Noble Duty

33. Westward to Berkshire

Tuesday, 9th September, 1718
Hounslow Heath

The next morning broke crisp and clear, the London air carrying the first hint of approaching autumn. In the street below, the sun glinted upon the gilded Cavendish arms adorning the door of the grand travelling carriage, its four bay horses tossing their heads against the harness. Young David stood on the cobbles, proudly supervising the footmen as they loaded the final travel chests, his new blue cabin-boy's coat brushed immaculate.

Gillian and I descended the stone steps of the Pall Mall house, her hand resting firmly on my forearm. She wore a dark travelling cloak, her bearing that of a woman who had returned from the dead and reclaimed all that had been divided in her absence.

Higgins stood by the carriage door, bowing deeply as we approached. "The road is reported to be clear, Lady Overton. The courier will reach Berkshire well before you, My Lady, so that the household may be prepared for your arrival."

"Thank you, Higgins," Gillian said, her voice ringing with the quiet authority that had carried us through our ordeals. "See that the house is put fully to rights and kept ready against our return."

"Yes, My Lady."

I handed her into the carriage, followed her inside and pulled the door firmly shut, the latch falling with a satisfying click. The driver called out, cracked the long whip above the team, and the heavy wheels began to turn, bearing us away from the soot and noise of the city. We left behind the smoke of London, the clamour of Saviour Dock and the legal snares of Westminster, turning our faces westward toward the ancient stone, the rich pastures, and the deep, waiting woodlands of the Cavendish Berkshire estate.

The long weeks since our escape had placed some distance between the terror of the attack for both Gillian and me. The long, tangled proceedings in London had drawn us still closer. Closer than I ever imagined possible.

Beyond London's boundary stones, the oppressive summer heat began to yield to the first clean breath of autumn. I sat beside Gillian, with Camelia, Michael and David opposite, watching her face as the countryside of her younger years passed beyond the carriage window.

The heavy rhythm of the horses' hooves measured our progress away from London and its legal entanglements. For the first hour, we travelled mostly in thoughtful silence, broken only by David's questions about the passing countryside and our responses.

Opposite us, Michael and Camelia sat with their hands interlaced, their gazes occasionally meeting with the silent understanding of two people who had looked into an abyss and found a future together. Next to them, David remained pressed to the window, his eyes wide as the last brick-and-timber suburbs gave way to open fields.

"Vance's courier will have reached the manor by noon," Gillian said softly, her fingers resting over the new gold band on her left hand. She did not look at the passing hedgerows, but rather straight ahead, her mind already navigating the halls of her ancestral home. "I hope Uncle Richard has maintained the estate well – and all the staff and the tenants."

"If he has any sense, he will have carried on as your father had. It seems he was caught up in this mess as much as you were. The Crown's slow and tangled procedures enlarged what might otherwise have been a simple misunderstanding." I placed my hand over hers. "But the law of the land now recognises your title and possession."

Michael shifted in his seat, adjusting the unfamiliar stiffness of his new coat. "Camelia told me she is a distant cousin to you, My Lady."

"Yes, she is. Her grandfather, Charles Betheson, married Camille, the daughter of my great-uncle – the lady you met in New York. Camelia is their granddaughter, which makes us cousins through the Cavendish line."