A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  She could not take it in. Why had this all happened now? For years she had longed for a family, any family. She had wanted to be loved and have someone to love, as she had her mother; she had even lied to try and bring it about. And now, when she had accepted that she was being punished for her deception and must rely on her own resources, this man had arrived and thrown her into confusion again. She did have a noble grandfather and she could, if she wished, take her place in Society. She was a lady of consequence.

  Her thoughts flew to Duncan. Now she was acceptable. She began to laugh hysterically until he looked at her in alarm. ‘Miss…Madeleine, I am sorry, this has been a shock to you.’

  She stopped laughing as suddenly as she had started and took another mouthful of brandy. ‘Yes, it has, but I am calm now.’

  It was foolish even to think of Duncan Stanmore. Even if he did not marry Annabel Bulford, even if he came to her and begged her to marry him, she could not agree to it. He had not wanted to marry her as Madeleine Charron because she was an actress and too far beneath him. If he asked her now that she was a viscount’s granddaughter, she would always know that status had been more important than love to him. She must put him from her mind and concentrate on what was happening now.

  She wondered what her grandfather would be like. He might take an instant aversion to her, considering he did not like her father. ‘You have not told me anything about my father,’ she said. ‘Was he a soldier?’

  ‘Yes, but not an officer. He was an enlisted man, a foot soldier of no rank, but I imagine he must have had a certain amount of charm to have attracted your mother and made her defy her father.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was sent out to India, but your mother did not go with him. It was not long before you were born, so I expect she decided it would not be wise to travel. He died of a fever a year later.’

  ‘I wonder why my mother did not tell me? Was she ashamed of him? Were they unhappy?’

  ‘That, I am afraid, is something we might never know. But do not think of it. Think of the future.’

  And that was almost as difficult as thinking of the past. What was her future? Would the Viscount allow her to go on acting or would he insist on her making her home with him? What if they disliked each other on sight? And if he had been hoping to see his daughter again and all he had was a granddaughter, not even an heir, he might not wish to know her.

  ‘Why are you hesitating?’ he asked.

  ‘Major, I am who I am. What you have told me does not change that. I like being an actress. I am good at it.’

  ‘I do not deny it, but your grandfather is old, he will not live much longer. Can you not make his last days happy? After that, what you do is up to you.’

  She could not deny him that and next morning, after a sleepless night, she asked the theatre management for leave of absence to go to Hertfordshire, while the Major obtained tickets for them on the noon coach.

  ‘Duncan, whatever in the world is the matter with you?’ the Duchess demanded. ‘I have never seen such a Friday face. You are not pining over Miss Bulford, are you?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, Mama, I wish her happy. And Ben too.’ They were sitting together in the drawing room after an early nuncheon. The Duke had taken himself off to Westminster and later the ladies on the orphanage committee were expected for a meeting. He knew that before they arrived he was in for a roasting; his stepmother had that determined look on her face which he knew would brook no evasion.

  ‘Then, dearest, what is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I shall be glad when we go back to Risley and I can put my back into some work, that is all.’

  ‘That is not all.’ She turned to study his face. ‘It’s Miss Charron, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Mama, I wish I knew where she was, truly I do. She might be in trouble, had an accident, be dead even…’

  ‘I think we should have heard if that had happened. I wonder what Donald Greenaway discovered in York.’

  He looked up startled. ‘What should he have discovered? He went in search of Arabella Cartwright.’

  ‘I know, but did it never occur to you that le charron is French for cartwright?’

  He clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘How can I have been such a dunderhead? I should have thought of that when I noticed the likeness in that portrait. But why Arabella?’

  ‘You know the Major asked me to take a look at the orphanage records?’

  ‘Yes. Did you find something, after all?’

  ‘Something and nothing. Miss Charron was one of our children and her mother’s name, according to the information lodged when she arrived, was Bella.’

  ‘Mama!’ He stared at her. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

  ‘I am sorry, I thought you had put her from your mind. You said you had.’

  ‘Never, Mama, never. I must find her. I have to tell her that I do not care who she is or what she is, I intend to make her my wife. If you do not approve…’

  ‘Duncan, my approval is not needed. You are man enough to know your own mind, as I am sure your father has told you.’

  ‘Yes, but he made it clear he did not approve of a kitchen maid.’

  ‘You do him an injustice, Duncan. He is only concerned for your happiness, as I am, and the difficulties you would face, which would not be inconsiderable. But if she is really the Viscount’s granddaughter…’

  Duncan stood up, eyes alight. ‘I must go to York at once.’ He strode to the door, sent a servant to tell Dobson to have his travelling coach harnessed up and leapt up the stairs three at a time, shouting for Davison to pack his bag. He did not care if Maddy was the Viscount’s granddaughter or not; he loved her and wanted her for his wife. He had to convince her of that.

  Although his horses were the best money could buy and his carriage well-sprung with well-padded seats, the journey seemed unbelievably slow. Every change of horses seemed to take hours instead of minutes and it was all he could do to prevent himself shouting at the ostlers to stop dawdling and get on with it. Oh, how he wished he could fly.

  He was in Grantham at breakfast time, though they stopped only long enough to buy a glass of ale and a currant bun while the horses were changed. After that he counted the hours as they rattled on through Newark, Doncaster and Ferrybridge and finally the tall towers of the Minster could be seen in the distance. He sat forward eagerly as the countryside gave way to streets and buildings and they were forced to slow down because of traffic. But at last they came to a stop at the Star Inn, less than twenty-four hours after leaving London.

  He jumped down, too impatient to wait for Dobson to open the door and let down the step. Telling him to see that the horses were looked after, he did not even stop for refreshment, but strode away towards the theatre. He had no idea where Donald would be staying, but knowing Madeleine as he did, he was sure that she would never be far from a theatre. And hadn’t Donald said Arabella Cartwright was an actress?

  But he was too late; the stage door-keeper told him she had left only that morning. ‘Might have known it,’ he said. ‘Arriving so sudden, it was odds on she’d leave sudden too. Something to hide, that one.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ he asked in dismay.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Went off with a military gentleman.’

  Major Donald Greenaway. Had his search come to an end? If Arabella Cartwright had turned out to be Viscount Armitage’s granddaughter, where would he take her? The answer was obvious and he lost no time in returning to the inn. Too keyed up to sleep in the coach the night before, he was worn out and decided to take a room and try to have a few hours’ sleep before returning south.

  It was while he was lying awake, unable, in spite of his exhaustion, to close his eyes, he began to wonder if hot pursuit was the right thing. He longed to see Madeleine again, to hold her in his arms, to tell her again that he loved her, to ask her to marry him, but how would she see his sudden arrival at the home of her grandfather? He could almost hear her. �
�Oh, so now you have discovered I am of gentle birth, it is perfectly in order to make an offer, is it?’

  How could he convince her that was not true? Why, oh why, had he not made a firm offer before all these revelations had changed everything? If she had found out about her real grandfather after their engagement, it would not have mattered.

  He tried to imagine her at Pargeter House, getting to know her grandfather, becoming used to her changed circumstances, confused perhaps, but happy, because all she had ever wanted was a loving family. Going in with all guns blazing would not serve. Impatient as he was, he had to give her time. But he would not go back to London. Risley was nearer and to Loscoe Court he would go and he would write to her, put it all down on paper and ask her to see him. Once the decision had been made, he managed a few hours sleep and next morning, he set off for Derbyshire and Risley. Once there, Dobson could return the hired horses to the inn where he had left his own and bring them back. Suddenly he was looking forward to being home.

  Madeleine need not have worried about her reception. Her welcome at Pargeter House could not have been warmer. The old man was frail but still very alert. He had once been very handsome, though now his hair was white and the hands that grasped hers so firmly were thin and veined. ‘My child,’ he kept saying. ‘My child, home at last.’

  She wondered whether he was confusing her with her mother, but the notion was dispelled when he said, ‘You are so like your mother, it is uncanny, but I believe your hair is not so dark; hers was black as a raven’s wing. You must tell me all about yourself, but not now. I am tired with all the excitement and must rest. Mrs Danby will look after you.’

  She bent to kiss his papery cheek and left him to sleep. Major Greenaway, his task done, was preparing to leave and she said goodbye to him with some trepidation. He was someone familiar, someone from her old life, and she had felt comfortable with him, but now she was on her own and was not at all sure what to expect.

  After he had gone, her days took on the quality of a dream. They were a whirl of activity, meeting the servants, some of whom had been in the Viscount’s service long enough to remember her mother, being shown every nook and cranny of the large, well-furnished house and hearing about her mother from old Miss Gunnery, who had her own apartment on the second floor, though she had long ago ceased to do any work.

  She was tiny and had the bluest eyes Maddy had ever seen. She wore a black jaconet gown and a lace cap, perched on the knot of white hair she had drawn up on top of her head. She was sad when she learned that her former charge had died so tragically, but she did not dwell on it for fear of upsetting Maddy.

  ‘Oh, it is like having our own dearest Bella home again,’ she said. ‘I do believe his lordship might make a recovery now you are with us. He has been so cast down, years and years and never a word from your mama.’

  ‘I thought he had sent her away.’

  ‘Oh, he did. I am sure he regretted it almost immediately, but it took several years for him to admit it and by then she had disappeared. They were both proud, you see. When he realised she was not going to come back on her own, he spent hundreds of pounds in the search for her. And here you are. I can hardly believe it.’

  Madeleine could hardly believe it herself. Everything she had known and believed about herself had been turned topsy-turvy and her mind was in confusion. ‘The Viscount is very frail,’ she said. ‘I wonder my sudden arrival has not quite overturned him and I am at a loss what to tell him about myself. I have not lived like a lady, nor always been honest about myself. I am afraid it will upset him…’

  ‘Major Greenaway told me a little of your history while you were meeting his lordship,’ Miss Gunnery said, laying a gentle hand on her arm. ‘But I am of the opinion that nothing could upset him more than seeing his daughter go off with that…’ She stopped herself. ‘But there, he was your father and what is past is past. I think you should tell the whole, he is stronger than you think.’

  And so she did. Everything, beginning with her life with her mother and her mother’s sudden death and about the orphanage, which she told him was not so very terrible, and her years as a servant. From his reply she realised he assumed she had been a ladies’ maid, which was in his eyes, bad enough, so she did not disillusion him, and she said nothing of Lord Bulford’s attack on her. That had triggered everything that had happened afterwards, but looking back now, she knew, terrible as that ordeal had been, her long years of hatred of all aristocrats had been wrong. She told him how she had become an actress and even the story of the comte, which made him smile.

  ‘You are like your mother for that,’ he said. ‘She liked to invent too. Why else think up an outlandish name like Charron? But you are home now and there need be no more invention. Whatever you wish for, you may have, if it is in my power to give it to you.’

  But he could not give her what she most wanted and that was the unequivocal, unencumbered love of Duncan Stanmore, Marquis of Risley. The Major had told her while they were travelling that Duncan had not offered for Annabel Bulford and she had accepted Mr Willoughby, which surprised her but did not change anything.

  ‘There is nothing I need, Grandfather,’ she said.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Have you had a come-out? No, of course you have not. We must put plans in hand at once for next year…’

  She was alarmed. ‘No, sir, I beg you do not. I am four-and-twenty years old, far too old for that. And besides, everyone knows me as an actress. They would say I was puffing myself up and I would die of mortification.’

  ‘But we must find you a husband.’

  ‘That is just what you said to Bella,’ Miss Gunnery put in, apparently unafraid to speak her mind. ‘And look what happened; she rushed off with the first rake who bowled her over with flummery rather that accept your choice. You surely would not want to make the same mistake again.’

  ‘Hmph,’ he grunted, then to Maddy, ‘You ain’t got yourself involved with a redcoat, have you?’

  ‘No, Grandfather. There is no one.’

  ‘Time enough, then. I can keep you to myself a little longer.’

  It was taken for granted she would stay at Pargeter House and, for the time being, she accepted it. Being cosseted and loved and exploring her new surroundings was as good a cure for her ills as she could think of. It would be time enough to worry about the future when his lordship no longer needed her. And best of all, when her grandfather found out she had never learned to ride, he arranged for her to have lessons from the groom on a quiet little mare. ‘Your mama was an accomplished rider,’ he said, which was something else she had never known.

  Her mother had left her riding habit behind, knowing she would have no opportunity to wear it in her new life, and it fitted Madeleine perfectly. Although it would have been considered outmoded in London, it was beautifully made of heavy dark blue taffeta, with wide shoulders and a nipped-in waist. It was worn with a white lace cravat and a tall manly hat with a wisp of a veil. That costume, more than anything, brought home to her how much her life had changed.

  She was quick to learn, which only went to prove she was her mother’s daughter, her grandfather told her. He appeared to have been given a new lease of life, his eyes were brighter and his voice stronger, but he was still too weak to be dressed for more than an hour each afternoon and then he would send for her and they would talk of her mother, or she would read to him from the newspapers which were sent from London every day.

  When he slept, she would scan the gossip columns for news of Duncan, but all she found was news of her own elevation and speculation on whether she would come to London and take her place in Society. Apparently the hopeful eligibles were already being lined up for her, which made her smile wryly. She turned to the theatre news, wondering if she would ever tread the boards again. She had written to Marianne, telling her about her changed circumstances and asking for news of her old friends, but as yet had had no reply.

  But when the postman came it was not a letter fr
om Marianne he brought but one from Duncan Stanmore. She took it to her room to read sitting on the seat by the window, so that the breeze from the open casement cooled her cheeks.

  ‘My dearest love,’ it began. ‘Major Greenaway has written to tell me you have found your family and I write to felicitate you. I know we parted on bad terms, but that does not alter the strength of feeling I have for you and have always had. My greatest regret is that I did not convince you of it before your recent change of circumstances became known. I loved Madeleine Charron, the actress. I loved everything about her: her beauty, her talent, the way she made me laugh, her compassion and her independence, even when it came between us. I am equally certain I love the new Miss Cartwright because they are one and the same, the keeper of my heart. I beg you to write and grant me an interview and I will convince you of this. Your devoted slave, Duncan Stanmore.’

  For a long time she sat gazing out of the window at the park that surrounded the house, the letter lying on her lap. He had said he loved her before, when they were in London, but he had made it plain that marriage was not possible while she remained an actress and when he found out she had been a kitchen maid and she had confessed the comte was a fiction, his love had suddenly found even more barriers he was not prepared to climb. What had changed now? Only her status, her consequence in the hierarchy of the haut monde, and what was that? Meaningless glitter, like the fake diamonds she wore on stage. Worthless. It certainly did not mean she had suddenly become a better person. There was more meaning to her life as an actress. And she was still an actress and could continue to be one.

  But though her head debated, her heart was arguing a different line. She loved him and would always love him, wherever she went, whatever she did and she longed to see him again. So, should she tell him to come, let him try and convince her if he could? Where was the harm in that? And if she still had doubts… Oh, those doubts, that stubborn pride, which would not allow her to let go of her old prejudices without a fight. Why fight? Why not accept that what he said was true? But could she leave her grandfather when he had come to depend on her so much?