing to keep their hands busy, or reading to her. Mrs. Watkins kept careful watch that her patient did not become over-excited or difficult.
After tea, Tavington went with Caroline to visit his mother, and found it uncanny. This lady looked like his mother, for the faithful Fabienne kept her as well turned out as ever, but the spirit that had defined Lady Cecily Tavington had waned. The arrogance was not completely gone, however. She sat quietly enough while Tavington chatted about his regiment and related a little innocuous gossip.
After a quarter hour of fairly rational conversation, she abruptly asked Tavington, "Is that Colonial woman still in the house?"
"No, Mamma," he answered patiently. "Mrs. Tavington is at Wargrave with the baby."
"She's not to come back here, Jack!" his mother cried. "I won't have any more of your whores under this roof! Do you understand me?"
Tavington paused, feeling quite sick. "I'm William, Mamma—your son. Do you not know me?"
She peered at him, uncertainly, and then smiled. "Of course I know you, dearest. Don't be silly!" She lay back on the cushions of her daybed, humming an old song of her youth.
Caroline, sitting beside him, sighed. "That is—a new development. Oh, William."
He gave her shoulder a squeeze and left, glad that he and John would be getting out of the house tomorrow. When the day came when their mother was gone, he must think of something wonderful for his sisters—a trip to Wargrave of course, but also perhaps a few weeks by the sea. Penelope could leave her good works that long, surely; and Caroline could take her novel-writing with her wherever they went.
His sister mentioned her book that night at dinner. "I had a letter from Mrs. Tavington today," she announced. "She tells me that she enjoyed the visit of her husband and brother-in-law very much—" she returned John's bow "—and that she had some ideas about my story. I had reached something of an impasse."
"An impasse?" Tavington frowned. He ought to pay more attention to Caroline's aspirations.
"Yes. With Mamma in her present state—well, I could hardly write about her now, could I? I thought I would have to completely give it up, but dear Jane wrote such an amusing, clever letter, and suggested that I change my antagonist from a mother to a stepmother. I find it works very well—in fact, it's given me some new ideas. It's tiresome, of course, to go through the manuscript changing names, but I think it will do very well."
"I look forward to reading the finished product."
"So do I," said John, enjoying his tea. "I know a fellow at White's who knows a publisher. We'll call on him when you're done."
Tavington set his cup down. He wished Jane's letters to him were amusing. He received dutiful short notes, which often read more like the reports of an overworked housekeeper than the affectionate messages of an absent wife. They made him feel rather sad. The visit had helped, but he would have to continue to court Jane's favor if he hoped to win her back entirely—and that meant doing things that would please her, instead of things he pretended would please her because they were convenient for him. And more, he must think before doing things she would not like at all. He hoped she would approve his idea for a ball.
She would certainly approve of the visit to Kent, if she knew all the facts. He thought of the little wax doll. The dainty pink gown, with its ruffles and bows and lace, was sure to win any little girl's heart. Jane was such a good mother and sister. He suspected she would be a very good aunt as well. She'd probably be terribly earnest about education and accomplishments. He smiled, picturing Jane fussing over a little girl of their own.
The child's birthday was tomorrow, the fifteenth. The plan was to start early, rest the horses at Dartford, stop at the Black Horse and secure rooms, dine with the Clarkes around four (for the family kept rather old-fashioned hours), give the little girl her gift, and return to the inn. They would leave the next morning, and be back home by mid-afternoon. A short visit, but John could not see how he could linger in the neighborhood without causing embarrassment for the woman he loved.
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John was in a good enough mood to allow Tavington to drive part of the way: from Dartford to Lydenham, where the traffic was not so heavy. The weather was perfect: a blue sky, cool but not freezing, the roads dry and fast. The journey was a pleasant one. He told John stories of his adventures with the Green Dragoons, and about the strange people and natural wonders of the Colonies. He had campaigned in New York, in New Jersey, and in Pennsylvania, before the voyage last year—could it really only be last year?—to Georgia and South Carolina. Tavington rattled on and on to the one man he trusted not to be bored: telling of Indians scouts and of flowering tobacco, of panthers and bears and the ubiquitous wild hogs of the South. John might not have traveled beyond Paris, himself, but he liked to hear of faraway places, and was full of questions. Eventually, the story of his courtship and marriage to Jane came out.
"You know, old fellow," John said wryly, "I'm not sure I understand why she puts up with you."
"I know, I know." Tavington felt a little ashamed. When the whole story was laid bare, his behavior was not very—admirable. And since then—
He put those thoughts aside, and changed the topic to the tale of his friend Bordon and his escape from the Hurons in 1777. It was a thrilling yarn, and John laughed and shuddered by turns.
"A damned clever fellow. He must have nerve, and no mistake!"
"That he does. You'll like him, John. You'll find I've done you a favor to provide you with such a man as a neighbor. Mrs. Bordon is a charming woman. She knows her share of stories too, from her childhood in New York--a lot of old Dutch colonial lore from the Hudson Valley."
"Any good ghost stories?"
"You are so Gothick, John. Yes, I believe Mrs. Bordon knows one or two."
They reached Lydenham and the Black Horse a little after two o'clock. The blue sky was turning grey, and the landscape had changed to the flat, treeless expanse of the Kentish Marshes. The road was not much frequented between Cliffe and Lydenham, and the Black Horse made more money as the local public house than as an inn. There were rooms, and they were bestowed gladly on the rich gentlemen from London. The innkeeper and his servants knew Sir John, who had been there before, and bustled about with a great show of energy, but with not much to show for it.
"Don't unload the box from the curricle," John ordered, eager to get moving again. "We'll be taking that with us to Pilchards."
"Don't stray from the road, gentlemen," the innkeeper warned them. "It be treacherous out there. You mind yourselves, now."
In short order they were in motion, traveling the four miles of narrow lane across the Marshes that would take them to the Clarkes' house. Tavington had never seen the area before, and studied the road carefully. They would likely be returning to the inn after dark, and would need their wits about them. I'll do the driving, he promised himself. John is bound to have drunk too much wine.
Pilchards was a small and undistinguished looking house, but very pleasant and home-like. Approaching the house, Tavington saw an elderly couple whom he took to be the Clarkes, and next to them a soft-looking young woman who must be John's Emily herself, from the way his brother was preening and grinning.
They were greeted very kindly. John seemed to be a favorite with Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. When Tavington was introduced, he apologized for his intrusion on a family party, but his words were waved away.
"Delighted to see you, my dear sir," cried old Mr. Clarke, shaking his hand. "Delighted to meet Sir John's brother. We live far from the world, and are always happy when company comes."
Tavington noticed that Emily Martingale bit her lip at those words and looked worried. He was eager to know this woman better, and soon had made the acquaintance of the lady's mother and then the lady herself.
To each his own, he decided. Emily was not his ideal of feminine beauty, but his brother thought her lovely, and that was enough. Indeed, even though she was clearly past thirty, she was really a very pretty woman: pretty in a delicate and demure way. She had light brown hair and large blue eyes, he noted, and a slightly cleft chin that set off full lips. She was fragile, rather than voluptuous, and very pale. Tavington wondered if her lungs were sound. Her eyes did not have that keen, observant look in them that Jane's had. However, when she spoke, he was taken with her very sweet voice and gentle manner. When John looked at him expectantly, he was able to smile back, and give a little understanding nod.
He talked about weather and the roads with the Clarkes, since he could see that Mrs. Martingale was desperate to speak to John. His diversionary tactics worked. While the Clarkes chatted, Tavington glanced over his shoulder to see Emily talking in a low, earnest voice to his brother. Tavington became concerned as he saw his brother's face grow red with anger. John took a deep breath, and murmured something back.
As they were led into the house, he gave Tavington his news in a whisper.
"By God, Will, this is dreadful!"
"Bad news?"
"The worst. No—that's wrong—but bad enough. Martingale is coming."
"What?"
"Emily just received a note from him. The scoundrel is in England, and is coming, as he says, 'to see his beloved daughter on her birthday.' He then dropped some hints that he expects some sort of reward, or he might have to take Fanny away with him. The scurvy blackguard!"
"Extortion, then?"
John was trying to hide his hate and rage. "Imagine threatening a woman with losing her child if her family can't pay him off. I'm glad I'm here. When he shows his putrid face, I'll call him out on the spot."
Tavington was uneasy about this, and considered ways in which he could persuade John to let him do any fighting. He did not know Martingale himself, or the extent of his skill at arms. John getting himself killed was not an acceptable outcome.
"At any rate," his brother said, "There's nothing we can do at the moment. Let's have our visit. You still need to meet Fanny!"
The Clarkes' drawing room was quite small. They were seated and told that dinner would soon be served.
"We keep country time, gentlemen," Clarke informed them genially. "No late London hours for us!"
After more talk, the little girl was brought down by her mother, and was as soft and dainty as she. Under her little ruffled cap shone light brown curls. Large, wondering eyes of cornflower blue lit up with joy at the sight of her godfather.
"Good day to you, Sir John," she said, quite nicely, without any prompting, and dropped him a graceful curtsey. She trotted forward and turned up her round little face for a kiss. While John gave her a hearty one, Tavington studied his niece for any family resemblances.
There were some, though they were subtle. She resembled her mother a great deal, but there was something in the brow and in the shape of the eyes that recalled John. She had her mother's very fair skin, and a sweet voice and countenance. Altogether, she was a very appealing child, and Tavington would have been happy to call her niece. That he could not was most unfortunate.
"Will, here is little Miss Martingale! Fanny, my dear, this is my brother, Colonel Tavington."
The little girl curtseyed obediently, shy with a stranger. Tavington smiled and effaced himself, letting John enjoy his time with the child. They were summoned to dinner almost immediately. The Clarkes kept early hours, indeed. The child joined them, in honor of her birthday, but Tavington had the impression that she often ate with them. It was a simple country household, after all, and she was a well-behaved little girl, and it seemed, their only grandchild.
He approved of her nice manners at table. Even more, he approved of the affectionate way she spoke to John, who sat beside her, and helped her cut her meat. He had never pictured his brother as a father, but that had been his own deficiency, not John's. His brother took to this duty as if it were second nature, and the way that the man and the girl bantered and teased showed them the best of old friends. The mother was not actress enough to hide her anxiety, but John covered it with his playful talk with the child, and Tavington did his best to distract the attention of the old couple.
Through the dining room windows, it became manifest that it would be a foggy night. The Clarkes were becoming worried about their guests, and showed surprise that Sir John and his brother the Colonel had not meant to stop the night with them.
"But my dear sirs!" Mr. Clarke protested. "We would be greatly remiss not to offer you hospitality. And the Black Horse—"
"And it is not safe," his wife seconded him. "If you were to stray from the road, your carriage could be trapped in the muck. Men and beasts have been lost out there. Every year, since I can remember, someone has fallen in. You should stay with us, and leave in the clear light of morning!"
Tavington could see their point, and waited for John's response. The sun was setting and the fog rising.
"Well, I suppose—" John said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could, but first let us give this young lady her present."
A servant was sent out to fetch the box from the curricle, and returned with Tavington's small trunk. The servants at the Black Horse, it seemed, had left the wrong box in the curricle. Confusion ensued. The little girl was too nice to make a scene, but was sad and disappointed. John was possibly even more disappointed than she.
Tavington thought briefly, and then said, "A brief delay only, John. Their grooms can harness the horses again. I shall drive back to Lydenham while you enjoy your visit. It cannot take more than an hour."
But Mr. Clarke, hearing this exchange, did not like Colonel Tavington to have to go out again. Nor did he think it wise to send out tired horses in the growing dark.
"Can I not send a servant instead?"
"I had rather you didn't, sir," Tavington smiled, shaking his head. "There must be no mistake. You are right about the team, of course—but if you had a saddle horse that I might have the use of—"
Everyone praised his good idea, with the exception of Mrs. Clarke, who feared that the Colonel might catch cold in the damp and chilly fog.
"You must take care to stay on the road," she reminded him anxiously. "The marshes are so dangerous even in the daylight!"
"You're sure you don't mind, old fellow?" John asked, looking very hopeful.
"Not a bit. Go and entertain the ladies, you great booby."
John laughed and took his advice.
The horse was a fairly good one: a tall black gelding with some speed to him. Tavington clattered back up the road from Pilchards, the candlelit windows already dimming in the mist. The curious flatness of the landscape made it difficult to distinguish the road. He hoped the fog would not worsen, or he might find returning rather chancy. It was growing very dark, but it was not the first time he had ridden through marshlands. And it was a mere four miles, after all.
Very soon, Tavington saw the faint lights of the village up ahead and heard the noise outside the inn. He trotted up, and found a stableboy to hold his horse while he went upstairs to rummage about. A ridiculous mistake had been made. In John's room, he found the doll's box stacked neatly on top of John's trunk. The box was too large for the saddlebag that the Clarkes groom had provided. Tavington opened the box, and snatched out the little doll, feeling ridiculous as he carried it downstairs. The innkeeper was informed that he and Sir John were staying the night at Pilchards, and would return tomorrow for their other luggage. Scowling ferociously at the stablehands, he put the doll in the saddlebag. Its head peeped out of the bag, and the little wax hands reached over the edge, like a girl reaching up to look over a wall.
Without another word, he spurred the horse away, wanting to get the doll to John as quickly as possible. He was glad he had reconnoitered earlier. The fog was rolling it more thickly. The featureless terrain made it difficult to judge distances. Liquid sounds from the marshes, the call of a nightbird, the rustle of the wind through the marshgrass were the soft accompaniments of his passage. Tavington trotted down the road, knowing that losing his way could be disastrous. He slowed the horse, as the way began more confusing, and then heard distinctly the sounds of hoofbeats behind him.
Who could be traveling this lonely road in the dark? Suddenly, it came to him.
Who else could it be? He stopped, listening, as the rider approached. He was only a few yards away when Tavington called out to him.
"Martingale--Peter Martingale?"
The rider reined in his horse violently. The poor beast squealed and stamped, and the man called back, "Who are you?"
"Are you Peter Martingale?"
"What business is it of yours? Who are you? Show yourself!"
Tavington came forward at a walk. He knew, from experience, how menacing the sudden appearance of a tall man on a tall horse could be. And with the addition of the darkness, the swirling mist, the solitary nature of the place, the dark greatcoat Tavington was wearing, and his hat pulled down low, Martingale jumped to the obvious conclusion.
"Good God, fellow, do you mean to rob me? Let me go my way, and I'll say nothing to anyone!"
Tavington sat silent on his horse. He had spoken once in jest to John about killing Martingale, and now the opportunity was before him. He pulled his pistol from his coat and pointed it at the terrified man.
He growled, "I presume you are Martingale, then? You and I have business together."
"Don't shoot! If it's money you want—" the man fumbled into his clothes, and drew out a purse. "Here, take it! Just don't shoot!"
"Stop whimpering, you cringing coward—"
"Look, I haven't much, but down the road there's a gentleman's family—he has money! I can show you the place—the women have jewelry. Just don't shoot me, for God's sake!"
The man was babbling in his fear. Tavington sneered at him, ready to shoot him on the spot. The man flinched and suddenly threw the purse at Tavington, and then slashed at his horse. Tavington was startled by the weighted missile directed at his face. Swearing filthily, he galloped after Martingale, trying to take aim in the darkness. It was useless. Tavington pocketed the weapon, and put his spurs to the horse. His quarry did not seem to know the road. They had only gone a quarter of mile, when Martingale pulled aside suddenly, trying to evade pursuit by heading across country. Tavington hissed, thinking it madness to gallop through the marshes when they were blanketed in mist. He followed more slowly, and Martingale disappeared into the fog.
The sound of the horse and rider, though, was clear enough. There was a sudden stop, a scream abruptly cut off, and a dull splash. Thrown from his horse, the panicky idiot. Tavington listened, and heard only the sounds of a frightened horse thrashing in shallow water. The animal suddenly took shape in the pale mist, and galloped past him, heading toward Lydenham.
Tavington dismounted and led his horse carefully toward his prey, testing the ground to make certain it was sound underfoot. Within twenty yards, it became apparent that Martingale would never run away again. A body lay on the ground, shrouded in fog. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Martingale's neck was broken, and he was dead.
Well, that's ironic.
Tavington stood there some time, deciding what to do. The man was dead, and not by his hand. Perhaps that was for the best. Yes. The more he thought about it, the more relieved he was. This was not an enemy soldier or rebel sympathizer in far away America. This was a fellow Englishman, traveling on his—rather shady—business, but not doing anything illegal or against the interests of the King. Killing him would have been cold-blooded murder, no matter what the mitigating circumstances. Seen in such a light, he felt astonished at himself for imagining that he could murder a man with impunity. I've been at war too long. The thought came to him at once, and he mulled it over, realizing that he needed to change his way of thinking about a number of things. But first, there was a dead man to consider.
What to do? He considered pushing the body deeper into the muck, but then thought again. It was very much in Mrs. Martingale's interests that the body be found, and her husband's accidental death be made public.
Tavington then remembered the doll--the entire reason for this hazardous journey in the dark. He slipped under his horse's head and saw that his burden was still secure. The little pale face gazed out at him, eerily like his wife's. Jane would not approve of murder. The tiny hands seemed raised in protest or alarm. He shivered, realizing that he had barely escaped making the worst mistake of his life. Mounting quickly, he cantered back to the security of the Clarke's little island of civilization, and thanked whatever God might be watching for saving his worthless hide.
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The doll was rapturously received. The little girl clutched at it, her high, sweet voice shrill with excitement.
"She's so pretty! She's like a Princess! My princess doll!"
Her mother murmured, "Thank Sir John for his gift, darling, and the good Colonel for fetching it for you!"
"Thank you! Thank you!" A kiss for Sir John. "Thank you, Colonel, for riding in the nasty cold fog!" A little curtsey.
John smiled. "Yes, thank you, Will. Hope you didn't catch anything out there in the nasty cold fog!"
There was kind laughter, and a cup of hot tea, and they watched the little girl playing with the grand lady in pink. Mrs. Clarke enjoyed the doll nearly as much as her granddaughter.
"What shall you name her, Fanny dear?"
"I shall call her-- Princess Sally."
"Sally?" asked John, looking amused.
Emily explained. "Sally is a girl from the village who sometimes comes to help in the nursery. Fanny is very fond of her."
"Still," grinned John, "I've never heard of a Princess Sally."
Fanny was pushing up the gown to study the lace-trimmed petticoats. "Tell me some princess names, Sir John."
"Well—let's see. Our King's daughters are named—er—Charlotte, Elizabeth, Augusta—"
"Augusta! I like that." Fanny held the doll close to her face, and declared, "Her name is Princess Sally Augusta."
Tavington smiled at the child's enthusiasm. "A royal name indeed."
Sitting by his innocent niece, he was glad that he would not have Martingale's death on his conscience. There had always been in him a dark streak of impulsive violence. From time to time, it had served him well in battle; less so when he was called upon to deal with enemy civilians. Tonight, Fate had stepped in and preserved him from the consequences of his nature. Fate, yes--and fog too thick for an accurate shot!
-----
When his racing thoughts finally allowed him to sleep, Tavington slept very soundly indeed. The first alarms did not awaken him, nor did the raised voices, full of compassion or vindictive satisfaction. His eyes opened to Emily Martingale's sharp cry, and the sound of men carrying a heavy body into the house.
They have found him.
He rose and threw his clothes on quickly. It was past eight in the morning, by his watch. He left his room and was down the stairs in a moment. John was standing in the hall, talking to some men in rough workmen's clothes. It was not necessary to say anything, for John saw him, and gestured him over, bubbling with suppressed excitement.
"Will!" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low. "You'll never guess what has happened!"
Tavington made his face a mask of pleasant curiosity.
John clutched his arm, and declared, "That scoundrel Martingale is dead! He was on his way here and was lost in the fog. His horse must have stumbled, and the fellow broke his neck, just like that!"
"And how is the horse?"
"Oh, all right, I believe," John answered seriously. "Not a broken leg, lucky beast! But Will, you're not listening—Martingale is dead!"
"That solves Mrs. Martingale's problems, I'd say!"
"Yes!" John's face lit up with boyish happiness. "She and Fanny are safe now. It seems like the hand of God."
"Well, the fog was heavy last night."
"Just think!" John went on in wonder. "The fellow must have been only just behind you. Thank God you did not suffer a like fate!"
"They brought him—here?" asked Tavington, changing the subject.
"Well--yes! The most proper place, I suppose. He was family, after a fashion. The men who found him discovered his name on letters in his pockets. Neck broken as cleanly as you ever saw! He must not have felt much…" John was solemn for a brief moment, in awe before the finality of death. Than his eyes lit up again. "They'll see to the funeral, of course, but we needn't stay. Don't expect he's left her a penny, but no matter. Emily will have to go into mourning, but damn me if she should wear widow's weeds for a year! Even though I can't say much decently at the moment, I've already told her that my feelings are unchanged. I'll put a word in her ear that I'll be talking to her father in about three months—not very long, I know—but why should we stand on ceremony for such a fellow? We can be married in May…" His voice faded.
Suddenly he grabbed his brother in a bear hug. "I'm going to marry Emily!"
"Shh! John!" Tavington warned his brother, patting his back and trying to quiet him before they could scandalize the household. Before such artless joy, he felt a little soiled. More than ever, he was glad he had not killed Martingale, villain though he was.
The farewells were quiet. John's excuse, that they ought not to trespass on a household in mourning, was accepted as very proper. The Clarkes were good and principled people, and were earnestly trying not to show how happy and relieved they were that their daughter's persecutor was now unable to harm her further. Emily was very sad—not exactly sad that she was free of her husband—but sad that he had been such a bad man that no one regretted him. Tavington saw John speak to her quietly alone, before he bent to pick up Fanny and kiss her soundly.
"Goodbye for now, my dear little girl."
She kissed him back, and said, "I'm very sorry you must go." She hugged her new doll, her soft little chin pressed down on the doll's ruffled cap for comfort. "Will you ever, ever come back?"
John kissed her again. "I shall, upon my honor."
"Now you must kiss Princess Sally Augusta."
Without hesitation, John kissed the doll most affectionately. He bowed to the ladies, and shook Mr. Clarke's hand in a particularly hearty and feeling way. Tavington made his own, quieter farewell. Then, too soon, the curricle was rolled out, and the two brothers climbed up and gave the residents of Pilchards their last waves.
"I should be driving," Tavington complained. "You'll overturn us, looking backwards like that."
Pilchards was finally out of view, and John settled down to driving properly, a look of perfect contentment on his face.
"Yes," he said, half to himself. "I shall write to her, and then speak openly to her father in February."
"On St. Valentine's Day," Tavington primly suggested.
"Don't laugh—or laugh if you will—I feel like laughing myself. This is the best thing that ever happened to me. The fellow thought he was going to come here and plague her, and got his just reward! Anyway, I'll speak to Mr. Clarke in February. We shall marry no later than May. I have plans to make!"
"Will you live in London at first, or take her to Wargrave right away?" asked Tavington, beginning to realize how all of this might affect Jane and her bustling housekeeping.
Of course he hoped that John could marry his Emily as planned, though he himself could see all sorts of things that might hinder the business. Their mother might die, and plunge them into mourning themselves—though Tavington could not imagine John waiting longer than a minimal three months, even if that happened. The wedding would be very private, anyway. However, his own concern was Jane, and how she might feel about being displaced by a Lady Tavington.
"Well, Parliament will certainly still be sitting, I suppose, so London first. Emily might not feel comfortable about taking in any of the Season, but there are other things she could enjoy. I should find a house! Some pretty place in Mayfair. I would not mind it if some place were available in Mortimer Square—or perhaps Berkeley Square—I've always liked the look of the place, and Emily and Fanny will enjoy the ices at Gunter's."
"You don't intend to bring her to Number Twelve, then?"
"God, no!" He paused, embarrassed, realizing the criticism implicit in his response. "Sorry, Will, but your own experiment proves that Number Twelve is no place for a wife. Certainly not one so timid as Emily! No. With our mother in such a condition as she is now, it is best not to attempt introductions to new people—especially new daughters-in-law. We shall visit the girls, of course, or we shall have Caro and Pen come to us. Besides, the house will be yours soon enough, and I need my own establishment. You shall see a new John Tavington, old fellow. No more Lord Squanderfield, but a responsible man of family!"
"I look forward to it. But afterwards, you do intend to live at Wargrave, don't you? After so much work to restore it—"
"After so much work—and a great deal done by your good Jane! I hate to make her feel tossed aside. It's a big place, after all, with plenty of room for you—for everybody! We'll have to see how Emily feels about housekeeping such a big place—it's not like she has any experience at it."
"It's your house, John. Your wife ought to be mistress of it. Jane will understand that. And as you say, there is plenty of room for us. We shall come and sponge off you at least three months of every year—"
"Oh, longer, longer if you like! Your old friend will be there, after all. What times we shall have! Hunting, shooting--a ball to introduce Emily to the neighborhood! From now on, I shall make a point of going there at least once a month to make certain Porter is keeping up to the mark, and that the people know me. It's all going quite well, once I have a bit more money. The fellow in Chester should be sending me a letter of credit any day now, and then we'll see. I shall look into taking a house in the spring, and I must start setting aside some money for Fanny."
"Absolutely." Tavington took another look at the man beside him, hardly knowing his brother in this new man so full of hope and plans.
John frowned thoughtfully. "As it stands now, Will, you're still the heir—you and your boy. Emily and I may or may not have more children. She's past thirty now, and it may just not be in the cards. I refuse to worry about it. If a child comes, it comes—and for that matter, it might be another girl!"
"All the more reason to have some money to settle on the young ladies," Tavington teased.
"Yes," John said, a fond smile lighting his features. "The thing is to be happy with what you have, and not worry about the rest. With Emily as my wife… Lady Tavington! How well that sounds!—and with Fanny as my daughter—for I'm the only father she will ever have known—there is nothing more a reasonable man could desire. I shall start looking about. It will be such an amusement, fitting up a proper nest for my family."
He was not looking at the road. A curve and a tree were before them.
Tavington shouted, "John, for God's sake, look where you're going, or let me drive!"
John only laughed, but he did give his attention to the business at hand, as befitting a Member of Parliament and a responsible family man.
Next—Chapter 45: "It's Over! It's All Over!" News of the surrender at Yorktown reaches London.