Elisabeth Kidd (2 page)

Mr. Quigley thus arrived scarcely noticed in his dry, monotoned reading to the various small bequests to family friends and retainers, most of which were already known to the family, or at least not unexpected. When, however, the solicitor intoned the words, “to my gentle and much beloved daughter-in-law Dulcie Jerome Bromley, I leave the choice of any of the works in my personal library, and in especial the first edition of the Songs and Sonnets of John Donne, which she alone of my children has read and appreciated,” Henry smiled at his wife in recognition of this particularly appropriate bequest.

Dulcie looked straight ahead and did not meet her husband’s eyes. Henry knew that she had been a witness to the signing of the will and thus privy to its contents, but it was a moment before the significance of the bequest was suddenly borne in on him. That particular first edition had been purchased at auction by Henry’s grandfather at a cost beyond its worth—but beyond, too, what Lord Kimborough had been willing to pay for it. It had been another minor victory for the Bromleys in the continuing war between the “rival earls” of Bromleigh and Kimborough.

No one now remembered precisely how the quarrel between the two neighboring families, Bromleys and Ashtons, had begun, save that both earldoms had been created at the same time during the reign of Queen Anne and that the properties involved included a strip of land along the Avon River which, through a slip of the pen on the part of the royal stationer, appeared to have been granted to both parties. The dispute over the land had continued for a generation, until the stationer’s exasperated successor in the reign of George I settled the matter by the toss of a coin in the Bromleys’ favor.

The Ashtons had refused to accept the settlement and continued to use the land as a right of way; the Bromleys, affronted at this “trespass,” refused to negotiate a compromise, and ever since both families had perpetuated The Quarrel, as it came to be thought of, by minor skirmishing in the form of accusing a member of the rival family of cheating at cards, stealing cattle, and the like.

The most recent aggravation of The Quarrel had occurred, unwittingly this time on both sides, when Dulcie Jerome became engaged to Richard, Viscount Ashton, heir to the fifth Earl of Kimborough. Shortly after, however, Dulcie had—by sheer accident, to be sure—made the acquaintance of the Honorable Henry Bromley at a village fête, fallen instantly in love, and eloped with him.

Richard Ashton, although initially lukewarm to his prospective bride, now became incensed, accused Henry of “stealing” her, and would have challenged him to a duel had not his father forbade the meeting on the sensible grounds that Henry was much the better shot. Henry’s own father had attempted to use the occasion to mend the ancient quarrel, but Lord Kimborough, considering that he had done all that anyone might expect of him in speaking so to his heir, drew the line at speaking at all to his neighbor.

Now, Henry reflected with a full sense of the irony of the situation, his ever-unpredictable father seemed to be making a last attempt at peacemaking. He turned his attention eagerly back to the reading.

“…and to my friend and neighbor, Simon Ogilvey, I bequeath that piece of land which marches with his between Michael’s Bridge and his south orchard, the separate deed to which is to be handed over to him in trust to his heirs in perpetuity.”

Now everyone’s attention was caught, for no one could have missed the significance of that particular piece of land—the very one in dispute more than a century ago, which had given rise to The Quarrel. To give it over in such a way to a neutral party must leave no one in doubt of the late earl’s desire for reconciliation with his neighbors.

Sabina’s wandering wits came back from the bright, sunny world outside into the funereal atmosphere of the library, which seemed now even more oppressive with portents of greater revelations to come. She sat up, clutching her hands together in her lap and staring intently at Mr. Quigley. Her lovely mouth and dark eyes seemed to stand out even more against her pale face, and Henry was struck for the first time with the realization that his pert tomboy sister had disappeared forever. Since Sabina was now four-and-twenty, this should not have been such a shock as it was, but Henry had loved the scamp Sabina had been as a girl enough to continue to think affectionately of her in that way long past her girlhood.

To be sure, she had taken on a greater responsibility when her mother died and left the management of the household to Sabina at the tender age of fifteen. And she must have grown up forcibly when Peter Ogilvey was killed not six months before they were to be married. But Henry had been off on a protracted honeymoon at the time and, even had he been able to hurry back from Jamaica to comfort her, Dulcie had pointed out, their own happiness might only serve to deepen his sister’s misery. And so he had not been there, and when they met again, Sabina had seemed fully recovered from her loss and once again the merry companion he had always found her. Peter’s death must have had some effect on her, but these things crept up on one so subtly, how was one to know when youth and innocence had gone forever?

“…from the income from my estates at Redmond and Killingborough…,” Mr. Quigley was saying now in a higher, clearer voice, as if he expected to be interrupted at any moment, “…in trust for my daughter Sabina Marie and, in the event of her marriage…”

Henry scowled. What was this? He glanced at Sabina, who seemed to be equally in the dark but expecting the worst. Could their father really be cutting his most loved child, his “pet,” as Randolph had called her in full truth, off with the most niggardly of small allowances if she did not marry? Even if she married, it seemed, she would have no more than a competence!

But Mr. Quigley was not finished yet.

“In the event of Sabina Marie’s marriage to the Honorable Robert James Owen Ashton, Captain in the 1st Regiment of Dragoons, I leave her the income from the above-named estates unconditionally, and in addition a one-half part of the income from my estate at Carling and the use of the house and grounds there to her and the issue of said marriage, if any.”

Mr. Quigley took a deep breath and looked cautiously around him for some reaction to this final revelation. For a full minute there was none, until Randolph remarked, with unwarranted composure, “He must have been delirious.”

Sabina remained seated, her face paler still with that look of shock and her hands clenched so tightly together that the knuckles showed white. Henry stood up and snatched the will from under the solicitor’s hand to read the incredible passage for himself.

“This can’t be,” he muttered, even as he read the words that told him it could be.

Everyone but Sabina seemed to find their voices just then and broke into a low but intent exchange of speculation, which Mr. Quigley and the new Lord Bromleigh together tried in vain to stem.

“Did you know about this, Fletcher?” Randolph accused his elder brother.

Dulcie moved to read over her husband’s shoulder. Alicia remained placidly seated beside Lewis, who grinned impishly up at the rest of them.

“He always said he wanted to mend the quarrel….” Sabina said at last, in a voice that seemed to come from so far away as to be barely audible. Henry dropped the will and went to her as she rose from the window seat. But when he put his hands on her arms, she appeared not to notice, but moved with deliberate steps towards the desk, where she looked first at Fletcher, then at the solicitor.

For a moment, Henry had a clear look at his sister’s eyes, and he remembered then that the only difference Sabina had ever had with her father had been over The Quarrel. She had believed passionately that the Bromleys had always been in the right of it, and it had offended her sense of family honor even to hear her father consider making overtures of peace to the Ashtons. It must be doubly a shock, Henry thought, for her to hear now that not only had her father not taken her views into consideration, but that she was his chosen instrument of reconciliation. What could the earl have been thinking?

The buzz of speculation concentrated itself now on Sabina. They all moved closer to her, as if encircling her with their concern. Sabina’s gaze darted from one to the other, then around the room, like an animal’s when it senses a trap. Suddenly, she gave a strangled cry and, pushing her way between Henry and Dulcie, pulled open the library door—revealing a much astonished footman on the other side—and ran out, leaving the door flung open behind her.

“Sabina, wait!” Henry called, running after her.

“Sabina!” Dulcie joined in. “Come back!”

But Sabina had fled.

Chapter 2

Captain the Honorable Robert James Owen Ashton stood up to the tops of his elegant boots in mud. Bill Theak, the captain’s former batman and now the keeper of a lock on the Grand Union Canal just south of the Welford Arm, admired the captain’s willingness to help with some necessary repairs to the lock—even at the expense of Lobb of London’s best. What was more, the captain’s assistance, while it had not initially been of much value, had rapidly succumbed to experience.

Then again, he had always been like that. If something needed to be done, he did it. If the something required knowledge he did not have, he acquired it, and if in addition the job was a particularly difficult one, he simply applied more determination. That was how the captain had got himself amongst the leaders in the Union Brigade’s memorable charge at Waterloo, and it was how he met the challenge of lock engineering.

“I think it will hold now, Bill,” Ashton said, stepping back cautiously while keeping his hands on the wooden plank supporting the newly re-bricked section of lock wall. He glanced at Bill and grinned at the dubious expression on the grizzled veteran’s open countenance.

“Credit me with not repeating my mistakes, sergeant!” he said. “I know this is the very section I did such an abysmal job of repair on last week, but I assure you I’ve done it properly this time!”

Theak considered this for a moment, then gingerly let go of the plank, stepping back quickly into the mud at the bottom of the lock, as if in expectation of the wall’s falling in on him again.

But this time it held. Captain Ashton gazed at it with a satisfied expression for a moment before suggesting that they climb out to inspect the section of bank which had washed away in the overnight rain and had been the original cause of the breach in the wall.

“I need no further proofs of your steadfastness in the face of danger, sergeant,” Ashton said as he clambered ungracefully but efficiently up the bank, “and it lies beyond the call of your duty to me to stand there awaiting disaster.”

“Aye, sir.” Theak relaxed a little but wasted no time in climbing out of the lock behind his captain, whose fine boots were now thoroughly ruined, to stand beside Ashton on the sunny towpath to admire their work.

It was not that The Honorable Robert Ashton habitually dressed in his newest superfine coat, silk waistcoat, fawn breeches, and top boots to perform manual labor. He had in fact been on his way to pay a social call, but had stopped by the lock to see if the repairs he and Bill had thought completed the day before had proved satisfactorily so. Like any other lockkeeper, Bill was anxious not to cause any lengthier a stoppage of traffic on the canal than necessary while he made repairs to the lock to which he had returned as keeper only months before.

In the interim—consisting of his six years of service in the Peninsula, for a good part of it as Captain Ashton’s batman—the lock had been left to the care of Bill’s aging father, whose intentions were superior to his physical robustness. The result was that Bill had been able to do little else since his return but repairs, from rebuilding and rehanging the lock gates to dredging the canal on either side to free it of debris—not to mention renovating the lockkeeper’s house, into which Bill was eager to move his parents so that they would be more comfortable than on their cramped narrowboat.

It was when the captain paid a call a fortnight earlier to enquire after his sergeant’s well-being that he had insisted on giving him a hand with the work.

“I swear to you, Bill,” Ashton had insisted when Theak was inclined to refuse his assistance, “I am finding the utmost difficulty in sinking back into the role of a gentleman of leisure—if, indeed, I ever filled such a role, for I find it impossible to recall ever having done so! A spell of hard physical labor will do me the world of good.”

And so, Robert had reported for duty every morning, wearing a pair of Bill’s old boots and a rough shirt, breeches, and stockings laundered daily by Bill’s obliging mother, Rose. He joined with a good will in the work of restoring the neglected lock, with the result that it was ready to open again a week earlier than anticipated—even given minor setbacks such as this unexpected break at the captain’s end of the brick wall that supported the sides of the lock.

When Bill attempted to thank him, Ashton made light of his usefulness. “Whatever help I can give is for your dad, sergeant. He’s a fine old gentleman and deserves to have a rest from his labor in his old age.”

Bill was not about to dispute this statement and thus made no further attempt to voice his gratitude, particularly since he felt no small sense of guilt himself for staying away from his aging parent for so long. He was glad now to have a chance to make amends and less reluctant than he indicated to have the help of his captain.

What Captain Ashton did not tell his former sergeant was that, even more than his return to a leisured life, was he finding the resumption of his place in his family unusually difficult. Indeed, he felt distinctly out of place at Ashtonbury Abbey, the family home now presided over by Robert’s increasingly stately brother Richard, Earl of Kimborough, and his high-minded sister-in-law, Lavinia. Hedged about as he was there by the proprieties that Lavinia insisted on and the rank that Richard still considered, five years after succeeding his father, to have raised him above even a congenial rubber of loo amongst themselves, Robert soon began casting about for a way to remove himself from this stifling atmosphere as diplomatically—but quickly—as possible.