“Of course you will! And you will remarry and all will be well.”
“I have a special licence,” Farramont said.
The earl’s face crumpled. “Exactly! I wish—! Farramont, if you go to Harfield and see my wife, will you… will you tell her that I should be very happy to have her home again.Veryhappy.”
“I will tell her that, sir,” Farramont said quietly. “I shall tell her those exact words.”
There was clear sympathy in his eyes, which Michael entirely understood, for both of them had lost their wives to Nicholson’s duplicity, and neither knew quite what the future would bring.
***
Winnie could not wait to begin the journey to London. She armed herself with road maps of the route, a guide book describing the great houses, monuments and scenic features they would pass along the way, and a blank journal to record her impressions of the sights. On the day of departure, she was dressed, packed and ready to depart shortly after dawn, and paced impatiently about the hall until the others appeared.
They left Birchall House in grey dampness, Uncle Alfred’s carriage for Winnie, Uncle Alfred and Walter, and Lady Strong’s for the two valets and Martha, almost as excited as Winnie. As soon as they reached Helmsley, Lady Strong’s carriage was sent back to Birchall, a hired post-chaise was acquired and Sir Hubert’s steady coach horses were swapped for two teams of four, with postilions. Thus equipped, they rattled along the toll road at a steady pace, onwards and southwards, the weather miraculously clearing as they progressed.
Winnie savoured every moment. After York, each town or village or hill or mile post was new to her, every vista worthy of comment, every inn meal to be recorded meticulously in her journal. She carried it in her reticule at all times, bringing it out for additional descriptions whenever there was sufficient lack of motion to permit it.
“What do you find to write in that little book of yours, Mouse?” Walter said.
“Everything!” she said, with a sigh of pure pleasure. “I shall probably never make such a journey again in my life, so I want a record of every detail, no matter how trivial, so that I can read it in years to come and remember.”
Walter only laughed. She did not mind a bit. He could laugh at her all he liked, for quite apart from the obvious pleasures of the journey were her secret delights, all of which involvedWalter. Sometimes he sat facing her, with his back to the horses, so she could gaze on his handsome countenance every time she looked in that direction. Even more delightful were the times when he sat beside her, his well-muscled thigh only inches from her own more modestly proportioned leg, his shoulder rubbing against hers. Sometimes, he would bend forwards to read the guidebook that lay on her lap, and she would find his head almost touching hers. If she had raised her hand, she could run her fingers through his unruly hair. Such exquisite pleasures were not recorded in her journal, but were seared onto her brain. If her hopes were not realised, they would warm her in the dark years ahead when she would be an affirmed spinster, flitting from house to house to assist with her nephews and nieces.
After four days on the road, so well arranged by Uncle Alfred that no setback occurred and all was comfort and ease, the travellers finally arrived in the Metropolis, weary and aching from inactivity, but, in Winnie’s case at least, thrilled with everything she saw. The two men amused themselves by competing to spot the most trivial detail of the streets, from pie sellers to hackney carriages to crossing sweepers.
“I have seen crossing sweepers before, you know,” she said gently.
“Certainly you have, but notLondoncrossing sweepers,” Walter said, grinning. “Be sure to note it well, so that you may write an accurate description in your journal.”
In no time they had passed the last toll gate and were amidst the chaotic bustle of the main thoroughfares. On either side could be glimpsed smaller streets where warehouses and craft yards and shops jostled higgledy-piggledy with narrow houses, and children ran barefoot between the carts and standing horses. Soon after passing Smithfield they began to see some of the great edifices of the city — the Old Bailey and Newgate Prison, the Guildhall and the Admiralty, and finallythe awe-inspiring twin monuments of Westminster Hall and Westminster Abbey. And everywhere, on side streets or nestling amongst houses or sometimes in the middle of the street, churches attesting to the piety of the population. At last they turned aside onto a fine residential street, round a corner and then another, before drawing up in front of a tall, narrow house, squeezed into a row of wider properties.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” Uncle Alfred murmured.
The door opened and there was Aunt Sofia beaming at them, arms spread wide. Winnie scrambled out of the carriage, ignoring the hand Walter offered, and ran straight into her aunt’s arms. Aunt Sofia was a small, well-rounded person, with black hair tucked neatly under her cap and a face already showing the lines of frequent laughter. She hugged Winnie fiercely, then held her at arm’s length.
“You are too thin, child. Working yourself to the bone, as usual, I suppose. We shall have to feed you up a little. Ah, but it is so good to see you, Winnie. Now, here is my husband Edmund, and that great tall fellow manhandling your boxes is our indispensable Percival.”
Edmund Blackwood was a fine, handsome man with a mane of blond hair, and a decided twinkle in his eye. Winnie decided at once she would like him enormously. She had been sure she would, for anyone who fell in love with Aunt Sofia was clearly a man of excellent taste, but now that she could see him, she was quite sure of it. The indispensable Percival, a large Negro footman, she was less certain about, for he was intimidatingly tall, a good head taller even than Walter, but he smiled as he passed her by, a large box balanced on one shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and she decided she liked him, too.
Tucking Winnie’s arm into her own, her aunt turned to Walter. “You poor boy! Such a great many trials for your family. How are they bearing up?”
“Tolerably well, Mrs Blackwood.”
“We must see if we cannot cheer you up just a little while you are here. But come inside, all of you, come along. Oh, Martha! How lovely to see you again, dear. No, no, leave the luggage, the men will deal with it. Mrs Benning will show you everything. Come along, Winnie. I cannot wait to show you your room.”
“No, no, no! Baby first, Aunt.”
Her aunt’s face softened at once. “He will be asleep at this hour, but we shall just look in on him.”
Inside, she led Winnie up two flights of stairs. “The trouble with these town houses is they have no room to sprawl as they do in the country, so the only way to go is up. We have four floors here, not counting the basements and attics, and you are on the top, I am afraid. But I have put you at the back, so… well, you will see. Here is the nursery.”
They crept in, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun making the room gloomy. There beneath the window, where a faint breeze could cool him, lay Master John Blackwood, a year and a half old, one thumb close to his mouth as he slept peacefully in his crib. The two women sighed over him, then left him to his nurse, sitting with her sewing in the corner.
Up another flight of stairs, Aunt Sofia threw open a door and ushered Winnie inside. As soon as she entered the room, Winnie gasped, for beyond the window there were no houses, no chimneys, no streets or rumbling wagons or noise, only greenery as far as the eye could see.
“Oh, the park! How lovely. So many trees! This is almost like being in the country.”
“Yes, we chose this house because of its situation overlooking St James’s Park. Our back garden, so to speak, for we have no garden of our own, nothing worth mentioning, anyway. But there is a gate into the park, and there we are. I walk there almost every day, and I am sure you will, too. You are such anindefatigable walker. But you must never walk alone, not here. Do not even step outside the door without a man to protect you.”
