Lady of Shame
Autore
Ann Lethbridge
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HarlequinChapter One
When Claire was a child, the house at Castonbury Park had seemed as cold as the stones in its walls. Today, as she paused halfway down the combed gravel drive, the stairs sweeping around each side of the columned portico welcomed her like open arms. The facade, with its swagged decorations and artistically placed statues, gleamed pale yellow in the weak January sunlight and promised sanctuary within its solemn splendour.
Home.
It looked so solid. So impregnable. So safe. Shivering against the north wind gusting down from the Peaks, Claire allowed herself to believe she had made the right choice. If not, she didn’t know what she would do. Where she would go next.
At her side, gripping her hand, her daughter, Jane, stared at the house. Seven years old and already her grey eyes were wise and world-weary. ‘This is where you grew up? It is huge.’
‘Yes,’ Claire said, resuming the long trudge to the front door. ‘This is where I lived when I was your age. Do not wander off, while you are here. It is a large place and it is easy to get lost.’
‘I won’t, Mama.’
Gravel crunched under their feet and the clean sharp smell of incipient snow filled Claire’s nostrils. She trod firmly. Confidently. Or at least she hoped her inner fears did not show.
It would have been so much better if they could have driven up to the door in a post chaise. More appropriate to her station. But they had no coin for such luxuries and, as Claire had learned these past eight years, what could not be cured must be endured. Instead they had taken the stage from London to Buxton and then accepted a ride in a farmer’s cart to Castonbury village. They had walked the rest of the way. To her surprise, the gatekeeper had let them pass on foot without question.
Were they always so lax about visitors? Did they let just anyone pass? She glanced over her shoulder. No one following. Nor would there be. Ernie Pratt knew only the assumed name George had invented after his brush with the law. She hoped.
Footsteps rustled behind them. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun around, pushing Jane behind her.
No one. There was no one there. Just leaves blowing across the park, tumbling across the gravel.
‘What is it?’ Jane asked.
‘Nothing,’ Claire said, relief filling her. ‘Nothing at all.’
Yet still she picked up her pace. Hurrying towards the front door and safety.
A quick swallow did nothing to ease the dryness in her throat as she looked up at stone Corinthian columns towering three stories above. A declaration of the Duke of Rothermere’s wealth and status. And his power.
Once she had resented that power, now it felt like a lifeline.
They passed beneath the arches hiding the ground floor rustic stonework and marched up to the black painted front door gleaming with brass fittings. The everyday door. Only for very special events did visitors climb the stairs to the grand entrance above.
The lion’s head door knocker glared at her in disapproval. Her heart thundered. No. She was not fearful. Definitely not. Just filled with the anticipation of seeing her brother after so many years. She lifted the ring in the great jaws and let the knocker fall with a bang that echoed in the entrance hall beyond.
No going back now. She was committed. For Jane’s sake. She smiled down at her daughter, who pressed tight up against her hip.
The door opened. A young footman in red-and-gold livery looked down his nose at them. ‘’Tis at the wrong door, you are. Don’t you people know nothing? Servants’ entrance is round the back of the west pavilion.’ He pointed to the left. ‘That there large block at the end.’
He slammed the door in their faces.
Shocked speechless, she recoiled. Her heart gave a horrid little dip. The footman thought her a servant. She glanced down at herself and Jane. They were respectably, if shabbily, dressed; her widow’s weeds had seen better days, and her skirts were dusty, wrinkled from their travels.
The doubts about their welcome attacked her anew. The seed of hope nurtured in her chest all the way from London shrivelled, sapping the strength that had sustained her once she had made up her mind to bury her pride and ask for help.
Should she knock again and risk a more violent rejection? What if none of the family were home? No one to endorse her claim?
‘Why did he close the door?’ Jane asked, her voice weary.
Why indeed. Might Crispin have left word she wasn’t to be admitted? She shivered. ‘I think he thought we were someone else.’
Jane tugged at her skirt. ‘What shall we do?’
She forced a confident smile. ‘Why, we will go around the back just as the nice man suggested.’ Perhaps there she would find a servant she knew. She retraced her steps back to the drive.
‘He wasn’t nice,’ Jane grumbled as they trudged along the walkway leading to the servants’ wing. ‘The farmer with the cart was nice. Why couldn’t we stay with him?’
‘Because he isn’t family.’
Jane looked up at the house, her face full of doubt. ‘I want to go home.’
‘This is our home.’ Claire hoped the anxiety fluttering in her stomach wasn’t apparent in her voice. She quickened her pace, heading away from the block for family and guests, feeling very much like a stranger who didn’t belong.
Another set of arches hid the kitchens and cellars and quarters for the staff. They stopped at a plain brown door. She squared her shoulders and rapped hard. This time she would not be turned away.
It opened. A waft of warmth hit her face along with a delicious scent of cooking. She swayed as it washed over her and she heard Jane sniff with appreciation.
A tall man in his mid-thirties wearing a chef’s white toque and a pristine white apron gazed at them down an aristocratic nose. At some point that haughty nose had been broken and badly set, resulting in a bump that only slightly ruined the elegant male beauty of hard angles and planes. Not English, she thought, taking in the olive cast to his complexion and jet hair.
Onyx eyes fringed with black lashes too thick and long for a man swiftly roved her person. They took in her undecorated bonnet, her black bombazine skirts and her scuffed half-boots. She had the feeling he could see all the way to her plain worn shift with that piercing dark glance.
Sympathy softened his harsh features. ‘Step inside, madame.’ His voice was deep and obviously foreign.
Giddy with relief, she almost fell over the threshold.
‘Careful, madame.’ A muscular arm, hard beneath the fabric of his coat, caught her up.
A thrill rippled through her body. A recognition of his male physical strength. Shocked, she pulled away.
He released her and stepped back as if he, too, had felt something at the contact. He gestured her forward into what must be the scullery with its dingy whitewashed walls and a large lead-lined sink.
‘Sit,’ he said. ‘At the table.’ He pulled back a bench.
Claire sank down, glad of the respite, while she gathered her wits. Jane hopped up beside her.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out. ‘Vite, allez.’
A young woman in a mob cap ran in from the larger room beyond. The kitchen proper, no doubt.
‘Bring soup and bread,’ he ordered.
The girl ducked her head and disappeared.
‘No, really,’ Claire managed, gathering her scattered wits. ‘I need to—’
‘It is fine, madame. No need to be anxious,’ he said. ‘You are hungry, non?’ he said, smiling at Jane.
‘Starving,’ the child replied with the honesty of youth.
‘You don’t understand,’ Claire said. ‘I need to speak to Mrs Stratton.’ She held her breath, hoping beyond hope that the housekeeper she’d known as a girl was still employed here.
‘She has no work. I am sorry, madame, all I am permitted is to offer you soup and send you on your way.’
Permitted? On whose orders? Heat rushed through her. So much heat, after coming in from outside. Her head spun. She tugged at the button of her coat, tried to undo the scarf around her neck. It tangled with her anxious fingers.
‘Are you ill?’ He crouched down and with strong competent hands worked at the knot. She could not help but stare at the handsome face so close to hers, so serious as he focused on the task at hand. Such a face might have modelled for an artist’s rendition of a Roman god of war. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin. Liquid fire ran through her veins. He glanced up, his eyes showing shock and awareness. His lips parted in a breathless sigh.
For one long moment it was as if nothing else existed in the world but the two of them.
Her skin tingled. Her body lit up from within.
He jerked back, his hands falling away. He swallowed. ‘It is free now.’ He rose to his feet and backed up a few steps, gesturing to the table. ‘You will feel better after you eat.’
Still shocked, she could only stare at him. How could she have responded to him in such a wanton way? Because he was handsome? Or because it was a long time since a man had shown her and Jane such kindness? In either case, it was not appropriate.
‘Soup sounds awfully good,’ Jane said wistfully.
‘No,’ Claire said, fighting to catch her breath. ‘I did not come here for food. Or work. I must speak with Mrs Stratton. Please tell her Lady Claire wishes to speak with her.’
Confusion entered his dark eyes. Followed swiftly by comprehension.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out. ‘At once.’
The girl popped her head back through the door. ‘I’m pouring the soup,’ she said. ‘Give a girl a minute.’
‘Never mind that. Fetch Mrs Stratton. Immédiatement.’
‘What? To see some vagabond?’ the girl said.
Claire stiffened.
The chef glowered. ‘Now.’
The maid tossed her head. ‘First you want soup. Now you want the housekeeper. Make up your mind, can’t you?’ She scampered off.
‘Can’t we have soup?’ Jane asked.
‘Later,’ Claire said. She wasn’t going to let anyone see them begging for food as if they really were vagabonds. They would eat in the dining room, like Montagues.
‘I apologise for the mistake.’ He grimaced. ‘We were not expecting you, I think?’
The apology gave her renewed hope. She offered him a smile. ‘It is my fault for coming to the scullery door.’
As he gazed at her face, his eyes darkened, his lips formed a straight line. ‘Madame is generous.’ He had transformed from a man who seemed warm and caring to one whose back was rigid and whose attitude was formal and distant. A huge gap opened up between them and they were now in their proper places. Or perhaps he would not think so, once he knew her story.
‘Madame Stratton will be with you shortly,’ he murmured. ‘You will excuse me, I think?’
Claire smiled her gratitude. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’
‘De rien. My pleasure.’ He bowed and left.
Pro forma, of course, but her thanks had been heartfelt even if her responses to his touch had been distinctly strange.
He had disappeared into the kitchen.
A strategic retreat.
Jane pressed a hand to her tummy. ‘I’m so hungry. Why did you say no to the soup? I can smell it.’
So could Claire. The scent was aromatic and utterly tempting. She was hungry too. It had been a permanent state of affairs these past few months. Recalling the very formal arrangements for family dining at Castonbury Park, she anticipated it would be hours before dinner was served. ‘We will ask for some tea and biscuits,’ she said. ‘As soon as we are invited in.’ If they were invited in.
Jane heaved a sigh, but folded her mittened hands in her lap and swung her legs back and forth.
Claire reached out and squeezed the small hands in hers. ‘It won’t be long.’ She prayed she was right.
At the sound of the tap of quick footsteps on the flags and the rustle of stiff skirts, Claire came to her feet, half fearful, half hopeful. Now she would know if she was welcome here or not.
Despite the grey now mingled with the blonde hair neatly confined within her cap and the new wrinkles raying out from the corners of her friendly blue eyes, Claire recognised the housekeeper at once.
The footman who had closed the front door in their faces only moments before peered over the housekeeper’s shoulder. ‘Saints, another one crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be a relative.’
‘Be quiet, Joe,’ Mrs Stratton said sharply. ‘Go back to your post at once.’
The footman glowered, but stomped off.
The housekeeper turned back to Claire, her kindly face showing surprise mingled with shock. No doubt she saw changes in Claire, too, but it was the shock of recognition and Claire felt a rush of relief.
‘Lady Claire. It is you.’ Genuine pleasure warmed the housekeeper’s voice as she dipped a curtsey. ‘And sent to the servants’ door too. I am so sorry about Joe. It is almost impossible to get good staff these days.’ This welcome was far warmer than she had ever dared hope.
‘It is Mrs Holte now,’ she said with a smile that felt stiff and awkward as her voice scraped against the hot hard lump that had formed in her throat. ‘I wasn’t sure you would remember my married name after all these years.’ If Mrs Stratton had heard it at all. The Montagues had cast her off the moment she had married. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Jane tugged on her arm.
She indicated the child. ‘Jane, this is Mrs Stratton.’ She smiled at the woman. ‘Jane is my daughter.’
Mrs Stratton dipped her head. ‘Welcome, Miss Jane. Are you hungry after your journey?’
‘Yes, if you please,’ Jane said. She glowered at Claire. ‘We almost had soup.’
Claire took her hand. ‘I would like to speak with my brother.’
‘I don’t believe His Grace is receiving today, but I will check. In the meantime, I will ask that tea be sent up to the small parlour.’ Her voice sounded a little strained. ‘I am sorry, but none of the other family members are in residence at the moment.’
Not receiving? Would this visit of hers be for nothing, after all? ‘Is His Grace unwell?’
‘He has been not been himself for a while. Worse since Lord Edward’s death, I’m afraid. He rarely sees anyone.’ She pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say more, but thought it unwise. Claire knew the feeling. How often had she stifled her words in George’s presence for fear of saying the wrong thing?
‘I read of Lord Edward’s demise in the papers after Waterloo. It must have been a dreadful blow after poor Lord Jamie such a short time before.’ She shook her head knowing how she would feel if anything happened to Jane. ‘Perhaps I should not have come unannounced.’ How could she have thought to impose when he was suffering such sorrow? ‘I will go.’
In that moment, she felt like a traveller who had walked miles only to be faced with a cliff she couldn’t possibly climb and had to retrace her steps and start all over again. Yet there had been no other path to take that she had been able to see. If she left now, she would never find the courage to come back. And she had so hoped she and Jane could stay, that they could finally have somewhere they could really call home after so many years of moving from place to place.
Mrs Stratton glanced down at the small valise and back at Claire.
What must the housekeeper think of her turning up here after all these years without any notice? Pride forced her spine straight. ‘I thought to seek my brother’s advice on a matter of importance while I was visiting in the district. I would have written requesting an audience had I realised he was indisposed.’
‘I know His Grace will wish to be informed of your arrival,’ Mrs Stratton said gently. ‘Later. I will ask Smithins to let him know you are here. In the meantime, may I show you to the parlour?’
Confused, Claire could do no more than smile and nod. She followed the housekeeper through the kitchen, with its gleaming pots and huge open fire. The chef looked up from a pot over the stove, his dark gaze meeting hers with an intensity that sent trickles of heat through her blood.
Unnerved by her strange reaction, she looked away and hurried after the housekeeper, along the servants’ corridor to the columned entrance hall and up the stairs into the family wing.
As they walked, Claire’s heartbeat returned to a more moderate rate and she was able to take in the familiar sights of her old home. Hope once more began to build. She ruthlessly tamped it down. The duke might yet toss her out of his house.
And if he did, somehow she would manage.
The small parlour was light and airy and faced south to get the afternoon sun. The blue paint on the walls contrasted delightfully with the heavy white and gilt ceiling mouldings. Landscapes and the occasional portrait decorated the walls, and tables were littered with Greek and Roman artefacts collected by her father as a young man on his grand tour.
She sat down on the gold-and-blue-striped sofa beside the hearth and Jane wriggled up beside her. ‘Do you think they will bring us something to eat soon?’
‘We can hope.’ She cupped her daughter’s face in her palm and gave her cheek a pat. The child was worth any amount of humiliation, if humiliation was what she had in store. For all she knew, Rothermere might still hold a grudge for her disobedience. Their ages were too far apart for closeness and he had always seemed more like an uncle than a brother.
The door opened. The butler, old Mr Lumsden Claire was pleased to see, ushered in Joe the footman carrying a silver tray. Lumsden proceeded to set a small table in front of her and the footman placed the tray on it.
The tray held the ducal silver service and crested china plates displaying the daintiest sandwiches and most artistically prepared sweetmeats Claire could ever remember seeing.
Her stomach clenched with visceral pleasure at the sight of the food. Jane eyed the plates like a starving wolf, or rather a starving child. Which she was.
‘Will that be all, madam?’ Lumsden asked. His voice was carefully blank. In that blankness was a wealth of disapproval.
Her appetite fled. The butler would remember her fall from favour, of course, as no doubt Mrs Stratton had. He would know she was returning cap in hand and that left a bitter taste in her mouth that did not go with dainty sandwiches and spun sugar arrayed in a fountain of colour.
‘Thank you, that is quite sufficient,’ she said calmly.
The butler bowed and left.
A coiled spring could not have been tenser than her daughter as she stared at the food on the tray. ‘Are we really allowed to eat those?’ She pointed at the sweetmeats. ‘They look too pretty.’
Claire wanted to cry. ‘Yes. They are for us. Take what you want.’ She handed her one of the small frilly edged plates. ‘Would you like tea or milk?’
‘Milk, please.’ Jane’s hand hovered over the sweetmeats.
‘Try some sandwiches first.’
Disappointment filled the child’s face. Claire couldn’t bear it. ‘Take whatever you want.’
The little girl filled her plate with sugarplums and sugared almonds and comfits. She popped something dusted with sugar in her mouth. She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, good,’ she said after a couple of chews and a swallow.
Claire poured tea for herself and milk for her daughter.
Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she picked it up. Nerves. Weariness. She sipped at the scalding brew. It was perfect. Brewed only once too. What was she thinking? Dukes didn’t need to reuse their tea leaves.
‘Aren’t you going to try them?’ Jane asked, pointing at the tray.
The thought of putting food in her mouth made Claire feel ill. How could she eat when their fate hung in the balance?
Hopefully the duke would see her today and she could have their interview over and done and know where she stood.
A moment later the door opened. Her heart seemed to still in her chest as she steeled herself to meet the duke. But it was only the kindly Mrs Stratton, her blue eyes a bit misty, the smile on her face still tense.
‘His Grace cannot see you today, Mrs Holte.’
‘Cannot?’ Her heart felt as heavy as lead. ‘Or will not?’
‘Smithins says his melancholy is bad today. He rarely sees anyone at all. The vicar sometimes. Lord Giles when he must.’
Numbness enveloped her. That was that, then. No help here. She looked at the plate of food and wondered if she could somehow slip some of the sandwiches into her reticule for later. She had enough money for one night at an inn, but not for supper.
She’d have to find work again. Somewhere else. Not nearby. The duke’s pride would never allow that. Nor would her own. She would never let her family see the depths to which she had fallen. ‘Please present my good wishes to the duke.’ Claire rose to her feet.
‘Smithins said he is sure the duke would be pleased to see you on a better day.’
Smithins, the duke’s valet, had been with her brother since before Claire was born and it was kind of him to offer hope, but there would be no coming back.
‘I will have your old room prepared for you,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘And the adjoining one for Miss Jane.’
Her heart stilled. Her spine stiffened. ‘Is this on the duke’s instruction?’
Mrs Stratton cheekbones stained pink. ‘I can only guess at what His Grace might instruct us, Mrs Holte, but I know Lord Giles would insist.’ The woman tilted her head. ‘That is unless you have other plans?’
They could stay. She felt suddenly weak. ‘No. No other plans. Not today.’
‘Dinner is at five,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘His Grace keeps country hours.’
A roof over her head for the night and a dinner promised. It seemed too good to be true. She just wished she could be certain of Crispin’s eventual forgiveness. That he would agree to give them a home. Only then could she feel easy in her mind. Or at least as easy as she could be until she had settled matters with Ernie Pratt.
