Nichols - Lord Portmans Troublesome Wife

Summer 1761

R osamund looked about her at the mourners, standing with glass in hand, or slowly perambulating the drawing room of her Holles Street home, and wondered why they had all come. They could surely not expect a bequest for everyone knew Sir Joshua had frittered away a fortune. Perhaps they hoped to pick up a little gossip, something to pass on over the teacups when they next met their friends. Her fathers death had been sudden and violent and surely there was more to learn about that?

He had been found in Tyburn Lane in the early hours of the morning, evidently on his way home after a night out. Everything pointed to him having been run down by a vehicle, which had not stopped. Rolling drunk, everyone said. Not looking where he was going.

Maximilian, her brother, had been closeted with the family lawyer in the library for the best part of an hour, leaving Rosamund to attend to their guests alone. There were some cousins she hardly knew, fancy people who looked down on her, whispering amongst themselves, calling her an ape leader and plain to boot and hoping they wouldnt be expected to give her houseroom. A few of her fathers acquaintances had turned up to offer condolences and no doubt to find out their chances of being paid what was owed to them. No one truly mourned the passing of the irascible man, except his daughter. Rosamund had kept house for him ever since her mother died seven years before and, believing he needed her, had never married. At twenty-six, she considered herself well and truly on the shelf.

What are you going to do now, Rosamund? Aunt Jessica interrupted her reverie. Mrs Jessica Bullivant was her fathers sister. She was dressed in a black silk mourning gown; its caged hips made her look broader than she was tall.

I expect I shall stay here, at least for a time.

Here, child? You cannot live alone.

I will not be alone. I shall keep Cook and Janet.

They are servants. No, Rosamund, it is not to be thought of. I know someone who might offer you the post of companion. Of course it will not pay much, but you will have bed and board and little enough to do. After looking after Joshua, it will be childs play.

Companion! Rosamund shuddered at the thought. She was outspoken and used to her independence and there was no one less independent than a paid companion at the beck and call of her employer twenty-four hours a day. No, thank you, Aunt. I am sure Papa will have made provision for me. There will be enough for me to live frugally without having to resort to paid employment.

I doubt that. Everyone knows my brother was a profligate. Did he ever give you anything more than pin money?

I did not need anything.

Her aunt snorted at this loyalty. Being companion to a lady is better than unpaid employment, which is what you have been doing for the past seven years.

I did what any daughter worth her salt would do.

And now you are long past marriageable age.

I know that, Aunt. I have no expectations in that direction. I shall do good works.

Her aunt laughed at that, causing everyone else in the room to stop talking and turn to look at them. She immediately became serious and put on a mournful expression. If I did not have my dear Miss Davies to look after me, I would take you in myself, but I would not, for the world, hurt her feelings. And truly my little house in Chandos Street is not large enough to accommodate us all.

I know that, Aunt, but I thank you all the same. I shall manage. The last thing she wanted was to move in with her domineering relative.

Rosamund, seeing the lawyer emerge from the library and hurry out to his waiting carriage, slipped into the room where her brother sat with his head in his hands, his full brown wig pushed to the back of his head. Hearing her enter, he looked up. He was not mourning, he was dry-eyed and furious. Thatthatstupid old man

You mean Mr Tetley?

No, our father. He has left nothing, Rosie, nothing but a heap of debts. How could a man be so gullible? He let people persuade him into worthless investments, refused to listen to wise counsel and lost everything. He gave a cracked laugh and picked up a canvas bag which chinked as it moved. He threw it down at her feet. Except this.

What is it? She bent to untie the cord that closed it to reveal a heap of gold coins. But theres a fortune here!

No, there isnt. Theyre counterfeit, every one. Tetley says they must be surrendered to the judiciary.

Oh, dear. But how does Mr Tetley know they are counterfeit? She picked up a guinea to examine it. This looks perfectly good to me.

It is clipped. He delved in his coat pocket and produced a genuine coin. See? Put them together and you can see the clipped coin is smaller and the milling is fresh with sharper edges.

I do not understand.

Neither did I, but Tetley explained it to me. The coiners snip or file off the edges of real coins and mill a new edge on to them. Then they are passed into circulation again and the spare gold melted down and used to make new coins, often by just covering base metal with a layer of gold, then stamping the head and tail on them and milling them. Like this one. He delved into the bag and produced another coin. It is apparently a very profitable undertaking. His grunt of a laugh was humourless. So long as you dont get caught, of course.