A Kind And Decent Man

Victoria stood up abruptly. ‘Indeed I did,’ she admitted sourly. ‘So breathless was he in my company, he had difficulty speaking at all. We barely exchanged a dozen words, in the short while he deigned to stay at his kinsman’s wake.’

‘Well, the memory of him has certainly cured the lack of roses in your cheeks,’ Matilda lightly remarked, eyeing the becoming flush warming Victoria’s face. ‘I’ve heard from my sources in London that he is now so eligible he is sought by all the top hostesses, yet shuns most in favour of carrying on regardless. Of course his affluence and title ensure he is welcome whatever his character and reputation.’ A reflective pause preceded her next words. ‘I thought he seemed much older and rather cynical about the eyes and mouth. But then it hasn’t detracted at all from his looks; quite the reverse. Maturity sits well on some men: gives them presence and sophistication. To look at him, so handsome and dignified, you would judge him a paragon of propriety.’

‘Perhaps he is,’ Victoria remarked lightly, as though, truth or not, it concerned her little.

‘Indeed, he’s not!’ Matilda scoffed. ‘Last time I sat down to a hand of brag with Colonel Whiting and his lady, I overheard the gentlemen tattling about Viscount Courtenay. Never mind.’ She drily anticipated and answered Victoria’s unspoken inquisitiveness. ‘They sounded quite green with envy and were no doubt vastly embellishing it all. They must have been! The few snippets I caught would have shocked the devil himself!’

‘How can you intrigue me so then refuse to say more? You have to tell me now,’ Victoria petitioned with a brittle little laugh.

‘Indeed, I shall not! It’s not fit for these old ears.’ Matilda batted at them in emphasis. ‘I’ll certainly not repeat such lewd, shameless behaviour to a genteel young female.’

‘It concerned his lady friends, then?’ Victoria probed, dipping her head and brushing her hair.

‘Friends, maybe…ladies, never!’ Matilda snorted. ‘And you’ll prise no more from me, my girl. You’ve tricked me into saying too much as it is. Now I’m off to find my bed. These old bones need some rest.’ She halted with her hand on the doorknob. ‘What you have to bear in mind, Victoria, is that there are far worse things than marrying a libertine for his money and his title. After all, once you were prepared to marry him when he had neither,’ she added wryly, closing the bedroom door.

‘I thought I ought to bring this to your immediate attention, my lord. Albert Gibbons had it hand-delivered. As you and the lady are almost related, he probably guessed you’d be concerned at the news.’

David Hardinge frowned at this cryptic comment and immediately took the proffered note. It had to be news of some import from his solicitor, he supposed, breaking the seal, that had brought Jacob out in the sleety rain to seek him at his club. A frown and narrowing of incredulous blue eyes were swiftly followed by an exceedingly contented smile. As David relaxed back into his chair, leisurely rereading the note, he gave a throaty, satisfied laugh, thereby prompting Jacob to sigh and give an imperceptible shake of his head. He had anticipated a mood of shock and sorrow at the calamitous information contained in the missive, but his master was merely surprised…and pleased.

He had always believed he knew this Lord Courtenay well. He would have held him up as a charitable man; not one apt to crow over others’ misfortune. It was true he was ruthless in his business dealings, especially with any foolish enough to attempt trickery. Nevertheless, he could be outstandingly generous. William Branch, not even one of his closest chums, had fallen foul of the dice once too often, yet had been saved from the Fleet by the Viscount’s funds forwarded at a paltry percentage. Was not his lordship also invariably generous to his women, past and present? Redundant paramours were amply compensated. In fact, Jacob was prone to tut and mutter about economies every time he dealt with such pension funds.

Yet Lord Courtenay learned of disasters affecting his late cousin’s family and it gave him cause to chuckle. Jacob had heard about the inferno that had decimated a warehouse on the East India Dock and knew, unofficially, that Mrs Hart was now destitute because of it. Well, perhaps the hard-hearted devil wouldn’t find it quite so amusing if his kinsman’s widow decided to petition for his charity. Jacob glared through his spectacles at his master’s hard face. Yes, that might just test his generosity and his humour, for he’d heard her losses were colossal.

Having folded his hand of poker and taken leave of Dickie Du Quesne and various other acquaintances at White’s, David Hardinge walked back through the cold drizzle towards Beauchamp Place. His thoughts would have surprised his clerk, half running beside him to keep up with his long stride, had Jacob but known them. Far from maliciously relishing Victoria’s fate, what he sardonically savoured was his own.

At one time, and not so many years ago, nothing in his life had ever gone the way he wanted. Now luck ran so persistently in his favour that it tended to rouse his sceptical amusement.

During the past two months, a plausible reason to approach Victoria Hart and offer her his protection would have had him bartering his soul. And now he had one. Not only that, but after what he’d just learned he was quite confident she would be readily amenable to his overtures. Contrarily that disappointed him: nothing and no one seemed to be a worthy challenge any more.

In the first month following their reunion he had striven daily to exclude her from his mind. Finally accepting that as utterly impossible and therefore utterly infuriating, the second month he’d given in, succumbed to self-torment and had cast about desperately for some tenable excuse to return to Hartfield.

Now he had it, and just in time: this irritating obsession he had with possessing her had vexed him long enough. Deliverance from it lay in indulging it until it palled, and that was exactly what he intended to do. So her impending bankruptcy aroused little sympathy for it suited him and need never harm her. She would be well cared for. His women always were.

Dwelling on her delicate beauty softened the hard set of his features. Despite her grief on the day of her husband’s funeral, she had clung tightly to her composure, admirably dealing with her servants and her deranged father. She had dealt admirably with him too. Yet she had wanted him to stay longer and had poignantly lacked the guile to conceal it. Pride had made her try, he allowed with a wry smile, recalling her aloof civility and how sweetly vulnerable it had made her seem.

From the moment he had walked away and into the snow he had wished himself back with her. It was only later, at the Swan tavern, that he’d grudgingly accepted he’d run for cover. No other woman had ever rattled him the way she did, or made him feel simultaneously lecherous and caring.

On hearing another low, private chuckle, Jacob muttered beneath his breath, sprinted ahead up the steps of his master’s magnificent town house and rapped impatiently on the enormous stately door. Turning back, he watched his employer stroll on through the icy mist as though promenading on a summer’s day, hands thrust deep in his pockets, a vague smile about his narrow mouth.

‘It’s fate, that’s what it is. The stars have decided the matter for us,’ Aunt Matilda announced breathlessly on entering the dining room two mornings later.

Victoria enquiringly raised dark brows, while carrying to her father his tea and toast. She placed his breakfast close by him, retrieved his napkin from the carpet, replaced it on the polished mahogany table, then gave her aunt her full attention.

Matilda held out a letter towards her niece, shaking it excitedly. ‘See what the express has just brought. There, read that!’ she ordered. ‘It’s a sign. I swear it is. Charles, if you drop it again, you remain jammy-mouthed,’ she warned her brother as he furtively lowered white linen towards the persian rug.

‘Where are the kippers?’ Charles Lorrimer demanded, through the napkin scrubbing at his mouth. ‘I don’t want this…’ He sent the plate of toast and jam skidding away across the table’s glossy surface. ‘Where is my proper breakfast?’

‘You know kippers give you indigestion, Papa, and the bones catch in your teeth,’ Victoria calmly answered, while reading the letter in her hand. It was from her aunt’s sister-inlaw, Margaret Worthington, and its purpose was to invite Matilda and a companion to Cheapside in London to attend her daughter’s birthday celebration in two weeks’ time.

‘Well, you must go, of course,’ Victoria told her gleeful aunt as she handed back her letter.

‘We must go,’ Matilda stressed for Victoria. ‘You and I now have a reason for a trip to town and the perfect venue to socialise. Margaret has some very influential friends. You must remember her daughter, Emma. Nice enough but a plain little thing. I’ll warrant Margaret must be fair despairing of ever shifting her. She must be twenty-four now if a day. But the girl always was too much of an opinionated blue-stocking…’ Matilda halted mid-flow. ‘Of course! She has probably invited every eligible man for miles around to attend. It will be just perfect for us. You’ll outshine every female there. Margaret will be spitting mad…’

‘Aunt!’ Victoria cautioned, noticing that her father was leaning towards them in his chair, straining to listen, a crafty look crinkling his eyes and mouth. ‘You must go and enjoy yourself, Aunt Matty, but much as I would love to join you it’s impossible,’ she stated quietly and firmly as she noticed her aunt about to protest. ‘I am a recent widow. I know I promised Daniel not to mope and weep but extravagant socialising is too much. Besides, Papa needs me and so does Hartfield.’

‘Well, what you have to bear in mind, my girl, is that this might be your last chance for either of them to need you,’ Aunt Matilda hissed in an undertone. ‘There will soon be no more Hartfield to concern you. Every stick of furniture, every acre and barn will be sold…gone unless you find a man to take it all on. And as for your papa…’ She nodded meaningfully at her brain-sick brother, polishing the dining table with his napkin dipped in tea. ‘How long do you think he will stand the rigours of the parish relief? Or a lunatic asylum, for that matter? Your chubby solicitor suitor has no intention of burdening himself with either of us old ‘uns, you know.’ She gave Victoria’s arm an encouraging shake. ‘Daniel doted on you. He would want you safe and happy. With his last breath he decreed you enjoy your youth. You know that’s the truth. Besides, Margaret is my late husband’s half-sister and it is an age since we met. We are not gadding, simply visiting relations.’

Victoria started awake from her snooze as the carriage jolted. As it slowed a small exclamation of dismay escaped her. But mercifully it picked up speed. If they had halted once again and she had had to endure George Prescott pacing to and fro mumbling and grumbling that he was in a bit of a quandary, she was sure she would have resorted to hysteria.

Her tapered fingers whitened on the battered upholstery of Hartfield’s travelling coach as she leaned forward to blink sleepy eyes at the passing shadowy scenery.

The cottages were getting closer together and there were fewer intervals of wooded countryside—a sure sign that they were approaching the outskirts of the city. They had already lost several hours while Samuel’s uncle had dithered about going this way or that.

As Samuel could not be spared from managing Hartfield or caring for her papa in her absence to drive them to London, he had suggested that an uncle of his, now retired, would be happy to take on the job for a small consideration. A reciprocal small consideration from Samuel’s uncle would have been very welcome: to wit, an admission that the man had not travelled this route either as coachman or passenger for more than sixteen years and that his sight and his memory were useless.

Twice they had turned into narrow lanes leading nowhere. Manoeuvring their small carriage and two elderly greys about had proved arduous and almost impossible.

Twice Victoria had suggested cancelling the trip and returning to Hartfield. Then later in the week they could catch the stage from St Albans and travel to town in a sane and relaxed manner.

Beryl, for her own reasons, had heartily concurred with this. Her aunt had told Beryl to mind her business before impressing on Victoria, with a cautionary wag of the head, that they bear in mind the importance of this trip. Also, that Margaret Worthington was expecting them and would be horrified should they not arrive, suspecting all sorts of devilry had befallen them on the journey. This genuinely concerned Victoria. There was no way a message could speedily be sent to their hostess, who was kind enough to be putting them up for a week at Rosemary House in Cheapside. She was probably even now preparing for their arrival.

When George Prescott had then insisted that he was out of his quandary and into his stride, Victoria had relented. So they persevered towards London but were several hours behind schedule.

She glanced across at her two female companions, one propped in either corner of the creaking carriage, both sleeping soundly. Neither had spoken a word to the other since the clash of opinion about continuing to London. Thereafter, simmering resentment was limited to ostentatiously shifting as far apart as the small travelling coach allowed.

Beryl had sulked from the moment she had learned she would be acting as maid to Victoria and Matilda on this trip. Victoria knew it was not the thought of dressing a head of hair, which she did remarkably well, but the thought of Sally exerting influence over Samuel in her absence. But it would have been impossible to leave the two women together, sharpening their claws on each other while vying for Samuel’s favours. Separating the housemaids was the only option in her absence from Hartfield.

The carriage juddered and slowed. Victoria immediately pulled herself towards the window and peered out. There were two conveyances in front of them now and, on the right-hand side, a row of grimy building tenements.

London! At last! A few hawkers’ shouts were audible amongst the rattling of carriage wheels and as they proceeded they merged into a thrum of sound. Victoria inhaled carefully, sure she could detect tar and brine in amongst the pungent whiffs assaulting her nostrils. She squinted into the gloom and in the distance made out rigging and masts rising like grey skeletons against a velvet night sky. They were obviously near the Thames.

A young boy, perhaps seven years old, caught her attention by waving a hand; he then held it out, calling for coins. Even in the twilight, Victoria could discern his ragged, emaciated body and it tweaked her heartstrings.

The babble and stench of the city increased, permeating the coach. A mouth-watering aroma of savoury pies became submerged beneath the stomach-churning stink of ordure. Victoria drew the leather curtain over the draughty window. She glanced at her female companions; neither was in the least disturbed by the city hullaballoo and both gently snored on.

The thought of Rosemary House—warm refreshment and a soft bed close at hand—made Victoria simultaneously contented and conscience-stricken as she thought of the filthy urchin she’d just spied. As she shifted to find a comfortable spot on the cracked hide seat, her weary head lolled back into the squabs and her eyelids drooped.

They flicked up within a few minutes. The coach had stopped. She waited tensely, then felt the vehicle rock on its axle as George Prescott descended from his perch. Victoria fought to budge the coach window to speak to him; he was now conversing with someone by the greys’ heads.

George looked searchingly about in the manner of someone locating their bearings and Victoria groaned despairingly. He scratched his head thoughtfully, then, urged by his rough-looking companion, walked towards a crowd of people.

Without sensible thought, Victoria was out of the coach and running to apprehend him. ‘Mr Prescott!’ she called loudly, holding her skirts as she skipped and dodged the debris in the street. ‘What is happening? Where do you think you are off to? Are we arrived at Cheapside? Why have we stopped here?’ Her queries and accusations came tumbling out.

‘I’m in a bit of a quandary, you see, Mrs Hart…’ he began sheepishly. ‘Now you get yourself back in the coach while I finds out from these folks jest where we are. This kind gent reckons Rosemary Lane be up there and a turn back towards the Ratcliffe Highway where I believe we jest came through. Er…we’ve been around in a circle, like…’

‘We’re lost again?’ Victoria demanded incredulously, and then, horrified, corrected, ‘We require Rosemary House, in Cheapside, Mr Prescott. Not Rosemary Lane.’ She glanced warily at the scruffy, stocky man with George Prescott. His features were virtually lost beneath a tangle of beard that seemed almost attached to scraggy brows. His sharp black eyes were distinguishable: they slipped assessingly over her fine clothes before sliding sideways to the unattended carriage behind her.

Victoria stiffened. Two sleeping women were left there alone and unprotected. She attempted to divert the man’s astute stare. ‘Are there street entertainers?’ She was sure her voice sounded squeakily unnatural and quickly indicated a crowd of people forming a circle. Raucous shouts and laughter crescendoed as people began spilling onto the cobbles from brightly lit inns and gin shops situated on either side of the narrow street. Flares formed moving pools of glowing gold amid flickering patches of darkness. She watched in increasing alarm as drunkards linked arms, holding each other up, yet still up-ended tankards and tots. Two blowsy, rouged women passed close by and subjected Victoria to a spiteful-eyed stare.