My gaze could have scorched her as her father assisted her into the carriage. My fingers curled into fists as I wondered if he had any sense of his daughter’s true nature. With my foot, I nudged the violets beneath the wooden booth lest the girls learn how completely they’d been scorned.
My thoughts lingered on that incident as I waited for my father, practicing one curtsy after another. It was impossible not to feel I was somehow wronging Elizabeth. Her father died before she was born, and it wasn’t likely her future father-in-law would accept her. It struck me, during that long afternoon, that as Lord Pierson’s offspring, Edward’s father could not easily reject me now. It hardly seemed fair to Elizabeth. I was now positioned to gain not only a father, but also the acceptance of the man we both hoped would become our father-in-law.
The longer I thought about it, the more blameworthy I felt. If anyone deserved such a twist of fate, it was Elizabeth and not I. By late afternoon, each time I lifted my face to the mirror, I caught glimpses of guilt.
Well after dusk, the weary staff had trudged belowstairs, freed from their tasks while mine lay ahead of me. I took up residence in the front parlor, where Eaton surprised me with a tea service for one. I eyed the delicate silver teapot and extravagant cup with appreciation. A cluster of paperwhites curled over its pearl-handled utensils. Barley and currant scones sat on a dainty, footed dish.
“It was Lady Pierson’s favorite service,” he said, setting it down. “You scarcely touched your dinner. Mrs. Coleman thought plainer fare might suit you.”
I hid my surprise that he’d used Lady Pierson’s title, rather than calling her my mother. “It is very kind. Thank you.”
Instead of leaving, Eaton pressed his lips briefly together, then asked, “What time shall we have the maid light the fire in your chambers?”
“The fire?” I repeated, confused.
“Yes, what time should I tell Mrs. Coleman you plan on retiring?”
All at once I understood and envisioned the scene below me. I pictured them around a long table, too fatigued to eat their dinner. Doubtless they were spent, especially with so many of the staff taken ill. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Mrs. Coleman, sitting with her aching feet propped up on a chair, her stockings rolled just below her knees. “Use tea as an excuse,” I imagined her saying. “There’s extra scones in the larder. But for heaven’s sake, find out what she intends to do.”
I hated the idea of costing the staff precious hours of slumber, especially after their scramble to ready Maplecroft. Yet at the same time, I had to hide my annoyance. Though most of my memories of Eastbourne elicited a queer intermingling of emotions, Reynolds had been nothing but kind; he never would have pressured me like this. In order to appear nonchalant while I thought out the problem, I leaned over the flowers and breathed their scent. I nearly coughed from their stench.
“Also Lady Pierson’s favorite.” Eaton bowed.
Wondering if the disliking of paperwhites was hereditary, I sat back, rubbing the tip of my nose. “Have you had any further news about my father’s arrival?”
Eaton’s stance relaxed, revealing that he’d hoped the conversation would take this course. “Yes. It may not be for several hours now. Likely as not, he’ll expect that you’ve gone to bed.”
I slid my hands over my skirt. Were it any other day, I’d have taken his hint and retired. But the longing to reunite with my father on my birthday proved too strong to resist.
“Thank you,” I finally replied, “but I’ll wait.”
And wait I did.
Hour after merciless hour I sat stone still, listening to the pendulum clock beat out each passing moment. By the time the sound of silver harness bells caught my attention, my muscles ached with stiffness. Their goblin noise sent a chill down my spine and raised gooseflesh over my arms. No merry sound carried through the night, but rather a clangorous warning.
Feeling myself pale, I stood as a whip cracked, followed by a muffled “Yaw!”
The dissonance increased as horses whinnied, and the clatter of hooves trampling against stone resounded right beneath my window. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes of my birthday were left, but suddenly I desired nothing more than to delay this meeting.
My heart beat in odd jerks as Eaton’s rushing footsteps rang in the hall. I willed my body to move closer to the doors as I debated whether I should step into the hall or remain where I was. I placed my hands over my stomach, leaning forward to hear.
The front door slammed shut, and Eaton’s voice carried through the thick mahogany. My fingers felt like ice as I cracked the door open and peeked out.
Disappointment washed through me as the first person I spotted was Mr. Forrester. I nearly turned my back to the wall to remove that dreadful man from sight, but before I could, he stepped to one side, revealing my father.
I have since met many men of power and position, but none have equalled his bearing. His looks I shall describe, but they were secondary to my first impression that night. No one meeting Lord Pierson ever commented afterwards that his features were well-set. Who saw features when meeting the very definition of determination? Silver threaded the ebony hair near his temples, making him distinguished. His face was long, but with a sharp, square chin, made all the harder by the way he gritted his teeth. The bend of his brows made clear that he was not pleased. He wore a shoulder bag that looked too oiled and cared for to be a game bag. Charcoal-grey breeches were tucked into highly polished boots. His high-collared shirt, embellished by a double-knotted cravat, could be seen above his cloak. Most noticeable was the sheer energy that throbbed in the air about him. I was known for my stubbornness, but if veins of granite ran through my soul, it was only because I had been hewn from that immovable mountain.
Revulsion crawled through me as I realized he was the same age as Mr. Macy, but whether that made Mr. Macy seem older or my father seem younger, I could not decide.
My father handed Eaton his walking stick and began unfastening his cape. “How are matters here?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Isaac wrote and said my daughter arrived.”
“Yes, sir. Over a week ago.”
“And her behavior?”
I couldn’t see Eaton’s face, but whatever emotion he evinced—or perhaps the very fact he did—caused my father to look black upon him.
Mr. Forrester added his cape to my father’s, tossing it on top of Eaton. “What he means is, has the girl done anything suspicious? Anything even slightly out of the ordinary?”
Eaton’s shoulders stiffened. “I should think not.”
“Has she entered my library?” My father peeled off chammy gloves.
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
I gasped at his bold lie, for twice Eaton had found me reading there.
“Perhaps you wish to speak to your daughter yourself, sir. She insisted on staying awake until you returned home. Shall I fetch her?”
“Oh, how fabulous!” Mr. Forrester muttered. “We’re probably being spied on right now.”
I grimaced, wishing some foul calamity would overtake him.
“How did she know to expect me home tonight?” My father’s demand was imbued with choler. “Who told her?”
“I believe Mrs. Coleman informed her this morning, sir.”
“You believe?” Mr. Forrester pulled off a red scarf, freeing his neck. “Can you be less vague? We are talking life or death here.”
My father’s wrath fell on Mr. Forrester as he gave him a silencing look.
“Shall I wake Mrs. Coleman, then?” was Eaton’s mild reply.
“No.” My father waved him to be quiet. “But before you do anything else, find my daughter; tell her I’ve arrived but have retired. Have hot rum brought to the library for us, and tell James to warm my robes by the fire. After that, you’re dismissed.”
“Very well, sir, and welcome home.”
I backed from the door, praying Eaton wouldn’t follow his instructions to the letter and rev
eal how near I was. Thankfully, his footsteps retreated down the main corridor.
As soon as the butler’s footfalls dissipated, Mr. Forrester said, “I warrant the little strumpet has searched the house and combed through every one of your papers during your absence. I say we drag her in for questioning now.”
“Not tonight,” was my father’s gruff reply.
“There’s a reason he’s chosen her, Roy. He’s finally gained access to your life, and if you’re not careful, his trollop is going to destroy everything you’ve spent a lifetime building.”
I felt sparks of anger rush through my chest as I waited to hear my father defend me.
“Lower your tone.” My father’s voice was a growl.
“What? You think she’s not on the other side of that door spying on us? If we whispered, she’d hear every word.”
“It’s my staff I’m worried about, and she’s not spying on us.”
Mr. Forrester chortled. “What? Shall I prove it to you, then?”
“You’re being paranoid now.”
“I’m not. How on earth did Macy know not to show up last night? Tell me that.”
My father’s snort sounded far from amused. “It wasn’t her. No one here knew my whereabouts. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. My decision to offer her sanctuary is final, so allow the matter to rest.”
“She had Edgar killed!” Mr. Forrester’s voice rose a pitch. “How can you expect me to just drop that? It’s nothing short of insanity that she’s been allowed access to your house.”
“You’re allowing anger to blind you. Your groom knew the dangers of going to Eastbourne, as did you. Don’t blame her.”
Mr. Forrester’s voice grew low, sounding as if he was moving away, and I couldn’t hear his words. Whatever my father said next wasn’t distinguishable either. Footsteps clumped down the hall, masking his baritone reply.
Alone, I sank against the wall, my mind racing with what I’d just learned. Surely, surely, I pleaded with the universe, Macy hadn’t killed Forrester’s manservant too. How could Forrester think for a moment that I would have anything to do with a matter like that? Would my father?
With a frown, I reviewed that particular night at Eastbourne, but all I remembered was how I’d sought out Mr. Macy in the middle of the night. I’d fallen asleep in his arms and woken up in my own bed. I felt my face grow hot as I realized that if I needed to defend myself, such an explanation would scarcely do.
Throughout the house the chimes of various clocks marked midnight, their sounds as dissonant as my thoughts. All at once, I felt like giving up. All that I longed for this morning now seemed laughable. How could I have been foolish enough to hope that the man who had not married Mama, who’d ignored my existence, and who then tried to send me to Scotland, would actually welcome me here?
Outside in the hall, the slight chink of glasses interrupted my thoughts. I stepped back to the crack and peered out in time to see Eaton carrying a tray of hot rum. He turned the corner and almost immediately a warm, golden light flushed the hall before vanishing when the door closed.
I frowned. If my father had lit that many lamps, it meant he planned to remain awake awhile longer.
A moment later, the same golden hue filled the hall. This time I tiptoed from the door and fled to the settee I’d occupied all evening. The only thing worse than having my father reject me was having Eaton know that I’d overheard it.
By the time Eaton rattled the doorknob, I sat slack, my head tilted back with my eyes shut. To add to my ruse, I breathed heavily and irregularly through an open mouth.
“Miss Julia.” He gently tapped my arm.
I batted him away but then blinked, doing my best to look disoriented.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I fear your father has already arrived home and retired.”
I nodded, slurring nonsense words.
“I beg your pardon, miss, but I didn’t catch that.”
I sat up, squinting. “Home? Is he in bed?”
“He said to tell you he’d retired,” Eaton replied.
I rubbed my eyes, but in truth, I felt fully awake. The precision of his wording wasn’t lost on me.
“Shall I escort you to your chamber?” he asked as I studied him anew.
I shook my head. “No, but will you see to that tray? I don’t want my father to find it.”
He glanced at the untouched tea before his white gloves flashed in the semidarkness. “With pleasure. Sleep well, Miss Julia.”
I stood, pretending to find my balance. I waited until I was certain of his departure, then fell back into the chair and hugged myself.
Why should it matter, I thought, what opinion my father and Mr. Forrester had of me? Hadn’t my father said he was offering me sanctuary? Wasn’t that all I wanted? Hurt turned inward to bitterness. Had I so soon unlearned the lessons I’d picked up from William—not to expect acceptance or love? Perhaps it was better not to form any attachments while here. It would only complicate matters later. And why should I feel hurt that he’d not bothered to defend me against Mr. Forrester’s disparaging remarks?
“Let people reveal themselves first,” Sarah, my nursemaid, used to intone.
Well, my father most certainly had. I now saw he was a cur of the worst sort. And I despised him. Tears clotted my throat, but I refused them. If I detested my father on the night I married Mr. Macy, that emotion was impotent compared to this.
I had no need of family. None.
I crossed my arms, imagining how good it would feel to march down the hall and tell them both exactly what I thought. Only I had nowhere else to go, and I knew it.
“You did what?” Forrester’s scream tore through the night and echoed down the hall, followed by, “How could you!”
The chair creaked as I stood. Though I wasn’t certain, I thought I still heard his voice. Knowing their argument was probably about me was maddening.
A few more steps found me at the door, which I eased open.
For a moment, all was silent. Moonlight streamed through the hall, washing a ghostly light over the ancestral portraits lining the stairs. Earlier that week, I had carefully looked for any trace of myself but hadn’t found any except for the young girl at the bottom of the stairs—my look-alike.
Hoping to hear more, I tiptoed into the hall and shut the door behind me. At best I picked up the occasional lilt of a male voice, but it was impossible to distinguish words.
As I continued to creep toward the library, my look-alike watched from her elaborate frame. Something about the utter boldness in her eyes made it clear that she wouldn’t hesitate to go and eavesdrop.
I bit my lip. Edward would never condone spying on my father, especially with Forrester here, accusing me of it. Besides, it was too risky. If I were caught, I had nowhere to go except back to Mr. Macy.
Nevertheless, I also knew that Henry and Elizabeth would fully approve of my spying. That thought made me ache for our foursome. I could almost envision the fight we’d have over this. Henry would grow impassioned, telling Edward he was an absolute ninny not to advise me to go and learn as much as I could, considering. Elizabeth would only frown and keep her opinion to herself as long as possible. Edward would demand to put it to a vote, which Henry would adamantly refuse. As a rule, no matter what, Edward and I solidly took each other’s side—thus Henry and Elizabeth never agreed to a vote.
Once more Mr. Forrester’s voice escalated as he argued some point.
I wiped my palms along the sides of my dress, considering the arched corridor I wanted to take. Even in the dark, the black-and-white tiles stretched so far back they looked distorted and staggered. There wasn’t even a plant or statue I could duck behind, though it was possible to flatten myself in the molding of one of the arch windows, provided no one passed by the opposite side. I pressed my lips together. I’d never done anything this daring alone, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Especially when it would have had the four of us heatedly divided.
I lifted my gaze, as if I would find an answer inscribed on the painting, and was struck by the idea that if she could vote, she’d take Henry and Elizabeth’s side. My mouth twisted as I pictured a future date when I’d have to tell Edward that we’d been outvoted, and what did he expect me to do?
Certain that I would regret taking imaginary advice from a dead woman, I picked up my dress and tiptoed to the library door.
A NARROW SLIVER of light streamed through the dark hall as I pushed the library door open ever so slightly, thankful to find that Eaton hadn’t fully latched it.
“What did you expect I’d do?” My father’s was the first voice I heard.
“Macy couldn’t have planned your downfall better! They may forgive you for having an ill-begotten child, but to lie about it is committing political suicide. You can’t honestly think you can hide her identity from that lot!”
I took measured, tiny steps forward, fearing the door might creak and give me away, before finally taking my first glimpse. Inside, a roaring fire cracked and hissed, casting a glow on the heavily polished wood. At the hearth, Mr. Forrester spread the tails of his frock coat apart as he warmed his backside.
My father sat, bent over his desk, carefully writing out a document before him.
“She doesn’t even resemble your wife.” Mr. Forrester dropped his tails. “Nor does she possess grace or manners. How are you going to convince anyone she’s lived her life in a finishing school? What school produces something like her?”
The uncomfortable look that passed over my father’s face as he dipped his pen told me he secretly agreed with the assessment. “You can keep wasting your breath,” my father said, “but I’m going forward with this. Either help me or leave.”
Mark of Distinction Page 3