by Anne O'Brien
‘No, it is not Thea—well, yes, it is, in a way.’ Drusilla caught her bottom lip with her teeth and sighed as if at the culmination of much painful thought. ‘We have to tell her, Hector.’
‘Hmm!’ Hector drew his wife to sit beside him on the sofa before the empty fire grate. ‘But why?’ It was clear that he knew beyond question the cause of her distress and the meaning behind her enigmatic statement. ‘We have kept it close for so long—all of twenty-one years. As you wished. Why stir up the mud in that particular pond now?’
‘I know I wanted it,’ Drusilla admitted. She looked down at their clasped hands and held tight. ‘Because she is our daughter. She is ours—yours and mine—in upbringing, in character, in education—and in love. What does blood matter? I love her so much, Hector.’ Tears began to track their path down her cheeks and she was unable to stifle a sob.
Hector sought in his pockets and began to apply his handkerchief with great tenderness. ‘I know that you love her, Drusilla. As do I. No one could have been a better mother than you—and no daughter could be such a credit to our love and care. So, as I said—why has it become so imperative to break silence now?’ His voice was all gentleness, but she was not soothed.
‘Because it is becoming too dangerous not to tell her.’
‘I don’t see …’
‘I think … I believe that Thea is falling in love with him. And he with her.’
Sir Hector frowned a little at what was obviously news to him. ‘I thought your preference was fixed on the Earl of Moreton.’
‘It is what I might prefer—all that wealth and consequence rather than a younger son—but Thea thinks only of Lord Nicholas Faringdon. I fear that the Earl does not compare favourably. And, in truth, I cannot blame her. Lord Nicholas has such address, such style. And is so very handsome. What young woman would not lose her heart to him—particularly when he has clearly set himself out to attract.’
‘Drusilla! Are you as captivated as our daughter?’
‘If I were twenty years younger, you would have serious competition, sir!’ She managed a wan smile through her tears. ‘You must acknowledge—he has considerable charm.’
‘Mmm.’ Sir Hector smiled in reply, quite sure of Drusilla’s heart. ‘And you think that it is more than a superficial attraction? Surely not, my dear. She has known him less than a month, after all.’
‘What does that signify? I fell in love with you in less than twenty-four hours after I met you at the Pakenhams’ ball. But that is of no consequence. I think that Thea is fast losing her heart. Whether she acknowledges it fully to herself, I am not sure. But she is very like me.’ Drusilla took the damp square of linen from her husband and wiped away more tears. ‘When she gives her heart, it will be without reserve. And I am very much afraid that her heart could be broken as a result.’ She looked up at her husband. ‘I don’t want that for her. I would do anything to spare her pain. I had hoped to deflect this friendship—to stop it developing beyond a mere acquaintance—but I failed. There is a … a feeling between them—it is so strong that you can sometimes feel it when they are in the same room together. I see it in his eyes when he looks at her—and in hers, too.’
Sir Hector looked skeptical, but did not demur. Then, ‘It may not come to anything, of course,’ he considered after a moment’s thought.
‘Oh, Hector. He sends her posies of flowers. He takes her driving in the Park. He brought her a copy of Dr Clark’s Russia, which apparently she expressed a desire to read, and yesterday he took her to the British Museum because she declared an interest in seeing the Parthenon Marbles. Does that not sound like a man in love to you?’
‘He must be, by God!’
‘You took me to an exhibition of minerals and fossils when you were trying to fix your interest with me!’ she recalled with some asperity. ‘And you loved me!’
‘So I did. And have loved you ever since!’ He kissed her damp cheeks. ‘But look, Drusilla—would it really matter if we did not tell her? Would the truth ever have to come out? It was never a secret as such, but it has been of interest to no one but ourselves for more than twenty years. If no one has bothered to make the issue, why in Heaven’s name should they do so now?’
‘Because, until now, nothing has brought it to mind. But if there was an understanding to grow between Thea and Lord Nicholas, it might bring old memories to life. What if someone who knows the truth—and there must be members of the family who do—what if they make the connection and speak out?’ Drusilla’s lips thinned into a bitter line. ‘It would not have mattered at all, of course, if it had not been for that terrible scandal here in London when we were in Constantinople. Hector—you must see what could now occur if tongues start to wag.’
‘It is always possible,’ he agreed, but still not convinced. ‘Did you not think of that possibility when you engaged the help of Beatrice Faringdon?’
‘No. I did not. Perhaps I should—but when Beatrice offered her kind auspices to introduce Thea into society, I did not expect Thea to fall in love with her nephew!’
‘Well, Faringdon is a man of sense from my reading of him. And if he loves Theodora I do not see the problem. She would be merely an innocent party in all this.’
‘Are you prepared to take that chance?’
‘I just don’t see that he could blame her for anything other than a blood connection. And one of which she knew nothing.’
‘But if the hatred were strong enough, and sufficiently long-lasting, Nicholas could equally condemn Thea. Can you imagine if he were driven to turn from her in disgust? It would break her heart! We dare not risk it, Hector.’
‘We could, of course, just forbid her to develop the connection further.’ The experienced diplomat, ever willing to consider all angles in an area of difficult negotiation, raised his brows in some speculation.
‘Ha!’ Drusilla was not impressed. Her husband sometimes thought that his reputation was as dust beneath her feet. ‘Sometimes, Hector, I do believe that you have no knowledge or understanding of your daughter. To forbid would be fatal in these circumstances. And to reason with her … She is always open to reason, as I know—but when does reason carry weight if love is in the balance?’
He took her in his arms as tears threatened once more. ‘There now, Drusilla. Don’t cry again.’ He held her close, his heart troubled as his mind mulled over the possible repercussions for Theodora. ‘Then I suppose that we must tell her.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded against his chest. ‘It will allow her to end this understanding between them before further damage is done. Before her heart is engaged irrevocably.’
Drusilla stood with a final brisk application of Sir Hector’s handkerchief and walked to the door, her habitual composure once more in place. There she halted and turned on a final thought.
‘Because there is one fact in this whole sorry mess of which we are certain,’ he informed her husband. ‘After Sir Edward Baxendale’s devious and despicable behaviour, Lord Nicholas Faringdon will have nothing good to say about anyone with the name of Baxendale.’
Had her parents but known it, Thea’s heart was already lost. Lord Nicholas Faringdon had fixed his interest with her with considerable success. From that very first moment when their eyes had locked as he forced her mount to a standstill, Thea had been aware of Nicholas Faringdon with disturbing intensity. His proximity, the mere anticipation of seeing him at some point during the day, of perhaps feeling the brush of his lips against her fingers, all spread a warm tingle of longing through her bloodstream. And what if he were tempted to repeat that more intimate touch of mouth against mouth. Her breath shortened. How scandalous! How delicious! The longing tightened as a band around her heart.
When, later that morning on her return to the house, Thea was requested by a footman to attend her parents in the library, she found nothing out of the way. They had always been a family who had talked together. But the serious and solemn expressions on their faces, their unified stance before the window, brought
her up short. They had not been admiring the view.
‘What is it? Have you had bad news?’ Thea stepped forward, casting aside reticule and parasol, untying the satin ribbons of her bonnet.
‘No. Dear Thea.’ Her mother immediately came to take her hands and draw her towards the sofa. ‘Come and sit down. We have something that we … that we have decided we must tell you.’
Thea was not in any way put at ease by these words, but she sat and looked from one to the other, aware that Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla also exchanged glances with considerable unease.
‘Please don’t keep me in suspense.’ She tried a little laugh, but it dried in her throat. ‘I cannot imagine what should make you so stern.’
Her father took his seat behind his desk, fixed her with a direct stare and began. ‘Theodora, your mother and I have decided that we should put you in possession of a number of important facts.’
‘Hector—for Heaven’s sake!—you are not addressing a meeting of the crowned heads of Europe.’ Drusilla took her daughter’s hands. ‘Listen, Thea, first I need to say that we love you dearly. And nothing can or will ever change that.’
‘I know that—but what can it be that—?’
Lady Drusilla took a breath, determined to step into the raging torrent. ‘You have to understand—’ there was no easy way to put it ‘—you are not our daughter, dearest Thea. We are not your parents.’
Thea blinked. Looked from one to the other. Could find no words. ‘Not my parents? I do not understand. How should you not be?’
‘Your mother is—your true mother was my elder sister Mary.’
‘Oh.’ Thea simply could not think. ‘Forgive me. I find it difficult …’ Her hands tightened on those of the woman whom she had always known as her mother as if in a death grip. ‘Please … will you tell me?’
‘Of course.’ Lady Drusilla leaned forward to place a light kiss on Thea’s forehead. There was the suspicion of tears in her eyes, in spite of all her intentions to remain calm and composed as she explained. ‘Two weeks after you were born, your father died. Mostly from a dissolute life and too much alcohol—I hesitate to say, but it is true. Your mother—my sister—fell into a decline and took to her bed with smelling salts and laudanum. We—Sir Hector and I—were informed. In those days I still had some contact with my sister, although we had found her husband beyond bearing. When we arrived at the Great House—her home—she was in a state of collapse, incoherent and hardly aware of her surroundings. And we found you, in your crib, not to put too fine a point on it, neglected and unwanted. You were hungry, I recall, not over-clean, and you were crying. A poor little scrap. At that moment my heart went out to you. I could not leave you like that and Mary certainly could not deal with you. There were serious money problems, we were to discover. The other two children were in the care of a governess of sorts, but there was no nurse to take charge of you. It was decided that we should take you and bring you up as our own. Mary was in full agreement, as much as she could agree to anything considering her tears and vapours. Sir Hector and I had no children.’ She met his eyes again for support and smiled a little as he nodded. ‘And so we took you. You were just a month old. We gave you a name of our own choosing. And from that day we brought you up as if you were our daughter.’
‘I cannot think what to say. I had no idea.’ Thea struggled to come to terms with the shattering revelation, her mind repeating over and over her mother’s words.
For a little while they sat in silence to give Thea time to take it all in.
Finally she turned to Drusilla. ‘And you said that your sister—my mother—agreed to this?’
‘Yes, she did. I would not willingly choose to speak ill of the dead, and not of my own sister, but she did not want you.’
‘Did she never ask after me, not in all the years when I was growing up?’
‘No.’ Drusilla lifted an unsteady hand to stroke her daughter’s bright hair in sympathy. ‘I could lie to you and tell you that she did. But I will not. I can make excuses for her, of course—she was unwell and even as a girl had never had the strongest of minds. And now she was alone with two young children, a new baby and a dead husband. I do not think that she wanted the responsibility of your upbringing. And perhaps you reminded her of her husband’s death. Not that he was any loss to her. But, no, she never did. She told us that she never wanted to see you—or us—again. I think that she was perhaps more than a little deranged.’
‘I see.’
‘We occasionally sent money—so that she should not be completely without funds. But she never replied to my letters. They were returned unopened, although the money was always accepted. Perhaps she was ashamed. I never saw my sister again after the day I left her house with you in my arms—and she never saw you.’
‘But her loss was our gain, Thea,’ Sir Hector added. ‘We could not have had a more loving daughter if you were our own child. We are and always have been very proud of you and it delights me that you will be my heir. You must never think otherwise.’
Thea managed a smile as this simple declaration began to thaw just a little the crystals of ice in her blood.
‘But she—your sister—’ she turned to Lady Drusilla again ‘—she is now dead, as you told Lady Beatrice.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I have a brother and a sister?’
‘Yes. Edward and Sarah.’
‘Do they know about me?’
Again that look passed between Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla.
‘We do not know. Your birth must have been recorded within the family and that record was never altered to our knowledge. You were certainly baptised. As head of the family Edward is probably aware. And perhaps he was old enough at the time to understand the sudden absence of his baby sister. Other than that, I think that Mary would not have seen fit to discuss the matter with her other children. Why should she? It would not reflect well on her, after all.’
‘So I was not always Theodora.’ A genuine smile touched her mouth.
‘No. That was a name of our choosing. Your baptismal name was Sophia Mary Baxendale.’
‘I like Theodora better!’ Thea sat and thought. And then spoke in her usual clear manner, although her mother saw the depth of sadness in her eyes and there was the slightest hitch in her voice before she steadied. ‘It is very strange. But I find that I can feel little emotion towards either a father who did not know me or an unknown mother who effectively disowned me. Neither love nor contempt. Regret, perhaps.’ She looked up at the two people who had taken her as their own, loved her and cared for her, showered her with every family blessing. How hard it must have been for them to tell her. How painful it must be to wait—as they were waiting now in silent anguish—to know what her reaction would be towards them.
Thea’s heart swelled with sudden love for them. ‘You are the mother and father whom I have always known and whom I love,’ she explained. ‘What you have told me—it makes no difference to my love for you. But …’ a frown touched her brow ‘… why tell me now? I do not understand why you should have found a need to tell me, if you have kept the secret for so many years.’
Her parents once more looked at each other, as if to draw strength.
‘It could have a bearing on your future,’ Sir Hector began. ‘On your happiness. We thought that you should know. It is not an edifying tale. I think your mother will tell it better than I.’
So she did, and throughout the telling of it, with all its implications, Thea’s blood ran cold. ‘A little over three years ago, Edward Baxendale, your brother, attempted to discredit the good name and the validity of the marriage of the Marchioness of Burford and her recently dead husband, the Marquis.’
‘Nicholas’s eldest brother?’
‘Yes. We do not know the full facts. We were not in England and, although rumour and scandal were rife, the Faringdon family kept the matter close to protect the Marchioness and her young son. But we understand that there were accusations of a bigamous mar
riage and a vital claim on the Faringdon estates was made. Edward’s wife, Octavia, too was involved in the charade. We believe that the motive was money—which would not be beyond belief. More than that we cannot say.’
‘So how does this …?’ But light began to dawn in Thea’s mind. It was searingly bright and struck her with a wrenching dread.
‘Whatever the content of the deceit, the result was the breaking of a scandal in London. The private affairs of the Faringdon family were held up to public scrutiny, stripped bare for all to pick over and speculate. They were the latest on dit during that Season, discussed as a matter for open conjecture in every drawing room and every club—until Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas apparently unmasked Edward for the villain that he undoubtedly was. Your brother could have done irreparable harm to the family. He must certainly have caused the young Marchioness great distress.’
‘That would be Eleanor, who went to New York with Lord Henry.’ Thea nodded as she put her knowledge of the family into place.
‘Yes. What I need to ask you, Thea, is this—what are your feelings towards Lord Nicholas?’
‘I …’ Thea flushed as she considered her reply. ‘I …’ She lifted her hands in a hopeless little gesture.
Her father came to the rescue.
‘Your mother thought that perhaps you were not … uninterested where Nicholas Faringdon is concerned. One thing we do know, dear girl, is that the outcome of the scandal must have left a residue of deep hatred between Faringdons and Baxendales.’
‘If Nicholas learns from some interested source that you are the sister of Sir Edward Baxendale,’ Drusilla continued, watching her daughter’s reaction anxiously, ‘we fear his reaction towards you.’
‘I see.’ Amazingly, Thea discovered that she could keep her voice cool and controlled when her inclination was to cry out in the sudden intolerable pain from the wound inflicted by the knowledge of her past. ‘That he would condemn me by association, I suppose.’