12 A Ride On The Moors

T he village nearest to Bayton House was the usual cluster of labourers' cottages, strung like beads along a road that stretched from the church and parsonage at one end to a modest inn at the other. Here Izzy engaged the only private parlour, and ordered some food.

"We've nobbut a bit o' ham and cheese and such," the innkeeper said apologetically. "Not at this hour."

"That will do very well," Izzy said. "And some wine if you have it, and a jug of ale."

"O' course, milady," he said, bowing and bowing again. "I trust t'parlour's to yer ladyship's likin'?"

"Very pleasant, thank you. Where is the necessary?"

"Across t'yard, but missus'll bring thee sommat…"

"No need."

Izzy had thought it might be difficult to find Olly, but in the event, he was already at the door of the inn when she emerged in the yard again. She diplomatically ignored him, and crossed to where Barty was helping unsaddle the horses.

"When you have done that, come through to the parlour. I've ordered food."

"Aye, milady, I'll do that."

He was getting to grips with the accent at last, for that was perfect Northumberland.

It was some time before the two men arrived, squabbling good-naturedly over which of them should enter the parlour first, so they were laughing and pushing each other as they squeezed in almost side by side. The innkeeper had managed a good array of dishes for them, considerably more than the promised ham and cheese, and Olly sat down and cut a slice from a raised pie at once.

Barty held back but Izzy could see the desire in his eyes. He had not eaten well for some time, to judge by his lean frame, but something made him hesitate.

"Barty?" Izzy said. "There is more than enough for three."

He rubbed his hands on his breeches. "I am only the groom," he said, the accent pure gentry again. "I should eat in the common room."

"Nonsense! We can talk in private here, and you want to hear what Olly has found, I am sure."

"This pigeon pie is very good, and that one looks like rabbit," Olly said.

"I have eaten enough rabbit lately," Barty said with a quick laugh. "And so have you, Olly, although you probably cannot remember it."

"The journey to Durham, I suppose," Olly said. "No, I remember very little of it, except sleeping under hedges and falling off the horse. Twice I fell off that wretched horse, Izzy, and Barty caught me both times."

"He has been a good friend to you," Izzy said.

"Yes!" Olly said with fierce pride. "The very best friend a man could ever have."

"So what have you found out about Bayton House?" she said.

"Oh… Bayton House… yes," Olly said. "The Hearles are claiming it as their own, for one thing."

"Not as tenants?"

"No. The locals have been told it came to the Hearle family after Martin's death, but there is general outrage that Sophie is not living there, in the family home. A widow should never be unceremoniously turfed out of her home, they say, and I cannot argue the point. There is outrage, too, that the house is not in my hands, now that I am home. One or two people have guessed who I am, but they will not betray me. It has been useful, for they talk more readily than they would to a stranger. But the news is not all bad. The Hearles are not well liked, but the estate is not ill-managed. Martin put a good steward in place, and the Hearles have not interfered. I shall continue with him when I come into my inheritance."

"And when do you come of age?"

"January."

"So in six months, you can go to the lawyers and claim back what is rightfully yours," Izzy said.

"And then these grasping Hearles will be out on their miserable ears," Olly said with satisfaction.

***

T he ride back to Harringdon Hall began pleasantly. Nothing untoward seemed to be happening at Bayton House, and Olly was happy to stay in the village for a few more days, since Izzy had refilled his purse. Izzy felt she had come to know Barty a little better, and was reassured that he would always have a home with Olly, wherever that home might be. Even her reluctant mount seemed invigorated by her rest and broke into a spontaneous canter.

They had not gone very far before another rider could be seen, a little distance away but heading roughly the same direction. The rider saw them, and diverted his route to intercept them.

"Should we retreat?" Barty said. "I have no weapon with me, other than a knife."

"No, I think I know him… yes, it is Mr Davenport," Izzy said. "Let us wait for him."

Sydney soon caught up with them. "Well met!" he called out as he approached. "Are you returning to the Hall?"

"We are," Izzy said.

"Then we may ride together." To Barty, he said, "Ride on. I shall escort Lady Farramont home."

Home. If she had married Sydney, this would indeed have been her home, set in terrain even more bleak and windswept than Corland Castle. Here she would have passed endless dark months of snow and bitter rain each winter, with the journey to London even longer and more fraught. Would she even have reached London? Sydney had not been there for four years, and perhaps he would have expected his wife to stay away, too, and how could she have borne it?

She shivered.

"Are you cold?" he said at once. "We can gallop if you wish."

"On this slug? I think not."

He chuckled. "The stables here are not equipped for a spirited rider like you, Izzy. Is that Tabitha's habit? It swamps you!"

"She is a little larger than I am."

"A little! She used to be such a skinny little thing, as a girl, but marriage has put flesh on her."

"No, a liking for syllabub and cake has put flesh on her, but her husband seems not to mind. He was pushing the raspberry creams in her direction at dinner."

"Well, Foskett is not exactly slender himself any more. In his case it is the roast mutton washed down with far too much claret that brought pressure to bear on his waistcoat buttons. I confess my waistcoats are a trifle larger than they used to be, too, whereas you— You have not changed at all, Izzy." He smiled at her with unmistakable affection. "Nor is it merely your appearance which remains unaltered. When I saw you last night setting the dinner table alight, just as you used to do, I was very envious of Foskett and Cousin Jack. I wished I were sitting next to you, instead of them."

"I am always at my best in lively company," she murmured.

"True, which makes it more of a puzzle why you ever married Farramont, who is the least lively person in the Kingdom. But your animation, the way you sparkle like a thousand diamonds, is precisely what I have always loved about you. Oh, you need not raise your eyebrows at me in that disbelieving way. I loved you desperately that spring, you know it perfectly well, and there is a corner of my heart that will always be yours, but we should not have suited at all. You are too expensive for me, and I could never have made you happy, truly I could not."

Too expensive? Marsden had said the same. Ian had never complained about the money she cost him, but he must feel it, given his penchant for the account books. He must sigh over the cost of replacing yet more broken things, and all the travelling she did. Guiltily, she acknowledged the truth of Sydney's accusation, but she also knew that she would not have been happy married to him.

"I think you are right about that," she said. "I should have gone mad here, so wild and so far from civilisation."

"There is civilisation outside London, Izzy," he said with the gentle smile that she remembered so well.

"Of course there is — in the cities and towns, and in the great houses. But where are they? Not here, that much is certain. Your family, pleasant enough though they are, do not invigorate me the way London does. I have to have exuberant life about me, Sidney."

"And again, I wonder why you married Farramont. Please tell me it was not for the title."

"It was not solely for the title," she said laughingly. "I married Ian for the social position he could give me, and certainly the title was a part of that. It is the best possible start for my children… although for the girls, that will be more difficult now." She paused, thinking fretfully of her daughters and their ruined prospects. But she could do nothing about that. "For myself, I love being a viscountess, and mingling with the decision-makers of the Kingdom, feeling that I am at the heart of things. I should go mad confined to the country all the time."

"So why are you here?" he said, and there was a definite coolness in his tone now. "Because you are not a viscountess any longer, are you? Why are you not on your knees before your husband begging him to bestow his title on you once more? Or are you hoping to hoist yourself a little higher up the table of precedence? Robert Osborn is the Earl of Kiltarlity now, and there he is, newly arrived at Strathinver to oversee his new domain."

"Newly arrived?" So he was there! How disheartening if she had come all this way, only to find him far away…

"Yes. He has been in Cornwall, looking at some property he owns there. I thought all his holdings were in Scotland, apart from the place near Melton, but seemingly he owns a tin mine or some such… I am not sure. And some houses. He has properties scattered everywhere, and he is trying to get to all of them. But he is settled at Strathinver for a while, with his mother and sisters. They called in on their way north. Perhaps that is your destination, not Lochmaben, and you only called in here to wreak havoc with my marriage plans. We need to talk about Ruth, Izzy."

"Are you going to yell at me, Sidney?"

"I never yell at ladies," he said with dignity.

"I beg your pardon. Are you instead going to berate me in a restrained and gentlemanlike manner?"

"Would there be any use?"

"None at all," she said cheerfully. "You must not marry her, Sydney. You of all people should marry for love, for passion. Marriage is too serious to be merely a matter of land and money."

"Izzy, you can hardly tell me to marry for love when that is not what you did yourself."

"But I did! I married for passion — not for Ian, specifically, but for the life he could give me. I wanted society , Sidney, and the best society, at that. That was always my grand passion. If you were in love with Ruth, I would have nothing to say about it, but to marry for anything so mundane as a field — that is abominable!"

"I may not be in love with Ruth, but I like her very well."

"And so do I, but that has nothing to do with it. She is not your equal, Sidney, neither in breeding nor in education. She has not the necessary upbringing as a lady to be able to rear the children of a gentleman. If she were to marry a rural squire, that would be one thing, but the Davenports are above that level. If you take her to town, there will be those who despise her and treat her with contempt, and that would make both of you uncomfortable."

He drew his horse to a halt. "I know all this, of course," he said quietly. "How could I not? And yet still I want to do it. You remember me from that time five years ago, when I trailed along in your wake like an eager puppy, writing very bad poetry and trying to pretend I was some kind of romantic hero. We competed to impress you with our tales, do you remember? Not Farramont, he was too staid for that, but Marsden, Osborn and I all wove fantasies about ourselves, in the vain hope that you would look favourably on us. How foolish we were!"

"Oh, do not repent of anything you did then," Izzy said, smiling at him. "I enjoyed it all enormously, even your poetry."

"It was terrible poetry."

"No, no! It was about me, so it was wonderful."

That made him laugh. "Ah, Izzy, such times we had! Happy days, and yet so turbulent. Such delirious joy when you smiled on me. Such despair when you smiled on one of the others. Such happiness when I danced with you. Such desolation to watch you dance with anyone else. I had no thought beyond you, nothing in my head but my own wishes. But that was five years ago, and the poetry is long gone. That was all a dream, and one cannot live on dreams. The woman who inspires a man at twenty-four is not necessarily the right woman to make him happy forever. I have grown up since then, and I am far more aware of my duty to my family. It is not merely my own desires that drive me now. Ruth is a convenient answer to my twin dilemmas — to marry for the succession and bring that field back into the estate, where it belongs. Can you understand that, Izzy?"

"Of course. You want to marry Ruth to please your father, and that is admirable, but consider this, Sydney. In five years' time, your father will no longer be around, but Ruth will. She will still be there, still with an accent that marks her as merchant class, still unsure of precedence into and out of the dining room, still unable to play a note on the instrument or paint or take part in anything but a country dance. And you will have years and years of her company to look forward to. She is clever, I grant you, so perhaps you will find her conversation stimulating, but it is a risk. It is always a risk when there is such a disparity between husband and wife. I should hate to see you dwindle into resentfulness and misery. You are too romantic a soul to deserve such a fate. Marry for love, I implore you. Is there no one else who inspires the poet in you?"

Her words were mischievous, for she hoped to bring Sophie to his mind — so much more suitable a match than Ruth Plowman. Would he take the hint?

For answer, he set his horse in motion again, and Izzy's mount moved off as well. For a long time, nothing was said, although he seemed thoughtful rather than angry. Then he laughed.

"You are a meddlesome woman, Isabel Farramont. Shall I tell you the truth? I think I shall, although it is not quite the grand passion you speak of, more a sort of affectionate friendship."

"Sophie," she said at once.

"Yes, Sophie. I had forgotten how well we got along, yet meeting her again it is as if the years have fallen away and we are… not children, precisely, but not quite adult, either. We meet in some time and place where the world does not intrude. But it did intrude, five years ago, for she all but ignored me in town, and then married Martin Hearle. I never understood that, Izzy. When we went south that year, I had it in mind that I would marry Sophie. She is exactly the sort of woman I like — pretty, well-bred, well-educated, but not too grand. Someone who would be a perfect helpmeet for me. The Davenports may have a long lineage, but we have neither high rank nor great wealth. So I thought it would be a good match. Well, you know what happened there." He gave a low chuckle. "I met you, and you drove all thought of Sophie out of my head, so it was my own fault, I suppose. But right from the start, she ignored me — told me she would not dance with me, though she had done so often enough in the past. She said she wanted to meet new people. And the next thing I knew, she had married Martin Hearle, a complete nobody."

"And now she is a widow," Izzy said.

"Yes, but… with no children. I am the only son, Izzy. I must have children. So however well we get on, she is not for me. Even if I were not already bound to Ruth Plowman, I could not even think about Sophie."

Izzy was torn. Sophie had told her much in confidence, which she could not break, but the happiness of two people could not be allowed to drift away without some push to secure it.

"Sydney, marriage is a most uncertain business. One can never be confident of children. They come, or not, at God's pleasure. If you marry Ruth, you might have none at all, or only girls. If you marry Sophie, you could have half a dozen sturdy sons."

"Or none at all."

"Indeed. You are making my point for me. However carefully one rationalises the business, there is no guarantee of what a marriage will produce. Look at me, if you want an example. Two lovely daughters, but no son. So marry for love, not for children, and you will not be disappointed, as Farramont is."

"Is he?"

"How could he not be? He only married me to have an heir, and I have failed him."

"No doubt he wants an heir, for surely every man does, but he married you for love, Izzy."

"Nonsense. He has never said or done anything to suggest such a thing."

"Perhaps you should ask him about it when you see him."

When you see him. And when would that be? How long was it since she had seen him?

A month! A whole month! A tremor of disbelief ran through her. She had never been apart from him for so long. A week… two weeks, sometimes. But never longer. That time she had decided to stay on for a third week at the Cotterills, he had come out to join her after the second week, bringing her a purse of money. ‘In case you run short,' he had said. So generous! He was the best of husbands, in so many ways.

And she had run away from him. If she went home now, would he want her back? Did she still have a home to go back to?

The remainder of the ride was accomplished in silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts.