Colors of a Lady

by Chelsea Roston

  She pushed them from her mind. In her hands she grasped a letter from her daughter, Juliet. As usual, her daughter was doing well in London. She enjoyed her work. It gave her a reason to wake up of a morning. Juliet needed that extra push some days. If Thea’s life had worked out how she had expected it to, neither of them would have to work to survive. But he had disappointed Thea, abandoning them when they were most in need.

  The front door of the inn banged open with an angry boom of thunder. Lightning darted across the night sky, illuminating two figures in the doorway. Both were heavily cloaked though one rose high above the other.

  Thea scrambled to her feet to greet the visitors.

  “Do you have any rooms?” A gruff male voice asked. He lightly pushed his companion inside first. A fit of coughing erupted from the shorter visitor.

  “Plenty, sir! Do come inside. Please, the fire is roaring. Let me help you out of your cloak, miss.” Thea untied the knot at the girl’s throat as the girl shrugged out of her hood. The innkeeper glanced up at her new guest. She gasped. “Juliet? Why are you not in London?”

  Juliet tilted her head to the side, forehead wrinkling in confusion. She glanced back to her companion who was a tall Englishman with drenched black curls.

  “Juliet?” she repeated. “I do not know a Juliet. My name is Lady Emma Wr---oh wait, that is not right anymore. I am Emma, Marchioness of Hartwell. My husband and I have traveled all day and require a place to stay.”

  After a longer look, Thea realized she was not Juliet at all. This was a gently-bred Englishwoman who oozed refinement. Currently, dark curls drooped into her eyes and stuck to her cheeks and her pretty traveling gown was stained with mud. The shape of her wide eyes and the curve of her chin was distinctly Juliet. She had not imagined that.

  “Oh dear, I am quite ashamed. You bear a resemblance to my daughter, Juliet.” Her brown eyes turned wistful at the mention of her daughter. “I see now I was gravely mistaken. My Juliet is just a lady’s maid not a grand lady.”

  “I am not so grand. My actual family history is quite sordid.”

  “I assumed that was normal for noble families.”

  Lady Hartwell giggled behind a damp glove. “I suppose you are right.”

  “Perhaps we could move this to the fireplace?” Her husband interjected at the very moment that Lady Hartwell sneezed.

  “If you give me a few minutes, I will prepare your room.” Thea bobbed into a curtsy. The door slammed open. Four footmen charged into the inn, laden down with two trunks.

  “That would be our luggage,” Lady Hartwell announced.

  “Please follow me,” the innkeeper instructed. The footmen grunted in agreement, waddling after her.

  “I like her,” Emma decided. Her body trembled with a violent shiver.

  Thomas chuckled. “That does not surprise me.” He removed her gloves, depositing them on a table.

  “Why ever not?” She rubbed her hands together.

  “I just have a hunch.”

  A hunch meant a guess with no basis in fact. Knowing Thomas, by the morning his hunch would be proven true. Emma was certain he knew a lot more about the history surrounding this case than she herself knew. He remained mute on his own dealings and Emma never thought to ask.

  She wanted a scalding hot bath with steam curling from the surface. She was not so high in her instep to ask for such an extravagance. The innkeeper was the only one working. There was not even a hint of another worker. No cook or servant. No help to be seen. Emma surmised it was due her race. For an African woman to own an inn was fascinating. How did it fall into her hands?

  “I have built a fire in your room. I hope it will be suffice.” Thea swept down the stairs. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving soot marks over the crisp white linen.

  “I am sure it is lovely. Thank you very much for accepting our late arrival.”

  She demurred bowing her head. “It is expected of an innkeeper.”

  “Go ahead up, Emmy, I need to speak with...uh….I am sorry, but what is your name?” Lady Hartwell yawned into her hand and mumbled good night. His eyes followed her slow departure.

  “Thea. Just Thea. Or Miss Thea if you are so inclined.” Her inn was full of newlyweds. Highly placed newlyweds, no less. These were no merchant’s daughters or butcher’s sons. They were part of the Upper Ten Thousand. Except that girl, newly a marchioness...she was not English. Perhaps she was half, but the rest of her as distinctly non-English. When the candlelight caught her face in certain angles, Thea saw glimpses of her own face. Perhaps one of her parents had a wayward liaison with some of her people. It was not uncommon. England was crawling with bastard children torn between cultures and countries.

  “Just Miss? You are not a widow.”

  “I am, my lord.” She said nothing further.

  He changed the subject. “Please do not alert any of the other occupants of our arrival. Especially Mrs. Lowell.”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “How did you know the name of my guests?”

  “I work for the Crown in intelligence matters. Mrs. Lowell is not what she seems. I am here to smoke her out.” It was not the complete truth. Thomas learned early on that tiny lies were helpful.

  “I figured as much. I do not care for the woman. Her spirit...it is not a good one.” She shook her head. “I will tell no one.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thea. This will all be worth your while.”

  The Marquess nodded his head. He turned on an elegant foot and headed towards the stairs to join his bride.

  Thea had enough of this night. She needed a lot of sleep to prepare for tomorrow. At last the Seaside Arms had guests! Some of her outstanding debts could be paid in full once they checked out. If she was lucky, there would be extra to send along to Juliet. She snuffed out the candles around the dining room. The fire would not last much longer. The flames sputtered, searching for some kindling. The innkeeper stood a few minutes to watch it die out. Once the last ember glowed, she left to slide into her lonely bed.

  She could not sleep. It was not the storm that had died out some hours ago. It was not the cold because their fire still burned and her husband proved to be a constant source of warmth. It was not even the strangeness of falling asleep in a new bed. No. None of those reasons kept her up.

  It was her mind. Something niggled at it and would not stop until she discovered it. Emma threw the covers off her legs. Beside her, Thomas turned over in his sleep, mumbling about horses and spies. The instant her feet touched the cold wooden floor, she recoiled. She felt around for her slippers. The chilled silk was a minor improvement over the icy floor. Emma shuffled to slide on her dressing gown, a wedding present from Thomas crafted from bottle green velvet. It served her well on chilly evenings such as this.

  Emma lit a candle and pushed the door open. She anticipated a creak or a groan, but it was silent. She made her way down the short hallway to the flight of stairs. Her stomach rumbled. It had seemed such a good idea to turn up her nose at lunch. Emma detested peas and the stew they had been served was mostly peas with a paltry sliver of beef. The mere consideration of the smell was enough to make her gag.

  A stronger scent of some delectable dish overcame her revulsion. Was someone cooking? It smelled of potatoes and spices that would burn her tongue. Emma hurried down the stairs, following the heavenly scent. At the end of the trail, she hoped a big steaming bowl of whatever it was she inhaled. Her hunt led her into the kitchen where two lanterns cast a dim glow upon the room. Their innkeeper stood hunched over a pot, stirring the goodness inside.

  Emma cleared her throat to announce her presence. The woman jumped away from the pot and brandished the spoon like a weapon.

  They stared at one another. Emma’s arms went up in defense. “I am sorry to startle you so. I-I just could not sleep and then I smelled whatever delicious dish you were stirring.”

  The innkeeper tossed the spoon back into the pot before dipping into a deep curtsy. “It is I who am sorry, my lady.
You must forgive my reaction. I am often alone in tis inn and have been robbed often.”

  “How terrible!” Emma gasped. The woman just shook her head. Kinky coils of her midnight-black hair slipped from her modest bun. Her sienna skin gleamed with beads of sweat. Her mouth may be etched in fine lines, but her eyes were lively. Their colour reminded Emma of a Southern sea—a breathtaking blue-green shade with depths that men would die to discover. Emma had not a clue what any Southern sea really looked like. She had just read too many Greek myths and decided she was an expert.

  “I am a widowed foreign woman. I am an easy target for these criminals.”

  Emma’s stomach answered for her. Thea smiled. “If you do not mind to go out to the dining room, I can bring you a bowl.”

  “Does it have peas in it?” She blushed to even ask a question. But the innkeeper continued to smile though her lips grew tight at the corners.

  “No, my lady.”

  “What is your name? I rudely did not wait ask for it earlier. My mother would disown me if she saw what a marchioness I turned out to be.”

  “It is Thea, my lady.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Thea.” Emma peered at the stove. “Is there anything that I can help with? You do not seem to have any other employers. It must be tiresome to wait on your guests alone.”

  “I do not have many guests, my lady. This inn is rather run down and the keeper is a Negress. If this was Turkey or even Italy, people would not turn up their noses.”

  “England is not so welcoming,” the Marchioness agreed with a sigh that betrayed her own disappointments. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body. Thea pulled two wooden bowls down from a shelf and ladled in generous portions of her special stew. Emma did not leave for the dining room. She yanked out a stool and plopped down onto it.

  The careless action stilled Thea. She had to resist scolding the girl, no, the Marchioness. Juliet often treated stools with the same perfunctory carelessness.

  Lady Hartwell offered up another sigh. “The people I call my parents…are not the ones who created me,” she admitted in a quiet voice. Despite her fine clothing, Emma was still a lost girl whose world had been upturned too recently.

  “Oh,” was all Thea managed to say. Emma took that syllable as a push to go further.

  “My father was an Army officer, but not a soul in my family even knows the name of my mother. She died after I was born and my father took my back to England.”

  “What happened to him?” Thea placed a bowl before the girl. She bent over to take in a deep breath.

  “He was murdered by my aunt.” She dipped her spoon into the bowl. “At least that is what I think and it is dreadful to even consider.” Emma slurped up the spoonful of broth. “This is amazing!”

  “Thank you, my lady. The spices are my own special blend.”

  “I have never had potato stew quite like this.” She dipped her spoon in for more. “All I do know of my mother is that my father loved her very much and the colour of her skin.” She pulled up a sleeve of her gown. “Which she gave to me.”

  “Your mother was a Negress,” stated Thea. Lady Hartwell nodded. “Does Lord Hartwell know?” She nodded again.

  “I have known him since I was a child and the complexities of my birth do not worry him.”

  “Even when you have children?”

  “No, not at all.” She slanted a worried glance to Thea. “At least I hope.”

  “Your hope gives me hopes for my Juliet. Like you, her father was an English soldier. But he abandoned us many years ago. We lived in near poverty until a worldly adventuress decided she needed a new companion. Juliet and I traveled in splendor to England, where this woman offered me employment in the inn owned by her family. When Juliet came of age, she traveled to London for work.”

  “Do you miss him?” ventured Emma. Thea turned her face heavenward and closed her eyes. The room was silent or a moment. Was she thinking of their tender moments and the daughter they made together? Was she wondering if he abandoned her at all of if it was all a misunderstanding?

  “Yes, I do.” Thea’s voice choked with memories. She beamed at Emma. “My mother said I was a fool for getting married to a foreign officer. Perhaps she was right.” A helpless shrug accompanied her musings.

  Emma laid a hand over Thea’s. “You could not have known.” Thea nodded.

  “You are right.” She wiped the stray tears from her cheeks. “What is your father’s name? Perhaps I met him before. You seem to be the same age as Juliet, which means your father may have been around where my husband had been stationed.”

  “Captain Joseph Wren.”

  Thea laughed aloud, shaking her head. “It is not possible,” she replied. “It cannot be.”

  “I assure you that it is quite possible.” Emma frowned at the innkeeper. ”Did you know him?”

  She looked into the face that grew more familiar at they spoke. This little Marchioness cocked her head to the side, eyes dark and trying to fathom what she could mean.

  “Yes,” Thea said. “I knew him well.” She buried her face into her hands. “How did I not see this earlier?”

  “See what?”

  “Joseph was my husband.”

  Lady Hartwell had just come to terms with her lot in life. At nearly twenty, her life had been disturbed in ways that could send many to a madhouse. She bore it all with the grace expected of her. There were few shed tears and no tantrums. But this…this…was a Drury Lane Drama. If her father was Thea’s husband…then was this her mother?

  “M-Mother?”

  Chapter Twelve

  1796

  Lucille Wren had done what she needed to do. She had done what Henry was too cowardly to do himself. Her eldest brother, an earl, could not get his hands dirty like she did. But, she did it for the family. Those silly men, Devine and Rollings, had done their part in Africa. Now it was he turn. She would deliver the final blow.

  She tucked the incriminating letters inside her corset. No one would dare search through a lady’s bodice. It was helpful to her that England retained their staid ways. Lucille stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was eighteen and the belle of the Season. If only her stupid brother had not gotten involved with trash, then she could have enjoyed this Season to the fullest. It was all a game to her. After all, she knew she would marry Lt. Devine.

  They first met in 1793 when Joseph came home on leave. They snuck glances and exchanged love notes beneath the July sun. He opened the world to her and his mind. Devine first spoke to her of a movement to reclaim England for the English. There were too many dirty foreigners clogging up the streets and the noble bloodlines. A group of like-minded clergymen formed the Church of Supreme Holiness for those who wished to join the cause.

  At first, Lucille was aghast at the suggestion. Her interpretation of the Bible led her to believe that everyone, no matter their colour or religious persuasion, was a child of God. Did Jesus himself not preach of tolerance and love for all people? Was he not the one to forgive the harlot Mary Magdalene?

  “No,” Richard had said with that knee-weakening smile. “We are not created equal. Only those pure of blood could ascend to Heaven. It was the Church’s job to keep England clean.”

  Then, it began to make sense to her. The English were favoured by God himself. Did they not have the best of it all? Those Christians on the Continent loved to cavort with lesser beings. Their pure white bloodlines darkened into mud with every transgression.

  After that fateful July day, Lucille took it upon herself to keep her family upon the right path. Soon, Henry married a wealthy heiress. Despite her own opinion of Constance, not a soul could question her heritage with her flaxen locks, alabaster skin and china-blue eyes. She would give Henry beautiful children. Lucille had high hopes for her sibling.

  Until he wrote home of his marriage to some common woman. Lucille may have been able to live with the disgrace, but no, it was worse than that! She was a dirty African. Devine had been
correct about the women o that race. They seduced good men with wild sex tricks. This would not do. Not at all. Henry claimed to be happy with this marriage. It was high time Joseph found himself a wife. Any wife. What a fool.

  In haste, she wrote to Lt. Devine with deliberate plans. If not yet with child, that woman would soon be. In the event that should happen, he should murder both mother and child. She did not care how, but it must be done. Imagine her surprise when Joseph arrived at their doorstep with a horridly dark babe. Lucille grew blind with rage and retired to her chamber. Devine had failed in his mission.

  “At least he got rid of the witch,” she had muttered. Lucille had just about accustomed herself to the half-breed child when Joseph wrote to her. He wanted to take her out of the will. All his earthly possessions would go to Emma. Every. Single. One. Thousands of pounds to a grubby child. No. This would not do.

  Lucille appeared to accept this news and continued on with her life. But a plan was brewing inside her devious mind. She was accustomed to send a jug of delicious red wine to her brother every month. She would do so again, but this one would have a special ingredient. They said that poison was a woman’s weapon. That much was true. Lucille did not wish to dirty her genteel hands with the blood of her brother.

  He was not supposed to die so soon. It was a regrettable side-effect of poison, but it had to be that way. Disposing of the new will had been easy. But not as easy as bribing a tired old coroner to fib on an autopsy report. It was the perfect crime.

  Until 2nd Lt. Rollings informed her further of Devine’s cowardice the summer before. All those years she believed Devine was her hero, saving Joseph from his own folly. That woman was dead and gone as was her brother. His demise was regrettable, but it had to be done. She had his money. She was rich as Croesus. She lived in his properties. A townhome in Paris. A villa in Italy. Even a home in Vienna. Lucille lived in these home and furthered her own efforts. Until last summer. Until she discovered the truth.