Returning Home

RETURNING HOME

Rochester, England 1818

Juliana

Although early September, the chill in the air was a harbinger of an early winter. Harsh winds brought down still-green leaves and cracked limbs from ancient oaks and ash. On the open road, our coachman careened around fallen debris, flinging my companion and me from one side of the vehicle to the other.

When we came into town, Margaret Dashwood moved closer to me.

"Almost there," the coachman called from the box as the carriage bumped slowly down Crow Lane.

Margaret, bouncing with excitement, leaned across and practically fell out the window.

"Is that it?" Her voice gurgled as she lay twisted in my lap, arm outstretched, a shaky finger pointed at the side of the road.

Her front pasted against my face, I could not see anything so kept silent while I attempted to push her back to her own side of the seat. One last push, aided by another bump, sent her sprawling to the carriage floor.

"My dear Margaret, are you hurt?" I asked, feeling ashamed of having displayed such pique.

With the resilience of youth at twenty that I, ten years her senior, no longer possessed, she grinned as she regained both her breath and the carriage bench.

"I forgive you, Juliana, for pushing me, if you will forgive me for crushing you."

"Still friends," I said, and squeezed her hand as the carriage jolted to a stop.

When the coachman opened the door, Margaret tumbled out, squealing with excitement. "What a lovely house. I thought you would have a newer one, though. It looks very old.

Reluctant to leave to the safety of the enclosed space, I grudgingly let the coachman hand me down and looked at my father's house with a critical eye.

Made of redbrick and stone, the foundations were from the fifteenth century, when it had been two houses associated with the former priory across the road. After the dissolution, they were purchased by one of Henry VIII's henchman, my father's ancestor, William de Beauviller, who joined them together and created a family home.

"The house has been in my family since the sixteenth century. My grandfather recreated the fa?ade, and my mother encouraged Father to extend the back lawn and gardens substantially."

Margaret's eyes were twin Saturns and she giggled in delight. "Makes Norland Park look insignificant. My brother, John, and his wife, Fanny, would be envious."

A pang of sympathy pierced my heart for Margaret. Her grasping, selfish brother and his wife made excuse after excuse for not supporting his stepmother and sisters after their father died. The women had been fortunate to receive the offer of Barton Cottage by a distant relative, Sir John Middleton. Elinor and Marianne were now happily wed and financially secure. Mrs. Dashwood still resided in Devonshire.

My own mother had died soon after I married, but my father was still alive, even though not in the best of health. I had passed to the governance of my husband when I married, and now a widow, I returned to the custody of my father.

The reminder of marriage brought bile into my mouth. My parents had sent me to my aunt in London for my first season so I could make a socially advantageous marriage.

An image of the earl rose before me. Short, red-faced, ill-tempered, he carried a whip instead of a stick, frequently hitting it against his boot. His voice was unnaturally high, continuously hoarse from smoking foul cigars and drinking brandy from morning until night.

I seldom enjoyed a happy hour in the ten years before he was taken by an apoplexy. Now a wealthy widow at twenty-nine, I was considered matronly. I had never experienced married love and had no expectations of ever enjoying that tender state.

The noise of our conveyance alerted the household, and I watched as the stylish, blue-painted door swung to reveal Townsend, my father's butler, along with an unfamiliar figure in footman's attire, new since my last visit. The latter ran down the steps and began collecting the bags, as the coachman unloaded them onto the pavement.

"Your ladyship." Townsend inclined his head.

"Townsend, this is Miss Margaret Dashwood."

"Yes, my lady. We have been expecting you both."

Shaking out my traveling cloak, I said, "Shocking weather. We lost time in an unexpectedly heavy rain, taking shelter at an inn."

Nodding to the maid to take our wraps, Townsend said, "My lady, your father sent word he would be along shortly."

The footman had taken up the luggage and now the housekeeper, Mrs. Townsend, showed Margaret to her room, which was next to mine .

"We should have a few minutes to wash and change, Margaret. One of the housemaids will unpack for you."

I gave her a quick kiss on one cheek, as between sisters. She returned a small, tremulous smile and slipped into her room.

After a change of costume, I tapped on her door. "Margaret, are you ready for some tea?"

The door popped open. "Yes. I have been sitting for an age, waiting for you."

As we descended the staircase, I could see through to the drawing room. Two men were seated, one of whom was Father, who must have returned while Margaret and I were changing out of our traveling clothes.

Both men stood as we entered. My father called out, "Juliana, come in." I gave a little sigh, straightened my shoulders, and entered, Margaret trailing after with unexpected shyness.

"Father, this is my friend, Margaret Dashwood. She had been visiting me in London and I suggested she might enjoy spending some time in Rochester."

"Pleased to meet you, Margaret. Rochester is a capital town. Plenty of society and not so crowded as London."

Then he turned to a man of medium height standing to the side, hands behind his back, costumed in black coat, fawn trousers, and a brocade waistcoat. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Dashwood. And, my dear Countess, so nice to see you after all this time."

I looked into the face of Jacob Townsend. With an aplomb I struggled to maintain, I said, "Mr. Townsend. I had no idea you had returned to Rochester."

"After Waterloo, I sold my commission. Then I spent some time on the continent. Your father was kind enough to take me back into the firm several months ago. I am most grateful to him for the opportunity."

As tea was brought in, Mr. Townsend the Younger went to the window, moved the curtain slightly, then turned to us. "The rain has stopped. Perhaps the ladies would like to partake of a passeggiata."

"What is that, Mr. Townsend?" Margaret asked .

"It is an evening walk, very popular in Italy."

"You've been to Italy?"

"Indeed, Miss Dashwood. I was fortunate enough to travel in the north of Italy soon after Boney was sent to St. Helena."

"We could walk down to the Medway and look at the damages from before the recent conflagration," Father said. "I am on the rebuilding commission and our inaugural meeting is in a few days."

Margaret and I had finished our tea. "We need to change to walking shoes. But a walk would be pleasant after so many hours in coaches."

"I shall feel quite cosmopolitan," Margaret said as we donned our pelisses and walked toward the river.