DisobediencebyDesign

by Regina Kammer

  “Whatever you do don’t tell Sophia.”

  Arthur shook his head in grim astonishment. “No. Of course I won’t.” He grabbed his hat from the hall stand. “Let me at least invest something for you.”

  “No. I won’t be part of that. He’ll know and raise his fee for continued silence.”

  “All right,” Arthur conceded. Of course Father could not prevent him from secretly investing in the name of the Marquess of Richmond. “Sophie misses you. She misses her papa.”

  Father’s eyes reddened, the corners pooled with tears. “I never wanted to hurt her. You must believe that. Duty compelled me, Arthur, not cruelty.”

  Arthur settled his hat on his head. “Know that she’s happy now, Papa.”

  Arthur nodded his goodbye, his final image of his father sobbing into his handkerchief.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  London, 22 March 1861

  Joseph checked in with the aged concierge at the Merchants and Industry Club, unable to stand still as the man dragged a frail finger slowly down the roster of expected guests.

  Arthur dashed into the lobby from the main club room and grabbed his arm, shooting the concierge an apologetic grin. He led Joseph into the smoky, oak-paneled room.

  “This had better be important, Arthur. My wife is about to give birth any moment now.”

  “I know, I know. Thuxton’s asked for your presence.”

  “Thuxton?” Joseph arched a brow.

  “Yes. Also I have great news from Geoffrey. Just follow my lead.”

  Business. Always business. Yet today a not-unwelcome distraction from the stress of imminent fatherhood. “Okay.”

  Arthur smiled and waved overtly at Thuxton, who waved back from across the room, Leonard Prescott and Harland Moseby at his side. Everyone present—well anyone not with his nose in a newspaper or snoring in a too-comfortable chair—knew the Earl of Petersham and the Earl of Thuxton were meeting and had invited the man who had scandalously married Petersham’s sister.

  Everyone…including the Duke of Royston.

  Royston sat in a leather club chair, chewing on a cigar and loudly turning the pages of the Cleveland Canal Company Annual Report 1859-1860, the cover prominently displayed, each rustle of paper accented with snorts and chuckles. Otherwise the room was, as per usual, rather dull and quiet.

  “Ah, Phillips.” Thuxton shook his hand. “Glad you could join us. I’ve just heard of your great success and I wanted to congratulate you before your departure for America.” He spoke in his normal conversational tone, which resounded in the hushed room.

  Joseph glanced at Arthur, who offered an encouraging nod. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And Lady Sophia…is she well?”

  Royston stopped turning pages.

  Joseph understood. “She is very well indeed. We are excitedly awaiting the birth of our child.”

  “Splendid,” Thuxton said with far too much enthusiasm.

  Several club members looked up.

  “Petersham here tells me Peel has sent some good reports from New York.”

  Arthur grinned a genuine grin, which meant the news was truly good and not part of whatever game they were playing. “Peel says your designs are causing quite a stir. There’s been some bidding for exclusive contracts. Apparently railroad magnates are impressed with the idea of artistry and elegance on a mere undercarriage.”

  Joseph’s heart skipped a beat. “Sophie. That was Sophie’s idea.” He broke out in a grin bigger than Arthur’s. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

  “The New York office of Harwell and Company is working diligently on all the contracts. Peel does mention the name of the company with the largest order.” Arthur fumbled through his pockets, pulling out objects and pieces of paper, an obvious stall for dramatic effect. Finally he found Geoffrey’s letter. “Ah yes, here it is. The Ohio Short Line.” The last was said with too much flair even for Arthur.

  Joseph struggled to not look Royston’s way.

  “Ohio. That’s one of your Middle Western states, is it not, Phillips?” Thuxton’s voice boomed.

  “Yes, my lord. Very prosperous agricultural area.”

  Royston stood and came toward them. Joseph’s stomach churned.

  “What’s that you say? Ohio Short Line?” He brandished the report he had been perusing. “I’ll have to have a word with them. Surely your artistic nonsense doesn’t make the railway trains go any faster.”

  “Ah, Your Grace, so good of you to join us.” Thuxton dripped charm. “I’m rather fond of Phillips’ designs. Passengers will prefer to ride a railway with a touch of refinement, I’m sure.”

  Royston grunted.

  “But if you have their ear, this Ohio Short Line will certainly listen to you. Are you a stockholder?”

  “I’m a major investor in their subsidiary, the Cleveland Canal Company.”

  “Canals! That was a risky move.”

  “I rather think it was a wise one.” He flipped through the pages of the report. “They increased their profits just this year.”

  Joseph and Arthur remained silent during the exchange. Thuxton was clearly running the show.

  Thuxton placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Well, Petersham, perhaps you better telegraph Peel to hold off on that Ohio Short Line order.”

  Arthur nodded and was about to speak when a club errand-boy called out.

  “Your Grace!” The boy approached and presented dispatches on a silver tray.

  Royston picked up the envelope on top. “What’s this?” he asked unpleasantly.

  “A notice, Your Grace, that your membership dues are in arrears and credit is no longer extended.”

  Royston’s eyes widened. He raised his hand as if to strike the boy. “You little—” He stopped abruptly.

  “And, Your Grace,” the boy continued with a tad less enthusiasm, “a telegram for you. From Ohio in America.”

  Royston took the card.

  The boy hesitated. “Will you be wanting to send a reply, sir?”

  “No. Go,” Royston growled and turned his attention to the communique.

  The boy exchanged a surreptitious glance with Thuxton before he left.

  Suddenly Royston turned the darkest shade of crimson Joseph had ever seen on a man.

  “Your Grace! Is everything all right?” Thuxton oozed concern.

  “Bloody bollocks,” Royston rasped. “Bloody, bloody bollocks!” He crumpled the telegram then shoved it into his pocket. He slammed his book to the floor. “You.” He turned to Joseph, their eyes meeting at the same level, and stabbed a finger at his chest. “You and your damn ideas.”

  Thuxton held his hand between them. “Your Grace, please. How, pray tell, has Phillips caused offense?”

  Royston turned his wrath on Arthur. “Your father is ruined.”

  Arthur paled. “My father?”

  Thuxton intervened again. “The Marquess of Richmond? What has happened, Your Grace?”

  Sweat beaded on Royston’s brow. “Bankrupt. Cleveland Canal is bankrupt and your father was an investor. Seems Ohio Short Line is to blame.” He threw down his cigar and ground it out on top of the report. “You and your damn railroad.”

  “What a shame,” Thuxton said coolly. “Surely there’s a bit left over for club dues, no?”

  Royston seized his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and whipped it up to mop his forehead, flinging an object into the air in the process. A metal object. Gold metal.

  It fell to the carpet.

  Silence descended as all inspected the precious item, a woman’s gold necklace and locket.

  Joseph stared, incredulous, horror and hatred prickling his skin.

  “My God,” Arthur gasped. “That’s Sophie’s. The one she lost the night of the Wrexham ball.”

  Thuxton picked up the locket. He opened the compartment with trembling fingers and studied the pictures inside. “Sophia and Lady Henrietta. So it’s true.” He glared at Royston. “You blackguard,” he huffed. “You des
picable cur. How could you?”

  “Bloody scoundrel,” Prescott snarled.

  “Loathsome miscreant,” Moseby muttered.

  Royston paled. “I don’t know where that came from—”

  “You fucking bastard.” Joseph swung back and slammed his fist into Royston’s nose, the crack of bone startling those seated to stand.

  Royston wobbled and crumpled to the carpet, holding his face, blood streaming between his fingers. “You’ll pay for that, Phillips! You’ll pay!” He waved a bloodied hand in the air. “You all are witness to the assault of a peer!”

  One by one, the club members filed out of the room. Thuxton turned his back to the scene, indicating with a quirk of his head those remaining do the same.

  Joseph watched from the corner of his eye as two very large club guards grabbed Royston and dragged him from the room.

  Thuxton draped his arms around Arthur’s and Joseph’s shoulders, drawing them into a huddle. “They’ll throw him out the back door. For your peace of mind, gentlemen, I’ve posted a man to watch your house should the duke do something rash.” He gave them both a quick squeeze. “Phillips, go home to your wife.” He placed the necklace in Joseph’s palm. “Petersham, telegraph Peel with my immeasurable thanks.”

  Joseph dashed out.

  Sophie. He couldn’t wait to see Sophie.

  * * * * *

  Southampton, 18 April 1861

  Arthur inhaled the pungent, salty air then exhaled in satisfaction. It was a beautiful spring day. Perfect for setting sail, or rather, setting off on a large steamship across the Atlantic.

  He would really miss Sophia and Joseph. He would especially miss his perfect little niece, Helena.

  As they packed for the journey Joseph had confided he was worried about the road ahead, that the business would fail or the business would be a ripping success and he wouldn’t be able to handle all that money. Arthur had assured him Sophie would know precisely what to do with all that money. Besides, Geoffrey and Anna—Mr. and Mrs. Peel—had paved the way for them in New York. Geoffrey had set up the American subsidiary of their firm, had found a lovely brownstone in fashionable Greenwich Village a world away from the squalor of the port, had moved Joseph’s parents there, and Anna was busy readying the place for the new baby. Feathering a nest came naturally to her as she was now with child. Joseph had beamed at the news. Fatherhood suited him. It would suit Geoffrey as well.

  In the railway carriage to Southampton Joseph’s excitement for the journey home had provoked a flirtatious giddiness on Sophia’s part, prompting Arthur to take his darling Helena to the far corner of the private car while Sophia and Joseph trifled and teased. He ignored them. He wanted to spend a few moments with Helena, his Helena, for she was, most likely, going to be all he would ever know of children. Over the last few months he had struggled with his rash ultimatum to Father. But he would never find love as he had with Henny and without such love he could never bring children into the world.

  Now before him loomed the gateway to the vast Atlantic. Waves broke against the pier as melancholia crashed over him. He had relied too much on Sophia, Joseph and Helena for his happiness. Geoffrey and Anna would return, of course, but they would be busy with their own lives as a family. He had not seen his parents for months and was not likely to see them in the near future. He’d have to seek camaraderie in his club filled with dull men and a mistress who would want diamonds and God only knew what else to keep her legs spread and the conversation going on a regular basis.

  He wasn’t the only solitary figure gazing out at the sea. On the edge of the quay stood a woman, bent a little from age, dressed entirely in mourning, her black veil covering her face, obscuring her view of the port from whence her lover, a soldier heading to the Peninsular Wars, had been ripped from her life.

  Arthur chuckled to himself. His despondency had made him maudlin.

  The woman turned and saw him. She stilled a moment, hesitating, thinking, and then came toward him.

  And when she got close enough for him to see beyond the veil he recognized his mother.

  She made no bold movements, did not rush to take him into her arms. She approached calmly, an action completely at odds with the emotion twisting her face and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Arthur,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat.

  “Mother,” he greeted her in return, struggling against the lump welling in his own throat. “Is Father well?”

  “Ah yes, the mourning,” she chortled. “Your father is fine. I’m incognito. I just wanted to see them, even if from afar. I was worried I would be too late. I’m not too late, am I?”

  “No,” he said with a smile. “You’re early in fact. The ship doesn’t leave for a couple of hours.”

  “Good.” She glanced side to side. “Where is Sophia?”

  “Over—”

  “Don’t point. Don’t move. I don’t want to cause a scene.”

  “You do want to see your grandchild, Mother, don’t you?”

  “Yes, dear. I do. Very very much. But I came to tell you something first. Something I have to say to you in person. No letters and no one else who could hear.”

  A chill of foreboding crept up his spine. “Go ahead.”

  “I know what Harold told you and I know what he believes about you. All these years I have been telling him who you really are and he won’t believe me.”

  “Who am I, Mother?”

  “You are your father’s son. You are the son of Harold Harwell, the Marquess of Richmond.”

  “And how can you be sure?” Arthur suddenly thought he might not want to know.

  “Because Giles never spent inside me.”

  “Oh God. Don’t tell me such things,” Arthur groaned.

  “I will tell you and you will listen because you need to be convinced as well. Giles needed the violence to maintain his, well, his potency. But he couldn’t control it. I became very handy with a birch rod, almost too good really. I could make him spend while he was spread-legged and doubled over a flogging bench. That’s why I always went to your father afterward. Not because I was excessively lustful but because I was unsatisfied.”

  Arthur’s head spun with disgust and fascination. “Did you not explain this to Father?”

  “I did. But Giles sustained the fiction with lies and falsehoods, taunting Harold, comparing them, which one was the better lover, which one was man enough to father a child, to father a son. In the end Harold refused to believe me. His pride was hurt and he’s carried a grudge for twenty-five years.”

  “He’s still carrying it.”

  “No… Something you did made him think it all over. You were brilliant to make him look at you the way you did. He’d never really looked at you before. I kept telling him you have his eyes and nose. Now he is beginning to believe it. But now it is you who’s hurt his pride, standing up to his decision to marry Sophie off to that monster, forcing him to give in to Royston’s blackmail, refusing to give him an heir. I hate to think of how long it will take him to come around this time.”

  “Yet it seems you and Royston have equal cause to blackmail. You should be at a standoff really.”

  “Royston is demanding money not only to keep our affair and your supposed dubious parentage secret but to not perpetuate any more rumors about Sophie and Mr. Phillips. It is a lot of money but we can certainly afford it. Your father did something clever with Lord Thuxton and that American canal investment. We lost nothing while Royston lost virtually everything. He has no desire to bankrupt his only source of income.”

  “Surely his stubbornness with that investment has tarnished his reputation enough. Is he really worth the bother?”

  “If I took Royston down, I would take myself and our family down right with him. I refuse to do that to you and Sophie. Or to my new grandchild.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  Mother swallowed hard. “A girl?”

  “Helena.”

  “Su
ch a pretty name. Do you think I could see her?”

  “Yes of course.”

  Arthur offered his arm. They walked casually, Mother’s step uneven, quickening and slowing in fits and starts, never taking her eyes off Sophia and Joseph sitting on a bench, fussing over Helena. Joseph grinned and held the baby in his arms while Sophia trifled with her bonnet and booties, the perfect picture of domestic bliss.

  Joseph saw them approach and said something to Sophia, who looked up. Shock and love filled her face at the sight of Mother. She ran to her with open arms.

  “Mama, oh Mama, I’m so happy to see you!” She pulled back. “But why the mourning? What has happened?”

  “All is well at home. A woman traveling alone must have a disguise, my sweet child.” She looked longingly at the baby in Joseph’s arms. “May I see her?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Mother took Helena, cradling her, gazing down at her, tears wetting her lashes. “She’s beautiful.” She rocked her gently. “Helena, my Helena.”

  “She is, Mama, she’s yours. She must be part of your life, if you will allow it.”

  Mother’s tears fell to her veil.

  “She will be well cared for in New York. Joseph is an attentive father and a wonderful husband.”

  Helena made a gurgling sound and reached for Mother’s veil.

  “Lift it, Sophia.”

  Sophia lifted the veil. Mother beamed at her granddaughter and kissed her pudgy cheeks.

  “Mama,” Sophia choked. “I’m so sorry I hurt you and Papa. I never meant to do so. I did not disobey willfully.”

  Sophia fumbled in her purse but Arthur was quick with a handkerchief.

  “I wish there was something I could do to show you I’m still your loving daughter.”

  “You’ve done it, Sophie. You’ve given me Helena.” Mother turned to Joseph. “Make sure she’s happy. Spoil her but not too much.”

  Joseph’s lips curved upward. “Yes, my lady.”

  “She’s part English, Mr. Phillips. I want her to know that.”

  Joseph nodded. “Of course.”

  “Your country is in rebellion, Mr. Phillips. I expect you to take care of my Sophie and my Helena.”

  “My parents and the Peels assure me we will be safe, my lady.”