Last Year's Nightingale

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Clementine Foster is young, unbelievably innocent, and wildly in love with a man who doesn?t even know of her existence. When, one golden summer night, she steps in front of his horse, he takes her with all the drunken arrogance of a young aristocrat used to having whatever he wanted. The repercussions of that night were to create bonds of hate, love, and tragedy in both their lives. For the child that is born to Clementine ultimately appears to be the only legitimate heir to the Grayshot inheritance. And, according to the law of the times, she has no right to keep her child if Deveril wanted him.

Release date: February 13, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 448

Sample

ON the 17th August 1839, the Bill for which Caroline Norton had fought so tirelessly and courageously was finally carried by the House of Lords. It was laid down that a judge might make an order allowing a mother, against whom adultery was not proved, to have custody of her children under seven years old, and, for older children, access at stated times. But despite the new law, George Norton refused to let his wife have access to her children and when Caroline threatened legal action, it was only to discover that as her boys were domiciled in Scotland, they were beyond the jurisdiction of the English Courts.

It was not until the Christmas holidays of 1841 – 42 that she was temporarily reunited with them. In the autumn of the following year, her eight-year-old youngest son, William, died in tragic circumstances while in his father’s guardianship. But as a result of this tragedy, it was finally agreed that Caroline should have access to her remaining two boys, Fletcher and Brinsley, for half the year.

In 1854 her husband stopped her allowance, and again she took up the cudgels on behalf of the Marriage and Divorce Act, which despite great opposition was finally passed in 1857.

Caroline Norton was not a ‘feminist’ and she deplored the doctrine of equal rights. Her fight was for justice, and her ultimate success was of lasting benefit to her sex, although her personal sufferings and her name are now almost forgotten.

In 1877, two years after the death of her husband, Caroline married her old friend Sir William Stirling-Maxwell. She was sixty-nine years old. But the great peace and happiness she found at the end of the long struggle of her life ended tragically with her death only three months after her marriage.

The plot for Last Year’s Nightingale evolved as a result of my reading Caroline Norton’s letters, published by the Ohio State University Press, which highlight the dreadful injustices women endured one hundred and fifty years ago.

WITH a haste that was totally at variance with his befuddled state of mind, Deveril Grayshott pulled his white breeches up over his buttocks and tried ineffectually to fasten the buttons. The discovery that the girl was a virgin had momentarily sobered him, if far from completely, at least sufficiently to know that he had been damnably stupid to deflower her, no matter how willing she had seemed to be.

He was tempted to take a closer look at her face, until now only a white hazy blur in the night-shadowed cornfield; but a deep-rooted, innate sense of shame forbade a closer study of her features. He’d not been too drunk to know that she was very young and he did not want to see the tears, the look of reproach, the horror he supposed she must be feeling. He bent down to pick up his horse’s loosely trailing reins and staggered dizzily as the brandy fumes swirled in his head. What he wanted more than anything now was sleep, he reflected, but he still had six miles to ride. It was as well his horse knew the way home, he thought with a flash of drunken humour.

His back to the girl who was lying motionless on the ground, he drew out a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket. But once again, instinct prevented him from committing himself in any respect to his victim. If he gave her so valuable a coin, her parents would undoubtedly want to know how she came by it. If she kept her mouth shut, it might save them both a parcel of bother.

“Go home!” he said, his voice as blurred as his vision. He wanted to add that if she kept her own counsel, there’d be no harm done. But he had despoiled her and sooner or later, some man was going to know of it. The damage could not now be undone. Nevertheless he muttered:

“The leasht you shay about this night, the better for us both. D’you undershtand?”

He managed with difficulty to scramble on to his horse. Clouds had long since obscured the bright orange harvest moon and his backward glance at the girl revealed no more than a slender heap of clothing in a nest of crushed corn. For a second, he was shocked by the terrible thought that she might be dead. But that, he knew, was nonsense. It was but a few minutes at most since she had cried out as he forced his way into her and he had felt her nails digging into his back through the thin silk of his shirt.

Damnation to all women! he thought as he kicked his horse into movement. It had been a thoroughly bad night from start to finish — his last night at home, too, before going up to Scotland for the grouse shooting. It was all Peggy’s fault — the buxom, comely landlord’s daughter at the Pig and Whistle. Throughout the summer vacation, he and his four university friends had been vying with one another for Peggy’s favours, and he had wagered no small sum that this very night she would prove she fancied him above his friends — prove it by permitting him a lot more than a kiss or two by the stables. How his friends had taunted him on the ride home because Peggy had had her head turned by a dashing dragoon and been too busy flirting with the handsome officer to pay her customary attention to any of the young ‘genulmen’, as she called them, from the manor.

“Not long enough out of the schoolroom to satisfy our Peggy!” one friend jeered as they left the inn.

“Our Peggy reckons that dragoon knows a thing or two more about women than a lad of your age, Deveril!” teased another.

“She never did take you seriously, old boy. Stood out a mile she was not going to let you have more than a bite of the old cake!”

So it was not just the frustration of wanting her plump, tempting body and finding himself refused when he had been so certain she would agree that had upset him. It was his pride that was damaged. He’d known for a long time now that he was considered to have more than his share of good looks. In his youthful experience, he’d been aware that women of all ages noticed him. Eventual heir to his grandfather’s viscountcy, he accepted as his due that he would be one of the most eligible young men in Society once he was finished with schooling and was old enough to marry. He had looks, money, position, he told himself bitterly on that ride home, yet a common slut like Peggy McGregor had turned up her pert little nose at him as if he were a farm lad! No wonder he’d been so shamed.

He and his friends were but a mile out of the village when they’d come upon the girl. She’d appeared from the depths of the corn like some wraith from the sea. At first, they had formed a circle about her, their mounts shying nervously from the slim white ghost. The scurrying clouds were casting shadows over the girl’s face and they noticed little other than that she was blonde, young and slender. Then the questioning had begun. What was she doing out here alone? Was she from the village? Was she lost? Was she in distress? Or was she, perhaps, just out looking for male company?

His friends had begun to dispute amongst themselves as to who had seen her first; who, of the five of them, might offer the mysterious damsel his companionship. Surely she could not wish to spend this hot August night all alone? they enquired.

Only then had the girl spoken, lifting her arm and pointing at him — Deveril Grayshott.

“I came to say goodbye to him!”

Perhaps, when he was once more sober, he could make sense of it all, he thought now, as indeed he had thought then. But at that moment, he had neither questioned nor cared about the extraordinary turn of events. His friends’ taunts had turned to envious leers as they asked him if this was a secret assignation he had kept quiet from them; if all along he’d been trying to throw them off the scent by pretending an interest in Peggy McGregor. They all accepted that indisputably the girl had chosen him, and they had no wish to spoil his fun.

“Make the most of what the gods give you, Deveril, old fellow!” they had shouted as they rode off laughing. “And if you are not sober enough to make the most of your good fortune, then you have but to ride after us and one of us will take your place!”

He had dismounted his horse, his legs nearly giving way beneath him as he faced the silent shadow before him. He could not discern the colour of the girl’s eyes nor even her features; but he could make out the womanly shape of her.

“Since you say you came to bid me farewell, then ’tis a farewell kiss I can claim from you,” he said boldly, taking a step towards her.

Half asleep as his horse jogged along the familiar cart road towards the Grayshott estate, Deveril could not remember how he and the girl had come to be lying in the corn. Maybe he had fallen. But the night’s frustrated desire for Peggy was not as dulled as his other senses and the girl’s moist lips were as welcoming as the soft murmur of her voice. She had made no attempt to remove his hands when they had uncovered her breasts. She had wanted him — he was sure of it. Yet when he had taken her, fiercely, hungrily, she had cried out and dug her nails into his back and only then, suddenly sobered, had he known beyond doubt that she was a virgin — had been a virgin.

His horse stumbled and he jerked into momentary wakefulness. He had no idea who the girl was. Nor, since he had certainly not raped her against her will, should he care, he told himself. The best thing he could do would be to forget about her. He and his friends would be off to Scotland tomorrow and the night’s episode forgotten. As for the girl — she must have known the risks she was taking, out alone, not far off midnight. No decent girl would dare such a thing. Despite her voice she must have been a farm girl who had slipped out for a taste of nature’s delights, fancying the idea of giving her favours to a gentleman instead of an uncouth farmer’s boy.

Deveril Grayshott, eldest son of Admiral Sir William Grayshott, and grandson of Viscount Burnbury, slouched across the saddle of his horse as it ambled slowly up the mile-long drive to the family mansion, Chiswell Hill House. He was nineteen years of age, he thought incoherently; he had imbibed a little too much wine at dinner and then he had drunk far too much of the landlord’s best French brandy. He had also had a woman. When he reached home, his valet would be waiting up to undress him and put him to bed, so he had nothing in the world to worry about. His eyes closed and he slept peacefully, unaware of the wheels of Fate this night’s behaviour had set in motion for the future, as his horse plodded forward, instinct directing the animal home.

* * *

It seemed to Clementine as if the whole summer of 1830 had been one long stream of golden days — sunny days when her youthful body craved the soft sweet scents of gardens and woods; of fields and hedgerows; of haymaking and fruit harvesting. For hour upon hour, imprisoned in her bedroom, she had knelt at the open window, her soft breasts pressed against the wooden sill, imagining herself in the shining golden countryside which surrounded her present home on the outskirts of the little village of Lower Chiswell.

Without doubt, she thought each morning on waking, it had been the unhappiest of the fifteen summers of her life. In the first place, when she had arrived at The Rectory with her father, it was intended to be but a brief farewell visit to her hitherto unknown uncle and aunt before she emigrated to British North America to begin a new life with her parents. Poor Papa had lost all his money and hoped to remake his fortunes in Upper Canada. A great many people were emigrating now that the war was over, and papa had a friend who was busy making his fortune out there with the Hudson’s Bay Company. Clementine had been enormously excited at the prospect, despite her mother’s misgivings. Mama was delicate and did not have her Papa’s blustering good health — due to her sheltered aristocratic upbringing, Papa said. Nevertheless, he would not be parted from his wife and bravely she had agreed to accompany him to this wild, desolate land, taking their only child, Clementine, with them.

But a cruel fate had determined that Clementine was not to go with her parents. The day following their arrival at The Rectory she had succumbed to the scarlatina and been so ill with the complaint that the doctor had ruled out any chance of her travelling on such a long arduous journey this year. Papa had already paid for their passages and her tearful mama had explained that they could not afford to delay their going. There were other reasons why her parents could not wait for her recovery. Clementine only vaguely understood that it had something to do with people called creditors waiting to send poor darling Papa to prison despite the fact that he had committed no crime but was the butt of misfortune — or so Mama said.

Reluctantly, the Rev and Mrs Foster had agreed to take care of Clementine until such time next year as a suitable travelling companion could be found to escort her safely to her parents in North America. By then, they would have a new home ready to receive her.

Ill though she was, Clementine had been miserably aware of her parents’ departure and her feeling of isolation and abandonment greatly added to her general malaise. Her Aunt Winifred, she soon discovered, was quite unlike dear Mama. She was an austere, childless woman whose word was law in the household. The servants were terrified of her since even the smallest fault resulted in severe reprimand, if not a harsh punishment or a fine of wages. Her aunt’s religious fervour did not, Clementine soon realized, include the virtues of kindness, forgiveness or tolerance. A thin, angular, rod-backed woman, Winifred Foster was always dressed in black — probably in deference to the death in June of King George, Papa had joked. She reminded Clementine of a crow, and was the very opposite of her gentle adoring mother, whose rare reproofs were issued in a quiet loving voice.

The Rev Godfrey Foster, in the brief moments Clementine had seen him before she was confined to her bedroom, was a round, red-faced, portly little man who had seemed to Clementine to be as frightened as herself of his wife’s tongue. He was her father’s brother, five years older and, according to Papa, a weak, not very intelligent man who would never have survived outside the protection of the Cloth. As he kissed his daughter goodbye, Papa had looked both worried and uncertain, and he had said with a lack of confidence quite foreign to him:

“I hope you will not be too unhappy, my darling. Your aunt and uncle mean well and in any case, what alternative have I but to leave you here? You will be safe from harm. ’Tis only for a year, Clemmie.”

Her uncle, as gently as he could, had tried to comfort her.

“If there is anything you want, child … anything I can do …”

As soon as she was over the worst of her illness, she reminded her uncle of his promise.

“Please, Uncle, if you really desire to make me happier, try to persuade Aunt Winifred to allow me downstairs. I have been confined to my room now for over two months and the physician has said I am well enough to leave my sickroom. I am so … so lonely up there … and …”

But they had both known there was little chance of his changing her aunt’s relentless decision that following upon her illness, a long period of convalescence was essential if her future health was not to be undermined. Aunt Winifred stated that this meant continued confinement to her room.

The Fosters’ little maid, Mary, now Clementine’s only companion, was shrewd enough to hit on the truth of the situation.

“You be a sight too pretty for her liking, Miss Clementine!” she said, her cheerful rounded face creasing into a smile as she brushed her young mistress’s long golden hair. “’Taint so much Parson having a soft spot for you she be minding, as young Doctor Brook taking a fancy to you. Only time as I ever do see her smile is when he comes a-visiting.”

As always, Mary had turned Clementine’s sighs to laughter, for it was quite true that the stern, scowling Aunt Winifred positively simpered with coy smiles when the physician called. He was a good-looking, pleasant-spoken man in his late twenties — an age Clementine thought of as old.

Clementine had been intrigued by the idea that any man should ‘fancy’ her. Until this summer, she had given little thought to adult life, content to remain in the carefree world of a child without concern for the future. When Papa was away at sea, Mama had taught her to play the spinet, to sing, to dance, to curtsey, to speak French and to master the rudiments of Latin. But when Papa was home, Mama had little time to spare for her daughter’s education. Then she gave Clementine books to read — dozens upon dozens of books. There were the classics, which Clementine was too young to appreciate fully; but there were also books of poetry and, equally pleasing to Clementine, novels from which she extracted her first romantic impressions of love. She had grown up in an atmosphere of love, for there was little doubting the closeness of her mother and father, and if she had given thought at all to the future, it was with no higher aspiration than to marry for love as Mama had done.

Here in this gaunt, loveless rectory, Clementine had turned more and more often to her books and her dreams. Mary, who had been courted by a local farmer’s son for the past two years, fed her imagination still further with her vague, blushing allusions to her feelings for her sweetheart.

“Furst moment I set eyes on my Jack, I just about knew for sure there beant no other chap as I’d want for to marry. When my Jack do steal a kiss, my knees goes all a-tremble …”

It was Mary who had first drawn Clementine’s attention to the young men from Chiswell Hill House riding past the rectory one hot summer’s night.

“They do be the genulmen friends of the young milord from Chiswell Hill House,” Mary informed her as night after night they watched the finely dressed figures galloping down the dirt road that led to Upper Chiswell village. The lane divided the rectory orchard from old Farmer White’s ten-acre cornfield and was the most direct route from the big manor house into the village.

“They be making for the Pig and Whistle!” Mary informed her young mistress. “Go there every night, Peggy McGregor says. She be landlord’s daughter and mighty purty, too. Beant much else to amuse them young’uns at the manor, I duresay. She told me as how the young genulmen is all on holiday from that there university Lunnon way.”

It was the first Clementine had heard of the family who owned the big house that lay between Upper and Lower Chiswell. Mary was happy enough to satisfy her curiosity. The old Viscount Burnbury was in his seventies, a widower, whose eldest son was an admiral in the Royal Navy. He also had four granddaughters, all married, and two grandsons, the eldest being Deveril Grayshott. Mary was vague about the younger grandson, Percy, who it seemed led the secluded life of an invalid and never left Chiswell Hill House.

Young Mr Deveril, Mary told her wide-eyed audience, was said to be as handsome as he was wild.

His friends were a wild lot, too. They’d been up to all sorts of mischief this summer, so Peggy had told her; they’d set six of Farmer Bastable’s piglets “a-running races, like that there Derby, wagering guineas — on pigs, of all things!” Mary exclaimed. “And they nearly drownded theirselves trying to balance on miller’s water wheel and broke two of the paddles.”

Clementine’s vivid imagination was fired by these tales of Deveril Grayshott’s escapades. The young men had ridden up the valley to the old Stone Age graveyard known as Chiswell Barrow and with white sheets draped over their heads, had shrieked and groaned as if they were ghosts risen from the ancient graves. Old Tom, the shepherd, had been scared out of his wits — as, indeed, were his flock, which raced in panic down into the valley and had woken half the village bleating and baaing on the green at midnight.

Boredom that plagued her imprisonment prompted Clementine to an adventure of her own. Overruling Mary’s apprehension, she had climbed out of her bedroom window one evening onto the branches of the walnut tree and from thence descended into the garden. Barefoot on the dew-wet grass, she had stolen down to the orchard and hidden there until the young men came by on their horses, riding in the direction of the village. For the first time, she was able to see Deveril Grayshott closely enough to discern his features. He had struck her as even more handsome than Mary had described — deep shining brown eyes burning with youthful excitement; a wide laughing mouth and aquiline nose set in a nobly shaped face. His lips were parted in a delightful smile, and his voice, as he addressed one of his companions, was deep-toned and exciting to the young girl.

It was the beginning of a love that was to grow and dominate Clementine’s thoughts throughout the summer. Her diary was filled with tiny remembered facets of his appearance. Her books of poetry were thick with paper markers highlighting those verses which seemed best to express her torment and her longing to meet this attractive stranger who haunted her dreams. Now at last, she thought, she understood the poet’s meaning of love and why Mary had said that the mere sight of her Jack set her knees a-tremble. Not only Clementine’s knees but her whole body trembled with excitement those evenings she saw Deveril ride by.

Mary’s initial fear that these sorties might be discovered was gradually allayed as July gave way to August without detection. They gave meaning to the otherwise tedious days spent cooped up in Clementine’s large bedroom with only occasional visits from the unloving Aunt Winifred and Sunday prayers in the parson’s study to break the monotony; but they also increased Clementine’s restlessness. She was no longer ill and her young body craved activity. Only her mind was fully engaged as she created her imaginary encounters with her ‘beloved’.

This harmless pastime was brought to a rude halt when the inevitable happened, and Mary announced that “the young genulmen wus a-going away”.

Clementine was overwhelmed with dismay. Brought down to earth by the reality of the situation, she realized that often as she had seen her secret love from afar, she had never spoken to him, and the chance to do so was slipping away. He might not return to Chiswell Hill House before next summer, by which time she would have joined her parents in North America. No matter what the consequences, she told Mary, she was going to speak to him — to bid him farewell. At least he could then take away with him a memory of her which might burgeon into love. Perhaps he would find a way to write to her, telling her he could not forget his one brief encounter; begging her to reply and send him some small token of her affection.

Mary was a great deal more realistic. A young girl alone approaching a group of strange young gentlemen was unheard of, improper, against every convention. Were they discovered, it would mean instant dismissal without a reference for her and goodness only knew what dire punishment for Miss Clementine. It was too dangerous, too risky.

But Clementine would not be deterred from her plan. There was no risk worth mentioning, she assured Mary. No one had discovered them thus far. Why should this be the one night Aunt Winifred made an unannounced, unprecedented visit to Clementine’s room after retiring to bed? And who was there to betray them since no one but themselves knew of her plan? Mary could watch from the orchard and warn her if anyone approached.

Mary’s mother had been in service and had brought up her children to know the ways of the gentry. The maid therefore was far less naïve than Clementine when it came to correct standards of behaviour. To Clementine’s dismay, she refused to condone her young mistress’s plan.

“If’n you go, Miss Clementine, you goes on your ownsome!” she said firmly. Nor when the church clock struck ten and Clementine donned her shawl with set mouth and a stubborn tilt to her chin, would Mary relent. Alone, Clementine climbed down the walnut tree and tiptoed past her uncle’s study windows. A faint glow came from a chink in the velvet curtains but was dimmed by the brilliance of an orange harvest moon, shining on purpose, she decided, to guide her steps to the apple orchard.

Within minutes, she was in her usual hiding place — a dark corner behind the potting shed from which she could see the lane through the hawthorn hedge without fear of being seen. She paused there, wishing suddenly that she had not been quite so adamant when she had told the white-faced Mary that nothing but death would stop her crossing the lane and going to the cornfield. Now she was regretting that proud boast. Suppose Mary was right, and far from being the pleasurable encounter she had dreamed of, her meeting with the young man she loved turned out to be awkward, embarrassing, or even, as Mary suggested, humiliating for herself.

She drew a deep breath as she brushed the thought quickly from her mind. She would not forgo this one moment of pleasure in her life — she would see Deveril once more as he rode home. If she were to cross the road and hide in the cornfield, she would be even closer to him than she was here in the orchard.

Slowly, her heart beating nervously, Clementine crawled through a gap in the hedge into the lane. It had not rained for the past four weeks and the dust lay inches deep in the ruts the carts had made earlier in the year. On the far verge of the lane there was no hedgerow — only a ditch separating it from the great sea of ripe corn awaiting the coming harvest.

Quietly, although there was no one to hear her, Clementine slipped across the dusty cart track and slid down amongst the corn. It rustled as the stalks bent beneath her weight and tiny grains fell into the folds of her lavender muslin skirt.

For a little while, Clementine was reassured by the total seclusion of her new hiding place. But clouds were gathering now in the sky and once in a while, dark shadows obscured the comforting light of the moon and then she longed to be back in the safety of her bedroom at the rectory. But pride forbade such a reversal of her plans. She would remain here until Deveril and his friends returned from the village — no matter how long that might be.

Almost in the same instant as the clock chimed eleven, Clementine heard voices. She sat up, her heart thudding as she recognized the customary singing of the young men as they made their way homeward.

In the stillness of the night air, the sound of their laughter and voices above the thudding of their horses’ hooves, sent a sudden chill of apprehension through Clementine. There was little doubting that they were very drunk.

In sudden panic, she stood up, intending to dart back across the road to the safety of the orchard. But she had delayed her escape too long and as her white figure rose out from the corn, the leading horse shied, rearing up in alarm. Within seconds, she was surrounded.

Although the voices calling to her were slurred, their questions were clear enough to overcome her first feelings of fear. Was she lost? What was she doing so far from the village? Why was she there, alone? Who was she?

Clementine found the courage to raise her face. Her cheeks were burning with blushes as she pointed shyly to Deveril Grayshott. He was grinning down at her with amused curiosity. Somehow, she found her voice and her courage.

“I came to say goodbye to him!” she replied with simple honesty.

The look of surprise mingled with pleasure on the young man’s face restored her courage. Now that the meeting was accomplished, it seemed quite pointless to flee. His companions were laughing, teasing him in none too kind a fashion. But within minutes, they were riding away, leaving her alone with Deveril.

Now reality gave place to the dream-world in which she had lived for so many weeks. It seemed not the least strange when Deveril dismounted and put his arms around her, claiming that he deserved a farewell kiss since on her own admission she had come to bid him goodbye. He, like herself, had fallen in love at first sight, she thought happily as she melted into his arms. He must indeed love her if he wanted so ardently to kiss her, for kisses preceded proposals as well she knew from the romances she had read.

How handsome he was! How brightly his eyes shone as his face came down to hers! How swiftly her heart was beating at the touch of his hands on her arms! She could not suppress a little cry of pleasure as they moved upwards over her shoulders and then down to her breasts.

What happened next was too sudden, too swift, for Clementine to voice any protest. Afterwards, she was to tell Mary that she was not even certain if she wished to protest. His hands were moving rapidly all over her body, tearing open her bodice, lifting her skirt with a violent passion. His hurried breaths, his gasps, were drowned by her own as they fell to the ground and he lay atop her, his breeches about his ankles. Involuntarily, her hands closed over his back as he forced her legs apart with his knees. She could feel the bent corn stalks digging into her back, the pain only momentary as another pain wracked her body. Now she realized that something was happening that was both right and wrong. Such intimacy could only be wrong and yet — yet she wanted him to go on moving inside her. She wanted him never to stop kissing her. She wanted …

He lay suddenly still, his