A Sister's Secret (32 page)

Caroline, the dark auburn tints of her hair enriched by the sun, turned to look at a copper beech. It held her gaze. ‘Charles – Captain Burnside – means more to you now than Cumberland, Annabelle?’ she asked.

Annabelle, who thought the less she said of her feelings concerning Cumberland the better, replied, ‘But, Caroline, you surely do agree Charles is a sweet and exciting man, don’t you?’

‘Is it necessary for me to agree?’ asked Caroline, looking as if she found the magnificent beech somewhat imperfect.

‘I cannot think why you all are so cool towards him,’ said Annabelle, then drew herself up warily as Mr Carter showed himself at the open front door.

‘Beg to report, Your Ladyship,’ he said, ‘that there are no beds made, nor bed linen unpacked. Beg to report also that Sammy has the kitchen stove going, and that boiled potatoes will be served with cold ham for supper. Beg further to report there are mice in the harpsichord, playing tunes.’

‘Mice?’ cried Annabelle, and instinctively clasped close the skirt of her gown. ‘Why do you tell us? Am I to remove them?’

‘Beg to suggest, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan, ‘that while I take the harpsichord to pieces, you peel the potatoes.’

‘Potatoes? Peel them?’ gasped Annabelle, thinking of what it would do to her hands. ‘Oh, you abominable creature!’

Caroline, smiling, said, ‘As you see, Mr Carter, my sister is not too much in favour of peeling potatoes. But you have made your point. There is work for all of us. Come along, Annabelle, let us see what we can do to help.’

‘I vow myself utterly despairing,’ said Annabelle.

She was sure, as she found herself flicking a duster some minutes later, that in some awful way she had become the victim of a conspiracy, that she had been brought here to keep her away from the duke.

If Annabelle was fretful, Jonathan was cheerful and adaptable, Sammy a willing workhorse, and Caroline a quiet, efficient preparer of the supper, which proved to be somewhat more attractive than mere ham and boiled potatoes.

The high, square house within its perimeter of iron railings showed only ground-floor lights. Captain Burnside, unobtrusively lurking, saw the glimmer of a lamp as the side door opened a little. Outside the front door stood the usual sentry, an infantryman, the butt of his rifle resting on the stone step. Out of the soldier’s sight, Captain Burnside moved to the railings at the side of the house, opened a latched gate and advanced. The side door opened wider, and from around it Betsy peeped, curls frisky under her cap as she bobbed a little curtsey.

‘Oh, there you be, sir,’ she whispered, ‘but I hardly knows what I’m at I’m so beset with quakings.’

Slipping into the passage, Captain Burnside murmured, ‘God’s life, puss, you’ll quake yourself into a quivering jelly one day and get served for supper.’ He quietly closed the door. ‘All is clear, my pretty?’

‘His Highness be out with his officers, sir, but Mr Erzburger be in bed with the colic or summat, and groaning fit to throw his stomach up.’ Betsy’s nervous and very low whisper counselled the utmost caution. ‘But he be a spry listener, so I beg you won’t rummage about nor clump on floors, sir, or we’ll be took in the act. And you best not be no more than five minutes.’

‘Good puss, sweet kitten.’ Captain Burnside patted her shoulder, and Betsy at once snuggled herself up against his, seeking comfort for her quaking bosom. Then she led him up the back staircase, and they both ascended with considerable care and deliberation. He heard only the faint murmur of servants gathered together below stairs. She took him into the secretary’s study, dim with dusk. He turned up the wick of the desk lamp, and its thin streak of light grew to a small flame. Betsy, ears twitching, watched him as he took out the royal diary from a
drawer, opened it and leaned over it. She had closed the curtains.

He scanned recent entries quickly, looking for something, anything, that might offer a constructive pointer, although he knew it was highly unlikely he would find positive information. He found nothing at all other than official and innocuous entries concerning engagements. He leafed his way then to the day of 29 July, to take a look at the entry that had interested him before.

What had that entry been?

‘
3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K
.’

And below it: ‘
3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning poss. marriage to Lady CP. Bty
and
riches
.’

That had been in Cumberland’s own hand, and smacked of Cumberland’s own contempt for the eyes of posterity. But was it a contemptuous flourish of his quill, that reference to beauty
and
riches, or was it to emphasize the subject of the meeting and leave no doubts in the eyes and minds of others?

Captain Burnside found the relevant page.

‘
3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K
.’ In Erzburger’s hand.

‘
3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning betrothal to Frederica of M-S
.’

The captain peered in astonishment. That entry too was in the secretary’s hand. The former entry was gone, and without any sign of erasure. He ran his hand over the page, feeling it with fingertips. He felt the next page. He could detect no difference, each felt the same as the other. There could be no possible doubt, however, that there had been extraction and substitution, something that could be easily effected by a skilful bookbinder.

‘Sir, oh Lord, be quick,’ breathed Betsy, ‘I be nigh on dying.’

Captain Burnside closed the diary, replaced it and
turned down the lamp. Betsy drew back the curtains. Outside, the July dusk had turned into night. The captain stood in silence for a moment. That new page and new entry meant, for a start, that the former entry could be considered never to have existed. It meant, further, that Cumberland assumed Lady Caroline would be a permanent absentee from London and England by 29 July. Perhaps a permanent absentee from life. It also meant Cumberland did not wish to cancel his meeting with his elder brothers. He now intended to place before them his possible marriage to the Duchess Frederica of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She was his natural choice. Yet he had, perhaps, in his sense of self-omnipotence, considered he could exercise a princely right to choose a commoner. A commoner who was exceptionally uncommon. An American woman, undoubtedly among the most beautiful in London, and undoubtedly rich. It was typical of his darkness that he was now willing to dispose of her because … ah, yes, what was it?

Because of something that now pointed to his meeting with his elder brothers, all of whom stood between him and the throne.

Captain Burnside’s smile was a faint gleam. ‘Come, Betsy,’ he murmured, and in relief Betsy led the way back to the stairs. At the top, she stiffened, then shrank back against him. A handbell was being rung in a vexed, erratic way. She drew a breath. ‘Erzburger?’ he whispered. She nodded. They stayed where they were for the moment, poised to fly to a dark corner for shelter. Although the sound of the repeatedly shaken bell came from a room on the other side of the house, it was penetrating enough to induce caution and stillness. It stopped.

Betsy waited a few seconds, then tiptoed her way down the stairs and reached the passage to the side door in a
breathless burst of new relief. There, close to the door, she turned and snuggled herself up to the captain again. ‘Oh, I be shaking to my every bone,’ she breathed.

‘Ah, well, though it’s your every bone,’ he murmured, ‘you shake as deliciously as a peach tree blown by the wind.’

Betsy snuggled her palpitating bosom closer. ‘Oh, I be that gone on you, Mr Burnside, sir—’

‘Hush. No names, puss.’

‘No, sir, but you fair melt me all over, you do. We be meeting on Sunday, like you said?’

‘Sunday it is, Betsy. Ten thirty, outside the Theatre Royal in the Hay Market. Prettiest gown, mind, and your Sunday bonnet.’

‘Oh, my Sunday pantaloons too,’ whispered Betsy ecstatically, ‘they be so pretty, with ribbons and all. It’ll be a loving Sunday? I’ll blush fit to die, sir, but I don’t know how I can hardly say no.’

‘Have no fears, innocent puss. My wife will say no for me as well as for you, and you shan’t spend the day quaking, quivering and blushing.’

Betsy smothered giggles against his shoulder, then lifted her head as he touched her hand. She felt him press a coin into her palm. ‘What be this, sir?’

‘A golden guinea, pussy poppet. You’re a brave partner and a deserving one.’

Delighted, Betsy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him rapturously on the mouth.

‘Betsy! Where are you, wench? I’ll deal thee a thump come you don’t show a quick pair of feet!’ a demanding voice echoed and the echoes rang in the passage.

‘Oh, that be Job Cuffley, second footman,’ whispered Betsy, and opened the door. Captain Burnside slipped out. ‘Sunday, then, sir, and I be all agog already.’

Captain Burnside went on his way, thoughtful on account of the diary, smiling on account of Betsy. She was an endearing puss, and invaluable.

Sammy put his head into the cottage kitchen. His mistress, Lady Caroline, had been astonishing him today. She had set about domestic chores without a single note of fuss, helping to bring a clean and cosy glow to the cottage. Mr Carter had worked with her, while Miss Annabelle had wandered from room to room, trailing a brush and pan, and giving vent to despairing sighs, much to Mr Carter’s amusement. Lady Caroline was now unpacking preserved foodstuffs from a large wicker basket that had travelled with them from London yesterday. She wore a calico white apron to protect her gown, and a white mob cap on her head.

‘Your Ladyship?’

‘Yes, Sammy?’

‘Cap’n Burnside’s a-coming, Your Ladyship. A-coming down the lane, he is, on his tod.’

There was no response from Her Ladyship for a moment. Then, her back to him, she said in a busy way, ‘Really? Captain Burnside? Dear me, are you certain?’

‘Certain positive, Your Ladyship,’ said Sammy. ‘I told Miss Annabelle and she’s gone a-running to meet him.’ Sammy essayed a little grin. ‘She said heaven be praised, Your Ladyship.’

‘Really?’ Her Ladyship sounded offhand. She dipped into the basket and brought out a jar of preserved figs, which she placed on a shelf in the pantry. ‘Thank you, Sammy.’

‘Yes’m,’ said Sammy, and disappeared.

Caroline heard her sister’s laughter then, laughter from the open front door, followed by the sound of Captain
Burnside’s voice. ‘Faith, here’s a charming place.’

‘Charming?’ Annabelle made herself heard. ‘But, Charles, it’s so poky. Caroline calls it a cosy retreat, but there’s hardly room to pass each other by, and no room at all to avoid each other. And, oh, I declare, you have burdened us with such an uppity varmint. How could you?’

‘You’re referring to the estimable Jonathan?’ murmured the captain.

‘He is not at all estimable; he’s unfeeling.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the back yard, chopping wood for the kitchen stove.’

‘Back yard?’ said the captain, and Caroline realized Annabelle had yet to understand a back yard was a garden to the English.

‘Yes,’ said Annabelle, ‘and would you believe, he expects me to carry in a basket of logs. And Caroline is in the kitchen, working with pots and pans. Charles, look at my hands. Already they are ruined. Mama would swoon to see them. Oh, but now that you are here, I shall go and change into a fresh gown, then beg you to protect me from that boring bully, Mr Carter. Do go and say hello to Caroline.’

‘Of course. And I’ll acquaint myself with her pots and pans.’

A moment later, the kitchen door, ajar, was pushed open and he came in. His beaver hat was in his hand, his boots a little dusty, his hair a trifle ruffled by the country breeze. His smile arrived in friendly fashion.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Caroline, attempting a casual attitude while putting her back against the pantry door. Alarmingly, she was in need of its support, for her legs felt ridiculously weak. The captain bowed. Faint colour flushed her.

‘Lady Caroline? My compliments. How very domesticated.’

‘I was not sure you would come,’ she said, almost faltering. ‘I am afraid we finished our midday meal some time ago, but if you are at all peckish, there is food you can have. See, do you care for these?’

She turned, hiding her flush, and opened the pantry door. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, she took out the jar of figs. She looked at it, then showed it to him.

‘Figs?’ said Captain Burnside, and regarded her in curiosity, for she was quite unlike her usual composed self. Her lashes were flickering, her eyes looking everywhere except at him, and the jar was actually unsteady in her hand. ‘That’s an extremely kind offer, dear lady, but I ain’t all that partial to preserved figs.’

‘Oh, there are other foodstuffs, I assure you, and can declare all of them to be very palatable. See, the hamper is full of them. Meats in aspic, fruit in syrup, and – and …’ She did falter then.

‘Heavens, are we stocked to endure a siege?’ smiled the captain.

‘Yes. That is, I don’t know.’ Caroline examined the jar of figs, then lifted her eyes to him. ‘Oh, I am so glad to see you.’

‘Are you?’ His curiosity deepened.

‘Yes, of course I am. We have been worried about you, about Cumberland.’

‘Oh, Cumberland’s his usual self, his head high in clouds of self-esteem and feet running with the devil’s. And I’m safe and sound, as you see, having caught a morning stagecoach to Lewes, and a cart to this side of Wychling.’

‘A cart?’

‘Farm wagon. Devilishly bumpy. But I’m delighted that you and Annabelle are safe and sound yourselves, though Annabelle don’t seem too taken with Jonathan.’

Caroline, steadier of limbs now, said, ‘Oh, she has met her match in that young man.’

‘While you are getting the better of the pots and pans?’ Captain Burnside eyed her white cap and apron with a smile. ‘Respectfully, marm, I’m compelled to say you look uncommonly fetching in a mob cap.’

‘Among pots and pans and potatoes, Captain Burnside, one must dress for the part,’ she said. ‘We have no servants except Sammy, which is putting Annabelle into fits of despair. In South Carolina, it’s considered most indelicate for any young lady to do anything for herself.’