About the Author
LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website – www.louiseallenregency.co.uk – for the latest news.
Desert Rake
Louise Allen
CHAPTER ONE
The Hertfordshire countryside. January 1817
‘TURKEY? You want to go to Turkey? Have you taken leave of your senses? A titled lady, a widow, travelling alone? Outrageous! I absolutely forbid it.’ Sir Hubert Morvall fixed his stepmother with what he no doubt believed was a look of firm authority, suitable to the head of the household.
‘I fail to see how you can stop me, Hubert.’ Caroline, Lady Morvall, returned the glower with a smile of sweet reasonableness which she knew was bound to inflame him further. Try as she might to love her stepson, she had never found him anything but a humourless, self-absorbed bore, who seemed indecently pleased to have stepped into his father’s shoes and become fifth Baron Morvall.
At her side, her pregnant daughter-in-law produced a faint cluck of distress. ‘But you are not out of mourning yet, Caroline Mama,’ Clara whispered, her small hands fluttering above her swelling figure, ignoring Caroline’s tightened lips at the form of address.
Why a woman scarcely two years younger than herself insisted on calling her Mama she had no idea—unless it was Hubert’s influence. It made her feel ancient.
‘Tomorrow is the anniversary of dear Sir William’s death,’ Clara persisted, dropping her voice to a reverential whisper.
‘And the day I intend putting off my blacks and packing my bags,’ Caroline responded briskly. Her husband would have hated this mawkish sentimentality. She could think of no better way to honour the memory of darling William than by making the journey he had read and dreamed about and which he had planned in such minute detail for years; she could almost hear his whisper of approval in the stuffy room now.
The death of his first wife and then the restrictions put on travel by the long war with France had first postponed the journey. Later, his second marriage had made the Baron reluctant to expose his young wife to the rigours of such an expedition. Finally they had decided to go—just when he was struck down totally unexpectedly.
‘I have it all organised,’ Caroline added, pushing away the bad memories and cheerfully heaping fuel on the flames of Hubert’s wrath. He reminded her of the turkey cock at the Home Farm, gobbling with indignation, his incipient double chin quivering. ‘I have hired an experienced courier whom I shall meet in London on Tuesday. We sail on Saturday.’
For an awful moment Caroline feared Hubert was about to succumb to a heart stroke, like the one that had carried her husband off at the age of fifty-six, then the puce colour faded a little to crimson, and she breathed again. ‘You have been planning all this behind my back. To do such a thing at your age is outrageous!’
‘Hubert, I am twenty-six. You are twenty-seven. I fail to see what my age has to do with it. Or what you have to say in the matter, come to that. As you well know, I am legally and financially independent of you, and may do as I wish. I most certainly do not have to make you privy to my plans or my correspondence. I am simply informing you now for Clara’s convenience.’ She turned to the younger woman. ‘I am sorry not to have confided my plans before now, but I knew we would find ourselves having this discussion, and I could not bear weeks of Hubert’s opposition.’
Clara took her hand and whispered, ‘But Sir Hubert is head of the family now. We must obey him.’
Caroline, as so often, marvelled at Clara’s sheeplike obedience to Hubert’s pompous demands. It was hardly that she loved him—or at least if she did physical passion did not enter into it. Only the other day, when Caroline had sympathised with her morning sickness, she had confided that the discomforts of pregnancy were amply compensated for by an absence of what she referred to coyly as marital demands.
Caroline had enjoyed a short but extremely happy marriage to Hubert’s father. Sir William had proved to be a man of abundant physical energy, a huge appetite for life and an undoubted talent for making love to his young wife. Caroline was well aware that he had acquired his ability to please her from years of extramarital adventures, and could only be grateful for it. She had to conclude, looking from Hubert to Clara, that amatory skills, and the desire to acquire them, were not inherited traits.
She missed William’s enthusiastically noisy company greatly, but she also pined for his lovemaking. Twenty-six was far too young to learn to be celibate, she concluded with an inward sigh. Although how one went about solving that without finding oneself tied to another husband, one whom she was certain not to like so much as the first, was a puzzle.
‘What are you smiling about, Caroline?’ Hubert snapped. ‘This is not a laughing matter.’
‘Nor are your manners,’ she rejoined coolly. ‘I was just thinking how very unlike your dear papa you are, Hubert. Must I remind you again that I do not have to have your permission to do anything?’
‘Papa must have been besotted to leave you so much money without the slightest provision for control or guidance. You will end up like that dreadful Stanhope woman,’ he scolded, pacing in front of the fire, which was smoking sullenly.
‘Living in a Lebanese palace with a succession of virile young lovers, do you mean?’ she teased. ‘That is what the gossip says about Lady Hester, I believe. It does not sound such a bad situation to be in. Certainly more amusing than another dreary Season at Almack’s.’
Could I take a lover? Would I dare? It would answer the risk of finding oneself permanently tied to a man. It was a scandalous thought—although she suspected William, were he able to advise her now, would be quite encouraging. Her pleasure had always been his first consideration, and he had had little regard for the conventions. But how did a respectable widow set about finding a lover without finding a scandal at the same time?
This intriguing train of thought was cut short by Hubert. ‘How dare you mention such a thing in front of Clara?’
‘Clara is a married woman. I hardly think she is going to be corrupted by mention of subjects which are common knowledge.’ Clara was like all the married women of Caroline’s circle, regarding sensual matters as shocking, and apparently considering that respectable women could take no possible pleasure in them. Clara Morvall would certainly not be titillated or tempted by the prospect of a lover.
Caroline got to her feet and gathered up the book she had been reading—Travels Through Ancient Anatolia by Andrew Fenton—her notebooks and her reticule. ‘My mind is quite made up, Hubert. I am leaving tomorrow.’
The rain spattered against the window as she turned to leave her fuming stepson, and she drew her sombre black shawl defensively around her shoulders. It seemed a year had gone by when she had hardly glimpsed the sun or felt true human warmth; now she was determined never to feel cold again.
The Sea of Marmara: five months later
Caroline leaned on the rail of the ship and narrowed her eyes against the sun-dazzle on the waves. Over there was Asia. Asia. She could hardly believe that she was here at last. The long sea voyage, the excitements of calling at Naples and Malta, the discomforts, all faded into unreality as the shore that