Miss Marianne's Disgrace

by Georgie Lee

  ‘It wasn’t, but in time when everyone realised they couldn’t hurt me, they lost interest in trying. I want the same thing for you.’

  ‘I thought I had it until this morning, but I don’t.’ Marianne’s shoulders slumped with her sorrow. ‘If there’s a baby, everyone will know I’m no better than my mother and all their derision of me will at last be vindicated.’

  ‘If there is a child, we will deal with it as we have every other issue.’ Lady Ellington sat back and took Marianne by the chin and fixed her with a serious look. ‘As for you being like your mother, you are nothing like her. You have a heart. She never did. You are caring and loyal to those you love, even Sir Warren. Don’t give up on him or your future, Marianne. You’ll regret it if you do.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want me.’

  ‘He does. He loves you as much as you love him, I’m sure of it, but I fear he’s in a difficult state right now and not thinking clearly. Like you, he’s fought his battles alone for so long, he can’t conceive of accepting help, but you must assist him whether he wants it or not.’

  Marianne considered what she said and what Warren had told her. He hadn’t called off the wedding, but asked her to wait. She’d taken it as a rejection and retreated into her old habits just like he had. If she didn’t find some way to make him see his mistake, as Lady Ellington had helped her to recognise hers, she might lose him for good. She couldn’t allow it or return to the lonely life she’d led before she’d met him. She did love him and she wouldn’t lose him, but she would fight for their future, though she had no idea how. ‘What can I do if he doesn’t want my help?’

  Lady Ellington shook her head, as at a loss for ideas as Marianne. ‘We’ll think of something, some way to assist him which won’t damage his pride.’

  Marianne leaned back against the piano, the sharp edge of the key cover pressing into her back. If he refused to take her money, perhaps she could speak with Mr Berkshire and arrange to purchase some of Warren’s books. Maybe Lord Falconbridge could act on her behalf, but if Warren ever discovered the ruse, it would undermine his need to help himself. If only he’d written a new story, the one he’d craved when he’d first proposed their arrangement. Then he’d have his next novel and the funds it might raise.

  Marianne sat up straight as the idea struck her. ‘The book.’

  ‘What book?’ Lady Ellington asked as confused as Marianne was excited.

  ‘Lady Matilda’s Trials. It’s still upstairs in my desk. It’s the one he sent me after we first visited him at Priorton.’ The one she’d made him burn because of her fears. It was his fears ruling them now and she wouldn’t allow it, like she would no longer hide from her past and the gossip or life, but face it and live as she wished. Marianne didn’t know how many people would see the truth behind Lady Matilda’s story, but it was a chance she had to take. ‘If I give Mr Berkshire the manuscript, Warren will have his next novel, his advance, and the chance to earn enough money to pay back the investors and the solicitors.’

  Lady Ellington clutched Marianne’s hands, gripped by the thrill of the scheme. ‘Then we must go to London at once.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, Mr Steed, can we fight it?’ Warren asked the solicitor. He sat in Mr Steed’s Temple Bar offices as the illustrious solicitor read over the document. From a room on the lower floor a woman and a man screamed at one another.

  Mr Dyer, the noted barrister, read over his partner’s shoulder. The gentleman had a reputation for dealing with forgery cases. There were rumours Mr Dyer had gained his flair for uncovering forgers through his secret work with the Alien Office, rooting out criminals and spies, but they’d never been confirmed. Mr Berkshire paid them to keep copies of Warren’s books from appearing under the names of other printers. Hopefully, they were as good at preventing Warren’s name from being connected to fraud as they were at maintaining the integrity of his work.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mr Steed asked his colleague.

  Warren tapped his foot, waiting for an answer. If Steed and Dyer couldn’t help him, he was sunk.

  ‘Looks like Fink’s work. See the O there and the way he’s spelled Lord Cartwright’s name. For a forger, he can’t spell worth a damn.’ Mr Dyer perched his hands on his hips, drawing back the corners of his coat and emphasising his impressive height and stance. ‘I’ll speak with him, persuade him it’s more lucrative and to his advantage to confess than to try and protect Mr Hirst. I’m sure he’ll be eager to assist us. It’s better than swinging for forgery.’

  The man’s and woman’s yelling grew louder, adding to Warren’s tension. ‘And if Mr Fink won’t give evidence against him?’

  ‘If Mr Hirst has no other documents from you supporting his claim to an agreement, then you have a very sturdy case against him. Your reputation, which up to this point has been sterling, should help.’

  Warren’s reputation wasn’t so sterling after his time in the country. Lord and Lady Cartwright would be all too willing to testify to his shortcomings if this issue did come to trial. He wasn’t sure who else might come forward to join them, eager to get rid of this upstart in their ranks. He could well imagine Lady Preston joining the chorus of his critics, and Marianne.

  Regret gripped him for what he’d done, but there was no time to entertain it.

  ‘I also doubt Mr Hirst has the resources to fight this in court,’ Mr Steed added, laying the stock agreement on the blotter of his pristine desk. ‘Especially if, as you say, he’s squandered the money.’

  ‘He’s probably squirrelled it away somewhere,’ Mr Dyer speculated. ‘He’ll need it, especially since he’s the one who approached the investors. Even though he’s tied this to you, Sir Warren, those who lost money will remember him and sue him too. If nothing else, he will need an income to live off if he plans to leave England to escape any consequences.’

  It was thin comfort. If even a part of the money existed, it would alleviate some of Warren’s debt, but they still had no idea what the outstanding amount was. It might be staggering, more than whatever Rupert had hidden away, or Warren could raise without selling Priorton.

  ‘And the court of public opinion? A trial could ruin me and everything I’ve worked so hard to build,’ Warren reminded them.

  ‘Then we must make sure it doesn’t come to trial,’ Mr Dyer said. ‘We’ll find a way for Mr Hirst to admit his guilt by convincing him there’s no other route but to produce whatever money is left and then disappear. I understand Australia is quite charming for criminals.’

  He laughed, but Warren could barely join him. He wished he had the barrister’s confidence in the outcome of this issue, but he didn’t. Every expectation he’d considered solid in the last few days had shifted beneath him like the sea in a storm. Priorton and his career were in danger and all his dreams of a life with Marianne were gone.

  He pressed his fingertips together and stared at the tightly fitted floorboard between his boots. He’d acted like an ass with her, storming away like a stubborn child, determined not to need anyone’s help but he did, especially hers. He dropped his hands and sat up. No, he’d been right to postpone the marriage. He’d promised her at the start of their relationship he wouldn’t expose her to more scandal and he wouldn’t, nor would he chain her to a man burdened with the risk of ruin. ‘Do whatever you have to, but make sure this doesn’t become public.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir Warren, we’ll see to it justice is done,’ Mr Dyer assured him before Warren took his leave.

  He hailed a hack, ready to make for Mr Reed’s house to discuss his finances. Together, they’d see what could be sold to raise money and what measures might be taken to save Priorton in case things were even worse than they’d imagined. A vehicle drew up to the kerb. Warren gave the driver directions then climbed inside, wrinkling his nose at the mouldy smell of the conveyance.

  The brackish taste of
cask water began to singe his tongue.

  No, not this. I don’t need this.

  He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to drive back the chilling memory of the scrape of saw against bone and the unending screams of his patients and the moans of the wounded. The rock of the carriage as it drove along made the memories worse, mimicking the roll and pitch of a ship. He opened his eyes, hoping the daylight would drive it all back, but the darkness of the hack and the mouldy stench of its seats made the visions worse.

  He banged on the roof, bringing the vehicle to a halt. He staggered out, dragging in a large lungful of the foul London air. The sooty river stench was preferable to the damp and rot of the hack, but not as settling as Marianne and her fragrant flower perfume.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ the driver asked from atop his high seat.

  Warren fished a coin out of his pocket and tossed it up to the man. ‘I need to walk.’

  He made off down the street, weaving through the teeming mass of people. One or two paused to study him and he prayed they wouldn’t recognise him. He didn’t have the stamina to smile and coddle their interest in him. Anonymity was what he craved and Marianne. He shouldn’t have let her go or pushed her away. In doing so he’d destroyed everything he’d built between them, he’d caught it in the hardness of her stance and her sharp, dismissing words. She’d spent her life being rejected by people and in the end he’d proven himself no better than them.

  He ducked into a nearby pub and elbowed his way through the patrons to the publican behind the counter. He thumped the top of the scarred wood. ‘Brandy.’

  The publican poured out a measure into a pewter glass and set it before Warren. Warren lifted the cool metal cup to his lips and threw back the burning liquid. It made his eyes water, but settled him the same way rum used to aboard ship when nothing else would ease his nerves after a battle. He motioned to the publican for another. After three more, he dropped four coins on the counter and left the dark and tobacco-filled pub for the bright and noisy London streets.

  Panic didn’t drive him on as it had in the hack. Like the desperate days at sea when the end of his maritime nightmare had been something out of sight over the horizon, a life with Marianne didn’t seem as unfathomable as before. He more than anyone knew all hells eventually ended and when his did, he’d court her again. Regaining her trust would take more hard work than pulling in sails during a storm, but he’d do it. It was the one good thing he had to look forward to and he held on tight to it as he moved with the surge of people in the street. He’d achieved every goal he’d ever set himself to and he would win her heart again once things with Rupert were settled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr Berkshire.’ Marianne smiled at the publisher as she sat before his desk. Warren’s manuscript rested on her lap, a potent reminder of the risk she was about to take and what it might gain her. ‘Sir Warren would have brought this to you himself, but he’s been delayed by some trouble with his brother-in-law.’

  Mr Berkshire scrunched his thick eyebrows in confusion. ‘We spoke before he went to see my solicitor and he told me he didn’t have a completed manuscript.’

  ‘He was being modest. He gave me this copy before he left the country and asked me to deliver it to you when I joined him in town.’ She held the journal out across the desk, struggling to grip it despite the tremble in her arm. Once the story was in the publisher’s hands it would only be a matter of time before it was out in the world for all to see. She hoped Warren had hidden the truth of Lady Matilda’s inspiration as well as he’d claimed.

  Mr Berkshire reached out and took the other end of the manuscript. He began to pull it back and she opened her fingers to let go.

  ‘I’ll be sure to get on the story at once,’ Mr Berkshire assured her. ‘I hope this wretched to do with his brother-in-law doesn’t undermine his talent. It could end up costing Sir Warren a great deal more than his livelihood.’

  She knew all too well about the cost to him and her. ‘Then we must make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  * * *

  Warren crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it aside to join the many others littering the floor. He dug his elbows into the desk and scraped his fingers through his hair, wanting to cry out in frustration. After leaving Mr Reed’s more morose than buoyed, he’d come home to his narrow town house in Gough Square, determined to finish this manuscript. He’d sat here the entire night trying to work, hoping it would settle the demons plaguing him. It had only made things worse. He had nothing to show for his efforts except dark circles under his eyes and wasted sheets of paper. Another expense he didn’t need.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself without giving in to the temptation of having a drink. Fuddling his mind wouldn’t help him, but perseverance would. He’d written with the pitch and roll of the ship making him sick. He’d worked beneath a single candle with the smell of dust and blood surrounding him. He could work through this. He picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell and poised it over the paper. A drop of ink hit the surface, feathering out on the parchment, but still nothing came to him.

  He tossed down his pen before the door opened and his mother entered.

  ‘Warren, you must eat.’ She carried in a tray of cheese, cold meat and bread and set it on the corner of his desk. He’d tried to leave his mother at Priorton, but she’d insisted on accompanying him to London. She was just as worried as he was over the Rupert affair.

  Warren glanced at the food, then hunched over the paper to read what little he’d managed to complete. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You won’t help anyone if you make yourself sick.’

  She was right. He snatched up the bread, tore off a piece and ate it. Once it was in his mouth his stomach growled and he at last acknowledged his hunger. ‘I hate it when you’re practical.’

  ‘I hate it when you’re pig-headed, just like your father.’

  ‘I’m not like him.’ He refused to be, at least where providing for those he loved was concerned.

  His mother studied him, her head tilted to one side. ‘In most ways you aren’t, but you have his determination to make something of yourself.’

  ‘Except he never did.’ Warren flicked a crumb off of his paper. It landed on the floor in front of Lancelot’s nose and the dog licked it up.

  ‘He would have if he’d been granted more time.’ His mother crossed her hands in front of her, regaining the stalwart but serene stance of a vicar’s wife. ‘I know you blame him for leaving us like he did, but try and forgive him, Warren. He was a good father to you and Leticia while he was alive.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Warren reached down beside his chair to scratch Lancelot’s back. She was right. He should remember the father who’d cleaned up the breastplate for him and encouraged his fantasies, instead of the one he’d cursed after his death. Like Warren, he’d had his ambitions, but not enough time on earth to pursue them. His dreams had been snatched from him by death, just like Warren’s were being threatened by Rupert.

  Lancelot stood up among the wads of papers surrounding him and stared at the door. He wagged his tale, appearing more animated than at any other time today.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  The bang of the front knocker echoed through the town house.

  ‘Perhaps it’s Miss Domville,’ his mother offered, optimistic as always.

  Warren continued to stroke the dog’s back. ‘She isn’t one for convention, but not even she is likely to appear at the home of a single gentleman.’

  ‘I don’t know. She might surprise you.’

  He wished she would. It would bolster his belief in winning her back after everything was settled.

  The butler’s voice echoed through the hall, followed by Mr Berkshire’s. Warren’s shoulders sank. It w
asn’t Marianne.

  ‘Congratulations, Warren, you’ve done it again,’ Mr Berkshire enthused as he strode into the room. Lancelot bounded up to him and received a hearty back rub. ‘Mrs Stevens, you have the most talented son.’

  ‘I know and he’s persistent with it, just like his father.’ She smiled warmly at Warren before leaving the men to their business.

  He didn’t mind the comparison because it was true. His father had given him a reason to strive and succeed. Without it, he wouldn’t have achieved everything he was fighting to hold on to.

  ‘Has Mr Steed or Mr Dyer told you something about the case?’ Warren rose to greet his guest, hoping he had good news for him.

  Mr Berkshire appeared stunned at the mention of the nasty business. ‘No, this is about your new manuscript. I read it last night and I couldn’t put it down. It’s excellent. You’ve never written anything like it before. I think it’ll outsell even your last story.’

  ‘What new manuscript? I didn’t send you one.’

  ‘Modesty won’t serve you this time.’ Mr Berkshire helped himself to some of the brandy on the sideboard by the bookcase. ‘Lady Matilda’s Trials is brilliant.’

  Warren gaped at his friend as Berkshire sipped his drink. ‘How did you get that manuscript?’

  ‘Miss Domville brought it to me yesterday just as you told her to. It’s magnificent and I want to get it into print at once.’ He smacked his lips in appreciation of the fine liquor.

  ‘Miss Domville gave you a manuscript?’ It wasn’t possible.

  Mr Berkshire stopped mid-drink and eyed Warren over the top of the glass. ‘Don’t tell me she wrote it and is passing it off as yours, in which case I need to find the young lady at once. She’s quite a talent. Better than you.’ He laughed before he threw back the drink.

  ‘No, I wrote it.’ Warren stared down at his scrawled handwriting marring the paper on his blotter. Marianne had given Mr Berkshire the novel, the one she’d made him burn. She’d come to his aid even after his rebuke of her the other day and she was here in London. It could only mean one thing. He hadn’t lost her, despite his stupidity.