Lady Pamela (33 page)

* * * *

“What day is it?” Lady Pamela had asked. Lord Torrance’s letter was crumpled in her hand, and she looked as if she would break down in sobs. “
What day is it?
”

“Well...” Jonathan had no idea what had overset his sister. “The fourteenth of December, I believe. What–?”

“The fourteenth!”

Maggie arrived. In the course of her brief, somewhat painful interview with Lady Pamela, Jonathan began to understand what had happened.

“I didna know!” wailed the maid. “Thought he were engaged to that other lady, I did!”

“Where are the letters?” asked Lady Pam, tapping her foot in impatience.

“An’ he were so nasty an’ all, in the park!” Maggie had come to believe her own stories.

“Maggie. The letters.”

The maid dug a thin packet of envelopes from her apron pocket. Lady Pamela took them, saying, “We’ll talk of this later.” She addressed her brother. “I must return to London at once.”

“I’ll send Toby with you,” said Lord Sinclair. “You should make town by nightfall.”

Jonathan, fair-witted and decisive once he comprehended the gist of a matter, did his best to help. The coach was being pulled from the stable even now, and harnessed with the marquess’s strongest team, and Cook instructed to make up a basket for nuncheon. Warm clothing was sent for, and bricks heated for Lady Pamela’s feet, for the weather had turned much colder during the past few days.

Her brother was not happy at Lady Pamela’s refusal to take her maid, but finally accepted that she was not to be swayed.

“ ’Twill be easier on the horses,” she told Jonathan. “And I need some time alone.”

The carriage was on the road to London by just past ten o’clock.

* * * *

Tomorrow he would be gone. Tomorrow. She would have the coachman drive directly to Marchers upon their arrival in London, no matter what the hour.

And she would speak to the duke. At once, and alone, without a lady’s maid, or footman, or butler to intervene. And they would talk until everything was understood between them, and she was sure that his intentions had not changed, and then, if he still wished to marry her, she would accept.

Lady Pamela was not as angry with Maggie as she might have been. ’Twas her own doubts about her past behavior, her own insecurities, that had led her to read insults into the duke’s words where none were intended, to feel censure when the duke had offered only love.

If anyone was to be chastised, ’twould be herself. But this time, Pam feared, the punishment would be more than she could bear.

* * * *

Lady Pamela’s under-butler, Jenkins, could boast of more education than many of London’s servants. Jenkins could read, for example, and did; most particularly the
Times
, which milady sent belowstairs each day when she was finished with it, in hopes that her staff might find some education. Boring stuff, the parlour maids thought, and turned up their noses at the inky print. But Jenkins read it through and through, even the announcements of births and deaths and forthcoming marriages, from which bits of gossip could occasionally be gleaned.

’Twas one such announcement that had caught his eye, several days past.

       The Duke of Grentham wishes to make known the end of his engagement to Lady Millicent Chambers, eldest daughter of Lord Reginald Chambers, 4th Earl of Banbridge, currently residing at Beamish Hall in Northumberland, and etc.–

By ‘mutual consent.’

The under-butler’s conscience began to afflict him. Jenkins knew what Maggie had done with the duke’s letters, and he had a good suspicion that milady’s early departure to Bedfordshire was the result. He wondered what to do. Milady was gone, and Maggie as well, and ’twas unheard of for an under-butler to
write
to his mistress. Jenkins had the maid’s welfare to consider, as well. When Lady Pamela discovered that Lord Torrance had sent his footman twice with a communication to Hillsleigh, and had come himself on a third occasion, she would demand to know what had happened to those letters.

And Maggie had them.

In lieu of her ladyship, decided Jenkins, he could speak with the duke. Not Lord Torrance himself, of course, but to Josiah Cleghorn, his valet, who spent more than one evening at the back bar of the Rose and Crown, on Curzon Street. Jenkins didn’t know the man himself, but he knew of him. The duke’s valet was an exotic species to the local pub-goers, an American sailor, and well-known for his stories, which were colourful and occasionally profane.

Now, as the under-butler’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the Rose and Crown’s interior, he spied Josiah sitting in a back booth, addressing a pint of bitters.

The under-butler squared his shoulders. Confession was of benefit to the soul, he reminded himself. Perhaps it would also do some good for his mistress.

* * * *

Lady Pamela sat in the coach, fighting the impulse to jump out and run. The journey had been a disaster, from start to finish, and was not at its end even now.

They had hardly left Luton Court before the snow began, and this event, so longed for by Alice and Peter, was no boon to the traveler. The weather was colder, yes, but not cold enough, and the snow was heavy and wet. Even the well-graveled high-way was no match for the muddy, icy slush.

’Twas slow, hard going for the horses, and slower as the morning turned to afternoon and the drifts began to build. Toby changed the team at St. Alban’s, and again at Bricket Wood, but ’twas little help. Dirty clumps of ice built up in the animals’ hooves; every few miles the coachman was forced to stop and clean them out.

And December days were short. The afternoon twilight had faded, and the snowfall was growing heavier, by the time they reached Golders Green. Toby brought the team to a halt in the courtyard of the Black Swan, the best of the local inns.

“I’m sorry, milady,” said the coachman.

“It can’t be helped,” said Pam. She would not inflict her despair on Toby. “See to the team.”

“Yes, milady. We’ll be off first thing on the morrow. I promise.”

She gave the coachman a reassuring smile. The skies would clear tonight, Pam told herself, and they were fair close to town. Tomorrow the snow would have ended and they would be in London before anyone could think of setting sail.

Surely they would not sail before mid-morning, she told herself, knowing all the while that an early hour was no guarantee. Lady Pamela had never been shipboard, but she did know that a vessel’s movement down the Thames was tied inextricably to the tides, and that tides could be predicted, but not changed by the hand of man.

Once a ship was gone, it was gone, and could not be called back.

So she had managed only a few hours of sleep at the inn. In the morning, however, the snow had indeed cleared, and the skies were a brilliant blue, and Toby was as good as his word. They were gone at first light, and Lady Pamela’s spirits rose, as she thought again–

Surely, not before mid-morning.

But now, in London, they were lost. Lady Pamela thought to waste no time in chancing that the duke was still at Marchers House and had instructed Toby to go directly to the docks. But neither she nor the coachman knew the Thameside streets, which were abominably narrow and swollen with traffic, and no place for a marquess’s carriage and four.

They had driven around in circles for an hour, it seemed.                     

Where were the quays for the larger boats? Where would one find the packet
James Madison
? Her brother, back at Luton, and shouting instructions over the din of four horses being set in harness, had suggested that the duke’s ship might leave from the Upper Pool, below London Bridge.

“If you’re delayed until tomorrow, try the Tower Pier,” he told Lady Pamela. “Place to start, anyway. Someone will know.”

The Tower Pier. It had seemed an easy enough scheme, back in Bedfordshire, but this part of the city was unfamiliar to Lady Pam. She had no idea how to find any particular pier, and the river, which she glimpsed from time to time as they circled from Byward Street to Tower Hill and back to Lower Thames Street, was so crowded with boats that she could hardly see the water.

Finally they managed to arrived at a series of large stone and brickwork quays. Lady Pamela stuck her head out the window and spoke to the first man she saw within shouting distance of the coach.

“Sir,” she called. “Oh, sir, please. Where is the
James Madison
?”

The man looked ready to spit; he cocked his head at the beautiful, but somewhat rumpled-looking lady.

“There she be,” he said, pointing to a nearby quay.

Only then did Lady Pamela notice the fine carriage sitting at dockside. She recognized it at once. The duke’s carriage.

Lady Pamela threw open the coach door and jumped down.

“Milady!” shouted Toby, in protest. He could not leave his team.

The duke’s carriage was empty, the horses stamping and fretful and under the care of a young tiger. She did not bother to stop and ask the boy after his master. Three masts showed plainly against the grey sky, and in a moment she could see that the
James Madison
had already cast off from its moorage.

No.

She ran along the stone quay and onto the pier. The pier seemed miles long; a few hard-looking men still walked its length. Her feet felt the timbers underneath; once she tripped and fell, tearing her skirts against the rough wood.

“Milady?” One of the men extended a hand, smiling kindly, and helped Pamela to her feet. “Y’ be needin’ help?”

She shook her head.

Gone, gone, gone.

Pamela knew, now, that she was too late. She ran, nevertheless. She ran, breathless, for all the dreams she had let slip away. For all the times she had let Benjamin go, before, when she could have rested easy in his arms and ignored the foolish call of pride.

She ran until her slippers were shredded and her feet bleeding.

Too late.

Lady Pamela stood at the end of the pier and watched until the last bit of
James Madison’s
mainmast disappeared into the distance. She turned to leave, without tears, without protest, feeling numb.

The Duke of Grentham stood on the quay. Benjamin walked toward her, his hands open, and in one hand she saw a ring, glittering, and a flash of blue fire.

EPILOGUE

That winter in Bedfordshire was one of the most beautiful in memory. Snow covered each hill and meadow with a glittering blanket; cottages and the manor house alike were freshly bedecked with white under the clearest of blue skies. ’Twas cold enough to keep the roads from turning to slush, but not too cold, and Alice and Peter made snow-angels on their backs, and another snow-castle grew tall upon the south lawn of Luton Court, eclipsing even the children’s efforts of the previous year.

The Duke of Grentham and Lady Pamela Sinclair were to be married at Luton on Christmas Day. ’Twas the second wedding within the year to grace the marquess’s home, and Jonathan was inclined to take the credit. His sister and a duke! A fine match, thought Lord Sinclair. The gentleman was worthy of Lady Pam, and wasn’t it fortunate that he, the marquess, had thought to find him at White’s, and mention Pamela’s remove to Bedfordshire?

Fortunate, indeed. Someone had to take a firm hand in these things.

* * * *

Lord Sinclair’s memory clearly tended toward embellishment, for ’twas Josiah and Jenkins, Lady Pamela’s under-butler, to whom credit properly belonged.

It had been the early hours of the fifteenth of December when Josiah burst into the duke’s bedchamber, Jenkins in tow.

“She never got yer letters!” exclaimed the valet.

The duke was not yet abed; he doubted, indeed, that he would sleep at all that night. He was tired and dispirited, for tomorrow morning the
James Madison
set sail, a long, upwind voyage to New York, and he would not return to England for a considerable time. No doubt he would hear of Lady Pamela’s engagement some day, and next her marriage, and then perhaps he would never return at all.

“I beg your pardon?” said Benjamin, about to order them from his rooms. The man accompanying Josiah looked familiar, but both men smelled strongly of beer, which didn’t advance the duke’s confidence in whatever they were attempting to say.

“Yer letters to the lady!”

“Letters?” The duke’s confusion remained. He had written letters, yes.
She
had never replied.

“Your grace?” offered the under-butler, cautiously.

Benjamin sighed. “And you are?”

“Umm. Thomas Jenkins, your grace. Under-butler at Hillsleigh.”

Benjamin’s attention was immediately captured. “Hillsleigh. Ah, yes. What is your purpose here, did you say?”

The under-butler explained.

* * * *

Lady Pamela had never received his letters. Benjamin’s heart was repeating this refrain; had done so for hours. Perhaps she was still angry. It mattered not. She had never received his letters, and that was all he needed to know.

But what a tangle. What would Lady Pamela think when Lord Sinclair gave her the duke’s latest missive? And if Maggie had accompanied Pam to Luton Court, would the girl confess to her deception? Benjamin’s anger with the maid was tempered by the thought that the girl had her mistress’s best interests in mind, as she thought. Still, if the under-butler had not had the courage to seek out Josiah, or if the valet and Lord Torrance had already boarded ship–

All’s well that ends well,
he reminded himself. ’Twas time, now, for explanations, and the duke was determined to travel to Bedfordshire and issue them in person.

Benjamin had not known of Lady Pamela’s mad dash back to London, of course. Jonathan had told him, at White’s, that he and the marchioness would be departing ‘shortly’ for Bedfordshire, but as to the exact date–

So the duke had not known, either that Lady Pamela had received his last letter, nor of her immediate response. He went to the Tower Pier early that morning only to retrieve his baggage, which had been carried aboardships the day before.

He’d taken two carriages to the dockside, one of which had already been loaded and sent back to Marchers when Lady Pamela arrived. He saw the slender figure at a distance, her golden hair caught in the sunlight, and knew at once it was Pamela. She stood at the end of the pier, alone and bedraggled and yet lovely beyond words, watching the
James Madison
slip away into the distance. His heart crumbled, at that moment, into a thousand pieces.