An Inconceivable Deception

by Sydney Jane Baily

  Come what may, Rose would have a few of those before the day was through.

  “Of course, it looks as if you have it all quite under control,” she said. “As expected. We were so pleased when we heard you were going to host. It certainly wouldn’t have been seemly for Claire to do so — a little premature in some people’s eyes. Of course, it’s a bit of a task these days for Mrs. Brewster, don’t you agree? If only she’d had a daughter,” Rose finished, turning to beam at Claire as if that would be rectified soon.

  “I . . . I,” Maeve began.

  At last Claire found her voice. “Franklin said he would try to stop by while I was here. Do you know if he is at home?”

  Rose was proud of how Claire had worked in that her beau expected her to be at the party. She gave her friend an encouraging smile.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Maeve said. “Would you both like some punch? I think I’m going to have some.” With that, she turned away and helped herself to a generous glassful of the intoxicating lemon and champagne beverage, spooning a dollop of meringue on top from the porcelain bowl sitting at the ready.

  She took a large gulp and then another before downing the potation entirely. When she faced them, she had meringue clinging to the space between her thin upper lip and her pointy nose. Rose would be damned if she’d tell Maeve.

  “Um,” Claire began. “You have—”

  “So Franklin invited you?” Maeve asked.

  How rude, Rose thought, as if there was any question that Claire should be invited.

  “What a strange question. Naturally, Franklin knew that Claire would have been invited to any gathering of ladies at his home. Why do you ask?”

  “I think I hear my aunt calling me,” Maeve said in a faint tone and disappeared from the room still clutching her empty glass.

  “Yes, you go tell the ol’ biddy,” Rose murmured as soon as Franklin’s cousin had disappeared.

  However, Claire looked shaken. “You don’t think Mrs. Brewster will throw us out when she hears we’ve come, do you?”

  “She wouldn’t dare,” Rose said. “Franklin would be furious. Besides, you were recently at a Wetmore ball. At Chateau-sur-Mer, for goodness sake!”

  Claire brightened. “True.”

  The sound of footsteps caused them both to face the door and in came Lucy with two sisters of their acquaintance followed by another young lady of good reputation. In fact, as more came in, Rose noticed they all had a few things in common: their age, their family status, which was not surprising, and their brown locks. All brunettes, not a one as dark as the Irish Malloys, nor flaxen as the Appletons. Every single one, a chestnut brown.

  While young ladies were still arriving, Franklin suddenly entered. The girls all parted like hens before a rooster. Except for Claire. She stood her ground and waited for him to come up to her.

  Good girl, Rose thought.

  Franklin’s genuine smile of admiration warmed Rose’s heart. This would work out. It had to. Obviously he cared deeply for Claire, and she, him.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he said to Claire, then glanced over her shoulder. “It looks like a fine spread, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself. Moreover, it is nice simply to have you in my home. That doesn’t happen often enough.”

  Whose fault was that? Rose wondered. If only the man were more assertive.

  Claire smiled up at him. “I’m glad to be here and ever so happy that you stopped in.”

  He grinned at her, and for a long, awkward moment, they seemed to forget anyone else was there, as they stood staring into each other’s eyes.

  Rose observed the other guests. The ladies were murmuring, frowns upon their unblemished faces, talking behind gloved hands. It became painfully clear what they were saying. They’d been led to believe that Claire and Franklin had broken off their association, and that he was freely searching for a wife.

  The tea was a gathering of eligible daughters from good homes, but was Franklin supposed to attend the tea and choose one, or was someone else going to do the choosing? Maeve perhaps or—

  Mrs. Brewster, with Maeve trailing behind, glided into the room, her face a thunderous scowl as she took in the sight of her son and Claire. Her appearance instantly stopped both the happy couple’s long dance of gazes and smiles as well as all the disgruntled whispering.

  Recalling herself, Mrs. Brewster took in the ladies with an encompassing smile. “So glad you all could come. Please, let Annie serve you whatever tempts your appetite.”

  Sure enough, a slender girl had appeared beside the sideboard as if by magic, apron starched, kerchief in place, and ready to serve the upper echelon of Boston’s society. The ladies surged forward like hungry hogs at a trough.

  However, Rose kept her eyes on the drama unfolding in front of her as Mrs. Brewster’s smile died and, grim faced, she ordered Franklin to accompany her out of the room. She did not greet either interloper, and Rose nearly stuck her tongue out at the woman’s broad back as she exited.

  Maeve, for her part, almost looked contrite. Perhaps she was only doing as her aunt had requested by hosting the party. Or perhaps her expression was due to the champagne she’d imbibed.

  After sidling up to the end of the buffet table, offering the beleaguered Annie a commiserating smile — the serving woman looked strangely familiar — Rose darted her hand in and snatched up a chocolate that she quickly popped into her mouth. Thus fortified, she waylaid Maeve, steering her toward the corner of the room and away from Claire, who had struck up a conversation with one of the guests whom she knew.

  “These ladies,” she said to Franklin’s cousin, “they are all of a type, I noticed.”

  Maeve let her gaze drift over the roomful of women happily munching on tiny sandwiches.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she said vaguely.

  “They are all here at Mrs. Brewster’s special invitation, correct?”

  “They were invited by my aunt,” Maeve allowed.

  “I would ask you the purpose of this tea, except I have surmised it is so Franklin’s mother can choose him a bride. Is that also correct?”

  Rose ignored Maeve’s astonished expression at how plainly and boldly she was speaking, yet she could see no virtue in tiptoeing around this unpleasant business.

  “I will take that as a yes,” Rose added when Maeve said nothing. “Moreover, from Franklin’s behavior, he was unaware that his mother was bride-shopping. What I can’t understand is why Mrs. Brewster is set against Miss Appleton. Surely, Claire is above reproach.”

  A shadow flickered across Maeve’s face.

  Ah-ha, thought Rose. There is something. At the very least, there was some matter that Maeve and Mrs. Brewster had discussed, though whatever it was, it could not be true.

  Maeve tried to move past her, but Rose stepped quickly sideways.

  “I don’t know anything,” Maeve insisted.

  “In the same way that you didn’t know anything about William Woodsom’s kissing habits? Or how about meddling in my association with him by sending him chasing after me the other day? What did you hope to gain by that? Why, I am starting to wonder if you are carrying a torch for my fiancé.”

  Maeve pursed her lips. “I never would have thought this before, but I am not sure you’re good enough for Mr. Woodsom.”

  Momentarily, Rose had no words. How dare Maeve Norcross say such a thing! She quickly regained her wits.

  “Fortunately, it is not your place to judge my merit, nor to judge Claire’s for that matter.”

  Maeve gave a toss of her head.

  Rose had had enough of this game. “Unless you want me to tell this entire gathering how you once threw yourself at William Woodsom and then lied to me about who kissed whom, I suggest you tell me what Mrs. Brewster has against Claire.”

  “You wouldn’t! Why, it would cause a stir.”

  “I would. I don’t mind stirring things up at all. I care only about Claire. There is no better girl in the world, and any man would be lucky to ha
ve her.

  “Fine,” Maeve spat out. “I’ll tell you.”

  However, she had raised her voice, and whatever Franklin’s cousin was about to say, false innuendo or not, Rose was certain she didn’t want the rest of the guests to hear.

  “Let us stroll in the Brewster’s gardens, shall we?” She leant very close to Maeve and added, “Let’s take our little tête-a-tête outside after all.”

  Maeve pursed her lips then stalked out of the room, leaving Rose to follow. She glanced back at Claire and gave her a reassuring smile. Better to get to the bottom of this than to let it continue.

  ***

  Five minutes later, Rose was ready to weep. It was all her fault that Claire might lose her heart’s desire. Her fault! Someone had seen Claire sneak out repeatedly about four years ago, both early and late, over a period of a few months, taking her carriage, which would be gone for hours. No doubt that someone was a servant, one who lacked loyalty to the Appletons and had moved on, taking her gossip with her.

  Unfortunately, that servant had ended up at the Brewster home in time to “save” Franklin from a terribly bad match with an immoral, disreputable female. For, of course, there was only one credible explanation for Claire’s comings and goings — she had been secretly meeting a man.

  Except she hadn’t.

  Maeve finished speaking and still Rose remained silent. Claire had lent her the carriage to go and see Finn on more than one occasion. Whereas Rose knew her mother would be watching her like a hawk, Claire, with her rather indifferent parents had assumed no one would notice or care if she borrowed their town carriage at odd hours.

  Who else was privy to this terrible blight on Claire’s reputation besides Maeve and Mrs. Brewster?

  “Does Franklin think ill of Claire?”

  “Not that I know of. In truth,” Maeve said, “I don’t approve of taking the word of a servant. I never have. Most are too flighty and stupid to give them such importance. However, my aunt says they have no reason to lie, either.”

  Rose could barely focus on Maeve’s words. How could she fix this for Claire? What’s more, how could she do so without bringing down the condemnation of Boston’s elite upon her own head and, worse, besmirching the Malloy name?

  Her mother would be heartbroken. Elise would be beyond disappointed. Reed would kill her.

  Could she speak with Mrs. Brewster and convince her of Claire’s purity without offering up her own misguided actions as proof?

  “Personally,” Maeve continued, seeming unable to stop being the center of this drama now that she’d been thrust onto the stage, “I don’t care a fig if my cousin has fallen in love with Claire and vice versa. Whatever happened four years ago is ancient history.”

  If only that were true.

  “What does Mrs. Brewster plan to do with the information?”

  Maeve shrugged. “She cares only about saving Franklin. She has vowed to tell him of Claire’s ‘sordid past’ if he indicates he will offer for her.”

  Rose felt the blood drain from her face. The only thing that had saved Claire so far was that Franklin was a most unhurried man, dragging his feet for so long. However, today, with their showing up uninvited and with Franklin standing in the middle of the room, looking only at Claire . . .

  Good God! Franklin was speaking with his mother at that moment.

  Rose picked up her skirts and hurried back into the house, hearing loud voices as soon as she entered. In the hallway, right outside the closed doors to the party, Claire stood, a stricken look upon her lovely face. Franklin appeared no better.

  Rose was too late. They had exchanged words.

  “There is nothing more to say,” Franklin said, his tone uncharacteristically severe.

  “In that, sir, you are correct.” In turn, Claire’s voice was loud, which it never was. She barely glanced at Rose as she turned away.

  “Come along,” she said firmly, “we are leaving.”

  Rose stayed rooted to the spot. This could not be happening.

  At that moment, Lucy appeared from the kitchens, eyes averted as she moved past the unpleasant scene to open the front door.

  Claire walked toward it. When framed by the doorway, she turned, looking back at Rose and then at Franklin. She was magnificent, Rose thought, standing tall, head up, eyes flashing.

  “I hope never to set foot in this house again,” Claire said, her voice sounding like ice and steel. “Nor speak to any of its inhabitants. Come along, Rose.”

  Rose opened her mouth to protest, but this Valkyrie was not to be disobeyed. Still, she gave Franklin one last beseeching glance. Surely, he wasn’t going to let Claire simply walk out of his life.

  However, the usually affable man looked anything but. His mouth was set in anger, his chin thrust forward, and his face clouded in a myriad of emotions — no doubt shock and sadness among them.

  This was all Rose’s fault, yet there was nothing she could do at that moment in the hallway of the Brewster mansion. It was too awful. She followed Claire out onto the front step, hearing Lucy close the door behind them. Every young lady at the gathering must have overheard the terrible altercation in the hall. The civilized tea had become scandal-water of the worst kind and would be all over Boston by nightfall — Claire Appleton had been set aside by Franklin Brewster on the grounds of impropriety.

  Tomorrow would be even worse.

  No family in Boston would welcome her and, certainly, no young gentleman would take her for a wife.

  Claire would have to leave the city.

  It should be Rose who was driven out like the indecent woman she was.

  As soon as they got a few yards away from the Brewster’s front door, Claire began to cry in earnest. Silent tears streamed down her face. She didn’t try to stop them or wipe them or hide her face behind her gloved hands. She simply cried and walked, and kept on crying and walking, right past Rose’s carriage, right on toward her home.

  Rose hurried along beside her, feeling at an utter loss, not knowing what to do — an unfamiliar and decidedly wretched sensation of helplessness.

  After one agonizing sob rent the silence, Claire stopped. She stopped walking, she stopped her tears. Then she turned to Rose.

  “I have wasted my time on that man.”

  Rose had not expected that statement. She had expected her dear friend to lash out at her for ruining her life.

  “What did he say?” Rose’s own voice sounded choked.

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again.

  “When he reentered the parlor, he beckoned me to follow him. I saw at once that something was wrong. As soon as we got into the hall, he closed the doors behind us and turned on me like a jackal. He said he had been fooled by my gentile demeanor and lovely face.”

  Rose swallowed. Franklin must have said a lot more than that, but Claire merely took her arm and continued walking in silence for a little while. Rose gave her time to gather her thoughts and waited for her to continue when she was ready.

  At last, Claire said in a much softer tone, “Naturally, I was stunned and I told him so. He asked whom I was meeting secretly four years ago.” She paused. “Can you believe the gall? I said, ‘Four years ago? Why, no one.’ ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ he said, and he sneered at me.”

  She shook her head in wonderment. “Franklin actually sneered and said his mother told him about my illicit undertakings. I asked him quite seriously, ‘Are you mad? Have you lost your senses?’ Then he said, and I promise you, these were his exact words, ‘I thought you might do me the courtesy of disclosing who it was who beat me to your virtue.’”

  She was breathing heavily and gripping Rose’s arm more tightly than she probably intended.

  Rose wanted to cry, too. Franklin must have been incredibly hurt and shocked to say such a thing, as would any man have been at hearing such a thing about his beloved. And from his heartless mother, no less.

  “It sounds like a misunderstanding. A terrible one,” Rose ad
ded, “but not an irreparable rent in the fabric of your relationship. Surely, after all this time—”

  Claire snorted. “Exactly. All this time. My virtue, indeed! My biggest virtue was patience, waiting for Franklin Brewster to declare himself.”

  “How did you leave it with him?” Rose asked. “I mean before saying you were never setting foot in his house again?”

  “Franklin said that whoever my lover was, I had better hope that man still wanted me for . . .,” her voice faltered, “for he no longer does.”

  Oh dear!

  “You know he doesn’t mean that,” Rose said. “He was angry and hurt.”

  “Franklin should have trusted me.” Claire’s tone was now one of utter disappointment. “I told him I would not dignify his filthy, mistrustful question with an answer. Let him stew in his doubts. Let him imagine me . . . lying with every . . . every man . . . in . . .”

  Claire broke off and was crying again. Fat, hot tears that were splashing onto Rose’s sleeve. They were no longer strolling but striding quickly at Claire’s pace, and in another few minutes, they were at the Appleton’s front door. Many people had passed them and not once had her friend looked away or tried to disguise her tears.

  Worse and worse. Truly, all of Boston would learn how Claire had been cut by the Brewsters. Even if Rose shouted all her own wickedness from the pinnacle of the State House dome — above William’s own small office — the damage to Claire had been done.

  And added to it was their stroll across Beacon Hill presenting an unstable female, a public breakdown, and hysterics.

  The only one who could truly fix this was Franklin Brewster, himself, if Claire was to have any future, and it would have to be done in an extremely public way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Rose. Rose.”

  “Sorry,” she turned to William. “What did you say?”

  She realized he must have repeated himself, as he’d had to do all evening. She was beyond distracted and unable to concentrate on anything except Claire’s dilemma. Moreover, she couldn’t even discuss it with William, as she couldn’t tell him how she knew Claire was not the one who’d been sneaking out to see a man.