Geoffrey spoke first. “Good God, sis. Did you sleep in a gutter?”
Lucy smacked him on one shoulder. “Be kind, Geoffrey.” But then an impish smile claimed her lips. “Because gutter or no, she clearly didn’t sleep at all.” Her smile trailed away as Clare glared at her. “Was the musicale truly so awful?”
Clare gripped her cup. “Why would you presume it was awful?”
Was it somehow written on her skin? Stamped upon her forehead?
Father cleared his throat over the lowered edge of his paper. “You . . . ah . . . look to have not brushed your hair.”
Clare lifted her hand, and cringed to discover her hair was indeed a wild snarl about her face. Breakfasts at home might be informal, but—with, perhaps, the exception of Lucy—its preparations usually involved at least a hairbrush.
“I do not wish to talk about it,” she whispered.
Indeed, she didn’t wish to so much as think about it.
But unfortunately, her thoughts could not be as easily schooled as her tongue.
Lucy gave her a sympathetic grimace, then turned back to their father. “As I was just saying, the entire business of hunting up a husband is barbaric. Why, look at how miserable Clare is! Why shouldn’t a woman’s dowry be given directly to her, in the event she does not marry? It hardly seems fair that a gentleman’s inheritance is given to him outright on the occasion of his majority, but a woman’s is given only to her husband on the occasion of her enslavement.”
Geoffrey snorted. “Who would take you, unless Father paid them for the displeasure?”
“It’s fortunate you’re not a woman, then, because I can’t envision a scenario in which someone would take you without fair recompense,” Lucy snapped in return. She leaned forward. “I am serious, Father. The practice is positively medieval.”
“How appropriate, given you are like the plague,” Geoffrey quipped.
“Oh, do shut up!” Lucy threw up her hands. “It nearly guarantees a woman is saddled with someone who views her as little more than property.”
Father took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the edge of a napkin. “This talk of dowries and enslavement seems premature, given you’ve not even had your Season. As we have already discussed, your dowry will be delivered into the hands of the gentleman you marry, provided he meets with my approval.” He looked almost longingly toward the door. “And really, shouldn’t you be speaking of this to your mother? She should be here, answering your questions about husbands and the like. Instead she’s always . . .” His voice faltered. “. . . in bed.”
Through the weight of her own misery, Clare’s gaze lifted in surprise. It was the first indication she’d ever had that perhaps Father regretted their mother’s absence as much as she appeared to object to his. But even as she tried to reconcile his words with any kind of logic, her thoughts were already tripping down a different path. This talk of dowries was alarming, and worse, converged squarely with yesterday’s terrible argument with Daniel. She’d known from the moment she’d understood the implications of her gender that she was a marketable, five thousand pound boon to a future husband. It was a security she’d never questioned before now.
But if Father wasn’t her real father—as anyone with eyes in their head must surely question—would it even be ethical to accept it?
He began to fold the Times, a signal he was about to be off to his club, though Clare herself was beginning to have doubts about the nature of this mythical “club.” A waiting mistress seemed increasingly more likely. But if it was a mistress who claimed his attention each day, why had he indicated a wish this morning that Mother would join them for breakfast?
“Take this Alban chap, for example,” Father continued as he laid the folded paper down in front of him. “He’s the sort I would have no concerns with. Should Clare marry him, I would have no objections to honoring the terms of her dowry.”
“Well, of course not. He’s going to be a blasted duke,” Lucy muttered to no one in particular. “It makes perfect sense to give the money to someone who doesn’t even need it.”
Their father started to rise, and Clare’s anger began to poke through the gray shell of the morning. “Father, can you put off your club for five minutes?” she demanded. “One would think you had another family to run off to.”
Her father’s eyes widened through his spectacles. “I did not realize . . . that is . . .” He lowered himself slowly back into his chair, looking shocked by her outburst. “I suppose I could spare a few more minutes. Did you have something you wished to discuss?”
Clare gripped her cup of coffee as if it could save her. If she couldn’t outright probe the details of her legitimacy, what other pieces of this puzzle could she explore? She thought back on the stir Mr. Alban had created upon his arrival at the start of the Season, a freshly minted temptation. He’d not been born to the promise of the title, and was named Harrington’s heir only through a series of unforeseen misfortunes. It had been easy for everyone—male and female alike—to overlook the shadows of his birth when his future burned so brightly.
But what if it hadn’t been so easy?
“What if Mr. Alban wasn’t the Duke of Harrington’s presumptive heir?” she pressed. “Would he still meet your approval then?”
“It’s rather a moot point. He is Harrington’s heir.” Her father took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I have no worries he will make you a fine husband, should your conscience lead you in that direction.”
Clare lifted her chin. “And if my conscience led me in the direction of another gentleman?”
Father shifted in his chair. “I want you to be happy, Clare. If someone else has caught your eye, I could be persuaded to give consent. Provided, of course, I felt assured he would make you a good husband.”
“What if he is not a peer?” Clare breathed, knowing her question ran deeper than that.
Father replaced his glasses. “If you have set your sights on a second or third son, I could give my consent if I believed you truly loved the man.” He stared at her a long moment down the bridge of his nose. “But do not forget, you are the daughter of a viscount. There are certain expectations in your position. I should not have to remind you of that.”
A terse silence descended.
“At the risk of pointing out the obvious,” Lucy finally said, her voice small and pinched, “we can marry whomever we want when we reach our majority.”
“Not if you expect your dowry,” Father answered with an irritated sigh.
Clare felt as though a veil were being pulled slowly from her eyes. The world had well and truly shifted into something unrecognizable if Lucy was suddenly defending a woman’s right to marry.
But Father did not seem to notice. He stood up again. “It is the way things are done,” he frowned, “and I assure you both, I’ve made as many sacrifices in that area as anyone.” He tugged at his waistcoat. “So I suggest you both refocus your heads. Lucy, you will have a Season next year, and your mother and I both expect you to make a proper go of it.” His eyes shifted to Clare and gentled a bit behind the glare of his spectacles. “And Mr. Alban is interested, hmm? Why muddy this up any further?”
Her mother’s gasp echoed from the doorway. “Mr. Alban has asked you to marry him?”
Clare turned in her seat. The gray light filtering in from the window fell across Mother’s face and landed in every faint line, making her look every inch of her forty years. But despite her frank exhaustion—and despite the fact Clare couldn’t remember the last time she’d arisen before noon—very much awake.
Father began to sidle toward the door, his head down, eyes averted.
Mother stepped aside to let him go, though her gaze followed her husband’s retreating figure. “Geoffrey, Lucy,” she murmured. “I would like a moment to speak with Clare about last night.”
“Does this have something to do with her hair?” Geoffrey asked, too cheerfully for the weight of the morning.
Mother turned b
ack to face them, sparing Clare’s hair scarcely a glance. “And I would speak to her alone.”
“But I haven’t finished my plate,” Lucy protested.
“Then take it with you to your room.” Mother frowned, stepping inside and pointing toward the waiting hallway.
Her siblings scrambled to their feet. Lucy tossed Clare a worried look as she made her exit, clutching her plate. Clare watched them go broodingly, mentally shoring herself up for a lecture on her behavior last night. As Mother dismissed the servants and closed the dining room door behind them, unease rippled through Clare. The silence was far too grave for just after nine o’clock in the morning.
Worse, Mother said not a word about the coffee in Clare’s hand.
“I must speak to you about last night.” Her mother sat down heavily in the chair beside Clare, the words sounding methodical.
“Yes, I believe you mentioned that,” she answered coolly.
“I can admit I’ve been a bit . . . distracted this Season.” Her mother’s eyes drifted hazily toward the picture window, as though she were trying to recall the words she wished to say. “Too distracted, unfortunately, to realize Mr. Alban’s growing interest in you. I should have paid more mind, should have watched you more carefully. But now that the damage is done, I must insist you do nothing to further encourage his interests. Mr. Meeks is a far better choice.”
Clare’s chair seemed to twitch beneath her. Not this again. “I do not wish to marry Meeks, as I’ve already said.” She was growing irritated by her mother’s lack of logic on the matter. In truth, she harbored no wish to marry Alban either, but shouldn’t her mother be thrilled her daughter might set her sights on a duke? “Why are you so insistent on this match with Meeks? It has always felt as though you were pushing me toward him, when I’ve never expressed an interest in the gentleman beyond polite regard.”
Her mother’s gaze swung back to Clare, pleading now. “I felt he was . . . suitable.”
“Suitable?” Clare said harshly, shocked by her mother’s simplistic view of the process. “Surely there are more important things about finding a husband than his suitability. What about respect? Mutual interests? Affection?”
Her mind tripped further, thanks to Daniel’s confession last night. What about love?
“You must trust me on this.” Her mother’s lips firmed. “I had hoped you would quickly find a good match your first Season, but you seemed determined to stretch it out. Can’t you see how dangerous that is? It is important to see you settled, as soon as possible. And a suitable husband is better than a disastrous mistake.”
Clare slowly drew her hands away from her cup of coffee. There was a troubling undercurrent to her mother’s anxiety on the topic. “Nonetheless,” she said slowly, her fingers bunching in her skirts, “I will not marry Mr. Meeks.”
“Someone else, then.” Her mother’s voice hitched. “Anyone but Mr. Alban.”
Clare dwelled on that an uncomfortable moment. This was not only about making the best match possible, then. There was no sane world in which her mother would look at the handsome, winning heir to the Duke of Harrington and think he was an unsuitable choice.
Unless it was morally wrong.
Years of childhood musings, the recent rumors, and Mother’s strange behavior distilled down to a single, gasping suspicion. “What is Alban to me?” Clare hesitated, afraid of her mother’s answer, and yet increasingly sure her life and her future depended on ferreting out the truth. “And what is he to you?”
To her credit, this time her mother did not look away toward the temptation of the nearby window. “Alban is your uncle.”
Clare’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but not, unfortunately, disbelief. Her uncle. Could it be true? She conjured an image of him in her mind, focusing on the familiar slope of his nose, the color of his eyes.
Arguably more similar to her own features than her own siblings’.
“I never thought to have to tell you,” her mother continued, her voice sounding far less rehearsed now. “Really, to tell anyone. But it is clear my selfishness has put you in danger.”
“How?” Clare demanded, scooting her chair closer. She leaned in, as if proximity could somehow extract the facts with greater efficiency and less pain. “And I would know all of it, Mother. I think you owe me the truth, at least.”
Beads of unladylike perspiration shone against her mother’s forehead. “My desire to see you quickly married and settled is complicated.” She took up a napkin from the table and blotted her temple. “I know something of disastrous mistakes, you see. Too impulsive, I suppose, and prone to rash mistakes. We are not unalike in temperament, you and I, and that is why I have always felt it important to see you settled quickly.”
Clare privately disagreed with her mother’s assessment of her personality, given that her every move during both Seasons had been carefully orchestrated—right up to the point she had sprained her ankle. Only then had her carefully constructed plans been turned on end. But instead of contradicting her, she reached out her hand and covered her mother’s fingers with her own, squeezing gently. “Go on.”
Her mother unleashed a tremulous sigh. “When I was nineteen, I fell in love with a young man named Benjamin Alban—Mr. Alban’s older brother, though at the time their family’s connection to Harrington was so distant there was never a thought of possible succession. He was neither wealthy nor titled, but I loved him fiercely. Against my wishes—or perhaps because of them—my parents entered me into a betrothal with someone else, someone who was wealthy and soon to be titled.”
“Father,” Clare choked out.
Her mother nodded, looking down at their joined hands. “I was young and impetuous and determined to have my own way in this.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Benjamin and I left for Gretna, and I . . . that is, we were in a dreadful carriage accident, just over the border.” The anguish on her face appeared fresh, and perhaps, in this moment, it was. “He was killed when the carriage rolled over.”
Clare gasped. She didn’t know this man being described to her, but she was, after all, hearing about the death of the man she had just been told was her father.
“My parents spirited me away and insisted I breathe nary a word of it, to anyone. As my injuries were healing, they cleaned up my mess in the most expedient way possible. Within a few weeks I found myself married to your father by special license.”
“But . . . you didn’t want to marry Father,” Clare said, her heart pounding. Her mind flew inexplicably to Lucy’s claims of enslavement. “You could have refused, after all.”
“Could I have?” Her mother’s smile seemed breakable. “I was too numb to protest. Injured and hurting. Possibly not even in my right mind.” Finally, there came a hesitation in the story tumbling out of her. “And you were born seven months later.”
Clare was stunned. Not only from the shock of it, but her mother’s confession that she had done something so . . . so . . . unlikely. So brave. And she could see, quite clearly now that the pieces had been fit into place, that her mother had done it for her.
“Does . . . Father know?” she asked, torn between relief to finally know and dread over what this meant to the people she loved. “That I am not his true daughter?”
“How could he not suspect, given the timing of your birth and the stark physical differences between you and Lucy and Geoffrey?” A tear rolled down her mother’s cheek. “The truth is, your father is a good man. Though we’ve never spoken of it, I don’t think it matters to him whose blood runs in your veins. He loves you very much. You must know that.”
Clare hesitated, still trying to sort through it all. In this moment, she couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around what these revelations meant for her or her future.
She was too consumed by these details of her past.
“Did you ever love Father?” she asked, pulling her hand away. She was shocked to realize she might no longer even be able to call him that, and an angry hurt burrowed benea
th her skin at the unfairness of that fact. “I mean, Lord Cardwell?”
“There is no need for that.” Her mother sighed. “He is still your father, Clare, in every way that matters.” She smiled grimly. “I cannot deny we have had our difficulties. And I am sure much of it was my fault. I did not tell him about any of it before we married—it was important my reputation be unblemished, my parents said, or it could be considered a breach of promise. But even after we married, I could not bring myself to speak of it.”
“So you have lied to him all these years,” Clare said bitterly.
“You have much to learn about matters between a husband and wife, Clare.” Her mother shook her head sadly. “How could I tell him I loved someone else? He was a good man, and he deserved a wife who would give him a chance. But it turns out I was not the only one who lied. Your father was none too happy to marry me either. He had a mistress when we married, someone he apparently loved but who was unsuitable in character and breeding to be the wife of a future viscount. He never told me about her, and he eventually ceased all contact with the woman. But two months ago he received a letter. It seems his former mistress bore him a daughter, and that young woman reached out to him after her mother’s death.”
The room spun, and Clare clapped a hand over her mouth to capture the gasp that insisted on escaping her lips.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. How many hidden relatives would be uncovered here today?
“I have objected to the association, of course,” Mother went on, her voice growing hard now. “But since we arrived in London for the start of the Season, he has insisted on spending all of his time with her.”
Clare closed her eyes as she considered her father’s recent absences. He is going to her, Mother had said, that night over dinner.
Not a mistress, as they had all suspected.
A daughter.
She opened her eyes, stunned to her core. “What . . . what is she like?”
“What is she like?” Her mother’s voice cracked. “She is younger than you, Clare. Which means he was unfaithful to me, at least at the first. And now he is proposing bringing her here, to Cardwell House.” She drew a deep breath. “A bastard child, living under our roof . . . I cannot bring myself to agree. How can he ask it of me?”
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 25