Sir Henry and Richard left their port early, and Sir Henry appeared to have been well
entertained. Emily gave Richard a ride home in her gig. He did not propose marriage, but he joked
with her in his wry way, very much at his ease. Emily had perforce to be content with that, though
she began to wonder if her tactics were right after all.
By and large, however, she was content with the routine of her courtship. The intrusion
next day of Sir Robert and Lady Sarah into the children's morning tea ruffled her more than it
ought. Sir Robert was expansive, even jocular, but Lady Sarah, though she made no criticism, was
plainly appalled by Watkins's cottage. They did not stay very long. Richard saw them off and
returned to the kitchen, whistling perversely through his teeth.
Tommy had finished his milk and demanded a last push on the swing before he consented
to go, so Richard took him into the garden.
"We didn't have our story," Matt grumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. He, too,
disapproved the intrusion.
"Not with your mouth full," Emily corrected automatically.
"Why did Lady Sarah call on Papa?" Amy wiped away her milk moustache fastidiously.
She still was not overfond of milk. "I thinked--thought she was
your
friend, Mama
Em."
"She knew your father a long time ago, remember?" Emily felt her tongue tangle with
hypocrisy and stopped and started over. "Sir Robert Wilson was very helpful to your papa when he
was hurt in Belgium. I think they wished to assure themselves that Colonel Falk is well."
Amy was bored. "May I get down, please?"
Emily nodded.
"Me, too?" Matt swiped at his face and scrambled from his chair, but Amy dashed ahead
of him out of the back door and into the sunlit garden.
"Me, too, Papa!" she shrieked.
"Me, too!" Matt crashed after her.
Emily remained. She stared at the crumb-bedecked table so long Peggy McGrath had to
ask her twice if anything was wrong, but of course not. Everything was splendid.
Two days later McGrath walked up to Wellfield House with a note from Richard, who
had ridden over to Knowlton and would not be back in time for the afternoon riding exercise.
Apologies. No explanation. He owed his sister a return call, but the break in their pleasant routine
struck Emily as ominous.
"Richard! A pleasant surprise. Come in, come in." Sir Robert greeted him
cheerfully.
His brother-in-law entered the bookroom dusty from his ride and unsmiling.
"Ought you to have ridden this far so soon?" Wilson's outstretched hand dropped.
Something was wrong. "I could have sent the carriage for you, you know. Sarah will be glad to see
you again, and the duchess has just come as well." He heard himself chattering and broke off.
"Timely." Richard took a paper from the breast pocket of his riding coat. "This came in
the post, sir. I wish you to read it."
"
Sir?
" Bewildered, Wilson took the sheet of paper and read the clear, clerkly
hand through twice. "I don't see...Whatley is Newsham's man of business."
"So I surmised."
"I don't understand," Wilson repeated.
"Don't understand what?"
Wilson was still blank with incomprehension. "The duke's reasons."
Richard gave a short, ugly laugh. "Does he need reasons? What do you suggest I
do?"
Wilson gathered his wits. "I didn't foresee...that is--"
"He's offering me a bribe to leave the country."
"I daresay it can be construed that way." Wilson glanced at the letter once more.
"How else can I construe it?"
"As a settlement."
"I don't require a settlement of Newsham." Richard's voice was cold with fury. "I require
to be left in peace. And I do not choose to take my children to North America."
Wilson drew a breath. "Now, don't be hasty."
"Thank you." Richard took the letter from him. "I can see the sort of advice I may expect
from you. Good day, Wilson."
"Why must you leap to conclusions?" Wilson fairly shouted. "By God, you try me too
far. Give me the blasted letter."
"There's no point."
"The letter, if you please." He held out his hand. After a moment Richard shrugged and
gave it back. He stalked over to the nearest window to glower down at the formal garden.
Wilson reread the letter. It was couched in language as formal as the garden. "It may be
that Newsham has come to feel he
owes
you a settlement," he murmured, thinking aloud.
"This could be taken as proof..."
Richard whirled, eyes blazing. The right sleeve of his coat flopped. "What would it take
to convince the lot of you that I want nothing at all to do with the Ffouke family? Nothing means
nothing."
Wilson felt his own temper rise again. "Do you include Sarah in your ban?"
"It was Lady Sarah who called my children to Newsham's attention--"
"That's not true--"
"And to the dowager's attention," Richard snapped. "Is there a difference? I don't
question Sarah's motives, just her judgement."
"You're mad with suspicion, Richard. It poisons
your
judgement."
Richard stared at him for a long time. "Give me the letter, then, and I'll take my
suspicions elsewhere." He held out his good hand. After a pause Wilson returned the letter.
He felt absurd, as if they had been passing schoolboy messages back and forth. Richard's
mouth set in a hard line. He smoothed the letter and shoved it into his jacket.
"Richard, my dear!" Sarah, in the doorway.
Both men turned to her.
"Sally," Wilson began, warning.
Richard executed an exaggerated bow, sleeve flopping again. "Lady Sarah. I was just
leaving."
Sarah flinched and cast Wilson a beseeching glance. He was suddenly very angry indeed.
He contrived to keep his voice low, however. "Go back to the withdrawing room, Sally. I'll be
with you directly."
"But
Maman...
" She looked from one to the other. Sarah was not slow-witted.
"Very well. If it's Newsham again, Richard, I think you ought to acquaint
Maman
with the
matter. In any case, you owe her some degree of civility. I'll tell her you're here." She left, her
shoulders stiff with hurt dignity.
Wilson found he was trembling. All the pent-up resentment he had suppressed, all the
exasperation of a bystander caught up in someone else's quarrel, possessed him. "I've had enough of
your rag-manners and more than enough of your melodrama, Richard. By
God,
I have.
Newsham has made you an offer. In a mean-minded, left-handed way, it might even be construed
as generous, though I can see no reason why you should accept it. Decline, politely if possible, and
put it out of your mind. That is my advice to you. Now, if you please, I'll accept your
apology."
"I apologise for coming." Richard's tone was not conciliatory.
Wilson was not a quarrelsome man by nature. He was beginning to regret his own hot
words. "'Left-handed' was not well chosen, nor 'melodrama'." He shook his head and went over to
the table which bore the sherry tray. He poured a glass. "Sherry?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to pardon me. I need a soothing draught before we face the ladies." He
took a careful sip. "Ah. I beg your pardon if I used intemperate language, Richard. I think your
apprehensions ill-founded, but I don't mean to dismiss them out of hand. Shall I ask Newsham to
explain himself? I daresay he is still at Abbeymont, but I could write him."
"That won't be necessary. I'll follow your advice and write Whatley a fulsome letter
declining the offer."
Stung, Wilson set his glass down. "I said nothing of fulsome letters."
"I beg your pardon. A civil letter."
Wilson mistrusted that. It was too carefully emotionless. But he did not wish to provoke
further hostilities, and said, conscious that he sounded pompous, "I believe it to be the wisest
course. If there are consequences, I trust you'll tell me so at once."
Richard did not reply.
"Well, well, we shall see." Wilson cleared his throat. "What do you hear from your
publisher?"
"The galleys should be ready in a fortnight or so."
"Splendid. I'm looking forward to reading the book. By the by, I see from the
Times
that your friend, Major Conway, has succeeded to the earldom of Clanross. I had no idea he
stood in the line of succession."
"What!" Richard was startled out of his impassive pose. He took a half step toward
Wilson, frowning deeply.
"Did you not know?" Wilson indulged in another, soothing swallow of sherry. "It has set
the Ton by the ears. Lord Clanross drowned on Lake Lucerne a fortnight ago, according to the
Times.
He had eight daughters. Your friend was the next male heir."
"My God."
Wilson set his glass down again. "You don't sound pleased."
Richard said flatly, "Tom is dying. He doesn't need to waste the time he has left haggling
with lawyers."
Wilson was taken aback. "I'm sorry. A war injury, I collect."
Visibly distressed, Richard nodded without speaking.
"I'm sorry," Wilson repeated. "How easy it is to misread another man's fortune. I daresay
Conway will be envied by the ignorant."
Richard rubbed his forehead. "I daresay."
Wilson rose. "Well, well, that is by the way. The ladies await us. Come and make your
bow to the dowager, and, Richard..."
Richard looked at him, eyes dark.
"Try not to be too insulting. Your mother has already spiked Newsham's guns for you
once. Best keep on her good side."
Richard's mouth was tight, but he said nothing.
Wilson sighed, and led the way to the withdrawing room.
Wilson watched his mother-in-law. The dowager duchess had at all times a great deal of
charm, and she now made a desultory attempt to exercise it on her son. On any other occasion,
Wilson would have found her failure amusing, but Richard's blank indifference made Sir Robert
extremely uncomfortable and distressed Sarah. The dowager did not reveal his feelings. She rarely
did.
Neither mother nor son had seen one another in twenty years. To all appearances the
reunion was as affecting as the presentation of a minor consul at a minor court. Sarah looked
bewildered and unhappy, the duchess, after the first show of animation, cool. Richard addressed his
mother as "your grace," and left after a mere quarter of an hour without mentioning Newsham's
letter.
Wilson went out with him and waited whilst the groom retrieved Richard's horse. Both
men stood silent.
"The dowager stops with us another fortnight," Wilson ventured when the silence began
to pall.
"What? Ah, lucky for you. I say, Wilson, did the
Times
happen to mention
where Tom was? Tom Conway," he added, impatient, when Wilson betrayed incomprehension.
"The Earl of Clanross...Of all the stupid, unnecessary accidents. I daresay he can't refuse an
earldom."
Wilson stared. He might have known better than to expect effusions of filial sentiment
from his brother-in-law. The poor duchess. She did not perhaps deserve a great deal of this son, but
she deserved something more than absolute indifference.
Wilson almost voiced his indignation, but at that point his groom led Richard's nag to the
mounting block, and Wilson, taking a close look at the spavined beast, burst out, "Where in the
devil did you find that?"
"Hired it. You cannot expect me to keep stables."
"But Mrs. Foster--"
"I'm not living with Mrs. Foster," Richard snarled.
"I didn't mean to imply..." Wilson took a breath. "You have a genius for forcing the
worst possible construction on people's words. I meant, as you very well know, that you could hire
a loose box from Mrs. Foster. You'll be requiring a horse. Indeed, I'd be glad to mount you. You
can ride one of my hacks until you have time to buy your own."
"No." Richard swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins one-handed. "Thank
you."
His sympathies thoroughly alienated, Wilson turned and stomped back into the house.
Enough was enough.
But not quite.
Three weeks later Wilson, at Sarah's urging, drove over to Mellings Parva to make his
peace. He found Richard gone. The cottage was locked and the grass overgrown. At Wellfield
House he discovered that Mrs. Foster, her son, Richard's children, and their personal servants had
also vanished. The housekeeper eyed him curiously. No, she couldn't say where they'd gone or how
long they'd be away. Visiting Mrs. Foster's kin, likely. She couldn't say for sure. They'd left in an
almighty hurry, certainly.
Wilson felt the stirrings of panic. Visions of forcible abduction, even murder, flashed
before his mind's eye. He was not a prey to melodramatic suspicions, however, and he soon assured
himself that Mrs. Foster and the children had departed in Sir Henry Mayne's carriage accompanied
by Miss Mayne. Colonel Falk, it appeared, had left earlier, separately, for London. A perfectly
ordinary set of circumstances.
No need to worry.
Wilson told himself that half the way to Knowlton, and the rest of the way home, having
granted the unlikelihood of the coincidence, worked himself into a fury with Richard. "Mark my
words, your brother has inveigled that innocent lady into an unnecessary flight."
Sarah was white as curds. "Newsham."
"Newsham has nothing to do with it. They left in Mrs. Foster's father's carriage. No, my
dear, they have not been abducted--unless your dear brother Richard has abducted them. He's mad
as a March hare. Ought to be clapped into Bedlam."
"Where have they gone?"
"I don't know and I don't care. Richard," Wilson pronounced "may go to the devil, with
my blessing."
"I shall drive over to see Sir Henry Mayne."
"Oh no, my dear, you'll do no such thing. Nor will you go running to your mother with
this fairy tale. We shall both stay out of your brother's affairs from now on."
At that Sarah flew into the boughs and they had a terrible quarrel, their first serious
brangle in seven years of marriage. It left them frightened and spent. They clung to one another,
appalled by the storm of fury, and repentant, both of them.