by Kelly Boyce
True concern laced Eugenie’s voice. Surprising, given her carefully modulated tone rarely conveyed any emotion at all, regardless the subject.
“You think people will turn their back on her?”
“I do. You know how society is. Everything is to be done in such a manner as to avoid the appearance of anything scandalous. Those of us yet to marry must comport ourselves without even the smallest hint of scandal or impropriety if we wish to make a proper marriage.”
Unlike Rebecca, who, in an effort to capture a proposal from a man she did not love, had flown from the saddle of a horse she did not want to be on, landed, skirts high, in a mud puddle then preceded to kiss her rescuer until her toes curled in her muddy slippers and her body wished to do so much more.
Good heavens! Was scandalous behavior an inheritable trait? Was this what Father had meant to keep her from with his strict rules of conduct and comportment? Were Eugenie’s words as much a warning to Rebecca as her younger sister?
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I doubt it.” Eugenie sighed and Rebecca’s eyes widened. When had Eugenie Caldwell ever sighed? The situation must be dire indeed!
“Because of what happened in the park?” Mother and Lord Selward had both tried to tell her it wasn’t as bad as she imagined and so she had shrugged off the stares as she’d entered Lady Martindale’s drawing room. But what if they were wrong? What if they were only placating her and Lord Selward’s visit had been out of guilt and not because he had any intention of offering a proposal? “Have I have ruined my reputation completely?”
Eugenie glanced at her, her dark eyebrows furrowed. “You? No. I think you will come away from the incident at the park relatively unscathed. You have, after all, conducted yourself in a perfectly agreeable manner up until that point, and clearly the fault of the incident did not rest on your shoulders. But that is not what brought me here to speak with you.”
“It isn’t?”
Eugenie shook her head and the sunlight caught its glossy darkness and pulled out strands of mahogany. “I have heard a piece of news I thought you might be interested in.”
Rebecca gasped then smiled. “Miss Caldwell, are you partaking in gossip!”
Eugenie pursed her lips and slid Rebecca a stern look. “It is not gossip. Gossip is for those with nothing better to do with their time. This is news.”
“Of course. How foolish of me.”
“I overheard—”
“If you overheard doesn’t that make it gossip?”
Again the pursed lips. “Do you wish to hear what I have to tell you, or not?”
Rebecca suppressed a laugh and primly folded her hands in her lap and straightened her posture. “By all means. Please, continue.”
Eugenie cleared her throat lightly. “As I was saying, it has come to my attention that Lord Selward’s father, Lord Walkerton, is returning to England. Lady Herringsby, who is the cousin to Lady Walkerton, indicated Lord Selward had received word his lordship is expected within the week. Lady Herringsby believes his return is due to his son’s plans to offer for a wife by Season’s end.”
“Truly?”
“This is what I have heard. I cannot claim to know the amount of truth attached to it, as it is—”
“Gossip?”
Eugenie’s shoulders dropped, though only slightly and only for a second. “Really, Lady Rebecca, must you be so difficult?”
“Really, Miss Caldwell, must you be so proper?”
But any humor in the statement was lost on Eugenie. “It is such propriety that will afford me a good marriage with a proper gentleman.” She shot Rebecca a sideways glance. “We are not all in possession of a sizeable dowry.”
Rebecca lost her grin. The Caldwell women were in rather desperate need of husbands as their father had no male heirs to care for them when he was gone. Given her own predicament, she could sympathize. Her sizable dowry would be a thing of the past should she not find her own proper husband to marry within the next few weeks. But even if she failed, she had Nicholas to fall back on. Eugenie and her sisters had no one.
She reached over and patted Eugenie’s hand, ignoring the discomfort it caused the other woman. “Forgive me. And thank you for telling me. I wish you all the best, I hope you know that.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Eugenie stood and looked across the garden avoiding Rebecca’s gaze. “I hope you get what you wish for as well.”
Rebecca nodded but said nothing. What she wished for and what she needed were two entirely different things.
Chapter Eleven
October 14th
How strange to think of this little human growing in my womb, that one day they will be on the outside, looking to me for guidance. For answers. And what shall I tell them? What can I tell them? Not the truth. Such innocence does not need to know the ugliness of the world.
Perhaps instead I should beg their forgiveness for thrusting them into a world not of their making. A world so harshly unforgiving. How can I force them to carry the scourge of events they had no part in?
I had hoped Braemore would give me the answers. That they would come to me on the salt wind and rustle through my hair. But while the wind has been forthcoming, no answers ride on its tail. I am no closer to a decision now than when I arrived. Mother continues to hover, to hope, but I have no news to give her.
* * *
Braemore.
The name of Marcus’s home kept appearing, leaving no doubt that was where the authoress resided at the time of the writing and how his mother—Mary—had come to know her.
Marcus closed the journal and walked the floor of his study, unable to settle. His mind worked furiously, asking questions he had no answer to. Who was the authoress? What ugliness did she refer to? And where was she now, this woman? His mother.
The quest to find answers gave him no peace and he could not rid himself of a sense of disloyalty, as if searching for the truth betrayed every memory he had of Mary Bowen—of her kindness, her gentle nature, her loving arms. She had cared for him for as long as she was able and when illness came, she’d done her best to see he did not end up in an orphanage or workhouse. How could she have known what her brother intended?
In the end, it had been Mary Bowen who had sent him the tools to discover the truth.
If only she’d made it easier to unravel.
The woman who wrote the journal had been the one to give birth to him. Of that, he was certain. Yet, for whatever reason, she had abandoned him, left him behind at Braemore Manor to be raised by the Bowens.
And if it happened at Braemore Manor, then Lady Ellesmere must have known the woman’s identity. Surely his mother would never have taken someone in without the express permission of her employer.
Which meant if Marcus wanted answers, he must speak with Lady Ellesmere. But was it worth it? Did he wish to rouse such skeletons from their resting place or was it best to leave them be?
As much as he searched for the truth of his past, to put the doubts and questions to rest, he feared it. The truth would change everything. How could it not? If the author of the journal was his mother, it was obvious she had been compromised and he born on the wrong side of the blanket. Had Walkerton been involved? Was that how he came by the watch? Had it been a token of his affection or a promise never upheld? At the time of Marcus’s birth, Walkerton had already been married to Lord Selward’s mother.
The truth had been kept secret, worthy of shame—a shame meant to stay buried beneath the subterfuge piled atop it.
But it had not. His mother had handed him a shovel and left the decision of whether to excavate it his hands.
He debated his choices, though in his mind only one existed.
He wanted the truth. To know his true identity and where he came from.
Who he came from.
He dismissed the idea of speaking to Lord Ellesmere on the matter. The man had a long held belief that scandal should be avoided at all costs. His own family had steeped them
selves in it, all of his brothers coming to rather disreputable ends. His own son and daughter-in-law, Spence’s parents, had died in a shocking accident when the late Lady Huntsleigh had taken Spence and tried to leave her husband for another man. No, asking Lord Ellesmere to help him uncover a past others had put much effort into burying was not the way to go.
It would have to be Lady Ellesmere.
He let out a long sigh and stood in front of the window that faced out onto the street. His reflection stared back and he studied it. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, though not overly so, with a lean, solid build. He looked nothing like his parents. Though they had greyed by the time most of his memories formed, he had some recollection of his father having blonde hair, his mother light brown. Each had possessed blue eyes. His mother had been short with a thick, sturdy build and round, pleasant face, while his father had been tall and reed thin, his features fine and narrow.
Marcus tilted his head to one side. His own face consisted of sharp angles and defined strokes with a full mouth that appeared to be neither smiling nor frowning, a serious brow and a straight nose. Not a bad face, he supposed. But not a face that resembled either Mother or Father.
With a deep breath, Marcus turned away from his reflection and went in search of the woman who had raised him for most of his life. He found her in the solar, reclined on the settee with a pair of knitting needles in her hands. They clicked and clacked in a steady rhythm, the only sound to penetrate the quiet of the room. Next to her on the chair, a small grey kitten swatted at the yarn stretching from the needles to the ball in her lap.
“Lady Ellesmere?” She’d requested from the beginning that he call her Grandmamma as Spence did, but he’d resisted, afraid to grow too comfortable lest the winds of change blow him off course once again. He had not wanted to become too attached or to assume a position he had no right to. He was not their grandson. He was nothing to them. And they could turn him out as quickly as they’d brought him in. After awhile, Lady Ellesmere stopped making the request, though her actions remained as they had always been—warm and loving. It was for this reason alone he hesitated now, afraid of causing her upset.
“Marcus, my dear. Come in.” She lowered the needles to her lap.
He took a fortifying breath and stepped into the room. “I see you have a new friend.”
Lady Ellesmere often took in strays from the mews, much to Lord Ellesmere’s dismay.
She smiled and stroked the kitten. “This is Bouncer. The poor thing was abandoned by his mother, and I just could not convince myself to leave him to his fate.”
Such had been his own circumstances. Another stray Lady Ellesmere had rescued from fate. What would his life had been like had she not arrived that day and uttered those words to his aunt? Would he have survived childhood? It made the questions he must ask her weigh heavy on his heart. He did not want her to think him ungrateful for all she and Lord Ellesmere had done.
“I wondered if I may speak with you about something.”
“Of course, Marcus. Come and sit. You have been so busy of late; I have not had a minute to spend with you. You cannot push yourself so hard, my dear. You are still healing from your wounds.”
She delivered the admonishment with equal doses of worry and warmth. Marcus’s heart twisted. “I am fully healed, my lady. You need not worry after my health.”
“You may as well ask the sun not to rise.”
He smiled, but no joy filled his heart. Lady Ellesmere had been by his bedside night and day after the stabbing, seeing to his care with the ferocity of a mother bear. Asking her these questions now felt like a betrayal to everything she’d done for him. Yet how could he not ask them? How could he live each day knowing the truth was within his grasp and yet he did not reach for it?
He took the straight back chair closest to her, the hard wood construction pressing through the fine wool of his jacket. He hesitated a moment, trying to determine the best way to introduce the sensitive subject.
“From the grave expression on your face, may I assume this conversation is of a serious nature?” Lady Ellesmere was one of the few who seemed able to tell his serious expression from his regular one. Rebecca was the other, though he pushed that thought away. He had enough to contend with without bringing thoughts of her into the mix.
“It is.”
“Are you here to tell me you have chosen a bride? I understand you’ve been introduced to one of the Caldwell girls. Can I have hope there?”
He laughed lightly. Since Spence’s marriage to Caelie several months earlier, Lady Ellesmere had turned her match-making attentions to him. He hated to disappoint, for even if he had an interest in Miss Caldwell—which he did not—how could he marry anyone without knowing who he was, where he came from, and what was attached to it—good or bad.
“I’m afraid not.”
“What am I to do with you, Marcus?” She sighed but her pale blue eyes sparkled. How he hated to take that away from her.
He gripped his hands together and leaned forward resting his forearms against his thighs. “I received a package from Cornwall last week.” Had it really been only a week since his world had come crashing down? Since he’d discovered his past was a lie and the woman who tempted him above all else could never be his?
The knitting needles slowed but did not stop. “Cornwall?”
“Yes.”
“Business regarding Braemore?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. It came from a solicitor, a Mr. Wickwire. Or, his daughter, actually. It appears her father passed on and she found it while going through his things. The instructions were for it to be sent to me when I reached my majority, but—” He shrugged.
Lady Ellesmere stopped knitting completely, but did not meet his gaze. Instead, she ran a hand down the small head of Bouncer who continued to lay waste to the trailing string of yarn. A strange tension filled the quiet between them, pregnant with expectation and things not yet said. Outside, the sound of a carriage passing by on the cobbled street drifted up to the open window, then slowly dissipated.
Marcus swallowed. His throat had turned dry. “What can you tell me about my parents?”
“Your parents?” Her grip on the knitting needles tightened. Bouncer’s tiny grey paw moved to rest upon Lady Ellesmere’s hand as if the tiny animal could sense her growing distress. When she spoke again, her voice lowered. “What did you want to know?”
He shook his head. He wasn’t sure how or where to start. “They were older, were they not?”
“Yes. I suppose they were.”
“Too old for child-bearing when I came along.”
Lady Ellesmere released her hold on the needles and became engrossed in winding the loose yarn around the ball. Bouncer tried to capture the strands but to no avail. “It isn’t unheard of for a couple to have a child later in life.”
“Not unheard of, but uncommon. Mother and Father had to have been fifty when I was born. I didn’t realize it at the time; such things didn’t mean anything to me as a child. But looking back, I see it differently.”
“And why are you looking back now? Does it matter?”
The answer bled through him in swift response.
Yes.
It did matter. He wanted to know. Needed to.
“The Bowens were not my true parents, were they?”
“What a silly thing to say,” Lady Ellesmere said, her tone colored with a hint of anger and much denial. She unwound the yarn she had just finished wrapping around the ball. “Mary and Edmore loved you very much, Marcus. They cared for you and…and they loved you. What else matters?”
“The truth.” He said it plainly, for there was no other way to say it. “The truth matters.”
A pinched look tightened the loose skin around Lady Ellesmere’s face and she glanced away from the knitting in her lap to the window next to her, then down at Bouncer who had decided to launch a full-scale assault on the yarn.
“Now Bouncer, you leave that alone.” The high pitch
of her voice strangled the words with tension. She shooed the grey ball of fluff away, but instead of leaving, the kitten nudged at her hand. She scratched between its ears and it purred loud enough to be heard from where Marcus sat. He noted the gesture for what it was, a stall tactic.
“Lady Ellesmere?”
She pursed her lips as if to keep the truth he sought vaulted inside of her. He had been correct in his assumption. She did know something. When she spoke again, her words came as a whisper.
“They loved you as their own.”
“Except that I wasn’t.”
She would not meet his gaze. The purring stopped and when Marcus glanced down he realized her hand had stilled. He pressed on.
“A lady came to stay with them. I suspect she had found herself in an untenable situation—unmarried and with child. Am I correct?”
Bouncer jumped off the settee and hopped from the room, revealing how he came by his name. Marcus watched him go and when his gaze returned to the marchioness, her complexion had paled against the warm sunlight.
“The Bowens loved you. We love you. That is the only thing that matters. You are family, Marcus.”
“No,” he whispered, hating the injury his words caused her, but understanding the truth of them with a depth he had not before. “I am not.”
Her lower lip trembled and guilt stabbed far deeper than the blade of any thief. She took a shuddering breath; pain etched into the lines of her face. Her gaze remained fixed on the window. “Have we done something? Have you been unhappy here?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, of course not. You and Lord Ellesmere have given me opportunities a boy from my background could never have dreamed of, I will be forever grateful—”
“We do not want your gratitude, Marcus.” Anger made her eyes flash. She turned to look at him and strength returned to her voice. “We did not do it for gratitude. We did it because we loved you. And regardless of how you may feel about the matter, you will always be family to us.”