Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“There’s not much you don’t know about the Straefords, is there, Manners?”
The ancient servant observed his master’s eyes before offering his guarded reply. “I’ve seen much in my time, my lord, and
I’ve forgotten what is best laid to rest.”
“A very convenient mind, and a wise one too, I might add.” The earl allowed Manners to take his jacket and hand him a robe.
“Would your lordship be requiring anything else?” he asked as he hung the uniform in the wardrobe.
“Go to bed, old man, you need your rest more than I do.”
“That’s what I do most of these days, rest.”
“There’s not much to take care of at Straeford Park now, is there?”
“Oh, there’s much to be done, and Bess and I are glad you have come home, so that we can get to it.”
“Don’t count too heavily on my straightening this mess out!”
“You’ll find a way, my lord. I was telling Bess when I heard you were in London, ‘He’ll come Bess. Straeford Park is the earl’s
home. He’ll set it to right.’ “
“Did you now?” The earl raised his eyebrows and frowned at the old man. “Well, we’ll see,” he mumbled, “we’ll see.”
“Yes, my lord. Goodnight.” Manners permitted himself a smile before closing the door behind him.
The old reprobate! the earl thought as he closed his eyes and stretched on the bed. He was trying to manipulate him. Well,
why not? Manners’s loyalty to the Straefords and the Park was well known.
A crack of thunder followed by a streak of lightning
caught his attention, thrusting him backward in time to another stormy night when, as a boy of seventeen, he had made the
shattering discovery that set his life on its lonely course.
Dear mama! She had done her hatchet-work well. He could not remain at Straeford once she had spewed forth the full poison
of her hate. The knowledge was too bitter a burden. He tried to explain his reasons for enlisting in a letter to his father;
but it was a futile effort. Lord Straeford had written an angry summons demanding a further accounting for Justin’s rash action.
But Justin remained in India, the full horror of that confrontation with his mother forever sealed within his heart.
The morning light streaming into the dining room did little to enhance its shabby appearance. The chipped wainscoting and
dull rosewood table showed up pitifully in the merciless light. Straeford sighed ruefully. The only things that remained the
same were Bess’s good cooking and the quiet peace of country life.
Manners removed his plate and informed him that he had a visitor in the drawing room.
“Grandmother.” Straeford walked into the room and bowed formally to the thin, white-haired lady seated on the sofa. His father’s
mother. Dressed all in black except for a white lace ruffle about her high-necked dress and holding an ebony cane in her gnarled
right hand, she looked every bit the formidable dowager she was. Having survived two husbands and reached the grand old age
of eighty, Lady Maxwell commanded respect and sometimes obedience even from this obstinate young man.
She eyed him sternly, her ebony eyes flashing. “So you’ve finally decided to come home.”
“For the moment, Madam.” He remained standing.
“Don’t try to put me off, Justin St. Clare. I’m not frightened by that glacial stare.”
The earl’s face was a study in stern dignity. The luminous green eyes gazed out from inner realms that the observer sensed
were inviolable. Few dared trespass the private sanctum of that inner world where the proud spirit reigned in isolated disdain.
Many a foolish female
had sought to probe those depths only to suffer so thorough a rebuke as never to broach the edges of that gentleman’s personal
being again.
Despite his austerity, he was a handsome man. His well-shaped head carried a rich crown of crisp black curls that owed nothing
to art other than a hasty brush carelessly applied each morning. The mouth was well-formed but severe. The chin and nose firm,
strong and manly. It was a beautiful face for all the hardening years of exposure spent in the deserts and jungles of India.
To Lady Maxwell’s surprise, a smile creased his mouth as he replied, “You were always perceptive, ma’am.”
“And you were always obdurate!” She decided to press her advantage. “Sit down, boy, I don’t like having to look up at you.
You are taller than I remember.”
He sat opposite her and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “To my knowledge I’m still six feet, ma’am.” He smiled
lazily. “Shall I ring for refreshments?”
“I informed Manners we would call for the tea tray later.” She studied him closely before adding, “Although you might want
something stronger.”
“Perhaps, but it is much too early.”
“Never acquired the vice, eh?”
“Not that one, at any rate.”
“Gammon! You don’t think I believe for a minute those scurrilous attacks in the papers.”
“Past or present ones, ma’am?”
“Both! And don’t try my patience with a lot of balderdash about your reputation. When that tiresome hearing is settled, we
must think to your future.”
“My future?” His eyebrows rose a fraction. “I thank you for your concern, but it is misplaced. I have always done very well
for myself, and I shall continue to do so.”
“So you’re telling me to mind my own business.”
Her candor disarmed him momentarily, and he found himself able to respond to her directness with a short laugh “Again I bow
to vour perception.”
“But I won’t be hushed that easily. Justin,” she said in that confident manner which irked him. “It’s time someone took you
in hand.”
The earl’s annoyance surfaced and his politeness quickly vanished. “I warn you, Madam!” he said in rising tones, and punctuated
his words with a thrust of a pointed finger.
“Don’t threaten me, young man!” Lady Maxwell stomped her cane on the floor. “It’s time some plain speaking was done! Your
mother has been dead…”
“Madam!” He came to his feet, but Lady Maxwell ignored him.
“If you had remained to defend yourself against your mother’s insinuations at the time…”
“I would still be branded a scoundrel!” he said through clenched teeth. “Now have done with it!”
“I don’t wish to cause you pain, my boy.”
“Pain!” he laughed harshly. “Don’t you know I have no such human feelings? Try my patience no further, Grandmother, I desire
nothing more than to be left alone.”
“That’s just my point! You can no longer be left alone. Your obligation as the Earl of Straeford supersedes all else.”
He turned his back on her and walked toward the window without replying, but Lady Maxwell was not deterred. She plunged on.
“You must marry!”
“Marry!” he said with deep sarcasm.
“The line must be secured and the Park saved!”
“I shall save Straeford in my own way.”
“I already have the solution.” Lady Maxwell rose and walked slowly toward the tall slender chair behind which he had positioned
himself.
He eyed her suspiciously under half-closed lids. “Very well, Grandmother, I see I shall have no rest until you have your say.
So tell me your scheme.”
A triumphant sparkle lit her eyes and lips. “There is a wealthy merchant who is mad for the
ton.
He has two daughters…”
“My God!” He threw up his hands. “Not only do you condemn me to matrimony but to a climbing heiress!”
“If my calculations are correct, you will be thirty-five come August. Do you intend the line to end with you?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” Turning, he pulled the bell cord hoping to close the discussion.
“Are you afraid of women?”
Straeford whirled to face her and hissed, “This is beyond endurance, Grandmother.”
“For heaven’s sake, Justin, all women are not like your mother!”
“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist into the wall. She had pushed him too far! But with superhuman effort he dropped his
arm. Then wheeling on his heel, he stalked out of the room as Manners entered with the tea tray. Lady Maxwell sighed heavily.
She had been hard on him, but it had to be said. If only he would drop that protective armor he had built about himself and
permit himself to feel again. The tragedies of the past had forced her grandson down a bitter, lonely path for too many years.
And she was determined to change all that somehow!
Since Justin left home at the age of seventeen, he had returned only twice. The first time was for his father’s funeral. There
was no assuaging the grief Justin suffered for never having explained himself to the man he idolized. There was no way possible
to explain without disclosing the shame that had sent him fleeing in the first place. Sometime later he had sold out and returned
from India at the hasty summons of his grandmother. His brother Robert was dying. But Robert was dead by the time he reached
England. The deep personal loss, along with his mother’s disastrous remarriage, had placed the seal of destruction on the
family.
Straeford stood in the long gallery before the portraits of his distinguished ancestors. Holding a glass of port in one hand
and the bottle in the other, he walked down the gallery to the picture he had come to view. Lord Straeford, seated beside
his wife, with Robert standing next to him and Justin on his mother’s knee, presented a false picture of family tranquility.
Justin thought about that coldly beautiful woman, his mother, and how he had tried to warn her.
“Justin, you don’t know what you are saying!”
“And I told you I have written proof!”
“You were always a headstrong boy,” she laughed weakly.
“I am no longer a child, Mother, you can’t put me off!”
“So much like your father…” she went on.
“And that ploy won’t work either! I’m here to talk to you about Huxley…”
“No! Don’t you dare speak those filthy lies again! You hate Ellis because I love him!”
“No, I hate him because…”
“Isn’t it enough for you that you are now the Earl of Straeford?”
“Do you think I give one blasted damn for the title? For God’s sake, don’t you see anything?”
“I will not be talked to in such a manner! You were a bad, unfeeling child, Justin St. Clare, and you have grown into a cruel,
heartless man. That’s why I could never love you.”
The glass of port cracked in his hand, pouring wine onto the floor and carpet, mingling with his own blood. Becoming aware
of his aching hand, Straeford pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it about his palm before quietly withdrawing
from the gallery and the memories it engendered.
Straeford was going through the strongbox in the library when Major Edward Harding, a tall, well-built man in his early thirties,
walked into the room. He was an attractive man with tanned features, sandy hair and hazel eyes.
Easy-going and good-natured, Edward Harding had been Straeford’s friend since boyhood. If there was one person the earl trusted
and respected, it was this confidante of his youth and companion of his military years in India. Straeford was in need of
cheerful company and Harding was precisely the one to provide it.
As they vigorously clasped each other’s hands, Harding admonished his friend for not having called on him and his new wife
in London. Major Harding had married Ann Cromwell, his colonel’s daughter, shortly after returning to England. He had requested
a transfer to the western front when Ann’s father retired and the family
came home. Harding had followed them soon afterward, and Straeford had not seen him since that time.
“I went to your lodgings to see you but found Billings instead. Your batman was concerned about you.”
“Billings is turning into an old lady,” the earl stated in exasperation. “So that’s what sent you hotfooting it down here.”
“Thought you might need some company. After all, the press has been pretty hard on you.”
“Believe me, I’m not going into a decline over some scoundrels who write libel,” Straeford jeered. “I simply came down here
for some solitude, but between Manners and Lady Maxwell bending my ear about saving Straeford, I might just as well have stayed
in London.”
“What are your plans for the Park?” Harding asked as he surveyed his surroundings.
Straeford threw back his head and laughed, causing the major to smile sheepishly. Then in a more sober vein the earl explained
that he had just finished an inventory of the family jewels to discover that besides the legendary Straeford emeralds, which
were entailed to the estate, there were a few good pieces he could pawn along with the last of the Van Dycks. After that he
would try his luck at the gaming tables.
Harding was not enthusiastic about this plan, but he had to agree with Straeford that there was little else he could do under
the circumstances. They speculated about his chances of winning a fortune, and Harding volunteered to investigate the clubs
most likely to accommodate his friend in this matter.
“When do you return to London?”
“The inquiry begins next week.” Straeford scowled.
“Just, I’ve been thinking. You ought to defend yourself against these attacks in the press. Cromwell and I are only too willing
to give character references for you.”
“But you and Cromwell were not there when the Nangore incident took place.”
“Yet we know what Seton is like!”
“Hearsay. The facts will have to speak for themselves.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ve survived slander before.”
“Damn! I’d like to tell them a thing or two.”
“But you won’t. I can count on you.”
“You know you can.”
Straeford smiled and brought the discussion to a close by inviting Harding to join him for dinner.
“And did you not on the morning of February 18, 1807, two days after the total rout of the rebel forces under the leadership
of Dashrami al Singhe, deliberately order the public execution by hanging of twenty-three of those rebels? And was not that
order in direct disobedience to the express orders of General Seton, your commanding officer in charge of the expeditionary
forces to the Madras territory of continental India?” Major Ross Covington of the Judge Advocate’s Office droned on in the
near-empty chambers of the military court at the Horse Guards.