base-born children of the Duke of Haverford

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Tea with a would-be rescuer

November 1793

“Is it dangerous?” Eleanor asked her husband’s unacknowledged brother.

They had been friends for close to a decade, since he first rescued a drunken Haverford from footpads one evening, and dragged him home to Haverford House.

He had said, in exasperation, “I do not know why I bother. He never changes. I should have left him in the gutter to rot.”

She had replied, “I wish…” and then had caught the rest of the words back. They were not true, in any case. She wished her husband at the other end of the country. She wished him on a five year diplomatic mission to Asia. But she did not wish him dead. She had not descended to that level.

Tolliver had somehow understood all of that without her saying it, and after that often kept her informed about her husband’s activities. He had taught her how to use this information to manage the distance that she needed to keep from Haverford in order to stay sane.

She was mother to the duke’s two sons, his official hostess, the chatelaine of his houses, an asset to him in his political campaigning, but other than that, he largely left her alone. She owed much of that to Tolliver.

He was testing her gratitude now. Bad enough that he risked his own life in missions into the horror that France had become now that the Committee for Public Safety was sending dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people to the guillotine.

But he wanted to take David. The boy she had taken into her house and into her heart was twenty, barely a man. She would fear for him every day he was over the channel. He was eager to go, and Eleanor had no power to stop him.

“Is it dangerous?” Tolliver asked. “I will not lie to you, Eleanor. It is. We take every precaution, but there is always danger. I can promise you that I will watch over David. He is my nephew, after all.”

That was true. Tolliver, the base-born brother of Haverford, and David, Haverford’s base-born son. “He is very young…” she began, but David answered her from the doorway.

“Not so young. I am a man, Your Grace.” He stepped cautiously into the little parlour, as if he expected Haverford to emerge from a corner to berate him. Haverford had got it into his head that David was a danger to Aldridge, his eldest legitimate son. It was ridiculous, but Haverford had made the claim and would not back down.

Still, he had come to Haverford House at her request, bless the boy.

“The duke is away in Brighton with the Prince of Wales,” Eleanor assured him. “Yes, David, I know you are a man. I hope you will forgive me for worrying about you.”

“I shall be as careful as I can, Your Grace,” David assured her. “But this has to be done, and I am able to help do it. Wish me well, Your Grace, and let me go with your blessing.”

“You have my blessing, David, and I shall pray for you every day until you return to England,” said Eleanor.

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Tea with Lia and Percy

They met in the little park opposite the confectioners, The Pot and Pineapple. The Duchess of Haverford had brought her two sons, as promised. The Marquis of Aldridge, a boy of eleven, bowed in proper form and followed that with a brilliant smile.

He has his father’s–our father’s–charm in full measure, Lia thought. He looked like His Grace, too. Fair hair, hazel eyes, a figure that was still lean young boy but that bid fair to be as tall and well formed as his–as their father’s one day.

The duchess presented her younger son Lord Jonathan, a sturdy toddler who would look like his brother and father when he grew, and a youth of about her age with dark curls but the same hazel eyes. “And this is David, Lady Aurelia,” Her Grace said, when she introduced him. “Half-brother to my sons and to you.”

Lia had, she supposed, been fortunate to take after her mother, with her dark brown hair, but where the grey eyes came from, she did not know. Her father also had dark hair, and fair locks might have raised more than a few eyebrows.

The young marquess must have been thinking along the same lines. “I expected you to look like him,” he said. “We all do, except that David has black hair.”

“Lady Aurelia looks like her mother did at that age,” said the duchess, “or so I have been told.”

“Mama says that I cannot acknowledge you as my sister,” Aldridge announced. “Which is stupid, because everyone knows. But we can be friends, can we not?”

“Of course, we can,” Lia agreed.

“Good,” Aldridge agreed. “For your husband and I shall be dukes one day, and it is hard to have friends when you are going to be a duke, Lady Aurelia, Lord Thornstead.” He sighed, his eyes far too world-weary for an eleven year old. “Everyone wants something from a duke’s heir.”

“Friends then,” said Percy, holding out his hand. “I am Percy and my wife prefers family to call her Lia.”

The smile flashed again, even more brilliant. “Percy and Lia,” Aldridge repeated.

“Jonathan wants cake,” announced the toddler. Which, since The Pot and Pineapple was just across the road, Lord Jonathan was able to have. In fact, they all enjoyed some of the confections from the famous shop, and had a comfortable coze in the park.

Percy’s close relationship with his brothers and sisters had made Lia–not jealous, exactly, for they had welcomed her into their warm arms. Wistful was the right word. Her own family was broken–her mother and the man she had always thought to be her father at constant war, her brothers taught to regard her with suspicion and scorn. Now, perhaps, she had a family of her own. Brothers who wanted to be friends. It was a good day.

***

(Percy and Lia are hero and heroine of The Sincerest Flattery, coming in April 2024.)

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 20

Chapter Nine

Hollystone Hall, December 1812

The Duchess of Haverford waved her dresser away and stood so she could better see Matilda, Jessica, and Frances. Yes, even Frances was to go to tonight’s fancy-dress ball, for a short while and under the strict supervision and care of her sisters.

How lovely they were! Matilda and Jessica had faced a difficult first Season with grace and courage. Even Eleanor’s influence could not overcome their murky origins. Society could be remarkable stupid.

Eleanor had had high hopes of the Earl of Hamner, although he also showed an interest in Lady Felicity Belvoir. If he did not stay the course, somewhere out there was a man who would look past Matilda’s parentage to her beautiful nature: her kindness, her intelligence, all the wonderful qualities that made Eleanor so proud of her.

Jessica was more of a worry in a way, covering her hurt at any snubs by layering on more charm, until she skirted the edge of flirting. Perhaps there was someone here at this house party who could give Jessica the love she needed?

At least Frances was safe for a couple more years, and perhaps, by the time she made her debut, her sisters would be married and able to help her.

In some ways, Eleanor wished they were all still in the schoolroom.

Haverford Castle, July 1810

Eleanor paused in the doorway of the schoolroom, where her three foster daughters were drawing under the supervision of their governess. The subject was a collection of objects: a flower in a rounded glazed bowl, a trinket box open to display a set of coral beads that trailed over the edge onto the polished surface of the table, a delicate statuette of a gun dog, with proudly pointing muzzle.

A difficult composition for such young girls, though little Frances was talented, and the older two girls competent enough. At thirteen, Frances had inhabited the Haverford nursery floor for nearly eleven years, and by the time of her debut, in three or four years, the scandal of her existence was likely to be minimal. Except that she, the youngest of the three, most resembled their shared father.

Matilda would face the ton first. At sixteen, she was as much a beauty as her mother had been, with the dark hair and stunning figure that had made her mother a reigning beauty of the demimonde, though she was only an opera dancer. A courageous one, too, who—given the chance to start a new life back in her homeland of Ireland—braved Haverford House to beg for a safe home for her daughter, perhaps a tenant farm on an out-of-the-way Haverford estate.

It was just chance that Haverford was away on that occasion, and that Eleanor had just been arriving home. Or an intercession of the divine. Haverford would have turned his full ducal rage on the intruder, and denied everything. But Eleanor took the baby in her arms and fell in love.

She smiled as she watched the three heads bent in concentration. It had taken His Grace nine months to realise that his nurseries were once again occupied, and by then Jessica had joined them, some six months younger and the daughter of a pretty maid who once attracted Haverford’s attention. The combination of youth and prettiness was lethal, for the girl had died in childbirth, and the grieving grandmother brought the baby to Haverford House, to Eleanor. No-one could doubt Jessica’s parentage. She and Lord Jonathan, Eleanor’s second son, were as alike as male and female could be.

Haverford, of course, denied that he’d sired the two girls, and ignored them completely. His solution to the unfortunate results of his careless whoring was to blame the female, a bag of coins (carefully measured to their social position) the only assistance they could expect.

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 12

Haverford House, London, July 1812

She had intended only the one—a daughter to satisfy the longing for a little girl to raise and love. But fate had other ideas, and the second child arrived within a matter of months.

***

Haverford House, London, September 1792

When Mrs Watterson had asked for this meeting, she had seemed so nervous that the Eleanor had offered to meet her in the housekeeper’s sitting room, thinking the woman might be more at ease on her own ground. It had made no appreciable difference. The housekeeper sat bolt upright, not sipping from her cup, her knuckles white with tension, her voice strained as she tried to make conversation.

Mrs Watterson praised the baby, little Miss Matilda, reminding Eleanor that she would far rather be upstairs in the nursery than down here in the cluttered little room, where the furniture was overstuffed and the fire too hot.

Eleanor was discovering the joys of mothering a baby, and would have spent the whole day in the nursery with her little ward, had her duties allowed. The duchess was a mother twice over, but both the ducal heir and the spare had been taken from her at birth, handed over to a retinue of servants, and thereafter presented for a ceremonious inspection for a few minutes a day whenever she and they happened to be in the same residence.

When Aldridge was born, she had been so oppressed by her marriage and the expectations that crushed her, she had accepted the duke’s dictate: that aristocratic women had little to do with the children they produced for the well-being of the title. By the time Jonathan arrived, she had recovered some of her confidence, but the pregnancy and birth, coming after years of miscarriages, left her frail both emotionally and physically, and her little boy had been six months old when she wrested control of the nursery from the despot who had ruled there since Haverford appointed her in the early days of their marriage.

The woman had been gone for more than five years, and sweet little Matilda was in the care of her replacement: a woman chosen by Eleanor, with testimonials from people Eleanor trusted, and completely devoid of the physical attributes that were the only qualifications of interest to the duke when he interviewed a female for any position.

An apology dragged Eleanor’s attention back to the conversation. Mrs Watterson had finally begun to approach the matter that had her so anxious. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” she said, “but is it true that Miss Matilda… that her mother…?”

Seeing Eleanor’s raised brows, she rushed on. “I don’t ask out of idle curiosity, ma’am. It is just that…”

All suddenly became clear. Eleanor sighed. “One of the  maids? Or a villager’s child?”

Much of the tension rushed out of Mrs Watterson, expelled in a huff of air. “My niece, Your Grace. I would not have said anything, but…” Tears began to roll down the pale cheeks.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I shall help, of course. A pension. A place to live in a village where she isn’t known.”

Mrs Watterson shook her head, the tears increasing in volume. Eleanor suppressed a sigh for her lost afternoon with Matilda, and devoted her energies to soothing the housekeeper and eliciting the rest of the story.

It was a sad tale, but one she had heard many times before during nearly fifteen years of marriage to the Duke of Haverford. Jessie, the orphaned daughter of Mrs Waterson’s only sister, worked for a neighbouring household. “I would not have her in this house, Your Grace, saving your pardon,” the housekeeper said. It did not save the girl. She was returning from an errand to the village when a gentleman (Mrs Watterson began ‘His Gr…’ then changed the word) overtook her on the road. He saw that she was young and pretty, and led her off into the woods on the side of the road. Having exercised what he regarded as his rights, he rode on his way.

Jessie told no one until six months later, when one of the maids with whom she shared a room noticed the swelling she had managed, until then, to conceal. Of course, she was dismissed, but her aunt found her lodgings in the village, and paid for her keep and the services of the midwife. “It was a hard birth, Your Grace,” Mrs Watterson explained. “Little Jessica survived, but my niece did not. I’m the only kin she has, poor little baby, and what is to become of her?”

Haverford had only just noticed Matilda, and had not been pleased. Eleanor had managed to threaten him in a way that did not cause his unstable temper to explode. Another of his by-blows in his nursery might be a straw too far, and when Haverford was angry, he cared nothing for consequences.

On the other hand, Matilda would benefit from growing up with another little girl of much the same age. The seven-year age gap between Aldridge and Jonathan meant they both lacked companionship, except for that of their servants.

Eleanor temporised. “Where is the baby now, Mrs Watterson?”

“The midwife knew a woman who could feed her, Your Grace, having recently lost her own youngest. Mrs Fuller. It was the best I could do, ma’am, but I don’t want to leave her there.”

Eleanor didn’t blame her. Cold, neglect, and disease carried off Mrs Fuller’s children with alarming frequency. She was one of those women that every village seems to produce–almost certainly not entitled to the honorific, making a living for herself and her surviving offspring by serving drinks and food in the local tavern, and other more intimate services wherever a man with a coin might care to take her. Eleanor had tried to help the female into an honourable job, but whether she was too beaten down by life or just preferred earning her living on her back, the experiment had not worked out.

Eleanor stood. “Very well, Mrs Watterson. We shall visit Mrs Fuller and meet little Jessica. Then we shall see.”

She had, of course, already made up her mind. No need to tell His Grace this was another of his unwanted children. This time, she would not even wait until he noticed. She would simply announce that she had taken in another orphan to keep Matilda company. She would not discuss the child’s origins. As long as he did not feel she was censuring his behaviour, he probably wouldn’t care.

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 11

Haverford House, London, May 1792

Tolly advised against the meeting. He said he would deal with Miss Kelly’s problem. “I quite agree Haverford ought to do something to assist the opera dancer, given he is the immediate cause of the young female losing her job and needing to spend all her savings.” Haverford would not, so it was for Tolly and Eleanor to intervene, as they had before. “You should not speak to such persons yourself,” Tolly insisted. Tolly was quite firm on the subject, which Eleanor found sad, since his mother had been another such person.

Eleanor had insisted, so here was Miss Kelly, sitting in one of the smaller parlours at Haverford House, a delicate tea cup cradled in both hands.

She was exceptionally pretty; slender, with a heart-shaped face framed by dark curly hair, and blue eyes that were currently wide with wonder as she looked around the parlour.

The duchess allowed her a few minutes, until she overcame her curiosity and remembered her manners. “I beg yer pardon, Your Grace. It’s rude, it is, to be staring at yer things like this. I can’t be telling ye how grateful I am that ye agreed to see me.”

“I must also admit to curiosity, Miss Kelly,” Eleanor replied. “The gentleman who brought you here advised against my seeing you, but I ignored him.”

The question, ‘and why was that?’ sparked in Miss Kelly’s expressive eyes, but she simply repeated, “I am grateful.”

Eleanor leaned forward to examine the unfortunate consequence of Miss Kelly’s association with the Duke of Haverford, currently asleep in a basket at Miss Kelly’s feet. The little girl was well wrapped against the cold, but the tiny face was adorable. Dark wisps of curl had escaped from the knitted bonnet, and a tiny hand clutched the blanket, pink dimples at the base of each chubby finger.

“My friend tells me that you seek a home for the baby,” Eleanor commented.

Miss Kelly heard the question. “I cannot be taking her home, you see. I have a chance… There’s a man. He wanted to wed me when my Ma and Pa died, but I had my head full o’ dreams. He went home without me, but he’ll take me yet. He knows how it is for girls like me. He’ll not blame me for not being a maid, but—Patrick is a proud man, Your Grace. He’ll not raise another man’s babe. Or if he does, he’ll make it no life for her, and we’d finish up hating one another and the poor wee girleen.”

Eleanor could see the point. “So, you will leave her behind.”

Miss Kelly must have assumed a criticism in that. “I’d keep her if I could, Your Grace, but here in London? How can a girl like me earn enough to support her and keep her with me? I want a good home for her; somewhere safe where she can grow up to better than her Ma. Then what happens to me don’t matter, so I might as well take Patrick as not. Better than another protector. Leastwise, if I get another baby in my belly, I’ll have a man to stand by me.”

As Haverford had not. He had turned his pregnant mistress out of the house in which he’d installed her, with a few pounds to ‘get rid of the brat’. Miss Kelly did not have to tell Eleanor that part of the story. She knew it well enough from past liaisons. Tolly proposed to find a childless couple who wanted a daughter to love.

At that moment, the baby opened her eyes, looked around with apparent interest, then fixed her gaze on Eleanor, or—more probably—on the diamonds sparkling in Eleanor’s ear lobes. The little treasure smiled, and reached up her arms, babbling an incomprehensible phrase.

Eleanor was on her knees beside the basket, reaching for the dear child before she thought to look up and ask permission. “May I?”

When she called for her secretary, thirty minutes later, little Matilda was still in Eleanor’s arms. “Ah. Clara. This is Miss Kelly. She will be staying in the nursery for the next few days. I need you to hire me a wet nurse and a nanny to look after Matilda after Miss Kelly leaves. I also want to purchase a smallholding in—Kinvara, was it not? It shall be your dowry, Miss Kelly.”

It was nearly five months before the Duke of Haverford discovered that the nursery, recently vacated by his younger son Jonathan, was once again occupied. He was moved to challenge his wife on her presumption, but her only response was to tell him the child’s full name—Matilda Angelica Kelly Grenford—and to add that the scandal of her presence was long past, but the scandal of her removal would be ongoing. As his duchess and a leading figure in Society, the woman had the power to make the outrageous threat stick. He dealt with the impertinence in his usual fashion. He left, and never mentioned the little girl’s existence again.