Lord Ravenscars Revenge

Chapter One 1807-2

“I did not know – what to do,” Caryl said when she could speak coherently, “except to ask you to help me. Perhaps I should have – c-come home – but I have no – money.”

“No money!” Romara exclaimed.

“Harvey never gives me any to spend and I am not allowed to go shopping without him.”

Romara thought that her sister was certainly being kept a prisoner. At the same time she was obviously surrounded by luxury.

If she went home, it would be very difficult to explain her circumstances to the village and the neighbourhood – that she was to have a baby and was not married.

Something of her father in Romara made her swear to herself that she would compel Sir Harvey to fulfil his obligations, but she had no idea how it would be possible.

She wondered wildly if they had any relations Caryl could turn to for help.

Their grandmother was dead and the General had in fact been an only child, while their mother’s relatives all lived in Northumberland.

“How long is it before your baby is due?” Romara asked.

“I-I think in about – two months,” Caryl answered.

Romara looked surprised.

“It does not show very much,” Caryl said, “and Harvey bought me special gowns to disguise my figure.”

That was the reason, Romara thought, that she had not noticed the moment she arrived that Caryl had changed. The negligée was full and floated round her.

Now, as she looked at her sister more closely, she knew that to an experienced or curious eye it was quite obvious that she was not the slim graceful girl she had been when she had left home.

“I have been worrying about the – baby,” Caryl said almost in a whisper. “Harvey has not let me buy any – clothes for it, not even a shawl. I keep wondering whether, since he dislikes the idea, he will let me have it here in this house.”

“Where else does he expect you to have it?” Romara enquired.

“I do – not know. He does not – like babies.”

She was crying again and Romara thought helplessly that the tangle her sister was involved in seemed to be getting worse every moment.

“Stop crying, Caryl dear,” she pleaded.

“I loved Harvey – and now that he does not – love me any more, I – don’t know – what to do.”

It would be difficult for anyone to love such a monster, Romara thought privately, but she was wise enough not to express her thoughts out loud.

Instead she took her handkerchief and wiped Caryl’s cheeks, then made her sip a little champagne.

“I hate champagne!” Caryl said petulantly. “When I first came away with Harvey, I drank a lot of it because he wanted me to, but now it makes me feel sick!”

“Then shall I ring for some coffee for you?” Romara asked. “Or perhaps some warm milk? You know we always had to drink that as children when we were upset.”

“No! No!” Caryl cried quickly. “The servants will think it strange. I don’t want them to know about my condition.”

“But surely they must guess?” Romara questioned.

“Only my lady’s maid knows and she is a kind woman and I think loyal to me,” Caryl answered.

Romara thought that if she knew anything about servants, her lady’s maid would not have kept secret such a momentous event.

But she saw that Caryl was frightened of everything and everybody and she knew that this was not the moment to try to make her resolute.

The whole trouble had always been, Romara thought, that Caryl was easily led and appeared to have little will of her own.

It was certainly not her sister who had made the decision to run away, but she would not have had the strength to resist the blandishments by which Sir Harvey would have persuaded her into doing exactly what he wished.

‘What shall I do? What can I do about it?’ Romara was asking herself silently.

She had not met Sir Harvey many times because, after the General had forbidden him into the house, Caryl had gone alone to their secret rendezvous.

She remembered him as good-looking in a rather florid way, very elaborately dressed and having a bold look in his eyes that always made her feel embarrassed.

Her father had not volunteered much information as to why he disliked Sir Harvey enough to forbid him to court his younger daughter.

But when the General had read the letter that Caryl left behind, he had exploded in a tone of utter contempt,

“That libertine! That lecher!”

Then he had thrown down the letter and made his declaration that Caryl was no longer his daughter.

He must have known something against Sir Harvey to make him take such an attitude and Romara could only think now how right he had been.

Because Caryl seemed almost exhausted by her tears, Romara took the initiative by rising to her feet.

“It is getting very late, dearest,” she said, “and, as you have no idea at what time Sir Harvey will be returning, I suggest we go to bed and break the news of my arrival to him in the morning.”

“I warn you, Romara – he will be – angry. He will be very – angry!”

“I am not afraid,” Romara said firmly, although it was not quite the truth.

She put out her hand to Caryl and as she did so there was the sound of voices in the hall and Caryl gave a little cry of sheer fear.

“It is – Harvey!” she whispered almost beneath her breath. “He has – returned!”

“Well, that makes it easier,” Romara said quietly. “I can see him now and tell him why I have come.”

At the same time she felt a little tremor within herself not exactly of fear but of unease about the interview, which she knew was going to be difficult and unpleasant.

The door to the sitting room was flung open and Sir Harvey stood there resplendent in evening dress, his face very red above a high cravat, an unmistakable expression of anger in his eyes.

He stood for a moment in a theatrical attitude, staring at the two women standing side by side.

Caryl gave a little cry that was childish and then she said in a quivering voice,

“Y-you are – b-back – H-Harvey!”

“That is obvious!” he snapped.

Then with his eyes on Romara he asked,

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I have come to see my sister,” Romara answered quietly, “which is hardly surprising – in the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Sir Harvey questioned.

He spoke the last word in a manner that made Romara think he had been drinking.

He was not drunk, but undoubtedly the wine had inflamed not only his face but the rising anger that she sensed he was feeling.

He walked towards them both and then when he reached them he addressed Caryl.

“If I have told you once, I have told you a dozen times,” he said, “that you are not to speak to anyone without my permission and certainly not to tell them of the disgusting state you are in.”

“Oh – Harvey – it is not – m-my fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” he asked. “Will you learn to keep your mouth shut, you snivelling little fool?”

As he spoke, he raised his hand and slapped Caryl across the face so hard that she fell onto the sofa she had just risen from.

“How dare you!” Romara cried. “How dare you strike my sister!”

She diverted Sir Harvey’s attention from Caryl to herself.

“I shall do as I like,” he retorted. “And who is going to stop me?”

“I am!” Romara declared. “And I intend to make you marry Caryl as you promised to do.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Sir Harvey enquired menacingly.

“Unless you marry her, I will see that your behaviour is known to your friends and to everyone of consequence in London. If necessary, I will petition the Queen herself on Caryl’s behalf.”

Romara spoke fiercely but distinctly, her eyes blazing with anger, her face very pale, but she held herself proudly and her voice seemed to ring out like a clarion call.

“And you think, you little vixen, that you can interfere in my life?” Sir Harvey shouted. “If you say one word against me in public I will kill you for it – make no mistake – I will kill you!”

As he spoke, he clenched his fist, drew his arm back and punched Romara straight in the face.

She staggered and fell to her knees, while Caryl screamed and screamed again.

As if the sound of it made Sir Harvey lose all control, he pulled Romara up from the floor, punched her again and then, dragging her by the arm, pulled her across the room.

As he reached the door, he saw her bonnet, cloak and handbag on the chair and picked them up with his free hand.

Then he went on towards the front door with Romara, dazed and half-blind, stumbling over her feet.

There was a footman in attendance, who looked at his Master in horror.

“Open that door, Thomas!” Sir Harvey shouted and the man hurried to obey.

The door was opened and he flung Romara through it with all his strength. She fell on the steps, rolled down the last one and lay still on the pavement.

Sir Harvey flung her things after her, with the handbag hitting her on the head.

Then he surveyed her from the open doorway with satisfaction.

“That’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget in a hurry!” he shouted.

He slammed the door and the footman locked and barred it.

*

Romara must have been unconscious for some minutes when down the steps of the house next door to Sir Harvey’s a number of smartly dressed gentlemen descended rather carefully, two of them obviously unsteady on their feet.

“Where’ll we start to look?” one of them asked.

“Where do you suggest?” another replied.

It was obvious that both of them were having some difficulty in speaking distinctly.

“We have to shurry,” a third said. “It’ll shpoil all the fun if Trent changes his mind.”

“He shwore what he would do,” someone answered, “and Trent’sh a man of his word! I tell you – Trent ish a man of his word!”

“Well, come on then. What are we waiting for?”

The speaker braced himself to start walking down Curzon Street, then saw Romara lying on the pavement in front of him.

“What have we here?” he asked.

“It looksh like a woman,” a friend said blithely.

“Of course it’sh a woman, you fool! But why’sh she lying here?”

“P’raps she’s tipshy,” one of the other men suggested.

“Looks as though she’s been in a fight,” someone said. “Her face is bleeding.”

The first gentleman peered a little closer.

“She looks a fright!” he commented.

Then he gave an exclamation.

“My God! Thish’s just what we’re looking for!”

“What – her?”

“Take a look at her. Did you ever see anything sho – ugly?”

A kind of whoop went up from the other gentlemen crowding round.

“Ugliest woman in London,” he said, “and that’sh what we’ve found!”

“Then we will shtake her back. Pick her up.”

It was with some difficulty that the gentlemen carried Romara, since they were hardly able to carry themselves. But they managed to lift her off the pavement.

One eye was open and she appeared to have regained consciousness by the time they had carried her up the steps of the house they had just left and into the marble hall.

“Ish Trent where we left him?” someone asked.

“I ’spect he is. Letsh find out.”

With their arms round Romara, her feet dragging on the carpet, they took her down a wide corridor that led to the dining room.

Seated at the far end of the table, his head resting on one hand, the other holding a glass of brandy, was a young man.

Beside him, replenishing his glass from a decanter every time it emptied, was a rather foolish looking gentleman who was extremely ‘foxed’.

He had difficulty in perceiving that his friends, who had left the table only a few minutes ago, had returned.

“What – have you – got – there?” he enquired unsteadily.

“The woman we’sh looking for,” one of the gentlemen supporting Romara answered. “We hadn’t to go far, fortunately, as God or perhaps those angels you’re always blabbering about, Joshua, had put her down on the door shtep!”

“Angels? What – angels?” Joshua questioned vaguely.

“Oh, sober him up, someone!” commanded the gentleman with his arm round Romara.

“If you ask me, he’sh too bottled to remember the Shervice,” someone said.

“I can take any Shervice,” Joshua replied in affronted tones. “Any Shervice you like. I’m a Parshon! Who shays I’m not a Parshon?”

“All right, old boy, we know you’re a Parson,” the first gentleman replied. “It’sh the Wedding Service we want. Can you remember the words?”

“Of courshe I can – remember the – words! Who shays I – can’t?”

“No one! No one!” everybody said hastily. “Come on, then. Tell Trent his bride’s here.”

At the sound of his name the man sitting at the end of the table raised his head.

“What’s happening? What are you all talking about?” he demanded.