‘I’m with child.’
Biddy went still.
‘I’m having a baby – Jim’s baby,’ Sybil told her. ‘No one knows, no one’s guessed at it yet – not Jim, not even you. But soon they all will know, most likely today, for how will I ever hide the truth of it from my face once I go inside? And when Margaret Gregory sees it.’
More shocked than she had ever been in her life, Biddy searched for words but couldn’t find any. She had guessed nothing of this secret at all. It was beyond her experience.
‘There’s nothing more to be done, I must face it.’ Sybil reached for the doorbell. ‘You have been the truest friend I could ever have hoped for, Biddy. Far more than I deserve.’
Biddy’s heart burst. ‘Wait . . .’
She looked at Sybil with all the love and compassion that a true friend could feel. ‘It is not the end,’ she whispered, ‘at least not today. All we have to do is get through whatever happens on the other side of that door, agreed? And think about tomorrow, tomorrow.’
She took Sybil’s hands.
‘Agreed?’ Biddy repeated.
‘Oh, Biddy,’ Sybil whispered. But somehow she agreed.
‘Good,’ said Biddy. She reached for the doorbell herself and pressed it. ‘I have an idea for a tiny little story.’
• • •
Mr Horace Clarkenwell had a gouty knee that evidently twinged as the housemaid, Polly, informed him of who had appeared at the door. He missed the name in the pain of it.
‘She’s a young woman, sir. With a travelling companion.’
Clarkenwell eyed Biddy waiting in the hallway outside his study, as she tried to look as if she hadn’t been watching him through the door. He waved Polly away. ‘Show her in, do.’
The housemaid returned to where Biddy waited. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said. She brought her into the room where Constantine Hall’s obese proprietor eyed a half full decanter of port on his desk.
‘This is the young lady, sir,’ Polly said. Clarkenwell started pouring himself a liberal glass. Port slopped over the rim and onto the desk. The maid went to mop it up with a rag but Clarkenwell was feeling irritable.
‘Enough. That will be all.’ His knee clearly stabbed at him again. He rubbed it vigorously with his palm. The housemaid curtsied and was gone.
Clarkenwell allowed himself a sip of port before regarding Biddy. Now looking at her fully, Biddy hoped he saw a well-dressed, well-to-do young woman with strikingly attractive features.
‘I did not hear your name, Miss—’
‘Gregory,’ said Biddy.
Clarkenwell blinked.
‘I am Miss Sybil Gregory of Summersby,’ Biddy smiled at him.
Clarkenwell had to steady himself in his chair. ‘Gregory, you say?’
Biddy nodded.
‘From Summersby?’
‘From whence I journeyed today, sir, with my dear companion.’ Biddy waited, still smiling as if she expected something. ‘Your girl Polly is taking fine care of my Biddy, I’m sure.’
‘But this . . . this is unprecedented,’ said Clarkenwell.
‘What is?’
‘Your being here . . . a Gregory.’
Biddy shifted on her feet and hoped that Clarkenwell saw there was gumption within her and back-steel, too. ‘I have been summoned,’ she said, ‘by telegraph message.’ In the corner of Clarkenwell’s office sat a telegraph machine almost identical to Summersby’s own, with glass valves and tortoiseshell keys. ‘A message sent from here.’
Clarkenwell looked at the machine. ‘No message summoning you was sent from here, I assure you, Miss Gregory.’
She would have none of it. ‘And I assure you one was.’
Clarkenwell made a move to stand but his gouty knee dissuaded him. ‘Miss Gregory,’ he started to say. He stopped and took another sip of port. ‘A mistake has been made.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Biddy, knowing full well.
‘Most assuredly,’ said Clarkenwell. ‘No one has summoned you. There is no purpose to you being here.’ He indicated the door.
She made no move to leave. ‘Take me to Margaret Gregory.’
The obese man blanched and Biddy noted it. ‘This is her address, isn’t it?’
His fingers crept towards the port glass again.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Miss Gregory, this is most irregular . . .’
‘More irregular than a lifetime lived in ignorance?’ She stepped forward and plucked the glass from his fingers before upending the contents onto the carpet. ‘My apologies to Polly for the stain.’
Clarkenwell stood up from his chair, knee or no knee. ‘How dare you!’
Biddy was pleased to see she was half a head taller than he was. ‘Margaret Gregory is the ghost that haunts me, sir,’ she said, unfazed by him. ‘All my life she has been used to cower me. Today it ends. I wish to meet Margaret Gregory at once.’
Clarkenwell tried to hobble around from the desk, his knee now plainly screaming with the effort of it.
‘Do you deny that Margaret Gregory is here?’ Biddy demanded of him.
He stopped. He seemed to consider his answer. ‘I do not,’ he said, at last.
Biddy felt immensely satisfied. ‘Then I will see her.’
He regarded her for a further minute in silence. ‘All right.’ He reached for a handbell that sat on his desk, ringing it. Biddy jumped at the discordant sound. The look Clarkenwell gave her was somewhat knowing, as if he was well aware of what he now suspected Biddy was not.
Polly returned in response to the bell and immediately noticed the spilled port. ‘Our visitor would like to see Miss Margaret,’ said Clarkenwell.
Biddy turned in time to see the housemaid’s own look of surprise at this request. ‘Mr Clarkenwell, that’s not my place . . .’
He raised his hand. ‘You will do as I order.’
‘But sir,’ she protested.
Clarkenwell seemed rather pleased to see the uncertainty now on Biddy’s face.
‘But Miss Margaret prefers her own maid,’ Polly reminded him. ‘She’s particular.’
‘I am well aware of what Miss Margaret likes,’ he said, ‘but on this instance you shall obey my request and conduct our visitor upstairs to meet her.’
Polly swallowed, casting a wary glance at Biddy. ‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Biddy, more to Polly than the gouty proprietor. To Clarkenwell she nodded coolly.
Polly closed the door to Clarkenwell’s office behind her as she took Biddy into the hall. The young women stood assessing each other.
‘I am sorry for the mess on the carpet,’ said Biddy. ‘You’ll want to get some salt on it quick.’
Polly sniffed.
‘I’m also sorry for any trouble my being here might cause.’
This seemed to soften Polly somewhat. ‘I’m sorry if my reaction seemed rude in there before, miss.’
‘I wasn’t put out.’
Polly began to lead her towards the stairs. ‘It’s just that Miss Margaret has her own maid – a maid she holds very dear. She dislikes having to talk to other servants.’
‘I see,’ said Biddy, although she didn’t quite.
‘You know how she can be,’ said Polly. They began mounting the stairs, Polly one step ahead. When Biddy didn’t answer, Polly turned to her and the look on her face must have revealed she didn’t know how Miss Margaret could be at all. ‘You’ve never met her, miss?’
Biddy paused, and then shook her head. She suddenly felt very nervous again, despite the confidence with which she had breezed through the front door.
‘You’re related to her though?’ Polly asked.
‘I believe so, yes,’ Biddy said. She guessed then that Polly herself had little knowledge of how things were either, at least as they pertained to Summersby.
‘Well, she’s really very nice,’ Polly told her. ‘You mustn’t worry. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a pleasant visit.’ They reached the first floor and Polly directed
Biddy along the hallway towards a closed door.
‘In there?’ Biddy feared her nerves were very apparent.
Polly opened the door for her. Inside was a comfortable parlour, quite empty. ‘If you’ll take a seat for a minute, miss.’ She cast an uneasy glance downstairs towards Clarkenwell’s office. ‘Perhaps I might find Miss Margaret’s maid after all . . . I really would hate to upset the way things are done. You don’t mind, do you?’
Biddy shook her head. ‘And my companion Miss MacBryde? Has she been made comfortable?’
‘Oh yes,’ Polly assured her. ‘She’s having tea in the Morning Room. Quite comfortable’
Biddy nodded and Polly took off along the hallway. Biddy tried to make herself at ease in the parlour, but found the task beyond her. Sitting down made her feel tenser still; it was better to stay standing. She was now regretting the reckless stupidity with which she had proposed the story to Sybil. It had seemed a fine idea on the doorstep. She and Sybil would only change places for as long as it took Biddy to gauge who and what Margaret Gregory really was. Biddy would pretend to be Sybil for the initial dialogue, putting on a fine imitation of her manner and voice, while Sybil gathered her wits as ‘companion’. Then, if the famed Secret Heiress turned out to be perfectly pleasant, and what’s more, sympathetic and humane in Biddy’s view, then Biddy would retrieve Sybil, explain the little ruse, and somehow all would be well. But now that Biddy had been left alone to wait, the ‘somehow’ began to pose more possibilities for disaster than it did for redemption. What if Margaret Gregory was not perfectly pleasant or humane? What if the ill thought out scheme to hide the truth of Sybil’s condition unravelled in an instant and the Summersby inheritance vanished? Biddy tried not to think about the dreadful possibilities. She was an accomplished teller of stories, and this latest fiction was just one in a long and profitable line. She would pull it off, just like she always did.
Biddy heard footsteps in the hallway outside and knew they would stop at the parlour. She looked about for the spot in the room in which she might best present herself when the door was opened. She decided it lay near the largest window. Biddy positioned herself there just as a hand gripped the doorknob. She straightened her back and smiled her brightest smile, expecting to see Polly come in with her fellow maid ready to broach the introduction.
It was not the two maids who entered the room but a man – a man Biddy had met before. He was rather old in her eyes, aged in his late-thirties, having been very handsome once, perhaps. He had extraordinary hair, the colour of honey, and beautiful hair for a man, but his face was creased and careworn. Most striking were his cornflower blue eyes, which gave him the appearance of seeming highly distracted, as if he were looking at something that could not be seen by anyone else and yet was blinding to him. The man’s strange look disappeared for the moment it took him to realise that the parlour was occupied.
Samuel Hackett and Biddy MacBryde stood gaping at each other in surprise as the circumstances of their first meeting came back to each to them.
‘You?’ said Samuel.
Biddy pressed her back against the windowsill, shocked.
‘You!’ he stepped into the room. ‘Biddy!’
She blanched. ‘You are mistaken, sir. I . . . I am Miss Gregory waiting for the maid.’
Samuel blinked at this misinformation and Biddy formed the same impression she had formed when he had come to the house she shared with her mother in Carlton and he had made the claims that had exposed her life for the lie that it was. Samuel could barely control where his eyes were focused, she realised. He was not wholly right in his mind. ‘No,’ he said, forcing his gaze to remain upon her with effort, ‘you are Biddy. I know you are Biddy. I found you before. Don’t you remember me, girl?’ He came into the room and held out his arms to embrace her. ‘You have come to see me, you have come to see your papa.’
He was overjoyed but Biddy could only stare at him once more in dismay. How it could be that this very same man who had once appeared from nowhere and ruined her life and caused her to run away was now at the home of Margaret Gregory? It was almost beyond her comprehension, and yet it was not beyond it completely because somewhere in the depths of her reasoning, Biddy was starting to see. ‘You are not my papa,’ she told him defiantly. ‘You are mistaken, sir. I am Miss Gregory.’
‘You tell me you are not my girl Biddy?’
‘No, sir,’ she insisted, ‘and I must ask you not to call me that again. I am Miss Sybil Gregory.’
‘Sybil?’ Samuel looked as if he was actually prepared to believe this unlikelihood. ‘You are Sybil?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Biddy pressed, seeing that she might actually be believed. ‘I’ve come all the way from Summersby.’
The name of that house seemed to stun him.
‘I am the heiress of Summersby,’ Biddy insisted, and Samuel’s eyes lost the battle and took on their distracted air, seeing her but no longer seeing her. He stumbled, feeling for a chair, disoriented. ‘Sybil Gregory,’ he muttered, ‘and yet I suppose it is right that you should look the same as Biddy.’
Biddy lost her nerve. It was a hopeless story she’d attempted and one she had known in her heart was beyond her. She would throw herself upon the real Sybil waiting anxiously downstairs in the Morning Room, she decided, and somehow they would construct a new story – a story that would save both of them.
‘Wait,’ said Samuel, realising she was on the point of leaving. ‘Where is your sister?’
Biddy halted at the door, every nerve in her body telling her to run. ‘I . . . I have no sister, sir.’
‘But of course you do.’ His eyes found their focus again, connecting with Biddy. ‘You know you do.’
Biddy felt then as if she were poised on the cusp of extraordinary revelation. She didn’t have a sister, but perhaps Sybil did? ‘Do you mean the Secret Heiress?’
Samuel stared back at her, squinting, mouthing her words to himself, as if trying to decipher something lost in them. ‘The Secret Heiress?’
‘Yes. Is that Margaret Gregory?’
Samuel frowned, confused.
A voice from the hallway made her turn. ‘Sybil!’
She looked to her right and saw that a woman had come from another room and was heading towards her, with Polly close behind. But it was the woman’s face that struck Biddy with a shock equal to the one she had felt at re-meeting the man who had upturned her whole life. It was the woman from the photograph in Sybil’s room. The woman named Matilda, older clearly, but still very beautiful. The woman that Sybil had believed was her dead mother.
The weight of the story could be borne no longer. Biddy knew she couldn’t let herself tell this woman a lie. She ran for the stairs.
‘Sybil!’ The woman began to run, too.
Biddy reached the stairs first, panting, and practically threw herself down the first flight in her haste to get away. The woman reached the top and looked down just as Biddy reached the landing. ‘Wait!’
Biddy looked up, her eyes filling with tears of disgrace at how she’d tried to deceive these people. ‘I am so sorry, but I am not Sybil, miss.’
The woman processed this surprise for a second, before her eyes glistened with the emotion of a different realisation. ‘Oh, heavens, I know who you are.’
‘I am no one,’ Biddy insisted, shaking her head. She began the hurried descent of the last flight of stairs.
‘Yes you are – your name is Biddy.’
Biddy stopped.
‘And I am Margaret Gregory,’ the woman told her.
Biddy’s mouth fell open. It was too much. She flew down the last steps and into the entrance hall, looking wildly about her to see where the Morning Room was. ‘Sybil! Sybil, please come out!’ Her tears were flowing. ‘I’m so sorry, Sybil, I have ruined everything.’
A door began to open and she ran to it. ‘Oh, my dear friend,’ she sobbed, ‘please forgive me for what I have done.’
Although Sybil was waiting inside the Morning Roo
m, it was not she who came out the door. This was another woman, older than Sybil and dressed in a housemaid’s uniform, but no less overwhelmed at the sight of Biddy’s tears. This was the woman who loved Biddy more than any other person who walked upon the earth, and who would always love her until the day she went to her Maker.
‘Mum—’ Biddy cried, stopping dead in shock at the sight of her.
‘Oh, my darling girl,’ cried Ida, throwing her arms around her and kissing her cheeks. ‘You’ve come back to me at last.’
IDA
APRIL 1887
10
Ida dragged her mistress’s dressing table behind her, gouging the floor, wrecking the collection of pretty things that lived on its top. Items rolled and dropped as she pulled the heavy dressing table to the door.
‘Ida! Ida, stop!’ Margaret cried.
But Ida wouldn’t stop, and when she could move it no more, Ida went to the other side and pushed. The door was blocked by its bulk but Ida kept on pushing to be sure, willing herself to be numb to the pains in her belly. Good sense triumphed for a moment, making her stop and catch hold her breath just as another cramp stabbed at her and the fear of Barker returned.
‘He can’t get in,’ Margaret pleaded, ‘we’re safe in here.’
But Ida could only look around for whatever else she could use to stop him from coming inside the Chinese Room and ripping her baby away. The bedside table offered something and Ida staggered to it, sweeping aside the ornaments and dragging it to join the furniture shifted already. She upended and hefted it on top of the dressing table and now looked to the Chinoiserie screen, folded and leant at an angle near the corner beyond the bed. It would contribute little, she told herself; she would leave it where it was. She’d done enough.
Ida went to her mistress’s bed and lay down on the thick, soft eiderdown. Cramps ripped at her guts. ‘Safe and sound now,’ she told the child inside her, ‘safe and sound, my little dove.’ But the child wouldn’t listen, terrified still. ‘Hush,’ she begged of it, ‘please hush.’
The Secret Heiress Page 39