Miss Dane and the Duke

Despite her indignation Donna was employing her happy knack of finding a silver lining in even the blackest cloud. ‘And the arrival of Sir Josiah and Lady Finch could not be more providential, for we will not lack congenial company. And if Mr Blake is to be residing here then no doubt parties of younger people will frequently be present.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose – What is it Jem? You should always knock.’

‘Sorry, Miss, but come quick, Old Johnson’s having a seizure in the rhubarb patch!’

Chapter Sixteen

Antonia gathered up her skirts and ran after Jem as he scuttled out through the kitchen and into the back yard. The old gardener did indeed look terrible as he slumped on a log, his face ashen, his gnarled hands wringing the hem of his smock.

‘Johnson? Are you ill? Donna, could you fetch him some of the port wine?’

The old man struggled with his emotions and finally found his voice to utter a string of curses which caused Antonia to clap her hands over her ears. Seeing her reaction, he controlled himself with difficulty and growled, ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s more than flesh and blood can stand, that it be!’

Donna hastened up with a tumbler of wine which he swigged back in one gulp. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘God bless you, ma’am. Real gentry, you are, not like that bastard up at Brightshill.’

‘Johnson! Mind your language, please.’

Jem interrupted when Donna began to tut tut and Johnson to splutter again. ‘He’s had a shock, see, Miss. It’s his other three sons. They’ve been sent to Quarter Sessions by the Duke for fighting with his keepers. And they’ll be transported, sure as sure, to Botany Bay – and that’s miles away, Essex at least.’ Jem’s eyes were huge with the wonderful horror of it all.

‘And our Sim withering away in Hertford gaol these last three months,’ the old man moaned. ‘And all due to the Duke’s terrible hardness. Now he’s took all my boys. Starve, I will, and their wives and little ones along’a me.’

‘No one is going to starve,’ Antonia declared robustly, her mind trying to place the Johnson families amongst her tenants. ‘Are there many children?'

'Fifteen at the last count, ma’am,’ Johnson said gloomily. ‘And young Bethan in the family way, I’ll be bound, the bold young hussy.’

‘That’s one of his granddaughters,’ Jem supplied helpfully. ‘I expect the father’ll be Watkins up at the Big House.’

‘Well, he will just have to marry her,’ Antonia said firmly.

‘His wife’ll have something to say about that – he’s married already with six children,’ Jem said.

Antonia’s brain reeled. There were ways and means of keeping the families from starvation, but they needed their menfolk home as soon as possible. Really, she could not comprehend how Marcus could be so harsh, all for the sake of a few pheasants. Obviously the men were in the wrong to have gone on to his land, but she knew only too well how ready his keepers were to attack. Look at the way she had been manhandled. And he was employing a married seducer of innocent girls into the bargain.

‘Those brutes of keepers,’ she muttered. ‘l am sure your sons were only defending themselves. I shall speak to the Duke directly. Jem, help Johnson home and go by the kitchens with Miss Donaldson on your way, I am sure there is some food you can take for the children.’

Antonia swept inside on a tide of high dudgeon, calling her maid. No doubt the Johnson clan were among the more feckless of her tenants – there had to be a few in every village – but if they were kept in poverty, they were bound to be tempted into crime.

An hour later, attired in her best walking costume, parasol furled and gripped like a weapon, she marched up the steps to the front door at Brightshill and pulled the bell handle.

‘Miss Dane.’ Mead the butler bowed respectfully as he held the door for her. ‘How may I be of assistance? A warm day, is it not?’

‘Most clement.’ Antonia was feeling more than a little overheated after her furious walk to the house and she suspected that her hair was coming loose under the brim of her bonnet and that her face was flushed. ‘I wish to see the Duke.’ She was in no mood for polite chit-chat about the weather with the upper servants.

‘I will ascertain whether His Grace is at home, ma’am. Would you care to step into the white salon while you wait? I will send refreshments.’ He ushered her into a cool, high-ceilinged chamber and bowed himself out.

Antonia was not inclined to admire the charm of the room, a confection of white picked out in gold to match the ormolu that enhanced the delicate French furniture. During the hot walk up to Brightshill, she had decided angrily that not only could she do without the responsibility for three wives, fifteen children and an old man – not to speak of the unfortunate Bethan’s predicament – but that the Duke of Allington was entirely responsible for the entire sorry coil.

By the time he joined her, she was well beyond any awkwardness at meeting him again. He closed the door behind him, and walked slowly towards her, a look on his face that she could not interpret. Surely not tenderness?

‘Antonia,’ he began, then must have seen the stormy expression on her face, for he stopped, his brows drawing together into their familiar hard line.

‘Don’t you Antonia me,’ she snapped. ‘I have come to demand that you release my men immediately.’

‘Your men?’

‘Job, Boaz and Ezekiel Johnson, the men you

have had dragged off to prison, leaving their families to starve.’