The Romany Heiress

by Nikki Poppen

  He nodded his approval and turned to greet Tristan and Alain who entered together, freshly washed from their hunting expedition. The twosome regaled the group with their exploits, filled which much teasing over who actually had bagged the better grouse. Giles couldn’t help but think of his own expedition to the river. The thought was quite distracting, but not nearly so distracting as the vision gracing the door way. It took a moment to register that the woman was Cate.

  His manners faltered. The old-styled gown from the previous century hugged her slender waist to perfection, the puffed sleeves that started just below her shoulder showed her creamy skin to advantage. The full skirts swayed and shushed sensually as she moved toward the group. The upsweep of her hair lent her a regal air. Not for the first time, Giles thought, “Snow White.” A Snow White for adults. Then he thought, that was precisely what she wanted him to think, what had inspired the daring gown. Snow White, the story of a princess hidden away in the servants’ quarters, dressed in the rags of a slave. But nothing could dim the true goodness of her heart. What was the moral his old nurse had told him? That a princess is more than beauty? That was it, a princess was a princess because of what was in her heart. He had said as much to Cate at the river that afternoon. He was certain she was reminding him of that with her choice of gown.

  Of course, being a boy, he’d scoffed at his nurse’s moral, saying he wasn’t interested in the tales of princesses. They were for girls. His nurse had reminded him that the story was about a prince too. That prince was smart enough, good enough in his own heart to see the purity and goodness of others beyond their clothes and fancy manners. The prince had loved her when she was a serving girl long before he awakened her with love’s first kiss.

  That part made him shift uncomfortably. Cate and he had awakened much more down at the river and his body would be a long time forgetting it.

  The butler thankfully announced supper and they traipsed in, ready to enjoy the meal. True to their word, Cecile and Isabella made the occasion festive with candlelight on the table and the laying out of the abbey’s finest china. The look on Cate’s face when she saw the table laid out in all its splendor was priceless and filled Giles with satisfaction at being the one who could provide her which such a slice of luxury. How many nights had he eaten on this same china with guests who had not once acted the least impressed or appreciative of the beauty laid before them? Cate’s appreciation was refreshing.

  Despite his earlier apprehension, the meal was a relaxing, enjoyable affair. Wine and conversation flowed easily between the six of them and laughter reigned. After dessert they all adjourned to the music room where Isabella had ordered a fire laid and lamps lit so that there could be music. Cecile was an accomplished violinist, and she entertained them until Isabella persuaded Cate to join Cecile.

  Cecile always traveled with her own violin and the spare violin could not be denied. Giles added his own voice to Isabella’s. “I would love to hear you play. Isabella says you play wondrously, but I am away from the house apparently when you practice.”

  Cate rose and smoothed her skirts. She hesitantly picked up the violin and fiddled with the strings. Cecile set out a sheaf of music. “I’ll start, jump in when you’re ready”

  The music Cecile had selected was the music of the English countryside, simple love songs and ballads. Giles thought it was the finest he’d heard. Cate was an excellent musician, her music full of heart and feeling. After a while, he noted Cecile stepped back and put down her violin. Cate was too far gone to notice she was playing alone. Her eyes were shut as she swayed with the violin, her fingers flying over the strings. In her full skirts, her movements were hypnotic. She was playing gypsy music now, Giles was sure of it. The notes of the violin evoked images of bonfires and dancers swaying to an earthy rhythm. He could have listened to her play for hours, and he might have had not a discreet scratch on the door drawn his attention.

  Reluctantly he rose to answer it in hushed tones. “Reginald, what is it?” he whispered, not wanting to disturb the performance.

  “A note, my lord. It came for you just now.” Reginald held out the silver salver, revealing the sealed white stationery.

  Dread filled Giles. “Thank you, Reginald. You may retire.”

  Before turning back to the group, he cracked the seal and read the brief missive. It was as he suspected. He felt someone beside him. It was Alain.

  “What is it?” Alain asked, not bothering to whisper. The music had stopped, and everyone was looking expectantly in his direction.

  Giles swallowed and mastered his emotions. He scanned the room, wanting to remember the way they all looked on their last evening. He wanted to remember Cate, regal and beautiful in her red gown, her face soft in the lamplight before all hell broke loose. Before he had to send her away.

  “It’s a note from the inn. The vicar has arrived. He will be here at the abbey tomorrow morning. We are to expect him at ten o’clock.”

  Morning arrived early and passed slowly. Giles tried to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring with the vicar’s impending visit. He rose at 6:00 after spending a sleepless night in his chambers, not daring to go down to the study lest one of the servants become curious about the late night lights. He dressed for his usual morning ride and set out alone.

  The ritual of the morning ride offered him a chance to organize his thoughts for the day, lay out his plans. This morning was no different in that respect, only his thoughts were. Tristan and Alain had quietly assured him last night that all would be well. He knew they had worked diligently the past month on his behalf to establish his identity should it become necessary. It would take an army of legal experts to get past Tristan and Alain. Aside from legitimate avenues of proof, Giles also knew he had the issue of status and credibility on his side. There were favors that could be called in, favors that could be bestowed in order to set the record in his favor. He didn’t want to win that way. But if it came to that, if that was the only way to keep Spelthorne, would he do it? In spite of his claims to Cate that having ethics meant not applying them haphazardly when one felt like it, Giles was not at all sure what he might feel compelled to do to keep Spelthorne. That troubled him greatly. He did not like to think there was such a weak spot in his armor. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

  Giles spurred his big hunter forward as he approached a grassy flat area, preparing to give the horse his head. The rush of cold morning wind ruffled his bare head and the crisp air in his face served to exorcise at least briefly the quandary over what he might be driven to do.

  He reined in the horse at the top of the rise on the other side of the grassy area. He had not deliberately chosen to come this way but now that he had, new thoughts assailed him, new doubts. The village lay before him, rosy and peaceful in the early light of a new day. The baker was already plying his trade and the earliest of farmers were arriving with fresh produce and milk. From a distance it was a bucolic sight, hiding the hard work and effort of living these lives every day. Had he really been born to be one of them? What if Cate’s information was correct and he was nothing more than a cottager’s son? What if he was born to be a common tradesman? For a cottager’s son, becoming a tradesman would have been high marks indeed. Most likely, he’d been born to a farming family and not a very successful one at that.

  These were the thoughts that had plagued him throughout the night. Giles reached beneath his riding coat and drew out the gold pocket watch he carried. He flipped over the cover. Seven o’clock. Three hours until the verdict. He stared at the timepiece, seeing its elegance as if for the first time. Slowly, he pulled off his riding gloves and deliberately fingered the fine wool fabric of his coat. The three hundred pounds he spent on his wardrobe annually did not seem exorbitant to him against the sparkling backdrop of the ton where women of rank spent five hundred pounds a year on a collection of elaborate gowns worn two or three times a piece. However, against the backdrop of village life, three hundred pounds was a fortu
ne. Many of the workers were exceedingly lucky to make ten or fifteen pounds a year.

  What if he wasn’t Spelthorne? Where would he go? What would he do? He had a college education from Oxford. He supposed he could try his hand at teaching or tutoring. That caused him to shudder. He thought of the severely dressed tutors that had traipsed through his life in their serviceable, worn black coats and trousers. He shuddered as much from the possibility as he did from the realization that he feared poverty. He was something of a spoilt young man, fearful of living without the easy luxuries he’d been surrounded by.

  Perhaps Cate would let him keep a few things. What would she let him keep? What should he ask for? His horse? An annual allowance? Maybe she would consider pensioning him off. He grimaced at that. He didn’t like the idea of living under the strictures of another person’s allowance. He would feel kept, owned. Dependent on another. It didn’t take long to see that that was precisely what he’d planned for her fate. He liked to think that situation was different. The manor in Shepperton would be a step up for her, a large step. Still, she would be reliant on him for any increase or permission for an extra purchase. No, he wouldn’t like it any more than he was starting to expect she would, no matter that his motives had been good ones. Still, he would offer-if it was his to offer.

  These were maudlin thoughts ! He had to shake them. He wheeled the big hunter around and set him off at a blister pace, giving himself over to the thrill of ride, deliberately seeking hedges to jump, creeks to gallop through until at last Spelthorne Abbey came into view and he cantered his steaming steed into the stable yard, calling for a groom as if he were lord of the manor and nothing was about to change that. Of course, nothing was. He had let his imagination run away with him out there in the meadows. Spelthorne was his. He had no reason to believe Cate had any claim to it, that the story in the journal was real.

  Everyone except Cate was assembled in the breakfast parlor when he strode in. He tried not to notice the awkward silence that fell when he entered the room. Casually, he helped himself to the dishes on the sideboard. Even though he’d bolstered his confidence in the stable yard, he was struggling to maintain it. The blue and yellow dishes holding the eggs and kippers on the sideboard had been specially made for his mother in Italy. They fit the cheeriness of the room ideally. The silver pots holding the morning chocolate Isabella was so fond off had been done as a wedding gift for his grandparents.

  His eyes burned. His throat clogged. Straightening his shoulders, he set his plate down and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’d forgotten I have something to do in the study.”

  In the study, he sank down in one of the leather chairs and stared out the window. There was nothing for it. Between now and 10:00 when the vicar arrived, he was a hopeless sapskull. He couldn’t pull his thoughts out of their dark depths.

  He wasn’t allowed to stew alone for very long. Within ten minutes, Alain and Tristan slipped inside the room and took up their positions-Tristan at the window, hands clasped behind his back, Alain in the chair opposite Giles.

  “Are you going to be alright?” Alain asked.

  “Ask me in a few hours. I cannot answer that question from where I sit at present,” Giles said.

  “Do you fear she is right? Is there something you haven’t told us?” Tristan asked from the window.

  “I’ve told you all I know” Giles sighed heavily. “There will be no good outcome today. If her claims prove false, she will be devastated. My victory will hurt her. For whatever reason, she believes unerringly in the truth of her claims. She is not a knowing fraud in this. Of course, I’ve made provisions for her. There is no question of her going back to the gypsy caravan. I’ve found a house for her in Shepperton. She’ll have a solid allowance for the maintenance of her new lifestyle.”

  Tristan whistled. “That’s quite generous of you since she is the one who has come to see you dethroned. I do not know if I would be so forgiving of someone who did as much to me”

  “I will not see her hurt”

  “Why is that?” Tristan asked, spearing Giles with a dark gaze.

  Giles met his friend’s inquiry evenly. “I have grown attached to her. She is not evil. She does not do this out of a sense of revenge”

  “Do you think she will do the same for you?” Tristan cocked a dark eyebrow.

  “I hope it will not come to that. I have tried not to ponder it.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I am guessing,” Alain put in softly.

  Giles turned to Alain, unable to bear the burden of his fears alone any longer. “I think a dying man must feel this way when he suspects the end is near. Everything becomes more cherished, more valuable. I wonder what Cate might be convinced to let me keep should I be the one who is in the wrong. But I find I cannot make distinctions between what I would take or leave. All of Spelthorne is wound up together in my history like a big ball of yarn. This morning, I saw my grandparent’s sil ver, my mother’s dishes from Italy. Everywhere I look, there is my history, my tradition, at least what I had been taught was my tradition. Spelthorne is me, and I am Spelthorne. I do not know how I could leave it.”

  “You won’t have to,” Alain encouraged.

  “Alain’s right, you know,” Tristan argued from the window. “You’ve put too much weight on the vicar’s visit. In reality, this visit only decides what we do next. The vicar is not a court of law. He is merely a witness and mayhap not even a reliable one”

  “I suppose your idea of reliable is whether or not he agrees with us?” Giles asked.

  “Absolutely. We have options. We just need to select the right options based on our circumstances,” Tristan said staunchly.

  No one said anything else, but Giles found himself comforted by Tristan’s words. The vicar was only the next of many steps in unraveling the mystery Cate had laid before them. He wasn’t going to lose Spelthorne, at least not today, and for the present, that seemed to be enough.

  The vicar arrived promptly at 10:00 and met by them all in the formal drawing room. Giles had changed out of his riding clothes into proper morning attire. It would have passed as ordinary in London, but for the country, the Spanish blue morning coat with waistcoat, buff inexpressibles, polished Hoby’s, and the cravat tied in a “mail coach” knot bespoke of sartorially wellturned out gentleman.

  Giles wanted it that way. He did not remember the vicar well since the man had received the offer up north during Giles’s youth. Likewise, the vicar did not know him beyond any recollection he might have of a lad at the manor. Giles wanted to make a solid first impression, one that indicated the kind of man he was, the kind of man who ran Spelthorne. He was pleased to note that Alain and Tristan had also taken time to turn themselves out to best advantage. The three of them looked like gentlemen to take seriously. The women were turned out well too in their morning gowns of jaconet muslin.

  The picture the five of them presented was formidable, if the vicar’s face was any indicator. The vicar was a tall, thin man with a beaky nose and kind eyes. Fading brown hair edging toward sparseness was evident when he removed his hat and handed it to the butler.

  Giles came forward. “I am Spelthorne. I am pleased you could undertake the journey and meet with us. I felt that our conversation should take place in person instead of a series of letters for the sake of clarity and resolution. I trust your journey was pleasant? The weather has held remarkably well for fall. The inn is highly recommended, and I’ve told the innkeeper to send your bill straight to me”

  “Thank you,” the man said nervously, glancing around the elegant gold and cream drawing room. “Spelthorne is much as I remember it years ago under the previous earl and yet, it seems somehow changed for the better. I am Vicar Robert Waring. It has been years. Twenty two of them since I was a young man here, early in my calling to the church”

  “I hope during your stay, you’ll make free of the grounds and reacquaint yourself.” Giles gestured to a chair between Alain and Tristan’s. “Tea shall be served shortly, an
d then we can begin to unravel the situation. I shall send for Cate. It is time for her to be down here as well since this concerns her.”

  “There’s no need, I’m right here” Cate entered the room before Giles could send off a footman. To her credit she looked nervous, and Giles was struck with a pang of selfishness. While he’d been languishing in the study, he’d had the comfort of his friends’ presence. She’d had no one. Surely, she was as nervous about the vicar’s visit as he was. Both their lives seemed to hang in the balance of the man’s words, of his remembrances. She didn’t know, as he did, that the ending was a happy one for her either way. At worst, she’d walk out of here today with the lease on a nice property and an allowance for life.

  Once tea was poured out, Giles turned to Robert Waring. “Cate has in her possession two documents that are at the source of our conundrum” This was her cue and she took it, producing the birth certificate and the diary.

  “The birth certificate is of main interest to you, Vicar,” Giles went on, “since it bears your signature as witness to the birth of a Catherine Celeste Moncrief on the seventeenth day of September.” Inwardly he marveled at how calm he sounded. After the emotional strain of the morning, he hadn’t been sure he would be up to conducting the interview with his usual savoir faire. Across from him, Cate was pale, her green eyes looking larger than usual against the whiteness of her face.

  “The diary is of less importance although it is the source that suggests the baby girl was switched at birth for a boy born the same day” Gingerly Giles handed over the worn red diary, opening it to the entry regarding the events of the fateful night.

  The group sat in silence, giving the vicar time to assess the documents and gather his thoughts. “What is that you want to know from me?

  Giles cleared his throat. “I want to know if it is true. Did the countess bear a daughter but never a son?”