The Wildest Heart

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by Rosemary Rogers


  Two

  How can one describe the passing of time? Light and shade—patterns seen through a kaleidoscope—

  I blossomed forth, like a butterfly from a cocoon, taking, as one of my many later admirers said, all London by storm. I’m sure he exaggerated, although my sudden transformation from quiet, dowdy obscurity to flamboyant debutante was bound to give rise to some comment.

  I shall never know what transpired between Sir Edgar and my mother—if anything did—but almost overnight I found myself no longer a retiring, unwanted poor relation. Suddenly I was the petted, spoiled daughter of the house, a pampered creature whose every wish must be indulged.

  I was presented to Her Majesty. Like the rest of that year’s debutantes, I was dressed in virginal white; my dark hair crowned with a diamond tiara. I was seen at all the fashionable functions with my doting parents.

  My mother and I were still virtual strangers, but what did it matter? In public she was proud of me; in private, we had nothing to say to each other. And Edgar Cardon, as he promised, continued to be generous.

  We traveled in Europe, and my knowledge of languages proved an asset, instead of the liability it had once been considered. An Italian prince dubbed me “the marble goddess” when I rejected his attempts at seduction, and the name followed me back to London. I was an acknowledged beauty now; I, who had always considered myself plain, who had been called ugly and frumpish. And when the prime minister said I had a mind as scintillatingly clear as one of the diamonds I constantly wore, my position in society became secure. The Earl of Beaconsfield had also added, in private, that I was as cold and as hard as the stones I seemed to admire, but this comment was never noised abroad. I put him off by protesting that he was a married man, but he was also a supremely intelligent individual, and my evasions did not fool him.

  “I wonder if you are capable of loving?” he once asked me when we were alone. “I could almost understand your rejection of me if you were in love with poor Edgar Cardon, but I know that you’re not. You are too intelligent to be a lady, and too much of a lady to be a little whore at heart. Have you ever asked yourself what you are searching for, Rowena?”

  My eyes met his. His honesty appealed to me. “Why should I have to search for anything?” I said lightly. “If I’m not entirely satisfied with my way of life, I’m not too discontented either. I manage to fill up my days.”

  “With a man like Edgar Cardon? What do you have in common with him? I’ll be frank. I’ve known my share of beautiful women, but in your case, it was your intelligence that appealed to me. You’re wasting yourself.”

  I realized that I could be perfectly honest with him. I shrugged. “Would you have noticed me at all before? I was an ugly duckling before sheer chance, and Sir Edgar transformed me into a swan. I still had the same intelligence you say you admire, but who would have bothered to pay any attention to it then? No, my lord, it is you who are not being logical now. I discovered that in order to be recognized as an intelligent woman, I had first to be noticed as a woman. Would we have met at all if you had not been alarmed that the Prince of Wales might have formed a tendre for me?”

  He laughed, and leaned forward to pat my hand.

  “Touché, my lady! No, I must confess that it had not entered my head what a disadvantage it might be to be born a female—and an intelligent one, at that! May I wish you good fortune?”

  He kissed my hands when we parted, and that was that. Sir Edgar was flattered that the prime minister had noticed me, and I never told him what had transpired between us.

  There were other things to think about. I was almost twenty years old, and a grand birthday ball had been planned for me. Had I but known it, my whole life was to be changed again, drastically, following that special occasion.

  It was truly an enchanted evening. I had danced every dance, consumed great quantities of champagne, and laughed and flirted the night away. The festivities continued until after six in the morning, when the last of our guests finally went home, fortified by an enormous breakfast.

  When, at last, I climbed the stairs to my room, I was so weary that I had barely enough energy left to take off my shimmering satin ball gown. I dropped it on the floor next to my satin dancing slippers, and threw myself into bed.

  I slept deeply, dreamlessly, waking only when my maid—or so I thought—drew apart the heavy velvet draperies that covered my window and brilliant sunlight suddenly streamed across my face.

  “Did you have to open them all the way, Martine? What time is it? I promised I would go riding in the park this afternoon…”

  “Perhaps you could postpone your riding until later. There is a certain individual you should see this afternoon, on a matter that might prove of vital concern to your future.”

  I sat up in bed with a jerk, my sleepy, swollen eyes widening with surprise. The last person I had expected to see, in my bedchamber of all places, was my mother.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she said in an expressionless voice. “But the news I have wouldn’t keep. I told Martine she could leave, that I would see you had your hot chocolate. It’s there on the table by your bed.”

  I looked at her, bunking to clear the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes. My mother—Lady Fanny. All these months we had existed like complete strangers, passing each other in the corridors of the house without any visible recognition. It was by her avoidance of me that I first sensed she knew very well what had caused my changed position in the house, but like an ostrich, she preferred not to see. I had hated her all the more for it, of course. My mother, the procuress! She had been Sir Edgar Cardon’s mistress while she was still married to my father, and now, in my own twisted way, I was paying her back in her own coin, on my father’s behalf.

  We watched each other for a few moments, while I reached slowly for my cup of chocolate.

  The morning light was cruel to her face, in spite of the carefully applied powder and rouge she always used. Perhaps she had been pretty once, but her plump blonde beauty was not the kind that lasts into middle age. I saw her suddenly, in the harsh light of the sun, as a fat, aging woman—an object of pity, if I had been capable of pitying her.

  As if she could not bear to look upon my face for too long, my mother had walked impatiently over to my dresser, where she stood fiddling with my combs and brushes as she waited for me to finish my drink. All this time I had said not a word to her, but now at last I put my cup down and saw that she had picked up the necklace of sapphires and diamonds which had been Sir Edgar’s birthday present to me.

  “Do you like them?” I said idly. “I also have the bracelet and the earrings to match. But the necklace is a beautiful piece, don’t you think?”

  She dropped the necklace as if it had suddenly turned red-hot and looked at me with hatred and malice in her eyes. It was just as if a mask had dropped from her face.

  “Perhaps you could soon be buying your own jewels, Rowena. That is—if you are sensible.”

  “Why don’t you come right out with whatever it is you came here to say, Mother? I’m still too sleepy to find solutions to riddles.”

  I swung my legs off the bed, realizing I was naked only when I saw the expression on my mother’s face.

  I laughed, reaching for one of the sheer, lace-embroidered robes that Sir Edgar had surprised me with on one occasion. “Heavens! What strangers we are, to be sure! I had no idea that my nudity would appall you.”

  “It’s not that…” she began, and then bit her words off short. “Never mind,” she went on quickly. “I did not come here to quarrel with you, but rather—rather to offer you a belated birthday present, you might say.” The short, almost hysterical laugh she gave startled me into looking more closely at her, and indeed, her face bore an almost unnatural flush that underlay the rouge she had applied too heavily, and her plump, be-ringed fingers trembled as she nervously pleated and unpleated a fold of her skirt.

  “It’s a little late for recriminations between us, isn’t it, Mother?
” I said equably, and began to brush my hair. “Well?” I went on when she seemed to hesitate. “Aren’t you going to tell me what my belated birthday present is?”

  “It must be a secret between us,” she said quickly. “Edgar—I do not want Edgar to know—not yet. He never did like your father, you know. Guy’s name must not be mentioned.”

  My hand stopped in midstroke. “My father? What has he to do with it? You’ve never mentioned his name before!”

  “Of course I haven’t. Why should I? We are divorced, and all the unpleasantness he put me through… but that no longer matters,” she said hurriedly, when I would have spoken. “The least you can do is to hear me out. It will not take long. Your father—you knew he went to America? When your grandfather died, the lawyers had a difficult time tracing him. No one had an address, and of course, it was out of the question that he should ever return here! Even so, there was the matter of the title. He is the Earl of Melchester now, murderer or not.” A barely suppressed note of bitterness had crept into her voice, and I wondered whether she had begun to regret the fact that she might have been a countess, instead of the wife of a mere baronet.

  I repeated, “Why should you suddenly speak of my father now? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Suddenly there was a note of triumph in her voice.

  “That he wants you to come to America to live with him! Yes—” she hurried on, seeing my expression, “it’s true, the lawyers found him. He had not known that his father was dead, or that you were here with us. I was contacted by the solicitor who is acting for him, and he wishes to meet you, to discuss various arrangements that will have to be made. You will go, will you not, Rowena?” In the face of my stunned silence, her voice became almost desperate. How much she wanted to be rid of me! I had not realized.

  “He’s a rich man, Rowena! I cannot imagine it. Guy, who was always such a spendthrift, a man who never cared for money, except to get rid of it as quickly as possible. But Mr. Braithwaite tells me he’s a millionaire, and it will all be yours! You’ll be an heiress! The minute you sign those papers and I give my consent for you to go to him, you’ll have fifty thousand pounds settled on you outright. Do you understand what that means? You’ll be rich—and completely independent, of course. Well, what do you say?”

  I had received a shock—and if I managed to keep my face expressionless, I know it must have showed in the unusual brilliance of my eyes. I looked at my mother, who was biting her lip as she tried to search for some answer in my face.

  “Well?” she said again, her tone a mixture of impatience and fear.

  “I need time to—to think about all this, of course,” I said slowly. “My father—do you not think it strange that he should have waited so long to try and contact me?”

  “I wrote to him!” she burst out defiantly. “Well, why not?” she went on, her voice rising slightly. “Do you think I wanted you here? Especially after—after—”

  “Why are you so reluctant to say it?” I broke in coldly. “You surely mean that after your husband had raped me, he was weak enough to become infatuated with me. You are afraid you’ll lose him to me completely, are you not? Is that why you’ve decided not to bury your head in the sand any longer, but to get rid of me instead?”

  “You are a cold, calculating little hussy, Rowena!” she whispered, and by now I had regained enough composure to give her a scornful smile.

  “Certainly, I must take after you in some ways, I suppose. Are we going to indulge in recriminations at this late stage?”

  I could see her trying desperately to pull herself together, torn between her desire to pour out all the accumulated resentment and hatred she felt for me, and the need to placate me.

  In the end, she said abruptly, “Will you go with me to visit Mr. Braithwaite or not? Once you have spoken to him and he has explained everything to you in detail, I doubt that there will be any need for us to converse further.”

  “Quite so. At all costs, let us not become hypocrites.” I turned away from her once more and continued brushing my hair. “If you will send Martine to me, Mother, I should be ready to accompany you in less than an hour.”

  The drive to Lincolns Inn Fields, where Mr. Braithwaite maintained his offices, was accomplished in stony silence. And indeed, once we had been politely ushered into the cozy office of the senior partner of the august firm of Braithwaite, Matthews and Braithwaite, my mother quickly informed that gentleman that I was possessed of an intelligent mind and had a will of my own, so that her part in this matter would be merely that of an interested observer.

  I shot her a somewhat sardonic glance, but she had settled back in her chair with her hands primly folded in her lap, and would not meet my eyes.

  “Well, Lady Rowena.” Mr. Braithwaite said briskly from behind his paper-cluttered desk, and I looked up to meet his blue, twinkling gaze, which was remarkably shrewd in spite of his advanced years. He surprised me by saying suddenly, “You look like your father, y’know! Hmm—too bad things turned out the way they did. Guy—but you’re not here to listen to an old man reminisce, are you? Shall we get down to business right away, then, or would you ladies like a cup of tea first?”

  Both my mother and I declined the offer of tea, and, nodding his head in a satisfied manner, Mr. Braithwaite made a small pyramid of his fingers, gazing over their tips at me like a benevolent gnome.

  “Very well, business it shall be, then. You’ll stop me at any time you do not understand something I am saying, or need clarification of any point, Lady Rowena?”

  I nodded, and he inclined his head to me, in a courtly fashion.

  “Good!” he exclaimed, and then picking up a sheaf of papers that lay in front of him, his voice became businesslike as he began to read to me—first a lengthy letter of instructions from my father, and then a copy of his will, listing all his assets.

  To say I was slightly stunned at the end of Mr. Braithwaite’s recital would be an understatement. I had made some study of the law, among other things, mainly because I knew Latin and wanted to practice it as much as possible, but my father’s will and his instructions were simply, yet concisely, drawn up, leaving no loopholes.

  “Whoever Guy’s attorney in Boston is—this Judge Fleming—he’s a good man. Makes everything clear, does he not? Do you have any questions now, Lady Rowena?”

  I was amazed, even slightly dazed, by the sudden change in my fortunes, and my somewhat ambiguous status. Because I was used to thinking before I spoke, I was silent for a few moments after Mr. Braithwaite had spoken, and he repeated his question, giving me an understanding smile.

  “It’s something of a shock, eh? Not surprising. I understand you believed your father to have dropped completely out of sight, or to have forgotten your existence? Well, the letter explains it all, of course. Your grandfather”—he sighed—“well, in his way he was a hard man. Unforgiving. You understand everything now, do you not? Guy Dangerfield—the Earl of Melchester, I should say—is a sick man. No, let us be frank, he’s a dying man, and he knows it. That is why there is a reason for haste. He wishes very much to see you before he dies. I don’t wish to press you, of course, for I realize what a shock this must all be to you, but—” I heard my mother’s sharply indrawn breath and knew she was watching me, her eagerness to hear my answer almost a palpable thing.

  But I already knew what my answer would be. I had known it when I agreed to come here—even before I discovered the extent of my suddenly acquired fortune. I was free! Amazingly, unexpectedly, I had been set free, granted independence. From now on I need belong to no one, answer to no one but myself.

  I leaned forward and heard my own voice say in level, perfectly composed tones, “But of course I agree, Mr. Braithwaite. To all the conditions outlined in the will and my father’s letter, as well as to the need for haste. I shall be ready to leave England as soon as you can make the arrangements.”

  “We will not say anything of this to Edgar,” my mother said flatly when we were in the
carriage again. She had signed all the necessary papers relinquishing her guardianship of me, and now she met my eyes coldly, as if she had already said her good-byes to me. “Mr. Braithwaite said it would take about a week. It was fortunate that he had the forethought to reserve a passage for you on that American ship, just in case you agreed to go. There’s no need for—for any unpleasantness before you leave. Best to do it this way.”

  I shrugged wearily, still occupied with my thoughts. “As you please,” I said indifferently. “I shall leave it to your ingenuity to get Sir Edgar out of the way on the day I’m supposed to depart. And you’ll have a week to think of some explanation to give him.”

  “That will be my affair,” she said harshly, and we conversed no more for the rest of the journey back.

  I had much to think about. Not only was I to start off upon a journey that would take me to a whole new life, but I had a father at last, and he actually wanted me! I remembered Nanny’s words—“He fair doted upon you, he did”—and found myself wondering, for the first time, how my father had got on after his return to America. Forced to leave England under a cloud, leaving both wife and daughter behind, denied all communication with me afterwards—it had been fair to neither of us, but of course, my grandfather had believed he was doing what was best for me.

  I would not waste time on regrets for what was past and done with; that much, at least, I had learned. And I did not think that anyone but Sir Edgar would regret my departure. I know that the servants whispered about me, even Mrs. Jenks, who positively fawned upon me in the hopes I’d recommend her devotion to Sir Edgar. And Mellyn, who was bluntly outspoken because of her age and privileged position, had been pensioned off at Sir Edgar’s insistence, because he was afraid she would “kick up an ugly fuss” as he put it, when she discovered what was going on under her “poor baby’s” very nose. Well, Nanny could come back now, and no doubt, after his first rage was over, Edgar would play the dutiful and loving husband again, keeping his mistresses in the discreet little apartment off Curzon Square.

 

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