The Orphan Pearl

by Erin Satie

  For the moment, none of it bothered her. She was happy.

  “If I understand correctly, you plan to leave the country in order to escape your father,” said Ware. “You don’t want him to have any power over you.”

  “Mmm,” Lily agreed.

  “But if you were able to reclaim your inheritance, you’d stay here. In England.”

  “I had hoped to.”

  “Was it arranged in the usual way? You’d inherit either when you reached your majority, or when you married?”

  “I believe so. I haven’t gone back to look at the original documents. I had money from my mother, and from an aunt.”

  “You’ve met both of those conditions.”

  “Legally speaking, Lady Lily Spark is still dead,” she said. “And a dead woman can’t inherit. I need my father to attest to my identity, but he’s refused. And just as well—my dependence gives him power over me, but so does being his daughter. Perhaps I’m safer this way.”

  “So in order to remain in England, you would need to reclaim your name and your inheritance while protecting yourself from your father’s authority.”

  Lily remembered her advice to Ware at the British Library. Time to take her own medicine. “I can find something else to want.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh?” Lily shifted, giving the root stabbing at her lower back a different muscle to torment. “What do you suggest?”

  “We could marry.”

  Lily giggled. “Come, now. The ship I understood. But that’s taking your apology a bit far, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Lily sat up, wincing as more aches and pains made themselves known. She leaned on her palm—she’d scraped it somewhere along the way, and it stung—and studied Ware, smudged with mud, showing the first signs of sunburn, and utterly serious. He met her gaze and didn’t look away, or laugh, or spout excuses.

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “No.”

  “My father might decide to wash his hands of me. He didn’t hesitate to cut off my brother. If you seek to gain some benefit from my name or my inheritance, it might never come to pass.”

  “I’ll take you as you are.”

  She wanted to ask him why, but held her tongue. If he didn’t want her name or her money, he wanted her. And if he hadn’t offered out of pity, then it must have been… something else.

  Lily confronted the possibility that she’d misunderstood… everything. That all of the emotions she had been aware of experiencing—her anger, her gratitude, her endless sexual hunger—had all along been the symptoms of something greater, something she had not seen or comprehended.

  More than anything, she wondered at her own blindness. When had Ware known? How could he speak of marriage so calmly, as though he’d had time to grow comfortable with the idea, to dispose of all his doubts? Was he even capable of feeling doubt?

  Lily narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you’d sign the register and then leave me behind while you sailed for Buenos Aires.”

  “If that’s what you would prefer.”

  “But if I’d rather accompany you?”

  “You’d be welcome.”

  Not just permitted. Welcome.

  “I would like that,” said Lily. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Ware folded his arms underneath his head, making his biceps leap and bunch. “We’re settled, then.”

  Lily traced a line down the center of his stomach, smooth and concave with relaxation, to the point below his belly button where coarse hair made a trail to the thatch between his legs. If they weren’t both already so crusted over with dirt and muck… Well.

  Lily gave his belly a light scratch. “I have an idea.”

  Ware glanced at her sidewise.

  “What if we could marry without my father finding out? If he thought I was alone, and liable to flee the country if he didn’t act quickly, he might do something rash.”

  “To tighten his hold over you, you mean.”

  Lily nodded.

  “I’ll help you, of course,” said Ware. “But are you sure it’s worth the risk?”

  “I want you to have everything I can give you,” said Lily. “And after what happened on the schooner, I want him to lose everything I can take.”

  They rinsed as best they could in the lake, and planned their strategy on the long walk back to the schooner—arriving just before sunset, weary and bedraggled. It took Lily almost half an hour to comb all the tangles out of her hair, but she didn’t mind. It had been a perfect day.

  And the future looked bright.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  John returned to London alone, by train. Traveling to the station took more time than the trip into the city, once he’d taken his seat in the carriage. Upon arrival, he went first to his Belgravia house for a thorough washing: a long bath, a haircut, a fresh set of clothes.

  Rutting in the mud did make a man appreciate the pleasures of civilization.

  The next morning, he paid Clive a visit. To his surprise, he was shown into a sunny yellow breakfast room, where Clive lounged in his shirt and waistcoat beside his duchess, dressed in ink-stained cotton. She looked perfectly at ease, both in the drab clothing and in the bright cheery room, and John was, once again, unnerved.

  No accounting for tastes.

  “Join us.” Clive waved at the opposite end of the table. The chairs were low and heavily cushioned, the table covered in a cloth printed with blue-and-green flowers.

  “Do you take sugar?” The duchess reached for the teapot at her elbow. The porcelain was semi-transparent in the bright morning light, simple but very fine.

  “No sugar.” John took the saucer and settled into the offered seat, trying not to rattle the cup. “Thank you. Did I come too early?”

  “Not at all.” The duchess slouched into the deep cushions of her chair, cradling her teacup in both hands. “We’ve been very lazy this morning.”

  “The treaty was signed yesterday,” Clive added. “I’m surprised you weren’t there to see it happen.”

  “Four powers?” asked John.

  “Russia, Austria, Prussia, and Britain,” Clive confirmed.

  “And the timetable?”

  “Speedy withdrawal of his armies from Northern Syria will net Mehmet Ali some territory in southern Syria—which he’ll rule as a sovereign, so long as he accepts that Egypt remains, at least nominally, part of the Ottoman Empire.”

  “What?” John froze with his teacup in the air. “He won’t.”

  Clive frowned. “You’re sure of that?”

  “This is a man who sees himself as the equal of the Sultan,” said John. “And he’s earned the right. He’s won victory after victory, for years. And now we expect him to give up everything he’s gained? To style himself a vassal when he sees himself as a king?”

  “It’s the best offer he’ll get,” said Clive. “Mehmet Ali’s armies will fall before the combined forces of Europe.”

  John sighed. “So long as you realize that’s where your treaty is leading.”

  “Palmerston realizes it,” cut in the duchess.

  Clive cut a sharp glance at his wife, who shrugged.

  “He wants a decisive victory,” she said. “It’s not enough for him to win—France and Mehmet Ali must lose. They must pay for their ambitions.”

  “How have Holland and Hastings reacted?” John asked.

  “They’ve been quiet,” answered Clive.

  John winced. “That’s not encouraging.”

  “But our hand is played, until Mehmet Ali responds to our terms,” said Clive. “Unless you came with a proposition of your own?”

  “No, I came to ask you for a favor, actually,” said John. “I need to obtain a special license—quickly and discreetly. I thought you might be able to make it happen.”

  “A special license?” One of Clive’s eyebrows notched up. “Has Lady Lily agreed to make you the happiest man on earth?”

  John nodded.

  “
There are people who won’t invite her ‘round,” warned Clive. He rocked his hand from side to side, then added, “But a wife with her pedigree will do you more good than harm, I think. Give you a lift.”

  “Does that mean I can count on your help?”

  “Of course,” said Clive. “In fact, I can do even better. Do you need a witness?”

  §

  Lily continued on alone aboard Ware’s schooner. The solitude gave her time to think—time to have second thoughts—and they crowded in. It had seemed like the right decision at the time, the sensible decision. But she wasn’t seventeen anymore. She ought to think ahead, and consider the worst before she hoped for the best.

  Instead, she had done what felt right—but bad decisions often felt wonderful as she made them. She had been reckless, again. However highly she thought of Ware, she did not trust part of herself that had accepted his offer.

  And so, as she perched up by the prow with a wide-brimmed hat tied underneath her chin, she found herself wishing, bizarrely, that he had remained at her side. He would have soothed her doubts.

  Instead, she had to forge ahead without him. Brighton’s grand pier appeared on the horizon, jutting out from the city huddled around the beach. The schooner docked and Lily restrained an impulse to run from ship to ship, asking where each was headed, begging for a berth.

  She mastered the temptation to flee and directed herself, instead, toward the finest hotel in town. Her room featured large bay windows that opened directly onto the ocean, and she threw them open so she could listen to the waves while she slept.

  In the morning, she began her search for a vicar. The driver of the hackney she’d hired took her around the small parishes outside of town, hoping to find a clergyman willing to exchange his discretion for a donation.

  She had her man by noon.

  Back at the hotel, she dismissed the hackney and sent a letter to Ware. Mail coaches ran between Brighton and London often enough that it would reach him by the next morning. If he set out on the six-hour journey early enough, they could marry the next day.

  Before dinner, she put on her black silk taffeta and took a long walk along the shore. Nobody acknowledged her, but she was certain that several recognized her. Word would reach her father quickly—but no matter how fast it flew, Ware would have the advantage.

  The vicar she’d engaged arrived at the hotel at eight, while she was still at breakfast. Mr. Fayer was an older man with florid cheeks and a firm, round belly, strong legs and an easy smile. When she’d arrived at his cottage the day before, she’d interrupted a game of cards—just a few friends gathered round a table to pass the time, he assured her, a few small wagers exchanged, nothing sinister or low.

  Perhaps so. But his eyes had lit up at the prospect of a bribe, and she suspected he played more than he should, and lost more than he preferred. So she’d gone shopping before making her return trip—another attempt to catch the notice of gossips—and bought a brand-new deck of cards, which she brought out when they sat down in the hotel’s downstairs parlor.

  “I don’t know when my fiancé will arrive, exactly,” she told Mr. Fayer. “Would you care to pass the time with a game?”

  “I don’t like to encourage gambling,” the vicar replied.

  “We’ll use pins.” She scattered a pile on the table between them. “Surely you can’t object to that?”

  To her surprise, she didn’t have to let him win. He played well, and she was distracted. Instead of concentrating on her hands, she kept glancing out the window, searching passersby for a familiar face.

  When Fayer had collected all the pins, he moved them back to the middle of the table and they started again. As Lily’s losses began to mount, she finally saw a face she recognized—but not the one she’d been hoping for. The Duke of Clive stepped out of an unmarked carriage, tapped his hat into place and surveyed the hotel.

  A chill ran up her spine. What could have brought him here?

  And then Ware emerged from the dark compartment, a little rumpled, his hair falling in chunks over his forehead. He tucked them back before putting on his hat, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his coat.

  “Has the groom arrived?” asked Mr. Fayer.

  “Oh!” Lily started. “How rude of me. Yes, he’s on his way inside.”

  She introduced both men—Clive first, of course. The vicar seemed more than a little bewildered to find himself face to face with a duke.

  “We need a second witness,” said Ware, scanning the public rooms.

  “Leave that to me.” Clive bowed shallowly to Lily before setting off toward the nearest clump of people. Ten minutes later, he returned with one Judge Hildebrand, who sat on the Berkshire county bench, and had brought his family to Brighton for a summer holiday.

  Lily exchanged a wide-eyed look with Ware. If anyone had the idea to question their witnesses, they wouldn’t get very far.

  The ceremony only took a few minutes. They said their words; at the appropriate moment, Ware produced a gold band with an irregular pearl at the center, shading in color from blush pink to spring green, surrounded by small cut diamonds.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth, making a small, shocked noise at the back of her throat.

  “How?” she blurted. “You didn’t have time!”

  Ware shook his head and slipped the ring over her finger, so the vicar could pronounce them man and wife. He kissed the tears from her cheeks before he pressed his lips to hers, soft and stinging with salt.

  After the vicar had gone, Ware wrapped his arm around her waist and tugged her close, pressing his lips to the part of her hair. “I don’t want to leave.”

  Lily leaned into him, just to feel how easily he took her weight. He could hold her up; she could count on him. The next few days would be frightening, but he would come through.

  “It was kind of you to drive such a long way,” she said to Clive.

  “Ware did me a favor by allowing me to come along,” said the duke. “It gives me real pleasure to thwart Hastings.”

  Lily laughed.

  “He’s never suffered such a significant—and public—defeat as has just been handed to him,” added Clive. “I’m not sure whether to be pleased or alarmed that it took one of his progeny to deliver the blow.”

  Lily grinned. “Alarmed.”

  “We shouldn’t linger,” said Ware. “That judge might tell tales… but he might not. We’ve more need for luck in this endeavor than I’d like.”

  Lily forced herself to stand straight. “You’ll have the Chancery watched?”

  “Don’t worry.” He swooped in for a quick, hard kiss. “When the time comes, I’ll find you.”

  And that was it. They left, almost as soon as they had come, and Lily spent an odd, aimless evening before she retired to bed alone. And to think she’d thought her first marriage had gotten off to a peculiar start.

  In the morning, when she went downstairs, a thin, pinched redheaded man waited for her in the lobby.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lily hesitated. What would she do if she hadn’t expected him? Brazen it out, or try to run? She glanced from the young man to the door, trying to calculate her odds of escape. It was so instinctive that, when she caught herself at it, her heart sank.

  She’d try to run. She always tried to run.

  Vasari Jones tiptoed closer as though she were a wild animal. He held his hands up, palms out, either to signal innocent intent or to catch her if she tried to dash past. “No need to fear the messenger, Lady Lily.”

  Lily waved the young man into a small sitting room where comfortable chairs had been arranged around a nearly empty bookcase, and large windows offered a view of the shore.

  “Deliver your message.”

  “His Grace would like to speak to you. He’d like the opportunity to convince you to remain in the country.”

  “I haven’t forgotten the last message you delivered,” said Lily. “Why should I believe he’s changed his tune?”


  “He wishes you no harm, Lady Lily. Only to see you happy and safe, enjoying the comfort of your station and the respect of your peers. As proof of his goodwill, he promises to reinstate your legal identity upon your arrival in London. Come with me now, and all the monies due to you on your majority will be transferred within a month.”

  “Immediately upon arrival?”

  The young man nodded.

  Lily looked out the windows, stalling for time. Harmless little waves rolled in, only sporadically crested with foam. She’d expected exactly this offer—so why did she feel uneasy? She huffed. She’d had days to settle on her plan. Now was not the time to second-guess herself. And besides, she was married. What could he really do?

  “Let me gather my things.” She returned a few minutes later with her battered valise. The driver loaded it onto the roof of her father’s carriage, the family crest of crossed sheaves of wheat emblazoned in gold on the door. Jones helped her inside, but didn’t follow her into the compartment. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No.” Jones cleared his throat. “As it happens, my term of employment with the duke has come to an end. This was my final task in his service.”

  “Have you found a new position?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I wish you good fortune, Mr. Jones.”

  He nodded and stepped back. The carriage rocked as the driver urged the horses to a trot, and Lily relaxed into the cushions. They wove slowly through the streets of Brighton, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Watching the homes and shops roll by, Lily wondered at their circuitous route, and got her answer when the carriage rolled to a stop before a stately residence. A moment later, her father emerged from the front door.

  “You came all the way to Brighton?” Lily asked, once he’d taken a seat opposite her in the carriage.

  He sat primly, with his back ramrod straight and his knees together. “I wanted to be nearby, in case Mr. Jones failed to collect you.”

  “To force me to return with you, you mean.”