Lydia sank back into her chair. Oh, Mama, there is no one more innocent than you. How have you borne it all these years? How have you found the fortitude?
Through my faith, child. The faith your father preached. Now, I want you to promise me one thingthat you will not attempt to see or speak to his lordship.
Lydia smiled wanly. That is an easy promise to make, for he is the last man in the world I should want to have any discourse with.
Good. Now, tell me, dearest, would it be so very bad to marry Sir Arthur? He is not an ogre, he is a pleasant, respectable man who is very fond of you. I am not thinking only of our circumstances, but your happiness. He will look after you
Lydia gave a cracked laugh. And curb my fiery temper, you think?
Her mother smiled and patted her hand. He might. And living at his home in Southminster, with other things to occupy you, might bring you peace of mind, the strength to accept what we cannot change. She paused and added gently. At least, say you will consider it.
Lydia sighed. She really had no choice. Very well. I met him last night and he asked if he might call. You may intimate to him when he comes that I shall look favourably on his suit. She smiled suddenly. But do not make me sound too eager, will you? Her mother released her hand and she rose to leave. I am going to MaldenI need a book from the lending library. Is there anything you need?
No, I do not think so, thank you.
Partridge was busy in the garden and, rather than take him from his work, she decided to walk the three miles into the little town which stood at the confluence of the Chelmer and Blackwater rivers. It was a spring fine day and Malden Water, though grey, was calm and several fishing boats could be seen either coming up from the sea or heading out towards it. Inland there were lambs in the fields, and the mare Farmer Carter kept in his meadow was proudly showing off a new foal which frisked about on its spindly legs, obviously pleased with life. It was the sort of day to raise the spirits and Lydia would have enjoyed the walk if her thoughts had not been occupied with her dilemma.
It was all very well for Mama to say hate was a dreadful emotion, she knew it was, but she could not help herself. How could she be calm about the prospect of marrying a man old enough to be her father when there were men like her umbrella man in the vicinity? If she had never met the handsome stranger, would she have been content to marry as her mother directed? He had set her heart beating and fired her into longing for something she could only guess at: a passion, perhaps, that transcended everything.
She did not need to know his name, or his circumstances, or anything about him in order to know that he could ignite in her an overpowering desire. It was wicked of her, wicked and almost depraved. She had not been brought up to feel like that, had not, until a week before, realised that such feelings existed, certainly not in young ladies with any pretensions of decency. She must squash such thoughts and feelings, cut them out of her life altogether, forget the young man and his dangerously compelling eyes.
Ralph had spent most of the previous evening in the library at Colston Hall with a glass of brandy at his elbow, pouring over accounts and maps and reports from his general factotum about the condition of the estate, and what he read had appalled him. Today he had decided to see for himself and that could only be done on foot.
Donning leather breeches and topboots, he had thrown on a brown worsted coat and visited all the farms on his domain, talking to the tenants and finding out what was needed. New thatch on the roofs, new glass in windows, new clunch on the pigsty walls, he was told when they got over their surprise at seeing him thus clad and being convinced he meant business. The ditches needed clearing, too, or come the winter there would be an inundation from the marshes.
He was thankful he had come back home a wealthy man, or such a catalogue would have sent him bankrupt. He was doubly thankful when he realised that the fabric of the ancient church needed repair and that half the pews had woodworm and only he had the means to remedy it. After that, it was a quart of best ale in the village inn and back home via the old Roman road, now only a track, which ran alongside the marshes and the copse of trees where game was reared. Game birds were rare in this part of the world, which had few trees, except those planted in the gardens of the wealthy, who were following the latest trend for landscaping. His great-grandfather had planted this wood and his father had taken on a man who called himself a gamekeeper and who was skilled in breeding and rearing the birds simply for the sport. The woodland was his particular domain.
It was also the domain of a very different breed, he realised, as he picked his way through a tangle of undergrowth which had spread out over the path. A man could hide there for weeks without being found. The path itself was well-worn and some of the bushes alongside it had been broken recently, as if something wide and heavy had travelled along it. Curious, he moved forward cautiously.
He came to a small clearing in the middle of which was a tumble-down hovel which had once been inhabited by a woodsman. He smiled, remembering how he and Freddie used to play round it as boys, pretending it was a fort and one was attacker and one defender. Its windows were broken and the ivy which clambered round it was invading the inside. Deserted it looked, almost ready to fall in on itself and return to nature.
But that was how it was meant to look, he realised, as he noticed the thatch on the roof had been repaired and so had the stout door, which was securely locked. Someone was either living here on his land or using it for some secret purpose. He looked up at the chimney. There was no smoke. Did that mean there was no one there now? He went to the door and knocked. There was no reply. He walked all round it. The path at the rear led down to the marshes where there was an old boat house, as he very well knew; and here there were signs of a cart and hoofmarks in the mud.
He returned to the house and peered into the windows, cupping his hands about his face. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a pile of sacks and a barrel on the floor and a table with a pair of scales. There was a bottle beside them and the remains of an oilskin wrapping. Smugglers! This was a hideout for smugglers.
He was inclined to be amused, since nearly everyone tolerated free-traders, as they preferred to be called; half the tobacco, tea, wine and spirits consumed in the country was contraband. His father may even have condoned it in exchange for the odd barrel. But only two days ago, he had learned from Robert Dent that there was going to be a concerted effort by the revenue men to stamp out smuggling and extra patrols were to be sent out. There wasnt so much of it during the war, Robert had said. But now it has grown again and we do not want to return to the days of the vicious gangs who plied the trade openly and thought nothing of murdering anyone who got in their way.
He would keep watch and find out who these men were. Depending who they turned out to be, he would hand them over to the justices or warn them off.
Leaving everything exactly as he found it, he returned home to find Mrs Fostyn waiting for him. The servants, accustomed to admitting her, had had no reason to change their habits and she had been conducted to the drawing room to await his return.
Madam, your obedient, he said, sweeping her a low bow. You find me somewhat dishevelled. I was not expecting company.