Joan Wolf

A DOUBLE DECEPTION

Joan Wolf

I

Parents require in the man fortune and honour, which are requisite to make the married state comfortable and honourable. The young lady may require personal accomplishments and complaisance, which are requisite to render a union agreeable.
—The Lady’s Magazine,
1774

Chapter One

In the autumn of 1814 Lady Maria Cheney attended the wedding of her nephew, Commander the Hon. Mark Anthony Peter George Cheney. It was an affair of much pomp and circumstance, as befitted the alliance of two of the oldest and most influential families in the county. The history of the Cheneys stretched far back into the days of the early Plantagenets, and the present Earl of Dartmouth, Mark’s father, had been for forty years the most important man in Devon. The bride was Caroline Gregory, and the Gregory family, while not so illustrious or wealthy as the Cheneys, was quite as old.

The marriage was celebrated in St. Peter’s Church, the parish church for Dartmouth Castle. Surrounding the assembled congregation of Cheneys were the memorials of their past: the Dartmouth arms were on the pillars, Dartmouth names adorned the windows, past earls were buried behind the altar, and the churchyard outside was filled with the graves of dead Cheneys.

The present heir to the earldom moved now from the sacristy to the front of the church to await his bride. Mark wore his naval uniform, and Lady Maria wiped away a surreptitious tear at the sight of his composed young face. She did not entirely approve of a boy of twenty assuming the responsibilities of marriage, but she was aware of the pressing need for him to do so. As the music began and the wedding procession started to move down the aisle, she glanced at her brother next to her in the front bench.

The Earl of Dartmouth looked older than his sixty years. The death of his other son, Mark’s older brother, Robert, had aged him badly. As she listened to the magnificent strains of the organ, Lady Maria reflected on that tragic event of just under a year ago. It had been such a freakish accident! Robert was a very good boxer. The blow to the head he had sustained had not seemed so serious at first. Concussion, the doctor had said. And then, two days later, he was dead.

She looked at Mark’s clear-cut profile, and, sensing her regard, he glanced at her for a minute and winked. Then Caroline was at the front of the church and he moved to join her. The two young people ascended the altar steps, knelt, and the service began.

Robert’s death had changed Mark’s life more than anyone else’s, thought Lady Maria, as she automatically followed the prayers. As a second son, he had chosen the traditional Cheney profession of the navy. Not for Mark the landowner’s education of Eton and Oxford. He had gone to sea as a child and his schoolroom had been the cramped and turbulent cockpits and gunrooms of frigates. He had been a midshipman at eleven, a lieutenant at seventeen, and at nineteen he had been posted to the rank of commander.

Lady Maria was much afraid that Mark’s naval days were ended. Which was a pity, because he had loved it so. Lady Maria treasured and still reread the letters he had written to her over the years. She was the closest female relative he had; his mother had died when he was seven.

Mark’s job in future, she reflected, was to run the affairs of his family, his property, his county, and his country. His immediate job was to produce a son. Her brother had been quite clear on that score. The fragility of human life had been brought home to him most forcefully with the untimely death of the twenty-five-year-old Robert. Ever since Mark had arrived home six months ago, he had heard little else from his father but this one refrain: marry and get sons. The Dartmouth line, unbroken in six hundred years, must not be allowed to die.

Mark, however, had not needed much urging to marry Caroline Gregory. One look at her delicate beauty, her big blue eyes and shining golden curls, and he had been smitten. She looked entrancingly lovely today in her white dress and pearl-encrusted veil. You would have to travel very far, Lady Maria thought, as the music started up again and the wedding party prepared to depart, to find a handsomer couple or one more probably destined for happiness. Everything about them matched: birth, fortune, beauty. And they were in love. Lady Maria sighed, wiped her eyes once again, and allowed her brother to take her by the arm.

The wedding breakfast was held at Cadbury House, the Gregory home on the outskirts of Dartmouth. It belonged now to Sir Giles Gregory, Caroline’s older brother. He was twenty-six, the same age Robert would have been. The two of them had been at school together, Lady Maria remembered.

Lady Gregory, Caroline’s mother, lived with her son, and she was the hostess for the reception. The church had been very crowded and a large number of the congregation arrived back at Cadbury House for some post-ceremony refreshment. As one would expect in Devon, there were a great number of naval men in attendance.

Lady Gregory, a dimmer, older version of Caroline, was a happy, not to say triumphant, mother of the bride. As well she might be, Lady Maria thought, her eyes on her nephew. That tall, slim young man with his splendid shoulders, his lithe carriage, his long-lashed golden-brown eyes—what mother would not rejoice to have him for her daughter? Not to mention the fact that he would be the Earl of Dartmouth one day.

Sir Giles was a courteous and conscientious host. He came in for a good deal of teasing from his own relations, and from the Cheneys, most of which followed the lines of “your turn next.” He took it in good-enough humor. Lady Maria thought there was occasionally a frosty look in his blue eyes, but to his credit, his smile never faltered. He had the reputation of being a very kind brother and a devoted son.

All in all, the day was a decided success. A highly desirable union had been forged, and all present had had a reasonably pleasant time.

Lady Maria accompanied her brother and assorted relatives back to Castle Dartmouth for the night. The family had given up living in the huge fortress of Dartmouth Castle almost a hundred years ago. The tenth earl, Mark’s grandfather, had commissioned Nicholas Hawksmoor to build him a country house which would afford more comfort and convenience than the imposing fortification that had first been built in Norman times to guard the River Dart. The result had been Castle Dartmouth, so named to underline the fact that while it was a new location and house, the family had not changed. The house was generally held to be Hawksmoor’s masterpiece.

The Earl of Dartmouth, his cousin Admiral Sir William Cheney, and his sister Lady Maria were the last to go to bed that evening. They sat together in the large, comfortable library, and the talk turned to Mark. The Admiral, evidently, had a point he was determined to make.

“I don’t want to see that boy resign from the navy,” said Sir William.

“Nonsense,” replied the Earl gruffly. “He will have more than enough to occupy him here at home. I’m getting old: Can’t do what I once did.”

“You don’t need to,” put in Lady Maria. “You have a very well-trained and responsible estate agent. The estate practically runs itself anyway, and what else is necessary, Mr. Farnsworth is perfectly able to see to.”

Her brother glared at her, and Sir William took advantage of his opening. “Maria is right. There is no reason why Mark can’t keep his naval commission.”

“Why should he?” grunted the Earl, staring at his cousin from under his formidable white eyebrows.

“Because Mark has shown exceptional talent as a scientific investigator. He is widely recognized by the Naval Lords as being the best hydrographer we’ve seen in years.”

“Really?” said Lady Maria.

“Yes. The charts he’s made of the River Plate in Argentina and of parts of the South Atlantic and Indian Ocean are the most accurate we have ever had. In fact, for the last few years he’s been supplied with
three
chronometers—an extraordinary compliment, I assure you, that is usually accorded to only discoverers and navigators.”

“He almost drowned in the River Plate,” Lady Maria put in conversationally. “He was fourteen and had been sent out with the expedition to Buenos Aires. His ship was wrecked and quite a few men drowned—all for the want of an accurate chart. I think that’s where his obsession for surveying began. But I did not realize his work was so well-thought-of.”

“It is,” said the Admiral.

“Well, this is all very interesting.” The Earl rose to his feet. “Mark’s duty just at present, however, is not to produce a chart, but a son. Good night, Maria. William.” And he stumped out of the room.

Chapter Two

In the spring of 1815 Lady Maria Cheney attended the wedding of her goddaughter, Miss Laura Dalwood. It was not as grand an affair as her nephew’s wedding had been, but it was quite the most important thing that had happened to the Dalwood family in a very long time.

Lady Maria’s childhood friend, Louisa Vincent, had married Sir Charles Dalwood thirty years ago. The owner of Dalwood Manor had at that time been a considerable man, if not in his county at any rate in his part of the county. The income from his estate had allowed him to live plenteously and hospitably, if not lavishly. However, as the years had gone by and the war had come and gone, the income from the Dalwood property became insufficient for the Dalwood family and house. With three sons to provide for, as well as a daughter, Sir Charles had been forced to cut back considerably on his standard of living, which was very unpleasant for everyone concerned.

Laura’s marriage to Edward Templeton was the sort of solution to his problems that Sir Charles had occasionally dreamed of. Mr. Templeton had money—a great deal of money. He had moved to Devon eight years ago and had built Templeton Hall in the neighborhood of Sydenham Damerel. He had thus taken his place in the group of neighboring gentry whose homes were superior to that of Dalwood Manor. However, none of the surrounding houses— Templeton Hall in particular—had that thoroughly established look of old county position which belonged to Dalwood.

Sir Charles, poor though he may be, was still the most important man in his world. He belonged, belonged in a way that Edward Templeton never would. The Dalwoods had been true to their acres through the perils of civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Dalwood of his day had always owned and had always lived at Dalwood Manor. In his part of the county, the owner of Dalwood reigned supreme.

The marriage of Laura Dalwood to Edward Templeton was a not unusual marriage of ancient name and position to present day money.  However, Lady Dalwood hastened to reassure her old friend, Maria Cheney, that she must not suppose that Laura was only marrying to please her family. “Edward is a charming man,” she told Lady Maria. “Laura likes him very much indeed.”

Lady Maria was exceedingly fond of her goddaughter. There was a serenity about Laura that she found extraordinarily attractive. Laura had a gift for graceful stillness and repose that her godmother thought contrasted most pleasantly with the extreme shyness or noisy animation found most often in young girls her age. In fact, Lady Maria had quite made up her mind to offer to sponsor Laura for a Season in London when she turned eighteen. However, that would not be necessary now. Her parents appeared to have managed her affairs very well themselves.
If,
that is, the man really was acceptable.

It certainly did appear as if Laura was happy with her choice. Lady Maria arrived at Dalwood Manor the day before the wedding and was sitting in the drawing room having tea with Lady Dalwood when Laura came in to greet her godmother. She had just returned from a ride and her skin was still a little flushed with exercise. Her dark blue-gray eyes were warm with pleasure as she bent to kiss Lady Maria’s cheek.

“Godmama! How good to see you. And how good of you to come for my great day tomorrow. You’re looking very smart, as usual.”

Lady Maria smiled affectionately at the smiling young face bent above her. In her old gray riding habit and well-worn boots, Laura most certainly did not look smart. But then, she did not have to, reflected Lady Maria wryly. Laura’s hair was parted in the middle and drawn back smoothly against her head, a style becoming to very few women. Lady Maria looked for a minute at that smooth dark head and long graceful neck, and then she said softly, “Come and sit down and tell me all about your young man.”

Laura complied. “Well, he is not precisely
young,
Godmama. Edward is thirty-three.” Briefly Lady Maria’s eyes met those of Lady Dalwood, and both ladies repressed a smile. After all, thirty-three does not seem young to seventeen, no matter how it might appear to two middle-aged ladies of fifty. “But he is very nice,” Laura was going on. A gleam of laughter lighted her eyes. “And terribly handsome.”

“Well, of course, that is most important,” Lady Maria said imperturbably, and Laura laughed.