Lady of Lincoln (19 page)

‘All right then,’ Emily answered, easily persuaded because in truth she did want to see the baby again. ‘Perhaps Mr Fanshawe will have returned when I come downstairs, if he has only gone out briefly.’

The housekeeper conducted her upstairs to the nursery, where Emily could see that the baby was thriving just as much as the woman had said. ‘I do believe she has grown, even since I saw her last,’ Emily said, as she took the baby from Mrs Grant, who had just finished feeding her and changing her napkin.

Whilst she was holding the baby, she told the other two women about how she had found Mrs Pearce to be the new wet nurse. ‘I know the family well,’ said Mrs Dainty. ‘They’re a respectable lot.’

‘Well, I shall be sorry to say goodbye to this one and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Grant. ‘Not but what I’m anxious to see my own
little ones again, but she’s one that is easy to be fond of, if you take my meaning.’

‘Yes indeed,’ Emily agreed. ‘Mrs Dainty, would you like to hold her for a little while?’

‘That I would, miss,’ the housekeeper replied, putting her arms out to take the baby. ‘It’s some time now since my own little ones were this size.’ She had just done so, when they heard the sound of the front door closing. ‘That’ll be the master,’ Mrs Dainty said, looking regretfully down at the dozing infant.

‘Don’t worry,’ Emily told her. ‘I am sure that Mr Fanshawe will not mind if I knock on the door and tell him the news.’

‘’Twouldn’t really be proper,’ the housekeeper responded. Then a look of regret crossed her features. ‘Mind you, it won’t be the first thing that’s happened to this household that
shouldn’t
have done.’

‘No indeed,’ Emily agreed. ‘I will see you both soon. Pray do not leave without saying goodbye, Mrs Grant.’

‘No, indeed I won’t, miss.’

Emily went down the stairs and tapped lightly on the
drawing
-room door, and when no one answered she went in. The room was empty, but the door which led from the
drawing-room
into the study was not quite shut, and she became conscious of voices in conversation. It had never been her
intention
to listen, but as she drew closer to the door, she recognized the timbre of Sir Gareth’s voice and paused, not to eavesdrop, but simply to savour the pleasure of hearing his voice.

‘I haven’t come to interfere; I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he was saying.

‘Oh no?’ replied Fanshawe in the kind of sneering, hopeless tone that Emily had heard him use before.

‘No,’ Sir Gareth answered. ‘God knows, I don’t want the responsibility.’

‘Then rejoice,’ Fanshawe exclaimed sarcastically. ‘You don’t have it, do you?’ He paused. ‘God forgive me, but I can hardly bear to look at her.’

Deciding that she had heard enough, Emily raised her hand to scratch on the door, but before she could do so, the baronet said, ‘Then give her to me. At least we have the same blood in our veins.’

‘But the world thinks that I am her father,’ Fanshawe declared.

‘You and I know differently though, don’t we?’

Suddenly, Emily felt sick. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she hurried out into the hall, where mercifully there were no servants to detain her, and then into the street. She stared up at the cathedral and for the first time could not feel able to run here for comfort. In the recent past she had met with Sir Gareth there on too many occasions. Staring about her like a frightened animal, she finally hurried home, praying that neither her father nor Mary would meet her in the hall or on the stairs.

F
ortune favoured her and after what seemed like hours, but which in reality could only have been a matter of minutes, she gained the sanctuary of her room. There she sat on her bed and finally forced herself to consider the vile disclosure that Sir Gareth was the baby’s father.

What other explanation could there be? The whole business had been very secret as Nathalie had informed her. How would the baronet know about it if he were not one of the principals in the affair? Furthermore, he had said that he and the baby had the same blood in their veins.

Now that she thought about it, there were other, small
incidents
which could have given her a clue. When he had first arrived, his sister had referred to an injury that he had sustained. That would have been the injury in the duel that he had fought. Lord Stuart had spoken of Sir Gareth as running with a dangerous set. Such a man would think nothing of taking part in a duel. Nathalie had spoken of her lover as a handsome man of taste, and that certainly described Sir Gareth. Had not his sister and Mrs Hughes both mentioned the way in which ladies liked to consult him? Yes, and Nathalie had said that the father of her child had a reputation among the ladies.

A man who could treat Nathalie in such a way could have very few scruples, and Emily had seen how easily he could tell an untruth if he thought that a situation called for it. If this
needed confirmation, Mrs Hughes had said more than once that he was a fabricator of lies. Once, she had thought him a hero. What kind of hero behaved thus?

‘Fool, fool, fool!’ she said out loud. ‘How could I be so deceived?’ Thinking of Nathalie, she knew that she was not the first. At least she had not been so unfortunate as her friend. As she told herself this, however, she realized that she was
committing
the greatest deceit of all. Although naturally she did not want to die in childbirth, and although there was a part of her that even now wished that she were dead, another, treacherous, weak-willed part could not help thinking how wonderful it would be to bear Sir Gareth’s child. Then she burst into a storm of weeping as she realized that despite the wicked things that he had done, she still had a picture in her mind of those engaging dimples, that warm smile, and her body still tingled at the memory of the touch of his hand. Was there ever such a fool as she?

She did not go down to dinner that night, pleading a headache, and fortunately, because her father was engaged to dine with some of the other clergy, she did not have to explain herself to anyone. She sent her tray back untouched, slept only fitfully that night, and woke up with the headache that she had feigned the previous evening.

Remembering her errand of the day before, she wrote a brief note to Mr Fanshawe, telling him about the new wet nurse, but she did not leave her room. Mary came upstairs with a message to say that Sir Gareth and his sister had called, but she denied herself, pleading her headache as a reason. Later that day, a bunch of roses arrived from the baronet with a message to say that he hoped that she would soon be better. She tore the note into pieces, then cried over the bits, as she retrieved them all. The roses, she decided, could go in her grandfather’s room. It would be shameful to waste them, but she did not want to be seeing them every minute of every day.

She put them in a vase, therefore, and took them to the old
man’s room, where she put them down on the bedside table so that he could look at them. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she said to him moving one slightly so that they looked better. ‘Sir Gareth brought them. He …’ All of a sudden, the bright cheerful words died in her throat, and exclaiming ‘Oh Grandpapa!’ she put her arms down on the bed, next to him and buried her face in them.

‘Grandpapa, I thought …’ she gulped. ‘I never, never supposed that he would look at me; not really. When I was in my pretty yellow gown I indulged myself with some hopeless dreams, but I suppose I knew deep down that that was all that they were. Oh there were times, when I thought there might be a chance for me, but even though the chance was very small, I loved the fact that he was honourable and kind and good. But he isn’t, Grandpapa; he isn’t! He’s vile and wicked and I don’t think I can bear it.’

Suddenly, she became aware of a very light pressure upon her head, and, looking up in surprise, she found that her
grandfather
was stroking her hair, and that his eyes were open.

‘Grandpapa?’ she breathed.

His lips moved. She leaned down to hear what he was trying to say. ‘Good man,’ he murmured.

She smiled at him. ‘Yes, you are a good man,’ she told him.

His brow wrinkled; his mouth worked as if in agitation. ‘No, no; good man,’ he insisted. ‘Good man. Wine.’

‘Do you mean Sir Gareth?’ Emily asked him tentatively.

‘Good man,’ he repeated.

Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and Dr Boyle came in.

‘Miss Whittaker?’ he questioned concernedly, for it was quite clear that she had been crying.

‘Look, Doctor,’ she said, gesturing towards the old man. In truth, had she been crying for no other reason, she might easily have been shedding tears of thankfulness.

Dr Boyle lifted Dr Whittaker’s wrist to take his pulse, then
glancing at his face was so surprised to see watery blue eyes looking at him that he almost dropped the limb that he was holding. ‘Dr Whittaker,’ he said slowly, ‘can you hear me?’

The elderly clergyman continued to look at the doctor, but made no further reaction.

‘He stroked my hair,’ said Emily. ‘I looked at him and found that he was looking at me.’ For some reason, she found that she could not tell him about what her grandfather had said. Her feelings were too raw on that particular issue.

‘This is indeed very promising,’ said the doctor, ‘very
promising
indeed.’ After a short time, Dr Whittaker closed his eyes again, and soon after that, the doctor left the room, signalling to Emily to come with him.

When they were downstairs in the saloon, Dr Boyle said, ‘This is excellent. I must tell you that I had not looked for this degree of progress. Your father will be delighted to hear the good news. Is it your wish that I should tell him, or would you like to give him the news yourself?’

‘I will tell him,’ Emily replied, thinking that this would provide the two of them with a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with her broken heart.

The doctor shuffled a little, and began to look self-conscious, and by these signals, Emily know that he was going to raise a topic of a personal nature. ‘Miss Whittaker, I was hoping that with the anxiety over your grandfather lessening by the day, you might be persuaded to hear me on a matter that is very close to my heart.’

Emily was on the point of refusing point blank to listen to him, but something gave her pause. It was partly the knowledge that she would have to listen to him one day; it was also partly because now that her illusions about Sir Gareth had been torn away, marriage to the doctor seemed to be a possible way of escape. She sat down therefore, folded her hands in her lap, and said, ‘Very well, Dr Boyle, what do you wish to say to me?’ Then she was obliged to listen while the doctor spoke of his
respect for her, his regard for her intelligence, his thoughts about how she would make an excellent helpmeet for a busy doctor; throughout his speech, not one word of love did he say.

That was what made Emily decide that she would probably accept him. A marriage in which she was struggling with the guilt of not being able to return her partner’s affections would be intolerable. And yet she could not say yes; at least, not yet.

‘Dr Boyle, you are very kind and I thank you for your very flattering sentiments,’ she said. ‘However, I need some time to think about your proposal. May I give you my answer in a few days?’

The doctor fairly beamed, for this was a more encouraging answer than he had expected. ‘Of course, of course,’ he replied. ‘I leave here a hopeful man, Miss Whittaker.’ He took her hand and kissed it in quite the grand manner. Emily, remembering a very different touch, barely repressed a shudder.

The doctor left the house with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He looked in on baby Fanshawe – who had still not been given a name – and pronounced her to be in
excellent
health. Mr Fanshawe acted like the perfect gentleman, but Boyle suspected that he was holding down a good deal of grief by sheer will power. He came away rather concerned, but even this occurrence could not dampen his spirits completely. So cheerful did he look that Sir Gareth, happening to meet him on his way back from an errand in Bailgate, asked him the cause of his good humour.

Well aware that Sir Gareth was something of a ladies’ man, the doctor was very pleased to enlighten him. ‘I have this
morning
been visiting Miss Whittaker, and so welcoming was she that I made so bold as to propose marriage to her.’

The smile on the baronet’s face became rather fixed and he stiffened a little. ‘From your demeanour, do I take it that congratulations are in order?’ he asked.

The doctor looked a little crestfallen for a moment or two, but he soon cheered up again. ‘Not precisely,’ he replied. ‘At
least, she asked for time to think about the matter, so she has not exactly said no. How long do you think I ought to leave it before I go back to her?’

Repressing the urge to say at least forty years, Sir Gareth answered ‘I would wait for a couple of days. Ladies do not like to be rushed.’

‘A couple of days,’ echoed the doctor. ‘Yes, I shall do as you say, sir. I should not want her to make an unconsidered
decision
.’ With that he walked on, completely unaware of the turmoil that he had stirred up in the other man’s breast.

For his part, the baronet felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Emily’s attraction for him had been growing with every passing day, but when he had embraced her in the
cathedral
and she had poured out her grief onto his chest it had been as if he had reached a point from which there was no turning back.

Unlike Emily, he had loved before. He had also enjoyed casual connections with ladies of like mind. No other woman, however, had touched his feelings at such a deep level. He had always thought her pretty, although her attractiveness was often concealed by ill-chosen clothes. More significantly, however, he admired her courage in the face of situations whose sordidness would cause most society women to cringe in horror. He also admired her energy, seen for example in her climbing of the great tower. He liked the way that she talked to his nephews, and the way in which she had extended a hand of friendship to his sister. That little choking sound that she made when she thought she ought not to laugh captivated him completely.

Yet for all her courage and energy, at times she seemed very much alone. At those times he was conscious of a longing to draw her close and protect her. In short, almost without his knowing it, she had come to fill his mind and his heart. Almost as soon as he had arrived in Lincoln, Aurelia had told him that he ought to marry. How strange to think that he was now contemplating marriage in good and earnest.

But now, although he had been so sure that she had a
preference
for him, it seemed that she was considering a proposal from Dr Boyle. Why? Did she believe that his attentions were only flirting, and that they would never come to anything? If so, then he must go round and persuade her that she was mistaken in this belief.

He went immediately to the Whittakers’ house, but was told that Miss Whittaker was not receiving. This was according to Emily’s instructions.

‘But miss …’ Mary had protested.

‘Those are my express wishes,’ Emily had replied, more imperiously than was her wont. ‘Kindly understand that I am not at home to Sir Gareth either today, or at any other time.’

‘Miss …’ Mary ventured.

‘He is a rake and a libertine, Mary,’ Emily answered, trying to conceal the shake in her voice. ‘Such men are not welcome here.’

Mary had rather expected to find that the elegant baronet had grown horns the next time she opened the door, but to her surprise he looked much as usual.

‘Are you able to tell me when she will be receiving?’ he asked Mary, with his attractive smile.

Unable to bring herself to repeat her mistress’s exact words, Mary said, ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘Then I will come back later.’

He began to walk away from the house, but as he did so, something made him turn and look up. For an instant, he saw Emily standing at one of the upstairs windows, before she stepped back out of his line of vision. He frowned, paused, and nearly turned back. Then, reflecting that he could hardly burst into someone’s house uninvited, he walked back slowly to his sister’s house. After all, the room in which she had been
standing
was probably her grandfather’s. Perhaps she had been busy attending to him. But then, if she had been doing that, why had she been standing at the window?

‘Aurelia, I have decided to ask Emily Whittaker to marry me,’ the baronet announced the following morning.

‘Gareth, how wonderful!’ his sister exclaimed, hurrying to embrace him. ‘I thought that you were looking particularly well turned-out today.’

The baronet had indeed almost surpassed his usual elegance. His coat fitted his broad shoulders superbly, his breeches were without a crease and his top boots were polished until they shone like glass.

‘Do you think she’ll have me?’ he asked her, his diffident tone quite at variance with his usual assured manner.

‘Have you?’ his sister echoed. ‘Of course she will. What woman would not?’

‘But then, you are not entirely unbiased, dear Sister.’

‘No, maybe not,’ Mrs Trimmer agreed. ‘But I have observed her and I would say that she had a fondness for you.’

‘And so would I have said so, coxcomb that I am,’ he replied. ‘But yesterday, she would not receive me. Furthermore, she had only just heard a proposal of marriage from Dr Stye.’

‘You are not going to tell me that she accepted him!’