Chapter Thirty-Nine
Having had to spend time in London unexpectedly, Andrew Fielding still had a few commissions to complete that would take him away from home.
A fond new husband had engaged him to paint a portrait of his young wife, and another customer, a long-time husband more interested in his animals than his spouse, wanted Andrew to paint a picture of a heifer he had raised according to feeding recommendations from Charles Townshend.
Her diet had been enriched with turnips and linseed oil cake to the point where she now weighed over three hundred stone.
The possession of a horse made Andrew’s travel easier, and he said he shouldn’t be away for more than a few days.
“I think we should delay the reading of the banns,” said Cynthia, “in case you’re not back by Sunday.”
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” replied Andrew, drawing down the sides of his mouth so he looked like a sad clown.
“Not about marrying you, no,” laughed Cynthia, “but about being the object of even more gossip, yes. I can’t face having the banns read in the church without you by my side. People would wonder why you weren’t there and make up all sorts of stories. You’ve already seen how they are.”
“Delay them if you must, my dearest,” said Andrew. “Just as long as you’re not thinking of jilting me. Tell you what, I’ll paint a sign and hang it above the church door declaring I love you and am going to marry you as soon as humanly possible.”
Cynthia laughed again. “Don’t you dare!” she said.
The vicar agreed to delay the banns, and when Andrew wasn’t back by the following Sunday, Cynthia deliberately set out early for church.
She was in her pew before the majority of the worshipers came in, and she waited until everyone had gone before leaving for home.
She sat with her head bowed as if in prayer, so no one approached her looking for confirmation of the gossip they’d heard.
That wouldn’t have put Harriet off, but she was away on her wedding trip, a fact for which Cynthia was deeply grateful.
The person who did cause a stir was Ben Vernon, who appeared with a huge bruise on one side of his face. It was at the yellow and purple stage, which made it even more visible.
“She clouted you one, then?” joked one of the men.
“Nah, walked into a door,” he replied, sullenly.
He wouldn’t have come to church at all, but had already failed to sweep up the leaves in the churchyard and chop wood for the stove that provided a minimal heat, and feared losing his job. At least when the vicar’s wife saw his face, he would have an explanation for his dereliction of duty.
It was a chilly morning, and since the stove hadn’t been lit, it was as cold inside the church as out.
Thinking longingly of a nice fire and a good dinner, no one was inclined to linger after the service.
Cynthia was able to leave without being accosted by anyone.
She had told Ruby and Will to take the gig, and not even noticing the cold, walked home, lost in the happy dream of becoming Mrs. Fielding.
Ben Vernon and his gig came nowhere near her.
She lived in the same happy dream, forgetting things and not hearing when people spoke to her, until Andrew arrived back in the middle of the week, apologizing for the delay.
It was caused, he said, by his having made the mistake of drawing a kitten belonging to the daughter of the last house he was in.
He’d done it because the animal reminded him of Teacup, who was at that moment winding herself around his legs and giving little mews of delight at seeing him.
But then he’d been besieged by other people wanting drawings of their pets.
It had cost him another day. But now he was done, he said, collapsing in his chair by the fire.
He wasn’t going anywhere again until the spring.
But he spoke too soon. Two days later, Tim Turner, accompanied as always by the faithful Sam, turned up with another letter from London. It was addressed to His Lordship Andrew Fielding, Earl of Doncaster.
“I dint know ’oo it were,” said Tim, “but Rolly, ’e said ’twere Mr. Andrew, the one what does pitchers. ’E done my Sam, ’e did. Rolly said ’e were goin’ ter ’ang ’im on a nail. But ’e never.”
Cynthia looked at the name on the letter and her stomach turned over.
In a daze, she shut the door in Tim’s face without giving him the tip he confidently expected.
He walked disconsolately towards the gate and met Andrew coming around the side of the house.
He’d been helping Will put sacking over the more tender plants.
“Miss Rowley dint like the letter I brung,” he said. “She dint give me nuthin’. She use’ly gives me a penny.”
Andrew sought in his pocket and brought out a thrupenny piece.
“This is because she knew I’d give you this instead,” he said. “Was the letter for her or for me?”
“Rolly said ’twere fer you, but I dint unnerstand it.”
“Thank you for bringing it,” said Andrew, bending to pat Sam on the head, “Let’s hope it’s good news.”
He was to be disappointed. He frowned when he read the name on the letter Cynthia wordlessly handed him.
“It’s a mistake,” he said, shaking his head.
But when he read the letter, the color left his face.
“Is it bad news?” asked Cynthia anxiously.
“My brother’s dead,” answered Andrew. “But the worst is that he was the Earl of Doncaster. I’m next in line. I’m afraid I am now the Earl. I have to go back to London.”