“Rag-pile,” murmured Arabella. “Squat. Fancy that.”
“It’s true,” Willie told her. “When the Lady came, we moved into the cottage in Vauxhall Gardens, but it burned down. We had chickens and a garden and we learned our letters and numbers and how to make—”
“You and my wards can be proud of what you all have accomplished in such a short time, can’t you, Lord Will?” The Lady stopped his speech so sweetly and with such a soft smile that no one would suspect his little lordship had been about to say bombs. “Yourself among them. Why, even now, your skill at mechanics puts you well ahead of other boys your age.”
Willie beamed at this praise from the Lady. The conversation then turned to school, and thence to summer holidays, and then to the prospects for game in Scotland that summer.
But for Lizzie, the damage was already done.
Cynthia and Arabella and Claude and the rest would despise her now. Because really, in their eyes what was she? A street sparrow in borrowed plumage, twittering prettier notes but still able to squawk in the vernacular of the wharves and alleys.
After all the trouble she’d taken to come here and make friends with these people, one speech from her own sister had destroyed it all. And like Humpty Dumpty, once you fell off the wall between the classes, there was no putting you back together again.
12
Only the utmost self-control kept Claire from leaping into the conversational fray in the defense of the people she loved, dealing setdowns like cards and putting that insufferable blonde in her place with such smooth violence she would never feel the cut until moments later, when she began to bleed.
Claire had been in Lizzie’s place, oh yes, far too many times. It was not an experience through which she would ever willingly put her dear girl, but since it had to happen, at least it was in her company and that of Davina, who was on full alert as well. Claire would never have suspected that Lizzie harbored this desire for the approval of those she saw as her “betters”—not her feisty Lizzie, who shot first and asked questions later, who up until this period in her life, had not cared tuppence for the opinions of anyone outside her most trusted circle.
Claire had to own that she felt a little grieved at this evidence of trust and respect leaking out of the tight bond of that circle and dribbling onto those who did not entirely appreciate it. But she could not say these things to Lizzie. As Claire knew from her own experience, there were some things that could be taught in a lecture, and others that could only be learned through hard experience.
Growing a spine fell into the latter category. She had no doubt that Lizzie would prove up to the challenge, but still … it was difficult to watch.
After an interminable six courses, during which the atmosphere of conviviality changed to reveal that Maggie’s announcement had indeed affected the opinions of the Sorbonne set, the Dunsmuirs invited the company aboard Lady Lucy for coffee and brandy, rather than calling Tigg from his duties. The young scientist seemed interested in going, which pleased Claire immensely. Perhaps he was immune to atmosphere, and indifferent to status. Certainly one could isolate oneself in the pursuit of science—but there was a difference between choosing isolation and having it inflicted upon you.
She had not missed the subtle interplay between Maggie and Lewis that resulted in Evan’s being included in their conversations and fun, even while he was ignored by several of the others. The circle of the Sorbonne set had its boundaries, too, it was clear—and they were etched in gold.
She was just making her way toward the terrace when Mr. Seacombe cleared his throat behind her. “Lady Claire, if I might have a brief word with you and Miss Elizabeth before we all go out to Lady Lucy?”
Lizzie, hearing her name, paused on the threshold of the French doors.
“Certainly, sir,” Claire said, though she couldn’t imagine why he might want to speak privately with them. She would have thought he would approach Lord Dunsmuir about some business deal or other, or take her ladyship aside to request some favor at court.
Indicating with a raised brow that Lizzie should come with her, they followed him into a large room whose shelves were lined with books. On each of the walls hung four huge portraits, from a man dressed in the lace collar and hose of Charles I’s reign to a blond lady in a meadow that Claire could swear had been painted by Winterhalter, the man who could make any woman beautiful—the man, perhaps, who thought every woman possessed her own particular kind of beauty.
“Are these portraits of your family, sir?” Claire asked. She had not heard that he came of ancestry long established in England, but then, she knew next to nothing about him. That was the purpose of this visit, was it not? And besides, that was Blood thinking. To a Wit, ancestry was more of a hindrance than a help.
“Heavens, no. I bought the castle furnished from the family that had been established here—and the furnishings included all the portraits. They lend the place a feeling of solidity, of timelessness, do you not agree?”
Claire murmured an assent. Was she the only one in the room wondering what had happened to the family who had to leave their home and heritage behind?
Seacombe went on, “The only one that belongs to me is that one there.” He indicated the blond lady over the fireplace mantel. “That was my second wife, may God rest her gentle soul.”
At last, something personal about him. Claire studied the portrait. “She was painted by Herr Winterhalter, was she not?”
“You have a good eye, my lady. Yes, she was, in the flower of her beauty some time after the birth of our daughter.” He paused. “Do you see anything to remark upon in her likeness?”
What on earth could he mean? Puzzled, uncertain as to what he meant to draw her attention to, Claire stepped back to take it in. The portrait was nearly life size. “Her eyes are as green as yours, Lizzie,” she said at last. “It is an unusual color in a woman so fair.”
“It could be her dress,” Lizzie pointed out. “You know how my eyes change depending on what I’m wearing, and a rich green like that would do the trick—if you would let me wear proper colors.” She gave her a nudge.
“When you are eighteen you may wear whatever colors please you,” Claire said with fondness. “Until then, dark colors are not suitable.” She returned her gaze to the portrait. Something wasn’t right about it. Not the painting itself—a lady seated in a glade with a castle in the distance was a common artistic conceit. But something about her gown … or the way she wore it … or the jewels …
That was it. She was not wearing a gown at all, but a silk wrap tied with a wide sash under the bosom, parting to reveal a waterfall of lace and voile that both concealed and hinted at the curves beneath. This was a portrait of a mistress, not a wife. The kind of portrait that a man kept in his private rooms, not displayed in a library with someone else’s very formally dressed ancestors, as though to mock and expose her.
Then again, Claire reflected, she did not have the artistic temperament. Perhaps she was reading too much into it.
“Ah,” Seacombe said. “I had hoped you would remark upon her eyes. And there are other similarities, too—the shape of the brows, the pointed chin.”
A chill brushed down Claire’s spine, and she looked over her shoulder to see if the windows were open. But they were not. “Similarities, sir? Outside of the eye color, I do not see many. Even the lady’s hair is different. Lizzie was once a proper towhead like that … but her hair has darkened each year as she has grown up.”
Lizzie’s gaze upon the portrait had become fixed.
Seacombe poured a small glass of amber liquid. “May I offer you spirits, my lady?” When she declined, he knocked it back in one motion and poured another. “Eleven years ago, I lived in London with my little family. My first wife contracted a fever and died young, but I found happiness again with Elaine Seacombe, a gentlewoman whose family had made their fortune in the steamship trade between Penzance and France. While my first wife’s father gave me my start, it was Elaine’s f
ortune that turned the tide. When she told me of her condition, I was overjoyed that Claude, then only four, would have a sibling.”
“A sibling, sir?” Here was the proof that would fend off the crisis she could see looming. For in any story that involved her wards, there must be twins. Not a single child.
“And in the course of time, she was born—a little princess as blond as her mother, with my thoughtful forehead and high cheekbones. And my short temper and quick wit, as it turned out.”
She must be certain. Whatever the end of this story, it could have nothing to do with them—Lizzie, Maggie, their little flock. “One child, sir? Not twins.”
Standing before the portrait, Lizzie turned to watch Claire—her stillness, her pale face enough to make Claire’s heart contract with distress.
Seacombe’s pleasant smile sagged into lines of sorrow. “You are quite correct, my lady, having anticipated the ending of my tale. Not twins. My beloved Elaine’s younger sister Catherine, I am sad to say, was delivered of a girl at the same time—within days of my daughter’s birth, but in circumstances so very different that the family’s shame could not be measured. She did not survive the birth. But my wife’s heart yearned for the sister she had known in the days of her youth, and she begged me to bring her child into our household, to be nursed and raised together with our own. I could never refuse Elaine anything, and so it was done.”
Lizzie was now as white as the papers scattered upon the desk. “Sir, if you do not want to see me burst into tears this moment, you will speak plainly. Who is this story about, please?”
“I will come to that as quickly as possible, my dear. When the girls were five, Elaine took them on one of the company airships down to Penzance via London to visit her family. As they passed over London, the engines seized and the ship went down—into the Thames, in full view of a shocked and disbelieving public.”
Claire gasped. “I remember that! It was in all the papers. Your wife and the children were among the dead? How dreadful.” It was a terrible thing to feel relief at such an end to the story, but if the children had not lived, then this was all a mistake—the maunderings of a man who had never recovered from his loss, who looked on a girl with a resemblance to his wife and could not separate the past from the present.
“Claude had remained home with some childhood illness—chickenpox, I think—so he alone was left to me.” He turned to Lizzie, who had begun to tremble with repressed emotion. Claire took a step toward her, but Seacombe got there first and took Lizzie’s hands. “All aboard were lost—and despite dragging the river and searching the banks, no trace of the children was ever found. I had lost nearly my entire family—or so I thought until I saw a young woman in Munich. A young woman of the age my Elizabeth would be now, who looked so much like Elaine that I thought I had seen a ghost.”
“Her name was Elizabeth,” Lizzie repeated while Claire’s blood ran cold. “And her sis—her cousin’s name?”
“Was Margaret.”
Lizzie dragged in a breath, searching his face as though she could see right through to the truth. “I have no memories from before I was on the streets. Maggie doesn’t, either. The first thing I remember is being ravenously hungry and Snouts offering me bread to eat. It had mold on it, and I threw it up before it properly hit bottom.”
“Snouts?” he asked gently.
“The leader of the South Bank gang who adopted the girls into their ranks and enabled them to survive until we met,” Claire explained. Her lips felt stiff, as if they could not form even simple words. “Maggie’s tale at dinner was quite true. The older ones called the girls the Mopsies, until they grew old enough to pronounce their name without difficulty.”
“Mopsies!” Rather than looking taken aback, he looked exultant. “Let me finish my story, then. Since my wife’s family had no male heirs, during our period of mourning the Seacombes asked that Claude and I take that name so that the family heritage would be preserved. But before that …” His throat seemed to close with emotion.
Lizzie drew a ragged breath. “Before that, you were—I was—”
“De Maupassant. You were so young that you could not pronounce our family name, my dearest girl, no matter how much your nursemaid coached you. It always came out garbled—and one of its incarnations was Moppasee.”
He cupped her cheek in one hand with infinite tenderness. “You are Elizabeth Rose de Maupassant—or Seacombe, if you choose—my own beloved daughter, whom I have believed dead all these years. Welcome home, my darling.”
And he took Lizzie into his arms.
13
“I don’t know what to say. How do I tell her?” Lizzie palmed the tears from her cheeks and wished in vain for a handkerchief. The world had turned upside down in the space of ten minutes—she was crying with joy, weeping with despair—she hardly knew whether she was coming or going, turned inside out or right side up.
For once, the Lady had no handkerchief, either, since she was wearing a sleeveless dinner gown, and was making do with the ruffle trimming the bottom of her petticoat. Mr. de Maupassant—Seacombe—Father—had left them alone together in the library for a few moments, but the Lady seemed as much in need of comfort as Lizzie did herself. “I do not know. But you must think of a way.”
“I can’t think,” Lizzie wailed. “I have a father, Lady. A father who is rich and successful and a mother who loved me. I have a brother.” Her voice cracked and sank to a whisper. “But what I do not have any longer is a sister. Oh, Lady, how can I say that to Maggie?”
“It has made a wreck of me,” the Lady said bluntly, hunting for a dry spot. “I shudder to think what it will do to her.”
Which did not help in the least.
Lizzie hardly dared ask. “Are—are you angry?”
The Lady made a valiant attempt to pull herself together, abandoned the ruffle, and held out her arms. “That you have found your family? How could I be?”
Lizzie flung herself into them in a way she hadn’t since she’d begun letting her hems down, and sobbed into her neck. “I’m so happy—and—and—so miserable!”
“Lizzie, what’s wrong?” Maggie’s voice came from the doorway, sharp with alarm. “They sent me back to see what was keeping you. Has something happened?” Maggie picked up her skirts and dashed over to the sofa, where she sank to her knees and slipped her arms around Lizzie’s waist. Her amber gaze flitted from her to the Lady, widening with real fear as she saw the traces of tears on the Lady’s cheeks. “Lady—Lizzie—please tell me. I can’t bear it.”
“It is Lizzie’s to tell, if she can.”
“What does that mean?” Maggie’s arms tightened and Lizzie’s heart broke that her sister—cousin—was already terrified, and she hadn’t even got the words out yet.
You must do this. With love … and for love. Whatever comes after is up to Maggie.
She took a deep, shuddering breath and sat up, wrapping Maggie in a hug that lifted her up next to her on the sofa. “Mr. Seacombe has just told me some astonishing news.”
“Bad news?”
“N-no … good news. Wonderful news. At least, I hope you will think so.”
“No one else in this room seems to think so.” Maggie’s tone had not lost its edge of fear. “Lizzie, please. Spit it out, or I shall explode.”
Another breath. “We have just learned that Mr. Seacombe is my father. Which makes Claude my half brother. And you my cousin.”
She could feel the withdrawal already as Maggie’s familiar hug loosened and she pulled back in shocked confusion. “I may as well be the cat’s grandmother, for all the sense you are making.”
“Mags. Look.” She pointed up at the wall, to the picture of her mother, and as gently as she could considering her nose was still running, told Maggie the story. When she left out the bit about Maggie’s own mother, the Lady shook her head. If the truth were to be told, it should be told complete. Claire added those details in the softest, most gentle tones Lizzie had ever heard her use.
>
But they still fell upon Maggie’s reeling mind like the sharp pummeling of hail, if the way she flinched was any indication. “I don’t understand. Is he saying that … we are not twins?”
“No. Born within a week of each other, but not twins.”
“Not sisters?”
“Cousins. Our mothers were sisters, who loved each other very much.”
Maggie gazed up at the portrait, her face slack and disbelieving. “And your mother was a fine lady who got her portrait painted, while my mother was a—a desert flower who died having me?”
“She was not a desert flower,” the Lady said firmly, though how she could sound so positive, Lizzie didn’t know. The Lady knew as much of the circumstances as Lizzie did—which was next to nothing. “We do not know her situation, but a girl of good family would not take up that life. She was forced—or there was a secret marriage—or there is some other explanation, you may depend upon it.”
It was clear Maggie did not believe her. “Who was my father, then? What is my name?”
“We don’t know,” Lizzie said, wishing that didn’t sound so damning. Wishing she had let Father tell her. “But your name is the same as mine, since Mr. Sea—Father adopted you.”
Maggie’s mouth trembled and she rose from the sofa. “Father? You’re calling him Father now, are you, after meeting him only three times in your life?”
“He appears to be what he says he is, darling,” Claire said softly. “Her birth certificate was in his desk—and you girls were close when you chose your birthday. Lizzie’s is March twenty-second.”
“What about my birthday?”
“March twenty-fifth. That is information that only Lizzie’s father would have—and it dovetails perfectly with what she remembers.”
Magnificent Devices [5] A Lady of Resources Page 11