The Late Heiress: The Amberley Chronicles

by May Burnett

  Standing still for hours on end while the seamstress and her assistants were pinning the various parts of her new dresses was beyond tiresome. Nell entertained herself with memories of her last few nights in Thomas’ arms, now alas interrupted by the female curse. To her surprise, she missed the activities he enjoyed so much, and which she too had learned to find pleasant enough.

  Thomas was not yet satisfied, and had announced his intention to study the matter further until she could find enjoyment equal to his own.

  “Promise not to discuss it with anyone who knows us,” she had demanded in alarm.

  “Of course not,” he had reassured her. “And it’s hardly the kind of thing you can discuss with a stranger. I’ll see what other books I can find here in London.”

  “Show them to me, if you find anything useful. Though I think we are managing well enough. Such research is entirely unnecessary as far as I am concerned.”

  He had kissed her then and the subject had been dropped…

  “Please don’t move, Ma’am,” the seamstress interrupted her musing. Nell must have squirmed inadvertently at the memory of what had come after that kiss. A good thing none of the women present could hear her thoughts. She quickly directed her unruly mind into more decorous paths.

  The dress she would wear for the all-important hearing was fashioned of straw-coloured silk, trimmed with rows of reversed pleats rather than the ubiquitous lace, with understated elegance. As soon as it was delivered, she tried it on in front of Aunt Charlotte’s largest mirror and gasped at the fashionable stranger before her. The subtly darker colour of the bodice emphasised the milky whiteness of her shoulders and neck. Her shaded brown hair was parted in the middle and framed her face becomingly, making the eyes appear larger. Her long dark lashes helped, of course. Unlike many ladies, she never needed to resort to lash-thickeners.

  Her hostess and Violet carefully scrutinized the back, to check that not one seam or pleat was crooked. “Be glad your features are even and the face nicely oval,” Violet said after pronouncing the dress flawless. “These modern hairstyles do not flatter everyone equally. Sometimes I wish for the simpler fashions of Mother’s youth, during the Regency.”

  “Those could be quite unflattering too, especially on shorter, stocky females,” her mother said reminiscently. “Modern fashions may make us look like oversized dolls, but most women do look prettier in them. Besides, those draped gowns were extremely chilly – thin gauzes even in winter. It is a miracle we did not all die of pneumonia.” She considered her own well-dressed form in the mirror for a moment, the blonde of her hair – now fading slightly – complimented by the blue and green hues of broche silk. “On the other hand, it was easier if you had to dress without help, and more comfortable without these excessively tight sleeves. Our skirts were not so long in my youth, that you risked tripping if you walked faster than a snail.”

  Nell herself could remember a time when women showed off their pretty shoes and even the occasional ankle. “You did not require quite so much material for a single dress either,” she said. “I imagine sewing took less time.”

  “That all depends on the seamstress’s skill. The better ones leave hemming and other simple work to their assistants, and concentrate on the cutting and the bodice, which is the most difficult part.”

  “I know.” Nell had once ruined a length she could ill afford to replace by cutting a piece the wrong way. During her years as a teacher, she had sewn the simpler garments herself, and mended regularly. She hoped she never had to take these tasks up again. Needlework was hardly her forte.

  “Can I come in?” Her husband asked from outside the door. Someone must have warned him that she might not be presentable.

  “Yes, please do,” she called.

  He stopped three steps into the room, his eyes wide. “Who is this elegant lady? What have you done with my Nell?”

  She giggled. “I am right here.” His admiration warmed her, and any reservations she might have had about the expensive new dresses melted away.

  “Had I first seen you in such splendour, I would never have worked up the nerve to propose.”

  “Then it is as well you didn’t,” Violet said acerbically. “How did you first see Nell?”

  “In dour, second-hand black, with false blonde curls. Even so, she made an immediate impression. I did not know what had hit me.”

  “Amor’s dart.” For a moment Violet looked wistful. “I wonder what it feels like.”

  Nell looked at her incredulously. Violet was all of twenty-five, practically on the shelf. Had she really never felt love for any of the myriad men she must have met in society? She was well-born, rich and so pretty that many men must have tried to court her.

  “I bring bad news, alas,” Thomas said grimly after a moment. “It seems a pity to spoil such a pleasant occasion.”

  “Out with it,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Don’t beat about the bush, let us know the worst.”

  “Colville, or more likely Robles on his behalf, has turned the tables and is using the power of the press against us. They have given out – without direct attribution – that the person claiming to be Lady Marian is an adventuress living in sin with her paramour, a young man with aristocratic connections. They don’t name the supposed lover, so people are speculating on his identity, but the description sounds like Roger.”

  “How vile!” Violet exclaimed. “How do they dare?”

  For Nell, it had a horrible logic. “Robles saw me at that inn in Roger’s company. Someone asked if he was my husband. I said yes and Roger said no, leaving a most unfortunate impression on the bystanders. But what does that have to do with my claim? Even if it were true, all that matters is that I am the daughter of my late parents. With my marriage lines, and Thomas at my side, this slander can easily be disproven.”

  “I fear that is a somewhat naïve view.” Aunt Charlotte was frowning in worry. “In order to disprove it, you must tell the world that Lady Marian and the respectably married Mrs. Thomas Seymour is one and the same person. Of course, then they will accuse Thomas of being a greedy fortune hunter.”

  Nell glanced at Thomas. He looked sombre but resolute. “That charge was inevitable at some point. After consulting Sir Henry, I have sent a strongly worded statement to the paper, demanding a retraction - as your husband. This kind of accusation would be ruinous unless immediately contradicted. We had hoped to postpone this revelation until we had gathered more evidence against Lord Colville, but he has forced our hand. A letter to Colville himself, formally lodging our claim, is also on its way as I speak.”

  Nell bit her lips and suppressed a shiver. Of course her honour needed to be defended – and Roger’s too, if he was suspected of an illicit affair with her. She only wished it could be done without involving the press. Suddenly she was glad of the elegant new clothes – they were her armour in this hostile environment.

  “You were quite right to demand an immediate retraction,” Aunt Charlotte said. “If this accusation were widely believed, Nell would never be received at Court. Married women who have lived with anyone prior to the wedding are not admitted, no matter how high their rank.”

  Nell blinked. Being admitted to Court, into the Queen’s presence, had not hitherto featured high in her plans. She would have been presented by her mother at eighteen, of course, if her parents were still alive, but was it really necessary now she was married to a commoner?

  “It may be a good sign that Colville has to resort to such methods,” Violet said bracingly. “He must be rattled.”

  Nell could not share her optimism.

  Thomas looked at Aunt Charlotte. “There is also a rumour that Roger is in love with Nell and writing poems in her honour. It reinforces the impression that he is Lady Marian’s lover. It was for his sake as well, that we had to issue the correction immediately.”

  “The poem part is true enough, I fear,” Violet said with a grin.

  “I know. Roger told me when we were travelling to Yorkshire
that he invented the idea of the Ode on the spur of the moment, to explain his interest in the late Lady Marian. If I didn’t know it was all a ruse, I might feel jealous. Now he’s actually trying to write the poem, and from what he tells me, making very little headway.”

  Mrs. Ellsworthy and Violet shook their head at this news.

  “Poor Roger,” Violet said. “Maybe we should offer our help. How hard can it be?”

  “On no account,” her mother said. “If your twin goes around making rash public promises without thinking through the consequences, it is only right that he should suffer through the pains of composition himself. I hope it will be a lesson to him.”

  “Well, I am looking forward to the result, no matter how unpoetic,” Nell said. “Nobody has ever written anything in my honour, not even a couplet.”

  “Would you like me to try?” Thomas asked, his eyes glinting.

  “No, I had rather keep my illusions that if you wanted, you could do it splendidly. Your more practical services are infinitely more valuable in my eyes.” She blew him a kiss, then blushed as she caught Violet’s eye.

  “Don’t make cows’ eyes at each other,” Violet admonished severely, “remember there are others present, as yet untouched by Amor’s dart.”

  “Maybe Amor tried to hit you, Vi, but found your hide too thick,” Thomas replied. “As you think all men boring, he has his work cut out for him to make you even notice.”

  “Now, children,” Aunt Charlotte said, “one might suppose you were still in the nursery, from such unseemly bickering.”

  Nell put up her chin. It was odd to hear her husband talked to like a boy, and she was not sure she liked it.

  “I am going to take off this dress,” she announced. “When will your letter appear in the paper, Thomas?”

  “We expect it in the afternoon editions – any moment now.”

  Nell cast a longing gaze at the window, the sunshine outside.

  How soon would she be able to leave the house under her own name, openly, whenever she wanted, without all these precautions? If she was unable to partake of the sunshine and outdoors, would she wither away like a plant forgotten in a dark corner?

  But no, she was not as frail as all that, and she had Thomas and his whole family working on her behalf. It would not be long now. She had to believe that.

  Chapter 27

  “Close the doors,” Lord Ingleby ordered the footmen. This ‘entirely informal’ meeting was taking place in the library of the elderly Viscount’s townhouse, neutral ground for the opposing parties. A long table had been placed in the centre of the book-lined room, probably dragged in from the dining room for the occasion.

  Upon arrival Nell had greeted her uncle coolly. She ignored his complete lack of response with dignity; after all, he could not admit that he recognised her without undermining his position. It was difficult to hide her roiling anger and resentment, but she had to show to the world that she was a lady of breeding. Today she could not afford the slightest mistake.

  This was the day of reckoning for Lord Colville and Robles, the day she had imagined so often during those dreary years in Liverpool. Her dreams had not included Thomas’s steadying presence and support, or his family’s bustling activities to prepare and shore up her case. Now she wondered if she would ever have been taken seriously, and allowed to present her claim, had she not married into his influential family. Certainly her calm and confident demeanour would have been far harder to maintain if she had to act on her own.

  Thomas, Roger and Sir Henry Beecham set the example she had to follow, exuding complete assurance. At Lord Ingleby’s request the parties had only brought their solicitors, no barristers; Robles was seated at Lord Colville’s side. Did he look slightly worried? He certainly should be, considering that he was guilty of attempted kidnapping. He had not saluted and indeed completely ignored her so far, following his principal’s lead.

  “Let us get straight to the point,” Lord Ingleby said after they had seated themselves at opposing sides of the table. “I have reviewed the depositions and statements of both sides, and they are utterly incompatible.” His curious glance rested on her for a moment. “Can we stipulate that the Ellsworthy family is acting in good faith, supporting the claim of a young relative’s wife –,”

  “With due respect, my lord,” Robles interrupted the Viscount, “we are not convinced, and have not seen any proof, that the young person purporting to be the late Lady Marian Colville is in fact married at all. If she were Lady Marian, she could not have legally married under age without her guardian’s consent.”

  The Viscount looked irritably at Sir Henry, who immediately responded, “If I may?” At a nod, he handed Robles Marian’s marriage lines. “As you can see, the marriage took place in St. John’s Church in Edinburgh, and was witnessed by the bridegroom’s older sister and his cousin, Mr. Roger Ellsworthy, who is present. Mr. Seymour’s parents and other relatives also attended; his mother is related to Lord Amberley. Lady Marian could legally marry in Scotland.”

  Robles stared at the document with an inscrutable expression, before handing it back. “This is in the name of Lady Marian Colville. Yet the real Lady Marian was already dead by that date. We do not admit the validity of this document and marriage.”

  Nell was encouraged to see that the solicitor’s obstructiveness was beginning to grate upon Lord Ingleby.

  “Whether Lady Marian was still alive or not is what we are trying to establish,” Sir Henry said mildly. “It is our contention that she is very far from dead; and indeed among us at this moment.” He bowed briefly to Nell, who slightly inclined her head in approved aristocratic fashion.

  While Sir Henry outlined her history she curiously looked around the company. She knew the big red-faced man, Hendrikson, Sir Henry’s investigator. Lord Colville and Robles had brought a distinguished-looking elderly man she had never seen before. An important witness, she surmised.

  Further down the table, a little apart, sat a young man with gleaming blond sideburns, who held himself like an officer despite his civilian clothes. He had been introduced as Sir Valentine Richardson, but his presence had not been further explained. Richardson watched the proceedings carefully, and now and then scratched a word into a small notebook. Surely as a knight or more likely baronet, given his youth, he could not be working for a newspaper? Lord Ingleby had strictly forbidden any representative of the press to attend. For her own part, she hoped that after this affair her name would never appear in another paper for the rest of her life.

  Her attention was recalled to the proceedings when Lord Ingleby asked her to repeat her story in her own words, which she did, and proceeded to ask a number of questions about her parents, Colville Hall, and her pedigree. She had no trouble with any of these, but apart from her knowledge of the priest hole there was nothing that a stranger might not have learned, or gathered from the plethora of recent articles on the case.

  “Do you have any questions?” Lord Ingleby asked Lord Colville and Robles.

  “It is clear this impostor is well briefed,” Colville said disdainfully. “I will not talk to her directly.”

  Fury drove the blood into Nell’s cheeks, and beside her Thomas stiffened in anger. She knew he would have liked nothing better than to knock her uncle down. She lightly placed her hand on his. Sir Henry had stressed that they must remain calm, no matter how the other side tried to provoke them.

  “I have a question,” Sir Valentine unexpectedly spoke up.

  “By all means.” Lord Ingleby leaned back in his chair.

  “Ma’am, your maternal grandmother was German, as we have all learned from the papers. Do you happen to know the private name her German relatives used for her?”

  “As she died before my own birth, I only know it because I read some of her letters that my mother kept. Her nickname was Libelle, the German name for the dragonfly.”

  “Thank you.” The young man made another notation in his notebook. Who was he? Lord Colville looked a
nnoyed. Good. That was a detail none of the papers had described.

  “We have heard the lady’s statement, substantiated by her marriage lines, and a number of affidavits – including the school where she spent the past years,” Lord Ingleby said. “Lord Colville, what is your response? If Mrs. Thomas Seymour is not your niece, then where was Lady Marian during all those years? Why was she sent to Chatterham? You have the floor.”

  Nell had to admire her uncle’s sang-froid when he must know himself to be utterly in the wrong. He was certainly adhering to the Colville family motto, Don’t Cede an Inch. Tenacity and coolness under pressure had always been prized in her family.

  “I have no idea what inspired this young woman to impersonate my poor niece, Lady Marian; most likely she read about the accident in the paper, and saw a chance to enrich herself by slandering my family.”

  “Please stick to the facts and abstain from name-calling at this stage,” Lord Ingleby said drily. “Why was Lady Marian living all alone with servants in Colville Hall, rather than with your own family?”

  “It is not a subject I care to discuss in the presence of strangers,” Lord Colville said with a cold gaze at their side of the table. “I strongly resent the necessity. Lady Marian was suffering from a disease of the mind that would have made her a danger to my own young children.”

  “Do you have proof for this assertion, as you are not yourself a medical man?”

  “Indeed.” Colville indicated the man at his left side. “Doctor Jeroboam Reynolds is an eminent specialist in mental diseases. It is he who first established the diagnosis, and Lady Marian lived under his care in his clinic in the Yorkshire dales since the summer of 1838. As my poor niece’s physician, he can explain better than I why this was necessary.” He turned to the doctor. “Is the young woman sitting opposite the Lady Marian you treated for all those years?”