The Birth of Blue Satan (40 page)

As the days wore on, Hester felt alternately helpless and hopeful. Helpless, because there was no longer anything she could do to help St. Mars. And hopeful, because it looked as though they might return to London soon, and she desperately needed something to take her mind off her uselessness.

Harrowby needed to return to take his seat in the House of Lords. The King had granted him leave to examine his affairs, but at a time when Jacobites and Tories were retreating to their country estates, no Whig could appear to be gone from Court too long. When Mr. Hare, who was secretary to Lord Bolingbroke ceased to appear, it was rumoured that he had fled to France as well, when according to this morning’s copy of
The Daily Courant
, he had only retired to his house at Skiffington.

There were many other reasons to go back. Appointments were being made, and honours were being handed out. Although Harrowby could not expect, nor would he desire, to be appointed to some posts, there were always lucrative and influential positions for which few talents were required.

Every afternoon after dinner, as they sat in the withdrawing room, Hester read
The Daily Courant
aloud to the others. Harrowby had begun this task, but they had soon found that his reading was more laborious than Hester’s, so they had begged him to give the task to her in order to “spare his eyes.”

From these readings, they learned that the Honour of Knighthood had been conferred on Mr. Richard Steele, Mr. Robert Thornhill, and Mr. Samuel Letchworth, as well as other titbits that whetted their appetites to return to Court before the King departed for the summer.

A pension of two thousand pounds had been granted to the Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery from the Civil List. The daily news of others being rewarded made Harrowby very anxious not to be forgotten in the King’s largess.

The Marquess of Wharton had died rather suddenly at the age of seventy-six. As a fellow member of the Kit Kat Club, Harrowby felt he should attend his funeral. Letters from friends had teased them with a scandal brewing over the death, and both Harrowby and Isabella hated being far from the gossip. Lord Wharton’s illness, it seemed, had followed hard upon the heels of his son’s elopement, and now Philip was blaming his bride for his father’s death, even though he had disobeyed his parent in eloping with the girl when she refused to be seduced.

For all three of Hester’s companions, to whom the peace of the country had begun to seem tedious, such goings-on were bound to provide strong inducement to pack their bags. Mrs. Mayfield had found that, after all her machinations, she did not particularly care for country life. After acquainting themselves with the house and the grounds, the only occupation that had amused her was planning the decoration of Isabella’s bedchamber. But after the architect had come down from London, and the upholsterers and joiners had been to show their wares, she had found it best to remove herself from the scene of the actual work.

Mrs. Mayfield had not thought it prudent to suggest a return to London yet, hoping for a sign that Mr. Letchworth had recovered from his sense of injury. He had got wind of where Isabella had gone, and had written her a letter in his former vein, apparently unaware that she was already married. Mrs. Mayfield had read the letter herself, declared it to be nonsense, and advised Isabella not to think of it at all. It had been tossed into the pile of letters which had been forwarded from home. But they had judged it prudent to insert a notice in all the news-sheets announcing that the nuptials had taken place. It was now hoped that Mr. Letchworth’s elevation to a knighthood would solace his pride and that they might soon receive his note of congratulations in the post.

“Here is your notice, Isabella,” Hester said as they sat in the parlour on a Thursday afternoon. She had found it in the day’s packet which had been posted to them on Tuesday. It says, ‘Yesterday was Sevennight, a marriage took place between the Earl of Hawkhurst and Mrs. Isabella Mayfield, the daughter of the late Honourable Geffrye Mayfield,  at Rotherham Abbey, Lord Hawkhurst’s country seat.’“

“But that’s wrong! We were married in Sevenoaks.”

“Yes, my dear,” Mrs. Mayfield said, “but it sounds better to say that you were married at your husband’s house, and
so
you will say to anyone who asks. They have put it very well, although I never have understood why they do not say more about the people who attended the ceremony. They should have said that your mama was there.

“What else does the paper say, Hester?”

Hester’s eye had been caught by an advertisement on the third page, but since it was unlikely to interest her aunt, she reverted to the gossip. “There is more here on Lord Wharton’s business. ‘We hear the Marchioness of Wharton has taken out a Process in Doctors Commons, to prove her Marriage with the Marquess, who is said to be going to travel.’“

“Poor Martha!”

Mrs. Mayfield’s sympathetic remark could not fool Hester since, as she recalled, her aunt had not been so fond of the girl when the marquess had fallen in love with her. Lord Winchendon, as he had been then, had figured as one of Mrs. Mayfield’s favourite prospects for Isabella, and she had been irate when he’d fallen in love with a general’s daughter.

Mrs. Mayfield continued in a commiserating tone, “Only fifteen years of age, and already abandoned by her husband! Why, just think, my dear,” she said to Isabella, “how that might have been you. But you was not so easily taken in by that rake, no matter how he courted you. And only see how fortunate you are to have married our own dear Lord Hawkhurst. I always said that Philip Wharton was a scoundrel.”

Not always
, Hester might have reminded her. Only after he’d turned his back on Isabella. Still, she felt sorry for the poor marchioness. Her husband was said to be an even bigger rake than his papa had been.

“I suppose we ought to return to town,” Mrs. Mayfield said, in a carefully disinterested tone, “to see if anything can be done for her ladyship. I would not want her to think that all her friends have abandoned her. What do you say to our returning, my lord? I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

Harrowby still bloomed beneath his mother-in-law’s flattery, and obviously her suggestion was welcome. “I say we go back. What do you say, my dear?”

“Yes, let’s do! I cannot wait to show Martha and all the others at Court my ring.”

“Then that is settled. Not but what it has been very pleasant to be here, just the four of us. But we mustn’t be remiss in remaining away from Court too long, and you will want to find a house for the summer.”

They started discussing where they had best stop, whether nearer to Hampton Court or Kensington, but since this was to be King George’s first summer in England, it remained to be seen how much time he would spend at either palace. They did decide, however, that Monday would be the soonest they should start out for London, since otherwise they would have to spend all of Sunday at an inn.

While they were talking, Hester listened with half an ear while she perused the portions of the paper that interested her. An advertisement that had caught her eye was for a recently published pamphlet called
The Black Day, or, A Prospect of Domesday
. It purported to be about a great and terrible eclipse, due to happen on Friday, April 22, 1715—tomorrow—and it claimed that the like whereof had not been visible in the Kingdom of England for over 500 years. Hester might not have believed it, except that, according to the advertisement, the prediction had been based on calculations by Mr. Halley, Professor of Geometry in the University of Oxford, a noted astronomer and secretary to the Royal Society. Even as unschooled as she was, it would have been hard to miss hearing of this gentleman. She would enjoy seeing if the prediction was right. At least the eclipse would give her something to think about besides Lord St. Mars.

Her meeting with him had ended her part in his trials. He had no more use for her, that had been clear. It had been all she could do to hurry through their good-byes, knowing that the most compelling role in her life was to be taken from her. She had not wanted to reveal to him how absolutely vital it had become.

She was supposed to enjoy the luxury of his home and ignore his rights to it. Forget his losses, and pretend they had never touched her heart. Benefit from his riches while he was consigned to ruin.

She could not, although her daily life had never contained so many comforts as it did at the Abbey. How could she enjoy herself, when her mind refused to let go of his misfortunes?

If she were a man, she might have found a way to assist him that was more helpful. She could confront suspects and question them. But the only role open to her had been as an observer of the things he could not see, the little happenings in her limited circle that might have pointed him to his father’s murderer.

And had not.

It was unlike her to mope. The very least she could do for him would be to discourage her aunt and the others from wasting his inheritance before he could resume his position. She obviously would not be able to keep them from spending a great deal, but she vowed to restrain them in every possible way.

With so many servants available for the menial tasks, her aunt was finding different employment for her. Instead of sending her on errands, she had begun to use Hester for her eyes and ears in this household, which had been run by men. Spying was not an unusual job for a waiting woman, but Hester planned to use her position to manage her aunt as well.

Gideon got up early Friday morning, eager to ride to Smarden again. He had given the Duke another few days, but he felt impatient. He could not wait any longer.

Tom had not returned, so Avis saddled Penny for him as he went back in for his breakfast of beef and beer.

“Yer up early this mornin’
,
” Lade complained as he plopped Gideon’s brimming mug down on the table. “Yer not gettin’ ready to pike, are ye, afore ye tip me my earnest?”

Gideon looked down his nose. He was not in any mood to cater to Lade’s impertinence. “I am going out on business—
not
that it is any business of yours. I thought I had made it clear that I intend to reside here for some time. If I did not, I would hardly have spent the money I have on improving this fleas’ nest of yours. Rest assured that I shall inform you if my wishes should change.”

He dug into his beef, trying to ignore the slow grin that spread over Lade’s features. “Ay, but ye’re a rum cove, an’t ye. Always soundin’ so pretty-like. But you can stow it around me. Thinks I don’t know that yer a knight of the road? But that’s Bob with me, so long as ye tip me my gelt.”

His boldness prompted Gideon to try to put a damper on him. “A knight of the road? I presume you to mean a highwayman. Whatever gave you that idea, my good fool?”

Rather than being insulted, Lade appeared even more delighted than he had before. “Ay, you like to stick that gig of yours up in the air, don’t ye? And them oglers of yers could fool the nubbing-cove that you was a gentry-cove. But ‘tis all boman. I knows that yer a sneakin’ budge. You and that other rum padder of yers, ye like to go it alone. But I don’t mean to get in your way. I’m an honest bluffer.”

“Any statement including you and the word honest in the same breath is patently false. I assume you to mean something by it, however, so you might as well out with it so I can finish my breakfast in peace.”

His demand provoked Lade to lean closer and whisper, even though there was no one else in the house. “I heard that there’s a new pair o’ rummer pads workin’ the highway near Cranbrook. I also heard that one of ‘em must a’ nimmed a togeman, on account a’ it’s silk, which no rummer pad has had in this neighbourhood before.”

“Which I’m sure you would know. But what does this silk cloak have to do with me?”

Lade shrugged, and there was a world of knowledge in his gesture. “Well, I don’t say nothin’ about his togeman or his shappo, but I can say a thing or two about his horse, and it seems that he’s got a fine little prancer.”

“Oh, he does, does he? And is he the only person in Kent to have a fine horse?”

“No, but as sure as I’m an honest bluffer, I’m a sharp bluffer, too. And I say that a gentry sort o’ cove turned up on my doorstep just about the same time that this Blue Satan bites a loge off a cully not too far from here. That’s two and two in my book, that is.”

Gideon smiled sweetly, and saw that his expression unsettled his host. “I suppose I am to be obliged to you for this useless piece of information?”

Lade straightened himself with a frown. “Ye might tip me a borde for it, seein’ as how yer so well equipt.”

Hiding his impatience beneath an indifferent look, Gideon reached in his pocket and pulled out a crown. “There,” he said, slapping it into Lade’s outstretched palm. “There’s a crown for you, or a bull’s-eye as you call it. You may have it, if you let me finish my breakfast in peace. But if you hear any more news of this highwayman, I hope you
will
bring it to me. I should hate to be his next victim. And, as you have remarked, I spend a great deal of time on the road.”