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“Clarissa, my dear?” the Duchess asked gently, approaching with a smile, though it was at Stanhope, who was following behind her, that I smiled. “It is time to say farewell to your family. Their conveyances are waiting.”
“My granddaughter is coming home with us,” snarled Sir Mordecai, grabbing my other arm. “She is going to marry Basil and save the Hall. She is a Wentworth! She will behave as one!” More spittle flew from his mouth and his grip on my arm made Basil’s feel like a tender caress. “She has to save the name. The title. We must have an heir... The Wentworth name...”
He said a great deal more, but it was lost in a fount of nonsense and garble as his entire being twisted and distorted and he fell to the parquet floor, frothing at the mouth, pulling me down beside him with an undiminished grip. Stanhope and the Duke both worked instantly to free me not only from Sir Mordecai’s grasp but from Basil’s as well.
I remember little more of that night. Sir Mordecai’s body lived until dawn, though those of us who were with him will always believe that he, his spirit, the essence of his being, died as he fell. The Duchess rushed me up to bed, conscripted Patience to stay with me and shooed the remaining guests on their way. One of my few rational thoughts was that Her Grace would have been an asset to Wellington.
Chapter Eight
Life had changed by the time I awoke late the next morning. Patience had been sent to Wentworth Hall to bring me some things. In spite of the fact that they had protested both my staying and their leaving, Aunt Lucinda and Mountjoy and the rest had eventually departed - though all promised most emphatically to return the next day.
As I found out later, Basil departed almost immediately at Stanhope’s somewhat forceful urging. He was packed and gone from Wentworth Hall before dawn, never, as far as I knew, to be heard of again. Stanhope told me later Basil had been cutting it very fine with some very unsavoury characters and the knowledge of my permanent repudiation of his suit - and the resultant loss of my fortune - had sent him scurrying into oblivion. The Wentworth title was, as a result, held in abeyance – unless Basil’s death could be proven, no one else could inherit. Which left Aunt Lucinda and the others inhabiting the place, in a steadily worsening poverty. I could not find it in me to pity them.
Ah, Stanhope. What can I say about Stanhope? I had been attracted to him as I had never been to any man from our first meeting, but during the days the Duke and Duchess insisted that I stay at Hawker’s Rest, our acquaintanceship grew into real friendship. Oh, the attraction on my part didn’t fade; it only intensified, but his light and friendly manner did not change. I could not tell what he was feeling, beyond the caring attitudes of a friend. It was intensely frustrating.
The Duchess coddled me as if we were the oldest of bosom-bows, refusing to let me do anything unassisted. Patience came back later that same day, bringing everything I owned with her. I was delighted to see that not only had she brought all of her things as well, but that the Duchess welcomed her with every evidence of pleasure as if she had been the most honoured of guests.
“I thought that you would not want to return to the Hall,” Patience said apologetically. “It is not a very pleasant place now.”
I assured her that she was correct, and that she was very welcome to stay with me. I never wanted to see Wentworth Hall again, nor - with the exception of Patience - any of its residents. Not that my desires meant anything. Of course, Aunt Lucinda and Mountjoy came to visit every day, each time urging my return, and even Great Aunt Zipporah, naturally accompanied by Edwin, made the effort.
It was as if they all knew that my betrothal to Stanhope was a sham, as both Mountjoy and Edwin ventured deeper and deeper into a morass of courting rituals, each with ever-stronger determination.
If Stanhope had been a true fiancé, I would have hoped that he would extend himself to protecting me from such exigencies, but whenever Mountjoy or Edwin appeared - always in the company of their individual supporters - he made a moment or two of graceful conversation and then faded away, leaving me to their mercy. He was always pleasant, always friendly, but there was no humanity in it - no closeness.
I realised what was going on, of course; this had started only as a pretend betrothal, and since his heart was obviously not involved, he was doing this only as a kindness to me.
It would never do to admit - to him, to anyone - that I desperately wished it could be different, that our betrothal was true. I was ashamed of my feelings. Father had always cautioned me against falling in love; it was irrational, he said. It could destroy your life. He had loved my mother intensely, and her death had almost killed him as well. Only the duty of a young daughter to raise, I believe, kept him from.... from doing something awful. The lung sickness which took him had been much worse in others, yet they had survived; he almost seemed to welcome Death’s dark embrace, as if he knew that my mother was waiting for him on the other side.
He had been right. As I had completed the mission which had brought me to England - seen the place my father had called home - and narrowly avoided being an unwilling sacrifice to Sir Mordecai’s obscene pride, there was nothing to hold me here. I was not looking forward to the long, tedious and definitely uncomfortable trip home, and neither was I looking forward to leaving this small part of England... more honestly, Robert, Viscount Stanhope... but I could stay no longer.
I had been resident at Hawker’s Rest for almost a month when I announced my decision to the Duchess and Patience. The Duchess was horrified, but Patience seemed actually glad that she would at last get to America.
“But why?” Her Grace asked. “Are you not content here?” We were sitting on the terrace, watching the sun create a pattern of black lace as it sank lazily behind the trees that ringed the expansive lawn.
“Indeed I am. I am most content here, but you cannot expect me to stay forever. I really should go home.”
“You have not been here long at all. Are you not enjoying your visit? Miss Barwick, you must convince her differently. We cannot bear to think of your leaving.”
Patience looked around and gave a little sigh.
“It is certainly most beautiful here, Your Grace, but I own I am excited at the prospect of seeing the New World. Clarissa has insisted that when she leaves, I go with her.”
The Duchess made a moue of distaste, then shrugged elegantly.
“I can only hope that your tiresome aunt selling that horse has not influenced your decision.”
Her Grace took a delicate sip of wine.
I gasped, a veil of sorrow touching my heart. Sad that the loss of a horse meant more to me than Sir Mordecai’s death, but that was the way of things. I could not be dishonest in my own heart.
“Saracen? Sold? But I offered her...”
“Apparently she blames that horse for what happened, for your rebellion and worse, your refusal to accept the joys of becoming her beloved Percival’s bride - and banker,” Her Grace said in what, in a lesser personage, might have been called spiteful tones. “Had the family not been in such dire financial straits she probably would have ordered him shot.”
Yes, I could see a vengeful Aunt Lucinda doing such a heinous thing.
I sighed.
