Fran Keighley

by The Next Heir (lit)

  Sophie paused at the door. "She must be going to her sister's. I don't know where, so there's no point in asking me. Out of the city, somewhere." Her little, tight voice was low pitched.

  "She has abandoned you, hasn't she?"

  There was a quick nod. Her face was taut. "She can't help me any more. I thought she'd go. I only stayed because - I thought maybe she'd come back - and I didn't want to be rude."

  "Rude? What would be rude?" Roderick was pleased to hear that her accents showed a refinement which owed nothing to the speech of Mrs. Shackle.

  She looked surprised. "Just to walk away. You are some sort of kin of mine, I suppose. I wouldn't have you think I'd no manners."

  "See here, girl - Miss Kettle, is it - what will you do?" demanded Rayne.

  "Anything! I can do anything! The stage! I shall go on the stage." Squaring her shoulders, she walked away, leaving two bemused gentlemen staring at each other.

  Roderick broke the silence. "My cousin, Patience, was a proud, bristly creature. This girl is my cousin's daughter, I truly believe, and she could be another such who would cut off her hand as soon as act in her own self-interest."

  "Your troubles seem to have disappeared for the moment."

  "You're supposed to be my conscience, here."

  "I'd be tempted to say 'why would you want her around,' but I suppose you've got a duty now you're the Earl and all."

  "She's a twelve-year-old girl. If she wanders off, abandoned or from some misplaced sense of pride, who knows where she'll end up! The landlady will likely put her in the Fleet for debt."

  "And that's not the worst that could happen"

  They caught up with the child at the entrance, where an overzealous hotel flunky was physically ousting her from the hotel. His shrill voice disturbed the serenity of the elegant vestibule. "Out you go, you drab! We don't want the likes o' you here." The bandbox was about to follow precipitously out the door, as Rayne seized hold of it, drawing blood from the fellow's nose with a well placed elbow as he did so. "Hotel staff should handle goods with greater care," he drawled.

  Roderick helped Sophie to her feet. She brushed her skirts and hurled a choice epithet at the discomfited attendant who was backing into the hotel lobby, trying to stop blood flowing onto his resplendent livery.

  Rayne joined them on the flagway. "Dashed embarrassing! If I were you, I wouldn't use this place again, Ricky - remove the patronage of the Earl of Selchurch and all."

  Roderick grinned. "Consequence takes some getting used to. Look, Miss Kettle! It's not that I wouldn't conduct you back and insist on a proper apology, but it so happens I have a chaise ordered for ten o'clock. It must be ready by now. Let us go and find it. Mr. Rayne here will sit in it with you while I go and get my traps. Then we shall decide what should be done."

  "You don't have to do anything for me," said Sophie.

  "Yes, I do!" Roderick looked at her grimly, wondering exactly what approach he should take with this proud child. "Damme, you're as independent as Patience was." He noticed a quick interest awakened by the mention of her mother. He continued with authority, "Mrs. Shackle came to me because I am the head of your family. She behaved perfectly correctly. Therefore, you will enter my carriage and stay there till I get back." His eye connected with Rayne's and that gentleman gave a gloomy nod.

  Roderick paid his shot at the hotel, wondering what sort of shredded reputation he would leave in his wake. While he waited for his baggage to be strapped onto the back of the chaise, he thought furiously. It certainly was inappropriate for a bachelor to have charge of child on the brink of womanhood, but his acquaintance in London was neither large nor particularly close.

  "Take her up to your mother," suggested Rayne. "You can't look after her." He coughed. "No chaperone and all that!"

  Roderick shrugged. "Too far! A trip like that would be no more eligible that putting the girl up here."

  Sophie showed signs of alarm. "I'll not leave London!"

  Rayne ignored this. "I don't suppose - "

  "Suppose what?"

  "Your old friend, Lady Cytherea? She lives in London."

  "Why on earth would you - ? She's gone out of town."

  "Glad to hear it! Step carefully in that direction, Ricky."

  Roderick looked at his friend narrowly. "In what way?"

  "You know the ton. Always ready to make gossip. Don't poker up at me, old fellow! Here! Something to read on your way!" Rayne thrust the Morning Chronicle under his friend's arm. "Compliments of the hotel."

  "Compliments, my foot! You purloined it, you reprobate!" He gave his friend a salute as the post chaise moved off. He had already decided that his only alternative might be to leave the girl at the Selchurch estate. He explained to Sophie that the Countess of Selchurch was a person of much kinder heart than her late husband.

  "I don't want to go out of town. You can't make me go!"

  Hearing panic in her voice, Roderick stared at her nonplused for a few moments. "Believe me you'd be better off with your family than on your own. Anything we do now is just temporary - until proper arrangements can be made for you. You will like the country. You're used to the city, I know, but you shouldn't be scared of something new."

  "I ain't scared of anything!" Her voice rose.

  "No, Sophie, I'm sure you aren't."

  She peeked up at him swiftly. "Why are you laughing, then?"

  He continued to smile. "So like your mother!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, I remember your mother. Patience was much older than I, but I like to believe that we were friends. She could be independent and cantankerous, just like you."

  "Cantankerous?"

  "Yes, cantankerous! And I will not allow too great a degree of independence in my old friend's daughter. She would want me to make sure you were safe."

  She seemed a little mollified. "She'd want me to stay in London."

  "I can't imagine why."

  Suddenly, big tears were welling in her eyes and threatening to fall. "How else is my papa ever to find me?"

  "Look, child, I will give you my word. When I return to London, I will find out all about your papa. There must be records to reveal his status. That is a solemn, solemn promise."

  While Sophie watched the city view yield to small villages and then open countryside, Roderick cast a cursory eye over the Morning Chronicle before putting it aside. Leaning back, he half-closed his eyes, and was amused to watch Sophie craning her neck to read some of the closely printed paragraphs.

  "You like to keep up with the news?" he asked, in a rallying fashion.

  She straightened quickly. "Oh, yes sir! But newspapers have not often come my way." She looked a little chagrined to make this admission, and he felt ashamed to have teased her. It was not to be expected that a girl of her age, even one studying under the most exceptional of governesses, would have sufficient awareness of current affairs to enjoy a newspaper.

  "How well do you read?"

  "Very well!" she replied with dignity. "My mother taught me. She had lots of books."

  Roderick had heard Patience referred to as a Bluestocking, and smiled at a vision of Patience running away from home, packing her baggage, not with clothes or jewels, but her faithful books. Numbered among them would have been a bible, standard fare for reading instruction for small children from his own experience.

  "Mama gave me one book of my own - Tales from Shakespeare."

  Roderick nodded. "By the Lambs. I've heard of it, though it's never come my way."

  "I've always kept it, though we had to sell the others. Then, when we went to live with Aunt Lissie, she would always have parts around, so I read grown-up plays, not just stories."

  He raised his eyebrows. Not so standard fare for a twelve-year-old, he thought.

  She smiled beatifically. "Oh yes. Lots of Shakespeare. And I've trod the boards, you know. I was Cobweb!"

  "Were you indeed? Well, Sophie - may I call you Sophie - we are cousins, even if a little dis
tant. You'd better tell me more about yourself. Call it insurance against more surprises."

  She looked at him speculatively. "You may call me Sophie. And what should I call you?"

  A little startled, Roderick answered, "How about Cousin Roderick? That would be appropriate."

  "Cousin Roderick!" She tried the syllables, making a great show of rolling the Rs. "Your friend called you Ricky."

  He grimaced. Oh, to be put out of countenance by a twelve-year-old scrub of a girl! "My friend has known me be a very long time," he explained. "He is entitled to do so. However, call me what is comfortable for you."

  Alert to a hint of frost in his voice, she said cheerfully. "Cousin Roderick it shall be, such a mouthful as it is!"

  "Oh, read the Chronicle!" exclaimed Roderick in exasperation.

  She grinned slyly, and picked up the newspaper while he closed his eyes for a while. For several moments she was immersed in sampling the various columns of political and society news, taking in those that piqued her interest or lay within her understanding of the adult world.

  Suddenly, she said, "What's 'marine' mean?"

  "W'what?"

  "Marine! What does it mean? I thought it was a soldier."

  "Oh! A marine is a soldier who serves from a ship as a base, but that word can mean anything to do with the sea."

  "On the marine scene! You were on the sea?"

  Roderick sat up suddenly.

  Her head turned down to the paper. "It's talking about a ship '...-da, -da -da -The new Earl of Selchurch was not among expected passengers disembarking at the Port of London last Monday. It was later learned that his lordship came ashore at Deal a day earlier.' Who is Lady C- F- ?"

  At that point, to her indignation, the Chronicle was ruthlessly snatched from her hand. In mounting fury, Roderick took in the rest of the item:

  It is further reported that a well-known ornament of London society, Lady C- F-, daughter of a highly placed Minister of the Crown, disembarked at Deal. Interestingly enough, this lady's name did not appear on the passenger list...

  "Damn! Why couldn't she have been more - !" His jaw worked grimly. "A lady whose name is not Discretion!" He moderated his tones. "Never mind! It refers to a lady who was conducting some business of behalf of her father...."

  "Oh!" The girl regarded him inscrutably.

  They dined on the way, and it was already evening as they approached Bishop's Rise. With the sun low in the sky, they enjoyed a fine view of a glinting white classical structure built on a slight elevation, before the post chaise plunged into a twisting wooded drive to emerge on a gravel approach up to the Palladian entrance.

  Not yet having furnished himself with cards embellished with his new style, Roderick presented one of his old stock to the butler. The man bowed deeply, obviously aware exactly who Mr. Roderick Anhurst was. So, the Earl of Selchurch and Miss Kettle were ushered with all pomp into an unpretentious setting. Two ladies sat at a low table by the fire poring over fashion plates.

  The Dowager Countess of Selchurch rose to meet him. Her solemn curtsy, graceful for a tall women built on heroic proportions, reminded him that he was no longer a gentleman without degree. She was still a handsome woman, but her figure betrayed the depredations of producing several children.

  "You take me by surprise, cousin! But you are most welcome." Lady Selchurch gave a look of doubtful inquiry towards the young girl at his side. "And this is Miss Kettle, I hear. Welcome to Bishop's Rise, my dear." The name had brought no shade of recognition across the dowager's face, and Roderick surmised that Lady Selchurch was unaware of her close relationship with the young girl. Was it possible she had never been told of Sophie's existence? This conjecture was in accordance with his experience of the late earl. While often behaving in a high-handed fashion, Selchurch had combined this trait with a secretive disposition.

  Catching Roderick's meaningful glance, Sophie murmured awkward thanks.

  After Roderick had expressed his condolences for the loss of her husband and said all that was proper, Lady Selchurch merely replied, "I thank you. I have received your letter of sympathy. Until then I did not know you had returned to England."

  "I apologize that I am here on the heels of my letter. I should have given you better warning of my coming. Unfortunately a situation has arisen, the needs of which cause me to fall on your good nature. It is a rather long story."

  Lady Selchurch regarded Sophie for a moment. Noting that he made no immediate attempt to launch into that supposed long story, she said, "Perhaps Miss Kettle, you might like to meet my daughters who are up in the schoolroom. I know Miss Stride will be delighted to take you up." She turned to her companion who had stayed in the background. "Would you be so kind, my dear?" To Roderick she complained, "That tiresome Miss Randall is confined to bed with a sick- headache again today. Why I engaged so vaporish a governess, I don't know. Belle has been entertaining the younger ones, while Miss Stride and I were considering bride's clothes."

  Roderick vaguely remembered a pudgy infant named Arabelle from the last time he had visited the Rise. There had been another babe, he remembered. A pale boy who had even then been rather sickly. His death of a brain fever at Eton was only one of the chain of accidents that had landed Roderick in this drawing room at this moment.

  Roderick smiled at Sophie and nodded encouragingly. Miss Stride had risen to her feet. As she took the girl's hand, it was to be seen they were somewhat of a height. Miss Stride was looking at up him quizzically, and he bowed slightly in her direction. A bold look for a companion, he thought as they left. Or did he recall the name of Stride? It had a familiar ring.

  "Oh, and please, in due time, bring the children down for a visit." Lady Selchurch turned to Roderick. "You must know that it is our family practice to come together in the evening. Tonight, the children will especially enjoy making your acquaintance." Tinkling a bell, Lady Selchurch sent for the tea tray, which arrived immediately. "Sit down, Cousin Roderick." She engaged him in commonplaces while she poured and offered macaroons. Was his voyage smooth? Had he heard from dear Mrs. Anhurst?

  Eventually, Roderick broke in, "You have been admirably discreet in restraining your curiosity about my young companion. I must thank you for not making close enquiries in the presence of your companion."

  "My companion - oh, Miss Stride! She is like a daughter to me. All honesty and responsibility. I can always rely upon her. We shall miss her. But I interrupt. Indeed, I am quite curious. A young relative on your mother's side, perhaps? I think I know all the Anhursts."

  Roderick drew a deep breath. "Yes, a relative, but from your branch of the family more than mine. Will you be kind enough to care for her for a little while? She is Patience's daughter."

  Her surprise was genuine, her voice issued in something like a squawk, "Aah! Tom Kettle! I had forgot his name. Kettle's daughter! They had a child?" Then in a shocked voice, "Why have you brought her here?"

  Carefully, Roderick allowed a few seconds to elapse before he spoke, and then did so deliberately. "Because I had no option! She has nowhere else. Imagine the surprise I received on my return to England to find myself her guardian!" He narrated the events leading up to his depositing Sophie on her aunt's doorstep.

  "But I never heard of her existence before this moment! Is this a take-in? Surely, if the solicitors - "

  "There is no doubt she is a legitimate family member." There was a grim edge to Roderick's voice. "The solicitors were well aware of her existence."

  "And by extension, my husband." She fell silent, her lips compressed. Absently, she took a sip of tea, then, "How like him! All too fond of his little secrets!"

  "I need your help, Cousin Alicia."

  She moaned. "But a footman's daughter."

  "Patience's daughter."

  "But Basil can't just have abandoned her! He may have cast Patience off, but she had money." She looked at him. "I remember hearing, she had six thousand of her own money."

  "Be sure I will find out what ha
ppened to that money," declared Roderick, "but in the meantime Sophie is destitute and in want of an upbringing."

  Lady Selchurch was quite affected. "Poor little girl!"

  "I am forced to put her on to you - for a few days at least. I am not asking forever. It falls to me to be responsible for her, but I am a bachelor - and living between hotels. How can I look after her? I know it is a lot to ask, particularly while you are in mourning. Please, Alicia, help me out for a little while."

  The Dowager spread her hands in rather bitter acceptance. "Well, you are in the coach seat, Roderick. This house, this land - it all belongs to you. We are all, in effect, your pensioners."

  The young man reddened. "As to that, I do not hold the child's care over your head. This house is your home for as long as you want it."

  "Foolish, Roderick! Your wife might disagree."

  He smiled. "We need not cross that bridge yet."

  "We will try to make Miss Kettle welcome, though I don't know how she'll fit in after the life she must have led."

  "It is my intention to arrange education for her - maybe she should be sent away to school, but I need time to find a suitable place - any advice there would be helpful, Alicia - and, if necessary, arrange for caring guardians in the event that I am sent abroad again. I am not planning to resign my position with the colonial office."

  Lady Selchurch looked at him strangely and gave an enigmatic smile. "By all means retain your post. A paid position should never be given up lightly." She rang her bell again. "I will have rooms made ready for you both."

  "I stay only one night, Cousin. I post north for Harrogate early tomorrow."

  At that point the younger members of the schoolroom party erupted into the room. All the girls appeared to be small versions of their mother, golden roses cut from the same bush. Twin, bold-eyed viragoes of about fourteen years led the way, one dressed incongruously in breeches and ruffled shirt, followed by three more lively damsels ranging from about ten to six. A nursemaid followed, carrying a toddler.

  One of the twins burst out, "We're tired of The Tempest."

  Her sister added, "We don't wish to play act anymore."