“Maybe we’d better go somewhere we won’t be disturbed. The street is not a good place to talk.”
Roland nodded his head. “’Ow about over there at the Pink Angel? Their drinks ain’t bad, and I’m ’ungry.”
“That’ll be fine,” Dylan said.
Dylan followed the young man carefully. If he turned and fled, Dylan was prepared to chase after him, although he doubted he could catch him. He looked fast indeed. They went into the Pink Angel and found a table over in the darkened corner. A slovenly woman came and took their order. Neither Dylan nor Serafina took anything, but Roland ordered a dish of fried eels and ale. As soon as the server was gone, he looked at them and said, “Wot’s this all about?”
“My name is Dylan Tremayne, Roland. This is Viscountess Serafina Trent.”
Roland’s eyes narrowed. “Viscountess?”
“That’s right. We’ve been asked by a friend of mine, the Earl of Darby, to find you.”
“I don’t know no earl. You off your rocker?”
“I want you to sit very still, Roland, and I’m going to tell you a story. Don’t say anything until I get through.”
“All right. As long as I get a free meal out of it, I’ll listen to your chatter.”
The food came almost at once, and Dylan said, “Serafina, perhaps you ought to tell this story.”
“All right, Dylan.” She began, “The Earl of Darby is a good friend of mine. He and his wife have no children—that is, he has no heir to leave his title and his estate to . . .”
Roland ate steadily and had to have his ale refilled twice while Serafina was carefully telling the story. Finally she ended and said, “So, I know this sounds fantastic, but I believe you are the son of Edward Hayden, the Earl of Darby.”
Roland suddenly laughed harshly. “Wot’s this all about? I never ’eard such a fairy tale in all my life!”
“I know it sounds that way, but let me tell you this, Roland. You look almost exactly like Edward Darby.” She had realized this while she was speaking, and she studied the young man’s face. She said, “You have the same cleft in your chin, the same tawny hair with a touch of red, the same light blue eyes. There’s a portrait of him in his home. It was made when he was about your age. I want you to come and look at it, Roland, and to meet the earl.”
Disbelief scored the young man’s face, and Serafina said, “Your name is Trevor Hayden.”
“I don’t believe a word of it.”
“What can you lose?” Dylan asked.
“I ain’t no bloody lord!”
“You could be,” Serafina said. “You could be Trevor Hayden, the next Earl of Darby.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air, and Roland—Trevor Hayden—stared at Serafina in disbelief. He finally drank the last of the ale and shrugged his trim shoulders. “I’ll ’ave a go at it. Like you say—wot can I lose?”
TWELVE
I wonder if this rain is ever going to stop.” Edward Hayden had been standing at the window, looking at the rain falling in slanting lines across the earth. December had brought some snow, but that had faded, and now Edward drummed his fingers on the windowsill nervously and turned to say with some irritation, “I hate this kind of weather!”
“Sit down, dear. You’re gong to wear yourself out,” Heather said. She nodded to the chair upholstered in a design of damask roses, its wooden arms heavily carved. An antimacassar protected the back of the chair, and as Edward came over and threw himself into the chair, she said, “Try not to be agitated, dear.”
“I’ll try.” Taking a deep breath, Edward looked around the room, contemplating the deep wine-red curtains and the muted pink of the embossed wallpaper. The proportions of the wallpaper were perfect, and he had always liked it, but now he was thinking of things other than the beauty of a room. Finally he turned and said abruptly, “Perhaps we should have told the family what’s going on, Heather.”
“We couldn’t have done that, dear.”
“Why not?”
“Because we weren’t sure ourselves. We still aren’t, are we?”
“I suppose you’re right.” He picked up a pipe, opened a humidor, and filled it with fragrant tobacco. He picked up a lucifer and struck it, remarking, “You know, when I was a boy we didn’t have things like this, this match I mean. One of the few innovations I suppose I’m really in favor of.”
“It makes life a little bit easier.”
The two sat there, and each of them felt a reluctance to speak of the future, but finally Edward said, “If we accept this young man as our son, Heather, it’s going to make a great many differences in our lives.”
“Yes, it will, and in the lives of the whole family.”
“It’s going to be difficult telling them, but it’ll have to be done.” He drew on the pipe and sent a cloud of purple smoke toward the ceiling. He sat there tapping his foot nervously, then got up and walked over to the fireplace where he poked at the log with short, vicious jabs. The action sent myriads of fiery sparks like miniature stars swirling up the chimney. “This fireplace always smokes a little,” he said. Suddenly he replaced the poker and moved quickly to the window. “They’re here.” He stood straighter, and his face had lost some of its ruddy colour. Heather rose and moved over to the window. He put his arms around her, and neither of them could speak, for the tension seemed unbearable.
As soon as Rupert came into the room, he put his eyes on Arthur and shook his head with disgust. “Do you have to get drunk every day?”
“He’s not drunk,” Gervase said defensively.
“Yes, he is.” Rupert stared at his younger brother and shook his head. “No sense preaching at you. You’ve had that for years. Nothing seems to do you any good.” He started to say more, but Gervase came over and put herself between Rupert and her father.
“I don’t think we need to discuss this, Uncle Rupert.”
She stood there protecting her father. Rupert scowled, and as he turned he muttered, “No blasted good to anybody on earth. Try to straighten up, Arthur—but then there’s no point telling you that, is there?”
As soon as the door slammed, Gervase turned and went over to her father. He was sitting at the desk, staring down at it. When he did look up, she saw the misery written in his eyes. He was a smaller man than both Rupert and Edward. The three brothers had the same father, but Arthur had a different mother.
Arthur Hayden was almost frail-looking beside the bulk of both Rupert or Edward Hayden. His face was thin, and he had an esthetic look about him that artists have sometimes. He looked up now at his daughter and said, “I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t be drinking this early in the morning.”
Gervase did not answer. She moved behind his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s ever going to please Uncle Rupert.”
Arthur suddenly rose from his chair and turned to Gervase. His whole life was a failure, it seemed to him, and now he said as much. “If I had been stronger, or if your mother had lived, life would have been much better for you, Gervase.”
“I haven’t had a bad life.”
“Your mother made things different. I didn’t have her long, but she was like the sun in the sky to me.”
“I wish I could remember more about her.”
“Well, you were only four when she died.”
“I’m glad you made all those paintings of her, Father. I look at them every day.” But Arthur Hayden knew his own limitations. The signs of dissipation were evident on him. He was like a man who had a lingering illness. He reached out and took Gervase’s hand and held it for a moment. “What’s going to become of you?”
“Oh, I’m going to marry an earl with all sorts of money. Then we’ll travel. Remember how much fun we had on our trip to France?”
“Yes, and to Italy. That was the happiest time of my life, I think.” He suddenly smiled briefly. “What about your husband? He wouldn’t want to drive a broken-down father-in-law around on a trip.”
“Oh
, when I get a husband I’ll make him happy. But you’ll always be my best friend.” She reached out and gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, and when she stepped back, her eyes were filled with mischief. She had a great deal of humor in her, this daughter so beloved by Arthur Hayden. “Husbands,” she said, “are like pet dogs. You’re fond of them, and you see that they’re fed and are comfortable. But a woman can’t get overly concerned with pet dogs or with husbands. There are more important things than that.” She leaned forward and put her hands on his cheeks, and with her thumbs she pushed his mouth into a smile. “There. Fathers are more important than husbands.”
The two stood there, and, as always, Gervase was able to bring her father out of the gloomy pit of melancholy into which he fell. She loved him dearly, and no one was more conscious of his weakness than Arthur himself.
“I don’t think you can ask Edward for money for a horse, St. John.”
Looking up at his mother, St. John smiled and lifted one eyebrow in an expression of surprise. “Why, of course I can. What would one more horse mean to him?”
“We’re living on his charity.”
“Well, we always have, Mother. I suppose he’s used to it by now.”
“You know, even if he said yes, you’d have to get Rupert to agree—and he never would.”
“Maybe you could talk to Edward. You’re close to him.”
“As close as a brother and sister could be when we were younger, but things have changed now.” Leah St. John was suddenly moved by an inner thought that brought a grimace to her thin lips. She remembered very clearly at that moment how close she and Edward had been when they were children, but after she had married, that had all changed. Edward had not approved of Roger St. John, the man she had married, and from the time of her marriage they had drifted apart. After the death of Roger, who died in bankruptcy due to his reckless gambling, Leah had little choice but to seek shelter under his roof. “Edward’s been a good brother,” she said, “saddled with a sister and a nephew.”
“Mother, it’s only a mare, and she’s a beauty. I can even make money off of her, I think. I can buy her cheaply enough and then sell her for cash.”
“Rupert would never agree to it.” A bitterness tinged Leah’s words, and she spoke the thought that was always in the back of her mind but which she had kept hidden from St. John. “You know how terrible life would be for us, Son, if Edward were to die?”
Looking up quickly, St. John nodded. “I’ve had nightmares about that.”
“Life would be very unpleasant.” The two fell silent for a moment, and then St. John lifted his head.
“Someone’s coming,” he muttered. He walked over to the window, followed by his mother, and the two stared out at the carriage that approached. The wheels sent spirals of water high as it drove through the puddles, and the coachman huddled, soaked, no doubt, to the skin. “Who can that be traveling in this kind of weather, Mother?”
Looking closely, Leah said, “It’s Lady Trent.”
“Yes, and that actor fellow Tremayne . . . but who’s that other fellow there?”
They watched as three figures got out of the carriage and moved quickly toward the shelter of the front porch. “A bad day for visiting,” St. John remarked. “You know, I might persuade Lady Trent to invest in that mare. She loves horses.”
“Don’t ask her. It would be absolutely unthinkable to become a beggar.”
St. John gave her a stare, and his lips twisted bitterly. “Well, that’s what we are, isn’t it—beggars?”
“Lady Trent is here,” Crinshaw announced as he stepped into the larger parlour where Lord and Lady Darby saw visitors.
“Is she alone, Crinshaw?” Edward asked quickly.
“No, sir. There are two gentlemen here. One is Mr. Tremayne, and I don’t know the other gentleman.”
“Show them in, Crinshaw.”
Edward and Heather stood there, each of them thinking the same thought. What if this is really our son? Turning to Heather, Edward took her hand. “You’re pale. Your hands are trembling. This is probably not what we think. I expect that other fellow is some detective Serafina and Tremayne have hired to help find our boy.”
Then the door opened, and Serafina Trent entered, followed by Tremayne and the third man. Heather gasped as the young man turned his head toward her. She stared at him and suddenly felt unsteady, as if she needed to sit down.
“I’m glad to see you, Serafina,” Edward said, but like his wife, his eyes were fixed on the young man with them. “You, too, Mr. Tremayne. Bad weather to be traveling.”
Serafina was studying the two and saw that they were almost beyond words. “This is Mr. Roland Anderson.”
“Famous name,” Sir Edward said. “A highwayman. No relation, I trust?”
“I reckon not,” Roland said. His face paled, and he showed signs of nervousness. “’E died game, ’e did. A rare plucked one ’e was.”
Both Edward and Heather were staring at the young man as Serafina repeated introductions. “Roland, this is Lord Edward Hayden, Earl of Darby, and his wife, Lady Heather.”
A silence fell across the room, and for a moment Heather thought it was like a picture. Nobody was moving, but they were staring at each other. Serafina said, “Perhaps we could sit down and talk.”
“Yes, could I offer you tea?” Heather asked.
“That would be very nice,” Serafina said. “It’s cold out. Hot tea would be just the thing.”
Heather rang a bell, and when one of the parlour maids entered, she said, “Fix some tea, please.”
“It’s already fixed, ma’am. Shall I bring it in?”
“Yes, Rosie. Please do.”
Edward tore his eyes away from the young man who called himself Roland and asked, “Are you engaged in any acting, Mr. Tremayne?”
“Not at the moment, sir.” He smiled and said, “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered from the accident you suffered the last time we were here.”
“Yes, I have.”
As the two men talked, Heather could not tear her gaze away from the younger man’s face. She was a demonstrative woman at times, and it was all she could do to keep the shock from reflecting in her features. Suddenly she realized the young man was staring back at her, and their eyes locked. His eyes are just like Edward’s with that light blue colour. She had no time to think any further because Rosie came in. The next few moments offered some relief as the business of getting the tea poured and served took place.
Serafina sipped her tea and then said at once, “We have told Roland the story you told us about losing your child many years ago, or so you thought. We’ve also told him of Father Xavier’s visit and of the death of Margaret Anderson. And we told him, of course, of her confession that she exchanged her dead baby for your live child. According to Father Xavier, it was her last request that the baby she raised in total ignorance of his real parentage should be returned to his family.”
During this speech everyone was staring at Roland, and it was Heather who broke the awkward silence. “Mr. Anderson, what is your feeling about all this?”
“Why, it’s a bloody good fairy tale I make of it.” He looked at the pair and said pugnaciously, “I ain’t no bloody lord!”
Edward sat up straighter in his chair, ignoring his tea. He began to question him. “Did you have any suspicion at all that Margaret Anderson wasn’t your mother?”
“Not likely. Why should I?”
“Did she ever mention your father?”
“No. She always ’ad a man, but when I asked ’er about me own dad she claimed ’e was a sailor. ’E was going to marry ’er, she told me, except ’e got ’imself killed in a fight at sea. ’E was stationed on the Victory. Sometimes she said ’is name was Charlie, sometimes Fred. She was an awful liar, Meg was.”
Edward said, “And you ran away when you were only a boy?”
“No, I didn’t run off. Not by myself. She disappeared. Took up with some man. She left me with a pair named Morgan. Th
ey treated me bad so I left ’em and went out on my own.” Roland stared at Edward, and then his eyes went to Heather. “Wot do you want with me? That’s wot I’d like to know.”
“You’re our son.” Heather’s voice spoke up, and there was absolute certainty in her voice. “We want you here with us.”
“Wot makes you so sure?”
Heather got to her feet and said, “Come this way.” She left the room, followed by the young man and Edward, with Serafina and Dylan close behind. She led them down a hallway and paused before a very large portrait. “There. These are all Haydens. Look at this one.”
Roland was staring at it. “Who’s that?”
“It’s me,” Edward said, “when I was nineteen. One year older than you.”
Roland Anderson stared at the portrait, and the others watched his face for some expression. Heather said, “Look at the eyes. The same colour as yours. Your hair is the same auburn, and look at this.” She pointed at the chin on the portrait of Edward and said, “All the Hayden men have this cleft in their chin—just like you do. You’re a Hayden. There’s no other answer.”
Roland could not speak, and Serafina saw his problem. “I know this is a great shock for you, but I think you should stay here. I believe you are Trevor Hayden. All the evidence points to it.”
“Yes,” Dylan added quickly. “Get to know Lord Darby and his good wife. I think God is setting a door open before you. Don’t close it.”
They all saw indecision moving across the young man’s face. “Trevor Hayden,” he whispered. “That sure don’t ’ave a good sound to it.”
“It’s your real name, I think, my boy. Will you stay?” Edward asked, and there was a pleading note in his voice.
For a moment as Heather watched the young man, she felt fear. She was totally convinced that this was the child she never got to rear, who she had thought was in a grave with a small stone marking it. She watched his face almost fiercely, and finally he spoke. “Well, I guess . . . for a while. But I still don’t believe none o’ this!”
Heather and Edward were both weak with relief. “I’m glad you’re staying. We’ll get to know each other better. Let me take you up to the room you’ll be staying in.”
A Conspiracy of Ravens Page 14