"Everything is quite all right," Tavington declared to the ladies and servants crowding together. "Some ruffians attempted to rob us, but we dealt with them. You have nothing to fear." The light and warmth of the Great Hall were welcome after their chilly adventures.
"Take care, my love," John told Emily as she clung to him, "I'm filthy. Let's go to the library. Mr. Strakes is wounded. Surprised the villains and saved our lives, by God! We'll need something for bandages. Come Bordon, perhaps you can help me see to Strakes, here."
Between them, they helped the schoolmaster to a comfortable chair in the library. Nemesis the cat sprang from a footstool and plunged under the sofa, peering out suspiciously at the crowd. The servants remained, peering in the door, until Jane set them away with a gesture. John filled a glass with his best brandy. "Here, my good friend. This will put heart in you." He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. "Glad of the fire myself," he muttered to Bordon.
"Oh, Mr. Strakes!" cried Penelope, very horrified, seeing the wet blood at the torn shoulder of his coat. "You are hurt! Come, Caro, we must have something put by in the linen that will do…" The two sisters hurried upstairs to find the linen press on the next floor.
"Jane!" Letty rushed to her and held her tight. "Are you all right?"
"Yes—perfectly. We had an adventure, but it is over, and we are safe. Here, dearest, come and sit down. All this excitement is not good for you. Harmonia, could you ring for tea? Mr. Bordon, do please sit and rest."
"Thank you, Mrs. Tavington, but is very pleasant to stand before your good fire here for the moment."
Tavington gave Letty his other arm and made both her and Jane sit quietly on the sofa. Jane objected, and felt she should be doing more. She wanted to be doing something—anything to keep her from thinking about shooting that man…
"I could help dress Mr. Strakes' wound—"
"And so you shall," Tavington assured her, "when the dressings are brought. You are cold. Surely you can sit long enough to warm yourself. Young!" he called. The butler reappeared after a moment, and Tavington told him, "Have Peter brought before me at once. I've a few words to say to him."
"Sir!"
Young vanished.
"What has Peter done, William?" Jane wondered.
"Betrayed us all. He was in the pay of those spying on us. Master Peter will be sorry he took their money when I'm finished with him!"
"All this for that box." Letty said mournfully. "I wish I'd never known anything about it."
"The box!" Tavington cried, horrified. "The papers! I forgot all about them! Now I shall have to go back to that wretched crypt and look for them."
He started to the door, but Bordon caught him by the arm and pulled him back, patting his coat pocket. "No need, Tavington. I was not idle when I was down in the crypt. The papers are quite safe."
"Thank God!"
Tavington sank on the sofa between Jane and Letty, and put his head in his hands. Caroline and Penelope were back, arms full of folded linen, faces full of concern.
"Here now, Strakes," Bordon said. "Let us see to your wound. Do you object to the presence of Mrs. Tavington? She has some experience in these matters."
Strakes was faintly embarrassed, but agreed. "I would most grateful, Madam."
Bordon said kindly, but firmly, "It would be best if you other ladies would withdraw…"
There was a little unhappiness at that. Jane gathered that Penelope would have liked to have helped, but she also knew that Penelope was disturbed even by talk of blood and wounds. It would not be helpful if she were to scream or faint. "When we are done dressing the wound, Mr. Strakes should have something to eat and he should certainly stay the night, at the very least. Could you see to it, Penelope?"
Glad of something to do for Mr. Strakes, Penelope looked relieved, and began issuing quick orders. Jane smiled herself, and the rest of the ladies returned to the drawing room to continue their wondering and conversation.
They helped Strakes out of his coat. Jane thought it would do him no good to raise his arms to remove the shirt, so she tore the left sleeve open instead. The wound was long but shallow, a ragged slash along the lean muscle at the top of the arm. Jane looked at it, thinking of everything Biddy had taught her, and cleaned the area carefully with some of John's brandy. Strakes remained stoic throughout, even when she poked about the edges, making certain that no foreign matter was lodged there.
While Jane worked, the cat crept out, and eyed Strakes for a moment before leaping gracefully onto his thigh. She purred as the schoolmaster stroked her with his free hand, and the purring seemed to sooth the man himself. The linen was torn in strips and bound around and around, and then a sling was improvised, to keep his arm immobile. His coat was put around his shoulders to keep him warmer.
While Jane worked, the men discussed the events of the night, and Sir John wondered especially about Torrenham's bitter words. "Thinks we'll feel like fools, does he? I wonder what he thought was in the box."
"There's no time like the present to find out," Tavington said lightly, sipping his own glass of brandy. "John, do you mind if Bordon and Strakes are here while we look at the contents?"
"Not at all. They've earned the right, I daresay!"
Bordon reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of yellowed papers. They were an untidy bundle, some lengthy documents, others mere scraps. He handed them to Tavington, who thumped them down on a nearby table, and sat down to examine them. He gave Jane a raised eyebrow, and she shook her head.
"Oh, no! I am not leaving! I want to know every word!"
"Very well." Tavington smoothed out the paper at the top of the bundle and was preparing to it, when there was a soft knock at the door.
"Come!" Tavington called, annoyed at the delay.
It was Young, looking grave. "I beg pardon, sir, but Peter is not in the house. I believe he has run away. His belongings are gone and I found an open window in the pantry."
"Sneaking little devil!" John exclaimed. "Look here, Young. You let it be known that if Peter shows his face he's to be locked up as an accomplice of those ruffians!"
"Peter!" Young replied, shocked. Then recovering his composure, he bowed, saying "Indeed I will, sir," and left the room, closing the door soundlessly.
"Good riddance!" John cried, thumping the arm of his chair.
"I disagree." Tavington felt cheated. "I would have given a great deal to give his treacherous hide a thrashing before the other servants."
"His treachery will carry its own punishments," Strakes remarked. "Who would employ such a wretched sneak?"
"True," Bordon agreed. "I daresay he will try to seek employment with Lord Torrenham, but it is one thing to employ a spy in other peoples' houses, and quite another to endure a potential traitor under one's own roof!"
"Enough of him," Tavington growled, and returned his attention to first document in the packet.
He blinked.
"What is it, Will, for God's sake?"
"It attests that His Majesty and Queen Charlotte were married July 15, 1765, the officiator being one Doctor Wilmot."
"The King's marriage certificate?" Jane asked. "Why would your mother have that?"
"That can't be right," Tavington muttered, frowning. "The Prince of Wales is twenty years old!"
A brief silence. Strakes thought aloud. "Yes. The Prince of Wales was born in 1762, if I recall aright. He will be of age in August of this year. It says the King and Queen were married in 1765? That cannot be true. They were married when the Queen arrived from Germany in 1761."
"What else is there, William?" Jane was bursting with curiosity.
Tavington unfolded the next document. "It is a will." It was indeed a will, a brief, puzzling document.
Hampstead, 7 July 1765
Provided I depart this life, I commend my two sons and my daughter to the kind protection of their Royal Father, my Husband, His Majesty King George III, bequeathing whatever property I die possessed of to such dear offspring of my ill fate marriage. In case of the death of each of my children. I give and bequeath to Olive Wilmot, daughter of my best friend, Doctor Wilmot, whatever property I am entitled to or possessed of at the time of my death.[Signed Hannah Regina
Witness: J. DunningWilliam Pitt
"Pitt signed this?" John peered over his brother's shoulder. "It must be his father, the old Earl of Chatham. I wonder if my friend Pitt knows about his father being mixed up in this strange business."
"Hannah Regina?" Bordon asked. "The woman—whoever she was—is claiming to be Queen of England!"
Tavington murmured. "Lucy reminded me—There was gossip, when the King was young, about a woman—how did she describe it? 'Not in society.'
"Lightfoot!" John shouted. "Hannah Lightfoot! I hadn't thought about it in years! Word was that the young King had a Quaker girl as mistress."
"Perhaps she was more," Strakes pointed out quietly. "Such marriages do happen."
"And perhaps the poor woman died shortly after making her will," Jane whispered. "The will is dated July seventh. The King and Queen are shown as having—married—on the fifteenth of that very month. A legal marriage, the second time. But what about her poor children?"
Tavington shook his head, and looked at the next paper. It was a stained scrap.
This is to certify to all it may concern that I lawfully married George Prince of Wales to Hannah Lightfoot, April 17, 1759, and that two sons and a daughter are the issue of such marriage.
J. Wilmot
Chatham
J. Dunning
"Pitt's father again!" John exclaimed, after a moment. "I very much want to show him those documents. He would know if his father's signature is genuine!"
"If it is," Tavington observed, spreading the papers out before him. "Then the Prince of Wales is a bastard with no claim to the throne of England."
Bordon did some quick mental arithmetic. "The Duke of York, too. Presuming the first wife died—which would be the logical explanation of the King and Queen's second marriage—their first legitimate child would be the third son—Prince William the Duke of Clarence—and he just barely."
"This could cause a major constitutional crisis," John breathed. "The King a bigamist! The Prince of Wales disinherited! We could have a war over the succession. Good God. This is tremendous!"
"Yes." Strakes said calmly. "The sons of the King's marriage to Queen Hannah would take precedence over Prince William, as well."
"And all the Queen's relations would be grossly insulted," Bordon added. "So much for our continental alliances. And at such an awkward time, too."
Tavington leafed through the rest of the papers. The births of Hannah's Lightfoot's children were recorded: Her first son, George, born June 11, 1759—"Probably why he had the impulse to marry," Tavington remarked. Then there was the daughter, Mary, born July 20, 1760. Finally, the second son and third child, Frederick, was born on September 30, 1761. "Shortly after the Queen arrived from Germany."
"But where are the children?" Jane asked again. "What has become of them?"
Bordon put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It is inconceivable to me that their father would not have cared for them. Most likely, he has put them in the care of respectable persons who are well able to support them as their own."
"But it isn't fair!" Jane protested. "The eldest boy—this other George-- should be Prince of Wales in the place of that vain, smirking jackanapes!"
"Jane!" Tavington laughed sardonically. "Who is to say the other boy would not have grown up as wayward? For all his faults, the current Prince is only one we're likely to have, so we must make the best of him."
"But he has no right to inherit the throne! It's all a fraud!"
John grimaced. "It's the King's fraud, then. We've always been for the King—" he added, sounding uncertain.
"And the next King will have no hereditary right to reign," Strakes considered. "Will you still be a King's man then, Sir John?"
John sat down heavily. The leather chair beneath him sighed. "This is all very confusing. I'm going to have another brandy. Anyone else? Good Lord, I'm sorry, Mrs. Tavington. Let me pour you a sherry."
"No—I--"
"Here."
The sherry was sweet and warming, and Jane was grateful for it. She leaned over her husband again, as he went through the rest of the documents. There were bills for baby linen and for Hannah's household expenses. There was a reference to another royal marriage, contracted between the King's young uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, and one Olive Wilmot, the daughter of the clergyman who had married the King and Hannah Lightfoot.
The actual marriage record of the King and Hannah followed.
April 17, 1759
This is to certify that the marriage of these parties [George, Prince of Wales to Hannah Lightfoot was duly solemnised this day, according to the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England, at their residence at Peckham, by myself.
J. Wilmot
The signatures of the parties followed, one large and scrawling, another small and demure
George, Prince of Wales
Hannah Lightfoot
And the signature of the witnesses, of course.
Witness to the marriage of these partiesWilliam Pitt
Anne Wexham
"Wexham!" Tavington exclaimed. "Lady Anne Wexham was a good friend of Mamma's, and a fellow Lady of the Bedchamber to the King's mother. She must have gossiped to Mamma, who stole these papers for—"
John snorted. "—for no good reason! Blackmail and extortion! I can't blame Father for thwarting her!"
"I suppose not," Tavington admitted. "She must have been furious."
"The documents disappeared," Bordon said, continuing the thread of the story, "and the parties involved must have thought their secret safe. And then Lady Cecily becomes ill and begins talking about them, rousing old scandals, and the possibility of political catastrophe, and a number of individuals sit up and take notice. Lord Torrenham's friends—be they radical Whig or French agents—would find the documents just the sort of thing to create chaos and damage the reputation of the Crown—now very vulnerable with the disaster in America—"
"And the King's party—equally eager to suppress any breath of such scandal," Strakes nodded. "Did you know you had such explosive information in your possession?"
"Not at all."
Strakes had finished his brandy, and Jane thought that something to eat would do them all good. Tavington put the documents in his pocket, not wanting them out of his sight.
"We should hand these over as soon as possible, I suppose."
John narrowed his eyes. "I want to show them to Pitt. The signatures, at least. I want to know if he recognizes his father's signature. To satisfy my own mind, I must know if they are genuine."
Bordon considered this. "Will it make any real difference?"
"Yes," John answered immediately, slightly tiddly from his third brandy. "One expects a gentleman to do right by the woman he marries—even if he marries foolishly. Can't just go and put one's wife aside because you've got your eye on a richer woman—even if she is a princess. 'Tisn't right. The children too. An honest man looks after his own flesh and blood."
Strakes followed the reasoning to the logical conclusion. "So you are saying the King is not an honest man—or a gentleman?"
John fidgeted, on the brink of an abyss. "Well—he's not the man I took him for. Not at all the man I took him for."
"He is still the King," Tavington said.
"I suppose so," John muttered. He did not seemed cheered by the notion.
"Enough politics!" Jane declared, impatient to get the men away from the brandy. "Let us join the rest of the party. Penelope has ordered us a cold supper. We shall all be the better for it!" She stood and this forced everyone else to rise. She took Tavington's arm decisively, staring at John until he started moving to the door. Bordon smiled and gave Strakes a hand.
"Oh, good!" cried Penelope, on the watch for them. "Let us go in to supper! Oh, Mr. Bordon, will you take Lady Fanshawe in to the dining room? Thank you. Mr. Strakes, are you quite well? Here, I shall walk with you and see you come to no harm!"
After the quiet meal, there were some quiet conversations. Strakes excused himself and went directly to the room prepared for him. Harmonia, to her disgust, was sent up to bed as well. Knowing they could trust their sisters and Emily implicitly, those ladies were given a brief summary concerning the contents of the ivory box. The four of them took the news very gravely, and agreed never to speak of it.
"It is very shocking, to be sure," Emily said. "I cannot see, however, that it would be a responsible thing to make such a scandal public."
"No, indeed," Caro agreed.
"I agree with Jane that the poor children have suffered most," Penelope declared. "It is a disgrace when anyone is deprived of a just inheritance."
"If this were to become known," Tavington warned her, "there is no guarantee that they would benefit. In fact, their lives might be in danger!"
Letty said nothing, but thought about the pomp and show of her presentation at Court. It, like so much on the surface of society, had been a sham and a trick. There had seemed to her nothing extraordinary about the plain German woman to whom she had made her obeisance. The Queen's children might be the children of any rich man in England: the heir spoiled and running to fat, the girls rather pretty in a bland way. Their royal blood conferred no special virtues upon them.
People went on about how handsome the Prince of Wales was, but Letty, seeing him with clear eyes, saw that he was called good-looking because he was a Prince and not positively deformed. Whatever the King's children became as they grew into manhood and womanhood, it would be a product of their parents' wealth and their own characters. And now! The Prince of Wales was a bastard, like Letty herself. She wondered if he knew. Very likely. Probably he did not care—for who would challenge him? For a moment, she wished that the whole business could be published—and bastardy and bigamy made known to all. What would the Prince of Wales be fit for, if he were not a Prince?
It was so arbitrary, so artificial--people calling themselves Kings and Queens and Princes, and pretending that they were in their position because they were the most fit for it. It was as arbitrary as some people calling themselves masters, and others slaves. To pretend that it was otherwise made nonsense of Letty's own life: first a slave, now a noblewoman. It was Luck, or Chance, or Fate, or what her mythology book called the Wheel of Fortune. At least I know that the Prince of Wales is a charlatan, just like those quack doctors.
Jane looked tired and strained, and Tavington took her upstairs very soon. She's had a rough night, poor girl. There she was, running after footpads and getting mauled by hired thugs and shooting them, and then going home and cleaning wounds and seeing everyone had enough at supper. She was a wonderful wife, altogether, and there was no one like her in the world.
"Do you need to see to the children?" he asked.
"Yes. They need some milk to keep them quiet through the night. I shall not be long."
"I'll go with you. I haven't seen the children since we arrived."
The nursery was dimly lit, a haven of peace and safety. The door leading to Fanny's room was closed. Ash was sound asleep, sprawled on his little bed. Tom was awake and in Rose's lap, fussing a little. William Francis was on the floor by Moll's chair. Seeing his mother appear, he immediately grinned and crawled over to her at amazing speed. Jane picked him up and gave his silky brown hair a kiss. The baby looked with interest at the low neckline of her gown, which made Tavington chuckle.
"Little glutton!"
"What a thing to say about your own son!" Jane whispered in mock rebuke. "And you, Moll dear—you ought to go home and get some rest! This has been a terrible evening for you, too!"
"I'm fine, ma'am. Don't you worry none about me. I told my Tom I thought I'd sleep here tonight, seeing as we have a full nursery. 'Sides, I don't feel like facing the stairs again, even to go down!"
"Oh, of course."
"Are you feeling all right?" Tavington asked with concern.
"I'm fine, Colonel, but the sooner these little mites are sleeping, the sooner Rose and I can put our heads down, too!"
Jane was soon settled with the babies. Tavington gave each of his sons a light touch. They were fine, healthy boys, bright-eyed and alert, already taking note of their world.
"You go on down to bed, William," Jane said softly to him. "I'll join you soon."
"You'd better, Madam!"
Doggery could not help quizzing him a little as he put away Tavington's clothes and gave him a clean shirt for the night. Tavington gave him the servants' version of the story: a trio of rascals trying to rob the church. He was more interested in a thorough wash. The water in the basin turned grey with the filth of the crypt. When he held Jane close, he did not want her to smell it on him.
He was dozing when she came in, candlestick in her hand. She vanished into her dressing room. Dreamily, Tavington heard her whispered conference with Pullen. He dozed again, and stirred when a cold little body climbed into bed and lay back against her pillows with an "Ooof!"
He rolled to his side and gathered her up to him. "Are you very tired?"
"Very. I am so happy to be in bed at last."
He stroked her gently, hand under the smooth linen shift. "So tired you must sleep immediately?"
She was silent, and then said, "Oh, William—I shot a man. I don't feel very—"
"You are my brave Jane!" he murmured fiercely. "What do you think would have happened had you not shot him?"
"I imagine I might have been hurt or even killed," she admitted in a whisper.
"Exactly! You did right, and don't let yourself think otherwise. No one asked the fellow to come here and try to murder us, and you had a right—nay, a duty to defend yourself. What would the children do without you?
She sighed. "There is that, of course."
He murmured lower, as his hand became insistent, "What would I do without you?"
"Oh you!" she almost laughed, turning to him, and kissing his throat. "You'd find The Second Mrs. Tavington, soon enough! I can just picture her: tall, voluptuous, and fair, looking down her nose at my poor boys…"
"Never!" Tavington hushed her. "Never," he repeated, settling on top of her, heart to heart, and holding her fast. "You are the only Mrs. Tavington for me, my dearest Jane."
-----
There was much to be done the following morning. Tavington rose early and pounded on his brother's door until John staggered out, half-dressed and bleary-eyed. To their surprise, Strakes came downstairs to join them, and they gathered a party of menservants and went to meet Bordon at the vicarage.
The advantage of being the local squire was that John had little trouble dealing with the legal issues of the dead—robbers, they called them--in the church. The bodies were laid out in the church and quick burials arranged for them in a corner of the churchyard. A carpenter was charged with knocking together a pair of plain coffins. Bordon would read the service over the dead men, and all in all, they would be more decently interred than very likely the men themselves would ever have expected to be. The sexton and his two sons were set to grave-digging, while the gentleman descended once more into the crypt to see to the Tavingtons' father.
A bullet had gone completely through Sir Jack's coffin, splintering the wood a little as it exited.
"Wait," Tavington said. The ivory box, its lid wide open, was lying on its side, just visible behind Sir Richard's tomb. Tavington picked it up and brought it over to the coffin. "As it has been my father's keeping so long, I think it best we return it to him."
"I can't imagine that anyone else would want it," John muttered.
Tavington snapped the empty box shut and set it down by his father's feet. Together, the men hastily replaced the top of the coffin and hammered the lead sheathing back into place as well as they could. Sir Jack's coffin was lifted and eased back into its niche, and the chipped marble marker was wedged into position.
"I'll need to replace it," John decided, panting with exertion. "I'll have Somerville deal with it. He can write to a stone mason in Chelmsford or Colchester."
"The sexton will need to clean in here." Bordon examined the dark blood stains on Sir Richard's tomb and the floor of the crypt with distaste.
Tavington snorted. "It probably hasn't been done in a century. Perhaps it's high time."
Strakes was studying the various monuments and inscriptions, lifting his lantern to read the most worn. "These are very interesting," he remarked. "If one were composing a history of the family, this would be worth using as material."
"You're welcome to it, my dear fellow," John told him. "As for me, I can't get out of here quickly enough."
They emerged at last from the crypt, glad of the fresh sunshine glowing through the church windows, scattering rays of crimson and sapphire on the stone floor. The door was opened on a spring-like day, and Tavington breathed deeply of the mild air.
"A fair day for a ride to London," he declared with satisfaction. "Let's have a good breakfast, and be off."
"A very good breakfast," John agreed. "Bordon, will you join us?"
"Thank you, but no. I have much to do. Harriet and I will of course be dining with the ladies tonight."
"Strakes, then—what about you? Come on back with us to the Hall!" John urged.
"I do not wish to intrude—"
"Nonsense! The women aren't done pampering you! They'd have our ears if we didn't bring you back!"
Tavington was very much of his brother's opinion. "Do come, Strakes. Otherwise, we're hopelessly outnumbered!"
At breakfast, more of the night's adventures were canvassed, but the contents of the papers were not discussed. It was an ugly matter, and there were more pleasant subjects to think about. Jane asked Strakes to join them for dinner that night. "I shall ask Mr. Somerville, too," she told him. "And you and he shall be good company for Mr. Bordon."
"I accept your kind invitation with great pleasure," Strakes said gruffly, "but I do need to go on home for now. My cats must be fed."
"Oh!" cried Penelope. "Your poor cats! A servant could be sent—"
"Thank you, ma'am, but I prefer to see to them myself."
Caroline spoke up. "Perhaps Pen and I could walk the way with you, Mr. Strakes. We are so concerned about you, and we really need some exercise anyway. Would you object to our company?"
The schoolmaster looked a little harassed, but also faintly pleased at their concern. "Not at all."
Jane smiled to herself. "Let me take at look at your shoulder first and dress it afresh."
Tavington could see that Penelope was quite infatuated with Strakes. Much as they owed the man, a marriage could be an awkward thing. If only the man were not utterly penniless!
"I wonder sometimes, Strakes—learned and accomplished as you are, that you are not a clergyman. Surely then someone could have found a living for you—"
Strakes shook his head. "I could not be a clergyman. Forgive me if I sound recalcitrant, but with my own views on the Established Church and even on the nature of the Trinity, I could not in good conscience take orders."
"Oh," John blinked. "Are you—an ath—I mean, excuse me, excuse me—none of my business, of course—"
Strakes smiled rather sardonically. "No, I am not an atheist, but my views are heterodox enough that I would need to preach what I do not believe, and that would be very wrong."
"Of course!" Penelope said loyally. "Your principles do you honour, though I maintain my right to disagree with your views!"
"I always welcome a good debate," Strakes declared. "I am quite ready to defend myself against all comers."
"But—years ago—" Tavington said, pursuing his first thought, "You could have joined the Navy—"
"I am prone to sea-sickness."
"—or the Army—"
"I have no desire to kill anyone."
"And yet you did not hesitate to fight beside us."
"I have no desire to kill anyone, but I equally have no desire to see anyone else killed. And I certainly have no intention of letting anyone kill me." Strakes took a deep, appreciative swallow of their excellent tea. "And before you bring up the law, let me say that I had not the money to pursue it."
"You could publish a scholarly work."
"Oh, yes!" Caroline agreed. "What a good idea!"
"I have indeed embarked upon one. For some years, I have been gathering material on the history of England during the occupation of the Romans. I work on it when my time permits, but I am so very engaged in my teaching—"
"Well, you're a very fine teacher, Strakes, but you ought to have more time to yourself!" John said.
There was general laughter, and Tavington kept his thought to himself. It would be a touchy business if Strakes offered for Penelope. Penelope's fortune was certainly enough to support them in comfort—she had the twelve thousand pounds that each of Sir Jack's daughters had had put in trust for them—but he was, after all, merely a country schoolmaster! Guiltily, he could see that others would look upon such a marriage as they had looked upon his own marriage to Jane. At least Tavington had had an honorable profession—and the rank and pay of Colonel. Strakes had the noble blood of a duke in his veins, but many would see it hopelessly diluted by his mother's marriage to a servant.
Strakes might not offer at all, being a proud man: too proud to be taken by a woman at fortune's alms. That might prevent an inconvenient marriage, but Penelope would be unhappy. She would be forty this year, and if she really wished to marry, this might be her last and best chance. Tavington gave the matter some thought: considering what they owed the man for risking his life last night, and what might please his sister.
But he had also to think of his wife. "Will you be all right today, Jane?" Tavington asked her. "John and I must go to London right away."
"Of course I shall," she answered with spirit. "We shall all be so occupied we shall not miss you a whit! I shall take Mrs. Martingale on a long walk about the gardens—and my sister and Harmonia too, if they are so inclined. We shall have many callers today, and we have great stories to tell. Harriet will no doubt bring Susan and Robin this afternoon, and it is pleasant enough that that the children can play outside. Will you be back tomorrow?"
"Yes—I think—yes." He replied. "I am sure of it."
"Then I shall invite all our neighbors to dinner for tomorrow night, and Mrs. Martingale can be introduced to them all."
"Indeed, I look forward to it," Emily smiled in assent. "I have heard nothing but good of them."
Very soon, Tavington gave Jane a farewell kiss, and the two brothers were mounted and riding away. Tavington had decided that they would go cross-country for much of the way, avoiding the roads for some miles—"just in case." With the sun and air and hints of green, all memories of the darkness and chill of the crypt were dissipated, and there was the long ride and the horse beneath him and for awhile, Tavington could ask nothing more of life.
-----
Harriet came early, which pleased Jane. Ash and Robin squealed at the sight of each other, and hugged tightly, jumping up and down like a pair of little monkeys. All the women smiled at the sight of such innocent friendship. The introductions of Fanny and Susan were more sedate and ladylike, but both little girls seemed very pleased with the other, and there were many fair word and curtsies, and mutual admiration of Princess Sally Augusta and of Mistress Mary Marmeduke, Susan's pretty doll. The sun continued to warm the very stones of Wargrave, and even the babies were brought out into the garden for their share of light and good air.
Sam was prevailed upon to bring down the little table and chairs from the nursery, and an outdoor tea party was arranged. The ladies walked or sat, the nurses hovered affectionately, and the children held high revel in the long-deserted gardens of Wargrave Hall.
"Sir John has ordered built a light phaeton for local travel," Jane remarked to Emily. "Has he told you of it?"
"Oh, yes! I confess I look forward to driving through the estate and the environs with very great pleasure—that is—once the—"
Jane laughed. "I know! That turn at the London Road simply must be repaired. Sir John has said he will see to it once the roads are drier."
They were indeed inundated with callers. The first arrivals were the kind and warm-hearted old Doctor Spottiswoode and his wife. Jane discovered that they had become very friendly with the Bordons. As who could not be? she thought, wishing she could live within everyday reach of Harriet herself. Her friend has been very busy in the time of her absence, visiting the cottages, looking after the old and sick, caring for her own children, corresponding with little Deborah Porter, and making her own home ever more comfortable and beloved.
All the callers—even Harriet—showed great deference to Lady Fanshawe, somewhat awed to have a representative of the nobility among them. Her position and her mourning were respected, her beauty and gentle charm admired. Letty found the neighbors pleasant, unassuming people, and their company was not as overwhelming as the arch, effortfully witty denizens of London. She could be quiet and rest, and did not need to be on her guard against predators.
The Hindleys came. Their daughter, Christabel, was with them, to Jane's surprise and soon to Harmonia's delight.
"I told Mamma that I could not bear it at school any longer. I am seventeen, and I have been away long enough!" Christabel told Miss James very decidedly.
"I quite agree, Miss Hindley," Harmonia replied, making more room for her on the garden bench. "Seventeen is too old to remain in a school. One can always improve oneself, naturally, but that can be done perfectly well at home, without all the noise of young, immature schoolchildren."
Miss Hindley was struck with the wisdom of this observation, and soon they were not Miss Hindley and Miss James, but Christabel and Harmonia, and were gossiping as if they had known each other all their lives.
"Mamma is so disappointed," Christabel confided to her new friend. "She wanted me to set my cap at Sir John—"
"Eeww!" whispered Harmonia. "He's old! He is very kind and nice and all that—but he must be over forty! How terrible for you!"
"And so he is to marry Mrs. Martingale. She is old too, so perhaps they are well matched—"
Mr. Blandings called briefly and was pleased that he and his wife were included in the general invitation to dinner the following day. Not long thereafter, Mr. and Mrs. Charteris arrived, along with their younger son, Lieutenant Christopher Charteris of the Royal Navy, home on leave. Jane thought him a pleasant young man of perhaps twenty. Letty was disposed to be pleased with him, too, since he reminded her of the kind young officers with whom they had traveled on their voyage to England.
Harmonia thought him handsome. Christabel whispered in her ear. "He is much improved since I saw him last. He was shorter than I, then, and such a complexion! He is very well now, however."
Everyone wanted to hear about the events of the night before. Sir John and the Colonel and dear Mr. Bordon attacked in a church by ruffians!
"And one of them survived, I am told," Mrs. Spottiswoode remarked to Mrs. Hindley.
"Yes, ma'am, that is true, "Jane put in. "One of the men fired upon the Hall and was caught by our faithful dog." She pointed to Rambler, happily gamboling with his young friends in the garden. "The man's arm was nearly bitten through, and he is sick with a high fever as we speak. In charity, we are keeping him at the Hall. It would be the man's death to sent him to gaol in Colchester—and he might well die anyway."
Jane spoke briefly, not wanting to dwell on the matter. Despite all William's efforts, she had slept fitfully, tormented by the picture of the jawless man. This morning, when her husband and his friends were dealing with matters at the church, she had had a look at the injured robber, Staggle. He had lost blood and become feverish in the night. The bites and wounds had been cleaned, but if they became angry—
She smiled at her visitors, and focused her attention on them. Moll, her belly already swelling with her pregnancy, was holding hands with the children as they danced in a ring, singing and shouting. Round and round they went, and the children tumbled to the ground, in a merry mockery of death.
-----
Tavington and John decided to go directly to see Pitt.
"The more I think about it, old fellow," John said, as they rode to London, "the more I want to get to the bottom of this matter. Those wretched papers have given me too much to think about. I don't want to give them to Claypoole until I know the right of it. Let's see Pitt today and then talk it over with Protheroe."
"I thought you wanted the papers disposed of as soon as possible."
John's jaw set stubbornly. "What? Like a good little 'lapdog,' just as Catesby described me? I'm no man's lapdog, Will. People have been playing with us—spying on us and making use of us. Not just Torrenham and his friends, either. We've been hard done by, one way or another. What about our mother?"
"We'll never know for certain if she was killed or not, probably."
"We bloody well know someone set a spy on us!" More quietly, he said, after another half-mile. "That wasn't right. If people had just spoken honestly to us, if they had just trusted us—"
"It is a state secret—"
"Well—who should they trust but a Member of Parliament and an officer of the King's Army?" He grunted contemptuously. "I'll lay odds it's not a well-kept secret, in fact. My guess is that there are scores of people who know the truth of it."
"But only we have the proof."
"They've treated us badly." John's face subsided into mulishness. "They've treated us badly, and they owe us an apology at the very least."
Tavington actually laughed. "We are unlikely to get one!"
John scowled. "Then they can make it up to us some other way."
"We can stay with the Protheroes tonight," Tavington suggested. "There is no reason to tempt fate."
"Though I admit I'll be glad when we are rid of the wretched papers," John muttered. He was still wrestling with the contents and with himself. The world had proved more complicated than he liked.
The road to London had never seemed longer. They were grateful that Pitt did not keep them waiting, but came out himself to usher them into his study, and see them seated before the fire.
"You have just come from the country? You must be very weary. How may I serve you?"
Pitt was John's friend, after all, so Tavington let his brother do the talking.
"Well, the thing is, Pitt—we've come across some documents that have us a bit puzzled. If I knew they were genuine or not, I'd feel easier in my mind as to what to do—"
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Well, that fact is, your father's signature appears on many of them, and we were wondering if you could have a look and see if you think they are forgeries."
"My father!"
"Yes," John shifted in his chair uneasily. "These are very important documents, if they really are genuine. They involve the highest in the land—"
"Perhaps I had better see them."
"It wouldn't do to talk about them later—"
"You have my word that I shall not divulge what you have shown me in confidence."
Without ceremony, Tavington laid out the papers before him, in much the same order as he had seen them himself. Pitt read through them in silence, after a first, quick intake of breath. He was a self-possessed young man, however, and when he was finished, he gave a long sigh, he turned to them.
"I have no doubt that my father's signatures are genuine. He must truly have witnessed these events."
"But he never told you anything of them?" Tavington asked.
"Never. I daresay he was not free to speak of it." He noticed John's dejection. "What is it, my dear fellow? You seem very downcast."
"I confess I am. Very disappointed in the King, you know. What are we to do, after all? The Prince of Wales is not really the heir, and the rightful heir is God-knows-where—"
Pitt shrugged. "The Prince of Wales is the Prince of Wales. What good would it do to expose him as a bastard?"
"But he won't be the real King!"
"Such things have happened in the past, Sir John. Usurpers and bastards have reigned over England before, and may well do so again, but England is still England."
Tavington tried to explain his brother. "We have always—our family, I mean—the Tavingtons have always supported the King. It is how we know ourselves. To know that the King is not the King—"
"The King is not the kingdom. Nay, he is hardly Britain, indeed, since the Hanoverian Succession and the departure of the Stuarts." Pitt saw their doleful faces. "I do not make light of your disillusionment, but I say that the King may reign over this kingdom, but he is not the kingdom itself. I love my country. I consider myself a patriot--"
Tavington snorted at that, hating the term, but Pitt only smiled.
"Yes, I am a patriot, and so are you, Sir John, and you, Colonel. We are each Patriots in our own way. We love and serve our country. No matter the stuff of the transitory kings who reign over us, they are but a symbol of the real nation we hold in our hearts. That does not die, as mortal kings do. Whoever wears the crown, we can still give our loyalty to our country, and serve it with all our strength."
John rubbed his eyes. Tavington, too, felt curiously moved. He, a Patriot? He had considered it the shopworn label of radicals and traitors, but the original meaning of the word was fitting enough. He had felt it honorable to serve King and Country: honorable to suffer hunger and thirst and agonizing wounds--honorable enough to die. Could he separate the "King" from "Country," and still serve loyally? He must find a way, it would seem.
They took their leave of Pitt, and then went on to see Lucy and Protheroe, and sat up very late discussing the whole business with them. In the end, they decided to send a note to Sir Edward Claypoole, telling him that the documents were available to them and that they wished to see him the following day. Another note was dispatched to Tregallon, telling him not to expect Tavington's manuscript before Monday next.
"A strange business," Protheroe mused. "Who knows how many secrets the old city has seen of the sort?"
"Well—I'm sorry in a way to know this one," John confessed. "It has changed my opinions on many matters, and that's a damned uncomfortable business at my time of life!"
"Then you must put it behind you," Lucy said gently. "And move on to other, better things. There is your wedding with Mrs. Martingale in only two months. How happy you shall be!"
"Yes!" John answered at once, a gleam in his eye. "Emily! When I think what she has suffered—yes—I shall see that her future is quite different!"
"And you, Tavington?" Protheroe asked. "Has this business changed you?"
"Yes—I suppose so," Tavington answered slowly. "I agree it is time to move on. There is my book, all but finished. When I bring Jane back from the country I daresay it will be ready for the printer."
"Two authors in the family! Mr. Tregallon came by, and showed me a copy of Caroline's novel. I am sure it will be a great success. And now you!"
"I think my little effort will go to print a great more easily than Caroline's great romance!" Tavington laughed, good humor restored.
Next: Tavington's Memoirs.
The documents and ideas on which this chapter is based come from the short biography Hannah Regina: Britain's Quaker Queen, by Michael Kreps, with the dates somewhat rearranged to suit the purposes of my story. While most biographers of George III generally think the marriage to Hannah Lightfoot either did not happen or was not valid, Kreps makes an interesting argument that it did in fact take place, mainly by examining the newly-available documents from the trial in the 19th century during which the documents were adjudged forgeries and locked away for over a hundred years. The trial does seem to have been a sham—very much an attempt at hushing up a royal scandal. Whether the documents (or the marriage) were genuine or not, they are very interesting. The Prince of Wales appears to have thought the marriage took place, because he often taunted his parents about his (supposed) illegitimacy.
Thank you to my readers. I am within three chapters of the end of this story. I would very much appreciate it if you would review, and tell me how you liked the story.