The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  “I am not allowed friends, but even if I were, I’d find it pointless to make the effort,” Jenna commented, aware that people were still turning to stare at them.

  “De veras? Really? But why?”

  “I am stuck between two worlds, Daniel. In one, I have the tongue of the learned, but the look of the lower class, and in the other I have the look of the lower class, but the tongue of a witch. I am viewed with suspicion in both.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Jenna. You used to make friends with anything that breathed.”

  “I think there’s a considerable gap of time between the ages of twelve and sixteen, from when you last remember me. People change and it is oftentimes a miserable existence.”

  Daniel nodded. “I agree. On the outside you have altered greatly, and it is a shock to see. But I cannot believe inside you could have changed so much, especially since you were so happy to begin with.” He paused, the corners of his mouth rising. “You’re no longer a child, Jenna. And although the world is unfolding in front of you in surprising ways, I assure you they will not all be disappointing.” Daniel raised his eyebrows and waited for her response, but one of the immense carriage house doors swung open. A rush of cold air created a stir, and everyone turned, craning their necks to watch one of the duke’s carriages grandly roll to a stop at the entrance. The duke and duchess stepped out, followed by Lady Lucia and her mother.

  The Cliftons were seated at the front of the hall. They smiled and nodded at everyone. Jenna noticed Lord Pembroke wasn’t around his parents or Lady Lucia, but the latter was dressed in a gown that made many of the girls seated on the benches groan with envy. The ruby-red velvet fabric was luxuriously thick, and Jenna guessed if Mrs. Wigginton could get hold of the material, she could redecorate the entire house with new curtains, upholstery, and cushions.

  Envious as Jenna was over Lady Lucia’s holiday apparel, she could not stop her eyes from scanning the room in search of Lord Pembroke. Where was he?

  Casually glancing about, she pinpointed Mr. Finch and his faithful companions, Mr. Fowler and Mr. Gainsford. She watched the latter two, in constant playful battle, and it seemed an unremitting source of bother to Mr. Finch. It struck her as odd that Lord Pembroke would maintain a friendship with young men who were so immature in comparison, but she added it to the list of his growing mysteries.

  Alex sighed wearily as he stood alongside Mr. Wicken in the back of the hall and watched his friends carrying on with their horseplay. He had agreed to stand as a witness out of consideration for Mr. Wicken, who was still new on the estate and had yet to find luck making friends. It was providence, then, that the yearly Twelfth Night celebration was to be combined with the wedding party; otherwise, it may have been poorly attended. Alex wondered if it was his mother or Mrs. Wigginton who had whispered into the duke’s ear with the sympathetic suggestion. Regardless, he wished for the event to start so it might end quickly. Today had been a monumentally wretched day, and he craved an escape—a chance to be alone and not hounded by those who took note of his every move.

  He glanced around, looking for Lady Lucia’s mother, the countess—the one most responsible for his current state of distress. She had been a hawk following him these last few days, watching his whereabouts, obviously informed of the conversation her daughter had overheard where Alex had confessed his wishes to be anywhere but there.

  The countess had cornered him alone earlier today, her face nervous but resolute. Clutched in her bejeweled fingers was a piece of his mother’s fine stationery. She thrust it toward him with a shaky hand.

  Dearest D,

  I desire the same of you as always. Rest assured, my friendship is as strong as ever, and I am still of the same opinion.

  I am ever mindful and grateful for the many essential services you have rendered. You are a tender gardener to my white rose. I am aware of the thrills the white cockade receives at the honor of such favor. Do me the justice to believe me at all times, my dear doctor. Pray keep our tending to this rosebud a secret.

  I am heartily glad of our great health and pray God may keep it so. Remember me with all your affection and esteem possible. I am with great truth,

  Yours,

  Charlotte

  Alex had lowered the letter. “What is this?”

  The countess swallowed and raised her chin. “My security.”

  “Against what?”

  “It is an insurance. If you care for the welfare of your mother—a woman whose scandalous behavior can easily strip her of both title and security—then I suggest you put aside any further interest in altering our future plans.”

  Alex felt his face drain of color. “You have pried into my mother’s personal effects?”

  The countess glanced about the empty room. “I have traveled a vast distance and with great cost to see this union come to fruition. If you should be tempted to change your mind and dishonor my family, I will be forced to ruin yours.” She snatched the letter from his hands and left with a whirl of skirts and petticoats.

  Alex had put a hand to his chest, the bands of matrimonial ties, nothing more than iron clamps, squeezing the breath from him. His mother was . . . having an affair? This was not wholly a surprise, nor was it of such scandalous nature that it would raise more than the odd eyebrow—under normal circumstances. But Alex knew his father, and if he was proven a cuckold, the duke would see that his wife paid an abhorrent price. And whomever “D” was would fare far worse.

  The interaction was a blood-chilling memory that now forced him to be ever vigilant of the countess’s whereabouts. It also added another worry to the list of growing concerns regarding his mother: the treatment she received from his father, her health, and the revelation of a brewing threat. The countess dangled extortion from her fingertips as easily as colorful beads dangled from her necklaces.

  He passed the time scanning the crowd but grew roiled that last-minute guests were still being seated. It was a simple affair. He only needed to walk the couple to the front of the hall, present them to the duke and duchess for a formal congratulations, and then he could be off. But his gaze came to rest upon an unadorned head, one whose color he could recognize at fifty paces. The deep red of Miss MacDuff’s hair was unmistakable, long and shiny . . . and now with a man’s hand resting on the back of the bench just beneath it.

  “Who the devil is that?” Alex said out loud, peering around hats that refused to stand still.

  “Oh, that’s my aunt Henrietta. She’s come all the way from Leeds.” Mr. Wicken pointed to a woman standing in the aisle, near the front of the hall.

  Alex pulled at the collar of his shirt, damning his tailor for mistaking his measurements. What was the point of explaining who he really meant? Most of them were strangers to Mr. Wicken. He tried getting a better look at the man without encouraging further conversation from the groom. The buzz of voices in the hall made it difficult to hear what anyone was saying, including the person next to him, who was obviously trying to get his attention.

  “I beg your pardon?” Alex said.

  Mr. Wicken put his hand on Alex’s arm and leaned in. “I asked if you were aware there’s still the smell of dissension in the air round these parts?”

  Good God. Not again.

  “No, Mr. Wicken. Since our initial conversation, I am not aware of any discord to speak of.” Alex knew full well his father was building the garrison to be prepared for that precise situation. He was also aware of the dangers involved by sharing too much with someone he knew so little. “What sort of talk are you hearing?”

  “I’ve not been privy to any firsthand, milord, but I am aware of a new visitor on the estate, and expect you’d want notice of him.”

  “A new visitor? Who is this man?”

  Mr. Wicken pointed into the crowd, and Alex followed his finger. He caught sight of Miss MacDuff again, her head pitched toward intimacy with the owner of the hand. The dark-haired man spoke into her ear, evidently trying to make conversation easier,
but Alex found the man’s proximity to her far too close for polite dialogue. When the man raised his head, it was clear this was not one of her clansmen. He appeared a wholly charismatic individual, for Miss MacDuff was intensely drawn to what he was saying, her eyes drinking him in.

  The skin on the back of Alex’s neck prickled uncomfortably and he turned to feel the heated gaze that came from a pair of eyes solely focused on him. They moved to rest on Miss MacDuff, and then returned to meet his again. The countess was a harbinger of warning.

  Again Mr. Wicken tapped him on the shoulder, this time motioning to the front of the hall, where the parson had just requested their presence. He needed to identify Mr. Wicken’s stranger, in case there was cause for concern, but in doing so, he would increase the ire of the countess who would only see him studying some female other than Lady Lucia. Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t. Either way, his choices could burn him.

  Daniel had much to share with Jenna regarding the four-year absence. His stories held her spellbound. They had barely shared more than a few minutes’ conversation, difficult as it was amid the noisy gathering, when Daniel nodded toward the beginning ceremony. She turned just as Mr. Wicken and Lord Pembroke walked past their bench. Lord Pembroke stared with such sharp intensity she felt the swift and unforgiving blush of embarrassment wash over her. Her sudden intake of breath alerted Daniel something was amiss.

  “What is it?” He leaned over, concerned, then looked up at the passing groomsman and received an unfriendly glare. “Who’s that?”

  Jenna didn’t answer, but instead kept watch of Lord Pembroke’s confident stride as he led the newly married, and clearly nervous, couple toward the duke and duchess. Appraising Mr. Wicken and his young bride, it looked as if they were about to meet their king, and their earnest gravity infected the crowd, which hungered for a taste of pomp and circumstance.

  The vicar bestowed a quick blessing on the bride and groom and to the gathered crowd on the eve of Epiphany. A perfunctory kiss passed between the young pair, who then glanced sheepishly at the duke, awaiting his acknowledgment and felicitations.

  The duke stood and faced the murmuring crowd. He motioned for silence. “I’d like to express my congratulations to both Master Wicken and his now good lady wife, Mistress Elizabeth, on their successful nuptials. I’m sure I speak for all present when I say we wish them good fortune for the future.” He turned and motioned for his wife to join him.

  The duchess rose slowly, her face blank as she greeted the crowd before her. Her eyes swept over the guests and paused for a moment where Daniel and Jenna sat, and then carried on through the rest of the room. Jenna smiled. Even the duchess has an eye for the handsome. The woman was wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak that all but hid the festive dress she wore beneath it, and Jenna wondered if the duchess felt the cold more than others. She looked bone-weary and eager for the whole affair to end.

  The duke continued, “This evening we will also celebrate Twelfth Night, and shortly the tables and chairs will be arranged so Mrs. Wigginton’s yearly feast may be presented. We wish you each a prosperous New Year. All hail the king!”

  An abundance of cheers rose around Jenna. She saw many of the faces, not yet red with drink, clear-eyed and enthusiastic, heartily echoing the duke and his sentiments. Daniel raised a furtive eyebrow and leaned over to murmur, “Sí, all hail the king.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and seeing movement just past Daniel’s shoulder, noticed Mr. Gainsford and Mr. Fowler poking at each other in an attempt at swordplay without actual accoutrements. She rolled her eyes and turned her attentions back toward the duke, who still addressed the crowd.

  “This being Twelfth Night, one is obliged to follow proper procedure. The Lord of Misrule must be named, and then I will find myself and my wife a quick departure, for before long, the pursuit of merriment will surpass good sense.”

  He surveyed the room and spotted Mr. Fowler and Mr. Gainsford, still engaged in foolish trifling. He thrust a finger at the former and bellowed, “There is your man! Hugh Fowler shall reign as your Lord of Misrule. I can think of no finer person suited for the position.”

  Mr. Fowler looked up and let a broad smile spread across his features. His eyes filled with mischief while scanning those around him. They alighted upon a fleshy-faced woman with a tall, feathered cap. He bounded to her in two princely leaps and, to the crowd’s delight, plucked the adornment from her head and placed it on his own. He then sprung himself upon the nearest table and caught an oak walking stick Mr. Gainsford tossed to him. His scepter in hand, he bowed low to his audience and declared, “I humbly accept the honor cast upon me and promise a night of delicious debauchery.”

  The crowd hooted with pleasure.

  “The chairs and tables, my friends!” Mr. Fowler shouted.

  Men sprang from their seats and pushed creaking benches to the far sides of the room. The tables began filling with Mrs. Wigginton’s procession of enticing dishes, all paraded in by the young maids from the kitchens. Jenna was about to tell Daniel she felt it best they head back to the cottage, when Mr. Fowler clapped for attention.

  “As usual, the Lord of Misrule is in charge of the evening’s festivities, and in the traditional manner of Twelfth Night, everything one might expect is turned upside down and reversed. So to launch the celebrations, the choice of the first dance is given to the women.”

  There was a great stir among the audience—sounds of delight from the female half of the group as they hastily scanned the men. The musicians took up their instruments, brightly colored streamers hanging from their scrolls. The party officially began by way of Mr. Fowler shouting from atop his perch and encouraging anyone he saw peering tentatively around to sift through the riffraff and find a suitable dance partner.

  “Do not fall for the first pair of pleading eyes you come upon. Be choosy. Be specific. Demand a dowry up front!” The men responded with spirited laughter, and the women set about with serious intent.

  Jenna noticed several women making their way toward them with purposeful strides, their ardent eyes fixed on Daniel, prey to be speared. She turned to face him and was again about to suggest they leave—or at the very least, that she leave—when Daniel spoke.

  “Pídeme que baile. Ask me to dance.” He ignored the look of surprise on her face and grabbed her hand to lead her to the dance floor. Jenna noted they’d left behind a gathering of girls, crestfallen at what appeared as an inequitable stroke of good fortune in her favor. Jenna bit her lip, suppressing a smile, and let Daniel lead her into the crowd.

  Alex stood in the front of the hall with the newlyweds. He’d observed the entire interaction between Miss MacDuff and the mystery man from his position, and watched a dozen brazen women push others out of their way to get there first. Even his mother’s eyes strayed to the dark-haired man during his father’s speech.

  Lady Lucia’s intent was clear and meant to attract attention as she cut a wide swath through the crowd to where Alex stood. When she reached him, he bowed and extended his hand. “You look lovely,” he said, forcing a smile of welcome.

  “Much too lovely for an occasion such as this, I think.” She eyed the hall with distaste. “There is dirt on the floor, and my dress is sure to be the recipient of it.”

  “Mrs. Wigginton will be most willing to put forth whatever efforts necessary to restore your dress. Do not fret, milady.” Alex attempted a cheerful facade. He gently whirled her through the throngs of other dancers, and scanned the crowd for Miss MacDuff and her partner.

  Lady Lucia stiffened in response. “I most certainly do fret. I worry that perhaps this is what one would think was an appropriate place to hold our wedding.” She narrowed her eyes. “Although, after hearing recent revelations, I am to understand that there may be no wedding. That you are simply taking time to make a thorough fool out of me.” She refocused her features and stared off in the distance.

  He politely acknowledged the heated gaze of the countess and took a slo
w breath in before continuing. “I apologize profusely for how my simple confession of momentary frustration upset you, milady. And I assure you”—he swallowed—“my intentions are dependable.”

  They must be, Alex thought glumly, as I have no other choice.

  He stole a glance at Miss MacDuff and the stylish man, bitterly resigned to his future. The two danced gracefully, their eyes locked as they spoke. And clearly she was not aware of the many eyes focused on them, which might have been a blessing, for most of the women looked as if they would happily claw their way through her to be next in line to dance with the stranger.

  Daniel spoke in furtive tones and leaned in close so no one would overhear. He asked Jenna about the duke and his family, who everyone was, and what she knew of them.

  She answered him honestly. “I don’t know any of them well, but first impressions speak a lot in my book.” She glanced around. “Most of the people here work on the estate. You saw the duke and duchess. They play their parts well.

  “They have a son”—her eyes briefly settled on Lord Pembroke and his betrothed—“who’s soon to be married. I heard his bride-to-be is utterly controlling. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  Daniel proved most perceptive. “And what does he deserve?”

  She blushed. “I don’t know. Something else. Someone else. Could be anyone but her.” She steeled her features. “Observe the girl for five minutes and you’ll know what I’m speaking about.”

  “I see,” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “Any others you’ve developed an aversion to?”

  “Well, there are Lord Pembroke’s friends from school—two of which are tippling buffoons. I can’t imagine why he keeps them around. And another”—she bit her lip—“who keeps a spot close to the hearth, which he guards with bared teeth.”

  “Jenna,” Daniel said, leaning in, “did you ever consider that these were people the son must mingle with? That he has little say in those who surround him because he is being groomed for a political position?”