4. Chapter 4
William left Alton the day after the funeral for his grandmother’s house in Weymouth.
Contrary to his expectations, his father made no other attempt to persuade him to stay.
He even let him use his travelling chariot and a team from the late Earl’s stables for his journey, despite the fact that seeking Grandmama’s support went directly against his wishes.
As the carriage pulled away from Holybourne House, he glanced at the black band on his arm. It was a reminder of how much had changed in the last few days. He yanked it off and stuffed it into his satchel. But though he tried to ignore it, his life would never be the same.
The vehicle trundled along at a depressingly low speed for over an hour.
William wished he had followed Keating’s advice and hired a fresh team at the Swan in Alton rather than using his uncle’s horses for the first stage.
He should have trusted his groom’s opinion instead of being taken in by the animals’ showy appearance.
Was he as poor a judge of horseflesh as his uncle?
If his sister Eliza learned of his mistake, he would never live it down.
He had been in such a hurry to get away that he hadn’t wanted to stop. A lot of good that had done him. They wouldn’t reach Weymouth before dark if they didn’t hire a better team at Alresford.
Before they reached the first change, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Why had they stopped? There had been no jolt, so he doubted they could have lost a wheel. Had one of his uncle’s horses gone lame?
He unhooked the leather strap, lowered the window glass, and stuck his head out to ask Keating what had happened. A man in military uniform approached the vehicle. Curious, William got out of the carriage to meet him.
“I assume you’re responsible for our halt. What’s the problem?”
“Escaped prisoners, sir.”
“It’s Lord Droxford,” replied William, as if saying it aloud would make it seem more like his name.
“Sorry, my lord,” the man said. “I didn’t realise.”
“No apology necessary.” He was still getting used to it himself. “Tell me about your runaway prisoners. Should I be alarmed they’ve broken out of jail? Are they dangerous?”
“You mistake me, my lord. Alresford is one of our parole towns. The men I’ve been charged to apprehend haven’t escaped from any cell.
They’re prisoners of war, and while not dangerous in the regular way, they pose a threat to our country.
Two French officers missed the muster-call this morning and can’t be found.
We’ve been ordered to search every vehicle on the road. Do you mind if we look inside yours?”
“Not at all, though I can assure you there aren’t any Bonapartists hiding in there,” William said with a laugh.
The officer chortled along with him and then nodded to a couple of soldiers who gave a cursory glance through the open door to check it was empty.
“Did you honestly expect to find someone?” William asked.
“No. I daresay they are long gone. Taken away to the coast by a smuggler-agent or his men.”
“I thought smugglers only brought goods into England.”
“I wish that were the case, but they can make enough money from helping Frenchies get home that some are persuaded to go against their own country. It’s a highly organised operation. I don’t suppose you saw anyone loitering by the road?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He called up to his man. “Did you see anything, Keating?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Then I’ll let you continue on your way, my lord. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No problem. You’re just doing your duty.”
The words stuck with William as the carriage pulled away again. Duty. They were doing their duty—but was he?
Father had asked for his help, and he had refused. Should he return to Holybourne House and offer to stay?
The thought pricked William’s conscience, but he dismissed it in a flash. It was becoming a habit with him to ignore those uncomfortable inner promptings when they conflicted with his desires. They disappeared soon enough.
It was easy to sympathise with the escaped French officers. They had only been doing their duty, and now they were paying for it. How humiliating to have your movements restricted and be subject to curfews and muster-calls.
If William had stayed in Alton, he would have felt as confined as these men had been. No wonder they had risked trying to escape. He couldn’t blame them. Because that’s exactly what he had done.
The rest of the journey passed without incident, and William was relieved when the carriage started down the road from Dorchester toward Weymouth. He hoped his grandmother was not dining from home. He was starving!
Like a child on his first trip to the seaside, he lowered the window glass and leaned out as the vehicle mounted the crest of the hill, eager to glimpse the sea.
It had been too long since he had last visited Weymouth. He’d not come during his years up at Cambridge. He was a man now, not a boy. No one would recognise him unless the white-blond hair that was so like his father’s gave him away.
William breathed in the salty air as the carriage passed through the turnpike gate and bowled along the Esplanade. It drew to a stop outside his grandmother’s house on the seafront.
It was odd how he always thought of it as hers, never the Duke’s. But then, if his mother was to be believed, his grandmother had been a force to reckon with long before she married the Duke of Wessex.
A liveried footman whom he didn’t recognise opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
William did not correct him. He would run away from his title and all that went with it if he could. “Is Her Grace at home?”
“No, sir.”
How like his grandmother—engaging in a busy social life, even at her advanced age. “When do you expect her back?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
That was no surprise. Grandmama still employed tight-lipped servants. Doubtless she paid them an exorbitant sum to maintain their loyalty. He’d have to ask her advice when he set up his own establishment.
He took a step forward, but the servant barred his way. How amusing. The young fellow didn’t know who he was. William was tempted to keep it like that—wasn’t anonymity what he wanted, after all? Perhaps he should put up at the Golden Lion.
Before he could retreat, an older man, dressed in black, appeared in the hall behind the footman. William recognised him at once—Mr Rowson, his grandmother’s long-standing man of business. He would not have to take rooms at the inn after all.
“Is there a reason you’re keeping Her Grace’s grandson on the doorstep, Matthew?”
The poor fellow flinched at his superior’s voice and bowed twice before throwing the door open wide.
A lopsided smile crept to William’s lips at Mr Rowson’s incredulous tone and the extreme reaction of the younger man.
His grandmother’s trusted servant resumed his normal, impassive manner as he addressed William. “Good afternoon, Lord Droxford. A pleasure to see you, as always.”
The name caught him off guard—again. So much for anonymity. News of his father’s elevation to the peerage had already reached Weymouth.
“Thank you, Rowson.”
With a slight motion of his head, the man drew the attention of the hapless servant, who seemed to have fallen into a stupor. “Matthew—his lordship’s luggage.”
“Right away, Mr Rowson. I’m sorry for keeping his lordship waiting. I didn’t know we were expecting him today.”
“An accomplished footman always expects an unexpected guest.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man scurried down the steps to do as he was bid, whilst Mr Rowson took William’s coat and hat and led him into the entry hall.
“I apologise for Matthew. He’s only been with us for a week.”
“No matter. It’s a relief to find someone here who can vouch for me,” William said with a smile. “I trust you are able to inform me when Her Grace will be returning home?”
“I regret to say that the Duke and Duchess left for Lord Helston’s estate in Plymouth this morning, your lordship.”
They’d gone to visit their daughter? Botheration. That was a decided setback. He would have to travel to Devon if he wished to talk to his grandmother about financing his studies at the Royal Academy, and he wasn’t setting out again tonight.
Come to think of it, even if he went, he would be hard pressed to secure a private conversation with her.
Augusta and her newborn son would monopolise all Grandmama’s attention.
With a twinge of something akin to jealousy, he realised he could no longer claim to be the Duchess of Wessex’s favourite grandson. He wasn’t used to having competition.
As William sloshed water over his face and replaced his travel-stained clothes, he pondered what he should do. There was no question of him returning to Alton, but should he go after his grandmother or stay here?
Mr Rowson was waiting in the hall when he came back downstairs and followed him into the drawing room.
“It is good to see you again,” William said, “but I’m surprised Her Grace didn’t take you with her to Plymouth.”
“Those days are behind us, my lord. My wife and I live in Weymouth all year around now. Our eldest son has assumed my position at the Duchess’s side, and as he has an understanding with Her Grace’s maid, it is an arrangement that suits everyone.
I regret to say that the Duchess has taken her French cook with her, but Mrs Rowson is putting together a few courses which I hope you will find to your taste. ”
He’d assumed he wouldn’t starve but was thankful all the same. “I am honoured that your wife has stepped into the breach on my behalf.”
“It is our pleasure to serve the Duchess and her family.”
Mr Rowson handed him a letter bearing his grandmother’s seal. “Her Grace left this for you, should you visit whilst she was in Plymouth.”
Sprawled in one of the armchairs, with his long legs stretched out in front of him, he broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
My dearest William,