An Unusual Bequest

Both girls, too frightened to speak, shook their heads. He beckoned to Miss Quinn. ‘Take them away, they are not as amusing as I thought they might be.’

Quinn disappeared with her charges and a few moments later Charlotte made her excuses and left the men to their port and cigars and went up to her room to sit in a chair by the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes. Her head was reeling. How could she endure living under the same roof as her brother-in-law, she asked herself, supposing he did not decide to throw her out? Even so soon after meeting him, she knew him to be self-serving and pitiless. And she did not like the manner of his two companions who ogled her, almost undressing her with their eyes. And the way they had looked at Lizzie and Fanny made her shudder with apprehension. She would have to watch them and, if they stayed beyond a week or two, she would have to think of moving out—not only moving out, but finding an occupation.

It was at such a time she missed not having a husband. She had loved Grenville dearly and mourned him for a long time and because she lived comfortably under his father’s roof, loved and cared for, she had never given a thought to marrying again. ‘I am content as I am,’ she had told Quinny. But now, now where was contentment? Where was security? Where, oh, where was love? Why did she suddenly feel so bereft, so lonely and not a little frightened? That was silly, she told herself, she feared no one. But how long dare she remain under her brother-in-law’s roof while she found a way of earning a living that would have to include a roof over her head, not only for herself but her children?

Something must be done and done quickly. She sat at her little escritoire and took from it a small velvet bag. It contained a few guineas—not enough to keep the four of them for more than a day or two, for she must include Miss Quinn, certainly not enough to pay coach fares and at least two nights’ accommodation for them to go to her great-uncle. She could write and ask him to send the fare, but her stubborn pride would not let her do it. He might refuse to have anything to do with her and that would be too humiliating to be borne.

Besides, she had made her home here, at Parson’s End. She had grown to love the area, the cliffs, and the sea in all its moods, calm as a pond one day, raging and pounding over the shore almost to the base of the cliffs the next. She loved the pine woods carpeted with needles that crunched under your feet as you walked, and she liked the people, farming people and fishing folk, hardworking, dour and courageous. And as for their children, they were what made her life worthwhile, watching them grow, being able to help them to better themselves with a little education. It was an ongoing, self-imposed task and she did not want it to end, which it surely must if she did not have the means to continue it.

She remembered the stranger on the cliff with a wry smile. He had taken her for a schoolteacher and she remembered thinking that was what it might come to. A school was the answer, one that took boarders, young ladies from wealthy homes whose parents were prepared to pay to have their daughters educated and given some polish before being brought out. If she did that, the village children could still have their school. The wealthy could subsidise the poor. But did she have the right qualifications to attract the wealthy? She would need teachers beside herself and premises and connections. She weighed the coins in her hand and laughed at her foolishness.

She went up to say goodnight to the girls and quietly told Miss Quinn to make sure their doors were locked, though the poor lady did not need to be told; she was already in fear of her life. ‘Tomorrow we will make plans,’ Charlotte told her before returning to her own room and making sure that that door was locked.

She could hear the three men downstairs, laughing drunkenly. They had called for wine and a new pack of cards which was evidence enough that Cecil had not changed his gambling ways. She did not sleep until long after she heard them stumbling up to bed in the early hours and the house had gone quiet.

The next morning, she and the children slipped out of the side door to go to the village. She noticed a carriage arriving at the front as she passed the corner of the house, but, guessing it was John Hardacre, the family lawyer, she decided not to stay to receive him. Foster would alert the still-slumbering Cecil that he had arrived.

They crossed the stable yard to a path that led into the kitchen garden and from there through a side gate of the estate wall on to the road into the village. The damp hedgerows dripped onto the newly thrusting primroses at their base and the burgeoning trees in the meadows on either side moved softly in the breeze and sheltered the new lambs. It should have been a joyful time, this time of new life, but for once it did not raise her spirits. She had too much on her mind.

‘My lady,’ the Reverend greeted her. ‘I did not expect you so early, you do not usually come until after noon.’

‘No, but I need to speak to you, Reverend.’

‘Then come into the church, I was on my way there.’

She sent the children to the classroom and followed him into the church. ‘Reverend, I hardly know how to begin,’ she said, after they had genuflected to the altar and seated themselves in one of the pews. There was a chill in there that matched the chill in her heart. ‘My life has taken a dramatic turn…’

‘I had heard the new Lord Hobart had arrived.’

‘My goodness, news travels fast. Yes, he came yesterday morning and he is not prepared to go on as his father did and that means—’

‘You will no longer be able to teach, is that it? We shall all be very sorry.’

‘No, Reverend, it means that I must teach. And I must be paid for doing it.’

‘You know the village children cannot pay.’

‘Yes, I know that. But I must find pupils that can. And premises. The village children could be included later, when everything is up and running—’ She stopped, daunted by the task ahead of her.

‘I see.’

She knew he did see and was glad that she did not have to explain. ‘What I need to ask you is whether you know where I might find a house…?’

‘For a school?’

‘Yes, but also living quarters for me and my children and their governess.’

‘You surely have not been asked to leave Easterley Manor?’

‘No, but I do not wish to stay. Lord Hobart is a bachelor. It would not be fitting.’

‘No, I see it would not. But what about the uncle you spoke of? Would he not give you a home?’

‘I do not know. I have never even met him and how do I know I won’t be jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Besides, I love living at Parson’s End, my children were born here and they love it too. I do not want to leave the area.’

‘Then, my lady, you really do have a dilemma.’ He smiled suddenly and patted her hand. ‘You are welcome to stay at the Rectory until you have found somewhere. I am sure Mrs Fuller will raise no objections. But as for premises, we will have to put our thinking caps on because I do not want to lose you from the district and I am sure I am not alone in that sentiment.’

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

He rose and she knelt for his blessing. As they left the church she could hear the children arriving for their afternoon lessons. ‘Will you take your class today?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, of course. The children expect it and I want everything as normal as possible for Lizzie and Fanny.’

‘Then while you are with your pupils, I shall go up to the hall and pay my respects to his lordship.’

Charlotte managed a smile as she passed him to go into the schoolroom, wondering, as she did so, what kind of reception he would get.

The children were noisily chasing each other round the room, but quietened when they saw her. ‘Back to your seats, children,’ she said. ‘And out with your slates. Lizzie, you can help Josh with his sums and Fanny can amuse the little ones. I will hear your reading one by one.’

The quiet industry of the classroom soothed her a little, but the worry at the back of her mind would not go away. She could not take advantage of the Rector’s generosity; it would not be fair to him and his elderly wife. And though she had no qualms about being able to run a school, the problem was financing it and finding pupils. She would have to try and borrow the money against future income. If Mr Hardacre was still at the hall when she returned, she would try to see him privately and broach the matter with him. Not for the first time she wondered how he was faring with Lord Hobart.

‘Miss.’ She felt someone tug at her skirts and looked down to see Danny White looking up at her, anxiety writ large on his face. ‘Meg wants to go home. She’s got the bellyache.’

She looked at the lad’s tiny sister, only a toddler, certainly not old enough for school, but if she had not been allowed to come neither would Danny and he was a bright child and deserved whatever education she could give him. Soon he would be able to join the select few who took more advanced lessons from the Rector himself. Meg was holding her stomach and crying. Charlotte scooped her up in her arms to comfort her. Her forehead was hot and she was obviously in some pain. What should she do? She could not let the child go home alone, not even if she sent Danny with her, and she was reluctant to leave her class when the Reverend was absent.

There was nothing for it but to take them all. ‘Enough of lessons,’ she said, suddenly making up her mind. ‘We’ll all take Meg home, shall we?’

The idea was greeted with enthusiasm and, having left a message with the Reverend Fuller’s wife, they set off, headed by Charlotte carrying Meg, Danny beside her and Lizzie and Fanny following with the others in a double file.

The strange crocodile was greeted by smiles from the village women they met, all of whom knew the good work Charlotte did, not only for the children, but the old and infirm. She brought food and clothes, but, more than that, she brought hope. ‘Mornin’, me lady,’ they called. Charlotte returned their greeting and went on her way, with the children singing ‘One man went to mow’ behind her.

The children waited outside while she took Meg into Dr Cartwright’s to ask him to check on her, fully accepting that the account for his services would be remitted to her, for the poor child’s parents could not pay. He felt all over her stomach. ‘What have you been eating?’ he asked her.

‘Nuffin’.’

‘Yes, you have. You’ve been stuffing yourself with something bad, haven’t you?’

‘It were beans,’ Danny put in. Charlotte had not realised he had followed them in. ‘I told her she shouldn’t have.’

‘Beans, what beans?’

‘In the bag in Farmer Brown’s barn.’

‘Seeds,’ the doctor said. ‘Not meant to be eaten. They are for setting in the ground. You’re old enough to know that, Danny, aren’t you?’

‘Course I am. Weren’t my fault. She’d downed a handful afore I saw what her were adoin’.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be looking out for her?’ the doctor demanded waspishly.

Danny looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

‘Don’t blame him, Doctor,’ Charlotte said. ‘You can’t watch children every minute of the day and he’s only a babe himself. Tell me, how serious is it?’

‘Not serious. I’ll give her a dose to help it on its way. She’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.’

Relieved, Charlotte watched while he held the child’s nose and forced a spoonful of foul-tasting medicine down her throat, then they rejoined the other children and were soon at the door of the cottage where Danny and Meg lived. It was no more than a hovel; the pigs up at the hall lived in better conditions, and they even smelled sweeter, but Charlotte pretended not to notice as she explained to Mrs White why she had brought her children home.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,’ the woman said, taking the child from Charlotte’s arms. Then, to Danny, ‘See what you’ve done, you great lump. That’s what all that book learnin’ does for ye, makes ye forget what ye’re supposed to be adoin’. Yar pa will dust yar breeks when he come home.’

Charlotte was forced to be mediator; she didn’t want Danny forbidden to come to lessons again. Having soothed ruffled feelings, she returned to the remainder of her flock. It was then she saw the stranger again, standing outside the smithy, watching her with the same look of amusement that had so disconcerted her two days before.

Chapter Three

Stacey wandered over to where she stood and swept off his hat. ‘We meet again, ma’am.’

When the blacksmith had taken longer to see to his horse than expected, he had not minded, had even welcomed another night in the village, wondering if he might meet the schoolmistress again. Whiling away the time, he had found Easterley Manor, but had not ventured up the drive. His walk had taken him round the surrounding wall, and along the path to the cliff where he had seen her the day before, but the beach had been deserted except for a couple of men walking along the water’s edge. They were not fishermen, being wrapped in cloaks against the wind, but then he had forgotten them to return to the village to see if his horse was ready. And here she was, followed by her little urchins, chanting a song. He was reminded of a German fairy story about a piper who lured children from their parents because they reneged on the payment they promised him for ridding their town of its rats. It made him smile.

Charlotte, who had no idea why he was smiling, felt herself blush from the roots of her rich brown hair right down to her neck, aware of the children giggling behind her. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said, drawing her cloak more closely about her, a defensive gesture that added to his amusement. ‘I am surprised to find you still in the neighbourhood. Parson’s End has little to offer visitors.’

‘On the contrary, I am finding my stay vastly rewarding.’ His eyes twinkled again as he took in the rosy flush and the smoky blue-green eyes. She was not a seventeen-year-old débutante, but a woman of mature years with a couple of daughters, but she seemed discomforted. ‘You are still giving outdoor lessons, I see.’

‘I had to bring one of the children home, she was not well, and I could not leave the others.’ She gave him a smile, just to prove she was in control of the situation. ‘They would have caused mayhem left to themselves.’

‘Ah, so they do find mischief. And here was I thinking you had them so well under control they would not dare misbehave whether you were present or not.’

‘Sir, you are bamming me. Again. And we have not been introduced.’

‘Oh, I see you did not mean it when you denigrated the manners of polite society. Introductions are important to you. You must not speak to a man to whom you have not been introduced. But if we had been made known to each other by a third party, then one presumes it would be acceptable to tease?’

‘Your own good manners should tell you the answer to that one.’

‘So I am to be given a lesson in manners, am I?’

‘If you think you need one.’ She was heartily sick of self-opinionated men who thought they could treat her with disdain. Cecil Hobart and his cronies had begun it, and now this man, this very superior man whose name she did not know, was doing the same. Perhaps he was one of them, perhaps that was why he was in the village, a forerunner of the congenial company that Mr Augustus Spike had asked Cecil to send for. ‘Now, if you will stand aside and let me pass, I will be on my way.’

‘Back to your school?’

‘Is that any of your business?’ She swept past him, ushering the children before her.

He stood a moment watching them, and then strode after them. ‘I am curious about it,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘At this moment there is nothing that interests me more than education.’

‘Then, Mr Whoever you are, I suggest you consult others better able to enlighten you.’

‘But I want you to.’

‘Just leave me alone,’ she hissed under her breath. The children were drinking in every word and none more so than Lizzie and Fanny. ‘I have nothing to say to you, or others like you. Good day, to you, sir. I suggest you leave Parson’s End and find your amusement in town, where there are those who might enjoy playing your game, for I do not.’

The strength and vituperation of her words took him by surprise and he stopped in the middle of the road and let her go. What, in heaven’s name, had she taken him for? A rake? Oh, he realised he had not been particularly courteous, had teased and refused to give his name, but he had meant no harm. He really was interested in education and, though he knew her school would not be suitable for Julia, he had thought of asking her opinion on the education of young ladies and whether she knew of a good school, one that taught good manners and correct demeanour along with its lessons, one that had her sympathetic attitude to its pupils. He had gone about it in quite the wrong way.

Why had he not presented himself properly? She did not seem the kind of woman to be overawed by his rank and title. Whatever her situation was now, she had been raised a gentlewoman, if not a lady, otherwise she would not have been so top-lofty or put so much store on an introduction. Was it too late to retrieve the situation? And why did he want to? He could ask others his questions, as she had suggested; she had already given him an idea of what questions to ask. So why did he feel as if he could not let her go?

He watched the crocodile out of sight, but instead of going back to the blacksmith’s, he followed, keeping far enough back not to be seen, laughing at himself for his folly while he did it.

They stopped at several of the cottages and he was obliged to conceal himself behind trees while she saw her pupils safely indoors, one by one, until there was only her own two daughters with her. Then she walked more briskly until she turned into the gates of Easterley Manor. He did not venture there, but stood thoughtfully tapping his boot with the riding crop he had been carrying when he spoke to her, then turned on his heel and went back to the village.

As she turned the bend in the drive, Charlotte saw Mr Hardacre’s carriage coming towards her on its way out. She had missed him and it was all the fault of that supercilious stranger for delaying her. She stood to one side as it went to pass her, lifting her hand towards the occupant. He was looking grim and for a moment she did not think he would even acknowledge her. The interview with his client had evidently not gone well. She went to move on, when she realised the carriage was drawing to a stop. Turning, she retraced her steps as his head poked out of the door. He had removed his hat, revealing a shock of white hair. ‘Lady Hobart, good day to you. Miss Elizabeth, Miss Frances, how you do grow!’

They each gave a little curtsy and stood waiting while their mother went to speak to him.

‘Mr Hardacre, I am glad you stopped. I would be glad of your advice.’

‘Anything I can do for you, I will, my lady. Do you wish me to return to the house?’

She smiled, realising he was reluctant to do so. ‘No, there is no need for his lordship to know I have consulted you.’

‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘But you know Lord Hobart is my client, I can do nothing against his interests.’

‘I am aware of that. It is not about Lord Hobart. At least, only in as much as his arrival has presented me with a problem.’ She spoke warily, wondering how much he knew or could guess. ‘But I am afraid I cannot come to London to consult you.’

‘I see. Then I shall put up at the Dog and Fox for the night and return tomorrow.’

‘I would rather you did not come back here. Could we meet in the church? It is a public place, but quiet in the middle of the week.’

‘Very well. At ten o’clock, if that is convenient.’

It was like a secret assignation and they both smiled at the idea. He was elderly and had served the Hobart family for several decades and his father before him; she was a relatively young widow and still very handsome. ‘Ten o’clock will suit me very well.’ She stood back as he rapped on the roof to tell his driver to proceed, and the coach rolled away.

She took the girls back to the house, entering by the side door. She had no wish to draw attention to her return by using the front entrance. But her precaution was in vain—Cecil saw her coming along one of the back corridors to the stairs. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and he was still dressed in a stained dressing gown.

‘What have you been up to, my lady?’ he enquired. ‘Creeping about like a thief in the night.’

‘I am not creeping about and it is not night,’ she retorted, thrusting her chin upwards. ‘It is the middle of the afternoon and I am returning from my duties in the village and going up to my room.’ She gave the girls a little push. ‘Upstairs with you. Go and find Miss Quinn.’

He watched them go and then turned back to her, leering at her so that the scar on his cheek deepened. She wondered idly how he had come by it. ‘Duties in the village,’ he queried. ‘What might they be?’

‘I teach a few of the village children at the Rectory. And I visit the sick and take them a little sustenance.’

‘From my larder?’

‘Why, yes, but only what would have been thrown away. It is no more than your own mother did in her lifetime.’

‘Yes, she was a good woman, but I am sure she did not teach peasants.’

‘Perhaps not, but education is something I feel strongly about. One should help those less fortunate.’

‘Oh, so you do consider yourself fortunate. That is good. One should always be grateful for charity.’

Knowing he was trying to goad her into an inconsiderate reply, she did not answer. She would have passed him to continue on her way, but the passage was a narrow one and to do so meant pushing past him, too close for comfort.

‘Nothing to say?’ he asked.

‘What do you wish me to say?’

‘That you agree, that you know you are here because I, in my charitableness, have allowed you to stay and you are suitably grateful.’

‘I am suitably grateful,’ she said, aware of the ambiguity in the statement, though whether he realised it she did not know. He was not the most intelligent of men. How could the late Lord Hobart have sired two such different men as Grenville and this man? The one was honourable and considerate, the other the exact opposite.

‘But my generosity comes at a price,’ he said.

‘I thought it might.’

‘Until I marry, you will continue to act as my housekeeper and keep those servants in line. I never saw such a shabby collection in my life. And who told them it was permissible to answer back, to voice opinions of their own? I have a mind to dispense with the lot of them, except that I am expecting guests and there is no time to hire others.’

‘Guests?’

‘Yes, a real house party. So, please prepare for them. Open up the house, get in some decent food and restock the wine cellar.’

Her mind flew to the stranger in the village, but quickly returned to what he had asked. ‘Very well, but I shall need money.’

‘Money?’ He started back in pretence of shock. ‘You speak of money? Don’t you know such a thing is never mentioned in polite company?’

She forbore to point out that he was hardly an example of polite company. ‘Nevertheless, we have to pay for food and wine, not to mention coals, oil and candles, and laundry women. Guests make a great deal of washing.’

‘Was my father’s credit not good?’

‘I am sure it would have been, but he made it a point of honour not to ask for it, but to pay his bills promptly.’

‘He, my dear sister-in-law, had the blunt to do so. Until I have overturned that preposterous will, I have not, so until that happy day you will obtain credit. If my father was as scrupulous as you say, you should have no trouble.’

‘Surely Mr Hardacre—’

‘Ah, I forgot, you are privy to that ridiculous legacy.’