Page 19 of Loyalty (The Chaplain’s Legacy #5)

K ent’s anger sustained him all the way from the church back to the castle, and then, as abruptly as the popping of a soap bubble, it was gone. How could he have spoken so, and to Katherine, his sweet Katherine, of all people? Such intemperate language! He could not think without horror of his words to her, and she so gentle and innocent, to be harangued in such terms. What an insufferably sanctimonious woman you are! He could hardly bear to remember it, when she had only been trying to rescue him from his evil ways.

And yet, what could he do about it? She deserved an apology, but if he went to see her, he could not be sure that his rage would not flare up again. She had been angry, too. No, that would not do. For a while he toyed with the idea of writing to her. It was improper, but under the circumstances… and he could address the letter to Mrs Cathcart in the first instance. He even attempted to pen a few lines. But the difficulty of finding the right words discouraged him.

It was hopeless.

For the rest of Sunday, he gave himself up entirely to grief-stricken misery. Katherine was lost to him, that was all he knew, just when he had never been more certain that she was the one woman in the world who could make him happy. If she had died, he could not have been more overwhelmed with sorrow. In his mind, he stood on the balcony at the tower and kissed her again and again, remembering that moment of supreme joy and pretending that the madness just minutes later had never happened. If only he had not taken her into the cellar! If only… if only…

The next morning, after a sleepless night, he rose as soon as the first streaks of light appeared on the horizon, with just one thought in his head — no more agonising over what was done and could not be undone. He needed something to occupy his hands if not his mind, so he took his tools to the sunken garden, where there was a broken fountain to be worked on, and set about scrubbing and poking and delving. Then there were leaks and blockages to be looked for, and, eventually, repairs to be effected. Early in the afternoon, he had the satisfaction of seeing water playing over the nymphs who cavorted around the centre of the fountain.

And the instant it was done, as he sat watching the drops shimmering in the weak autumn light, all his grief came roaring back. Having something worthwhile to do could help him forget for a while, but it could not last forever.

Eustace arrived while he was still mired in misery. “Here you are, brother! I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“Oh? Is it about the tower?”

“The tower?”

“Wallace has everything in hand. It will be clear by Wednesday.”

“Oh, that,” Eustace said with a quick laugh. “Yes, I am sure everything will be fine. Wallace is a good man. You will not need me, I take it? Or anyone else?”

“No. Mine was the only name mentioned, I believe. I will be there to show Sir Hubert round the empty cellars, and he will not notice if there is a strong smell of brandy in the air.”

Eustace laughed. “Strong is an ally. He will not betray us. Not like— Well, never mind that. No, I wanted to talk to you about another matter entirely. Do you remember that old biddy that the Edgertons had trailing round with them for a while — the one who went missing?”

“You mean Mrs Edgerton’s former governess, Miss Peach?”

“The very same. A body has been found, over at Tonkins Farm. Seems to be her. She had been living in the hay barn there. I have been checking all the remote barns and sheds, and happened across the body this morning.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” Kent said. “What happened to her?”

“Strangled.”

“What! Another murder? Does Captain Edgerton know?”

“Of course,” Eustace said testily. “Naturally I went to him straight away. But it can hardly be connected to Nicholson’s death, so perhaps now he and his odd bunch of cronies will take themselves back to Hartlepool and leave us in peace. They have done nothing except cause disruption for months now.”

“They found Father’s missing money,” Kent said. “That is hardly nothing. But what was Miss Peach doing at Tonkins Farm?”

“Who knows? Her mind was not sound, so there need not be a rational reason for it.”

“Why did you check there? You said you were checking remote barns, but that one is hard by the farmhouse, and there would have been people in and out of it when the hay was being got in. Miss Peach could hardly have been living there then.”

Eustace huffed in annoyance. “What is this, brother? You are getting as bad as Edgerton for asking questions. Perhaps she moved about, who knows. The point is, she has been found at last, so Edgerton will have no cause to poke around in our affairs.”

“Did you think he would?”

“He pokes into everything! The man is incorrigibly nosy, and imagines that everything is his business. Strong is sound, but if Edgerton got wind of our little enterprise, he could cause us a world of trouble. Do not let him, that is all I ask. Keep him well away from the tower, or any mention of it.”

Kent chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You do not think, then, that perhaps our mysterious visitor there might have been Miss Peach?”

“What? What crazy nonsense is that? The tower is above twenty miles from Pickering, and how do you suppose she got there? She never took the public stage coach, and I hardly think she walked all that way, do you?”

Kent frowned. It was possible, surely. It was almost two weeks since he and Katherine — ah, that day! Pain lanced through at the memory. He must try not to think about it. Almost two weeks since… since he had seen signs of occupation at the tower. Time enough even for an elderly lady to make her way to Tonkins Farm. Walk five miles, stay in a disused barn or shepherd’s hut for a day or two. Then another five miles. Yes, it could be done.

“If she was wandering about from barn to barn, say…” he said slowly.

“Kent, she was last seen in Pickering, and her body turned up only a couple of miles away. I doubt she was ever more than two or three miles from the town.”

That was a good point. Just because a thing was possible did not mean it had happened that way, and what would Miss Peach be doing at the tower, anyway? She believed herself to be investigating Nicholson’s death, so she would focus her attention on Corland or Pickering, surely? The tower had no connection to Nicholson at all. No, it was foolish to imagine she had ever been there. He resolved to put the idea out of his head.

“Do not start putting ideas into Edgerton’s head, I beg of you,” Eustace went on, “or he will be crawling all over the place looking for who knows what, and if he finds so much as a drop of candle wax in the wrong place we shall never be rid of him. Remember your loyalty to me and to the enterprise, and keep him away from the tower at all costs.”

Kent laughed, although uneasily. “Very well, brother. Let us at all costs keep the nosy Captain Edgerton away from our affairs.”

But he wished with all his heart that the enterprise was not his affair. When Eustace had first drawn him into it, making it sound so harmless, he had seen nothing wrong with it, and it was thrilling to his younger self to scurry about at night. But lately he had grown uneasy with it, appeasing his conscience with the thought that others depended on him. And now that Katherine had made him see the wrong in it—

Instantly, his thoughts were filled with Katherine again. His lovely Katherine, with whom he had hoped to spend the rest of his life. Was there anything he could do to recover his position with her? He tried to recall their happier exchanges, where she had told him what she expected from a husband. No secrecy… he remembered that one, and look how much trouble it had brought him!

What else? A good character… integrity, honesty, trustworthiness. All of those came into it. Ah, that was more difficult. He regarded himself as being of good character, but was he? Or would the world view him as Katherine did, as a smuggler, a law-breaker, who encouraged working men to break the law with him?

There was something else, too. She had said that a man must be a good Christian, and he could find no fault with that. He must learn to pray, as she did, in faith and utter confidence in the goodness of the Almighty. She was so certain, and at that moment, when he felt the foundations of his life crumbling, he wanted just a little of that certainty.

She had been entirely certain that smuggling was wrong. No matter that no one seemed to be harmed by it. No matter that wealthy men wanted their brandy and wine, and poor men wanted the extra coins to feed their children. It was wrong, and that was the end of it, and he would be better off to be hanged for his wickedness if that might save his immortal soul.

In his heart of hearts he could not disagree with her. It was wrong, it was illegal and if Sir Hubert Strong’s cellar had not contained several barrels of excellent French brandy, Kent would have been in very deep trouble now, and Eustace with him, and the family plunged into even more trouble than Nicholson had brought them. It was all very well to talk about loyalty to the family, but one of the sacred duties of any son is to do nothing to dishonour his family. If he were to be hauled before a judge for smuggling, then even if his father’s influence could ameliorate his sentence, there would still be disgrace and scandal.

Yet what could he do?

That night, he spent an hour on his knees at his bedside, trying to pray. His prayers were impassioned, it was true, but how could he be sure that they were heard? And what good could come of it? He remembered meeting Katherine in church when she was praying at the Lady Chapel rail. In despair at the disaster that Nicholson had inflicted on his family, he had asked if her prayers worked, and although she had not answered him, she had agreed that they made her feel better.

Kent did not feel better. It did not help that he had a meeting on Tuesday in the very church where he had seen her praying… where he had first met her, in fact, when she had looked so sorrowful in her blacks that he had wanted desperately to cheer her up, just a little. Even then he had been drawn to her, wanting to make her smile… to make her happy. And he had, for a while, until he had told her the truth about the smuggling. They had both been happy, for a while. Now he wondered whether he would ever be happy again.

Richards was in the church early, sitting in their usual pew and wearing a cheerful grin. “A good haul this time. Sixty-two barrels, mostly brandy, and some claret as well, but the winter storms will be upon us soon, so who knows when the next delivery will be? Won’t affect me, though. I’m getting out.”

“Getting out? Is that allowed?” Kent said, with a wry grin.

“Not as a rule, but I’m getting wed next week and we’ll be living with her family out on the farm. They’re honest, God-fearing folk, and if I start creeping about at night — well, you can guess how that would look. So I’m about to become an honest, God-fearing man myself.”

“You, an upright citizen?” Kent said, laughing.

“I know, I know, who’d have thought it, eh? But we can all change, when there’s a woman involved.”

“Can we?”

“Well, I hope so, cos she’s a real peach and I’d hate to make her cry. Tommy’ll let you know the exact dates for the delivery. Look after yourself, sir.”

“You, too. Oh, and my felicitations to you and Mrs Richards.”

With a wave and a wide smile, Richards disappeared, but Kent sat on in the empty church long after the heavy wooden door had thumped shut and deep silence had descended.

Get out? Was it truly possible? We can all change, when there’s a woman involved. Perhaps Kent could change, too. After all, Katherine was a peach, was she not? She was worth changing for, and even if she would never take him back, he would be a better man for it.

Slowly, he walked down the aisle and turned aside at the Lady Chapel. This was where he had seen her praying, kneeling at the rail, head bowed and eyes closed. At the exact spot where she had knelt, he lowered himself to his knees, bent his head and began to pray. He prayed for the strength to do the right thing, whatever that was. He prayed to become a better man — an honest, God-fearing man, if that were possible. He prayed for forgiveness for all his foolishness. And most fervently of all, he prayed for Katherine to be well and happy and perhaps find a man who deserved her.

It was the oddest thing, but he felt better. Calmer, perhaps. Less mired in grief and uncertainty. The clouds that seemed to have hovered around him had drawn back a little. He could not honestly say that the sun was shining on him, not yet, but the sky was less grey.

He rose, rather bemused, and began to walk back down the aisle. He had almost reached the door when it creaked open and a familiar form stepped around it. She gasped when she saw him, flushing scarlet, and would have turned at once and left again.

“No, do not go,” he cried out. “I am just leaving… there is no one else here… you will have solitude for your prayers.”

She turned again, hesitating, uncertain. He drank in the sight of her, becoming aware that she did not look at all well. Below the flushed complexion, he thought she was tired, her eyes not sparkling as they usually did.

“You are ill, Miss Parish?” he said quickly.

“No, no. I am… quite well. Thank you. And… and you?”

“I am well, also.” No, he was not well, not when he had behaved so abominably towards her. He might never be truly well again. But he could not say that, could not say any of the things that were in his heart. He knew he should apologise to her, but he had no idea where to begin. Instead, for what reason he could not guess, he said, “I have been praying.”

“Oh.” A glimmer of a smile. “Does it help?”

He smiled back at her, remembering, as she clearly did, their previous conversation on the subject. “Yes. Yes, it does. I bid you good day, Miss Parish.”

She curtsied, he bowed and stood aside for her to enter the church. Then he pulled the door quietly shut behind him and walked home to Corland Castle, knowing now what he had to do.

He knew something was amiss the instant he came within sight of the bridge to the front door. Corland Castle was a modern building but the architect, in a fanciful moment, had designed it with a dry moat all round, housing not water, but access to the basement level of the castle, and the underground stables and stores. Thus the entrance was reached by way of a bridge, and the distinctive figure of the butler could be seen standing at the near end of it, wringing his hands.

“Oh, Mr Kent! Your father will be so pleased to see you. You will be able to keep him quiet until the surgeon gets here.”

“Surgeon! Whatever has happened, Simpson?”

“A fall from his horse, sir. Nothing serious, we don’t think, just his shoulder again, but you know what he’s like when he’s in pain.”

“Where is he? In his room?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kent tore through the house, scattering clusters of distressed servants at every corner, and raced up the stairs and into his father’s room, where a scene worthy of Bedlam greeted him. A young woman in a riding habit was shouting at Turner, the earl’s valet, Olivia was crying noisily, while three footmen were engaged in holding the earl down on his bed while he bellowed in pain.

“Olivia! Out” Kent said.

“But—”

“No buts. If all you are going to do is cry, you can do it somewhere else. You, madam!”

Now that he could see her closely, he realised it was Miss Quick, the bruising rider whose reckless pace had no doubt caused the earl to fall.

“Miss Quick, out, if you please.”

“I am trying to tell this dunderhead that he must bring ice at once, but he insists on laying hands on Charles, and I will not have it, do you hear?”

“Turner knows precisely how best to help his lordship, madam, and you are hindering him.”

“Yes, but—”

“ Out , or I shall carry you out myself.”

“But—”

With a muttered curse, Kent picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, ignoring her screams. “Away you go, Turner.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Kent marched out of the room and deposited Miss Quick unceremoniously on the floor, under the wide-eyed gaze of Olivia.

“Stay away from the earl until he requests your presence, madam, although if it were left up to me, I would have sent you packing long since. Break your own neck if you want to, but leave my father alone.”

He went back into his father’s room, and firmly shut the door on the women. Turner was kneeling on the bed, and as Kent watched, he took hold of the injured arm and pulled sharply. The earl screamed once, then sank back onto the pillows in relief.

“Thank you, Turner. Whatever would I do without you? Kent! There you are, my boy! Did they tell you what happened? Thunderer caught his hoof in something and we both ended up on the ground. Happily he was unscathed, unlike me.”

“Dislocated your shoulder again, eh?”

“I really should teach Turner to ride so that he can be on hand for the next time. Would save me a lot of grief, for he knows just how to pop things back into place.”

“Or maybe you could ride a little more cautiously, Father?”

The earl laughed and rubbed his nose ruefully. “No fool like an old fool, eh? Poor Marjorie! Such a spirited rider, but I should never have tried to keep up with her. I am fifty-five years old, Kent, and I should not be attempting to compete with a slip of a girl almost thirty years my junior. Where did she go?”

“Mr Kent conveyed her out of the room, my lord,” Turner said, handing the earl a glass of brandy. “Drink that, my lord. It will dull the remaining pain.”

“Conveyed her out of the room? What precisely does that mean?”

“I carried her out,” Kent said. “She was… unhappy about it.”

The earl gave a bark of laughter. “Obnoxious woman! Did you ever have the misfortune to hear her laugh? She barks like a dog.”

“I thought it was a goose myself,” Kent said.

The earl chuckled. “Lord, yes! Poor Jane! She is trying so hard to get me married off, and I am trying to find another wife, truly I am, but they are all very poor substitutes for my dear Caroline. Your mother is a wonderful woman, Kent, and is proving very hard to replace.”

“Then why not marry her again, instead of one of these improbable women?”

The earl sighed. “It is what she wants. She thinks I should have more sons… legitimate sons, which she cannot give me, and I always do whatever she wants, because I love her dearly. But I do miss her. I miss her dreadfully.”

“We all miss her,” Kent said sadly.