Jane Lark - The Secret Love of a Gentleman

John had everything. He was rich, titled and successful in both the management of his estates and in the House of Lords. He’d lived abroad for several years and explored archaeology in Egypt, returning with his finds as trophies. He drew like a master, sung with the voice of a professional and played the pianoforte equally well.

What do I have, what can I do? Rob wished to make something of himself. To make some mark on the world. To do something worthwhile with his life, but he wished to achieve it through his own efforts. His cousins and brother might mock him as a philanthropist but he did not think it a bad thing to wish to make a difference. He refused to sit back and live on the largesse of his brother. He wished to do something meaningful and inspiring. Something more than being dependent and idle.

He was the grandson of an earl and a duke, but not within the line of inheritance for either, and his father’s estate was small, too small for his father to require assistance. Rob could paint with moderate skill, sing with pleasing countenance, ride as well as any man, and shoot well, but he could not join a regiment, he was still an heir. He was good at many things, but a master of nothing, so numerous occupations were beyond his reach, while his step-brother had set a bar above him that was so high it could never be achieved.

But he still had his plan that would, he hoped, give him the sense of pride in himself that he craved, some separation from reliance on his family and bring benefit to thousands.

He longed for a position in government. That was his great plan—to carve out his place in the political world and create a niche for himself.

Yet to be elected he needed money for a campaign, and he did not wish to involve his father, or John, or anyone else in his family because they would simply offer him one of their pocket seats, which they owned through bribery. The whole idea of that rankled. It would feel immoral, and then again Rob would have achieved nothing on his own. There would be no pride in it. If he were to respect himself, when he spoke out for the poor, he could not do it when everything that had got him to that point had come from the wealthy.

He’d rather give the money he received from John to the poor and bypass himself, if that was the way he had to earn a place in parliament. Perhaps I am a philanthropist. But he hadn’t a clue where to begin without using John’s money. The only detail in the conception of his plan to date was that he did not wish it to become John-shaped.

This summer, therefore, was his time to think things through and develop his method to win himself a place in the governance of the country which had been earned and not inherited.

“Robbie.” His mother touched his elbow.

His thoughts had been a mile away.

Looking at her, he smiled. He’d driven her over here to see Mary. His father was with John, looking over John’s estates.

“We ought to go, and leave Mary to settle Iris and George down for a nap.”

He agreed. He kissed his sister’s cheek, before bending to kiss his niece’s forehead as his finger brushed over the wispy hair on her soft head.

He would stay here. With Mary and Drew, where he did not feel such a lesser mortal, or so lacking in achievements and ability.

Drew slapped Rob on the shoulder. “We shall see you tomorrow, and we shall have a merry time over the summer.”

~

Caro looked out of the open French door at those gathered on the terrace and the lawn beyond it. It had been over three years since she’d first visited the Duke of Pembroke’s. She had felt then as she felt now, overwhelmed, afraid, and yet angry. Nervous sensations tingled across her skin, as her heart raced.

There were dozens of people here, adults and children, all laughing, smiling and talking.

Drew was among them playing cricket as Mary sat on a blanket beneath a canopy watching him, with Iris in her arms.

Many of the women held young children.

Caro was the only parasite—unmarried and childless, sucking the blood from this family, hiding among them, dependent and clinging to her brother. She hated her reliance on Drew, it pressed into her side, a steel-hard pain. Sometimes she felt as though Albert’s hands were still about her neck, cutting off her breath and that she had not taken a breath since she’d left him three years before.

Yet this family accepted her, all of them. She could not blame her misery on them. They were simply a constant reminder of what she had failed to possess, she had not succeeded in winning the love of her husband, or to bear his child. Guilt, shame and longing hung about her and whispered in her ears as constant companions.

Caro sipped from the glass of lemonade she held. If the family had gathered at Drew’s house she would have retired to her rooms and found a book or embroidery to absorb her thoughts. But today she had been foolish enough to agree to travel with them. Yet Mary had asked specifically and refusing would have seemed too rude.

“Throw!” The Duke of Pembroke yelled from his position behind the wicket, holding up his open hands. The ball was thrown to him and his uncle was caught out.

Some of the women and children cheered and others booed, depending on who their allegiance lay with.

The Duke slapped his uncle’s shoulder and his uncle laughed.

The Pembrokes were a happy, harmonious clan, and Drew was now one of them. He’d thrown the ball to John.

The crack of hard leather hitting willow echoed across the open space above the sound of conversation. Mary’s brother Robbie held the bat and ran.

He was to stay at Drew’s for the summer.

Caro watched him run from one wicket to the other. He was tall but lithe. He touched the bat to the ground, then ran back.

Discomfort rippled through her nerves.

“Papa! Uncle Bobbie!”

Caro’s gaze turned to Drew’s son. He’d escaped the women and was running on his little legs to join the game.

Before he’d run more than a dozen steps, Mary’s father caught him up and tossed the child, squealing, into the air.

Drew’s children were the only part of Caro’s life that brought her happiness. She spent hours with her nephew and niece.

Applause echoed over the lawn as Robbie ran his fourth length and beat the ball back to the wicket. He turned and braced himself to hit again, his dark-brown hair falling forward over his brow.

He was different from most of the Pembrokes, and from most of Mary’s family. He looked like his father, not his mother. He did not have the Pembrokes’ dark hair or their pale-blue eyes.

Drew had told her Robbie had seen her leave the house yesterday. Drew had said she’d made Robbie concerned about staying. Then Drew had waited as if he hoped she would say she did not mind Robbie coming.

She had not answered. She did not wish to discuss her silent madness with her brother. Guilt and shame had eaten away at her in the last three years and she was not a whole woman; she could not simply snuff out her feelings like the flame of a candle. She did not understand it herself, so how could she discuss it anyway. He’d encouraged her to speak with doctors in the early years, and yet the only one she had told had offered her laudanum to calm her nerves—nothing else.

She did not wish to feel ill as well as mad.

Perhaps Drew ought to have her admitted to an asylum and be done with it. She felt as though she was trapped within a prison anyway—a glass gaol of her own making.

A raucous cheer rang across the lawn outside as Robbie’s wicket was smashed by the bowling technique of one of his cousins. Once the cheering was over the men began to walk back up the hill towards the house.

Her heartbeat pounded violently in her chest.