Her Grace's Passion Page 9

  The earl groaned. He could not pursue her. There was his wife’s funeral to attend to. He would need to travel to Yorkshire. The fog had lifted but the day was as black and icy as his heart.

  Somehow he got through the following month, dealing with his wife’s parents, who held him responsible for bringing about the death of their daughter. When he returned to London, he planned to stay one day and then travel to Hadshire to see Matilda. But there was a letter from Matilda waiting for him, a letter in which she begged him never to come near her again. There was nothing he could do.

  The following day he set out for Scotland, vowing never to travel south again. Although at first he could hardly bring himself to believe that his wife had committed suicide, there seemed to be no other explanation. The coroner’s verdict had been “Suicide while the state of the mind was disturbed,” and remembering her hysterical rages, he began to wonder whether she had ever been sane.

  Guilt lay heavy on him. He was approaching his thirtieth year and felt he had never enjoyed any youth at all, or any laughter, or any ease.

  Chapter Six

  Over a year had passed since the death of the Countess of Torridon and the scandal was largely forgotten. Emma and Annabelle still wrote to Matilda. Annabelle had given birth to a boy, Emma was expecting another, and then the letters grew less frequent as Matilda seemed determined to hide herself in the country and never emerge again.

  But gradually a change was coming over Matilda as the dark events of the past receded in her mind and spring came back to England, blowing down the country lanes, sending daffodils nodding on the lawns, and bringing out shy bunches of primrose at the foot of the hedgerows.

  She had gradually begun to make calls, first on some of the duke’s tenants when she learned they were ill, then on some of the local gentry. Instead of leaving church on Sunday immediately after the service was over, she began to stay to talk to other members of the congregation and the vicar and his wife. Gradually she became friends with the vicar, Mr. Plumtree, and his wife and family of five daughters. They were well born but did not have much money. Their house was messy and noisy and very feminine, the girls always leaving paintings or pieces of needlework or sheets of music lying around. Matilda had vowed to herself that she would never visit London again, but she had reckoned without Letitia, the vicar’s eldest daughter.

  Letitia Plumtree was a giantess of a girl. She stood six feet high in her stocking soles. In an age where the average height was five feet two inches, she was regarded as something of a freak. Everything about her was big. She had large feet and thick masses of auburn hair and enormous brown eyes that looked out at the world with childlike wonder. The vicar had a rich sister who had married well and was now Lady Morton. It was expected that each daughter when she came of age would be given a Season in London, but with the callous lack of thought of needy parents, the vicar had said in front of Letitia that “the poor girl” would not take, such was her size. The other girls would, in their turn, go to London, but Letitia’s future would be to stay at home to help with the business of the parish. Matilda saw Letitia wince and her heart was touched. Letitia was also very clumsy, blundering about the small rooms of the vicarage, knocking things over.

  Matilda made up her mind. She herself would give Letitia a Season in London. She was sure it would be almost impossible to find Letitia a husband; so large a girl combined with such a small dowry stood little chance of attracting anyone in a marriage market where money was the first priority. But at least Letitia should enjoy the plays and operas, the balls and parties like her sisters.

  Mr. Plumtree and his wife were amazed when Matilda made her offer. They were reluctant to let her go, for clumsy as she was, Letitia was able to get through a great deal of the parish work and often wrote her father’s sermons. Matilda persevered until she gained their permission.

  Letitia was quite overwhelmed. She went out into the woods beyond the vicarage garden so that she could be alone with her excitement. She adored the pretty little dowager duchess. She had no hopes of finding a beau, but to go to London! To see that magical city at last!

  As they eventually traveled to London, Matilda having been able to rent the same house in Bolton Street, the dowager duchess’s mind turned briefly to the Earl of Torridon. Annabelle had written to say that no one had seen him in Town and he was reputed to be safe in his estates in Scotland. Matilda felt, however, that should she ever see him again, she could look upon him with equanimity. It had been a sad little episode. Fear and loneliness and distress had made her think herself in love.

  The house in Bolton Street was as she remembered it. Matilda, however, became suddenly impatient of living surrounded with other people’s choice of furniture. Even at the dower house, she was still surrounded with the duke’s rejects. She decided that on her return to the country, she would replace everything with furniture, ornaments, and paintings of her own choice.

  The first week was taken up getting Letitia fitted with a new wardrobe. The first dressmaker remarked too openly on Letitia’s gigantic size and was dismissed. The next was more discreet and so was engaged. Matilda privately vowed to give Letitia some lessons in deportment. The girl was apt to hunch her shoulders and walk with a stoop in an effort to reduce her height. But for the present, Matilda contented herself with taking the dazzled Letitia to all the unfashionable parts of London: the Tower, the menagerie at Exeter ’Change, the changing of the guard in Whitehall, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. In caring for and worrying about Letitia, she did not know her own appearance had changed. All her prettiness had come back, and her hair, once more long, rippled like a cornfield in the sun.

  She sent cards to Annabelle and Emma, suggesting that for old time’s sake, it might be fun to meet at Mrs. Trumpington’s, that old lady having supplied a rendezvous for the three when their late husbands had forbidden them to meet.

  She asked Letitia if she would like to remain quietly at home, but Letitia could think of no greater pleasure than meeting her patroness’s best friends and said cheerfully that she would like to go.

  Matilda supervised the dressing of Letitia in one of her new gowns with great care. Although her protégée could not hope to marry, there was no need for her to look other than her best. The day was chilly and so she urged Letitia to wear a rather mannish carriage dress of blue velvet with gold frogs. On her head was a rakish shako with a plume. Urged by Matilda never, ever again to stoop, Letitia, who would have done anything for her, walked with her head high.

  Mrs. Trumpington seemed as old and smelly and good-hearted as ever. She kissed Matilda and then stood back to look at Letitia. “Splendid-looking gel,” she told Matilda. “The fellows will be falling over themselves to get at her.”

  “I am sure they will,” agreed Matilda, privately thinking that Mrs. Trumpington was very kind.

  Annabelle and Emma arrived and took an instant liking to Letitia, promising to do everything in their power to help with the girl’s debut, and so the dazzled Letitia found she had not only a dowager duchess but two countesses to sponsor her.

  The three old friends then fell to talking, although all Annabelle and Emma really wanted to talk about were their children: how precocious and clever, how darling, how unique!

  The childless Matilda’s attention began to wander. She became aware that Mrs. Trumpington had a new lady’s maid, a slim, sallow-faced, black-eyed female. Mrs. Trumpington seemed to be very fond of her. When the maid left the room to fetch Mrs. Trumpington’s shawl, the old lady said, “That is my Clarisse. A real treasure. I do not know what I ever did without her. She reads to me and amuses me with all the gossip.”

  “How long has she been with you?” asked Matilda.

  “Six months. She came with an excellent reference from the Earl of Torridon.” Mrs. Trumpington then looked extremely uncomfortable. “I had forgot, Duchess, about that sad affair. So noble of you to give the earl an alibi.”

  “Does Clarisse think it was suicide?” asked Matilda. />
  “Oh, she said there was no doubt about it. She said the poor countess only pretended to be pregnant because she was so afraid of that husband of hers and he had threatened to cast her off.”

  Annabelle frowned. “I knew Torridon’s wife, and believe me, she was as tough as old boots and as vain as a peacock. She had a savage temper. Perhaps she thought she had taken enough arsenic just to give him a fright and took too much by mistake. Now that would be in character.”

  Clarisse had entered the room while Annabelle was talking. Letitia noticed the wary look in the maid’s eye and a certain stillness about her body. Letitia did not quite know why, but she took an instant dislike to the maid.

  “Ah, my dear, Clarisse,” said Mrs. Trumpington, “we were just talking about your late mistress. Lady Darkwood claims she was a termagant.”

  “It is not my place to contradict, Lady Darkwood,” said the maid.

  “Loyal servant!” said Mrs. Trumpington. “Do not look so downcast, my girl. I shall give you a little present.”

  How many “little presents” had the maid had? wondered Letitia. Her gown was of silk and in quite the latest mode, and she wore a fine diamond pin in the old lace at her throat. But the duchess and her friends seemed to find nothing amiss. They have been surrounded by servants for so long, they barely notice them, thought Letitia, whereas I, with the work of the parish, am used to being on intimate terms with all ranks.

  The visit was over and Letitia and Matilda left. Peter, the page, was standing on the backstrap of the carriage. He leapt down nimbly and let down the steps. And yet, mused Letitia, one could not say that the duchess ignored all servants. There were times when she treated her page more like a son than a servant.

  “I am honored to have met your friends,” said Letitia. “But I cannot like that maid.”

  “Clarisse? Well, it is nothing to do with us,” said Matilda.

  “What was all that about you having supplied the Earl of Torridon with an alibi?”

  “Oh, look at that quiz over there,” said Matilda. Letitia looked, but registered in her mind that the Earl of Torridon was a forbidden subject.

  They were driving in an open carriage and had almost reached Bolton Street when Matilda saw Sir Charles Follett mincing along. He was pomaded and rouged and sporting a coat with padded shoulders and a padded chest. He carried his cane with an air. He saw Matilda and stopped on the wooden pavement of Piccadilly outside the blank wall that guarded Devonshire House and bowed. Then he straightened up and saw Letitia. His mouth fell open and he goggled.

  Matilda colored up with angry embarrassment for Letitia’s sake.

  “Who was that exquisitely dressed little man?” Letitia asked.

  “A rude fop. Pay him no heed.”

  Letitia sighed. The ways of London were very strange. She had thought Sir Charles looked very fine.

  Ten minutes after they had entered the house, the butler appeared with a card. Matilda read it and frowned in annoyance. “Tell Sir Charles we are not at home.”

  “Why?” asked Letitia when the butler had left.

  “Because he has come to gawk and gossip. The morning papers are there, Letitia. I know you like to read them. I shall leave you to them.”

  Letitia loved reading newspapers. She usually kept them until late afternoon when she could have peace to browse through them without being called away to have a gown fitted and to have piano lessons, dancing lessons, or painting lessons or any of the other lessons customarily inflicted on a young lady of society who was expected to be able to show off some skill or other and to have a portfolio of watercolors to show gentleman guests.

  After she had finished reading the news, she read all the social gossip. She had a good memory and liked to familiarize herself with the names of people in the ton and the gossip about them so that she would have something to talk about when she made her debut.

  Then her eye fell on a malicious little item. The column so far had been an amusing one, the writer speculating on all the prizes on the marriage market and who would be most likely to snap whom up. Then the column went on, “The Earl of T. is back in London but hopeful mammas should turn their eyes elsewhere. His interest must surely lie with the Dowager Duchess of H, who supplied him with such a convenient alibi on the night of his wife’s death.”

  To her distress, Matilda found herself thinking of the Earl of Torridon constantly. At first, it was a slight, sad longing. But as the days passed, it became so intense that at times she felt haunted, as if he had taken possession of her soul.

  She was grateful for all the preparations for Letitia’s debut. Matilda planned to launch the girl at one of the more simple affairs. The weather had turned fine and she had an invitation to a Mr. and Mrs. Hammond’s. It was to a breakfast, which, as was customary, would begin at three in the afternoon, no self-respecting member of the ton rising before two. It would probably be in the gardens of their house in Park Lane. There would be music and cards and some dancing. She organized an invitation for Letitia as well and then got to work on the girl’s appearance. She decided that Letitia, as she could not be ignored because of her height, would have to wear something bold.

  She had the added distraction of Sir Charles Follett, who kept calling, and although he was refused an audience each time, seemed blind and deaf to all the snubs. Matilda, knowing Sir Charles of old, assumed he wanted to get a preview of London’s giantess so as to be ahead with the gossip as usual. Sir Charles aimed to snatch the fashionable crown from Beau Brummell, but his tailoring was too dandified and he wore too much rouge and scent. He did, however, rival the beau in one thing—dumb insolence. It had been said of Brummell when cutting someone, “without affecting shortsightedness, he could assume that calm but wandering gaze which veers as if unconsciously round the proscribed subject, neither fixing nor to be fixed, nor occupied nor distracted.” But it was said Sir Charles cut people with much more finesse.

  Sir Charles hailed from an aristocratic although untitled family. He himself had been knighted after singular bravery during a campaign in the Peninsular Campaign, but it was hard now for anybody to see in the rouged fop a man who had so recently been a brave soldier.

  Letitia was disappointed. She would have liked to meet this exquisite. That brief glimpse she had had of him reminded her of a favorite doll Lady Morton had sent to her for her sixth birthday. It had been a little mannikin in the more colorful dress of the last century, complete in every detail of dress down to the whalebone-stiffened skirts to his coat. The vicar had disapproved of the doll from the first, calling it a decadent plaything, and one day, when she came home from making calls with her mother, she found he had got rid of it. She had cried for days. The second reason was that Letitia was a romantic and considered there was a sad decline in the modern dress of men. A cutaway coat, originally designed for riding, was the correct morning dress, set off by that most primitive of crash helmets, the top hat, usually of beaver fur, which sat on the head without wig or powder. Skintight pantaloons that did up round the ankles, or fitted into the tops of boots, were customary. Pumps, however, were worn instead of boots in the evening. Trousers were worn only on very informal occasions. It would be so much better, thought Letitia wistfully, if men would go back to wearing paint and powder and patterned silk coats.

  But the work on her own appearance soon took her mind away from Sir Charles. Matilda had chosen for her a white silk gown with a gold velvet spot. It had a low square neckline and was tied at the high waistline with a gold velvet sash. Letitia was to carry a parasol of the same material. On her head was a Lavinia straw hat ornamented round the low crown with a wreath of large artificial white silk daisies with gold velvet centers.

  Matilda made her wear the whole outfit at home for two afternoons before the breakfast so that she would be used to walking about in it.

  Custom decreed that ladies must always arrive by carriage, but the day of the breakfast was so fine and warm that Matilda said there was absolutely no reason why
they should not walk, Park Lane being only a short distance away. So with Peter behind them, both ladies set out. They started gaily enough but then Letitia became conscious of a change in her companion. Matilda was all at once aware of the Earl of Torridon. He was back in her mind again, haunting her, taking away all her new feeling of ease and freedom.

  The Hammonds’ guests were all gathered in their sunny drawing room, overlooking the garden and Hyde Park beyond. Matilda and Letitia were announced. Startled eyes regarded the giantess that was Letitia, and Matilda moved a little closer to the girl. She saw with a sinking heart that Sir Charles Follett was bearing down on them.

  “Pray introduce me,” he said, gazing up in open-mouthed wonder at Letitia, all shining auburn hair and large brown eyes.

  Matilda coldly introduced them and would have led Letitia away, but all at once a tall man by the window turned and faced her. It was the Earl of Torridon. Letitia noticed the way the earl turned white under his tan, the way Matilda trembled, the air that seemed to crackle with emotion and tension as he approached her. Then she heard Sir Charles say, “Come a little away with me, Miss Plumtree, and let us leave the happy couple alone.”

  “Happy couple?” demanded Letitia when they were both out of earshot.

  “Well, star-crossed lovers, I think.”

  “I read a really nasty piece of gossip in The Recorder,” said Letitia who was every bit as forthright and candid as Matilda. “It said the duchess gave Torridon an alibi for the night of his wife’s death.”

  “And so she did, and most foolish of her, for people, don’t you see, began to say he had murdered his wife for the duchess. Whereas if she had left well alone, everyone would have remembered what his countess was like, apart for the fact she had shamed him disgracefully.”

  Letitia smiled down at him and Sir Charles blinked and felt quite weak at the knees. It was a slow, maternal smile. He felt quite frightened and gauche and silly and at the same time desperate to impress. “Shall we walk before the others to the garden?” he said. “I can tell you all about it as we go.”