Page 48 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘What do you want?’ Maud asked, instead of answering.

‘I won’t bother you, if you’re not feeling well.’

‘I am perfectly well, and we will be leaving this morning, so say what you have to say and go away. There is packing to do.’

Rachel wilted a little. ‘I just wanted to know if you meant what you said last night – about my being able to marry anyone I want.’

Maud was about to explain that she had only meant Rachel might look as high as she pleased. But then she thought again. She was going to have a baby, and that was surely enough to be going on with. Did she really want to drag an unwilling daughter with her, suffer her sulks and complaints? She thought of all the time and effort she had put into bringing Rachel out; but she simply didn’t have the energy to keep fighting now.

She said, ‘The prince and I are going back to Usingerhof. You may come with us, or stay at Ashmore, whichever you prefer.’

Rachel did not rejoice yet. She looked at her mother cautiously. ‘But – about marrying anyone?’

‘Can the Tullamore boy support you?’’

‘He has a good position, and he’s working hard and saving up. He says he will be able to in a year or so.’

Maud shook her head at the thought of ‘saving up’, and the sort of home Rachel would have, compared with what she was so blithely bent on giving up. But in ‘a year or two’, anything might happen. ‘You have my permission to become engaged,’ she said. ‘And we shall see how it goes.’

Rachel’s smile was as much astonishment as joy. ‘Oh, Angus is very sensible! And hard-working! He’ll look after me, truly! Oh, Mama, thank you!’

Maud allowed one grateful kiss on her cheek before pushing her back. ‘I hope you won’t regret it. But I’ve done my best for you. Go away now.’

She was up and dressed after her tray breakfast and preparing to go downstairs, so as to leave Taylor to pack, when Linda came in. Maud sighed in anticipation of a tirade, but Linda was subdued, almost gentle in her manner.

‘Is it true that you are going back to the Usingerhof right away?’

‘With a short stay in London on the way, yes.’

‘Take me with you,’ Linda said. Maud raised an eyebrow. ‘Servants are all very well, husbands are all very well, but you need a woman to help you through the birth. And afterwards I can manage your nursery – you won’t want to do that yourself. You need a companion, Mama, someone of equal rank, someone who speaks English.’ She gave a tense smile. ‘A friend.’

‘A friend?’ Maud was bemused. But, yes, she could see it. She spoke excellent German, but sometimes, wouldn’t one want to converse in one’s own tongue? German doctors were excellent, but a woman giving birth wanted someone closer to rely on. A companion . . . A princess should have a lady-in-waiting. And a daughter who remembered the same things and had the same references – a grateful daughter . . . And if in time she found a suitable husband among Usingen’s friends for Linda, she would have her settled nearby, and that would be a comfort.

A thought came to her. ‘What about your children?’

‘Oh, they’ll stay at Ashmore. No point in uprooting them.’

She relaxed. ‘Very well, you can come,’ she said.

After all, if it didn’t work out, she could always send her back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sebastian had dressed with care in his most subdued clothes, but he still knew himself out of his place. The taxi-cab driver who had dropped him off in the reassuringly named Prince Albert Street had given him a curious look. When he’d received his fare he looked Sebastian over and said, ‘I’d keep my hand on my ha’penny if I was you, sir. There’s some funny coves about these alleys.’

‘Thanks, I’ll be careful,’ Sebastian said. It was only when the cabby had driven off that he realised he should have asked directions. Although he had an address, he didn’t know how to get there. With a shrug, he took a firm grip on his cane, and plunged in.

The alleys were narrow, and the overhanging houses made them dark, too; the cobbles were slimy from the recent rain, weeds grew in the cracks, and litter was lying about. The buildings had the unmistakable look of poverty – peeling paint, cracked rendering, patched panes, moss streaks on the walls from leaking downpipes. The shops were poor-looking and had faded, peeling signs. Dwelling-house windows had dirty and sagging curtains, or a bit of sacking nailed across. And there were few street signs: it was as if these alleys were too poor to merit a name.

He attracted some curious glances, but no-one offered him any insult, though he suspected a couple of boys in shabby clothes and patched boots too big for them were following him, either for the purposes of mockery or perhaps with more sinister intent.

It was no good, he would have to ask his way. For all he knew he was wandering further from his object with every step. He passed a low alehouse with several rough-looking men lounging outside with tankards in their hands, and felt their eyes following him. But he wouldn’t ask them: this was not a place where you wanted to seem uncertain. He walked on, and saw a woman approaching, shabbily dressed but decent-looking, carrying a basket of folded clothes. Surely a washerwoman must be respectable? Forgetting himself, he touched his hat to her, and she stopped, staring.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘could you tell me where Hog Lane is?’

She continued to stare as if he had grown another head, while behind him he could hear the boys sniggering and trying to imitate him. At last she said, ‘It’s back a ways,’ and jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. ‘But you’ll never find it. I’d show you, but I’ve got to get on.’

‘Would a shilling help?’ he said.