The Courage of Lady Elizabeth Portland: Victorian Orphans series, #3

By Susan Leona Fisher

In 1890, shortly before her twenty-fifth birthday, Elizabeth Portland finds herself abandoned for the second time in her life. Against her better judgement she is persuaded to act as chaperone to an eighteen-year-old society girl to see her safely through a summer on the continent before her coming out season. Caught up in the parry and thrust of society match-making, she has no thought of herself becoming an object of interest, particularly to Hugh Wentworth, heir to a duke and reportedly a philanderer who makes his living by gambling. How unfortunate that circumstances keep throwing her in his path. When he becomes the victim of scurrilous rumour, will she have the courage to come forward and tell what she knows?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Mar 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201352899

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

Book preview

The Courage of Lady Elizabeth Portland

by

Susan Leona Fisher

Victorian Orphans series #3

Copyright © 2022 Susan Leona Fisher

All rights reserved. The right of Susan Leona Fisher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This edition published by Susan Leona Fisher, 2022

First published in 2014 as Fair Play & Foul

VICTORIAN ORPHANS SERIES

Whatever a girl’s origins, high-born or low, once she was orphaned her life became something of a matter of chance as to whether she would be protected and nurtured or fall on hard times. This is the third of three stories, set in the late Victorian era, in which you can follow the fortunes of a girl in such a predicament.

#1 The Making Rose Glace: Rose Turner has been trained to domestic service but she is determined to better herself and become a cook, in the course of which she encounters a charming Italian ice-cream maker and a London businessman who is also heir to a duke, both of whom have designs on her.

#2 The Adventures of Jane Waterford: Jane runs away from her home in Ireland to avoid a marriage arranged by her step-mother, determined to make a career for herself in the world of shorthand-typing. On her travels she encounters the Duke of Grantley, who suspects she is employing deception to gain her ambition and decides to keep an eye on her.

#3 The Courage of Lady Elizabeth Portland: Elizabeth’s mother died at her birth and now her aristocratic father has followed, The house and allowance he provided are gone too and she must work to survive. Her first role, as a companion, takes her to a summer season at Monaco, where she encounters the handsome Lord Hugh Wentworth and also learns to sing. So she determines to try her hand—and voice—on the stage. Hugh has other ideas.

The three stories are connected by the heroine becoming an orphan rather than by the characters in them, so can be read in any order.

Table of Contents

1: A death

2: A funeral

3: Troublesome cousin

4: Beggars can’t be choosers

5:Teddy’s correspondent

6: Travel preparations

7: The ways of men

8: The pastimes of women

9: Clandestine meeting

10: Ransom demand

11: Kate falls in love

12: Two interviews

13: An engagement

14: An unexpected guest

15: To Wentworth Park

16: The new housekeeper

17: A garden party

18: A wedding

19: A strange invitation

20: Clandestine visit

21: Card sharp

22: Consequences

23: A ball

24: An unexpected communication

25: In court

26: The truth comes out

27: Dramatic reunion

28: Together at last

Historical note

1: A death

Elizabeth Portland was accustomed to the counsel of women. Indeed, she had little experience of anything else. She’d no more have thought of asking a man’s advice than she would of inviting a dog to sit at table and share her dinner. Even so, a question was forming in her mind as she escorted Dr Philips to the front door, but she hesitated too long. The man retrieved his hat from the stand in the hall and nodded a curt good morning as he placed the neat Derby on his balding pate. He walked in his decisive way along the short path to the gate, medical bag swinging slightly in his hand, climbed into his little covered trap, geed off the pony and was gone, along with her opportunity. He’d been her aunt’s physician these many years and was well qualified to answer her concern, but deep down Elizabeth was aware she’d rather not hear his response.

In addition to her aunt and herself, Framley House accommodated two other female residents, the most recent arrival being young Hetty, appointed as general maid three years ago. The other was the housekeeper, Mrs Burscomb, whom Elizabeth had known all her life. It was to her she turned.

Ah, there you are Mrs Burscomb, she declared, as she entered the dining room.

Aye, mistress, doctor gone then?

Yes.

I’m just laying up for dinner.

Elizabeth observed the other lady for a moment, noting which cutlery she was arranging and the pretty vase of spring daffodils beside the solitary place setting. That had been the situation for some weeks now. Her aunt was not well enough to leave her room. Indeed she was hardly eating.

Fish today, is it? she asked, unnecessarily. It always was on a Friday.

Aye, they had some lovely fresh plaice in this week.

And spring is here at last. Those are nice flowers—narcissus.

Hetty picked them from the garden, when she went to hang out the sheets, thoughtful girl.

Please thank her for me. The poor girl was hanging out sheets most days lately. Her aunt was very unwell.

Mrs Burscomb nodded as she straightened up and took a step back from the table. I will, milady. There we are, all done. Dinner will be in about an hour, if that’s all right.

Thank you. Before you get busy in the kitchen Mrs Burscomb, I wonder if I could ask your opinion about something.

The lady smoothed out her overall and raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

The Lady Gwendolen, my aunt. She’s not improving at all. If anything she’s getting worse. Her breathing is quite laboured now.

Yes, Lady Elizabeth, I noticed. Has the doctor said aught?

No, but he said he’d be calling again tomorrow. That’s unusual isn’t it? To make a home visit on a Saturday?

Mrs Burscomb’s brow creased in a frown as she considered for a moment.

She’s in her seventy-eighth year, isn’t she?

Indeed she is. I suppose we should expect...? She couldn’t complete the sentence but the other lady understood.

Aye, mistress, I reckon we should.

Can I ask you something else, Mrs Burscomb? Do you think the time has come for me to write to my eldest brother and inform him of the situation?

Don’t see as how else the man will know about it, milady.

No, you’re quite right.

Of course she must write. Elizabeth hadn’t really needed the verification, but the thought of doing so made her nervous.

Mrs Burscomb returned to the kitchen, while Elizabeth stood there contemplating the task ahead of her. So far as she was aware there’d been no correspondence with the Portland household since the arrival of that black-edged envelope, communicating the news that Elizabeth’s father had died. That was all of five years ago. They’d been sitting at this very table and her aunt had been quite brusque about the passing of her younger brother.

Your father’s breathed his last, she’d informed Elizabeth, perusing the brief epistle in her hand and not meeting Elizabeth’s concerned expression at all. She rarely looked her in the eye. Had some kind of stroke they say. I shan’t be going to the funeral.

That had been that. Clearly Elizabeth had not been expected to have any feelings about it either. To be truthful she had none. If what her aunt had told her was to be believed, she’d never even seen the man, nor spent a single night under his roof. Portland House was only a few hours coach ride north of London, but she’d never visited. Neither, of course, had she met any of her numerous siblings or half-siblings. Her father had married twice and once she understood about babies Elizabeth had worked it out for herself. Both poor ladies had died young due to being brought rather too often to the birthing chamber.

Over the years, she’d gleaned enough snippets of information from things her aunt had said, or from Mrs Burscomb, to realise that it was her own birth that had done for her mother, and that as a consequence her father had refused to see her or bring her up. Instead she’d been foist onto his reluctant spinster sister to rear as best she could, banished for all time from her ancestral home.

This won’t do, Elizabeth told herself. She went purposefully out of the room to the little desk in the alcove off the front hall where her aunt normally dealt with correspondence. Elizabeth had no one with whom to correspond, but she’d received sufficient education to know how the letter should be written.

To the Right Honourable Henry, Earl of Portland, Portland Place, Oxfordshire

Friday, March 14th 1890

My Lord

I write to make you aware that our Aunt Gwendolen is quite poorly. Dr Philips is now calling daily and there is some thought that she is unlikely to regain her former health. I will continue to keep you informed. Should you or any member of the family wish to visit her, I would respectfully suggest that this be speedily arranged.

Yours most sincerely

Elizabeth Portland

She had considered signing it from your sister Elizabeth, but thought better of it. There was little purpose in reminding him of a relationship the family had long disowned. After lunch she would walk to the post office and despatch it herself. She screwed the lid back on the ink pot and returned it to its cubby hole and placed the pen back in the cut-glass tray. The green felt which lined the desk lid had faded to a dull grey, with threadbare patches where many elbows must have rested over the years. Her aunt was unlikely to sit here ever again. There was really very little point in her brother or anyone else coming to see the dying lady, but she’d needed to communicate how serious the situation was. She had little expectation any of them would visit.

Elizabeth had never been called upon to deal with death before and wasn’t sure how to feel, but there were things she could do. She may as well undertake certain practical measures in anticipation of the inevitable. Someone would need to arrange the various notifications that would be required when the time came. Until Lord Henry deigned to reply to her letter and give his instructions, she had best prepare to deal with it herself, for he might decide to have nothing to do with the matter.

The doctor called as promised on Saturday and took Elizabeth on one side before he left.

Lady Elizabeth, you must prepare yourself. Her ladyship is very poorly. She doesn’t have much longer.

After that, she couldn’t in all conscience stray too far from the house for any length of time, so she spent a few days going systematically through the contents of her aunt’s small bureau. It helped to be occupied during her enforced confinement indoors for she missed her daily constitutional. Normally she would walk at least as far as Regent’s Park and occasionally, if the weather was pleasant, into the zoological gardens. She identified with the stoical caged animals, prisoners fed and watered and kept comfortable. Sometimes she stared into their eyes, especially the apes, and had conversations with them in her mind, to do with freedom and adventure and something she’d never really had, choice. For now, she must be content with taking a turn about the small back garden. The rest of her waking hours were spent alternating between being a secretary at her daily office duties or a nurse caring for the sick.

Sitting at the desk now, she perused the neat list she’d created. Some of these contemporaries of her aunt’s might well be dead themselves. She certainly couldn’t remember them visiting the house in the past several years. In a separate column she’d listed various official contacts, including all the traders they dealt with. Should the worst happen and she be required to leave this house, all the accounts must be closed. She’d also made a note of her aunt’s solicitor, who would no doubt hold the will. The bank manager was already known to her, for she’d had to approach him about obtaining funds for household expenses and staff wages once her aunt had ceased to be capable of managing anything.

Nothing had ever been said, but Elizabeth hoped very much that this neat, brick-built merchant’s house in south Hampstead might now pass to her, with sufficient arrangements as to income for her to maintain it and at last be mistress of her own life. Goodness knows she’d earned it over all those years of waiting on her aunt hand and foot and never answering back even under extreme provocation.

She and Mrs Burscomb had been taking turns to sit with the poor old lady. The task was a sad one, though not onerous, for she slept all the time now. It was unlikely Elizabeth would ever again hear the woman’s cantankerous accents directed at herself. No longer would she be forced to tolerate those petty criticisms of her person and her dress, even her table manners. She could not but feel relief.

Her aunt’s room had been forbidden her as a child. She’d quickly realised she was not welcome in it even when she became old enough to resist touching the delicate Dresden china figurines that danced across the mantel shelf and the dressing table. They were the bane of Mrs Burscomb’s life for the maids were always too scared to dust the delicate ornaments so that task had always fallen to the housekeeper. Now, ironically, Elizabeth was freely entering and leaving her aunt’s room and the old lady could do nothing about it.

She went there now to take her turn. Mrs Burscomb nodded as she rose and silently left the room and Elizabeth took her place on the upright chair placed beside the high wooden bedstead. Her aunt had been a tall, robust woman, but she looked shrunken and tiny now, half curled in the dipping centre of the old mattress. It was quite depressing to watch the shallow, rasping breaths as her aunt’s chest struggled to rise and fall. The doctor had said there was considerable fluid there now. Mrs Burscomb had placed a dish of dried lavender from last summer on the bedside and Elizabeth rubbed one of the flower heads between her fingers and held her hand up to her nose, a momentary respite from the foetid atmosphere.

Glancing round the darkened room—for the drapes hadn’t been opened in weeks—Elizabeth felt the sadness of her aunt’s situation. It was rather like a tomb already, not helped by all the heavy dark oak furniture. Elizabeth’s gaze fell on a small escritoire in the corner furthest from the windows. I wonder, she thought. She stood and glanced briefly at the old lady, half expecting her sharp eyes to be watching, but no, they were firmly closed.

Elizabeth stepped across the room and tried the lid. It was locked, naturally, but an investigation of the top drawer of the chest on which it sat, quickly revealed a key. She’d already unearthed all that the bureau downstairs had to offer. Perhaps this would yield more items of interest. Sure enough it contained various official-looking papers, some quite yellowed with age, the most sizeable item being a legal document concerning Framley House. It was a lease, signed by her father and a notary some years before her own birth, a kind brother providing for his unmarried sister presumably. She scanned her eyes down it quickly and soon located the most significant sentence. During her life-time, the Lady Gwendolen Portland will be permitted use of the property. Upon her death all rights and responsibilities in relation to it revert to Henry, Earl of Portland or heirs male.

Unless something had changed since this document was signed, Elizabeth now knew she had no right to the house. It belonged not to her aunt but to her brother. Would he let her remain here? She had no confidence he would. Carefully she put the document back as she’d found it. The other items were various legal certificates, including the one that recorded her own birth, and there were also two letters addressed to her aunt. Curious as to why these weren’t with the other correspondence in the bureau downstairs, she slipped the first from its envelope. It bore a date in 1870 and was signed Henry, her father presumably. It was very brief. I do not and shall not ever wish to see her. Do not ask me again. She’d have been five years old then.

The second was also signed Henry but in a different hand. It was dated a few months after her father’s death, so must be her eldest brother, or half-brother to be precise. She’d not known of this communication either. The message was similar to her fathers of all those years ago. My father made his wishes clear and I must respect them, so the answer is and always shall be no.

Elizabeth slid the letters back into their envelopes, placed them back in the little box, locked it and returned the key to its hiding place. She noticed her hands trembled a little as she did so and she was conscious of an unfamiliar feeling, a rush of warmth through her body and a slight lightness of head. Whether it was the daring nature of what she’d just done, or the discovery itself she didn’t know, but she’d best sit back down. Quickly she returned to the chair and her bedside vigil.

She studied her aunt’s face for any sign of consciousness. What a pity she was no longer able to communicate. It was clear what those letters meant and it somewhat altered her opinion of the lady. Contrary to Elizabeth’s long held belief, her aunt must have tried more than once to foster reconciliation with Elizabeth’s birth family. She pulled her chair forward and gently took her aunt’s nearest hand between both of hers. It was frail and cool, the skin blotched with large brown freckles and so translucent the pattern of dark veins stood out starkly.

Aunt Gwendolen, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to thank you for taking me on all those years ago. I know it can’t have been easy. And now I know you tried to persuade both my father and his eldest son to mend the rift. Thank you for trying and for protecting me from the truth of their rejection. She laid the limp hand carefully back on the counterpane and swallowed away the lump in her throat. She drew in a slow, deep breath. There was no point in getting emotional and silly. She had to think of practicalities. If her half-brother’s attitude was unchanged, there was very little chance he would permit her to stay on here after this lady’s death. She could be homeless in a matter of weeks.

The doctor had arranged for a nurse to come and sit with the dying lady through the night to allow Elizabeth and the housekeeper their sleep. It wasn’t for long. On Friday morning, exactly a week after Elizabeth had posted the letter to her brother, she was summoned to pay her last respects. With one final rasping intake of breath, her aunt at last lay still, her struggles over, just as the spring sun framed the edges of the heavy drapes in a rim of light and the sparrows began chirruping their greeting to the new day. The nurse busied herself straightening out the body while Elizabeth went at once to inform Mrs Burscomb and Hetty. They both looked solemn and Elizabeth wondered if Mrs Burscomb in particular knew that her job was in jeopardy. It made the strangest scene, all three of them attired in night clothes surrounding the old lady’s bed. Hetty looked pale and scared and left the room as soon as she could, possibly avoiding looking at the corpse altogether.

Mrs Burscomb stood by the bed a few moments longer, her squat sturdy figure quite still, hands loose at her sides. She shed no tears, nor did she speak, but she’d worked for this lady most of her adult life, so her passing must mean something. Her aunt had taken her on soon after the lady had been widowed, which would be a year or two before Elizabeth came to the house. Mr Burscomb had died in some kind of industrial accident. Maybe that sudden and traumatic loss had hardened her to death in general, for surely nothing could come close to affecting her how that must have, robbed overnight of her life’s chosen partner and the chance to bear his children. At last Mrs Burscomb bowed her head and left the room.

With Aunt Gwendolen’s passing all three of the remaining residents of Framley House entered a kind of limbo. Each of their futures depended on her brother’s plans for the house. Until he told Elizabeth his intentions she couldn’t say anything to the other two. Besides, Mrs Burscomb and Hetty were each officially in her aunt’s employ, not hers, even though for all practical purposes Elizabeth had run the house for years, seen to their wages, made sure they took their holidays, paid the bills and so on.

The very morning of her aunt’s death, before Elizabeth had time to set in motion her strategy for communicating the news to those who needed to know it, a letter arrived from her brother. It gave details of the same solicitor Elizabeth had already noted down and confirmed that the man would handle all the arrangements and notices once the death occurred. In keeping with that other letter of his she’d recently uncovered it was cruelly to the point. There was no expression of gratitude for Elizabeth’s communication, no sense of the sadness of the occasion and the salutation was brutality itself—Madam. The closing sentences confirmed both her expectation and her worst fear.  It was my aunt’s wish to be interred in the family crypt at Portland House and arrangements will be made to transport her body here when the time comes. At the same time notice will be given to any remaining servants in post and it will be incumbent upon you to arrange alternative accommodation for yourself.

He didn’t spell it out, but Elizabeth assumed she would not be expected to attend the funeral. She had visions of being bodily turned away at the door if she tried. She could hardly manage any of the fish pie Mrs Burscomb placed before her at dinner time.

It’s a sad time, Lady Elizabeth, she commented, but do try and eat something. You need to keep up your strength.

I know I do, Mrs Burscomb. Then, unusually for her, she felt her eyes prickling and two big tears rolled down her cheeks.

There, there, milady, it’ll pass, the comforting older lady said, patting her arm gently.

Oh Mrs Burscomb. You don’t know the half of it. This is no longer to be my home. My brother owns it and he’s told me I have to go. And from what he’s said, he’ll be giving you and Hetty notice too. I’m so sorry.

Not your fault milady. I half expected it really. There’s been no love lost over the years.

No, you’re right. And you know, nothing’s been said, but I have a feeling if I try and accompany my aunt’s coffin next week and attend the funeral rites, I’m likely to be turned away.

No! That can’t be right. She’s been the nearest thing you’ve had to a mother all these years. She’d want you there.

Do you think she would?

"Oh, yes, milady. Many a time she used to say to me, hope I’m doing right by the girl, Burscomb—never thought to have a child to care for, not at my age. She might’ve had a strange way of showing it at times, but she did care about you."

That makes me more determined than ever to go. How can I manage it?

Well, milady, it’s been unspeakably cruel, I think, for them to have naught to do with you all these years, but it does give you a certain advantage.

How so?

Well, milady, none of ’em knows what you look like.

Elizabeth returned her beaming smile. Of course! I’d not thought of that.

2: A funeral

Hugh Wentworth came to consciousness and was aware of bird-song outside, and the sun shining. It took him a moment to remember where he was, in his old room at his parents’ house, though house was rather a misnomer. Wentworth Park was a sizeable Palladian villa, built one hundred and fifty years ago, encompassing thirty bedrooms, numerous reception rooms, modern kitchens and plumbing, and beautifully landscaped grounds. One day it would be his.

He was a disappointment to his parents in just one respect, one that mattered considerably to a father who expected to pass on his historic house and grounds as well as his title in perpetuity. At thirty-two, Hugh was unwed and had therefore, as yet, produced no heirs. He knew for certain he’d fathered no illegitimate ones for he took extreme care in that regard. He’d still not planted his seed in a woman, though he’d planted himself there many times and brought whichever woman it was much pleasure and himself release, but deliberately not at the same time.

With regard to those young ladies of appropriate station he’d so far encountered, while he’d quite like to have taken one or two to bed, none were such as he’d want to spend the rest of his life with. It might be helpful if he did get on and find a suitable life’s partner, for his parents lost no opportunity to parade likely candidates before him. His father raised the topic again at the breakfast table, not an appetising start to Hugh’s day.

Can’t you delay your visit to Northumberland for a week, Hugh? Your mother expects some visitors next Saturday, including the Fitzherberts. They’ll be staying over until Sunday and I know they were looking forward to seeing you.

For they read their daughter Hugh supposed. Before he had time to reply his mother reinforced the message and confirmed his thought.

Marianne Fitzherbert will be especially disappointed at your absence. I promised her you’d give her a riding lesson.

Hugh raised his eyes heavenward at his mother’s rather obvious match-making attempts. If I remember her equestrian skills aright, I rather think she might be doing the teaching.

What, his father blustered, a former cavalry officer in need of riding tuition!

That was some years ago, Pa, as you know.

Does that mean you’ll stay? His mother still wasn’t giving up.

It’s awkward. Archie’s expecting me and knowing him, there are some social engagements lined up there too.

Oh, well, his mother sighed. Hopefully the Northumberland girls have something to recommend them as well.

I’ll let you know. He intended no such reporting on his social life, but it was something to say.

When are you travelling north? his father asked.

Tomorrow morning. I’ll spend tonight at the town house, if that’s all right with you.

It’s not exactly staffed, Hugh, just Perkins keeping an eye on the place at present.

That’s no problem, I’ll only be sleeping there.

At least we’ll have your company until this afternoon, his father went on. I’d like to hear a bit more about that agricultural equipment your factory is developing. In fact one or two tenants are wondering if they can try out the new plough you mentioned.

I’m sure they can, let’s discuss it. The prototype won’t be ready till late summer at the earliest, but there’s no reason why not to test it here.

Excellent, they’ll be well pleased when I tell them.

Hugh did wonder, given his future inheritance of this substantial house and its large estate of tenanted farms, what his father really thought about his dabbling in manufacturing—though dabbling was not strictly correct. He owned the engineering plant and had a half interest with a partner investor in another business, a Yorkshire mill which specialised in woven upholstery fabrics, including for the huge railway carriage market. He’d recently invested in a tannery in the west country producing fine leathers, such as used for seating in the best quality carriages, and now in the growing motor car trade too. His father was in excellent health so the day of his inheritance was a long way off, but as and when it happened, he’d not require the estate to make any profit at all since his existing income was more than sufficient to keep him in the manner in which he’d been raised.

* * * *

During the days following her aunt’s demise, Elizabeth received various communications from the solicitor, including details of the funeral arrangements. The coffin would be collected from Framley House on Friday morning, exactly a week after her aunt’s death, and transported to the train station for onward carriage to Oxford, where a horse-drawn hearse would meet it and take it to the estate. She was pleased to learn that Aunt Gwendolen had remembered Mrs Burscomb in her will and that there was also a little something for Hetty. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing for her, which must be