by Nikki Poppen
Somewhere in his rational brain, he knew there was no real need to worry. She was a gypsy. What could she know of him and his family? Of his parents? Most likely, her claims were nothing more than a stab in the dark. She probably pulled this scam the length of the country. Still, he silently cursed the dysfunctional nature of his parents’ marriage, his mother’s mental instability, and his father’s inability to recognize affection when it was offered to him. All of which combined to create enough doubt that he had to take the lovely gypsy’s claims with a certain degree of seriousness.
It was some consolation to know that despite her claims to the contrary, he would be able to foist her off with a large sum of money and in a week this farce would be over. But in the meantime, he felt as if he was on the brink of being physically ill. He’d been Trojan horsed.
Irina had come to Spelthorne, all earthy beauty and lovely seduction. The peaceful image she’d made sitting at his bedroom window was still freshly etched in his mind’s eye. That moment existed in a suspended reality, an alternate reality, one in which she did not open her mouth and ruin the illusion. But she had and it became clear to Giles that she had come to his home deliberately to lay her claims.
It didn’t matter that her claims would come to naught. He was still angry-something he seldom was. There was little cause to be angry or even to be upset in his well-ordered world, but Giles recognized the foreign emotion immediately. Warrior lords of old must have felt this way upon seeing an attacking army advancing on their holds, their homes. The comparison was apt. The gypsy’s ploy was akin to a declaration of war. She’d put Spelthorne under siege.
He heard the door open but didn’t turn around. He gathered another deep breath before he had to face Alain and Tristan. He was glad for Tristan’s suggestion that they weather the night together, but it was deuced awkward to try and explain the situation. Glasses clinked on the side board.
“Brandy or whiskey, Giles?” Alain asked.
“Neither. I don’t want to risk a muddled head,” Giles said, turning to face Tristan and Alain.
Alain put down the glass he’d been preparing. “Good idea. I’ll ring for coffee. We’ll need that much at least to get through the night.”
Giles nodded and motioned to the two men to take the chairs set in front of the desk. He took up his place behind the desk, needing the security it offered. The three of them might be more comfortable in the overstuffed chairs set before the marble fireplace, but Giles needed the authority that went with sitting in the worn chair behind the desk from which he conducted so much of Spelthorne’s business.
Tristan and Alain came and settled themselves. “Tristan told me the basics on the way down. What exactly does she base her claim on?” Alain began.
Giles spread the documents before them on the desk.
“A birth certificate and a diary?” Alain’s skepticism was obvious.
“A birth certificate can be easily forged. Public records contain dates, and the parish records in the village would have the details she claims.” Tristan dismissed the certificate as inconsequential.
“The diary could be complete fabrication. There’s no way to know if its fiction or truth. Who would be able to validate its contents?” Alain suggested.
“Those are the arguments I made with her this evening,” Giles said, gratified that his friends shared his train of thought.
“Even if she believed the claims were legitimate, what can she do to push them?” Alain asked, lazily studying the onyx inkwell on the desk’s corner. “Has she a fortune to spend on legal fees? Does she have a barrister who will take on her case? Is there anyone who will believe her?”
“Not that I know of.” Giles grimaced and blew out a long breath. “Her very inability to pursue this is what bothers me most. From all aspects, it seems her cause is futile. It is dangerous to play the imposter, and yet she does. What does she hope to gain?” He pushed a hand through his disheveled hair.
“Money?” Tristan offered.
“I already offered her a tidy sum to take her game somewhere else. She turned it down. She wanted only the right to stay at Spelthorne until I read the diary.”
“Did you grant the request?” Alain queried.
“Yes. I thought it would be best to keep her where I could see her until this was settled.”
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin on hands. “Then I think there is only one thing to do and that is read the diary. We can’t decide a course of action until we know what is in there.”
A footman scratched the door and entered with the heavy silver coffee service. He settled it on the low table by the fireplace, giving the three men a chance to rise and resettle themselves in the comfortable chairs. Alain poured steaming cups of coffee while Giles began to read out loud.
February 24, 1787
I am convinced I have conceived at last. I have called upon my husband, the earl’s physician to verify my condition. Perhaps the birth of a child, of a son, will win me some affection and warmth from Spelthorne. I have long been of the belief that our marital estrangement has been due to the lack of children. It has been five years since our marriage-a long time to wait.
March 13, 1787
I am indeed expecting a child, and I am reminded of that every morning. I have been dreadfully ill, and I have lost weight in the early stages of this pregnancy. My clothes hang on my frame, and Spelthorne seems repulsed by my haggard appearance. To my regret, he greeted the news of our impending parenthood with neutral good form, saying all the correct things but none of the things I wished to hear. Since the announcement, he has taken himself back to London and no doubt the mistress he keeps there. He has indicated he will return in time for his heir’s birth in September, and I am free to send for him before then if there is need. I am not welcome in London this season and I find myself alone in the country with few people for company this time of year.
“Their life doesn’t sound all that different than other couples I know,” Tristan said while Giles leafed ahead in the diary. “Nor does it sound all that original. This could be any noblewoman’s diary. Perhaps she found it at a flea market and made a few alterations.”
Alain perked up from his habitual slouch. “Giles, do you have any of your mother’s correspondence left? Letters she wrote? We can match the handwriting.”
“There may be some left in the safe. I have a box of her things in there” Giles stood up and passed the diary to Tristan. “It’s your turn to read while I open the safe. Skip ahead to the parts closer to the birth. The earlier months look like more of the same, complaints over pregnancy and loneliness. No matter how cursory the entries are, the theme is clear. She was eager for my father’s approval, and she was denied it.” Hurt was evident in his voice, and he wished he’d had control enough to hide it. He didn’t want his friends to see him so vulnerable. His father had been a hard man, taciturn and stoic in his ways, despite his handsome looks. Giles knew himself to have his share of good looks, but up until tonight he’d always been thankful that people thought he took after his mother with his golden hair and blue eyes. Now, he wished he might have looked a bit more like his father, darker with hazel eyes. It would have gone some distance in alleviating the seeds of doubt in his mind.
Tristan took the book hesitantly. “Are you sure? This is private, perhaps it would be better if you read it.”
Giles shook his head. “No. If there’s any truth to Irina’s claims, it’s best you know everything from the start” He strode behind the desk and knelt down to begin fiddling with the safe. Tristan’s voice came low and firm from the fireplace.
August 12, 1787
The baby is a boy, I know it. It kicks lustily and often, which is an uncomfortable consolation for all I have had to endure alone. The heat of the summer has been miserable. My ankles have swollen to three times their size, and I’ve become a lumbering ox. I alternately wish for Spelthorne’s presence and am thankful for his absence. I am not the least bit desirable in my curren
t state. I am already planning my wardrobe for the season next year. It will be delightful to wear fashionable clothing again and to dance in dainty slippers.
August 20, 1787
To alleviate the boredom of my life in the country, I have let the gypsy’s camp on the corner of Spelthorne Abbey. I took my maid and walked to their camp today for something to do. I saw the fortuneteller, a handsome, determined sort of woman named Magda, who I judged to be in her late twenties. She also acts as a healer for the caravan, and has an interesting knowledge of herbs. Her knowledge of herbs was far better than her fortunetelling ability, for she predicted that my child would be a daughter.
August 21, 1787
I received devastating news from Spelthorne today. Parliament has closed, and he is off to a friend’s country house. He tells me to send word of his child’s birth to this address. If it is a male heir he will return home to celebrate. If not, he will return home after grouse hunting, and we can try again. I am devastated and angry. I had so hoped a child would be the answer to our flagging marriage, but now I despair of anything short of a son repairing a marriage that was broken from the start. I see now that he desired a traditional society marriage, despite the intensity of his courtship so many years ago.
I cannot shake the gypsy’s fortune, and I doubt my earlier belief that a child will be a son although no other option can be considered. I will not doom a daughter of mine to the empty existence that has become my life as a countess. Spelthorne would shun a daughter. She would be ignored as I am.
August 30, 1787
Doctor Tallbridge assures me there is not much longer to wait for the arrival of the child. Indeed, I spent most of the day lying down and suffering pains although the doctor noted there was no progress towards being delivered. There was, however, blood, and I thought Doctor Tallbridge was more concerned than he let on.
September 16, 1787
I have taken a turn for the worse. I cannot get out of bed, and the bleeding continues. Doctor Tallbridge can do nothing until true labor begins. I called earlier today for the gypsy, Magda, in the hopes that she has knowledge of an herb that can safely stimulate the birth of the child. She came and listened to my belly and put her hands on it. She said the baby must be born soon. The child is in distress. She has herbs to give me although they carry some risk of their own. But I am desperate to birth this child and be done with pregnancy.
“Did you find those letters yet, Giles?” Tristan called, setting down the book.
“Not yet. Keep reading.” Giles said in muffled tones from behind the desk.
“It’s Alain’s turn. I have to say all this feminine writing about birthing makes me uneasy. I feel quite intrusive reading about it,” Tristan complained.
Alain gave a bark of laughter. “I didn’t think you were squeamish about anything, Tristan. Alright, where did we leave off? Oh yes, the herbs”
There was an extended silence. Giles stood up. “Alain, you’re supposed to read out loud.”
Alain’s voice was soft and shocked when he spoke. “I know. There’s nothing written again until September 24th.” Alain gulped hard. “I don’t know if I can read this out loud.” He held the book out to Giles, his eyes filled with a kind of horror. “Please, take it.”
Giles went to him and gingerly took the battered red book. He settled into his chair, not missing the worried glances that passed between Tristan and Alain. He steeled himself as best he could. After all, he knew what was most likely written in the next entry. Irma had told him as much earlier. He knew what had to be there if Irma had any support for her outrageous claim. Despite his efforts to neutralize his reaction, Giles scanned the first few lines and knew he could not read the entry out loud either.
He read deliberately, taking in each word and imprinting it in his mind in the hopes that reading this story would not be necessary again. Afterward, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, seeking some sort of clarity but none came. The terrible litany of it’s true, it’s true. Everything Irma said was true ran mercilessly through his head. Oh God, what was he going to do?
“It’s all true,” Giles said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence that blanketed the room. “Everything she said is right there in the diary.” It was a terrible truth too-the lengths to which one woman had gone to win the affections of a husband incapable of giving them. The story served as a strong moral in regards to allowing oneself to be swept away on the tides of passion. “It’s all there. There was a daughter sent to the gypsies and replaced by a cottager’s illegitimate son.”
“Of course the diary collaborates her story,” Tristan interjected swiftly. “She would not have shown it to you otherwise. That doesn’t prove the diary is authentic. For all we know, she made the story up and hired someone to write it down. Truly, Giles, the story proves less than you think. It would have made no sense for her to show you a diary that didn’t collaborate her tale.”
Giles nodded, grateful for the devious twists and turns of Tristan’s mind. Tristan’s thoughts did ease the knot of fear residing in his chest. “It is difficult to believe someone would go to such lengths to undermine another’s life,” Giles said.
“Believe it. When there’s money involved, people will do almost anything,” Tristan said grimly. “After seven years of espionage work for the crown, I believe people are capable of anything, no matter how inhumane or how improbable.”
“There is still the consideration of the letters,” Alain spoke up. “Did you find any handwriting samples?”
“Yes, they’re on the desk” Giles rose to get the pile he left behind when Alain had asked him to read the fateful diary entry. “I rather wish I hadn’t found them.” He passed the packet to Alain who slipped the first one out of its envelope and opened it.
Alain laid the letter next to a randomly selected diary entry and grimaced. “I had hoped the handwriting would be vastly different.”
Giles picked the letter up and scanned the contents. “The writing style is the same as well, very succinct, very direct and to the point. My mother was not one to waste words.”
“More to the point,” Tristan drawled, long legs spread out in front of him. “Was she actually capable of what Irina claims?”
Giles met Alain’s eyes, a wealth of childhood memories passing in that single glance. Tristan had not met them until they had gone to Eton but Giles and Alain had grown up together on neighboring summer estates in the Lake District. The threesome might have known each other for over fifteen years, but Alain and Giles had known each other over twenty.
“I forget, Tristan, that you did not know my parents. In the years I knew my mother, I would have to say yes. Her entire focus was my father. She alternated from being desperate for his favor and being furious at him for withholding it. She craved his affection. I have long thought it was his behavior toward her that drove her insane in the end” Another reason why love was so bloody dangerous. Unrequited love had no recourse.
Giles tinkered with the lid of an expensive, inlaid trifle box that sat on a table next to his chair. “She had a boating accident on the lake the summer before we met at school” He neglected to say she’d gone out on the lake during a late summer storm and had no business trying to man the oars herself. But she’d been angry with his father yet again over some imagined or real slight. It had been hard to tell the difference in those last days when her sanity had been in question.
Giles passed a hand over his mouth as if he feared what might come out of it if he kept talking. “I think I’d like to be alone” He said quietly.
“No.” Tristan said firmly, surprising Giles with the force of his refusal. Tristan rose and began to pace. “If we leave you alone, you will sit here and be maudlin. You’re giving up far too easily, and that is exactly what this woman hopes for. At best, she has found a chink in your family armor-the estrangement between your mother and father-and she has extrapolated it into a fantastical fairy tale. You’re not even trying to fight”
“Tristan, you don’t understand. We have to be very careful to avoid a scandal. This must be handled delicately,” Giles protested.
“Oh yes, we’ll be discreet,” Tristan said, stopping at the window to stroke his chin and study the lightening landscape. “We’ll call her down here as soon as it’s light. We’ll tell her she can take us to court which of course she can’t afford to do, and even if she could the system is so backlogged it will take years to get a hearing. If we stick to our position, she’ll have to back down. She hasn’t the wherewithal to see us in court. Then, Giles, you’ll write her a nice check and send her on her way”
“She won’t take money. Remember, I already tried that?”
“She didn’t take it because she thought she had a bigger fish to land. Once she realizes she cannot possibly win, she’ll be happy enough to take your check”
“What if she’s telling the truth?” Giles asked. “I can’t send her away knowing that I’ve wronged her. My God, do you realize the enormity of the truth? Of what she’s been denied?”
Tristan rounded on Giles, anger evident in the depths of his brown eyes. “I do realize the enormity of this ! I am trying to find a way to protect Spelthorne and all you’ve worked for from a fortune hunter. What does she know about running an estate? She will ruin your entire life’s ambition within three years, if not sooner. You can’t doom your tenants to that. They adore you”
Tristan lowered his voice, some of his frustration gone. “I am trying to protect you as well. You are Spelthorne. You’ve worked your whole life to be the earl, and I am not going to step aside and let your damnable honor get the best of you, not when you’re the best earl I’ve ever met. I’ve yet to meet someone who cares for his land with the devotion you show”