Scandal at the Dower House (7 page)

‘All the people are now housed here, delighted to have the room, and be near their friends and the common.’

‘I saw the old ones had been pulled down. These look handsome.’

They were built in pairs, of stone and with slate roofs. Each had a plot of ground in which vegetables were growing. Most of the cottages had a run with fowls scratching at the dirt, and beyond them the ground rose slightly until it became a low range of hills. It looked like the common, and already the hay was harvested and the animals turned out to graze.

‘The big fields are that way,’ Catarina explained, pointing, ‘and the marsh starts beyond them, and curves round following the river we saw by the old cottages. Walter was planning to drain the nearest part first, but — ‘ she swallowed, ‘he never began. He was coming back from looking at them when something happened and he was thrown from his horse. We don’t know what caused it, whether something startled the horse, or it stepped into a coney hole. It was a little lame when it returned to the stables, and then we began to search. It was some time before Walter was found, and by that time he was dead.’

‘I am truly sorry. You were fond of him, clearly.’

‘He was a good man. Now I think we should start back and go through the woods. The pigs won’t have been turned out there yet. But they grow fat on the acorns, and make a good meal for Christmas!’

* * * *

To Catarina’s relief Joanna behaved with all due decorum while they stayed with Mr and Mrs Sinclair in Bristol. The sea voyage was calm, and Joanna’s spirits revived.

‘I can see an end to this,’ she said on their first evening at sea. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so obnoxious, but I felt nauseous and I was worried. Catarina, I’m so sorry to have caused you so much trouble.’

Catarina hugged her. ‘You were foolish, but we’ll manage it together. And what would I have done alone at the Dower House? At least we can see something of Mama’s home. Papa always meant to bring us, but he said the war made it too dangerous.’

One of their cousins, Antonio de Freitas, was waiting to greet them when the ship docked at Oporto, and drove them the few miles to the Quinta das Fontes. It was far larger than Catarina had expected, a long, low house painted white, with green shutters at every window, and wings extending back to enclose a delightful courtyard. This was ablaze with flowers, many of which were new to Catarina, set in stone urns. All the rooms, on the ground and upper storeys, opened out onto shaded terraces and balconies. Colourful tubs of flowers adorned the balconies and all the steps, and bougainvillea clambered up the walls. A fountain played in the centre of the courtyard, making a gentle tinkling sound as the water fell into an ornamental pool. The sun shone on the drops of water, creating rainbow colours which flashed for a moment and then died. Aunt Madalene, having greeted them enthusiastically and remarked how like they were to their dear mother, took them out to where a table was laid in the shade.

‘The fountain is from a natural spring,’ she explained as they drank tea and sampled delicious honey cakes, ‘and gave the name to the Quinta. There are other fountains in the garden, but we will show you those tomorrow. And the vineyards, and your Uncle Mario will explain how we make the wine. Oh, how delightful it is to have you here. I want to hear all about your lives in England. But I do wish you could make a longer visit.’

‘Now the wars are over, we will come back often,’ Catarina promised. ‘This time, I’m afraid, we have promised to pay visits in Lisbon and Faro.’

‘Do we know your friends? There are still many English officers in Lisbon, looking after things while the Court is in Brazil. Perhaps you will know some of them.’

For a moment Catarina wondered whether they should avoid Lisbon. She had not known about the English still being there, then she decided that as they would of necessity remain secluded there was little chance of being seen or recognized. It was unlikely she would know any of them, she and Walter had not been much into Society, and since both she and Joanna were dark haired and did not have the pale complexions of English girls they would be taken as Portuguese.

Catarina was realizing how difficult it was going to be to keep Joanna’s secret, their aunt was so hospitable and interested in their lives in England. Already she was telling lies, inventing excuses, and hating herself for the deception. Joanna had no qualms, though.

‘We are visiting a couple of my friends from school,’ she said cheerfully. ‘One is married now and living in the south, which is why we want to travel there later, after we have seen the one in Lisbon.’

The two weeks they spent at the Quinta das Fontes were enjoyable, but both girls were glad when they could leave. One day Aunt Madalene had remarked that the good Portuguese food must suit them, as Joanna seemed to be putting on weight, and for a horrid moment Catarina thought she knew.

They left, promising to return the following year, and driven by their uncle’s coachman. Catarina insisted they take the public coach from Oporto, but she could not evade Antonio’s escort. It simply was not possible for two young girls to travel on their own, they were told. She could not risk anyone discovering their destination in Lisbon, but Joanna’s inventive mind provided the answer. They were, she said airily, to stay at an hotel for a night or so, as their hosts were away, and they would be collected as soon as the da Sousa family returned to the city. She had only a vague idea of the address where they would be staying, as the family had a couple of town houses and also a country estate.

Antonio was horrified at the notion of two ladies being alone in an hotel, and they were afraid he would insist on remaining with them. Catarina assured him it was considered acceptable in England, and to their relief he said he had to go back home, there were people he had promised to meet there, on business connected with the grape harvest.

Listening to Joanna, Catarina was thankful there were so few surnames in Portugal. There would be dozens, if not hundreds, of families called da Sousa and tracing an individual one would be difficult.

* * * *

By mid-August Jeremy was fit enough to go to Marshington Grange. He was so restless Nicholas was thankful to take him there. At his own house he would have more to do, and Nicholas meant to stay with him for several weeks and help him settle and get to know the people on the estate. Even to himself he did not admit that he hoped to meet Catarina again. She had not said when they would return from the visit to their Portuguese family, but surely they would be back before the winter.

Jeremy insisted he could ride around the estate, not have to travel in a ladies’ gig, but he agreed to rest for a day or so after the tedious coach journey. Then he rebelled, telling Nicholas he was living up to his devilish name, so Nicholas went to the stables to make sure his saddle was put on a placid mare. Jeremy frowned when he saw her, but said nothing more. Nicholas trusted he was beginning to realize his limitations.

It was clear within the first few minutes that Jeremy was finding riding difficult, and after they had ridden as far as the village and seen the new houses, Nicholas insisted on turning back.

As they passed the Dower House Nicholas saw Staines in the garden, and hailed him.

‘When do the ladies plan to return?’

‘Not for some months, my lord. I understand they are visiting several relatives.’

Nicholas thanked him, and was silent all the way back to the house. Jeremy, clearly in pain, did not wish to talk. He winced as he dismounted, and instead of following his normal practice of making sure his horse was properly looked after, he handed the mare to a groom, grimaced at Nicholas and said he would go into the house.

Before he went inside himself Nicholas made sure there was a suitable gig and a pony to pull it. Jeremy might object, and say he felt like a child or a female driving such a conveyance, but if he wanted to be able to tour his land he would have to endure the embarrassment.

After the first few outings Jeremy was reconciled. He met the tenant farmers, listened to their praises of the late Earl, and tentatively began to discuss his own plans for improvements. One or two of the farmers approved, but he met considerable resistance from others.

‘I’ll have to go slowly,’ he told Nicholas as they sat over their port one evening. ‘Do you think, if the dowager were here, she might persuade them? Several of them talked about her, and they seemed to respect her views. She has been good to many of them, sending help when they were in trouble. If she approved of my plans they would accept them more readily.’

For a few moments Nicholas wondered who Jeremy meant by the dowager, then with a shock realized he was talking of Catarina.

‘She’s still a girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can you call her a dowager?’

Jeremy grinned at him. ‘I know, it sounds ridiculous, she’s the same age as I am, but as soon as you marry she’ll have to get used to it. We can’t have two countesses.’

‘I’m not planning to marry,’ Nicholas protested.

‘Oh, come. You wouldn’t want me to inherit the title, would you? Besides, you’ll live to a ripe old age and I would be too ancient to make the most of it. I’ll be content with the connection, the reflected glory. Seriously, Nick, you need to set up your own nursery soon. There will be even more debutantes on the catch for you now you have the title. Why don’t you go up to London for the Little Season and survey the field?’

Nicholas grimaced. ‘The whole business is like a horse fair. Dance with some chit at two consecutive balls, or drive her in the Park, and the dowagers are taking bets. Dowagers!’ he added.

Jeremy chuckled. ‘I’ll hazard you don’t meet many like our own dowager at Almack’s!’

* * * *

Catarina rented an apartment a week after they arrived in Lisbon. She hired a cook and a Portuguese maid, and they announced that Joanna, a grieving widow, would not be entering Society or receiving calls.

‘That will explain how we don’t know anyone here.’

‘If we’d gone to a smaller town we could at least have driven out,’ Joanna complained.

‘And been more conspicuous. Here we are anonymous, and no one will notice us or begin to speculate about us.’

Joanna nodded reluctant agreement. ‘I am so bored!’ she complained. ‘I’ve read this book of poems so many times I could recite every one.’

‘There are clothes to make for the child,’ Catarina reminded her.

‘I hate sewing, and I have enough reminders of Matthew. I don’t want to spend my time sewing for his wretched brat!’

Catarina sighed. Joanna insisted she did not wish to keep the child, and it would have been impossible unless they moved from Somerset and all their acquaintances, and settled in another part of the country where they could have maintained the fiction of Joanna’s widowhood.

‘I’ve been making enquiries. There is a convent nearby which takes in orphan babies. They either find someone to adopt the children, or they keep them until they are old enough to be apprenticed to a trade. If I give them a large sum of money they will ensure the child goes to a good home.’

‘I don’t care.’

Catarina lost her temper. ‘This baby is yours too! You are as responsible for creating it as Matthew, and you can’t be so heartless as not to care what becomes of the poor mite!’

‘It was Matthew’s fault!’ Joanna muttered. ‘I thought we were married, and he might have been going to his death at Waterloo.’

‘You should have had the sense to know it was not all correct when it was done in a clandestine manner.’

‘He said he didn’t want Uncle Ivor to know, as he wanted Matthew to marry some girl with a title, not just a small fortune like mine.’

‘He survived.’ Catarina was horrified at her wickedness when she caught herself thinking it might have been better if he had not. ‘His mother wrote to tell me, and also to announce his betrothal to a girl from Leicestershire. Will you tell him when the baby is born?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘He doesn’t care, he wanted me to get rid of it, and as soon as I can I want to forget I ever had it. I mean it, Cat. This baby is not going to ruin my life.’

* * * *

Nicholas and Jeremy were still at breakfast when their new butler came to say that Staines was in the kitchen, rather upset, and wanted to speak to them.

‘We’ll see him in the estate office, in five minutes,’ Nicholas said.

‘I suspect some problem has arisen at the Dower House which he cannot deal with,’ Jeremy said.

‘There may be a message from Lady Brooke,’ Nicholas said, and knew it was unlikely Staines would be coming to them so early in the day just to relay a message that the ladies were coming home. He wondered at his preoccupation with Catarina. Why did she occupy his thoughts so much? He admitted frankly that he desired her, wanted to make love to her, but he had desired many women, and then banished all thoughts of them either until the desire faded, which it often did, or an appropriate moment came to satisfy it. Perhaps, perversely, it was because he knew Catarina was not like his other conquests, bored married women who could love and leave their lovers as readily as he did himself.

Staines was standing by the window of the estate office when the brothers entered. He swung round and took a few steps towards them, holding out his hands in supplication.

He had dressed hurriedly, and not shaved. His hair looked as though he had spent the time of waiting thrusting his hands through it.

‘What is it, man?’ Nicholas demanded. ‘Here, sit down, you’re as pale as a ghost.’

‘My lord, I don’t know what to do,’ Staines muttered, almost collapsing into the chair Nicholas thrust towards him. ‘It’s Cook. Ellen. She’s dead.’

‘Your cook at the Dower House? But she isn’t an old woman. Has she been ailing?’

Staines shook his head and wrung his hands together. ‘Wicked, it is!’ He took a deep breath. ‘It was her custom to go out into the garden last thing at night, she said a breath of fresh air helped her to sleep.’

Nicholas nodded. He knew many people who said the same.

‘Who normally locked up after her? Did you see her? Was she looking ill then?’