The Misbegotten (52 page)

When the master’s son-in-law died and his daughter Josephine returned to live in Box with her young son, Jonathan, Duncan Weekes and the whole household were pleased. Lord Faukes’s appetite had worsened since Lady Faukes had died, and they hoped his daughter’s presence would help to calm and moderate him. Duncan was standing next to his own son, Richard, when Josephine Alleyn arrived in a smart chariot drawn by a team of four grey horses. He heard his son’s intake of breath as Josephine descended. Richard was still only a child, but Josephine Alleyn was as lovely to look at as any queen of hearts. She wore a long pelisse of umber-coloured velvet over a dark green dress, with a matching hat over her mahogany hair. Her eyes were a deeper, richer blue than any he’d seen.
No good will come of loving her
, Duncan silently warned his boy. So the household was cheered by Josephine Alleyn’s arrival, though the lady herself was cool and reserved and, Duncan thought, sad to her very bones. But she was a widow, he reminded himself; that would surely account for it. And for a while Lord Faukes’s visits below stairs, and his escapades in the cupboards and dark corners of the house, did lessen. Before long, Duncan found out why.

One fine May day, Lord Faukes and his daughter were to visit friends in Bowden Hill. Duncan waited on the box of the coach while Richard held the door. He was too young to be a footman, but Josephine Alleyn liked his face, and seemed to find some gentle amusement in the proud way he thrust out his chest to make up for his lack of height. Their route led them through the village of Lacock, and then across a series of narrow bridges that traversed a flat, boggy area of streams and reed beds. One of the bridges was blocked by milling sheep, and Duncan was forced to halt the coach.

‘Clear the bridge!’ he shouted to the elderly shepherd, who gave a nod and waved his crook unhurriedly at his animals. The horses snorted and fidgeted as the flock milled around their legs. The stink of their dung and their oily wool was ripe. ‘Hop down, lad, and stand nearside of Santi’s head. Keep her steady and the others will follow,’ Duncan instructed his son. ‘I’ll stand by the coach to keep them clear.’

‘Go wide, you wretched muttons,’ Duncan muttered, as he climbed down and felt his boot slide in something soft and fresh on the road. He took up a position by the door of the coach and waved his arms to drive the sheep further from it. The curtains had been closed behind the windows, so he didn’t knock to explain the delay in case Lord Faukes or his daughter were dozing. But as the last stragglers trotted past, and Duncan Weekes turned, movement caught his eye. The coach rocked slightly, as though something went on within, and the curtains crept open, just a crack. Without even meaning to, Duncan saw inside. It was only for a second, but that was long enough – the scene struck him with all the awful clarity of the night sky lit suddenly by lightning. Josephine Alleyn sat with her head tipped back, her lustrous eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her father’s mouth was on her neck, questing hungrily, one hand squeezed her breast, his other reached under her skirts, between her thighs, out of sight. There was a straining of fabric in Lord Faukes’s crotch, and an expression of perfect emptiness on Josephine’s face; as though wherever her thoughts were, they were far, far away. It was a look of acceptance, disconnection; a look of numb oblivion. It was not a look of surprise.

The moment that Duncan stood there, immobilised by shock, felt like hours. He turned away as soon as he could; forced his stiff, unresponsive legs to climb, and flicked the horses on so sharply that they plunged in the harness, and the shepherd was forced to hop smartly out of the way.

‘What’s got into you?’ said Richard, grabbing the box rail for safety. Duncan blinked at his son. He hadn’t even checked that the boy was back aboard before he’d driven on. He glanced over his shoulder at the coach and knew that speed would carry him no further from what he’d seen, or from what he served. So he brought the horses back to a steadier pace, and reached under his seat for the bottle of brandy he kept there for cold, night-time journeys. He drank half of it down in one go, and lowered it with a cough to see disgust on his boy’s face. ‘You suck on that like at your mother’s dug,’ Richard chided, copying the language he heard in the stables. ‘It’ll get you kicked out one day, old man. You’d best hope I’m full trained as coachman the day that happens, or where will we be?’ By the time they reached Bowden Hill Duncan had emptied the brandy bottle, but it had done nothing to expunge that lightning-bolt scene from his mind.

So Duncan had his suspicions already, when he learned about Alice Beckwith. A servant will learn the secrets of a household, however close-guarded they be – this he knew already, and could not forget no matter how drunk he got. He heard Lord Faukes talking to his grandson, when they came to the stables for their horses. He heard Faukes tell the boy that Miss Beckwith, who they would ride out to visit, was the love-begotten daughter of a good friend of his, and that he had agreed to care for the girl, but since she was a bastard born, Mrs Alleyn would not approve, and would stop their visits, and so Jonathan must not tell her. Duncan Weekes heard the little lad, who adored his grandpa, swear, in his piping voice, to keep the secret.

Other things overheard taught him that Alice Beckwith was kept at Bathampton, with a servant and a governess. He learnt that Faukes doted on the girl, and planned to marry her off as well as he could, eventually, when the time was right. When, twice a month or so, Lord Faukes came for his saddle horse and rode out alone, or with his grandson, for the afternoon, Duncan could guess where they were going. He knew of Alice Beckwith, and he had his suspicions; for no other man in the county was as likely to have sired a bastard as Lord Faukes. He had many other such children, and none of them were treated with anything like the same care and attention; why would he lavish it on the by-blow of a friend? A friend who was never named, or visited? Alice Beckwith was
special
, that much was plain. Duncan could not un-see what he had seen in the carriage; he could not un-hear Faukes forbidding his grandson to tell his mother about the girl. He could not undo the conclusions that he came to. He could only drink; and drink he did, knowing full well that he and at least one other in that house were going to hell.

So, when the young girl with the unusual face and the pale hair walked up to the main door of the house on a windy day in the autumn of 1808, and then came running back out again not ten minutes later, Duncan guessed who she was. It was past noon, and he had drunk enough brandy by then to knock most men out, but Lord Faukes was away from home, and if Josephine went anywhere she asked for Richard to take her, so he knew he wouldn’t be called upon to drive that afternoon. He was making his weaving way from the stables towards the inn in the village when Alice Beckwith stumbled out of the door and down the steps, then hastened towards the gate and right into his arms. Her face was wet, and she shook like a little bird in shock.

‘Steady there, my pretty maid,’ Duncan slurred at her. ‘And who might you be?’

‘I’m A-Alice Beckwith.’ After she spoke she fell into fresh sobs.

‘There, there, child. Nothing is as bad as all that. Alice Beckwith – yes, I know you. The one kept at Bathampton – the special one. Why those gravy-eyes, when you have such noble parents? When you have such a cozened existence? You have turned your face quite red, child,’ he said, taking her hand and trying to soothe her. He blinked owlishly, struggling to focus his sluggish mind, his blurred vision.

‘Cozened? Noble? How can you . . . What do you know of me, sir? What do you know of my parents?’

‘You came in search of your lord father, I don’t doubt. And now you weep to find him not at home? Weep not, sweet girl. He will be home again ’ere long . . .’ He paused after he said this, and frowned, befuddled. For a moment he couldn’t imagine why any young woman would want to see Lord Faukes.

‘My lord father?’ she echoed, staring at him in shock. ‘Is it
known
, then? Has the secret been kept only from me, and not from the rest of the world? What cruel joke is this?’ she gasped, breathing so fast it hurried her words.

‘Cruel – ah, yes! Cruel indeed. A cruel man, he is,’ Duncan mumbled, still not quite finding the thread. Before him, the girl shook and wept. She raised trembling hands to her face, and seemed to think hard.

‘You spoke of . . . my parents, sir,’ she said at length. ‘Do you know . . . something of my mother, then?’

‘Your mother? Hmm? A fine lady, yes, and a great beauty, is she not? My son is deep in love with her, though he is less in age than you, I would say. But there are few that would not find her lovely.’

‘You know who she is, my mother? How do you know, sir?’ Alice grasped at his hands imploringly. ‘Was her name Beckwith?’

‘Beckwith? Beckwith – no, indeed. I do not know the source of that name – your wet nurse, perhaps.’ Duncan shook his head and smiled at the girl because she seemed sweet, and in distress. He patted her hand. ‘There, there. Dry those tears, young miss,’ he said, having forgotten why she might be crying.

‘I have so many more to shed, sir,’ Alice whispered. ‘I can scarce bear to think how many.’

‘Oh come, now – why so? You are young and fair, and your parents are wealthy. And though you be a secret and a shame, see how bonny you are! You are not to blame, miss, no indeed.’

‘I am a shame, sir? You know this? Am I a shame to my lady mother – is that why she knows me not?’

‘Forsooth, how can you not be? For no woman in history lay willingly with her own sire, and I declare that Mrs Alleyn is no different – for I
saw
them, miss – how I wish I had not! I saw him about his blasphemy, and I saw how verily disgusted she was.’ Duncan shook his head, but it made the ground lurch and his stomach heave, so he stopped.

The girl had gone very quiet, very still.

‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ she said, but from the way she gasped out the words, robbed of breath, it seemed that she’d begun to. Duncan had the vague and disquieting sense that he’d said too much.

‘Hush and do not tell!’ he said anxiously. ‘Good girl, good girl. It is a very great secret. Even from the other servants, from which a house usually has none. Only I have found it out.’ He tried to tap the side of his nose but missed; tried to smile but could not. ‘But take heart, child. You’ve not yet grown into all of her beauty, but you may yet, and who could have guessed so fair a maiden could come from so foul a union? You have her blue eyes, and though her hair is dark and shines so well, still I have heard that a good many men prefer a fair head, such as yours. So weep not, dear girl, weep not.’ He waved his arm magnanimously and threw himself off balance, staggering. Alice Beckwith was staring straight ahead, abject, her face a sketch of perfect horror. Duncan could not fathom her distress but he somehow felt he’d been the cause of it. ‘May I help you at all, young lady?’ he said tentatively.

‘No, sir. You have helped me enough,’ she said, in hushed and deadened tones.

Duncan Weekes was watching Rachel, bleary-eyed and hunched in on himself. Rachel’s stomach was turning with nerves and disgust.

‘You mean to say, you believe that Alice was Josephine Alleyn’s child . . . sired by Lord Faukes, her own father?’ She swallowed, and tasted something bitter in the back of her throat.

‘She was
special
to him. She was dear to him.’

‘That is no proof,’ Rachel said, her voice choked.
I am an abomination.
‘Josephine Alleyn speaks very highly of her father. She reveres his memory, and their good name.’
My mother has lied all her life.

‘I drove her to the church when he died, Mrs Weekes,’ Duncan said gravely. ‘She shed not a tear for him, and as I drove her home when he was safe in his grave she wore a smile behind her veil. She wore a smile, and was less sorrowful than I ever saw her previous.’
He took without asking. And this is Jonathan’s family.

‘Oh, God. But . . . I cannot believe it – not of Mrs Alleyn! And you told Alice this?’

‘You need believe nothing of Mrs Alleyn. She was innocent and helpless. You need only believe it of Faukes, and there’ll be women a plenty that will vouch for his character; for what he wanted he took. And, God forgive me, I did – I told Miss Beckwith.’ Duncan’s chin sank to his chest, his mouth wrenched down at the corners by misery.
He’s good now he’s dead.
Rachel remembered Starling’s words.
Alice would never have left me to Lord Faukes.
Duncan coughed painfully; wiped his mouth with a filthy handkerchief. ‘I heard she ran off, not long afterwards. I heard she ran off to who knows what fate, and from the look on her face when I spoke to her . . . I ask you, who could blame her? That poor girl.’

For a long while, the pair of them sat in silence. Rachel could hardly believe all she’d been told, but a dark thought was growing in her mind, unbidden and irresistible.
Grief and violence often go hand in hand in a man. And if she told him this about his family – and hers – how strong must his grief have been?
It was hot and stuffy in the inn but Rachel shivered.
She would have been his aunt and his sister both, if it’s true. But what proof is there, other than this old man’s guess?
There could be no proof, she realised then, other than to hear it from Josephine Alleyn herself.
No proof because it is all a mistake and supposition, and it is not so? No proof because Alice was a foundling? And I know, yes I know, who lost her.

‘Where was Alice before Faukes brought her to Bathampton? And how could Josephine have borne a child before she was wed, and it be kept a secret?’ she said. Duncan raised his shoulders wearily.

‘Who can say where the babe was? Somewhere else, with a wet nurse paid to keep her lip buttoned. The year before . . . the year before Josephine was wed, Faukes took her to Scotland for half a year. The retreat was to help them both recover from the continued grief of losing Lady Faukes, it was said. But there could have been another reason, too. The timing of it, from the age I took the Beckwith girl to be, would have been fitting. When they returned to Box she quickly wed and made her escape.’