Lady Pamela (32 page)

But the duke was still at odds with his own thoughts and too restless to remain at home. He had lately chosen to avoid society events, spending his afternoons in Green Park, whatever the weather, and his evenings at White’s. The renovation of Marchers had previously left him little time to visit St. James’s Street, but Marchers was now complete, and yet empty, and he found the club a pleasant distraction. A man could read privately or talk all night with one or any number of jolly fellows, as he wished.

On this night White’s was crowded and lively, filled with smoke and the raucous conversation of gentlemen in various stages of inebriation. The duke sank into an armchair and called for a bottle of brandy. The first glass was drained quickly, and the second vanished with equal speed. Benjamin began to feel much better. ’Twas as if a voice had filled his mind, shouting, and that voice had finally ceased. He seemed to be thinking rationally for the first time in days.

Why had she not replied to his letters? Why had she continued to shun him, knowing that it had all been a misunderstanding? ’Twas most unfair, Benjamin decided.

A heated argument broke out among a group of the younger men, followed by a brief scuffle. Scuffles were not permitted in White’s, and the combatants were escorted into the street. Benjamin considered following them outside, thinking that a good fight would be just the thing. Of even temper most days, tonight he felt he would enjoying smashing his fists against something solid.

She would not speak to him.
Was he not allowed to make a single mistake, to speak a single thought without worrying that she might take offense? Unfair, indeed.

“Grentham! As I live and breath it
is
you.” The voice was familiar, and brought a stab of pain that the duke was at first unable to identify. “I would have wagered deep that you’d left London.”

Jonathan Sinclair. Of course. Lady Pamela’s brother, the two voices quite different and yet the same, sharing some subtle cadence of speech.

“Luton,” said the duke, lifting his glass of port. He would not blame the brother for his sister’s intransigence. “Your health. You are still in town as well, I see.”

The Sinclair family and friends, including Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler, spent the Christmas holidays at the Luton estate in Bedfordshire. The last months-long houseparty at Luton Court had culminated in the marriage of Benjamin’s young cousin Helène to Lord Charles Quentin. And ’twas at Luton Court, last February, that Benjamin had met Lady Pam.

“Lady Sinclair and I leave shortly,” said the marquess. “By week’s end Celia will have acquired most of the gowns in London and be ready, one hopes, for a respite from the shops.”

Benjamin had not seen much of the marquess in town; the two men did not know each other well enough to seek each other’s company. But perhaps Jonathan had some news of his sister. Benjamin would not admit to himself that this was his aim, and he was deep enough in his cups not to worry about what Lord Sinclair might think.

“The others of your party,” said the duke, “they follow you to Luton?”

An innocuous question, thought Benjamin, but the marquess frowned in surprise.

“M’ sister’s already there, old man,” he replied. “Thought you knew.”

His sister. Already at Luton. Benjamin’s head was swimming in brandy; he understood the words, but could not follow the marquess’s logic. How could Lady Pamela be in Bedfordshire if she was here, in London, refusing to speak with him?

“She’s gone–?”

“Took Maggie and a footman just the other day,” added Jonathan. “Earlier than usual, but Amanda’s off to Paris, you know, with some earl’s chit, and I suppose–” The marquess broke off, still frowning. “ ’Twas why I didn’t expect...”

He trailed off again.

The duke’s head was suddenly clear. He bade Jonathan a pleasant trip to Bedfordshire, and left White’s. Returning to Marchers, Benjamin slept for a few hours, deeply and at peace. In the morning he went again to his study, where he composed a final letter to Lady Pamela. Writing only her name on the envelope, he enclosed it in a larger envelope, which he addressed to the Marquess of Luton.             

The duke rang for a footman. Peter, when he arrived, looked dubiously at the letter in his lordship’s hands.

“Hillsleigh?” queried Peter.

“No,” said the duke. “Take this to the Marquess of Luton’s home, on Upper Brook Street.”

* * * *

Lady Pamela’s first days at Luton Court were, as always, spent in a flurry of estate business. Lord Sinclair’s steward had been forewarned of her early arrival and was prepared with a list of needed maintenance and repairs, together with a variety of tenant queries. The list was somewhat longer than usual, and gave Pamela something to occupy her mind.

“The forecourt is showing muddy ruts,” said the steward, “and should be re-graveled.”

“I noticed such,” said Lady Pam, and made a note. Pen in hand, she was also wading through several months’ worth of accounts.

“And the south pasture should be left fallow this spring.”

“Whose responsibility would it have been?”

“Ralph Settridge and his eldest son. They’ll need to be reassured of other work.”

“Very well. I’ll think on it.”

“Jemmy Cliff’s been drinking again. Banged up the missus bad, last time. His lordship will need to speak to him.”

“I,” said Pamela, “will speak to Jemmy.”

And so on. Both the steward and Lady Pam had long since learned that the marquess detested details of any kind. Jonathan was more amenable to work around the estate when Pamela had already arranged for it to be done, only then submitting the information to her brother for his approval. Indeed, under those circumstances he was a thoughtful and generous landlord, and beloved of his tenants who knew, nevertheless, that requests for special assistance should be first broached to his lordship’s sister.

The weather grew colder by the day. A chimney sweep appeared on Luton’s doorstep, making his rounds, and Lady Pamela set him to work on the chimneys of the manor and of the dowager’s house. As she was calculating the number of cottages needing the same work, Alice and Peter burst into the study.

“Aunt Pamela! Aunt Pamela!”

The marquess’s young children had traveled from London, with their governess, a week before Lord and Lady Sinclair. Lady Pamela was now able to spend a happy few days in the exclusive company of her niece and nephew, freed from other worries and all three of them wishing heartily for snow.

* * * *

“Virginia? Virginia!”

Josiah was red with indignation, his disapproval of the duke’s plan evident. Benjamin ignored him.

“I’ve sent instructions to James Pharr,” he told his valet. “He’s made a fine job of the Corsham estate for years already–”

“Why in all of God’s good creation are ye goin’ back to
Virginia
?”

“–and I’ve instructed the solicitors to find a good man for the care of Marchers. Whomever they select, I’ve no doubt Mrs. Throckmorton will take him well in hand.”

“Glory be, your lordship,” pleaded Josiah, “not the colonies again. You said we were fair through with ’em!”

“I thought you would welcome a sea-voyage,” said Benjamin absently. The duke was carefully examining the contents of a large chest of drawers. He was accustomed to doing his own packing and was not paying much attention to anything his valet said.

“A voyage, yes! But not another year in that sweltering, bug-infested–”

Benjamin looked up at Josiah, his eyes narrowing. “You never liked the Americas?”

Josiah sputtered. He waved his arms and said, “Look around ye! Whatever’s in Virginia, is it better than this?”

The duke shrugged.

“An’ what about her ladyship?” The valet paused, his look one of dawning horror. “Oh, no! You’ve not convinced her ladyship to go along
with
, have ye?”

“No,” said Lord Torrance. “I’ve not convinced her ladyship of anything.”

* * * *

Lord and Lady Sinclair arrived at Luton Court on the 11
th
of December. They were accompanied by several other carriages, each containing a small mountain of luggage. Amidst the activity occasioned by moving the luggage into the house, and unpacking clothing into the marchioness’s voluminous wardrobes, and Celia’s tears that her favorite gown had somehow been misplaced, Jonathan did not find time for a chat with Lady Pamela until the following morning, when–as was their custom–he was joined by his sister for breakfast.

And at which point he had forgotten all about the duke’s letter.

Pamela’s mind was on the continuing need for the sweep to visit each of the tenants’ cottages in addition to cleaning the chimneys of Luton. The house of a lowly crofter burned just as fiercely, she reminded Jonathan, as the house of a marquess.

The marquess in question, in a genial mood, was eventually convinced of this. Celia had found the errant gown, and all was well in his life; Lady Pamela took advantage of his good humour and requested an additional pair of shoes for each child in the village.

Done.

On the next day Jonathan left early to shoot with one of the early-arriving guests and did not see Lady Pamela until tea. But on the following morning, as Pam arrived in the breakfast salon, he remembered Benjamin’s letter. The marquess felt a twinge of anxiety. His sister and Lord Torrance...Perhaps it had been something important.

“Hullo,” said Jonathan brightly. “Almost forgot. I’ve a letter for you from town.” He rang for a footman.

Communication from London was hardly unusual, and Lady Pamela thought nothing of the matter as the footman, who had been given instructions as to where the envelope might be found, went to retrieve it.

“From the duke, you know,” added Jonathan, off-hand.

“The
duke
?”

“Aye. Grentham. Saw him at the club just last– No, two weeks ago. Didn’t seem to know you’d gone.”

The breath caught in her throat. Time stopped. Pam waited for the footman to return.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

2 December

My dearest Pamela,

       I write this hardly knowing what to say. Three letters I have sent to Hillsleigh, the last one delivered by my own hand, without receiving a reply.

I heard your words, heard you tell me you never wished to see me again, but surely Lady Detweiler has long since explained that misunderstanding.

       Have you thrown my letters into the fire? In my mind’s eye I watch them burn, the edges curling and the words turned to ash. However much you berate me, I can not berate myself more. I was a fool all along. A fool to put a single qualification on love. And now I have nothing left to hold me to England, and much to avoid.

       The American packet James Monroe leaves on the 15th of December for New York. I plan to spend a year in the Americas, perhaps more, and so I must bid you adieu.

       I love you, now and forever. ’Tis true, whatever you will choose to believe.

–Benjamin

 Of all the questions that had plagued Benjamin’s mind during the days he waited for Lady Pamela’s reply, one pertinent query had gone missing.

Did the lady know that he had written to her?

It never occurred to Benjamin that Maggie had pocketed each of his letters, and that they had never reached Pamela.

A foolish oversight, but a portion of the blame, he later thought, could be placed at the feet of Josiah Cleghorn. The crusty old sea-dog had seemed so eccentric in his role as valet, so singularly impudent– Benjamin had convinced himself that Josiah was nothing like the usual English servant, to whom he ascribed perfect obedience.

Lady Pamela knew better. She finished the duke’s letter, tears streaming down her cheeks, and rang at once for Maggie.

* * * *

Josiah did not want to go back to Virginia. He had few friends still alive there, and fewer reasons otherwise to return, the wonders of ‘democracy’ notwithstanding. Charlottesville was hot and buggy, and the whole was a great deal more work than the valet’s old bones cared to face.

More to the point, he didn’t think the duke wanted to go back to Virginia, either. Lord Torrance had been born in England; he belonged here, and Josiah had seen his delight in the charms of the Wiltshire countryside and his pleasure in restoring Marchers. What ailed the man, to throw that away, and with it, a beautiful lady? And why? Because she didn’t answer a letter or two?

All-fired stupid, that’s what it were. The valet had argued with Lord Torrance as long as he dared; Josiah had always spoken his mind, and the duke had tolerated it, but he knew ’twas near time to quit. The duke had been adamant. He would neither remain in London, nor remove to Corsham Manor.

“But you are welcome to stay yourself, Josiah,” Lord Torrance had added. “In town or in Wiltshire, as you like. You’ve earned the holiday.”

“Eh,” said Josiah. He had no intention of quitting the duke’s service. “Haven’t you?”

The duke shrugged. “You see how things are here. Between my steward, and man-of-affairs, and Mrs. Throckmorton, I’m hardly needed. And I’ve wondered if my mother’s land has prospered in Virginia. Perhaps they could use a dab hand with the plough–”

Josiah rolled his eyes.

“But if the farm in Charlottesville has fared as well as I expect, I plan to travel.”

“Won’ help nought to be running away.”

Josiah knew at once that he had gone too far. Lord Torrance’s eyes hardened.

“Sorry, your grace,” the valet muttered.

The duke slammed his fist upon the table. Josiah jumped.

“Do you think I
want
to leave England?” Lord Torrance thundered. The duke rarely raised his voice, and the valet stared at him in shock. “Pah! To leave Corsham Manor and Marchers? Everything I love and care for in the world?”

“But–” Josiah was at sea.

The duke said nothing for a moment. He took a ring from his pocket–that same sapphire ring, Josiah noted, that he always kept with him–and held it in the palm of his hand. Finally Lord Torrance spoke.

“My presence causes pain to Lady Pamela. So much pain that she prefers to leave London rather than talk to me. That is all the reason I need.”