Celia took a sharp breath, more like a shriek than a gasp. “Harrison, get rid of her!”
The man stood where he was, uncertain. He heard the hysteria in his young mistress’s voice. But he also saw her father advancing down the stairs with a look of thunder.
“Harrison!” ordered Josiah Deede. “Get you to the kitchen and send up tea. Now, Celia, conduct our visitor upstairs and let us have no more of this nonsense. We are bereaved, but that is not Miss Drayton’s fault.” His dark eyes went to Aurora’s face. “Miss Drayton, will you take a cup of tea with us? We are indebted—”
“She is not Miss Drayton, Father,” interrupted Celia. “She is the wife of that man who has been the cause of all our troubles. That unspeakable villain! How can it be that he yet lives, and Joe is dead? Has God forsaken us?”
Josiah Deede showed none of the astonishment, or horror, that Aurora had anticipated. Slowly, his face took on a stunned expression: his eyes as still as stones, his mouth unmoving, and every line in his face deeply drawn. If he had not taken a step back, in apparent revulsion, she would have thought it possible that he might strike her.
She maintained a serene countenance, though her heart was thudding. “It is true, sir,” she said. “I am indeed the wife of Edward Francis. But my husband is not a murderer.”
Josiah Deede’s hand was at his throat. He loosened his necktie, and took in several draughts of air. “Why, then, Miss … er, Mrs Francis, did you pretend to be someone you are not?” he asked in bewilderment.
Aurora thought quickly. If Josiah was truly as ignorant of events as he seemed, Joe had more to answer for even than she had feared. Did his father truly not know that “Miss Drayton” had stolen the blackmail letter while acting as Edward’s spy? Had Joe found the key, but told Josiah nothing? Had the villain, right from the start, been Joe, and Joe alone?
“I was attempting,” she told Deede, “on my husband’s behalf, to find out more about his disinheritance.” Seeing a question flicker across his face, she added hurriedly, “You see, we had reason to suspect all was not as it seemed.”
Josiah Deede regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and interest. “Indeed?”
“If you will allow me, sir, I will explain.” She glanced at Harrison, who had not yet departed for the kitchen. “Upstairs.”
Celia picked up the skirt of her mourning gown and began to mount the stairs. “Then I am going to my room,” she announced, “where you may seek me when you have finished talking of matters to which I have no desire to be privy.”
Josiah Deede’s voice boomed so loudly, and so suddenly, Aurora jumped. “You will stay where you are, madam!”
Celia did not stop. Aurora glanced at the girl’s father; his face was no longer stony, but lit by indignation. He had recovered his composure. He stood solidly at the foot of the stairs, once more a man in command of his own household.
“Go into the parlour!” he instructed his daughter.
Celia stopped, but did not turn. Aurora kept her eyes on her back view, unable to suppress the tight, nervous distrust that crept over her. Joe might have told his father nothing, but how much had he told his sister?
“Celia!” bellowed Josiah Deede. “I am your father and you will obey me!”
Stiffly, as if an invisible force were pushing her against her will, Celia mounted the remaining stairs, crossed the landing and opened the parlour door. Josiah nodded curtly to Aurora. “Excuse this discourtesy. My daughter is distracted by her brother’s sudden death. Now, let us go and join her.”
“Very well, sir.”
As she preceded him up to Edward’s mother’s pretty, old-fashioned parlour, every sinew of Aurora’s body remained alert. She strained to understand Josiah Deede’s treatment of her – not, as she might have expected, with the same contempt as Celia, but as a guest, the reason for whose visit he wished to hear. When confronted by the revelation she was about to make, would he turn on her in wrath and accusation? Or not? This was a strange meeting, indeed.
Celia had not sat down. She stood before the empty fire basket, the back of her head reflected in the mirror above the mantel. She had tidied her hair, but her lovely face was distorted with weeping. “This woman’s husband killed Joe, Father!” she blurted.
“That is true, sir,” said Aurora before Josiah could speak. “But lawfully, in a duel.” She kept her eyes upon Celia. “I witnessed it.”
“And you have the effrontery to come here while Joe yet lies upstairs?” retorted Celia. “Shameful!”
Aurora could imagine the incense-filled bedroom where Joe’s body would lie on a bier, surrounded by candles and watched over by a priest. Her throat constricted at the thought; at her father’s funeral she had been repelled by the accoutrements of death. Tension racking her body, she stood her ground. “Celia, I came because I have an urgent message for Mr Deede from my husband. It will not wait.”
“Is your husband too cowardly, then, to deliver the message himself?” asked Celia scornfully.
“No,” replied Aurora. “I have come because he is unable to rise from his bed. Your brother wounded him in the shoulder.”
“Then your husband should have ended it there.” Celia’s voice faltered on the last word, and she sat down, plucking distractedly at her skirt. “They should have fought to first blood, and no more. If they had done so my brother would still be alive.”
Josiah Deede had listened to this exchange in resigned silence. He took Celia’s place before the mantelpiece, resting one hand upon it, and studied Aurora’s face with interest. “Mrs Francis,” he began, “you say you witnessed Joe’s death. Although I am nonplussed as to how you were present at the duel, I beg you, will you tell me truthfully what happened?”
Aurora hesitated, considering her reply. If he truly was innocent of Joe’s murderous plan, she could not tell him she went to the duelling place in order to warn her husband of it. “Very well, sir, I will recount events as I saw them,” she began. “Joe advanced and wounded my husband. I hoped that would be the end of it, and they would but fight to first blood as your daughter suggests. But he advanced again, and Edward was obliged to defend himself.”
“Were there no seconds present?” asked Josiah, frowning.
“There were indeed, sir. Edward’s friend Mr Allcott was his second, and Joe also brought a man.”
Josiah Deede digested this. “But Joe was intent on fighting to the death, and no one intervened?”
“That is what I saw,” said Aurora warily.
She had tried to spare his feelings as far as she could, but nothing could sugar over the fact that Edward had been obliged to kill Josiah Deede’s son in self-defence.
He gestured for Aurora to sit, then sank into the armchair. His sumptuous mourning clothes – a black waistcoat embroidered with jet and a long coat trimmed with sable – made deep folds around him. A sigh began within him, rose shuddering to the surface and subsided.
“Look at my father!” demanded Celia, flinging out a slender arm. “Look at him, robbed of his only son by your husband’s blade! Where is your compassion, Mrs Francis? Have you not eyes to see, nor heart to feel his despair?”
“Peace!” said Josiah. “Peace, child!” He spread his hands in a calming motion, closing his eyes and opening them again. “Let us hear what message Mrs Francis has brought. She herself is guilty of nothing more than concealing her identity.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Aurora. She sat down. Her heartbeat had calmed, but her jaw felt stiff as she continued. “Edward wishes you to know that your son spoke the name of a woman just before he departed this earth.”
Beneath the grey mask of grief, Aurora caught the sharpening of Josiah’s expression. She was not looking directly at Celia, but she was aware that the girl had grown very still, no longer worrying her skirt, but sitting as if she were in church, her hands folded in her lap.
Aurora gathered her courage. “He cried out, ‘Honoria!’,” she told Josiah. “‘My dearest God, Honoria!’”
Nothin
g happened. Celia went on sitting in the same position, and her father continued to look at Aurora with undivided attention. The only difference she could discern in his face was a slight flaring of his nostrils, as if to increase his intake of air.
“Is this name familiar to you, Mr Deede?” ventured Aurora. She glanced at Celia. “Or to you?”
Still Celia did not move, but her eyes followed her father as he rose from his chair and went to the window. The light of the May afternoon brightened the embroidery of his waistcoat and gleamed on his forehead and nose. His eyes blinked steadily. “It is many, many years since I heard that name,” he said, so quietly that Aurora could hardly hear him. “I never thought to hear it again. And certainly not from my son.”
“Who is this Honoria, Father?” asked Celia.
Aurora again felt, without tangible cause, that Celia was not trustworthy. Celia had lied to her before, but she had not discerned it, perhaps because at the time she was engaged in trying to make her own lies plausible. But now, in the presence of her grief-stricken father, and separated for ever from Joe, Celia’s power to deceive had diminished.
There was a knock, acknowledged impatiently by Celia. Harrison and Missy entered, bearing the kettle and tea tray as usual. No one spoke while the servants were in the room. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Josiah sighed deeply. Without turning from the window, he said, “Honoria was Edward Francis’s mother.”
Aurora knew that Edward’s mother’s name had been Elizabeth. Her heart drummed, but she said nothing.
“She was the first woman I loved, when I was a young man of twenty-six,” Josiah continued. “But she was one of King Charles’s mistresses, and refused to marry me. In sixteen seventy-five, she had a son – not the king’s, but mine.” Beneath straight brows his eyes alighted upon Aurora, whose breath had disappeared. “Mrs Francis, I am Edward’s father.”
Celia’s blue eyes looked blank, but she remained composed. Her only betrayal of agitation was to put her hand to her throat. “Do you mean that Edward Francis, that murderer…” she began faintly, but was prevented from continuing by her father’s next words.
“Honoria could not risk the wrath of King Charles,” he went on, addressing Aurora. “He would have dismissed her from court if he had discovered she had betrayed him. So she surrendered the child to me to find a family for him. I was scarce out of the University, with only my profession to support me. But my friend Henry Francis came from a landed family and had recently married a wealthy woman. They took the boy in and raised him as their own. Honoria did not wish to be told of his whereabouts, and now she, too, is dead.”
Aurora still could not breathe satisfactorily. She grasped the arm of her chair, fearing faintness would overcome her. Joe Deede’s wickedness was almost beyond reckoning. Somehow, he must have found out about Honoria. He must have known that he had an older half-brother who would inherit his father’s fortune if his parentage became known. So he decided to make sure Edward’s parentage did not become known, by fuelling the enmity between Josiah Deede and Henry Francis. First, he had blackmailed Josiah in his former friend’s name. Then he had robbed Edward of his fortune by murdering his adoptive father. And then, when Edward had given him the opportunity by challenging him to a duel, he had decided to kill him.
“But Father…” said Celia. Her face had taken on a dazed expression. “All my life, you have hated Henry Francis. Joe and I were always kept away from his son.”
“Your mother insisted, and so did Henry,” replied Josiah, returning to his chair. “But differences over religion were only a small part of my estrangement from him. Our greatest quarrel was over Edward. When the boy was ten years old, King Charles died, and King James ascended the throne. For those of the Roman faith, everything at court changed. Because I had converted when I married my Philomena, I now found myself favoured by the Catholic king. My wealth exceeded that of Henry Francis, and I wanted my boy back, to bring him up as a Catholic and my own son.”
“But what about Joe?” protested Celia. “Expecting all his life to inherit as the only son, then having to surrender his fortune to an elder brother he did not even know about!”
Her indignation was not very convincing, Aurora thought. Celia knew, she knew.
“That would not have happened, Celia,” said Josiah. “You see, your mother would only agree to take the boy if I willed the estate to Joe, though he was the younger son, while making good provision for Edward. And I have never changed that arrangement.”
Celia had turned paler. She looked at the floor, her eyes widening. Evidently, she had not known this.
“Everything was planned,” continued Josiah. “But Henry refused to give up the boy, and I allowed my disappointment to turn to loathing. I am ashamed to say I caused things about Henry Francis to circulate in society which were quite without foundation.”
Aurora found her voice, though it did not sound quite as usual. She did not seem able to summon her strength. Whatever she had expected, it had not been this. “Edward’s reputation is similarly tainted, I believe,” she ventured.
“Aye, I gave Joe free rein to insult him, may God forgive me.” Josiah leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. Aurora recognized the position Edward so often adopted, along with the drawing-together of the eyebrows. “And he took full advantage. But I wonder, Mrs Francis … how did Joe know the name of Honoria?”
Aurora spoke as considerately as she could. “Sir, may I put to you the possibility that Joe came across some private paper which perhaps contained the truth about Edward’s parentage?”
He looked at her. Distraction had become grief, descending over his face like a shroud. “Madam, you are perceptive. Such a paper does exist.” His voice was low, and the emotion in it was controlled. “It is the agreement Henry and I signed when he adopted him. I could not prevail upon Henry to raise Edward as a Catholic, of course. But I made him agree to certain stipulations pertaining to the boy’s education.” His eyes found Celia’s bowed head and lingered there. “I kept the document hidden,” he said, more to himself than to her. “But not well enough, it seems.”
He straightened up and rested his head against the chair back. He continued to look at Celia, whose expression was not visible. She remained as still and silent as a statue.
Aurora waited a few moments, then continued. “If Joe found this document, sir, he may have assumed that if the truth about Edward’s birth ever became known, the Deede fortune would be bequeathed to Edward, as he was the elder. But you have just informed me that you had no intention of leaving Edward your entire fortune, and upon your wife’s insistence you made good provision for Joe.”
“That is correct,” said Josiah softly. Realization began to glow in his eyes. “Dear God!” he murmured, stricken. “Do you mean that, although Joe may have found the adoption agreement, he never found my will, which stipulates that a very generous portion of my fortune would go to him? He must have assumed, as Celia did just now, that it would all go to Edward!”
“Very likely, sir,” said Aurora.
Josiah nodded miserably. “All the copies of my will are kept under lock and key in a cabinet at my attorney’s office, to which Joe could not be privy.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I am to blame. I should have told him and Celia the truth years ago.”
Celia’s head came up at last, her beauty blunted by indignation. “Father, stop! What have you done that could be amiss?”
“Plenty, my dear,” said Josiah resignedly. “When I received the first blackmail letter, I knew I could stop Henry Francis’s villainy by admitting the truth. Oftentimes, I was sorely tempted to do so, and rid myself of the burden – not the financial burden, but the weight on my heart. But I was too proud, so I paid him.”
“Oh, Father!” Celia’s exclamation was not one of sympathy, but of contempt. “You could not have done that! A Protestant woman? A bastard son? Mother could never have gone into society again. And how would I ever have got a suitor?”
&nbs
p; Her father gazed at her, seeing her self-centredness, perhaps for the first time. “Celia,” he said solemnly, “there is no need to scold me. It was to protect you, your mother and Joe – and my own pride, as I have said – that I paid. I was not strong enough to confess, and I have scolded myself for it often enough.”
“Any man in your position would have done the same,” insisted Celia. “It is not a question of strength, but of prudence.”
Josiah Deede regarded her sorrowfully. “Very well, my dear,” he said, putting his handkerchief to his eyes.
Aurora waited while he composed himself, then she ventured on. “Sir … I regret having to ask such a question, but when Henry Francis disinherited Edward and left his fortune to you, did you not wonder that he could treat his beloved adopted son in such a cruel way?”
Before Josiah could speak, Celia gave a snort of scorn. “Father, it is perfectly obvious why he disinherited Edward Francis. Because he was your son, and he hated you! ‘Beloved adopted son’, indeed! He must have seen his enemy every time he looked at him!”
Josiah breathed in and out, and wiped his eyes. “I am sorry, Celia,” he said, “but I cannot agree. Henry did love Edward, and his disinheritance of him is something that has ever mystified me.”
“Why, then, sir,” asked Aurora solemnly, “did you not protest at the time? Edward contested the will, but the hearing was presided over by Sir John Wilkinson, a judge known to be harsher on Protestant plaintiffs than Catholic ones, and a good friend of you and your circle.”
The word “corruption” hung unspoken in the air. Aurora wondered if she had gone too far. She readied herself to receive the full force of Josiah Deede’s outrage.
“Hatred, my dear Mrs Francis,” he said calmly, “is not easily set aside in favour of compassion, or even logic. I understood Henry’s desire to acquit himself of his sins, but I did not understand why he had done it at Edward’s expense. However, such was my resentment of both father and son, I made no attempt to give Edward a fair hearing. As I stood there with Joe at the will-contesting, my own will lay locked in my attorney’s office. How could I admit in public that Edward was actually my son, and that although he might be disinherited now, part of my own fortune would come to him in due course? It would have been the sensation of the year, and my reputation would have been ruined. So I kept my counsel.”
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