‘And you’ll allow Claudette to associate with them, will you? Really. Mr Hawkin,’ she said, leaning heavily on Ross’s arm, ‘I think you should call our little Arthur away immediately. We cannot afford to have your reputation…’ Her parting shot did not have quite the impact she’d hoped, for she had been wondering whether to throw in the word ‘bastards’ before she departed. The appearance of Lord Ransome, however, made her glad she had not.
Pausing on the threshhold, he took in the situation with one haughty glance that swept the room and came to rest on Phoebe with the raising of one articulate eyebrow. The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘I’m too late,’ he said. ‘The news is out, I see.’
‘Good morning, my lord,’ said Ross, being first to recover himself. ‘My wife and I were just on our way out, but now there will be no need for us to meet tomorrow after all. I fear I was rather premature with my offer. Please accept my apologies.’
‘No harm done, Hawkin. Simply brought things forward, that’s all. Felicitations might be more appropriate, don’t you think?’ Graceful and totally at ease, he sauntered across to Phoebe and stood beside her, close enough to leave no doubt about their relationship. His hand rested on her upper arm where the white frill of her sleeve gave it shelter.
Ross was puzzled. ‘Felicitations…on…becoming my sister’s…lover?’ he whispered. Disap proval clouded his eyes, and his quick glance at his wife’s bowed head gave him no hope of encourage ment. ‘Is that what you meant, my lord?’ The look exchanged between the two lovers, one teasingly scolding and the other blameless, irritated Ross, who preferred the facts to be either black or white.
‘Ah,’ said Ransome, enjoying the expected shock, ‘the situation, as they say, is fluid. To be resolved. At the moment, yes, Madame Donville and I have an understanding which will eventually—’ he pulled Phoebe gently to him ‘—become permanent. For the moment we are happy for things to stay as they are until we decide to move forward into matrimony. Which we will, of course, as soon as my Mortlake house is finished and properly staffed.’
Josephine squeaked again. ‘Oh,
do
take me home, Mr Hawkin, if you please. Arthur! Where is he?’ Calling pitifully, she left the room, followed by Hetty.
Ross was not quite as distressed as his wife. ‘Phoebe,’ he said, more brotherly now his wife was out of earshot, ‘is this what you want?’
‘It’s not quite what I expected, Ross, but, yes, it is what I want. Perhaps it’s what I’ve always wanted, without knowing it.’
Resigned, he nodded. ‘And you, brother? You’ll return home, I suppose, and carry on from where you left off, will you, and hope to remember who lives in your property next time?’
‘I appreciate your concern,’ Leon said without a trace of regret. ‘It comes rather late in the day, but we can see where
your
motivation comes from. You go and patter after your wife, and leave me and Pheeb to manage our own affairs. Eh?’
Ross looked away, clearly stung by his brother’s perception of him. ‘Yes. I’m sorry I came, Phoebe. Addle-brained thing to do, wasn’t it?’
She went to him and, placing a gentle hand on his arm, kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Yes, love. It
was
an addle-brained thing to do. But we’ll send you an invitation to the wedding, and I’ll let you know what Leon decides to do.’
‘Oh. You’ll definitely marry then, will you?’
‘Most certainly, love. As soon as I’ve got used to the idea.’ Linking her arm through Ross’s, she walked out with him to the sunny courtyard where Josephine was already bundling her recalcitrant child up the steps into the coach as if the devil himself was after them.
Chapter Seven
L
eon had enjoyed his brief moment of superiority in the parlour, but he had noted Phoebe’s compassion after the anger, and it was not in his nature to be at odds with anyone for long. Particularly with the successful henpecked brother he’d not seen for some years. Following his sister and brother to the courtyard, he held out a hand, pulling Ross into an embrace which he seemed happy to share. ‘I’ll probably be staying around for a while,’ Leon said to him, quietly. ‘I’ll come and see you, shall I?’
‘You’ll always be welcome, brother. What are you going to do?’
‘Paint, I think. Not sure yet. I’ll tell you when I know more. And don’t worry about Pheeb. She’ll not do anything stupid.’
‘Thank heaven there’s one of us, then.’
Leon did not ask his brother to explain the doleful remark, but as the coach rumbled away out of the courtyard with only Ross’s arm waving out of the window, he took Claudette by the hand and walked with her and her governess away through the garden towards the river.
When Hetty made as if to follow them, Phoebe caught her by the hand to stop her, placing a quick peck on her cheek. ‘Thank you for your help, love. Come and have a chat with us until lunch is ready.’
Not surprisingly, Viscount Ransome’s frequent visits to Ferry House could not be dismissed as the casual calls that Miss Maskell said they were, when anyone could see that they were not. It was Lord Ransome himself who suggested to Phoebe that, since they would all be together for lunch, a general discussion of the situation of the kind that Claudette was used to would be much the best way to make her feel part of the plan.
Agreeing, Phoebe was again struck by Ransome’s thoughtfulness and apparent understanding of how young minds work, and since Claudette was never so pleased as when she was being treated as a grown-up, the lunch was a perfect setting for a very natural conversation about the sometimes unplanned, unorthodox relationships between adults. It was the kind of discourse that would have horrified Aunt Josephine, and probably Uncle Ross too, if they’d heard it, yet it told Claudette what she needed to know about the possible changes to her family, and made her feel that her understanding mattered to them. The addition of an uncle
and
a Viscount at the meal was to Claudette quite an event, but it was felt no less by Phoebe herself, especially when the two men appeared to like each other despite the most extraordinary circumstances.
Just as warmly felt was the regard Leon showed towards Tabby Maskell, and hers to him, noticed even by Claudette, who was most observant of such things. Her saucy grin thrown over her shoulder showed she recognised that she was there to chaperon her governess. Deciding that six in one coach was too many, the two men rode on horseback to Ham House to join the tenants’ feast while the ladies, prettily dressed in pale muslins with matching parasols, used the coach that Lord Ransome had brought from Mortlake with Leon’s belongings.
There was to be no turning into the north forecourt of Ham House that day, for spread right across the meadow between the road and the gates, dozens of trestles and benches were alive with people, a sea of heads and bodies making a buzz of noise like swarming bees. Beneath the trees, the Earl’s tenants were dressed for the occasion, older men in wigs and waistcoats, the women in Sunday best, bonneted and bare-headed, sweethearts, children and babes in arms, men carrying bowls of punch and tapping huge barrels of ale, dogs yapping and begging for scraps. Empty jugs and tubs clustered around the tables, indicating to the new arrivals that the feast had been under way for some time.
Dressed in the uniform of major of his regiment, Lord Dysart strolled along the tables with his Countess, whose plume of feathers indicated her presence as easily as her husband’s red coat, both of them stopping to talk and to have their health drunk with loud cheers and the clapping of hands. No one could doubt their popularity with the tenants. Spying the Viscount and his party, they came to meet them with smiles and a courteous word for each one, and though they all suspected that Leon was the one the Earl most wanted to meet, it was to young Claudette he gave special attention, taking her by the hand in a relationship neither of them had ever enjoyed—grandfather and granddaughter. The sight of them together, hand in hand, wrung Phoebe’s heart. It was no imposition for any of them to join in the Dysart’s happy occasion, to drink the punch, to sing glee songs with gusto and to laugh at the teasing tales, the banter and swapping of hats.
But there was another guest present, one they had not noticed as they walked into the feast, their attention all on the scene ahead of them. The Earl and Claudette went off to find him, returning moments later with a middle-aged, balding gentleman carrying a leather bag and a scruffy sketchbook under his arm, his other hand holding Claudette’s. She had never felt so important as when she told them that this gentleman was Mr Thomas Rowlandson who exhibited at the Royal Academy.
Unlike the dapper Thomas Lawrence, portraitist of some influence amongst the fashionable set, Rowlandson wore well-worn, workmanlike clothes, his intention being not to be noticed as he sketched scenes of everyday life, as he was doing today. As easy with the Earl’s patronage as with any villager, he sat between them to show them his sketch of the tenants’ feast, explaining that he would add the light watercolour effects later on.
‘Glad to meet you, Mr Hawkin,’ he said to Leon, pushing the sketchbook towards Claudette. ‘His lordship has mentioned you to me as one of his new discoveries. Now, a word in your ear, my friend.’ He leaned forwards with a twinkle in his eye, but speaking loud enough to be heard by them all. ‘When his lordship discovers a talent, it ends up on every wall in the house. Even the Duchess’s Bathroom. It’s better than the Royal Academy in there, sir, believe me.’ His smile showed several gaps, his fingers were broad and stubby, stained with ink and paint, his talent for capturing every delicate detail of a scene totally belied by his appearance. It was his honesty and wit that had won him friends, as well as enemies. Rowlandson and Viscount Ransome were already well known to each other, sharing similar traits of character and, as the Earl continued to host his gathering, Ransome, Leon and Rowlandson strolled away to talk about how artists made a living.
It was the Countess herself who suggested a rest in the shade as the party began to break up, the tenants straggling away into the formal gardens or along the riverside. ‘We call these the Cloisters,’ she said, leading Phoebe to one side of the front door where a room without walls was created by open arches and stone benches, with views of the garden painted on the plasterwork. Its counterpart was on the opposite side where Claudette sat with Hetty and Tabby to look through the sketchbook.
Inevitably, the tete-a-tete turned to Phoebe’s enjoyment of the concert on the previous evening and how delighted she had been to meet the French guests who had been, in turn, intrigued to meet the living descendant of the portrait hanging in the gallery. Little by little, for the Countess was a very good and sympathetic listener, Phoebe’s concerns emerged regarding her brother, and the kindness that Lord Ransome had shown him recently. ‘May I ask, my lady,’ Phoebe ventured, ‘how you and the Earl first met Lord Ransome? Was it in London? I find it quite difficult to reconcile your gentle life with the way he lives his.’
The Countess found that amusing. ‘Ah, you mean his reputation for hard living, I suppose. But you must have discovered for yourself, my dear, that most men have a side they prefer to keep to themselves. Haven’t you? Your brother Ross, for instance, knows little about his elder brother’s gift for painting. My kind and sensitive husband kept his love of gardening from most of his comrades in the army. And your late husband too, Phoebe. He must have been a delight to know, or presumably you’d not have been attracted to him?’
‘So you know about him, my lady?’
The frail hand came to rest lightly upon Phoebe’s clasped hands, and the delicate lines of her face were a map of concern. ‘Of course, my dear. As I said, the double-sidedness that men cultivate would not be half so successful or exciting if it was common knowledge. Especially so when it involves charitable work, of which the whole point is not to seek attention or praise. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, indeed. But are you telling me that Lord Ransome is leading a double life, my lady? I thought his life was dangerous enough as it is, without adding more facets.’
‘Not a double life exactly, Phoebe, but men such as Buck like to believe that women fall for their dangerous side rather than for their good works. That comes like the icing on top of the cake.’
‘Good works? Lord Ransome? Does he assist the Earl, then?’
‘Oh, no, we got to know him through the orphanages in London, first of all. He was elected as a governor to the Foundling Hospital, and then to the Vestry Committee at Mortlake. We found we were working towards the same goal, helping to rescue abandoned and ill-treated orphans from the streets. But Buck goes even further, he takes them off the streets and houses them at his own expense. I know he has a home for about twenty boys on the outskirts of North London, but now he’s bought this place at Mortlake that he’s extending. You’ve not seen it yet?’
‘Er…yes, yes…I have. But he didn’t say…any of that. He said he’d show me all the rooms when they were ready, but I didn’t know he meant ready for
orphans.’
Phoebe was reeling with shock as the pictures fell into place.
‘The overflow from London, my dear,’ said the Countess, airily. ‘Sometimes he brings a few here for a day out, to let them climb the trees and play by the river. It’s a far cry from the terrible conditions they were brought up in, slums, filth, near starvation, made to work for chimney-sweeps and thieves. The money he wins at the clubs in London is all used to rehouse the little fellows, but he never tells anyone about it, of course. I believe his aim is to house some of the little girls too, once he can install a suitable house-mistress as well as a house-master. He’s a remarkable man, Phoebe. We never had a son but, if we had, we’d have liked one like him.’
A house-mistress. The new extension was for a
house-
mistress. The two little boys, not his own, but orphans, shrieking with delight at their freedom and a river at the bottom of the garden, the strong arms to catch and spin them round. The laughter. His remarks about people sleeping rough, and about there being enough bastards in the world already. His assurance that he would never deceive her. His total acceptance of the unfortunate women she employed, without references. His unselfish help for Leon, the man he could not bear to see slide further downhill into despair, not only because of her, but because it was not his way to ruin a man, only to relieve him of excess wealth.
‘Are you all right, my dear? You’re shocked by this?’
‘It’s a side of him that never occurred to me, my lady. He would have told me of it, I’m sure, but I think he would have made light of it, just the same. But I wonder why he didn’t try to win me over with that, to show me his charitable side rather than the frivolous gambler who cares for nothing and nobody. Most women would rather have known about—’ She stopped, knowing what the Countess would reply before she spoke.
‘But you’re
not
most women, Phoebe, are you? You’re a Hawkin, and from what I’ve heard about the Hawkin women, they’re drawn to forceful men. Would you have responded to sweet words and love songs and tales of charity and brave deeds after what happened to you?’
They were still laughing about it when Claudette, Hetty and Tabby joined them, asking to be shown the Hawkynne portrait in the gallery, which the Countess used as an excuse, if she needed one, to show them around the house.
The four guests were intrigued and impressed by the high-sounding useage to which the rooms had once been put, the Queen’s Bedchamber, the Duke’s Dressing Room, the closets and antechambers. But Claudette was most delighted by the doors concealed in the larger rooms that could only be detected by the vertical cuts in the wallpaper, placed there to give the servants access to the service passage. To her mind, this was a perfect way for ghosts to come and go, but since Mama would not appreciate her talking about such matters, she kept her fancies to herself, thinking it a pity that, on the whole, adults were too matter of fact for their own good.
Phoebe’s thoughts, however, were only half on the beautifully restored rooms, the other half mulling over the extraordinary information concerning Ransome’s use of
his
rooms at Mortlake. It made her realise, more than anything else, how quick she had been to impose on him the irritation she had felt all those years ago when she was first widowed, a natural reaction against her mother’s insistent ways. Then, she had not even bothered to find out what he was like behind the public image, never suspecting that there might be more to him than what most people saw. The problem had not been that he’d had mistresses. So many men did, when they married for wealth and heirs, not for love. But for a man to
offer
marriage to a woman while in the process of accommodating a mistress a mere couple of miles away was a situation few women would accept without making a fuss about it. And that, she saw it now, had been dear Josephine’s unhelpful contribution, which she herself had been only too ready to believe.
Of course, he had done absolutely nothing to dispel Phoebe’s jaundiced picture of him, especially on his first visit, when he had been considerably less than gentlemanly, as if he’d known for certain that, with a threat to hold over her, he could make her think again. And she had. And now, mistress or no mistress, she had agreed to let him into her life, not so much for his kindness to Leon but because part of her had responded to his dangerous side, as the Countess had suggested, and because she had answered his call to her physical longings, her desires, her needs. Wanting him more than anything, she had agreed in principle to be his wife while using the title of mistress to embarrass the family who had embarrassed her. Hardly the behaviour of a rational woman, but rationality had so far played only a minor role in her feelings for this amazing man. And now she could not help questioning whether she would have accepted him sooner if she’d known about his plans for the Mortlake house, or not. The Countess was a very perceptive woman.