The Stepsister's Triumph

by Darcie Wilde

  “Who was she?” Benedict’s question wasn’t as casual as he would have liked, but Father’s attention was more on the past than on his son.

  “Mathilde,” his father said softly. “Mathilde Cross. Her father was a partner in the East India Company. Went out in the very beginning and came back with bags of money. Invested in ships and warehouses and the like. Men started calling him Midas Cross, because everything he touched turned to gold.” Father paused for a sip of port. “Some called Mathilde spoiled. I think she just had an excess of spirit. Should have been a country girl. Riding to the hounds, a big estate to help look after, plenty of land, all that would have used up some of that energy. I think the city confined her.”

  “I thought you moved in different circles.”

  “Not as different as all that. I was rather taken with her for a time, I admit. Of course, as soon as I met your mother, that was over and done with.” He looked into his drink for a quiet moment. “Never worked out quite how such a woman ended up with a dry old stick like Reginald Valmeyer.”

  “Not a romantic attachment, then?”

  “Maybe on her part, at least at first, but never on his. In fact . . .” Father paused. “Well, it’s old gossip, so I don’t suppose it can do any harm.”

  Benedict waited patiently. He wasn’t concerned that the marquis would decide to keep his silence. After his family and his horses, the marquis loved telling stories best of all. Some of Benedict’s earliest childhood drawings had been illustrations of ghost stories his father told by the fire in their country house. To the marquis, gossip was just another sort of good story.

  Benedict was not disappointed.

  “Reginald Valmeyer had a mistress at the time he married,” his father said. “And he never gave her up.”

  Benedict gulped his port to hide his distaste. It was common behavior, he knew, and in many quarters, it was expected. A man needed two women. The one for duty, and the one for . . . everything else. But the idea of taking the wedding vows while wondering how fast to break them . . . It left a sour taste in his mouth.

  So earnest, so jealous! Gabriella laughed from his memory. My righteous Benedict!

  “Mathilde wasn’t one of those women to conform quietly to a marriage of convenience. There were scenes. In public as well as in private. It got worse after their first son died. Mathilde blamed Sir Reginald for his death, you see. The boy was delicate, and Valmeyer accused Mathilde of making a mollycoddle of his heir. Sent him away to school to toughen him up.” His father winced, and so did Benedict. “Yes, well. They buried him less than a year later, and Lady Reginald never forgave her husband for it. There were two others who died in infancy, and a stillbirth after that. Then, just when everyone thought there couldn’t be any more babies, along comes the daughter. She was a tiny little thing, and no one expected her to fare any better. But she must have drawn down some of her mother’s spirit with her milk, and she did survive.”

  “But her mother didn’t?”

  “She did, for quite a while, but eventually, she just . . .faded away. Everyone said it was an infectious fever, but I think it’s as likely it was Valmeyer and his neglect that finally did her in. But she had the last laugh.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, before the final shovel of dirt was thrown down on his wife’s grave, Valmeyer was in with the solicitor. Wanted to know how much of her fortune was left.” The marquis raised his glass and regarded his son and his memories over the rim. “Would have given a lot to see the look on his face.”

  “Was the money gone?”

  “Worse. It was tied up. Mathilde’s inheritance from her father wasn’t in land, you see, or any real property. It was all cash, and it seems a good chunk of that had somehow been . . . left out of the marriage settlement.” Because Sir Reginald wasn’t as competent as he needed to be. The marquis’s words echoed in the back of Benedict’s mind. “A little fact that certainly didn’t help the friction between them. What man wants to go to his wife for an allowance? Especially when he means to use it to pay his mistress’s bills? Madelene was just fifteen when Mathilde became ill. Mathilde must have suspected it was serious, because she went to the solicitor and had a trust created that tied up her money as tight as a noose around a highwayman’s neck.”

  “So, Madelene . . . that is, Miss Valmeyer is rich . . .”

  Father clearly noticed the slip, but he didn’t say anything. “Rich as Croesus’s daughter, and her father isn’t. Not anymore. Valmeyer spent what he had and was depending on his wife’s money to keep him in style. Those expectations only got worse after he remarried.”

  “Let me guess . . .”

  “Oh yes.” His father gestured with his glass. “The new Lady Reginald was his mistress. Not that they admitted it. They said she was a widow and that her three children were from her mythical first husband.”

  “Good God,” breathed Benedict.

  “Yes, indeed,” his father nodded.

  “And I suppose he’d promised the mistress . . .”

  The marquis shrugged. “I expect he promised that woman she’d be living like a queen on his dead wife’s fortune. He certainly tried hard enough to get his hands on it. Petitioned the courts. When they said no, he petitioned Parliament. He wrote mountains of letters about the natural rights of a father and reminded everyone who would listen that he had absolute right to control his underage daughter and anything she owned. When none of that worked, he even tried to sue the bank holding the money and the solicitors who drew up the document.”

  Benedict set the port glass down. With the way his hand was clenching, he risked breaking the thing.

  The marquis cocked his head and regarded his son closely. “That poor girl,” he said. “Life must be pretty hellish with a father who cares more for the gold than her, not to mention a very disappointed stepmother.”

  Benedict didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. No wonder Madelene was so afraid. No wonder she thought no one would care for her or about her. She’d been raised in a house without love. She’d lost her mother while she was little more than a girl. Since then, she’d lived with her father’s mistress, and his second family, crushed down under the weight of the money they had been sure was going to be theirs.

  How could she be anything but sad and lost? How could she ever trust anyone?

  Except she had. She’d trusted him.

  “Benedict?”

  “What? Sorry. Did you say something?”

  The marquis’s clear eyes twinkled. “I asked if there was anything I should know?” he repeated with rather exaggerated patience.

  “No.”

  “You’re certain? Come, come, Benedict.” He set his own glass down and leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “We’ve had our differences, but I hope you know you can count on me if your back’s to it.”

  “I do know.” Benedict couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. When times had been very bad, it never failed that one or two of his paintings would somehow be bought just in the nick of time by anonymous purchasers. The last time he’d visited his father and brother at the country estate, he’d found those paintings in the attics, very carefully wrapped in cotton batting and oilcloth. “But this is . . . it’s something I have to see through on my own.”

  “Well. Whatever this is, you’ll see it home safe. I’ve learned that about you, my boy.”

  The pride in his father’s voice touched Benedict to the heart and also left him a little ashamed. “I’m not so sure. I’ve made . . . I’ve made criminal mistakes.”

  “That was not your fault Benedict,” his father said quietly. “She took us all in.”

  “I was her husband,” he said doggedly. “I should have known. I shut my eyes to all of it when I should have . . . I should have . . .” He stopped. “I failed her, Father,” he whispered. “I failed her as a man and a husband, and she died becau
se of it. How can I risk binding myself to another woman? Especially one who’s known so much trouble already?”

  Another man might have been surprised at the leap in logic and subject. But not his father. The marquis had always understood him, even when they were still fighting. So, Lord Innesdale just leaned back and stared thoughtfully at the fire for a time. When he looked back at Benedict, his eyes were shining with unshed tears. “My boy, I’m only an old man, and I’ve been a lucky one. Your mother, now, she was steady as a rock. I loved her as my second self, and she never once gave me cause to regret that.”

  “I know,” Benedict said softly.

  “The funny thing was before I met her . . . well, I’d made more than a few mistakes, and one or two of them came back on us.” He poured himself another measure of port, and Benedict pretended not to notice the tremor in his hand. “I was sure she’d leave me when she found out. Far worse, though, was the certainty that if she did find out, it’d break her.” He set the decanter down and took a healthy swallow of the fortified wine. “Amazing thing was, when it came down to it, she turned out to be the stronger of the pair of us.” He paused again. “You’re not the boy you used to be, Benedict,” he said finally. “You’ve grown into a good man. Your own man. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll stop punishing that man for the boy’s mistakes.”

  Benedict didn’t answer. He loved his father, and he appreciated how hard it was for the man to understand his difficult second son. But this was not something his could explain. Or that he wanted to explain. Ever.

  Father sighed. “Well, there’s the gong. Let’s go into dinner, shall we? I’ve had a letter from my brother, you know . . .”

  Benedict followed him, sinking gratefully into stories of family and friends and the country and politics. But in the back of his mind he saw Madelene, turned away, ready to run. But where did she have to run to?

  In his mind’s eye he saw himself, saw his arms open for her. A wave of sweetness suffused him.

  Stop punishing that man for the boy’s mistakes. His father’s words played over in his mind.

  But how could he dare to love Madelene, whose strength had already been so tested? Where did he even begin?

  He knew, though. She’d told him. He would concentrate on taking charge of the space around him. Around them. And then . . . and then . . .

  And then he could hope and he could trust and he could try.

  Oh, Madelene. Please say you’ll give me a chance to try.

  * * *

  Madelene was beginning to feel that her season, rather than being a triumph, was turning into a long series of bad ideas. The worst, thus far, had to be writing to Mr. Thorpe to request an interview at his office, just two hours before she was due at her next sitting with Lord Benedict. In the two days since she’d last entered Benedict’s studio, she’d swung from hope to despair and back again. Yes, they’d parted on a note of friendship, but could that note be sustained this time? None of the others had.

  So when she set this appointment with Mr. Thorpe for the same day as the sitting, she had seen it as something akin to taking unpleasant medicine—she should try to get it all down at once.

  Now, Madelene sat on the edge of the comfortable chair in Mr. Thorpe’s calm, ordered office deep within the hushed confines of the bank.

  “I received your letter, as you know, Miss Valmeyer.” Mr. Thorpe closed the door behind them. “You have requested a truly extraordinary amount.”

  “I know, Mister Thorpe.”

  Her trustee sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers, and she saw the grim set of his features.

  “If this was for an emergency, or a disaster, I might be able to convince the rest of the board to advance the sum. But this is for a party.”

  “I know.”

  “I recognize balls are a matter of great concern to young women.” Mr. Thorpe drummed his fingertips against one another. “I had never thought of you as one of that kind before.”

  “I have never had the opportunity before. Now, with Lady Adele and Lady Helene . . .”

  “Who are looking to you to make up for their own deficient finances, are they not?”

  “They will supply half the cost,” she said quickly.

  But Mr. Thorpe just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Valmeyer. I cannot authorize this. With all the rest of your expenses, which have been considerable, as you know, this is just too much.”

  No. It couldn’t be. Mr. Thorpe had never refused her when the requests had been for her family, but it seemed he had no qualms about refusing her when the request was for herself.

  Madelene knew full well that family must come first. She’d always made sure their bills were paid and their debts were honored. Extra sums were always found when father’s investments had not turned out, again. She’d sat in front of Mr. Thorpe every single time, and she’d pleaded, and always, she’d come back with what her family needed.

  “You can spare yourself the burden,” Father said, usually in his study, when they were away from the others. “If only you weren’t so stubborn and ungrateful. One note, written by you to the bank, and you’d never have to hear another complaint from your stepmother again. Come now, Maddie, I know she’s hard on you. I would never choose to see you in this position, you know that. Just write the letter, and I will be able to protect you as a father ought to.”

  But she never had. She’d done everything except that. She’d dug her own hole, Father reminded her, and she knew that he was right. But she also knew that if she handed him control of her money, the hole would become a grave.

  And this was where it had led.

  It’s not fair. But as soon as she thought that, she heard Miss Sewell’s voice answer. But it is reality, and you cannot ignore it.

  “Mister Thorpe,” Madelene said, slowly. “Who is it you work for?”

  “The bank, of course,” he answered.

  “But who do you represent?”

  “The Cross Trust,” he said.

  “Which is for the benefit of whom?”

  “Yourself, naturally.”

  “So you do work for me?”

  “After a fashion, yes.”

  “Then, as your employer, may I speak plainly? Please?”

  “Miss Valmeyer,” he said. “I wish you would.”

  “Very well.” Madelene drew herself up. She tried not to worry about where she was or who was watching her, or how oppressive the hushed and solemn office felt around her. This place was not worse than the expanse of the empty Theatre Royal. She did not need to be afraid.

  “Mister Thorpe, I need this money. You know that if my stepmother and my stepbrother do not receive large, regular payments, they raise many complaints and even more bills. This year . . . this season, I have every hope of changing my condition before matters reach a crisis. That is, before I turn twenty-five and the money becomes mine, so I no longer have you to stand between me, my father’s family, and my mother’s money. But if I cannot continue regular payments to them, as well as have enough to meet my own needs, I will be trapped in the house, as I am, permanently.”

  Mr. Thorpe let out a great long breath. He ran his hand across his shiny, spotted scalp.

  “I have waited ten very long, very anxious years to hear you say those words.”

  Madelene’s jaw threatened to drop open in astonishment. “You knew?”

  “I have been hinting as hard as I can that I know. You were placed in a position that would prove impossible for a grown man, let alone a young girl. But my hands were entirely tied. Even now I have my limits. The rules of the trust are explicit, and so is the law, and to tell you the truth, they sometimes run counter to each other. I was always afraid if I spoke too directly, that fact might come clearly to light. Therefore, it became impossible for me to act without your direct orders, no matter how much I wanted to.” Mr. Thorpe leane
d forward, and for the first time in all the years Madelene had known him, he smiled.

  It was perhaps not quite as wonderful as Benedict’s smile, but it would do.

  “Well, Mister Thorpe, I hope you have a notebook ready,” Madelene said. “Because that list of orders is going to be extensive.”

  XIV

  Madelene all but skipped up the stairs to Benedict’s studio. She tried to tell herself to be cautious, but her spirits were so buoyed by her success with Mr. Thorpe that anything seemed possible. It was certainly reasonable to hope for the best, she told herself. After all, she and Benedict had left things on a note of kindness last time. Why should they not begin in the same tone?

  She raised her hand to knock, but just as she did, the door flew open in front of her, leaving her hand at about the level of Benedict’s nose.

  The first thing Madelene noticed about Lord Benedict was that his hair had come loose from its usual neat queue and hung in curling locks about his shoulders. The second thing she noticed was that he was dressed only in shirtsleeves and breeches. The effect of this dishabille so entirely disordered her wits, she forgot for a moment to lower her hand.

  “Oh, ah, good morning, Lord Benedict.”

  “Good morning, Miss Valmeyer,” he replied.

  “I trust I am on time today.” She also finally remembered her hand and returned it hastily to her side.

  “Yes, very prompt. Won’t you please step in?” Benedict moved aside and bowed, too hastily. A fresh lock of hair fell loose across his sharp cheekbones. “I, ah, you’ll excuse me a moment?”

  Before she could answer, he darted behind a carved screen. There was a moment’s rustling, and he came out, his hair tidied, and his coat and smock pulled on over his rumpled shirt. “As you can see, I’ve made some special preparation for our sitting this time.”

  “You have?” For a moment Madelene thought he must mean his clothing, or his lack thereof, and her heart quivered.

  “You didn’t notice?”