by Anna Willman
“Poor Emily,” Louisa said. “She has been excessively good to me. I shall have to think of something brilliant for her.”
CHAPTER SIX: In Which Lady Guinevere Pays a Call
Not one to shirk her duties, Lady Guinevere lost no time in calling upon the Westlake household. Mrs. Lydia Westlake, a dark-haired lady whose graceful bearing displayed vestiges of her former beauty, still wore black for her husband who had been killed at Vitoria more than two years before. The widow and Miss Elizabeth welcomed Lady Guinevere and ordered tea to be brought in for their caller.
“I have been neglectful not to have called upon you sooner,” Guinevere told them. “We shall be, for all practical purposes, family once Elizabeth is married to my dear godson, Edmund.”
“Indeed,” the widow responded politely. “Will you not try a piece of this lemon cake?”
“A very small piece, thank you, Mrs. Westlake.” Guinevere turned to Elizabeth. “Are you enjoying the little Season?”
“Oh, yes. Very much. I am enjoying it so much more than last Spring’s long Season. Now that I am engaged to Edmund, I am not obliged to stand up with strangers, or worry about whether this young man or that is a suitable match. Indeed, I can simply enjoy myself and accept people as I find them.”
Guinevere laughed. “Yes, I understand. Life is much simpler once your future is settled. And has Edmund succeeded in convincing you of your superior intellect?”
“Oh, you mistake the case. I do not deny my superior intellect. It is equality of the sexes that I dispute.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I merely contend that women are different from men,” Elizabeth took a sip of tea and continued with just a hint of laughter in her soft voice. “We have our realm and they have theirs. I do not begrudge men their advantages. Indeed they sorely need them all.”
Guinevere laughed. “Does Edmund understand the subtleties of your argument?”
Elizabeth’s smile displayed a charming dimple in her rosy cheek. “It is possible that I have been a little obscure in my discourse. That is, after all, a woman’s way. Gentlemen do not like to be confronted directly with feminine superiority, no matter what they say.”
Guinevere smiled. “I admire you more each time we meet.”
She turned to Elizabeth’s mother who had been somewhat retiring in manner since their first greeting. “Your daughter is delightful.”
“My daughter is a disgraceful scamp,” Mrs. Westlake said severely. “Edmund is a dear boy and deserves much better.”
“He is a dear boy,” Guinevere agreed. “And Elizabeth is his match. If nothing should come between them, they will deal extremely well together.”
“Why what should come between them?” Mrs. Westlake asked. Her tone was uneasy, perplexed.
“Nothing at all!” Elizabeth proclaimed, laughing. “I shall see to that.”
“Of course you shall,” Guinevere said, and turned the conversation to a different subject. “Tell me, Mrs. Westlake. I believe Edmund mentioned that you have a son who is a Captain in the army. Do you have any other children?”
“No. Only the two – one son, one daughter.”
“You must be very proud of them.”
“I am indeed.” Mrs. Westlake raised her chin slightly as she said this and Guinevere thought there was a slightly defiant note to her voice.
“Elizabeth must have her father’s complexion. She is much fairer than you.”
“Colonel Westlake was indeed fair, but his hair was shockingly red. Fortunately Elizabeth takes after her aunt. My sister had golden curls when she was young.” Mrs. Westlake spoke calmly, but it seemed to Guinevere that there was a hint of wariness in her eyes as she replied. Guinevere met her gaze with what she hoped was a bland innocence and turned the conversation to the latest on-dits.
They commented disparagingly upon the extreme number of flounces attached to a gown worn by a woman of their mutual acquaintance at a recent ball. They noted with pleasure that the Royal Princess Mary had married at last – to her cousin Prince William Frederick. They next expressed their pity for Mrs. Jordan’s unfortunate fall from grace, and speculated on the outcome of the Duke of York’s latest efforts to acquire a legitimate wife.
Inevitably their discourse turned to Lord Carew’s scandalous behavior and the consternation expressed by a surprising number of ladies of the ton. Not one of those ladies would acknowledge an intimate history with Lord Carew themselves, but all professed to have secret knowledge of someone who had, and they condemned Lord Carew with all the passion of the pure at heart.
“It is all a great disgrace,” Guinevere said at last, “and unfortunately just the sort of hypocritical nonsense that most diverts Lord Carew.”
“You are, I believe, well acquainted with Lord Carew,” Mrs. Westlake said a little hesitantly.
“Yes, he and I were childhood friends. I was never a beauty, however, so I was spared his advances.”
“Has he taken you into his confidence?”
“A little perhaps,” Guinevere admitted, and then added, untruthfully, “I pay him no heed.”
Mrs. Westlake looked skeptical and set down her teacup. Guinevere felt as if those dark eyes were looking right through her.
But all the widow said was, “You would do your old friend a favor if you would dissuade him from writing these notorious memoirs.”
“Oh, he has no intention of actually writing anything,” Guinevere said. “He is far too indolent to carry out such a project.”
“Really? Then why did he say he would do so?”
Guinevere shrugged and lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m afraid he delights in stirring up mischief and seeing how people will react. And I find I have no powers of persuasion to divert him from this course of action.”
“It must be very awkward for you,” Mrs. Westlake said shortly.
“Yes,” Guinevere agreed. She took her leave then, and did not allow her parting smile to fade until she was safely in her carriage.
She felt that she had come close to confirming her worst fears. Only the one daughter! The letter to Lancelot had specifically mentioned a daughter. Elizabeth might well then be Edmund’s half-sister. Or there might be anther Lydia Westlake. Certainly the Westlake family was a large one, with many branches. Guinevere still had grounds for hope. But then, she remembered, Mrs. Westlake’s demeanor had been wary. Too wary.
Oh, it must not be Elizabeth!
She could ask Lancelot, but Lord Carew had already told her he didn’t remember half the women who had written to him, and even if he recollected the beautiful Mrs. Westlake, would he know or care what had happened to their daughter? And if Elizabeth was indeed his bastard child, wouldn’t he take full advantage of the situation to extort money, if not from the Colonel’s widow, then from Guinevere herself?
“Oh, Lancelot,” Guinevere murmured. “Just think how many people in London this very minute are wishing you ill! If even I am thinking the world would be better off without you in it, imagine what they must be feeling.”
No, she could not approach Lord Carew. At least not yet. Perhaps Charles would find something in his search of the birth records. Guinevere felt all she could do now was wait. If Charles failed to come up with anything, she would have to confront the widow directly. She would likely have to betray Louisa’s secret in order to elicit Mrs. Westlake’s. Which meant she’d have to tell Louisa what she feared. Almost anything seemed preferable to that. Louisa had enough to bear.
And if it proved true? Heartache for two delightful children. Guinevere sighed. It must not be true! It must not.
CHAPTER SEVEN: In Which Lord Carew Puts His Scheme into Effect
Lord Carew waited in his library. Jarman had, with quiet dignity, so far lowered himself as to dust this room and polish the floor in the front hall so that it gleamed as it had in earlier, more comfortable days. William had put a shine to Lancelot’s last pair of Hessians and laid out a passable pair of pantaloons
and a coat tailored by Weston that had just one slightly worn spot on the right elbow. Lancelot had taken more care than usual with his neckcloth this morning, achieving a respectable, if not a fashionable result. His hands were not so steady as they had used to be. Still, all in all, he looked very much the gentleman, which, in truth, he seldom did these days. He was ready to meet the first of his sons.
Mr. Thomas Digby, a large gentleman in his mid-forties, arrived with the promptitude that was his invariable custom. He was dressed for the country in buckskin breeches and top boots. His great coat sported no more than three shoulder capes. The olive drab coat underneath had a vaguely military flair, doubtless one of Scott’s fashionable creations. His elegance was understated, but nevertheless bespoke a disregard for expense. His manner was serious, if not severe. He moved with a quiet dignity. Here was indubitably a man of substance, a man of moderation, a man of honor.
Lord Carew, watching for his guest’s arrival from the library window, experienced a brief flicker of pride in this pattern card of a man who was his son. This emotion was quickly dampened by the recognition that the gentleman in question was clearly of a sober disposition, and Lord Carew’s lip curled into the merest suggestion of a sneer at his own folly. An unlikely parent for such a one as this! He retreated to his desk then and adopted a gracious demeanor in preparation for his guest.
Jarman took Mr. Digby’s beaver hat and overcoat in the great hall and ushered him into the library, where Lord Carew stood waiting. Mr. Digby reached out his hand in greeting and was astonished to find himself clasped in a warm embrace.
“So good of you to come visit me, my son!” Lancelot said, his voice choked with emotion. “I knew you would not fail me!”
“I…beg your pardon, my lord?” Mr. Digby extracted himself from the older man’s arms and stepped back, his face red with confusion. “Indeed your note said there was some urgency. But to be honest, I am aware of no dealings between us, and my man of business says he has no such knowledge either.”
“Did you not consult with your mother, as I advised?”
“I do not consult with women about business, my lord,” Mr. Digby said. He made a dismissive gesture and then smoothed the sleeve of his coat which had become slightly rumpled by Lancelot’s embrace.
Lancelot gave a heavy sigh. “You would have done well to have followed my advice, however. Your mother is far better acquainted with you than I could possibly be and would therefore have been a better person to advise you of the facts which I must now impart to you. Come and sit down by the fire. There is always a bit of a chill in this room. Jarman will bring us some ale to drink and then I shall disclose the whole to you.”
As they took their refreshment, Lancelot entertained his guest with his usual charming patter – a series of amusing episodes and scandals involving various gentlemen and ladies of distinction and reknown in the highest circles of society. To be fair, Lancelot himself was as often the butt of his stories as not, for his sense of the ridiculous was lively, and he delighted in making mock of his own foibles as much as amusing himself at the expense of others.
Mr. Digby was soon captivated by the old gentleman’s charm, and added a few anecdotes of his own, which made Lancelot roar with laughter and gave him an even better opinion of his son than he had formed at first sight.
“I am delighted to find myself mistaken in you, my boy,” he told him with genuine pleasure. “I confess I took you for a dull dog. Indeed for a moment, when you first came in, you reminded me distinctly of a portrait I have somewhere about this old pile of my great grandfather, who was said to have forgotten how to smile by the time he reached the age of twenty-four. I have always been of the opinion that he suffered from dyspepsia, poor old thing. Impossible, otherwise, for a Carew to stay so sour.”
However delightful this interlude, business must, in the end, be addressed, so with a little sigh, Lancelot turned to the matter at hand.
“You, I am persuaded, have been more fortunate than my great grandfather. Your health, I believe is robust.”
A bit taken aback by this change in tack, Mr. Digby acknowledged that his constitution was excellent.
“And you have received a superior education, no expense was spared?”
Indeed, it was so. Mr. Digby nodded.
“And have inherited a sizeable fortune, unencumbered by debt.”
He could not deny it.
“Then I am very glad for you indeed and can rest content,” Lancelot said and smiled benignly.
Mr. Digby found this odd statement unanswerable and so said nothing.
Lancelot beamed at him for several moments and then continued.
“Miss Marianne Dawes was very young when she married Mr. Digby,” he said. “I expect that you are aware that it was not a love match.”
Mr. Digby stiffened slightly.
Lancelot continued. “Your mother was, in short, married off to an extremely wealthy Cit – a timber merchant whose money paid off the numerous mortgages on your mother’s family estate and rescued that noble house from falling into destitution. He was a very common fellow and some three decades older than your mother.”
“I believe it was a marriage of convenience,” Thomas Digby conceded.
“Very convenient for her parents. Not so convenient for your mother.”
“I believe they made a happy marriage of it. My father was not unkind.”
“Pah! What do you know about it? Your mother was a great beauty – tall and magnificent, even at the age of seventeen. Her whole life lay before her, and she was sold to a vulgar fool of a woodchopper for a few paltry guineas.”
Thomas Digby rose abruptly from his char and gave a stiff little bow to his host. “If you will excuse me. I think it would be better if I left now,” he said. His voice was quiet, tightly controlled.
“Sit down! Sit down. Don’t take offence. I am not done with my tale,” Lancelot said, waving his guest back to the chair. Thomas wavered, torn between curiosity and his strict sense of propriety.
“Please,” said Lancelot, smiling encouragement and gesturing towards the chair.
Thomas returned slowly to his chair and sat down.
“If you please, I’d be grateful if you would get to the point, my lord,” he said.
“If you please, I am getting to it,” Lancelot sniffed. “The long and short of it is that your mother was a reluctant bride and an unhappy wife. And I…comforted her.”
“My lord!” Thomas said, standing again. “You go too far.”
Lancelot was amused. “Well, yes. That is what I am saying. I went too far. And you, my boy – my son, I should say – you are the result.”
Apparently Thomas could think of nothing to say, for he opened his mouth, once, twice, three times and then closed it again without one word emerging. He sat down again, rather heavily, in his chair and stared at the old gentleman who had entertained him so graciously only moments before.
“I did advise you to talk with your mother before coming to see me,” Lancelot reminded him gently. “I am quite certain she could have found a way to tell you the whole that would be easier for you to hear.”
“No. Never. I shall never speak to my mother of this…this outrageous conversation!” Thomas said. “It cannot be true.”
“Nevertheless, it is true,” Lancelot said. “Why you are the very image of me at forty – though a trifle larger than I ever was. Your mother’s family had a tendency to corpulence, I believe – is not your uncle Sir Barnstaple? Old Barney’s a sizeable man, for sure. Come with me to the mirror, if you doubt my word.”
Lancelot got to his feet and taking the younger man by the arm, drew him to the mirror that hung over the fireplace. “You are darker than I, of course, but look at that nose. That mouth. Those eyebrows. You even have my ears, with the long lobes. Neither your mother nor that old merchant who bought her were blessed with earlobes like that. I must say they were a great convenience to me in earlier times – when it was not uncommon for a gentleman
to wear earrings. Alas, we gentlemen are expected to dress more plainly these days. We’ve abandoned such adornments along with our patches and periwigs.”
Thomas disregarded this chatter, but looked in the mirror and visibly paled. He turned abruptly away.
“A slight resemblance. That is not proof.”
“No. But this is.” Lancelot walked over to the desk, drew a letter from the drawer, and handed it to the younger man.
Thomas read the letter through twice. It was written in his mother’s hand. Then he looked up at the man who was, incontrovertibly, his father, and gave back the letter with a shaky hand.
“What do you want from me?” he said in a voice suddenly hoarse. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Why I only want what any father would want. I want the love and support of my son in my old age. It seems to me that Jonathan Digby’s fortune has already preserved one fine old family from ruin. It might as well be used to save me from destitution as well.”
“You want money?”
“Must you be so crass? I am sorry to think that your step-father’s vulgarity might have infected you, my boy. I want your support, as my loving son.”
“You mean to advertise this story…this calumny about my mother?”
“Oh, I would not distress the dear woman for all the world. I see no reason why your filial support cannot be arranged discreetly. If you trust your man of business, I might deal directly with him, and you need never come near me again, if that should suit you. Though, of course, my dear son, I do not hesitate to assure you that you will always be welcome here. Indeed, it would sadden me greatly to think you bore me any ill will, for you were born of a moment of love in a time otherwise filled with terrible sorrow.”
“You want money,” Thomas said again. This time it was a statement of contempt, not a question.
Lancelot shook his head and reached out a hand. “Come now, my boy. You have lost one father. Here is another eager to embrace you!”
He paused, but Thomas merely glared at him. Lancelot shrugged then, and continued. “If you would have it that way, I believe I could bear the loss of your company so long as your affection and support were proven in other ways.”