Kent, England
Autumn, 1861
With every miserable mile of railway track they covered during their journey from London to Caddington Park in Kent, Valentine became more and more convinced that she had no one but herself to blame. If she’d been less scrupulous, she would have held Tristan to his promise. She would have insisted he marry her, even if he didn’t want her. Even if he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t do it. She would as soon keep a wild animal in a cage or try to turn a wolf into a lapdog.
Knowing that, it shouldn’t matter that Tristan had readily acceded to the termination of their engagement. It shouldn’t break her heart that he’d gone without putting up the slightest argument.
It was a very good thing, she reflected as she settled deeper into her seat, that she hadn’t acted in the hope of forcing a declaration from him. If so, she would have been sorely disappointed. He hadn’t uttered one word of affection. He hadn’t even touched her except to grasp her by the chin and force her to look at him.
She sighed. It was all quite unromantic. And he the biggest rake and reprobate of them all. Clearly there was something wrong with her. The only time he’d ever spoken or behaved in a passionate manner was that night in the conservatory. He’d said it had nothing to do with drink, but how could she believe it when he’d behaved with so much restraint afterward?
“We’re approaching the station,” Lady Hermione said.
Lord Lynden was seated beside her. He was wearing a heavy topcoat and held a carved ebony cane in his gloved hands. It was the first week of December and the cold weather had come in icy and damp. “We may yet have a white Christmas,” he had remarked earlier.
Mundane comments about the weather had been the limit of their conversation for the past forty miles at least. Valentine didn’t think any of them were particularly keen on visiting Caddington Park. The outcome was practically guaranteed to be a grim one.
But there was no avoiding it, especially now that Lady Brightwell and her daughter had arrived in town. If they shared the story of Valentine’s indiscretion in Yorkshire, the news would swiftly circulate through society and, inevitably, make its way to Caddington Park. And if the Marquess of Stokedale were to hear of it, his prejudice against her would be insurmountable.
“I will see to hiring the carriage,” Lord Lynden said.
“Nonsense,” Lady Hermione objected. “I didn’t invite you to accompany us so that we might hang on your sleeve, sir. We shall pay our own way.”
Lord Lynden glanced out the window. The train was slowing, the wooden platform at Bolton Heath Station rising up on either side of it. “You didn’t invite me at all, if you’ll recall.”
“I sent my footman round with a note.”
“Hardly an invitation, madam, but I’ll not argue with you.”
The train came to a halt in a grinding screech of metal. Valentine smoothed the folds of her cloak. Beneath it, she wore the same brown woolen travelling dress she’d worn on the journey to meet Lady Hermione. She’d paired it with tan gloves of buttery soft kid, half-boots of polished morocco, and a low-brimmed spoon bonnet with wide silk ribbons knotted beneath her chin. Even her hair had been given special attention. She’d brushed it to a high gloss and then rolled it back into an oversized chignon at the nape of her neck. The whole was secured with dozens of pins, many of which were poking and pulling at her scalp.
She wouldn’t be at all surprised if she ended this day with a blinding headache. And it would serve her right for trying to impress a man who had treated her so shabbily.
“Miss March,” Lady Hermione said abruptly. “You’re looking peaked. You’re not going to be ill, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” Valentine said.
Lord Lynden stood. “Come. We’ll all feel better in the fresh air.”
Valentine trailed behind Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione as they disembarked. The railway platform was deserted. They were obliged to wait a quarter of an hour for the stationmaster’s boy to fetch a carriage and driver to take them to Caddington Park.
True to his word, Lord Lynden arranged all—a fact which seemed to rankle Lady Hermione to no small degree.
“We could have managed just as easily on our own,” she grumbled as Lord Lynden handed her up into the carriage. “Women are not helpless, you know. Though I daresay St. Ashton must think so. It was he who insisted you accompany us.”
Lord Lynden assisted Valentine into the carriage and then climbed in himself, taking the seat across from her and Lady Hermione. “I’m aware,” he said. “He’s explained his reasoning to me and I can find no fault with it.”
“You spoke to him?” Valentine asked.
“I dined with him last night at my club,” Lord Lynden said.
And then he said no more. Valentine ached to question him, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. She’d ended her engagement to Tristan. She had no more rights over him. No more reason to enquire after his whereabouts and his welfare.
“He believes Stokedale will accord us more respect if we arrive with a man.” Lady Hermione wrapped her mantle more snugly around her shoulders. “Perhaps he’s right. Stokedale’s opinions on women’s issues are sorely outdated. I pity his wife and daughters.”
Valentine looked at Lady Hermione in alarm. “They won’t be in residence, will they?”
“No, no.” Lady Hermione waved the question away with a flick of her hand. “They’re on the continent. The family won’t come together until Christmas.”
The words family and Christmas triggered a pang of melancholy in Valentine’s already heavy heart. This would be her first Christmas without her father. She supposed she would spend it with Lady Hermione, but the future hadn’t been discussed as yet.
She’d only come there to stay for the period of her engagement. In a year’s time, she was to marry Tristan and go to Northumberland. But now that she was no longer engaged, there was really no need to remain with one of her relations. She would have to start planning for the rest of her life. Whether that life be in India, China, or back in Hartwood Green with Mrs. Pilcher.
Unfortunately, since Tristan’s departure yesterday, she found that the idea of missionary work in an exotic land—an idea which had once filled her with earnest enthusiasm—was no longer as exciting as in months gone by. She could summon no interest in travelling to a foreign country or learning a foreign language. She felt lost. Unmoored.
“Ah,” Lord Lynden said. “There is Caddington Park.”
Valentine leaned to look out the window. She could make out an enormous structure of cold, gray stone. It was built in the Palladian style, all graceful lines and muted dignity. She pressed a hand to her midsection. Her stomach was churning. She’d been too nervous to eat any breakfast. And she very much feared she’d laced her corset too tightly.
“A handsome prospect, isn’t it?” Lady Hermione said.
She nodded. “Very handsome.”
The carriage stopped at the wide stone steps that led to the front doors. As they disembarked, they were met by a silver-haired butler and two footmen in livery. The butler recognized Lady Hermione at once. He even appeared to know Lord Lynden.
“My lord, my lady,” he said. And then his eyes found Valentine. He visibly started.
“I know what you’re thinking, Frith,” Lady Hermione said briskly. “And you’re not wrong. It’s why we’ve come. Do inform Stokedale, won’t you? And set us in front of a fire. We are frozen through.”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler said.
He ushered them through a grand hall and into a small salon. It was simply furnished with sofas, chairs, and several inlaid tables. Heavy oil paintings decorated the brocade-covered walls, and the floor was covered with a thick Oriental carpet. A fire was blazing in the hearth. Lady Hermione went to stand in front of it, her hands extended toward the flames.
Valentine didn’t know what to do with herself. Upon entering, she’d given her cloak, bonnet, and gloves to a footman. Rather nonsensically, she wished she could have them back again. She felt vulnerable and exposed without them.
“Courage,” Lord Lynden murmured.
She gave him a weak smile.
They were not obliged to wait long. In less than a quarter of an hour, the door to the salon opened and a gentleman entered the room.
He was of medium height and build with hair the color of golden wheat and eyes a cool shade of slate gray. He had sculpted features with a decisive chin and a straight, uncompromising nose. His posture, too, was straight and unbending—inflexible and decidedly unfriendly. He was dressed for the country in tweed trousers and a loose-fitting coat.
“Hermione,” he said. “Lord Lynden. This is an unexpected surprise.”
“Stokedale.” Lady Hermione moved from the fireplace and beckoned for Valentine to come stand beside her. “Allow me to present Miss Valentine March, formerly of Surrey.”
Lord Stokedale’s gray eyes came to rest on her face. He regarded her for a long while, his brows drawn and his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
Valentine’s palms grew damp and her mouth went dry. She felt the weight of Lady Hermione’s hand upon her back. She couldn’t tell if it was to lend her support or to prevent her from running away.
“You’re Sara’s daughter,” he said finally.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You want money, I suppose.”
She stiffened. “Indeed I do not, sir.”
“Didn’t you write to me? Requesting assistance of some sort? My secretary, I assume, has disposed of the letters, but if memory serves—”
“I wrote to you because my father had died. I had no family left. No one to whom I could turn for help.”
“And you thought to come here, did you?” Lord Stokedale sighed. “Hermione, this is beyond the pale, even for you.”
“Won’t you recognize her?” Lady Hermione demanded. “Won’t you try to make amends for what happened to Sara?”
“I’m not the one who ordered Sara out of the house,” Lord Stokedale said. “I was at Oxford. There’s nothing I could have done.” He cast another narrow glance at Valentine. Distaste registered in his face. “We don’t even know who her father is.”
“My father,” Valentine said, “was Peregrine March, the late Vicar of Hartwood Green in Surrey. He married my mother in November of 1834, three months before I was born. He came to her aid when her family wouldn’t. She might have died otherwise, and I along with her.”
“Yet she did die,” Lord Stokedale said.
“Yes, she…” Valentine faltered. “She died bringing me into this world. I never knew her, but I would have liked to have known her family. My family.”
Lord Stokedale strolled to the opposite end of the room. He stopped in front of a portrait of an eighteenth century gentleman in a powdered wig posed with his hunting dogs. “I find this discussion to be in extraordinarily bad taste. My sister’s behavior is not the sort of family history one discusses with strangers. However, since you have broached the subject, I will speak plainly. It’s not common practice in polite society to recognize children born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“She’s Sara’s daughter,” Lady Hermione said. “Your sister’s only child, Stokedale. Don’t let your pride—”
“You travelled here by train?” he asked. “You should have telegraphed. I might have saved you the journey.”
“You’re being damned uncivil,” Lord Lynden said.
Lord Stokedale turned to face them. “I am being exceedingly civil. We’re an old and honored family, Lynden. A sizeable family. Were we to begin welcoming every bastard and by-blow with a claim on one of our members, we may as well establish an orphanage.”
Lady Hermione inhaled a sharp breath. “You go too far, sir.”
“It’s you who have gone too far, madam,” Lord Stokedale said. “Sara has been dead more than a quarter of a century and there are still those who speak of her disgrace. What you’ve done will only serve to fan the flames of a scandal that’s never fully died. You should never have brought her here. Even a woman as reckless as you can’t fail to appreciate the consequences of such a rash act.”
“And how do you propose to behave when you encounter her out in society?” Lord Lynden asked.
“A remote prospect,” Lord Stokedale said. “We’re unlikely to move in the same circles.”
“It won’t be unlikely,” Lord Lynden retorted. “It will be inevitable. Miss March is betrothed to my heir. She will soon be the Viscountess St. Ashton.”
“Betrothed to your heir?” Lord Stokedale managed to look both intrigued and appalled. “You can’t be serious.”
A flicker of guilt pinged at Valentine’s conscience. She knew full well that she should object. She should explain that, as of yesterday, she and Tristan were no longer engaged. She’d meant to confess it to Lady Hermione directly it happened, but the timing hadn’t seemed right. Not with their impending journey to Caddington Park weighing so heavily on all of their minds. And now…
The timing was even less auspicious than yesterday.
No, there would be no confessions in the presence of Lord Stokedale. She would have to bite her tongue and hope that later, in the carriage, when she finally admitted the truth, Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione wouldn’t be too angry with her.
“I’m deadly serious,” Lord Lynden said. “If you treat my future daughter-in-law with disrespect, the rest of society will think they’ve been given carte blanche to do the same. And that’s something my son will not tolerate. It’s something I will not tolerate.” He gave Lord Stokedale a hard look. “You speak of great families and noble bloodlines. The first Earl of Lynden fought at the side of King Richard the Lionheart. We count ourselves one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England. A fact which you as good as acknowledged when, some years past, you suggested a match between my heir and one of your own daughters.”
Lord Stokedale’s cold expression betrayed a flash of heat. “I’ll thank you not to discuss my daughters,” he said tightly. “And you’re correct, sir. The conversation you allude to was some years past. When our children were still in the nursery. Well before St. Ashton had acquired his current reputation, I might add.”
Lord Stokedale walked to another of his paintings. He gave every sign that he was contemplating the handsome piece of artwork. But his creased brow and rigid posture told another story. He was furious.
“What is it exactly that you would have me do?” He enquired at last. “Acknowledge her on the street? Nod to her in passing? Or do you require something more? A notice in the papers, perhaps.”
“Must you be so snide about the matter, Stokedale?” Lady Hermione said.
“If you expect me to rejoice at the connection, madam—”
“I expect no such thing.”
“Her father might have been a footman,” Lord Stokedale railed. “A groom in my father’s stable. One of the groundskeeper’s boys.”
At that moment, the door opened and Lord Stokedale’s butler entered. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
Lord Stokedale frowned. “What is it, Frith?”
“His lordship the Viscount St. Ashton has arrived. Shall I—”
He was interrupted by a deep and all too familiar voice. “There’s no need to announce me, Frith. We are all of us well acquainted.”
Valentine’s eyes widened as Tristan walked into the room. He was clad in travelling clothes. A handsome wool overcoat worn over a black frock coat and trousers. He looked as if he’d just climbed down from a carriage or disembarked from the train. Slightly dusty and a little rumpled. She watched, speechless, as he stripped off his gloves and his tall hat and handed them to the butler.
“St. Ashton,” Lady Hermione breathed. “Of all the—”
“Madam,” Tristan said. “My lords.” His eyes found hers. “Miss March.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I have come for you,” he said.
“To lend your support?” Lord Lynden frowned deeply. “You’re a little late, sir.”
Tristan glanced at his father. “It couldn’t be helped. I’ve been in Westminster this morning. I was briefly detained at the home of a charming widow.”
Lady Hermione stifled a groan. “Really, my lord.”
Tristan continued, unperturbed. “She was telling me about her late son. A young man who perished during the burning of parliament in 1834.”
Lord Lynden gave his son an arrested look.
“Only one man perished in that blaze,” Stokedale interjected in irritation. “That young secretary of Lord Worthington’s. Rutherford somebody or other.”
“Val Rutherford,” Lord Lynden murmured.
Lady Hermione’s eyes shot to his. “Val, did you say?”
But Tristan didn’t seem to notice his father. Or anyone else in the room. He held Valentine’s gaze. “Your father wasn’t a vicar, I’m afraid,” he said. “Nor was he a footman or a groom or a groundskeeper’s assistant. He was a gentleman. Some might even call him a hero.”