Fran Keighley

by The Next Heir (lit)

  "Oh, God, no!" he said explosively. He didn't want that. He rose and took a quick turn around the room. Rubbish! His mother was too anxious on his behalf. She had misled herself. Just because she and Alicia were first cousins, there was little chance that he had inherited the title. Too many males stood in line between Basil, a distant kinsman, and himself.

  His eye fell on the more imposing document left for his perusal. He tore it open with a sinking heart. This was a letter from a firm of solicitors informing him of his good fortune in succeeding to the title of seventh Earl of Selchurch.

  He found he was not comprehending more than the bald fact that his life must undergo unwelcome change. Numbly, he put that letter aside and opened the screw of paper. Directed to him in his new estate, it put forward the claims of a Miss Sophie Kettle to be his dependent. This last was signed by a Mrs. Shackle, who by design or carelessness had given no address. He cast the latter aside, wondering if it might herald a variety of ramps designed to take advantage of his new station in life. After calling for a bottle of claret, he settled himself to assimilate the text of the solicitor's communication. As he smoothed the creases in the stiff paper, something struck him forcibly: Cytherea knew! Dash it all! Why had she not told him?

  He found a competent hotel servant to work miracles on his clothing, creased and in need of cleaning after so many weeks at sea, so that the following morning he could present himself, if not in the first flight of fashion, at least with the appearance of a gentleman at the new Colonial Office now established on Downing Street. Lord FitzWarren being unavailable, he delivered his reports to the most senior official present. This official struck a fine balance between deference and authority as he pulled forward a chair for him, and proved more than ready to release him from immediate duties to attend to matters made necessary by his change of estate. Indeed, there seemed to be a general assumption that his presence in the office was a mere formality before he relinquished his post with the ministry. There was no mention of his old chief, the Governor General. As he rose to go he asked about that gentleman's well-being.

  "Sir George Prevost!" exclaimed the official, and gave a twisted smile. "You have not heard? He died in January. A week before he was to face court martial."

  Roderick left the office in a shocked state. Death seemed to be besieging him. His mood was not greatly alleviated when later that day he received a brief ceremonial visit at his hotel from the senior partner and founder of Brundall and Durrant, Solicitors. The thin, distinguished looking octogenarian explained to him in ponderous detail exactly how he had succeeded to the title. Roderick had known of the death of the late earl's heir of a brain fever whilst at Eton, and was reminded of Selchurch's youngest brother also lost to fever whilst a midshipman in the Caribbean. He was appalled to learn of the loss of his friend Maurice and all his family aboard a ship that foundered in the Bay of Biscay. The solicitor described in detail how the previous Earl of Selchurch had died of a lung punctured by a rib broken in a riding accident. The animal had rolled on him.

  "His last words were 'Shoot the beast!'" reported the old man with some relish.

  "He would!" muttered Roderick, but on Brundall's look of inquiry, he said, "My cousin Basil's wife? My mother writes that she is again in the family way."

  "Alas, the poor lady! She lost the child a few days later - the horror of seeing her husband brought home on a hurdle."

  Roderick was silent for several heavy seconds, contemplating the untimely loss of so many of his family, distant though they might be. There had been no male heirs from intervening branches of the family he learned.

  "Then there is no help for me!"

  "Don't say that, my lord. Our firm will be at your service, I do thoroughly assure you."

  "Before you take leave, there is one matter you might shed light on." He laid the screw of paper before the solicitor. "This Mrs. Shackle got in touch with me directly. Why, I am not sure, and I don't wish to jump to any commonplace conclusions. Is this an affair of any delicacy?"

  Putting on his spectacles, Mr. Brundall perused the letter, frowning over the many spelling errors and malformed hand without surprise. "Ah, yes, the matter of Miss Sophie Kettle!"

  "Is there any basis to this person's claim? I barely knew the late earl - he was, in fact, a second cousin. What little I saw of him left me an impression of conscious rectitude - too top- lofty to allow any tarnish on his own reputation."

  The lawyer allowed himself a thin smile. "No blemish at all, my lord. Miss Kettle is no child of his get."

  "No bones rattling in the closet?"

  "I wouldn't use those terms, sir." The octogenarian coughed delicately. "The child in question is the twelve-year-old daughter of Lady Patience, Sir Basil's sister."

  "That can't be!" Roderick cried out. He did hasty mental arithmetic. "Patience died - too many years ago. It was my first term at Winchester College - all of fifteen years ago. Whoever this Miss Kettle might be, Patience was not her mother."

  Mr. Brundall apologized for divulging a family secret so abruptly. He continued, "I fear the previous Earl of Selchurch misled both family and acquaintance by having it understood that his sister was dead - as dead she was to the family. She was cast off subsequent to an unsuitable match."

  Roderick frowned. "Damn him! My family would not have cast her off. I'll go bail that my parents were left in the dark."

  "No doubt! But her brother regarded her actions as heinous."

  Roderick eyed him sharply. "My cousin Basil might have been a lord, but he was a complete commoner as far as I am concerned. He had little love for his sister. She was - unusual - and didn't ever conform to his idea of what his sister should be - not fair enough, not compliant enough. So she married to 'disoblige her family' as they say. Bravo, Patience! She escaped her family custody."

  Frosty eyebrows rose. "You don't understand the egregious nature of her act, my lord. Lady Patience left her home in company with a member of the household staff."

  "Who was the man?"

  The solicitor seemed to have difficulty mouthing the words. "A footman." He hurried on, "A terrible blow for the Earl, you must admit, my lord. The fellow was newly taken on. A plausible rogue with cozening ways, I must suppose, to lead a foolish young woman to act against all that was due her family."

  Roderick looked incredulous. "Then the fellow was an unusual footman, I promise you. Patience was never a stupid woman - nor such a young one, come to think of it."

  "Oh, as for that, I gather he was a bright enough fellow. He had been, I am told, on the stage. No doubt work within a household might fill in a dry spell, as it were." The old man showed his teeth, as if he had uttered a mild joke.

  Roderick regarded the solicitor thoughtfully, wondering if there was any core of sympathy for his cousin under that dry, professional exterior. "Patience was, I am sorry to say, not well appreciated by her family. I hope she found happiness."

  "Only of a transitory nature, I fear, sir! There was a marriage. Of course, Lady Patience had some little money of her own, which would have made her a desirable bride for a man in good circumstances, so you may wager a common man would have jumped at the chance. Twelve years ago a child was born who was christened Sophie Psyche Kettle, and the birth was registered in the Parish of St. Mary-le-Bow, if I recall. Soon after, the father, Kettle, again without work, took up prizefighting and got into trouble with the law. He was sentenced to the death penalty, which was subsequently commuted to transportation."

  "Good Lord! What was his crime?"

  "The family kept aloof, I assure you, sir. But I hear it was theft of prize money."

  "What happened to Patience - and her child? Did Basil do nothing for them?"

  "I doubt if the lady would have wished to come back to her family in such undignified circumstances," Brundall remarked sanctimoniously. "Shame alone would forbid it."

  Roderick swallowed a sharp comment. Obviously the solicitor had been more in sympathy with the standards of his old clien
t. However, quarreling with him would do nothing to mend the past.

  "What of Lady Patience?"

  "She died some three years ago. The child was taken by a sister of Kettle's."

  "And my esteemed cousin? Even then he had no interest in the child, I presume."

  "His sister was cast off. Her child would mean nothing to him. The child of a prizefighter, a convict - a play actor - the offspring of a servant!"

  "This Mrs. Shackle is Kettle's sister, then?"

  "I am unfamiliar with the name. Kettle's sister was a Mrs. Argyle. Possibly she remarried - or married for the first time, considering she was an actress." He flicked the letter with a contemptuous finger. "I would suggest that you do not see the woman, or, if she persists and causes you annoyance, refer her to me. It was obviously the wish of the late earl that this connection be severed for all time."

  Roderick tones were of the driest. "I will, of course, remember my cousin's wishes, but, if this lady should get in touch with you, be so kind as to send her to me. As I told you, I had a fondness for Lady Patience, and feel a duty towards her daughter."

  The next few days were full for Roderick, visiting his tailor for a needed update to his wardrobe and attending to melancholy correspondence necessitated by the recent deaths of his cousin Basil and of his late chief. He called at the Selchurch townhouse but learned that the Dowager Countess of Selchurch had retired to the country estate. He made no attempt to change his quarters to the townhouse as it was no part of the entail. He sought out an old chum from his school days, only to find Joseph Rayne away from home, and was obliged to leave his card with the name of his hotel scrawled on the reverse. A meeting at the ministry kept him in town until the Thursday, and after that he was free to post north to see his mother.

  On the Friday, Roderick rose early, planning to pay a visit of condolence to the Countess at Bishop's Rise, some fifty miles from London and not too far out of his way on the long journey to Harrogate. He had barely finished a light repast of coffee and rolls when a porter of contemptuous mien brought a note to his door requesting that he receive Mrs. Shackle and Miss Kettle.

  The woman who was conducted to his door was obviously not of a high order of society. Her clothes looked as if they had been seized at random from the racks of a traveling show; clothes of previous eras in satins and other unidentifiable materials in shades of dark red and crimson were mercifully disguised by a rusty black pelisse overtop. Her bizarre appearance was enhanced by a huge straw bonnet over a goffered cap. Her shoes were much run down at heel. She assumed a creditable air of confidence as she sailed forward into the room.

  Her young companion hung back until Roderick invited her in with a gentle smile. Despite his benign exterior, he was by no means gullible, and he surveyed her critically as she edged in. He noticed with misgiving that she was carrying a rather battered bandbox. The child's stature was thin and gawky, but of an average height for a twelve-year-old.

  A better effort had been made with her appearance. A plain blue woolen dress had once seen better days. It was neat and clean, but the skirt cleared the ground by a few more inches than was seemly, and the sleeves revealed an inch of white flesh over black gloves that showed signs of neatly stitched mending. Her clothing did not otherwise appear tight on the girl. Only in height was she outgrowing them. A plain bonnet, refurbished with narrow, striped ribbon framed a countenance that resembled Patience not at all. If anything, her face was more pleasing, her nose straighter, her eyebrows more arched. But then, Patience had never looked patrician. Miss Sophie Kettle, if this truly were she, must have got her looks from her father. However, there was a stubborn set about the mouth that reminded him of his old friend.

  He saw Mrs. Shackle to a chair. After taking the bandbox from the younger lady, he set it down in a corner and pulled forward another chair. With a gesture almost of defiance, she moved over to the window and stared up at the chimney pots. As he saw her in profile, a gawky, slightly stooped figure, yet throwing her chin in the air, in that one awkward, defiant gesture he saw Patience, when he, as a much younger child, had first met her. Schooling his face into a noncommittal expression, he invited Mrs. Shackle to explain the nature of her business.

  "My lord, you may well ask! To lay it out plain, this young girl, what has been left in my charge for six months, should more properly be wiv 'er own family. She was left wiv 'er aunt, Mrs. Argyle - you'd know 'er - a most talented star on the boards, and 'as been seen at Covent Garden Theatre time out of mind. 'Er mother, what was a sister of your cousin Lord Basil, died of lung sickness, and since then Mrs. Argyle and me looked arter 'er. Lissie - that's Mrs. Argyle - up and died on me, what was her dresser for twenty-two years, and now I'm out my employment. The money's run out, and I jus' can't keep Soikey no longer."

  Roderick turned towards the girl. "Come and sit down, Miss Kettle, as this so particularly concerns you. Or may I call you Sukey?"

  "My name is not Sukey!" The small defiant voice issued from the window recess.

  Mrs. Shackle rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, beg pardon, my dear, I'm sure. Soikey. That's what her papa called her. She never can abide it. Well Miss Sophie, then, what is to become of yer? Come sit down as the gentleman says! I can't afford the dressin' of 'er - great girl that she is! And what about the schoolin' of 'er? I can't afford to set 'er apprentice to some genteel occupation, and 'oo's goin' to want a lord's niece working as a maid? Besides 'er bein' so wild- like, running off to some fair or raree show, as soon as one turns one's back."

  "What news of her father? Is he alive?"

  Mrs. Shackle sniffed loudly. "We can forgit 'im. 'E's not seen fit to come arter 'er."

  In the corner of his eye Roderick saw Sophie's head turn quickly, and caught a fierce look directed at Mrs. Shackle that seemed to give her the lie. "What exactly is it that you expect of me, Mrs. Shackle?"

  "Well, you're the new 'ead of the family, ain't yer? She's a good enough girl, but she's no kin 'o mine. I jus' lost -"

  A discreet tap on the door interrupted her grievance. A lackey presented a salver bearing an embossed card with the inscription, The Honourable Joseph Rayne. Roderick picked it up, and slipped a coin to the lackey. "Ask the gentleman to be sure to wait. I will be down in a trice."

  Roderick turned to Mrs. Shackle. "It would be better if we had more help for this matter. Give me your direction, and I can make arrangements for us to meet at my cousin's solicitors later this month."

  "I started to tell yer, I jus' loss me 'ome, sir, so I can't do that nowise. I barely saved some of me furniture, an' that's gone by now. Besides, my Miss Lissie got nowhere with them lawyers, so I want nuffink to do with 'em."

  "Look, we'll sort this out in a little while. May I ring for refreshments for you? Coffee or a chocolate, perhaps, Mrs. Shackle? Miss Kettle?"

  Mrs. Shackle looked tempted by this unlooked for attention from a nobleman, but resolutely refused. Sophie darted a quick look at him and shook her head.

  "Obviously this discussion is not at an end. You must excuse me for a few moments. I am called to the lobby - a meeting I must not miss. I'll be back as soon as I may."

  It was an awkward situation to leave them alone in his room, but he did not intend to keep his old Winchester College friend kicking his heels in the lobby for ages. The present situation was not going to be resolved in ten minutes. He descended to the main floor, where he found Rayne studying the Morning Chronicle with puckered brow. His friend's face lit up as he approached.

  "Ricky!"

  "Hon Joe, in the flesh! Great to see you!" They shook hands enthusiastically. Joe punched Roderick in the chest, and he responded by clapping the other on the shoulder.

  "How long has it been?"

  "More than three years, and a total of two letters from you in that time, you dog. Come into the coffee room." They ambled into that busy sanctuary and nabbed a table near a window.

  "Up and shaved at this hour, Ricky? You didn't used to be up with the lark."

&n
bsp; "Stow it! You're talking to a working cove here. Actually I'm posting north."

  "I expected to cadge a breakfast with you. Sorry I missed you the other day - I just got in from Newmarket."

  "How was your luck."

  "Comme çi, comme ça! Almost broke even!"

  Roderick grinned. "A matter for congratulation where you are concerned, I seem to recall. Look, Hon Joe, unfortunately I've breakfasted, and I can't ask you up to my rooms - business, and dashed inconvenient."

  Rayne cocked an cynical eye. "Petticoat business?"

  "Not what you're thinking. A family matter"

  "This earl thing not all it's cracked up to be?"

  "Knowing as ever," complained Roderick. "Why don't you take breakfast here, and I'll expedite this matter - postpone it, if I can, and see you in a while." As he spoke, a monstrous straw hat sailed by the elevated bow window of the coffee room. "Wait a minute!" Springing to the window, he looked out just in time to see Mrs. Shackle clambering into a hackney. He craned his neck but could catch no sight of Sophie Kettle. "Damn! I suspect my problem just got worse!"

  Rayne had followed his lunge towards the window. "Gad! Everyone has gruesome relations, but that one takes the laurels."

  "No relation, thank God. But she was only half my problem. I've got to leave you now."

  "Oh, no you won't! Don't cut me out of your problems, old chap. I'm good at advice."

  Roderick pulled a derisive face.

  "No, really! M' parents wanted me to go into the church."

  "The church got a narrow escape! Come up with me, then!" As they climbed the stairs, he gave Rayne a brief outline of what had transpired, stressing his reliance on the other's discretion.

  They found Miss Kettle still standing by the window. Her eyes rested fleetingly on the stranger accompanying Roderick. Breaking her rigid stance, she retrieved her bandbox, and walked to the door.

  "You are leaving us?" asked Roderick warily. "Where did Mrs. Shackle go?"