Mark of Distinction

by Jessica Dotta

  Paling, she set down the paper. “But did you read it all?” She met her brother’s eye with a look of horror, making me wonder what she’d seen that I hadn’t. “It mentions—”

  “Kate!” Lord Dalry’s voice rang sharp. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  A cool anger glinted in my father’s eyes. “Am I to expect interruption at my own table every morning?”

  “She’ll not interrupt again, sir,” Lord Dalry stated.

  “See that she doesn’t.”

  I gripped the edge of the table as I considered just how precarious my situation was. The fact that my father could act indulgent with Kate one moment and be impatient the next didn’t speak well.

  Before I could sort out how this would affect me, the door opened and James poked his head inside. “Excuse me, sir, but a carriage has arrived from Lady Beatrice. Her driver says she expects your daughter within the next quarter hour.”

  My father’s face grew dusky. “Take that silver platter, James; go to the stable yard and collect the freshest pile of—”

  “Sir!” Lord Dalry winced as if picturing it. “Be reasonable. We still need her sponsorship.”

  My father gestured to the morning paper. “If that woman wants to play games, we’ll play games. She can’t very well back out now. After that jugglery, let’s allow her time to stew on whether or not she’ll be humiliated alongside us.”

  “Honestly, sir.”

  My father sat ensconced in his chair like a fabled god. Tall, strong, immovable. But I saw through the illusion and despaired.

  ONE OF THE MOST jagged paths I know is that of rebuilding a life that has been completely riven. Few understand the difficulty of such a task. Not everyone will understand my actions on paper, even though it is the human experience.

  That first morning, after gaining a clearer view of my father, I quietly withdrew and sought a private space for myself. I had long been in the habit of seeking solitude in which to work out solutions. It has ever been my personality not to speak, or act, before I have devised a plan. In addition, my soul required release after tragedy—and tragedy I’d already had in full measure.

  As I left the breakfast chamber, heaviness gathered in my chest, denser and weightier than stone. I needed to vent the ferment. I needed to cry as desperately as I needed air. And for that I wanted privacy.

  Generally a person can collect himself without such extreme measures, especially the elite. Though I’d not been raised in that sphere, had I been given enough time between catastrophes to adjust and heal, I believe I might have carried myself more nobly.

  The past eight months of my life, however, had contained one blow after another. The fact that Mama had been murdered was enough to make any person reel emotionally; never mind that I’d married the man responsible. Add to the equation the heartbreak of being separated from Edward, the longing for Elizabeth and Henry, and the fact that I’d just lost my identity by telling Her Majesty’s government a falsehood.

  It was none of these concerns, however, that drove me to seek time alone. I’d seen enough to make me believe my father would trample me underfoot, and much as I loathed agreeing with Lady Beatrice, it seemed she was right that no one’s welfare mattered to my father except his own.

  That was what I wished to mentally address, but each time I tried to logically map out how to contend with it, my desire to cry became so sharp that I couldn’t focus. To be able to think again, I needed to purge some of the pain.

  I checked the nearest room, fearing Kate would follow me if I didn’t disappear quickly enough. Near the entrance, I found a chamber that looked unused. A table with ornate legs sat in the middle of the space, with an upholstered green velvet chair behind it and two others on its flanks.

  Hearing Kate’s voice emerge from the breakfast chamber, I slipped inside.

  I waited near the door until all voices and footsteps receded. Then, convinced I was alone, I sank into a chair, covered my mouth, and silently keened.

  To my dismay, within three minutes, footsteps sounded outside the door. It was too late to do more than swipe my cheeks. The door opened to reveal Lord Dalry and Kate, who both gaped to find me crying.

  “Must I trip over a Dalry everywhere I go?” I shouted, dabbing my eyes with my shawl. “Are the pair of you incapable of leaving a body alone for ten minutes!”

  Kate’s face went from sunshine to storm before it crumpled and she, too, burst into tears. She turned and fled down the hall, her hard-soled shoes clattering toward the back of the house.

  Lord Dalry hesitated, seemingly torn as to which one of us to pursue; then with a slight sigh, he slipped into the chamber and shut the door. He divested his waistcoat of a silken handkerchief, which he extended toward me.

  All at once, I felt contrary. No, more than contrary. I felt positively obstinate. I’d had enough of him and my father. I made movement to rise, but before I found my feet, he spoke.

  “I know this may be difficult to accept, Miss Pierson, but I truly am your friend. When you’ve been hurt enough, it’s not always easy to tell the difference between those who wish you harm and those who intend you good. But I am on your side. So is your father.”

  I scoffed before I could help it. “There you are wrong. I mean nothing to my father!”

  His astonishment could not have been more complete. “I grant you,” Lord Dalry said slowly, tugging on his trouser legs as he took a seat, “your father is acting a bit surly, but certainly you can make allowances, considering the direness of the situation we’re currently—”

  “A bit surly?” My voice closed in on itself. “That man cares for no one except himself! He is selfish, mean, and a bully.”

  Lord Dalry angled his head, assessing me. “I fear you do not yet understand your father, Miss Pierson.”

  “Oh, I understand him! I can see him exactly as he is.”

  “Can you?” His voice held a mild rebuke. “Because I am looking at a very different portrait. When I look at your father, I see someone who risked his life and reputation to shelter his daughter, which I find courageous. I see a man who stepped into the path of one of London’s most notorious criminals, despite the high risk. I see a man willing to accept the anger and wrath of Lady Beatrice to gain sanctuary for you.”

  His views were so disjointed from my own, my tears dried as I stared at him.

  “I also see a scarred and broken man, one who needs healing as desperately as his daughter obviously does. Lastly, I see a man who fears to love his daughter, who fears facing his past failures.”

  His speech was jarring. It reawakened desire and unleashed hope that I feared to accept. “He told you that?”

  Lord Dalry frowned slightly, then rubbed behind his ear. “Not directly. Call it an innate ability, if you will. I’ve always been able to see people as they were intended to be—not merely who they are now, but what their full potential is. Your father has the capacity to be one of the greatest men in my acquaintance.” Lord Dalry leaned forward, making certain our gazes met. “If I may remind you, you did seek his protection, did you not? Was it truly your life that was disrupted or his?”

  I stared at the fire, wrestling with this new concept. Some of what he said made sense, but I needed time to examine it for the flaws.

  “Imagine the insult it would be to your father to learn that his daughter left the breakfast table in order to sit alone in a parlor to cry, when he’s offering you all that he has to give.”

  I viewed my hands, badly wanting to believe him.

  “You are the one choosing your own unhappiness just now,” Lord Dalry said. “If you wish, I will leave you here to your melancholy, but you are the daughter of Lord Pierson. It is not fitting for you to weep here. I hope that instead you will put aside tears and allow me to see you to the library, where your father has tasks he wishes to assign to you.”

  He rose, expressionless, and studied me as if waiting to see if I would willingly join him.

  My nose tingled and felt runn
y as I stared. To be frank, I wasn’t certain what to think. But before I could fashion a sensible thought, the doorknob rattled, followed by a pounding fist.

  Simmons’s voice carried from outside the door. “Master Isaac? Are you in there?”

  “Yes,” Lord Dalry replied in an irritated voice.

  “Is Miss Pierson with you?” Simmons demanded.

  Lord Dalry crossed his arms with a sigh, clearly frustrated that we’d been interrupted at such a crossroad. “Yes.”

  “And your chaperone?”

  “Honestly. Have you any idea how ridiculous this is!” Lord Dalry turned and argued with the door. “Do you truly think you have to monitor us?”

  “You can shut all the doors you want after you’re married,” Simmons replied. “But for now you will open this door!”

  Lord Dalry pinched his nose in a rare gesture of exasperation but then wordlessly crossed the room and opened the door.

  With an armload of books, Simmons cast his hooded gaze at the two of us, then sniffed. “The next time I catch the two of you alone—”

  “Spare us,” Lord Dalry said, returning to me. “I’m in no mood for a lecture. Have you work to do here?”

  Simmons deposited his books on the desk and began to lay them out. “Yes. If I were you, I’d hurry along. Lord Pierson was quite impatient when I left, and that was ten minutes ago.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” Lord Dalry returned to me and offered his arm. “Miss Pierson, if I may see you to your father.”

  Though I took his offered arm, I did not look directly at him. For I still had not made out whether or not his logic was faulty or whether his speech angered me.

  “I wouldn’t let her show up looking like that.” Simmons opened a desk drawer and thumbed through files. “Her eyes are positively red, and if there’s anything his lordship hates, it’s weepy eyes.”

  Lord Dalry flashed him a warning look.

  “That reminds me.” Simmons patted his pockets, looking for something. “Lady Beatrice sent a note, demanding explanation as to why Miss Pierson’s neglected her duty. I thought I placed it . . .” He frowned. “Well, never mind. Her ladyship will only accept explanation from you. Best pencil her into your day, as well.”

  At the threshold, Lord Dalry gave him a slight bow. “Fine.”

  Shafts of sunlight filled the front of the house as Lord Dalry shut the door and frowned at it.

  His behavior was so curious, I hugged myself and inquired, “Why don’t you care for Simmons? Does he not have great potential too?”

  “Hmm,” was Lord Dalry’s disinterested reply.

  “What about Kate?” I ventured, testing this new theory. Part of me longed to believe what he’d said about my father, but so far, my stepfather’s teachings seemed more sensible—believe only what you see. “What are her prospects?”

  Lord Dalry’s expression was poised as he turned his full attention on me, making it impossible to tell his thoughts. “She’s a generous, funny little soul, isn’t she?”

  I said nothing. His answer was of no help.

  “When we reach the library,” Lord Dalry instructed en route, “I recommend you call your father Papa.”

  “Papa?” I felt so stunned I stopped walking.

  “Yes. Besides the fact that all the fashionable young ladies call their father that, it will go a long way toward winning his heart.”

  “You mistake me. I have no desire to win him.”

  Lord Dalry’s gaze gave the impression that he saw through my dissembling. “I’m only trying to be of assistance. If you wish to break through this wall separating you, start by calling him Papa.”

  I frowned, pulling my shawl tight, deciding that Lord Dalry might choose to walk in the realm of possibilities, but I would keep my feet on the solid ground of reality.

  Nonetheless, upon reaching the library, I carefully studied my father’s features as he gave me instructions on how to answer his social correspondences. In vain I searched for a hint that he, too, desired relationship.

  His jaw tense, he jabbed his finger toward a basket of posts. “Any invitations from a marquis or higher rank, set aside. I may need to attend those events. Decline all others. Listen carefully, for this will be your duty for some time. Members of the royal household receive embossed stationery with our emblem.” He splayed his fingers over a stack of papers. “Tell Simmons when we are low. It takes a month to order new.” He turned toward me suddenly, his face distrustful. “Don’t waste it. It costs over a pound a sheet!”

  Seeing that he expected some sort of reply, I managed, “Y-yes, sir.”

  “For those of our rank, use the vellum with my monogram. Those below our rank, use plain paper and make certain to affix it with this seal.” He set forth a brass. “Otherwise, use the gold seal, the larger one for royalty.” He paused, looking over the table. “Unless it’s Baron Van Tross. Set any of his aside. Do not read them. Oh yes, and for the speaker of the House of Commons, use the monogrammed vellum. I don’t need to cause problems between him and Isaac.”

  He dumped his instructions upon me too quickly to grasp them fully, then gruffly demanded, “Am I clear?”

  While his instructions weren’t, his nonverbal cues were—I was expected to agree. Across the chamber, Lord Dalry also gave me a quick nod, as if to say that now was the hour to call him Papa.

  I tightened hands into fists, refusing to reward my father by calling him Papa while he was in that temper. “Yes, sir.”

  “See to it, then.” My father placed his hand on my back and steered me toward the hall, past where Lord Dalry stood at the threshold. He thrust the basket of correspondence into my hands and the door closed behind me, but I heard my father say, “Russell is intending to ask for an increase in the Navy. I want you to have an argument prepared, ready to send to Palmerton by tomorrow, as to why we should approach Russia with negotiations about manning the Baltic first . . .”

  I listened until his voice drifted to the other end of the library, then hugged the basket against my stomach.

  Knowing Simmons occupied my former chamber, I tested the room where I’d met Lady Beatrice and found it open. With a sigh, I dumped half the basket’s contents onto the small desk. The sheer number of invitations amazed me. It would take me hours to finish the task.

  The first post I opened was from someone titled Master of the Horse. I frowned, not knowing the rank. It sounded as if it had something to do with the queen, which would have meant the expensive stationery. Yet that felt wrong.

  Someone sniffled loudly from the direction of the settee. Frowning, I turned and found Kate sullenly watching me, her lower lip trembling and her downcast eyes glistening.

  All at once, I wondered if that was how I must have appeared to Lord Dalry—childish and full of self-pity. Despite myself, I smiled, then chuckled at the image.

  She stood, lifting a haughty chin.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” I said, trying to hold in my smile, determined not to allow myself to act in such a manner again. “I’m so sorry. That was awful of me.”

  She blinked as if considering, then raced to me and flung her arms about my waist. “It’s not all your fault,” she cried, her tone plaintive. “I heard Isaac tell Mama we’d have to take care, as you had your father’s temperament, and Mama told me I would need to be extra patient with you.”

  I stiffened, not certain what to make of that statement. Rather than tackle it, I redirected her. “Any chance you can help me sort through the ranks?”

  Kate peered over her shoulder before releasing me to skip over to the basket. Drawing out a large handful of posts, she said, “Don’t let your father find out you’ve not properly memorized precedence. Isaac also told Mama that Lord Pierson is angry at how poorly you were educated.”

  I did my best to look aloof, though each word stung. Starting a pile of letters, I shrugged. “Well, he has no one to blame but himself.”

  Kate’s amused eyes met mine. “That’s what Mama said too!”

/>   Gold wax oozed from beneath the signet, and the smell of burnt paper filled the air. The last We regretfully must decline had been penned. I set the seal aside and massaged my cramped hands.

  I reached my arms over the desk to loosen my shoulders, then sank against the back of my chair. I’d sent Kate to bed hours ago when her yawns became contagious, but now I was the one hardly able to keep my eyes open. Sun stretched across the room, warming my dress, tempting me to nap. I shut my eyes, but to stay awake, I favored a mental picture I kept of Edward. Once again, I recalled how pale he looked that morning in the front parlor of Maplecroft, knowing he would soon leave. How well I recalled his silent anguish and how tightly he held my hands in his.

  “It’s just for a little while,” he had whispered between kisses near my ear. “This too shall pass, and nothing will ever separate us again.”

  I’d clung to his neck, sobbing.

  “We’ve always done this,” he’d assured me. “Just one more separation. That’s all this is. Just one more.”

  A bell clanged in the front hall, breaking my train of thought. All morning men had come in and out, most of them seemingly important.

  Careful to keep the floorboards from creaking, I crept to the door and peeked out. Kinsley plodded past, keys jangling at his hip. The brass ring looked all the heavier against his frailness.

  When the door swung open, a middle-aged gentlewoman entered and dropped a travelling bag. She looked around her as she tugged off gloves, then unwrapped a veil from around her hat and face. She viewed the towering balconies of London House with an air of disgusted familiarity.

  Kinsley shut the door and took up the silver tray next to it. “Your card, please, miss.”

  The woman turned and faced him, her movements as elegant as her dress. “Kinsley?” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you not recognize me?”

  “Miss Josephine never sees visitors without a card. Your card, please.”

  “Miss Josephine?” She stooped into his view. Tears coated her voice. “Kinsley, look at me. Who am I?”

  The butler raised a trembling hand as clarity filled his eyes, and he clutched her fingers. “Why, Miss Moray! How delightful.”