The American Heiress: A Novel by Daisy Goodwin (22)

The Homecoming

TOM, THE TELEGRAPH BOY, WONDERED WHAT would happen if he removed his cap. It was expressly forbidden under post office rules but it was a warm day and there was no one to see him here in the Lulworth woods. On the other hand, if Mr Veale was to hear that he had been improperly dressed, he would be sent back to his mother in Langton Maltravers. Mr Veale had fined Tom sixpence the week before for allowing the silver buttons on his tunic to become tarnished; another boy had been dismissed for delivering a telegram with his stiff collar unfastened. Tom decided that the immediate relief of removing his cap, which was too small and rubbed painfully against his temples, was not worth the risk of being discovered. Mr Veale had a way of knowing when rules had been broken. He was fond of saying that he could ‘smell an infringement’. Tom had not been clear what an infringement was, until the incident with the buttons, and even now he wondered how they could be smelt. All five remaining telegraph boys reeked of the same things: inky serge, sweat and the bicarbonate of soda they used to shine their buttons. In winter they smelt a bit less and in summer a bit more.

It was three miles from the post office in Lulworth to the house. Mr Veale always sent Tom because he could walk the fastest. Twenty-one minutes on the way there and seventeen on the return journey, which was downhill. Mr Veale had told him to do it today in twenty minutes because the telegram was from the Duke. Tom was doing his best, bowling along at a loping pace midway between a walk and a run. He had set off at nine exactly and although he did not carry a pocket watch, he knew that he was making good time because he had heard the single chime from the Lulworth church bell which marked the quarter hour. He was at the part of the drive that curved behind a clump of beech trees before emerging into the open and revealing the house itself. There was no longer any question of removing his cap, Tom knew that he could be seen from any one of the glittering windows ahead of him. He loosened the strap under his chin a notch so that there would not be a red welt there, and thought of the glass of lemonade he would be given in the cool kitchen, as he pressed on towards the house.

Bertha spotted him from the window of Miss Cora’s room. Her mistress was still in bed, not sleeping but staring up at the canopy as if it was a map. Bertha was unnerved by this, as she was by Cora’s silence. She had heard the rumours last night at supper about the Duke’s return. Mr Bugler thought he would be home today and had all the footmen put on their dress livery. Bertha herself had put on her best cream silk tussore blouse. It had been Miss Cora’s, of course, but she had never worn it. As a rule Bertha avoided light colours because they made her appear darker but after an English winter her skin needed the glow of the pearly silk. She had laid out the pale green tea gown with the swansdown trim for her mistress, which to her mind was the most becoming of Miss Cora’s current ensembles. But Cora had refused to entertain the notion of getting dressed, shaking her head when Bertha tried to coax her out of bed. She had even refused Bertha’s attempts to do her hair, which lay in limp hanks on her pillow. Bertha was used to her mistress’s moods but she had never known them to interfere with dressing her hair before. Miss Cora could be tiresome but she didn’t give up on things. Bertha didn’t understand why her mistress was moping like this. All she had been doing for the last five months was wait for the Duke to come home, and now he was most likely on his way she was lying there like a corpse.

She turned from the window. ‘I can see the telegraph boy, Miss Cora.’

There was no reply.

‘I expect it’ll be from the Duke. Maybe he is coming on the afternoon train.’

The silence continued. Bertha watched as the telegraph boy started to climb the steps up to the house.

‘I reckon Mr Bugler will be bringing the telegram up here in a minute, Miss Cora. Maybe you want to get ready?’

Cora’s eyes did not flicker from her scrutiny of the canopy.

Bertha began to feel irritated. If Cora couldn’t see the truth of things, she would have to tell her. There were times of late when she felt more like Cora’s mother than her maid. She began to speak briskly.

‘If I was coming home after five months in India, I would like to see my wife dressed up and looking pleased to see me, not lying in her bed staring at the ceiling. Come on, Miss Cora, you don’t want Mr Bugler to see you like this.’

Cora gave a sigh and rolled over on to her side before pushing herself upright. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands.

‘All right, all right, you can stop scolding me. You’re right, of course, Bertha. Bugler will go straight to Duchess Fanny, and then she will come up here and start interfering. Lord knows I thought my mother was bad enough, but the Duchess really is the end.’ She stretched out her hands and then let them drop in her lap. ‘I just don’t understand why Ivo didn’t come straight home.’

Bertha had almost finished pinning Cora’s hair in place when Bugler came in with the telegram on a silver salver. Cora opened it without haste and dropped the telegram on to the polished tray when she had finished.

‘The Duke will be here for dinner tonight, Bugler. If you could let Cook know, I am sure she will want to prepare something special.’

Bugler bent his head in the shallowest possible bow. ‘I believe the Duchess of Buckingham has already spoken to Mrs Whitchurch, Your Grace.’

Bertha was impressed by the way that Cora did not react to this. Instead, she smiled without showing her teeth, and said, ‘Indeed! How thoughtful of her.’ She put her hand to her hair and brought down one ringlet that she proceeded to curl round her fingers. Bugler hovered, clearly impatient to be gone but unable to move until he had been formally dismissed.

‘Will that be all, Your Grace?’

‘Yes, I think so, Bugler. No, actually, I do have one request.’ She spoke to Bugler in the mirror. ‘Duchess Fanny’s bouquet, the one from her first wedding. I thought I had asked for it to be removed from the long gallery. Kindly see to it before the Duke arrives.’

Cora caught Bertha’s eye in the mirror and tilted her chin. Bertha saw that her mistress’s face had lost its sulky heaviness and that there were spots of colour in her cheeks. When she had finished pinning Cora’s hair she stood back and said, ‘You look quite fine today, Miss Cora.’

Cora looked back at Bertha. ‘Do you really think so? I’ve changed so much though. When Ivo left, I was still in corsets. If he had been here, he would have had time to get used to me…swelling.’ She put her hands over her stomach. ‘When he is confronted with this, I’m afraid he will get quite a shock.’ She picked up the black pearl necklace from its green velvet home and handed it to Bertha to fasten.

Bertha slid the gold hook through the eye and pushed it into the diamond clasp. She wondered if the Duke would indeed be taken aback by Cora’s appearance. When he left she had been hardly showing; now her whole body had altered; as well as the round globe of her stomach, there were blue veins crossing her décolletage and her face was softer and rounder. Even Cora’s voice had changed; as her pregnancy progressed, it had become deeper and huskier, she had quite lost her pert American twang. But at least, thought Bertha, she no longer looks so like the girl in the portrait which had been left leaning unwanted against the wall of the gallery at Bridgewater House. Bugler was fond of describing the picture as shocking, even though to Bertha’s knowledge he had never actually seen it. She was the only servant at Lulworth who had set eyes upon the portrait, but when asked her opinion she had pretended ignorance. She knew that Bugler, for one, had not believed her, but she did not want to join them in condemning it. She understood that to do so was really a way of running down Cora herself; Bugler could not allow disrespectful talk of the Duchess herself in the servants’ hall, but the portrait was another matter. There had been times over the last few months when Bertha had wondered whether her decision to hold herself aloof from the gossip in the servants’ hall had been the right one, but some loyalty to Cora and a feeling that no concession to her fellow servants would ever make her belong stopped her.

She caught Cora’s eye in the mirror and said with more firmness than she felt, ‘I think the Duke will be happy enough to see you carrying his child.’

Cora nodded her head. ‘Perhaps. It is, after all, the thing only I can give him. An heir.’

The Duke’s telegram had simply said, ‘Arriving this evening. Wareham.’ Even allowing for the essentially public nature of the communication which would be read by the postmasters in London and Lulworth, not to mention the telegraph boy, Cora felt the economy of those four words keenly. There was nothing for her there, no hint that he was looking forward to coming home, to seeing her again. Even his letters to her from India had been signed, ‘Your affectionate husband, Wareham.’ At the time she had found ‘affectionate’ less than adequate as a term of endearment, but now she would have welcomed anything more conciliatory than this stark statement of facts. She still could not believe that Ivo had been in the country for two whole days without letting her know.

She had been anticipating the moment of his return for so long, rehearsing the conversations she would have with him in her head, planning the food, the company, the flowers. She had ordered the head gardener, Mr Jackson, to force hundreds of jasmine plants so they would be ready for his arrival, as he had once told her that it was his favourite flower. She had been practising the Schubert duets they had played together so that she could play her part from memory. She had spent many hours with Father Oliver trying to piece together the complicated narrative of the Maltravers family so that she could refer casually to the Fourth Duke’s stammer or the bloodlines of the Lulworth lurchers. She had done everything she could think of to be a convincing Duchess. An English Duchess, who knew the rules, who knew how to do more than spend money. But it had not occurred to her that Ivo might not be as eager to play his part in the reunion as she was. She had imagined him arriving post-haste from Southampton, salty and fervent. And yet here she was with the sort of telegram he might have sent to his butler. Surely she had done her penance for the portrait affair, sequestered here at Lulworth with nothing to do for months.

She decided that she would not go down to lunch. She had no desire for another skirmish with the Double Duchess. Perhaps she would send for Sybil and sort out some dresses for her.

There was a knock at the door and a footman brought in the second post of the day. There were two letters, one from London, the other from Paris. On one she recognised Mrs Wyndham’s handwriting; the other hand also looked familiar but it took her a moment to remember where she had seen it before. Those backward-leaning strokes that betrayed the author’s left-handedness she recalled from the ivory tablets that were used as dance cards at the Newport balls. She reached for the paper knife and opened the letter impatiently.

Cora felt a dull ache at the base of her spine as she read the letter. She started when she saw the name Louvain and wondered if Teddy had heard about the portrait. But as she read on, she realised that Teddy would not have written with such candour if he had known about her contretemps last summer. He was, she reflected, still in Paris and so it was quite possible that the little scandal surrounding the portrait had not reached him. He would learn of it, she was sure, but at least she would have the chance to talk to him first. She thought sadly that the tone of Teddy’s letter was more affectionate than anything she had received from her husband. Teddy had written to her. Ivo’s letters had been well written, full of wry observations about the Indian princes and their courts and the difficulties of anticipating Prince Eddy’s erratic behaviour. But though they were letters worth reading, they were not the letters she wanted to read. She had longed for a letter that was for her and her alone, a letter which would give her some glimpse into his heart. But apart from some of the less circumspect remarks about the Prince, there was nothing in Ivo’s letters that could not have been published in The Times. It was if they had been sent merely as a record of his visit; nowhere did she find a sentence or even a phrase – and she had looked with considerable thoroughness – which suggested that he was writing to a woman he still loved. She had hoped that perhaps this lack of epistolary emotion was one of those English habits that had to be understood and tolerated, like the strange reluctance to shake hands or their pride in speaking in such an exaggerated drawl as to be almost incomprehensible. She knew she was still learning the customs of the country, but Teddy’s letter with its open plea for her friendship could only make her wonder if her husband’s reserve was not so much a product of his upbringing as a sign that he no longer cared for her.

She wrote a short note to Teddy, inviting him to stay in the summer at his convenience. She extolled the beauties of Lulworth, ‘Indeed the light here is softer and more luminous in the late afternoons than anything we have at home,’ and hinted at the forthcoming birth, ‘When I see you I hope I will be able to introduce you to a new member of my family.’ They were, she thought, the words of an English duchess. But at the end she tried to match his candour with her own. ‘I look forward to seeing you again very much. My life has changed greatly but not so much that I can discard the friends of my youth. I may be called Duchess now but I am still an American girl who sometimes misses the country of her birth. Please come to Lulworth, it would give me great pleasure to see you again. Sincerely yours, Cora Wareham.’ She read the note through and then added as a postscript, ‘And I look forward to introducing you to my husband.’

She directed the letter to Teddy care of the Traveller’s Club and rang for the footman. When her note had been safely dispatched, she turned to the other letter. This turned out to be a gossipy dissection of the London season so far; Mrs Wyndham was acting as sponsor to the Tempest twins from San Francisco, who were as rich as they were pert and had already acquired a number of aristocratic suitors, ‘But my dear Cora,’ Mrs Wyndham wrote, ‘they are well aware of your magnificent marriage, and have declared themselves indifferent to anyone below the rank of duke. Indeed they frequently speculate whether they should spend the rest of the summer in Europe where it would be considerably easier for them to become princesses. I have pointed out, in vain, that a marquis or an earl of an early creation here in England is quite the equal of any continental prince but now that you have become a duchess they can think of nothing else but outranking you!’

Cora smiled at this. She knew Mrs Wyndham was concerned that she was losing some of her most promising protégées to Paris or Italy where princes and dukes were plentiful. Winaretta Singer, the sewing machine heiress, had gone straight to Paris for her debut and had married the Prince de Polignac eight weeks after her arrival. The only princes in England were of royal blood and they were still beyond the reach of American money. But Cora did not envy the new Princess de Polignac. She had found Parisian society to be even less welcoming than London. Thanks to a succession of French governesses, Cora spoke the language with some fluency but even so she had difficulty in following the brittle chatter of the Parisian bon ton. Besides, it was rumoured that all Frenchmen kept mistresses whether they were married or not. She remembered seeing a ravishing woman in the Bois de Boulogne. She had been wearing a striped lilac silk gown trimmed with black lace, but it had been the sinuous quality of her walk that had arrested Cora. She moved so fluidly that Cora found herself staring at her just for the pleasure of seeing her glide along the gravel paths of the Bois. When she had asked Madame St Jacques, their companion in Paris, who the woman was, she had said quite matter-of-factly that she was Liane de Rougement, and that she was currently under the protection of the Baron Gallimard. ‘Although there has been talk that she may transfer her favours to the Duc de Ligne.’ Cora had tried to conceal her astonishment. She knew that such women existed, of course, but she had not expected to find one so immaculately dressed walking unconcerned through the cream of Parisian high society. No, she did not envy the Princess de Polignac.

She scanned the rest of Mrs Wyndham’s letter. Although she understood why the other woman felt she had to include the genealogy of all the people she mentioned – ‘I went to the Londonderrys last night, the Marchioness is of course a Percy and is related to the Beauchamps through her mother’: knowledge that Madeline Wyndham felt was essential if the American Duchess was ever to blend into her new background – Cora found the skein of connections tedious. But the penultimate paragraph did pique her interest. Mrs Wyndham was describing the tableaux vivants given by Lady Salisbury in aid of the Red Cross the day before. The tableaux had been of great women of history. The Duchess of Manchester had appeared as Queen Elizabeth, Lady Elcho had been Boadicea, in a chariot drawn by real ponies, but the pièce de résistance was to be Charlotte Beauchamp as Joan of Arc – ‘in rehearsal she was quite magnificent dressed as a boy soldier’. But in the interval between the dress rehearsal in the morning and the performance itself, Charlotte Beauchamp had simply disappeared. ‘In the end Violet Paget had to take her place but she was no substitute for Lady Beauchamp. I could see that Sir Odo, who was in the audience, had no idea what had happened to his wife although he did say that she had complained of a headache that morning. Personally, I thought she looked the picture of health at the dress rehearsal. Their Royal Highnesses went so far as to express their concern.’

Cora was surprised by this story. She found it hard to imagine what would prevent Charlotte from taking centre stage in front of the Prince and Princess of Wales. She thought it unlikely that anything as trivial as a headache would deter Charlotte from performing at such an event. Parts in Lady Salisbury’s tableaux vivants were keenly sought after. Leading roles were reserved for the acknowledged beauties of the age. Something, Cora thought, quite momentous must have happened to stop Charlotte from stepping on to the stage in her Joan of Arc costume, her long slim legs clad only in hose.

At the end of her letter, after a gentle hint that Cora might like to entertain her twin heiresses – ‘you would find them quite in awe of you’ – Mrs Wyndham wrote, ‘I have just heard that the Duke is back in the country. You must be so happy to have him home. I trust that that unfortunate business with Louvain is now quite forgotten and you can take up the position in society that is rightfully yours.’

Cora put the letter down and leant back in her chair – the ache in her back was now more pronounced. She was clearly the last person in the country to know that her husband was back. Even Mrs Wyndham knew more about her husband’s movements than she did. It was humiliating. She stood up painfully and started to move slowly around the room. When she stopped to gaze out of the window overlooking the lawns down to the sea, she could just make out a pink shape and a green shape moving towards the summer house. It could only be her mother-in-law and Sybil. Her eyesight was too bad to make out their faces, but she felt cheered, imagining the older woman’s discovery of the statue of Eros and Psyche by Canova in the pavilion. It was a beautiful piece, but Cora thought it unlikely that her mother-in-law would share that view.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a sudden acceleration of the grumbling pain in her back, as if iron fingers were squeezing her innards. She put her hand on the window frame to steady herself and the pain subsided. Sir Julius had said that if the pain came regularly it was a sign that the baby was coming. She put her forehead against the glass and breathed out slowly, trying to still her bubbling thoughts. She did not want the baby to come today, she wanted to be ready, fragrant and charming, her black pearl necklace round her neck, when her husband returned. Even if he did not care for her any more, she still wanted to look her best. But as the pink and green shapes disappeared into the summer house, she felt another spasm and she understood that this was beyond her control. She rang the bell and was relieved to see Bertha come into the room moments later.

‘Bertha, you need to send for Sir Julius. I think it is time.’ Cora winced. ‘Go down to the post office and send a cable telling him to come at once.’

Bertha looked at her in concern. ‘Of course, Miss Cora, but do you think you should be here on your own? Would you like me to fetch the Duchess or Lady Sybil?’

Cora grimaced. ‘No, absolutely not. I don’t want to see anyone, particularly not the Duchess. I don’t want her to start interfering. No, you must take the donkey cart and go down to Lulworth as quick as you can. Send the cable and wait for the answer. With any luck Sir Julius will catch the afternoon train.’

Bertha hesitated. She could see that Miss Cora’s face had turned pale and there were beads of moisture along her hairline. But Bertha knew better than to argue with her.

On her way down to the stables, she wondered if she should tell any of the servants, Mabel perhaps; but then she reflected that nobody could be relied on. Bugler would hear of it, and then it was only a matter of time before the Double Duchess knew everything. Nothing that happened at Lulworth could be concealed from the Double Duchess for long. She had Mrs Cash’s relentless eye for detail.

There was a flyblown mirror set in the hatstand that stood in the corridor between the servants’ staircase and the back door leading out into the stable yard. Bertha caught her reflection and adjusted her hat so that it perched at the most becoming angle, the brim casting a slight shadow over her eyes.

Mr Veale the postmaster was surprised to see Bertha. Normally any telegrams from the house were brought down by the stable boy. He was alert, naturally, to the implications of the maid’s arrival: the contents of this telegram were to be kept private. He looked curiously at the Duchess’s maid as she handed him the form. He had heard about her from his niece who worked up at the house in the still room. ‘The Duchess gives her dresses that are hardly worn, you wouldn’t know from looking at her that she was in service.’ Mr Veale, as he looked up at Bertha – she was a little taller than he was – thought that this was almost true, only the tinge of her skin meant that she could never be mistaken for a lady.

He tapped out the message – ‘Please come at once, Cora Wareham.’ When he had finished and had received an acknowledgement from the post office in Cavendish Square, he looked up again at the maid.

‘That’s gone through then, Miss…’

‘Jackson.’ The maid’s voice was deep and her accent was strong.

‘I’ll send one of the boys up with the reply, Miss Jackson.’

Bertha shook her head. ‘The Duchess wants me to wait.’

Mr Veale felt an itch underneath the hard collar of his uniform. He bristled at the implication that his boys were not to be trusted with a message of a confidential nature. He wanted to remonstrate but he reflected that the Duchess and her maid were both foreigners. They did not know how things were done here.

‘Well, if you would care to take a seat, Miss Jackson.’ He spoke clearly to be sure that she understood and gestured to the wooden bench that stood against one wall of the post office.

‘Thank you, but I would prefer the fresh air. I will go for a walk in the village.’

Mr Veale watched as she stood in the doorway, unfurling her parasol. At this angle, with her back to him, she did indeed look like a lady.

Bertha strolled slowly down the village street. She had not been to Lulworth more than once or twice since they had come to the house. On her rare days off she preferred to walk in the park or stay in her room and read illustrated magazines. It was a pretty enough street, the houses all built from the same grey stone, their roofs mostly thatched although some of the larger ones had slate roofs. Bertha had been amazed when she first saw the thatched cottages. Miss Cora had called them quaint but Bertha thought they looked shabby. She thought that the overhanging eaves looked like the hairy eyebrows of old men. She twirled her parasol. Its colour exactly matched the cream of her blouse. Miss Cora had ordered them at the same time; she would only carry a parasol that matched her dress.

Bertha was aware that she was being watched as she walked down the street. There were a few women hanging up washing, as it was a fine day, and the bench in front of the Square and Compass was, as usual, filled with old men. She had been surprised when she had first come to Dorset by how small the villagers were. At home she was tall, but not excessively so, but here in the village she felt like a giant. She regularly saw men, working in the fields, who only came up to her shoulder. Bertha looked at the cottages with their frowning roofs and low doors and wondered whether their inhabitants simply had no room to grow. As she walked past a line of washing, she saw how patched and worn the smocks and petticoats were, they reminded her of the washing lines back in South Carolina. She smoothed her skirts, the silky material reminding her that she had escaped that threadbare existence. If it hadn’t been for the Reverend and Mrs Cash, she would have been like those women hanging out rags. She wondered if her mother had got the last letter she had sent her and the money. She had sent her twenty-five pounds, that was a hundred and twenty-five dollars. How many mothers had daughters who could send them that kind of money? That thought, along with the swish of her silk skirt, distracted her from the knowledge that she had not heard from her mother since she had come to England and the realisation that, no matter how hard she screwed up her eyes, she could no longer visualise her mother’s face.

She turned and walked back to the post office. Mr Veale was standing in the doorway waving at her.

‘The answer has come through, Miss Jackson.’ He handed her the cable. ‘Will be on the 5 o’ clock train, Julius Sercombe.’ Bertha felt her shoulders fall in relief and she put the paper in her pocket.

‘Will that be all, Miss Jackson?’ Mr Veale hovered curiously.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘I trust everything is well at the house. There must be great excitement about the Duke’s return.’

Bertha nodded and took up the reins of the donkey cart, aware that Cora would be counting the minutes till she came back. The postmaster cleared his throat nervously.

‘Please convey my respects to Her Grace and tell her that we would be honoured if she were to visit the post office. I would be most happy to show her the telegraph machine at her convenience. It is the latest model, quite the equal of anything in the metropolis.’

Bertha said, ‘I will do that, and now if you’ll excuse me,’ and she flicked her switch across the donkey’s broad back. Why on earth did that man imagine that Miss Cora would want to poke around his post office? Perhaps he thought there would be money in it.

She set off along the road that ran up from the station to the gates of the house. She heard the church bells strike quarter to – she had been gone for an hour and a half. She hoped Miss Cora was managing. She gave the donkey another flick. She could see a man a few hundred yards ahead of her, walking along the side of the road. He was moving energetically, his arms and legs pumping, his head held high, so different from the old men shuffling outside the pub. He was smartly dressed too, wearing a dark jacket and a bowler hat. A delicious suspicion ran through her as she shook the reins and urged the donkey to move faster. As the distance between them narrowed, she felt a lurching in her stomach and blood rushing to her cheeks.

‘Jim,’ she called, her voice cracking with excitement. The man stopped and turned round. For a moment she thought perhaps she had been mistaken, he was so brown and his face was much thinner than she remembered. But then he took off his hat and ran towards her.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said and he smiled. There were new creases around his eyes and mouth, but she remembered the look he was giving her now. She smiled back and put out her arms.

After a few minutes he said, ‘What a stroke of luck meeting you on the road like this. I’d been thinking all the way down here how I could get you to myself.’ He had climbed up on to the cart and was sitting next to Bertha, leg to leg, their hands touching as she moved the reins.

He breathed into her ear, ‘Why don’t we pull up in the woods for a bit before we go up to the house? Oh Bertha, it’s so good to see you again.’ He put his hand over hers and she felt his touch flood through her. She leant against him and allowed him to take the reins. He steered them into woods at the edge of the park. She watched as he jumped down lightly and tied the reins to a tree. His skin was much darker than she remembered, and his hair was fairer, but his expression was still the same, his blue eyes eager and shining. He held out his hand and she hesitated for a second, thinking of Cora’s white face, but he was pulling her down now and there was no space in her mind for anything else but the fact of him.

She pulled away from him at last. ‘We can’t, not…not now.’ She tried to push him away as he leant forward to kiss her neck.

‘I’ve waited so long for this…’ Jim’s voice was muffled in her hair.

‘I know, but Miss Cora’s baby is starting and there is no one with her. I must go back.’

But Jim did not release his hold on her. ‘Stay with me, Bertha. She’s got a husband and a houseful of servants. I only have you. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you.’ She could feel his fingers fumbling with the buttons at her collar.

She arched away from him and looked at him full on. ‘But the Duke’s not there and she doesn’t want anyone else to know until the doctor comes.’

Jim’s fingers stopped trying to tease the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons through the tight little loops.

‘The Duke’s not at Lulworth?’ he said reluctantly.

‘He sent a cable to say he would be here this evening. You mean you thought he’d be here?’ Bertha felt nervous. Had Jim quarrelled with the Duke, lost his position even?

‘I thought he must be. When he didn’t come back this morning, I thought he must have come down here and forgotten to send for me.’ He frowned. ‘His Grace won’t be pleased if he goes back to the club and finds I’ve packed up and brought everything down here. Still, it can’t be helped.’ He smiled at Bertha. ‘I’ll just tell him that I couldn’t stay away from you a moment longer. He’ll understand.’

Bertha felt warmed by the smile, but she could not suppress the twinge of pity she felt for Cora. She shook her head. ‘I have to go back, Jim. It’s her time and she needs me.’

But Jim pulled her to him and held her fast. ‘Oh, she doesn’t need you like I do.’

She could hear his breath coming fast and strong. She could smell the starch from his stiff collar melting. She let herself relax against him for a moment, remembering how well they fitted together, but then she twisted away from him and jumped up on to the donkey cart. She did not trust him to let her go willingly, and she knew it would take so very little to make her stay.