The Danbury Scandals (4 page)

‘But she was
your...’ She could not bring herself to say the word mistress. ‘I overheard
Miss Danbury say something about...’

‘You did hear
that, I thought you might have. Is that why you ran away? The footman saw you
fleeing as if all the demons in hell were after you.’

‘I...’

‘Do not say
another word until you have heard me out. You want to know if you are my
daughter, isn’t that so? Well, you may set your mind at rest. I would dearly
love you for a daughter but, regrettably, you are no closer related than second
cousin.’

‘Second cousin?
I am your second cousin?’

‘Yes, my dear.
Your mother was my cousin Helena. She was also the daughter of the fifth Duke
of Wiltshire, who was my father’s brother. The present Duke is her brother.’

‘But I don’t
understand.’

‘Your mother
never told you?’

‘No, never. Why
didn’t she?’

‘Because her
parents, my aunt and uncle, disowned her. She wanted to marry your father and
they disapproved. In fact, they forbade it, and, to avoid being forced into a
marriage she abhorred, she ran away with your father.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I
was blamed at the time and I doubt if Her Grace will ever truly forgive me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I
introduced John to your mother. That was in the days when we were both serving
as naval lieutenants on a three-decker, before I inherited the Beckford estate.
They fell in love.’

‘They stayed
that way until death parted them,’ Maryanne said softly. ‘And I loved them
both.’

‘I loved them
too. After you were born, I tried more than once to persuade the old Duke to
recognise you, but he refused. And even after he died, my aunt, your
grandmother, still held out against it. Until a week ago.’ He turned to take
her hand in his. ‘Do not be too hard on her, Maryanne. She is dying and wishing
to make amends.’

Maryanne’s head
was whirling and she could not think clearly. She was the granddaughter of a
Duke; her mother had come from one of the foremost aristocratic families in
England. It was too much to take in all at once.

‘What exactly
do you intend to do?’ she said. ‘Nothing is really changed. I am still me,
Maryanne Paynter, and I think no differently of my parents, except to love them
even more, if that were possible. I pray they have been reunited in heaven.’

‘I am sure they
have. But there must be some changes. You will have a home with me until you
marry.’

‘Suppose I
never do?’ Somewhere, deep inside her, was welling up a storm of rebellion. It
was not ready to burst yet because she still felt too confused, but it was
there, beneath the surface of her mind, waiting for something, or someone, to
set it off.

He smiled. ‘You
are too beautiful to remain single, my dear, and I hardly think you wish it. As
soon as you are brought out into Society, you will have a flock of suitors, you
can be sure.’

‘And no doubt
I’ll give the gabble-grinders something to talk about as well. I do not care to
be the subject of scandal.’

‘A nine-day
wonder.’ He chuckled. ‘As far as the
beaux
are concerned, it will give
your undoubted attractions an added piquancy.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘If
your mother could rise above the tattlemongers, then I am sure you can.’

‘Have I a
choice?’

He grinned.
‘You can try to live in obscurity if you wish, but I doubt if you will be
allowed to, once the news is out. A beautiful new heiress on the scene is bound
to cause a stir.’

‘Heiress?’

‘You have a
little inheritance coming to you which should have been your mother’s...’

‘Then why did
she have to live in poverty?’ Maryanne was close to anger on behalf of her
beloved mother, who had scraped along barely making a living.

‘It was held
back - quite legally, I may add. Her parents hoped to make her see reason.’

‘You mean
abandon my father and return to the bosom of an unfeeling family,’ she said
sharply. ‘I am glad she did not.’

‘The money is
yours now, or it will be when you reach your twenty-first birthday in a few
months’ time. Until then, you will make your home at Beckford Hall. Caroline
will be pleased to have a companion.’

Maryanne
doubted that; Caroline had displayed no friendly feelings towards her. ‘Does
she know...?’

‘She does now.
So does my son. You will be welcomed by them both.’ He smiled. ‘We are all to
move to our London house for Caroline’s coming out this summer. There will be
any number of receptions, balls, visits to the opera, clothes to be bought.

‘I shall not be
expected to go, shall I?’

‘Of course, my
dear. I intend that you shall be brought out along with Caroline, and I mean to
ask my sister, Mrs Ryfield, to see that all goes smoothly. She has the
"in" to every drawing-room in London, not to mention Almack’s. You
will like her, I am sure.’

It was not Mrs
Ryfield who occupied Maryanne’s thoughts, as they continued towards her new
life, but what Caroline thought about sharing her coming out with a distant
cousin whom she had never heard of until that day, and one she had no high
opinion of either. It would all be acutely embarrassing. In fact, the idea
struck her as so absurd that she began to laugh hysterically.

His lordship
looked at her in alarm and took her hand to reassure her. ‘It has all been a
great shock to you, I know.’

She stopped
laughing suddenly. ‘I am glad I know about my mother, of course, but it makes
no difference to the way I feel about myself. Can’t I stay at the rectory,
where I can make myself useful? The Reverend...’

‘The rector is
not expecting you back, Maryanne, not now you have been recognised by Her
Grace. Your old life is behind you and a new one ahead. Do you not like the
idea of living with us?’

‘You are a very
kind man, I know that, and it is not ingratitude which makes me reluctant...’

‘You are not
sure how you will go on, is that it?’ His gentle features broke into a smile
and he patted the hand he held. ‘Have no fear, my dear, you will deal admirably
with them all, I guarantee it.’

Not until she
moved into Beckford Hall, smaller than Castle Cedars but nevertheless a
substantial residence, did Maryanne realise quite what the changes to her way
of life would mean to her. She could no longer teach at Sunday school, she had
to give up her classes for the local boys, and, when she went sick visiting,
instead of the warm, homely atmosphere she had always encountered before, she
was greeted with uncomfortable stiffness. Worst of all, she could no longer
enjoy solitary walks across the downs. The luxuries of her new position did not
compensate for the restrictions on her freedom. She found herself almost
envying the gypsies who camped on the downs.

They reminded
her of the man who called himself Jack Daw. She had not seen him since that day
at Castle Cedars and she assumed that whatever had brought him to Hampshire had
taken him away again. It was extraordinary that the two places she had
encountered him had both been on Danbury land and yet a good fifteen miles
apart. Ought she to have told his lordship about him? If he was French, was he
an
émigré,
son of an aristocrat who had fled the Revolution, or was he a
Bonapartist, a prisoner of war, or a spy? But the war had been over since the
beginning of April; there was no longer any need for him to hide.

Ever since the
news had broken, the whole country had been celebrating. The flags of the
Bourbons flew on every building and hawkers selling
fleurs-de-lis
and
white cockades were doing a roaring trade, and wherever crowds gathered there
were pie sellers and peddlers of ballads and news sheets, which told of the
last days of Napoleon’s reign. Marshal Marmont, left behind to defend Paris
while Boney himself went to make a last attempt to repel his enemies, had
surrendered the capital to the victorious Prussian troops, and not even
Napoleon’s faithful generals would continue fighting after that. Their Emperor
had abdicated and agreed to retire to the island of Elba with an army of fewer
than a thousand men and a navy which consisted of a single frigate. The news
had arrived in England a few days later, almost before it could reach the Duke
of Wellington, down in the south of France, preparing to take Toulouse.

There were
balls and receptions everywhere in honour of this or that dignitary or valiant
officer, and in London Louis, restored to the throne of France, held a levee at
Grillons, to which everyone of importance was invited.

Hearing all
this, nothing would satisfy Caroline but they must bring forward the date of
their removal to London, so as not to miss a single minute. ‘King Louis is
bound to leave for Paris soon,’ she said after supper one evening, when her
father and Mark joined the girls in the drawing-room. ‘Wellington is there
already and, unless I miss my guess, half the world will follow suit.’

‘If you mean
the
aristos
, who think they can walk back on to their estates and take
up their old privileges, just as if nothing had happened, they are no loss,’
Mark said.

‘I was not
referring to them. I mean the
haut monde
. Paris will be fashionable
again, you see.’

‘There will be
plenty of young bloods left behind,’ her father said. ‘I’ll wager London will
be in an uproar the whole summer long.’

Caroline
pouted. ‘I want to go now. What is there to keep us here? Nothing ever happens
in Beckford.’

His lordship
smiled at Maryanne, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, sewing and taking
no part in the conversation; indeed, in the few weeks she had been at Beckford
Hall she had learned to keep her own counsel over Caroline’s whims. ‘And what
about you, Maryanne? Is that your wish too?’

If Maryanne
could wish for anything, it would be to return to the life of a nonentity, but
that was denied her and because she had to make the best of her situation she
stayed in the background as much as possible, allowing Caroline to shine, but
sometimes Caroline’s tactless tongue cut her to the quick and she had to bite
off the retort that came to her lips. When she came into her inheritance and
would no longer be dependent on Lord Danbury, she would leave and take up some
occupation where she could be useful and not have to think constantly of her
position.

‘Please, don’t
take me into account,’ she said, lifting her eyes from her sewing. ‘If you wish
to go to London, I shall be quite content to remain here.’

‘There you are,
Papa.’ Caroline sat back on the sofa with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Maryanne
does not want to come, and, besides, who will escort her?’

‘I will,’ said
Mark, beaming at Maryanne over the newspaper he was reading. ‘I have promised
myself a little of her company.’

Maryanne,
threading a needle, did not see the look which passed from father to son, but
if she had she would not have known how to interpret it. Only Mark understood
its warning and it tickled his fancy that he could put his father out of humour
simply by paying court to his cousin. She was as demure as a whore at a
christening, but he suspected that underneath that quiet countenance was an
independent spirit and a fire which once set alight would be difficult to
extinguish. If he could make it burn for him, then some of his difficulties
might be overcome.

‘The Duchess is
still very ill,’ James said. ‘We can hardly go if His Grace thinks it
inappropriate.’

‘Like everyone
else, he has already gone,’ Caroline said. ‘I had a letter from Georgiana
Halesworth. She was at Louis’s reception and saw the Duke there.’ She giggled.
‘She said the French King is even fatter than the Prince.’

Mark laughed
and began to sing. ‘And France’s hope and Britain’s heir were, in truth, a most
congenial pair; Two round-bellied, thriving rakes, Like oxen fed on linseed
cakes.’

Caroline
laughed. ‘Oh, capital! Where did you hear that?’

‘It’s all the
crack,’ Mark said. ‘There’s more’

‘Enough!’ said
James sternly, though there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Mark, that is hardly a
drawing-room ballad.’

‘Can we go?’
Caroline persisted. ‘I know for a fact Lady Markham is holding a ball at the
end of the month and we won’t be invited if we’re not even in town.’

‘I shall have
to write to your aunt Emma to find out if it is convenient for her,’ her father
said. ‘And I must ride over and see how my aunt progresses.’

‘You mean we
can go?’ cried Caroline, getting up to throw her arms round her father’s neck.
‘I shall have to have a new ball gown. In fact, Papa, I shall need...’

He smiled and
disengaged himself. ‘I know, a whole new
trousseau
.’

‘But it is my
coming out.’

‘And
Maryanne’s,’ he said, getting up to go and write his letter. ‘Do not forget
your cousin.’

‘I do hope Her
Grace holds out until the end of the season,’ Caroline said, as the door shut
on him. ‘I should hate to have to spend the rest of the summer in black gloves,
and if I have to wait another year for my coming out I shall be at my last
prayers.’