by Anne O'Brien
‘Yes. Because you, too, are a Baxendale. As much as Edward is.’
‘I understand. The lees in that particular cup must be bitter indeed. But …’ She sought for a way through the terrible morass of grief that appeared to be building within her chest, hampering her breathing. ‘Why should anyone speak out after all this time? Why would it be of interest to anyone now after all these years? Would anyone even remember that I am a Baxendale by birth?’
‘They may not, of course.’ Sir Hector would have given the world to be able to offer a vestige of hope, to wipe away the distress that his daughter covered so admirably. He could not do it. ‘But it is a risk, a serious risk, now that you are well known in London circles. And if gossip begins to unite your name with that of Lord Nicholas, however loosely … We did not think it wise for you to base a relationship with Nicholas on a lie.’
‘Oh, Thea.’ Drusilla swallowed against the imminent threat of tears. ‘We did not want him to break your heart if you fell in love with him, you see.’
‘I do see.’ And perhaps, as of this moment, her heart was broken anyway.
‘You do understand why we had to tell you, don’t you?’
‘Of course. Such information could destroy any relationship between us.’
‘I fear it.’
‘So, what do you advise?’ Thea straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and tried to still her fingers, which plucked at a satin ribbon on her morning gown.
‘I think you know. You have always been open to sense—to reason.’ Overflowing with admiration for her spirit, Drusilla worked hard to put on as brave a face as her daughter. She could do no less. ‘We think it would be best if you kept your distance from Lord Nicholas. You should do everything possible to discourage any connection between you. It should not be difficult.’
Difficult? It would be well nigh impossible! Perhaps the hardest thing she had ever been asked to do in her life.
‘And if I don’t?’ But in her heart she already knew the answer.
‘Maybe nothing. Perhaps you would fall in love. If he offered for you, then you would marry. But if he discovered the truth of your birth, that you are in truth Edward Baxendale’s sister, would Lord Nicholas continue to look on you with love—or would he turn his back with condemnation and contempt?’
‘I could not bear that.’ A tear stole unnoticed down Thea’s cheek to soak into the little satin ruff of her gown.
‘No. It would be beyond anything. You must end it, Thea. I knew you would be sensible if we explained the situation to you.’
‘Sensible? No—it is not that.’ Thea wiped away another tear with an impatient hand. ‘It is simply that I find I have no choice.’
Leaving the library almost in flight, Thea took herself, with the long-suffering and loudly-complaining Agnes Drew, for a brisk walk in Hyde Park. The sun had vanished behind a thickening layer of high cloud and a sharp little breeze had sprung up to shiver the new leaves. The grey light and the hint of rain exactly suited her mood, so she strode out, taking no thought to the possible threat to her new French straw bonnet with ribbon and flower trim. What did a bonnet matter, however fetching, when placed in the balance against the disturbing developments of the past hour?
She needed the space in which to think, without the tortured presence of Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla both watching her with loving but anxious eyes. How she would have loved to gallop across the grass, she thought, as she saw others on horseback along the rides, although at a more seemly canter. To gallop without restraint, to allow the speed and exhilaration to cleanse her mind of the weight of knowledge that had been laid upon her. And the wave of despair that threatened to engulf her as she recalled that first fateful meeting with Lord Nicholas when their eyes had met and held, his hand clasped so firmly around her wrist. How she wished that she could experience his touch, his closeness, again. And yet, if her mother’s fears held weight, it appeared that any future together, any blossoming of love between them, could never be.
Her parentage, Thea quickly discovered, interested her very little—apart from a mild curiosity. This shocked her. Surely it should have some meaning for her to know more of her blood relatives—that her father had been a dissolute gambler who had drunk himself into an early grave, her mother apparently a weak, pathetic creature who had withdrawn into a laudanum-created haze rather than face up to the responsibilities of her family. Thea frowned at the image painted by Lady Drusilla’s words. There appeared to be absolutely no connection between these two shadowy people and herself.
She found herself heartily thanking God for Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla, who had moulded her by example and loving care into much sterner stuff. She should be grateful indeed that her mother—Mary Baxendale—had seen fit to give her away! So, after worrying at the matter for a bare five minutes, she simply discarded it as something of no real importance and no bearing on her life. Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla were her parents. The Baxendale family was nothing to her. There was nothing other to consider.
But the repercussions … Ah, now there was an intricate weave of possible consequences that would threaten her happiness, would effectively shatter the new sensations which she had just begun to experience. Even now, these consequences kept her mind occupied until she felt the beginnings of a headache build behind her eyes. Theodora never suffered from the headache! But she did now, exacerbated when she could find no simple solution. Only one path presented itself to her and she cringed from it. But the fear that she had no choice weighed on her soul.
The true state of her heart with regard to Lord Nicholas Faringdon she hastily pushed aside. She could not think of that now. But what exactly had Sir Edward Baxendale—her brother!—done? Had it been so very bad that Nicholas could harbour an undying hatred for anyone of the name of Baxendale? Would he indeed consign her to the fiery pit of hell in company with Sir Edward simply because of their shared parentage? Even though she had not even been aware of it until an hour ago? Was it possible that her parents had got it wrong—had read too much into the gossip that they must have heard at least second-, if not third-, hand? It was not difficult for gossip to embroider and exaggerate the true state of affairs. Perhaps it was all a terrible mistake, over which she might laugh in glorious relief when she knew the truth of it. But if what Lady Drusilla had intimated was indeed true, how the family must have suffered, particularly Eleanor on behalf of her child who would have been disinherited. Yet it all sounded highly far-fetched.
The morass of conflicting thoughts and fears in her head brought Thea to an abrupt halt in the centre of the path, causing Mistress Drew to hastily side-step with more muttered comments on inconsiderate young ladies who had no concern for those with ageing bones and with no wish to take long and energetic walks when a downpour was imminent. In quick sympathy and apology, Thea closed her hand on her maid’s arm, but quickly turned her face away to disguise the emotions that she could not hide.
She stared across the vibrant spring grass towards the distant stand of trees, knowing that if she closed her eyes she would be faced with a stark image of Nicholas. She would read his reaction to her if the facts of the Faringdon scandal were true—the icy hauteur in his eyes, the thinned lips, the disdainful inclination of his head when pride and self-control took command, as in their first introduction in Lady Aston’s ballroom when other influences were allowed to stand between them. How far they had progressed since that cold meeting. Now Lord Nicholas’s face lit with a subtle glow when his eyes made contact with hers, when he turned and saw her across a room, his smile …
No! She could not think about the contempt that would surely colour Nicholas’s vision of her if Sir Edward were the evil villain of her parents’ fears. Thea tightened her hold on her parasol, ignored the shiver brought on by the sudden chill, and stepped out again. Agnes sighed and followed.
So, rather than being emotional, she would be practical. She was good at that. Considering the practical, then, how should she discover the truth?
The obvious source was Nicholas, but that was not a path which she could take. She shuddered at the prospect. So, the next alternative? Judith, of course. Judith, who would know the full truth of Faringdon family affairs and was never reluctant to indulge in a little gossip.
How could she go about it? Simply ask, of course. Thea nodded to herself. It should be perfectly straightforward. She had heard a whisper of an old rumour. What could it have been about? This would give Judith the perfect opening to reminisce and inform her in more, and doubtless accurate, detail, without any fear that her own unfortunate connection with the Faringdon family history would be detected.
Because, whatever the outcome of her uncharacteristic subterfuge, however unpleasant and unpalatable the outcome, she must discover the truth. She was not prepared to live with less. But, oh, how she prayed that it would all be false. Her mother had feared that she might lose her heart to Nicholas, that it might be broken. Thea, with typical self-analysis and painful honesty, feared that that particular part of her anatomy was already in serious danger of being lost to her. Whether he was aware or not, Nicholas held the key to her happiness. To lose him now was a sharp sword of pure distress of which she had no previous experience.
So, she must ask Judith in the most innocent manner to divulge the family secrets. On which decision, Thea turned around and retraced her path home at an equally brisk pace. Surely it was all a terrible mistake. And Judith would be able to put her mind at ease.
Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux discovered that, perhaps as a diplomat’s daughter, she had a talent for devious and cunning manipulation. And an equally well-developed one for hiding her true thoughts and feelings.
‘Judith. I heard such a strange thing yesterday.’ The two ladies were taking the air in Lady Painscastle’s smart new barouche. Thea’s mind was far from the delightful picture they made, or the admiring glances that might be turned their way. The deep blue afternoon gown with the darker velvet spencer and matching flowers on her rakish little hat did nothing to raise her spirits. This was the best opportunity that she would be given and so took it with hardly a qualm. ‘I know it is none of my affair—but I would not wish to do or say anything inadvertently that would disturb Lord Nicholas.’
‘What on earth could you have heard?’ Judith raised her kid-gloved hand in recognition of the occupants of a passing landau-let, but turned humorous and enquiring eyes toward her companion. ‘I may of course have been mistaken, but I had thought that you did wish to disturb Nicholas!’
Thea flushed with discomfort. How cheap it made her feel, to be using the situation to lure her unsuspecting friend into innocent gossip! But there was no help for it.
Judith misinterpreted the rose tint. ‘There! I knew I was not wrong, as I told dear Simon only this morning!’
Thea managed an ingenuous smile, a slight flutter of lashes. ‘I am sure that I do not know what you mean! But as I was saying—yesterday I overheard, when I was taking tea with Mama in Gunter’s, a mention of a … of a Faringdon scandal. And the name—Baxendale, I think? Could that have been so? I trust that it was nothing of a serious nature!’
‘So that unfortunate affair has resurfaced. We had hoped that it would die a permanent death.’ The bright interest in Judith’s face disappeared behind a thin cloud of anxiety. ‘I wish it had not—it can bring nothing but distress to all involved.’
Thea felt her throat tighten as she swallowed against a moment of pure panic. ‘Was it very bad?’
‘A disaster. Poor Eleanor—you cannot imagine!’
Worse and worse! ‘The Marchioness?’
‘Yes. It could have ruined her life and that of Tom, her son. If it had not been for Hal and Nicholas, I fear that it would have succeeded.’
‘Oh! Was the outcome—was the final outcome satisfactory?’ Thea felt her heart grow cold within her, a leaden weight that seemed to fill her chest. It could not be!
‘Forgive me, Thea.’ Judith’s face was now emotionless, her expression closed. ‘The secret, the terrible scandal—is not mine to tell and I would not wish to dredge it up again. Suffice to say Edward Baxendale was a rogue, a villain who would have destroyed the honour and integrity of our family. I will not say more.’ Which was so unlike Judith as to speak volumes in itself.
‘Oh. I had no idea …’ Thea sought for something to say. ‘It must have been when Sir Hector was still resident in Constantinople.’
‘Yes. More than two years now. We shall never forgive him—Edward Baxendale. The name is not mentioned. His wife was also part of the tissue of lies. Even his sister Sarah was involved. You have no idea—it was a terrible thing.’
‘I see.’ But, of course, Thea did not. Only that it must have been terrible indeed if the effect was to close Judith up like an oyster over its pearl. Both Edward Baxendale and his sister. There was no hope for her.
‘I know that you will understand.’ Judith folded one hand in neat precision over the other as if that finished the matter. As it did. ‘Baxendale is a black name in our family.’
Despair crawled along Thea’s veins from head to toe And with it not a little anger at the twists and turns of unfeeling Fate—that the sins of a brother should be visited on a sister, even when that sister had not even known of his existence until two days ago.
‘Of course. I understand.’ Thea continued with the charade, her composure quite remarkable in the circumstances. ‘I am sorry that I should cause you to remember something that obviously resurrects so much pain.’
The rest of the afternoon passed in something of a haze for the lady. She managed to chatter and gossip, wave and exchange greetings as if she had no care in the world. But when she arrived back in Upper Brook Street her emotions felt as if they had been completely wrung out. She neatly avoided Lady Drusilla to shut herself in her bedchamber, to look out over toward the Park where she had first met Nicholas. But she did not see the view from the window. Finally she turned from it, straightened her spine and rubbed her hands over her face where the muscles felt strained and stiff with the pretence of smiling and being happy. Now she felt that she would never be truly happy again.
But she knew what she had to do. Thea looked at herself in the mirror of her dressing table. She must set herself to destroy any vestige of the relationship that might have begun to blossom between herself and Lord Nicholas. It should not be too difficult, should it, to give him a disgust of her if she really tried? To make him wonder what he had ever seen in her to attract. To turn his attention to other fortunate débutantes who would not fear the outcome of falling in love with him.
And for herself? There might even be hope for her mama’s Earl yet. Thea found that she could not smile at the prospect.
She wiped tears from her cheeks surreptitiously. She never cried. Just as she never had the headache. There was absolutely no purpose in either. She must be sensible—that was the word—hiding her shattered hopes and damaged heart from everyone. No one must guess. Not Lord Nicholas. Not ever Nicholas. And certainly not her mother, who would blame herself for the rest of her life if she were allowed to sense her daughter’s despair.
And whilst his love found herself reduced to the blackness of utter misery, Lord Nicholas Faringdon was equally prey to extreme emotions. Against all the odds, against all his inclination to thwart the plotting of Lady Beatrice, against every vestige of will-power, he had fallen in love. Although his acquaintance with Theodora could be measured in weeks—days, even—there was no room for doubt in his mind. He wanted nothing more than to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage and carry her back to Aymestry. Could think of nothing better than to make a life with her, create children with her. She fired his blood. She intrigued him. She entranced him. If he had his way, Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux would become Lady Nicholas Faringdon in the shortest possible time. And a smile of satisfaction touched his mouth—there was nothing in the manner of that lady towards him that might indicate that she would not welcome his addresses.
Chapter
Six
So Theodora set out to destroy any warmer feelings that Lord Nicholas Faringdon might enjoy towards her, to build a barrier that he would not care to scale. She considered it all very carefully through a sleepless night. As dawn light touched the trees in the Park with gold, she had decided that she could not bear that he hold her in total contempt. The thought of that almost drove her to abandon her planning and simply allow fate to take its course, to allow love to develop between them and risk the chance of cruel revelations of her past. But she dare not. Therefore, she would allow herself to be just sufficiently undisciplined, just sufficiently outrageous, perhaps even a little fast, so as to drive a wedge between them. Just enough to persuade Lord Nicholas that he did not wish to squire so volatile a lady to supper. He would not choose to be seen in company with so outré a débutante in Hyde Park. He would not feel obliged to solicit her hand to partner him in the waltz on even one occasion in an evening if he considered her upbringing and behaviour not quite the thing. And he certainly would not desire to take her pretty lips in a kiss, the memory of which still had the effect of bringing a heated flush to her face when she was foolish enough to remember. Or even to brush his smiling mouth across the tips of her fingers. And if she could achieve all that, the distance between them would be vast and there would be no danger of either of them falling in love with each other. And no reason for anyone to remember the old scandal and the secrets behind Thea’s own lineage. Thea would never have to experience the horror of the man whom she … whom she … liked a little … turning from her in contempt and harsh judgement. A little chilly distance was all she needed to achieve.
Therefore Thea applied herself to it with all the attention to detail of a battle campaign. She would rejoice when he bowed over the hand of other damsels, or held them within the circle of his arm in a waltz. And she would weep bitterly when she saw the depths of hurt in his eyes before pride came to his rescue and swiftly masked it. Anything was better than allowing a declared love to be blighted by the revelation that she was really Sophia Mary Baxendale.