‘Where does that leave us?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’ll depart your estate for good after the funeral if you want me to, but I won’t give up Dora or my profession.’
Arthur frowned, clearly unable to see why a woman would mean so much to Jacob. ‘Things must change around here. Father let things slide. You don’t appear to understand what a huge responsibility I’ve taken on. I need both my brothers to support the family name in society, to raise it, not drag it through the mud.’
Jacob scrubbed his hand across his face, trying to erase the tension in his features. ‘I’m not going to be your lackey, Arthur. I will live my own life.’
‘Lackey is an unfortunate choice of words,’ said William quickly, ‘but, believe me, Jacob is very highly regarded in government circles for his endeavours.’ He had finally found a helpful argument.
‘He is?’ asked Arthur dubiously.
‘Oh, yes. Even Lord Liverpool has said some complimentary things about him to those in the know.’
‘There’s a role for people like me,’ said Jacob. ‘Someone discreet and trusted. You’ll be surprised how many in society come to me when they’ve got a problem– and by extension to Dora. A woman’s touch is invaluable in many investigations.’
‘He is building up the influence of the Sandys family in an unorthodox but very effective way,’ added William.
‘The Prime Minister approves?’ Arthur took off his top hat and ran his hands through his hair before replacing it. ‘Then I suppose there’s only one thing I can do.’
‘Oh, yes?’ asked Jacob warily.
‘I’ll have to meet this Dora Fitz-Pennington and make up my own mind.’
‘And if you dislike her?’ asked Jacob.
‘Then steps will be taken.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I think it best that I am not, not at this time.’ Arthur nodded, decision made, as he began a cautious descent to the beach.
ChapterFour
Loughrigg Tarn
Left to her own devices, Dora enjoyed playing house in Jacob’s cottage, imagining what it would be like to have a home like this. ‘Cottage’ was something of a misnomer. To her it looked like a substantial farmhouse, double fronted with four windows either side of the entrance and one over the door. She’d counted four bedrooms and four rooms downstairs. There was also an artist’s studio in the attic, and he’d made the room on the ground floor to the right of the entrance his library. It was where he displayed his collection of antiquities. The cottage had said goodbye to its rural origins and become a gentleman’s residence. She’d sat in the library the night before, gazing at the stuffed shelves and glass cabinets, but she’d delayed examining them any closer as she feared she would find her work among the manuscripts he’d gathered. It felt like a bomb with the fuse lit in their relationship as she knew how opposed he was to her supplementary profession of forger of literary hands. She saw it as a harmless way of making ends meet, far preferable to offering herself as a courtesan as others in her position did. His protestations that she was damaging the historical record seemed overblown to her, though she dared not tell him. Who really cared if a few letters from Donne, Herbert and Pope turned up? He did, but few others shared his scruples. Perhaps now, with him away, would be the best time to winkle any forgeries out and defuse the bomb?
Or would he think she was intruding if she went poking about? Would that cause equal offence?
Uncertain, she took a basin of peas out to the little bench by the front step and began shelling, bunching her skirts above her knees so her legs could enjoy the sun. She slipped off her shoes and wriggled her toes in the grass. Relationships, particularly those in their early stages, were tricky things to negotiate, she mused. Rather than fret, it was wiser to turn to doing something practical. Jacob’s garden had gone wild in his absence, but she had found these pods growing among the weeds. Perhaps she would tend the garden instead. That was a task she could do that would cheer him up. Of course, she could still weed his collection, but she couldn’t make them vanish because he catalogued everything very carefully. Telling him some of his prizes had no more veracity than Ossian’s verse would not lift his spirits. Better to delay the reckoning.
Leaning back in the sun, she enjoyed a moment of peace, doubly joyful after persuading herself out of a disagreeable task. This really was a blessed spot– a little cup of a valley with a perfect tarn in the bottom, today glinting blue-grey under the clear sky. The hue reminded her of Jacob’s eyes. Born and bred in the area, it seemed fitting he should appear to have been made from it too.
She ran a nail down a pod and liberated six perfect peas nestled inside. How was he getting on with his family? She had not met his elder brother and mother, but she disliked them already for cutting him out of his father’s last moments. If she’d gone with him, she probably would have said something blunt that would confirm all their fears about women of her class.
Not that there had been any question she could go with the man she loved to be with him at this difficult moment. The world was perverse that way.
To distract herself from her annoyance, she popped a fresh pea in her mouth and savoured the flavour– a burst of summer. She should regard it as a relief to have a little time to herself. She should use it for planning her future. She had peas to pod, weeds to pull and books to read– not a bad holiday.
When she next looked up, she noticed a woman walking along the track on the far side of the tarn. It wasn’t unusual to see locals using this route to pick up their letters from Ambleside, but there was something familiar about her. Dora got up and shaded her eyes. The walker spotted her and waved.
‘Ruby?’ called Dora.
‘Dora!’ came the reply.
What on earth was Ruby Plum doing in Loughrigg? It was like finding a blue macaw landing among the local crows. Ruby was supposed to be on stage with the theatrical touring company Dora had left in April. Had Mr Thomas sent her to make a plea for Dora to return?
Dora put aside the basin, slipped on her shoes and went to meet her friend. Ruby was wearing a turquoise bonnet that framed her ink-black hair and pert face with her Wedgwood-blue eyes, a combination that emphasised her beauty. By contrast, her sprigged muslin gown was in a pitiable state, mud-stained at the hem, evidence of a long journey. Ruby had the prettiness of a porcelain doll, but an earthy sense of humour that prevented her from ever being insipid. She carried a bag strapped across her body, and was she…?
Ruby was expecting.
