Chapter 31
Their temporary accommodation was called Furlong.
Lochranza presumed the owner to be a racing man.
Dressed in a dark grey silk dress with a pleated frill around the bottom, Lady Lochranza Kildare sat at a writing bureau in front of the French doors at the back of the house.
She wasn’t really writing to anyone. She just wished to appear that way when her first visitor arrived – whoever it might be.
Helen brought her cold milk.
‘They have an icehouse here, so I cracked off a piece and put it in this here glass. Drink it quickly. It will cool your stomach.’
Lochranza eyed the milk cautiously. If it did stay down, it would be the first thing since mid-morning.
‘And I’ve let out your stays.’
‘I don’t wear stays.’
‘You might do shortly. It will keep the obvious at bay a while longer.’
It surprised Lochranza that Helen knew her secret, guessing at the cause of the intestinal problem before she’d had breathed a word.
Servants always know more about their employers’ personal matters than they did.
‘You must promise not to tell anyone.’
Helen drew in her chin. ‘It’s nobody else’s business. Just us two know and it stays that way.’
The heels of Helen’s feet kicked at the hem of her dress as she stalked out, as though angry that Lochranza had ever presumed she would disclose personal secrets.
Lochranza smiled. Helen was a wonderful person.
Never had a person understood her needs so well.
She also knew something drastic must be done if her reputation was not to be ruined.
For once in her life, Lochranza was surrounded by people who didn’t give a jot about her reputation.
Only rich folk really cared about things like that.
But there would be recriminations if she didn’t do something about her burgeoning waistline – and quickly.
Writing to Ethan would be the right thing to do, telling him that he was to become a father and perhaps they should do something about getting married after all.
However, her stubborn pride would not allow her to beg his forgiveness.
She missed him lying beside her, but too many things had reared up between them.
As if everything wasn’t topsy turvy enough, her confession about spying on him had added insult to injury. She hadn’t realised just how much he cared for his new country; in fact he’d even talked about jettisoning his title altogether and selling off his estates in England and Scotland.
‘Even my kilt,’ he’d said to her.
Getting rid of land and his kilt? Amusing, though she couldn’t quite believe he would do that. Few peers of the realm would jettison their family’s entitlement for the love of a new country, still less for the love of a woman for that matter.
She touched her stomach tentatively. After so many trysts, conception had finally taken place, and she knew just when it had occurred.
She had no doubt the child she was carrying had been conceived in that angry moment when she’d admitted spying on him, when she’d accused him of lusting after Venus, the girl who it turned out was his daughter, after he’d slapped her face and sent her flying to the ground.
Did she care about her reputation? Not one jot! This child would not be the first to be born to a high lady out of wedlock. Money could buy the child a secure future – whatever she decided.
* * *
The morning dragged on and nothing happened except that she became increasingly impatient.
For the twentieth time in as many minutes, she raised her eyes to the clock.
It was eleven o’clock. Nobody had come calling yet.
Early of course, but surely somebody should have called by now, or at least sent a note, a calling card, a servant with an invitation to visit them.
No such thing had happened. No sign of her half-siblings who hated the very fact that she was alive.
A sense of unease overtook her. What if nobody came? What if her family had totally disowned her for the reason she suspected? Illegitimacy. A bastard daughter of a shamed mother.
What do I care whether I was born one side of the blanket or the other? I have a life most people would envy.
Unease was threatened by melancholy. I still want to know. No child should be exposed to such horror as I was. I want to face these people and know who was responsible and why.
All day, she waited for the sound of a carriage, but none came. What were they doing? she wondered. Plotting to arrive in the middle of the night and finish the task they had so long been contemplating?
No. Not them. They were more likely to send others to do their dirty work. Violent men like those that had done away with Mama Molly.
Thinking of her, Lochranza got out the recipe book her old nurse had valued as though it were a Bible. The cover was stained and shabby. The inside pages were yellowed and becoming crisp with age.
Her fingers trailed over the strange writing that seemed not quite letters but sticklike figures, hardly drawings. Like the scribbling of a child. Mama Molly’s hand had created this and whatever their significance, nobody could understand what they represented except the person who had written it.
The light began to fade, sunset throwing the last rays from a crimson sky.
Deciding to give it one more try, she took the book to the window.
No matter how much light fell on the dancing figures, she failed to decipher their meaning.
Perhaps recipes for curses and cures were all they were, and quite frankly there was no real reason for thinking they were anything else. So why did she expect something more?
It all went back to Lord Alexander Kildare. It was his job to know things of interest to Britain. Molly could barely read and write; were these marks her pretending she was writing? Unless…
Screwing her eyes up tight, Lochranza scrutinised the figures more closely until they were no longer dancing figures but small crosses with tinier marks at the end of them.
She looked back to the writing desk where she’d seen a magnifying glass.
‘Where is it?’ she muttered to herself as she opened and slammed shut drawers. There was nothing.
‘Damn it!’
She paused, Ethan entering her thoughts; that’s exactly what he said when things weren’t going his way.
Banish him, said one voice in her head. Forgive, said another. She shook her head in an attempt to subdue feelings she refused to acknowledge.
Concentrate on the job in hand.
She searched again.
‘Molly, what was it you were trying to say…? Tell me!’
As if by magic, the magnifying glass came instantly to hand. Taking the implement and the book back into the light from the window, she once again concentrated on the tiny squiggles.
Looking through it, she saw clearly that these were not figures at all but chart coordinates.
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d seen marks like this before.
They were smaller but identical to the ones she’d seen Captain Crabbe drawing on his sea charts as they’d made their way down the eastern seaboard.
Holding the glass and book loosely in her hand, she gazed out at the setting sun at the same time recalling historical details from that time. Britain had been at war with the French, she remembered that much.
Sometimes she’d gone into the back of a shop that sold quality hats with big feathers and silk flowers. She could not recall Molly ever buying one, and if that was the case… and anyway, it was only a very vague memory.
The shadows within the room lengthened. Helen had not come to light the candles. In a way she didn’t want them lit just yet. If she did, she would be seen, perhaps by those who meant her harm. In darkness she could hide. ‘Have you worked it out yet?’
Startled, she clasped the journal to her chest. She had not heard anyone knock or the door open. She gasped when she saw who it was.
‘You!’
His iron-grey hair was turning white, and his weathered face had acquired deeper wrinkles. He still had an aura of strength and purpose. No matter how old he got, he would always have that, she thought.
Captain Joseph O’Neill smiled. ‘Do you mind if an old man takes the weight off his legs?’
‘I thought you were dead. Why hadn’t I heard anything from you?’ She couldn’t help the irritation that had crept into her voice. He was her angel, her guardian, the man who had a care for her safety.
O’Neill sank into a chair. It was a languid move that took his hand across his eyes, rubbing them, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘I am still alive. Just.’
Lochranza frowned. ‘This house is yours?’
A strangled laugh escaped his throat. ‘Can you really see me owning a place like this?’ He shook his head. ‘Pink is not my colour. I prefer green.’
Setting the book and glass carefully to one side, Lochranza sank into a chair, her eyes never leaving the familiar face.
O’Neill pre-empted further questioning about the house.
‘This place belongs to your old friend Asherwood. His father left it to him in a somewhat dilapidated state and so the gay young man had it refurbished and redecorated. A shame he has such a liking for pink! His father must be turning in his grave,’ he remarked whilst viewing the room with distaste.
Asherwood! She recalled him from the last ball at Cleveland Court. A man who had hinted at a marriage of convenience. They liked each other and despite his inclinations being elsewhere, the idea had offered the attraction of them both pursuing a private life.
‘By the way, he gave me a key, so don’t be blaming your girl for not announcing me. Anyway, like your father, I never did like warning folk of my approach, preferring the stealthier option every time.’
His face turned abruptly to the window and raising a hand, signalled for her to be quiet.
‘What is it?’
He got up somewhat stiffly from the chair and after looking out into the twilight, pulled the shutters closed. He lit the candles, the flickering light angulating his features.
‘A precaution. No need to be alarmed. They must know I’m here.’
‘My relatives. My enemies.’
‘That’s about it.’