The Vital Principle (21 page)

“Yes, so you
say
.” May nodded toward the main house. “But he’d shelves of nasty books in his grand library, and he admired the ladies, didn't he? Well, I'm proof of that.” She patted her belly, again. “And many's the time he'd say such things as would make you turn pale from the shock. I'm sure he should’ve been pleased to marry me, after what he got up to. No decent woman would have him if they know'd. Leastways, not that Miss Spencer—not if she
know'd
.”

“It must have been useful to have those letters.”

“Useful, yes. I should say so. And you’d understand, a spinster like you.” Her eyes were hard despite her smile. “I’ve no mind to have my babe without a husband, and it’s no easy thing to bring a man up to scratch. He could’ve let me off without a reference. No—it were no easy thing. If it were, every woman’d be a Lady instead of a Miss, as the saying is.”

“So you reminded him about the letters. And you indicated you’d show them to his mother and tell her about the baby if he didn’t marry you?”

“Yes. And it worked a right treat, didn't it? He didn’t like no trouble with her. Anyone could see he regretted those letters and would've burned the lot of 'em, if he could. But they finally brought him around to the notion of marriage.” She caught Pru’s arm. “Why, I tell you, Miss, you get yourself a letter or two, and you have at it. Take that gent you fancy—it'ud work for you just as it did for me. Why, you’ll be a married lady afore you blink, mesure!”

“The gentleman I
fancy
?” Pru’s mind wobbled over suggestion until May’s elbow nudged her.

“No need to be shy, Miss. That tall, black-haired gent, Mr. Gaunt. I can’t say as he’s one I’d take a fancy to—looks too high-minded for my liking. But he’s no wife, has he? Though he's naun but a commoner, like you and me.”

“Like me?” Pru felt sick. How many believed she was
paid
to conduct spirit sessions like any common actress?

Apparently, more than she thought.

Then after a deep breath, she realized to her shame that she was as arrogant as any lady. In fact, she had held Mr. Gaunt’s employment in contempt when she should have been grateful to him. He showed intelligence and helped her. And if he did as he said, he might very well save her from the hangman.

If she failed to save herself.

So, he deserved more, much more, than her condescension.

“Why, yes. We as work for our livelihoods.” May preened, running her hands again over the elegant folds of the cashmere shawl. “’Though now
I’m
Lady Crowley. I’ll never do another particle of work, nuther. Not if I can help it.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. However, you know, May—Lady Crowley—I don’t precisely work—”

“Oh, no.” A deprecating smile curved May’s plump lips. “I wouldn’t call sitting in the dark a-scribbling on a slate
work.
But it don't argify much what your work is, and it’s ever so much easier than minding someone else’s children.” She patted Pru's arm. “Mine’ll have a nursemaid
and
a governess. Miss Brumbly’ll be my companion. And we’ll be ever so grand and comfortable-like.”

“And happy, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. It’ll be lovely. And when I talk as fine as the dowager, we’ll be off to London, won't we? Then I’ll never return here.
Never
.”

Pru doubted it. Most likely, May and Miss Brumbly would spend the rest of their lives sequestered in Dower House while the dowager attempted to keep Society away and unaware of her inappropriate daughter-in-law’s existence.

“Perhaps we should return. It’s grown quite chilly.” The slender branches overhead rattled in a gust of biting wind. “Don’t you agree?”

May eyed Pru’s plain woolen shawl. Frowning with concentration, she said, “I suppose you must be cold in that thin thing. Cash—
mere
is so much warmer. Why it feels like summer, already.”

“I suppose it must.”

After parting with relief from May and Miss Brumbly, Pru walked slowly back to the main house. Miss Brumbly had quite a challenge ahead of her, and May seemed set to push for what she wanted. Pru couldn't help wondering how well May and the dowager would deal with one another as the years accumulated.

If May delivered a boy, they might rub along well enough for the sake of the new heir. However, if the babe should be a girl…. The thought defied imagination.

She pulled her shawl closer and walked faster, head down against the sharp, changeable wind. A girl would mean Mr. Stephen Hereford would inherit the title and the right to live at Rosecrest. The dowager would most likely remove to Dower House, along with May and the baby. It would be very…cozy. If the child were pretty, though, she might catch Mr. Stephen Hereford’s attention, and he might sponsor her. That would give the poor thing a rosier future. Otherwise, there was little chance of May, or her daughter, ever reaching London.

Considering May’s suggestions on attracting a husband, Pru decided Mr. Stephen Hereford was fortunate. The degrees of consanguinity forbade May from playing the winsome widow to snag him as her next husband. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have the smallest chance of escaping her machinations.

The stiffness in Pru’s reticule reminded her that she still had May’s disgusting letters with her. Since May seemed perfectly willing, and indeed almost proud of her actions, the missives had proved unnecessary.

And now, they were a useless embarrassment.

Their presence made Pru uneasy. She nearly pulled them out, thinking to rip them up and scatter their pieces across the muddy fields, but she reconsidered. What if she didn’t tear them into small enough fragments and some innocent child ran across the still-legible pieces?

A fire would be better.

When she got back to her room, she held the pages over a candle flame and crumbled the ashes over the logs stacked ready for the evening fire. Then she paced the room, feeling stifled and almost agitated although she had no reason to be so.
Yet
. She was still free, despite the convening of the coroner's inquest.

She glanced at her bed. Her journal rested on the coverlet, only one corner covered by the pillows. Hadn’t it been hidden under the pillows when she left her room?

She couldn’t remember.

This evidence of her fragile mental state irritated her. She pulled the book out and leafed through the pages. There was nothing unusual, just her scrawled words smudging the pages. She slipped it back under the pillow, feeling out of sorts. Millie couldn’t read, but she may have come in and straightened the coverlet or performed some equally innocuous task.

Standing in the center of her room, Pru looked around. She paced the circumference of the chamber once and then, with a soft sigh, she opened her trunk.

'Tis ill talking of halters in the house of a man that was hanged.
—Miguel de Cervantes, 1547-1616

Hoping to question Denham about the contents of his art case, Knighton descended to the second floor. Most of the mourners clustered near the entrance to the small, yellow sitting room where the woman had retreated. Denham stood there briefly, but before Knighton could speak to him, he walked away with an arm under the dowager’s elbow, followed by Miss Spencer.

The Jekylls didn’t linger, either. Mrs. Jekyll and her daughter, Mrs. Marley, joined Mr. Jekyll. The three of them wandered up the stairs, heading for their rooms. This initiated a general disintegration of the party and soon everyone had returned to their room with the sole exception of Lady Howard. She watched her daughter climb the stairs upward and then returned to the sitting room alone.

Seizing the opportunity, he followed her.

“Mr. Gaunt! Have you returned from the village already?” Lady Howard asked when she caught sight of him.

“The constable was occupied with the coroner's inquest, I'm afraid.”

Pressing her fingers into her eyes, she nodded. She pulled out a handkerchief edged with a thin strip of black lace and rubbed her eyes. “This is a terrible situation. I'm just relieved we were here to support to the dowager,” she declared as if trying to convince herself.

His brows rose, but he did not comment.

She smiled although her eyes were hard. Grim. “I’m sorry. That sounded dreadful, didn’t it? Of course, I'm not
relieved
.”

“This had been difficult for everyone.”

“Difficult, yes.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands and glanced down as a scrap of black lace came loose. She scraped at it with her fingernails, picking at the thread. “Do you have children, Mr. Gaunt?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, you’re young, yet, for a man. Too young, I suppose, to understand.”

“It must have been hard managing without a husband. And with a young girl to present.”

Her hands clenched. “I miss him so….”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was alive for her first Season. And it went so well. He was delighted. I don’t understand what happened—what went wrong. Even after Ethan passed away, I thought….”

“What?” he asked gently when she stopped. “What happened?”

“I was distraught. You must understand. And he was so kind. I thought it was all arranged.”

“Who was so kind? Lord Crowley?”

“Who?” She stared at him. “Lord Crowley? No—no, this had nothing to do with
him
. Why would you think that?”

“I gather you were friends of the family….”

“No, no. I knew Lady Crowley was making arrangements with the Spencers. Lord Crowley was to marry Miss Spencer. I was speaking of my daughter, Fanny.”

“I see, then….”

“She couldn’t marry, not so soon after her father’s death. But he spoke to me. He indicated he was interested and would pay court to her.” Her eyes grew confused as she focused on some point beyond Knighton’s shoulder. “But, he never spoke to her. Why?”

“Who, Lady Howard?”

“Why, Lord Thompson. He said he would speak to my daughter. He was considering offering for her, but he never did. What are we to do, now? She refuses another Season. I don’t understand any of this. I thought she was settled. We should have all been settled by now!”

Knighton leaned forward, trying not to react emotionally to her words and further upset her. “Lady Howard, your daughter is…upset.”

“The death of her father has been difficult. For both of us.”

He nodded and laid his hand over her twisting fingers. “Speak to her. She needs you. Perhaps she has decided not to marry—”

“Not to marry!” Lady Howard interrupted. “What is she to do if she does not marry? Who will take care of her?”

“Some women choose—”

“Not Howards. We are not like that woman,
that Barnard woman!
We know our place. She will marry, if not Lord Thompson, than some other.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t love him.”

“Love? Don't be absurd. Love is unimportant. No, I'll ask Lady Crowley for her advice. She’ll know someone, perhaps even Mr. Hereford. He is a trifle old, but he seems kind and thoughtful. He would do, or even that nice Mr. Denham—though he always reminds me of a farmer, and I'm not sure I’d like that. However, there are other single men. Lord Thompson is not the only unmarried man left in Britain.”

“Lady Howard, please listen to me. You must speak to your daughter. Find out what she wishes to do. Perhaps she simply needs time to recover.”

“There is no time left. It's been well over a year since her father died. If I've managed to recover, I see no reason for her to prolong it. And she’s over twenty-one. I married at eighteen. She should be married and safely taken care of. I don't know what we are to do if she doesn't.”

“I understand. However, I can only urge you to determine what your daughter wants and respect her wishes.”

She rose. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gaunt. I realize you’re sympathetic, but you cannot hope to understand our situation, and I shouldn't occupy your time with my senseless babbling. In any event, I must check on my daughter. And the dowager.”

After Lady Howard left, Knighton wandered the hallway, unsure what to do. Finally, he met Lord Thompson at the head of the grand staircase carrying a sword case.

“Ah, Gaunt. I don’t suppose you’re a fellow swordsman?”

“I haven’t tested my arm for a couple of years. I enjoyed it when I was younger, though. Why?”

Thompson lifted the case he held. “Crowley and I used to indulge in a bout or two when I visited Rosecrest. He has a nice training room if you’d care to join me.” When Knighton started to shake his head, Thompson cut him off. “Come. No one else knows the art, and I’m sorely in need of a diversion. I’ll give you the first round if you’ll indulge me.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Knighton replied, irritated at the casual assumption his skills could not match Thompson's. And after his conversation with Lady Howard, he would like nothing better than to teach Lord Thompson a lesson.

And therein lay the danger.

One should never engage in a fencing match with revenge as a goal. A cool head always prevailed.

“Then I can only assume your skills aren't up to it.”

Flushing with irritation, Gaunt replied, “We shall have to see, won't we? Give me time to change. Where is this fencing room?”

“In the extension beyond the library. Fifteen minutes?”

“Agreed.”

Knighton exchanged his dark trousers for a worn pair of buckskin breeches and strode to the fencing room, his irritation cooling into determination. The training room turned out to be a barracks-like rectangle with a bare, wooden floor and a few sand-filled sacks propped up as targets. A rack of various swords stood centered against the wall to the left of the door. Long windows reached almost from ceiling to floor opposite the door, letting in the light and granting a glimpse of the low brick wall surrounding the kitchen garden. It was a functional, utilitarian room that offered no distractions other than its sole purpose: exercise.

“Ah, Gaunt, good. I was almost afraid I’d have to send someone after you. I confess I plan to best you. At least in this one arena.” He smiled. “Just don't make it too easy.”

“Indeed.” Knighton caught the thin-bladed sword Thompson tossed to him, hilt-first. It was well-balanced despite the plain, well-worn pommel and handle. He hefted it and made a few quick strokes. Then he adjusted his grip and worked to loosen his stiff muscles as his body searched for old, reluctant memories of dueling with a friendly, or not so friendly, opponent.

After unwinding his neckcloth, he draped it over the rack of swords. He paced across the room to get the feel of the distances and floor.

Parry and thrust. Engage, thrust, deflect.

After a few experimental engagements, Thompson revealed himself to be a restrained and defensive opponent, given to taking an inordinately long time to work up to short bursts of aggression. He maintained a thin body profile, but occasionally forgot to keep his feet in line with his adversary—generally before he charged. Knighton found him too predictable to require all of his attention.

“You’ve played before, you said?” Thompson asked in a breathless voice.

“Yes. At University.”

“Really. Where?”

“Cambridge.” Knighton slipped under Thompson’s guard and pressed the button at the tip of his blade against his opponent’s chest.

He immediately disengaged and bowed, giving Knighton a nod. “Again?”

He agreed and they parried. “Lady Howard said you spoke to her last summer about her daughter.”

Thompson slipped.

Knighton’s button hit his left shoulder.

“Another?”

“Certainly.” Knighton readied himself. However, Thompson hung back, forcing him to initiate the next engagement. “Is it true? You indicated earlier you’d danced with Miss Howard at Almack’s.”

“I did. I…had considered her. At one time.”

Knighton’s blade slid off Thompson’s edge with a slicing sound. “Then, why? Why did you treat her so badly? A woman you planned to marry?”

Charging forward, Thompson's blade rasped along his, seeking to slip under his guard. Knighton parried and stepped back.

“What would you have done?” he replied, breathing harshly through his mouth. “If you found the woman you lov—planned to marry in another man’s bed? Undressed?”

Knighton grunted. He pressed Thompson until he stumbled into the rack of swords against the back wall.

A sudden image of Prudence Barnard drugged, her dark, unbound hair spilling over a white pillow distracted him. A flash of anger nearly caused him to lose his advantage. Thompson pushed past and circled into the open center of the room.

When he didn’t respond, Thompson continued, “How could I offer for her? After that? I was furious. Anyone would be. Any
decent
man.”

“Perhaps.” Personally, Knighton would have been more inclined to kill Henry Crowley on the spot. Particularly after what he knew of him. So it was good such an eventuality had never arisen.

“In any event, it no longer matters. She won’t speak to me.”

“Hardly surprising—”

“What would you do?”

Knighton almost replied he certainly wouldn’t have forced himself on a drugged woman. “I’d speak to her mother. Then do the honorable thing. Miss Howard may not get the best solution to her situation, but it may suffice. If you marry her.” He paused. “Have you considered the possibility of another complication in a few months’ time?”

Thompson gave up all pretence of dueling and stood with his sword point directed at his right foot. He shook his head. “It was only once.”

“Once is sufficient.”

“Good God, that’s not possible! She was drugged, she barely even knew….”

“What you were doing? Does that matter?”

“Of course! A woman cannot conceive if she experiences no pleasure—”

Knighton laughed and shook his head. “Superstitious nonsense.”

“Don't be offensive, sir!” The flush staining Thompson's sharp cheekbones deepened. “And damn Crowley to Hell! If it wasn’t for him—”

“He led and you followed? Is that it?”

“Do you honestly believe I’d have done this if left alone? He always instigated the most wretched—” he broke off, pressing his lips together.

Knighton nodded sharply. “And you obligingly let him lead. As usual.”

A trio of indolent, spoiled young men who liked things easy, Crowley, Thompson and Denham. Of the three, Denham seemed the least influenced, or corrupted, by Crowley. In Thompson’s case, he followed, perhaps not always joyfully, but he didn’t object. He allowed himself to be manipulated into ruining a young woman he once intended to marry.

Was that what interested Crowley?

The ability to convince others to do things they found distasteful, or even abhorrent? While he watched from a safe and comfortable distance. From all accounts, he was a weak man who did not like confrontation. Such men often enjoyed any evidence of their ability to exert some measure of control over others.

Thompson tossed his blade into the case on the floor. Then he walked abruptly toward the door. He mumbled under his breath and threaded his hands through his carefully arranged brown hair, clearly wrestling with his conscience. From the back, his sloped, hunched shoulders gave him the appearance of an elderly man although he was only thirty-four.

Finally, he picked up his case and strode out, ignoring Knighton.

After a few feints at one of the sand dummies, Knighton yanked off his shirt. He ran it over his face and neck, feeling ancient, himself. Shaking the material out, he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“Oh! I beg your pardon!” Miss Barnard said, blushing furiously. She turned sideways hastily, hardly daring to cast quick glances in his direction.

He stared at her, his shirt in his hands, taking in her startled face. “Were you looking for me?”