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‘Nothing that she could not tell me. I would have listened and helped her if I could.’ Justin frowned. ‘Do you know of something?’
Andrew hesitated, then, ‘I remember she left school quite suddenly and Jane did not hear from her for some years. She was very distressed about it at the time.’
‘You do not know why she left?’
‘I have no idea. Of course, it may have no bearing on this matter.’
‘I do not see how it could.’
‘Then perhaps she will return when she is ready.’
‘I pray that you are right. I fear for her. I think she has very little money with her. I gave her some guineas for use while we travelled, but it was hardly enough to live on for the past two months, though she may have some jewels and a little money of her own, I suppose.’
Justin’s mind was torn between distress, anger and bewilderment. He had searched every day for the past few weeks, but there was no sign of his duchess. In his heart he had begun to think that she might be dead—why else had she not told him where she was or why she had gone? Had someone abducted her—or, worse, murdered her to be revenged on him? He could not think of anyone who hated him that much—but why else would she have been taken?
‘So, you would take her back—no matter the reasons for her disappearance?’
‘She is my wife,’ Justin said and looked at his friend, as if surprised at the question. He was a gentleman and a man of honour—what else could he do but take his wife back if she came to him in trouble? ‘I’ve been in hell these past weeks. Besides, it is my duty to care for her. If she is in distress, I shall help her, no matter what. I should thank God for her safe return and pray that I could make her happy.’
‘Then I shall go to London in the morning and employ an agent for you,’ Andrew said. He reached out to lay a hand on Justin’s shoulder. ‘Do not give up hope yet, my friend.’
Lucinda looked around the small kitchen and sighed. She had scrubbed the floor that morning before it was light; it was much cleaner than it had been when she first arrived, but nothing would make this hovel the kind of home in which she could bear to live. However, it was all she could afford, because she had spent the guineas her husband had given her as pin money.
If she had not run away, she might have been at Avonlea now. Lucinda felt her throat catch and a tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently. Her husband must be so angry with her. When she’d discovered the blackmail letter lying on her dressing chest on her return from the church, she had fled in panic, taking only a few things rolled into a paisley shawl. How could anyone know her secret? It was more than five years since that terrible time when the shame had come upon her.
Her first thought had been for her husband’s good name. Avonlea was such a well-respected man and the realisation that she had brought a stain of dishonour to that proud family had almost overpowered her. She knew that he had married her because he’d believed her a girl of blameless past, modest, her reputation beyond reproach.
How she had deceived him! What a wicked thing she had done by marrying him without confessing the truth. She ought to have been resolute in refusing his obliging offer; at first, she had managed to keep a distance between them, but, as she became more attracted to him, she had found it too hard to resist the prompting of her heart. In the end she had fallen so desperately in love that she could no longer refuse Avonlea—yet she sensed he did not love her as she loved him. He spoke easily of love, but she thought it merely liking: the kind of feeling that might grow to warm affection with the years and the coming of children—but the spiteful letter would destroy his respect for her. He would hate her, wish to be free of the burden she must become to him when he learned the terrible truth.
Lucinda closed her eyes and sat down in the rocking chair by the kitchen fire, trying to control her thoughts. She had tried to block out the memory of that evil night when as a young girl she had been raped in her own room by a man she had thought her father’s trusted friend.
Warned that unless she kept silent her father would be ruined, Lucinda had said nothing until her condition had become noticed. It was a terrible misfortune that she had fallen with child so easily. When she tried to explain that she had been raped, but would not give the name of her seducer, her father had refused to listen. He had banished her to live with her strict grandmother in seclusion; when her child was stillborn, she had remained in seclusion until her father died. It was her punishment and he would not allow her to return home. Her mother had relented after her father’s death and allowed her to visit Harrogate with an aunt. It was there she had met Avonlea and begun to fall in love. She had kept her distance, because her shame was so terrible that no decent man would wish to marry her if he guessed that she had borne an illegitimate child.
‘Your father told you that you had forfeited the right to happiness,’ Mrs Seymour had told her when she mentioned the duke’s attentions. ‘I do not wish to deny you all the pleasures of life, Lucinda, but you must surely see that you can never marry?’
Because of her late father’s strictures and her mother’s doubts, Lucinda had kept Avonlea at a distance in Harrogate, but then, when they met again at the home of her great friend Jane Lanchester, she had taken the bold step of confiding in Jane, who had advised her that she must follow her heart and marry him.
Lucinda sighed as she looked around the cottage. It had hurt her so very much these past weeks to stay away from Avonlea, but the blackmail letter had told her something she had needed to confirm. Now she knew the truth and she was going to do something so daring that it frightened her.
She had fled from Avonlea in panic, not knowing what she meant to do, conscious only that she was not ready to confess the truth to a husband who had married her believing her beyond reproach.
In a state of absolute shock, she’d hardly known what to believe. Not only had the blackmailer known all of her intimate secrets, but also surprised her with the revelation that her infant hadn’t perished at birth, but was in fact even this day alive.
The blackmailer had threatened to reveal her shameful secret to the world unless she paid ten thousand pounds, but he or she had also offered to tell her where her child was living—in poverty and danger, the note had said, the words sending icy shivers down her spine.
At first resentful of the babe growing inside her, during the months of her confinement Lucinda had grown to love the idea of a child coming to life within her womb. Rejected by her family, with no one to love or care for her, she had talked to the babe, believing that when the child was born she would no longer be alone, but then after hours of pain and suffering she’d been coldly informed that the babe was dead. Lucinda had grieved for the child, but come to terms with her grief, banishing all the tainted memories to a tiny corner of her mind. She had told herself that the past no longer mattered to her—and then, suddenly, on the morning of her wedding to the duke, to learn that her child was alive!
Her mother had lied to her. The distress of learning the extent of her parent’s cruelty had completely overset her. Instead of going to Avonlea and throwing herself on his mercy, as she might had she been certain of his feelings, she had thought only to run away. Better that she simply disappear than bring shame to him.
At first the shock had been so great that Lucinda could hardly take it in; then, seized by sudden panic and the need to know the truth, she’d taken an old gown and some trinkets and fled through the gardens. In confusion, with only a vague idea of what she meant to do, she set out for her family home. She was weeping, in terrible confusion and pain as she fled, unable to think coherently. It was only in the long lonely days and nights that followed that she’d begun to think about what she was doing—to discover her feelings about the child she’d believed dead.
Lucinda had arrived at her mother’s home some ten days later, having begged lifts for some of the journey, but walking much of it. After first making her escape, she’d changed into her old gown. She’d hidden her beautiful silk wedding gown behind some hay bales in a barn at the edge of the Avonlea estate; carrying only a small bundle, she had continued her journey wearing a plain grey gown more suited to a governess than the duchess she’d become. No one had given her so much as a second glance. When she finally arrived home, her mother had greeted her with a sour look. Mrs Seymour had refused to attend her daughter’s wedding on the grounds of ill health, though her true reason was that she did not approve of Lucinda marrying anyone.
‘So you’ve come to your senses. It was a stupid thing to do, Lucinda. I suppose he threw you out?’
‘Avonlea knows nothing,’ Lucinda replied. Shaking with anger, she had thrust the letter under her mother’s nose. ‘Where is she, Mama? Where is my daughter? The child you stole from me—the child you told me was dead?’
Her mother’s face had turned pale. At first she had continued to refute her daughter’s accusation. For ten days she had tried to deny all knowledge of the child, swearing it had died at birth and that she knew nothing. Lucinda had questioned her relentlessly, never giving her a moment’s peace, and in the end she’d broken down in tears.
‘Your father would not let you keep the babe. He took it to a workhouse and…I believe she was adopted by a childless couple.’
‘Tell me their names, Mama.’
Mrs Seymour shook her head. ‘I know no more. I swear he told me nothing.’
‘Very well, give me the name of the workhouse.’
‘It will do little good after all this time.’
‘Tell me what I wish to know and I shall leave you in peace. Deny me and I shall continue to question and demand. I am no longer the frightened child I was when I was so cruelly abandoned by you.’
‘It was not my wish—but your shame had to be hidden.’
‘Why? Had you loved me as a mother should, you could have taken me away, perhaps abroad, and let me keep my babe. We might have found an honest living somehow.’
‘Why do you care about the child if you were raped, as you claim?’
‘How could you doubt me?’ Lucinda looked at her sadly. ‘The man who used me so cruelly was a monster and if my father had stood by me, he might have been punished—but Papa preferred to believe his friend’s lies. He, I hate—but my child is innocent. Mama, can you not see that I need to see my child? The knowledge that she lives is tearing at my heart. I shall never be at peace until I know how she is.’
‘What will you do if you find her?’
‘I am not certain—but I must know she is well and happy. Can you not see that I should never rest easy if I simply left her to her fate?’
‘I do not…’ Mrs Seymour’s eyes dropped in shame.
In the end she’d given her daughter all the details she had. Lucinda had left the house that same day.
It had taken her two weeks of travelling, often on foot, to find the workhouse and another week before she could persuade the woman in charge to tell her the names of the couple who had taken her daughter.
‘You understand that I told you nothing,’ she said and looked at the silver locket and ruby brooch lying in her hand. ‘Your father told us to have the brat adopted and Mrs Jackson had none of her own then.’
‘She has other children now?’
‘Aye, they come like that. She has four of them under the age of four and more than she can manage. She’ll likely be glad to get rid of Susan.’
‘You called my daughter Susan?’ The woman nodded. ‘Thank you, madam. Now will you kindly tell me where to find my daughter?’
‘You’ll find the family at the sign of the Cock’s Spur.’
‘Mrs Jackson and her husband run a hostelry?’
‘Aye, you might call it that, though some round here would have other words—’tis a den of thieves if you ask me.’
‘Thank you for the information. I hope you have told me the truth. If not, I shall return—and then you will be very sorry for lying to me. My husband is a powerful man and he will punish you.’
‘You don’t look like the wife of a powerful man.’ The warden sniffed.
‘What I choose to wear is my business,’ Lucinda said proudly.
She had walked away, her heart beating frantically.
It had not taken long to discover the inn of which the warden had told her. She had ventured inside, hoping to find a reasonable woman with whom she might bargain for the return of her daughter. However, she had soon discovered the innkeeper’s wife to be a filthy slut who harangued her husband and her customers and screamed abuse at any provocation. She’d eyed Lucinda suspiciously and demanded to know what she wanted.
‘If you’re after summat, yer’ll get naught here,’ she said. ‘If yer want to service men, you’ll do it elsewhere. I run a clean house here and don’t harbour doxies.’
‘I was looking for a child. She was adopted from the workhouse five years ago.’
‘What do yer want her fer?’
‘She is my daughter and I want her back.’
‘Yer do, do yer?’ The woman glared at her. ‘I’ll sell her fer five hundred guineas if yer like.’
‘I have only a silver trinket box and a diamond brooch that was my godmother’s,’ Lucinda said. ‘The child is my daughter. She was stolen from me at birth and I have just discovered that you have her. For pity’s sake, let me take her. I will give you all I have.’
‘Clear orf. The girl will fetch good money in a year or two. I’ve had offers for her already and they were more than you’re offering. I know your sort. Yer think I’m green behind the ears. Men will pay a fortune for a wench like that—and I’ll sell her to the highest bidder when the time comes.’
‘No, you mustn’t. Please, you can’t,’ Lucinda cried in distress. She could not allow such a wicked thing to happen. ‘I’ll get money for you. She’s my daughter. I swear it on the Bible.’
‘The price just went up to one thousand guineas,’ the woman said, a gleam of avarice in her eyes. ‘You’ve got a week to find the money or she goes to the highest bidder.’
‘Let me see Susan, please.’
‘Yer can see ‘er—but no funny business. Try snatchin’ ‘er and I’ll call me husband and yer’ll be sorry.’
Lucinda promised she would not and waited while the woman went into what looked like a kitchen at the rear. Her nails curled into the palms of her hands as she reappeared, dragging a reluctant child into the taproom. Lucinda’s heart plummeted as she saw how dirty and thin the little girl was. She wanted to weep for pity, but knew that she must show no emotion. Kneeling in front of the child, she tipped her chin with one finger and her heart turned over. She had seen those eyes before—a curious greenish-blue; she saw them every day when she looked at herself in a mirror. The child was hers. The warden had not lied to her.
Resisting the urge to snatch her in her arms and run, Lucinda smiled at the little girl, reached into her pocket and took out a small cake she’d brought with her. She offered it to the child, who looked suspicious.
‘It is a cake for you,’ she said. ‘Listen to me, Susan. One day soon I am going to fetch you. I am going to take you to live with me.’
‘Not unless I get me thousand guineas you ain’t.’ The woman shoved the little girl. ‘Back to your work.’
‘Please be kind to her,’ she said as the child bit the cake, her eyes opening in wonder as she tasted its sweetness. ‘I shall be back within the week.’
It had cost Lucinda so much pain to leave her daughter here. Her heart wrenched with pity as the child glanced back at her before disappearing into the kitchen.
‘What work does she do?’
‘Anyfin’ I tell ‘er,’ the woman answered. ‘Yer’ve got one week—and then she’s gone.’
‘I shall be back,’ Lucinda said and left before she wept.
She’d known even then that her trinkets would not fetch one-tenth of the woman’s demands for the child. Even had she sold the wedding gown she’d hidden, it would not have brought enough—though she believed it had cost many hundreds of guineas when Justin bought it for her.
Had she only brought her jewels with her she might have found the money easily enough. There was not enough time to return to Avonlea and fetch the jewels or even to ask Justin for a loan. Lucinda faced the facts. She could not raise such a huge sum and so she had only one choice. She must steal the child.
Susan had been stolen from her. She would steal her back.
First she had to make a plan. She had hired a cottage in the next village so that the innkeeper’s wife would not become suspicious. She bought other clothes and a wig to cover the flame red of her hair and she wore a torn and dirty shawl, rubbing dirt into her cheeks. In this way she had managed to visit the inn yard without being noticed by the landlady on two occasions. She had discovered that the child was given the chore of carrying out the slops first thing in the mornings, after the guests had gone down to break their fast.
And so today was the day. She locked up the cottage and left for the inn to claim her daughter as her own. At a quarter to the hour of nine she was in the yard watching, sheltering behind a wagon that had come to deliver hay for the stables. When she saw the child carrying her heavy pail down to the midden, she ran towards her.
‘Drop that and come with me,’ she instructed her. ‘I am going to take you away and look after you, my darling. That wicked woman will not punish you again.’
‘Will yer give me a cake?’ The child looked at her anxiously. ‘Yes, my dearest child. I will give you a cake every day. Come with me now and I shall take care of you.’
The child stood the pail down, offered her hand and together they ran. They hadn’t stopped running until they reached the crossroads and saw the mail coach heading towards them. Lucinda knew that it stopped briefly at the crossing and she ran to it as a gentleman got down, looking up at the coachman.
‘Please take me to the next big town.’
‘We do not stop again until we reach Watford, ma’am.’
‘That will be perfect,’ Lucinda said and placed the last of her money into his hands. ‘The child will sit on my lap.’
‘You’ve given me threepence too much,’ he said and returned the coppers to her. ‘Hop in and make sure the child behaves.’
‘She will,’ Lucinda said and put an arm about her daughter’s thin shoulders. ‘We shall both be as quiet as mice.’
Climbing into the coach, she pulled the child onto her lap, holding her close.
‘It will be all right now,’ she whispered. ‘The nasty woman will not find us and I’ll look after you. I’m your mother, you see? You were stolen from me when you were just a babe. I’d named you Angela and you are my daughter. No one will hurt you again. I promise.’
She had brought some food for the journey and took a small sugared bun from her bundle, giving it to the child. Angela’s thin body felt warm against her as she ate contentedly and then fell asleep, her head resting against Lucinda’s breast.
It was then that Lucinda realised she had only accomplished a part of her plan. The next phase would be more difficult. She had to find somewhere for them to live—there was no going back to that hovel of a cottage—and some way of earning her living.
Then she would go to Justin and tell him why she’d run away.
Tears trickled down her cheeks. She loved her husband so much and she feared he would hate her for what she’d done. Until this moment, all her thoughts had been centred on rescuing her child and it was only now that she had begun to realise the enormity of her cruelty towards the man she’d married. Afraid to tell him her secret, she had run away, leaving a simple note to say she had something she must do and would return when she could. He must have wondered why she had not confided her problem to him and he might not wish to see her.
For the first time Lucinda realised that in abandoning her husband so abruptly she might have lost her only chance of real happiness. She had been living in a nightmare, but now she had woken to the cold dawn of reality.
What was she going to do now?
‘Where was this found?’ Justin looked at the crumpled silk wedding gown, which was made of the finest materials available and had been a part of the many gifts he’d given his bride. ‘And why was it not discovered before this?’
‘It had been hidden behind some hay bales in a barn, your Grace,’ the man said, looking uncomfortable. ‘We looked in the barn for the young lady, sir. I swear we looked, but we did not think to move the hay because there was only the wall, or so we thought. The gown was found when the hay was used and someone saw a bit of silk sticking out.’
