by Mary Nichols
‘Even from Papa?’
‘Oh, I do not think he would be interested, my dear. But the people at the home might be embarrassed and behave awkwardly if they knew my real identity. They behave more naturally if they think of me as their unpretentious friend. And that’s how I like it.’
When they arrived, one of the little boys ran out to hold the horses and Frances took Lavinia inside where Mrs Thomas came forward to greet them. ‘I am glad you came, ma’am. I am afraid we have been robbed and I suspect one of the children. He denies it, of course…’
‘I will speak to him. Lavinia, wait here for me.’
She followed the matron into the tiny room which was used as an office to find herself confronted by a boy of about seven, with grubby blond curls and an impudent smile. It was all she could do not to smile back. She turned from him to the plump matron beside her. ‘What has he stolen?’
‘Cheese, ma’am. A good pound of it. And half a loaf.’
Frances squatted down beside the boy. ‘Were you hungry?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not me. Ma…’
‘Your mother?’ Frances queried. ‘Do you mean you are not an orphan?’
He did not know what she meant and did not answer. After a little gentle prodding, he told her that his mother, a widow, had sent him to the orphanage with instructions to say he had no parents because then he would be clothed and fed. The only trouble was, she could not turn her back on her son and so she had taken to hanging around outside the house in the hope of seeing him. And when she did, she asked him to bring her food.
Matron was all for having him charged, saying to let him off would set the others off and there would be no end to the pilfering, but Frances could not do it. She decided to send for the child’s mother and offer her a job cleaning the orphanage, but Mrs Thomas had to be persuaded it was the right course to take and the lady herself had to be found, which meant that it was long past Lavinia’s usual time for going home when Frances went in search of her.
She found her sitting on the garden wall of the home, sketching some of the children in the street. She jumped up when she saw Frances. ‘Is everything all right, my lady?’
‘Yes, perfectly. Now, let’s get you home.’
She was not at all surprised when, drawing the tilbury up at the door of Stanmore House, she was confronted by an irate Marcus.
‘Come inside, my lady,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘I wish for an explanation.’
Frances had no intention of leaving Lavinia to face his wrath alone and, leaving one of his grooms to see to the horses, she followed him inside.
Chapter Eight
‘Now, my lady,’ he said, once they were in the drawing room. ‘You will oblige me by telling me where you have been and why you have kept my daughter out so late.’
‘Naturally, I will tell you,’ she said coolly. ‘You do not have to shout.’
‘I am not shouting,’ he said, though, realising there was some truth in what she said, lowered his tone. But that did not mean he was any less angry; the low controlled voice was even more ominous. ‘But if I were, there would be some justification. I trusted you to take care of my daughter…’
‘Which I have done. She has come to no harm.’
‘I was not to know that.’ He had been worried half to death and his relief at seeing both of them safe was tempered with anger that she could have put him through such anxiety. ‘How do you think I felt when I went to fetch her from your house at the time prescribed, only to find neither of you at home? Gone out urgently, I was told. What was so urgent you could not deliver my child to me before you went on whatever errand it was?’
‘I did. Or I tried to, but there was no one at home,’ she said, determined to keep calm. ‘You were out and so was Miss Hastings. The only people in the house were male servants. I promised you that Lady Lavinia would always be chaperoned, so I decided to take her with me.’
‘Where?’ He looked down at her plain grey gown and recognised it as the one she had worn when he had rescued her from the crowd in Covent Garden. Had she introduced Lavinia, his sheltered aristocratic daughter, to the seamier side of London life?
‘The Countess took me to the orphanage,’ Lavinia put in, unaware that she was exacerbating the situation. ‘It was very enlightening. I had no idea…’
‘Nor should you have,’ he said angrily. ‘It is not a proper place for you to go.’
‘Why not? If it is proper for the Countess of Corringham, surely there is no harm in my accompanying her? I made some sketches like the ones her ladyship has in her studio. Do you know there was a little boy there, who reminded me of someone, though I could not, for the life of me, think who.’
‘Nonsense, Lavinia! You cannot possibly know anyone in those environs. Now go to your room. I will decide what to do after I have spoken to Lady Corringham.’
She was instantly subdued and laying the sketchbook on the table, left the room, stopping only to bob a curtsy to Frances.
‘It was not Lady Lavinia’s fault,’ Frances said, as evenly as she could. ‘You did not need to speak so sharply to her.’
‘I shall speak to my own daughter exactly as I please, madam.’ Knowing she was right did not make him feel any less like taking her shoulders in his hands and shaking her until her teeth rattled. And finishing that up by kissing her soundly. ‘One thing is very certain, I was wrong to think you would show her a good example of how to behave. You have been too long independent and I begin to regret my decision to hand her into your care.’
‘I have not behaved ill. The home for the orphans is not in a good area of town, I admit, but it is clean and the children are neat and well behaved. It showed her ladyship that there are those a great deal worse off than she is who deserve her sympathy. I believe it has done Lavinia no harm at all.’ She paused to take stock of how he was receiving her plea, but he was flicking open the sketchbook and appeared not to be listening. ‘But I am truly sorry for being so late back. There was a small problem with one of the children…’
‘This one?’ He held out the sketchbook for her to see.
She saw a very competent drawing of a tousle-haired three-year-old boy. He was dressed in rags, but he had an impish face, wide bright eyes framed by delicately shaped brows and a broad grin. ‘No. It was one of the older boys. I don’t think I have ever seen this child before, except…’
‘Except what?’ He seemed to have forgotten all about Lavinia and his whole attention was on her answer.
‘He reminds me of someone.’
‘He is perhaps one of the orphans?’
‘No, I do not think so. Unless he has newly arrived. I did not have time to talk to Mrs Thomas about any newcomers. But the home is full to bursting, I do not think there is room to squeeze even a little one in.’
‘Then how did Lavinia come to draw him?’
‘There were some children hanging round the gate…’ She paused, expecting him to begin a new diatribe over letting Lavinia as far as the gate unsupervised, but he seemed mesmerised by the sketch. ‘Is it important?’
‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. It was not the boy, it was simply a child that looked like him. But he would have to check; he had promised himself he would leave no stone unturned, nor would he. ‘It is of no consequence.’
‘Then if you will excuse me, I must go, I have an evening engagement.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry to have displeased you, your Grace. No doubt you will find someone else to instruct your daughter. In any case, she is too talented for me to teach, and needs someone more illustrious.’
‘Fudge! I decide who teaches my daughter. You will continue as before, but be warned, I will not have her leave your house when she is with you, unless I accompany you both.’ He could not tell her about Poole, not yet, but if the man was out there somewhere and had recognised Lavinia, could he, would he, use her to exact his vengeance? Had he already seen her?
‘Marcus Stanmore, you are the outside of enough!’ she said, so exasp
erated she could not hold her tongue. ‘Duke you may be, but I never met anyone so top-lofty and full of his own importance. Did you never make a mistake? Did you never do something you regretted?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly. ‘Often.’
‘And I suppose you never thought of making an apology?’
‘When it was justified, of course. You think I should beg your pardon?’
‘No, I am suggesting that you might accept an apology with a good grace when it is offered. I have said I am sorry, I am not going to grovel.’
He laughed suddenly. ‘No, I did not expect you would. I do accept your apology, my lady, and for what it is worth, I offer you mine.’ He paused and added softly, ‘You once spoke of a truce. Let us have a truce.’
‘Very well.’
‘Then I shall bring Lavinia to you tomorrow.’
It was as she turned to go that she saw the picture above the hearth. It was of a woman whom she assumed by her dress to be the Duke’s mother and standing at her knee was a three-year-old child—Marcus himself, she decided. What set her heart beating was the way the boy stood, leaning back a little, the left foot slightly ahead of the right, the laughing expression on his upturned face, his tousled hair. It was almost exactly mirrored by the sketch he held in his hand, except for the clothing. On one it was very fine and on the other ragged.
It meant nothing, she told herself as she journeyed home. Lavinia had seen that picture in her father’s drawing room every day since coming to London; she must have subconsciously copied the pose. But Marcus had been shocked by it. Who was it who had said that the Stanmores had such distinctive features that the Duke could not fail to recognise his own child? Had Lavinia inadvertently sketched his love child?
But what was the boy doing in that horrible rundown area of London, dressed in rags? Surely Marcus had not been so unfeeling as to turn his amour away without making provision for her or his child? For all his arrogance, she could not believe that of him. Or had the woman left him? It was a mystery and for a few minutes it occupied her mind to the exclusion of everything else, including her own hurt. Marcus had also noticed the likeness, she was sure of it. Had he been struck by guilt? What would he do about it? By the time she arrived home she had made up her mind to try and find out more. She needed to lay a ghost.
She was back in Monmouth Street the following morning, before the children had even finished their breakfasts. Rolling up her sleeves, she helped to serve them with nourishing gruel and bread and butter. She looked closely into the face of each one, but none resembled the child Lavinia had drawn.
‘Are all the children here?’ she asked Mrs Thomas. ‘There are none ill and still in bed? I should not like to miss anyone out.’
‘They are all here, ma’am.’
So the mystery child was not one of the orphans. Did he live nearby? Where was his mother?
‘It is a strange thing, but there was a man here last night asking the selfsame question,’ the good lady added. ‘At least, not a gentleman, for he was dressed very ordinary, as if he was down on his luck. He had a drawing of a little boy and asked me if I knew him, which I didn’t, but I don’t think I would have told him if I had. It was all too havey-cavey.’
‘Did he say who the child was?’
‘No, ma’am. Nor who he was. He had another fellow with him, a big muscular brute who never opened his mouth. Gave me the creeps they did. Up to no good, I’ll be bound.’
Frances knew it was the Duke. Lavinia had seen him leaving the house dressed like a labourer. So that was the reason for it. He was searching for his bastard son. How had he come to be lost? What did he mean to do when he found him? The questions plagued her. ‘Mrs Thomas, if you ever come across that child, find out where he lives and send for me, will you?’
She left the house and returned home. She only just had time to change into a yellow silk day-dress, tidy her hair and compose herself on a sofa in the drawing room before the Duke and Lavinia were announced.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, dropping him a curtsy.
‘My lady, your obedient,’ he said, with an inclination of his head. ‘I hope I find you well?’
‘Indeed, yes. And you?’
‘In plump currant, as your little grandson would say.’
She smiled at his little joke. His ire of the evening before seemed to have vanished. He was urbane and smiling, but his eyes looked tired and there was a paleness about his complexion she had not noticed before, as if he were bowed down by worry. She found herself feeling sorry for him. ‘Do sit down,’ she said. Returning to the sofa, she sat down and patted the seat beside her. ‘Lavinia, sit beside me.’
He flung up the skirt of his dove grey frockcoat and sat down on one of her gilded chairs, putting his hat on the floor beside him. Lavinia flopped down beside Frances and then, as if remembering a lecture delivered before they arrived, sat upright and folded her hands neatly in her lap. It was all so formal, so trite, so awkward that Frances wanted to laugh. She rang the bell and sent a footman to the kitchen with a message for refreshments to be provided.
‘Now, my lord,’ she said, deciding to take the bull by the horns. ‘What have you decided?’
‘Decided?’
‘Yes, about Lady Lavinia’s lessons.’
‘They are to continue, of course. I said so yesterday.’
‘And the portrait?’
‘That too.’
She was not sure that she didn’t prefer the bombastic dictatorial Marcus to this scrupulously polite man. He gave her nothing to fight and she wanted to fight. She had to have a contest in order to prove she was alive, that she was her own mistress. And not his, definitely not his. ‘And I am free to proceed in my own way?’
‘Subject to the provisions I outlined yesterday. Why do you ask?’
‘It is best to have everything perfectly clear between us, don’t you agree?’
‘Of course.’ He bowed very slightly, knowing there was more to what she was saying than appeared.
‘And the soirée?’
‘It is up to you whom you invite to your home, Countess.’
‘Yes, but will you allow Lady Lavinia to attend?’
‘I have said so.’
‘Good. Then we will finish the invitations today.’ She paused, smiling. ‘There is no necessity for you to stay now. I promise you we will not venture out, except perhaps to the garden.’
His mouth twitched at that and he rose to leave them. ‘I will return in two hours.’
As soon as he had gone, Frances, who had suddenly realised she had been holding her breath, let it out in a long sigh of relief. She had survived another encounter with him and she had not given herself away.
‘Oh, he is comical when he is trying not to be rude,’ Lavinia laughed, as they went upstairs to the boudoir where the half finished invitations were scattered across her escritoire.
‘Was he very angry?’
‘No, he rang a peal over me, but it was not so bad. And he can never be truly angry with you.’
‘Goodness, he gave a very good impression of wrath yesterday afternoon.’
‘Oh, that means nothing, he soon got over it. This morning he was all sunshine and ready to forgive and forget.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Now, let us finish these invitations and send them out, then we had better get down to work, or he will be back before we have done.’
And with that she closed her mind to the Duke of Loscoe and the little boy and concentrated on the girl and the evening she was arranging for her a week hence.
When Frances visited the home in Monmouth Street the following day, she found Mrs Thomas flitting around in great excitement, picking things up and putting them down again, giving the children tasks and then changing her mind. It was so unlike the lady to be excitable, Frances supposed something very out of the ordinary had happened.
‘Oh, Mrs Randall,’ she said, on seeing her. ‘Such news, such wonderful news. We have a mystery benefactor. A very generous man
. He has bought a new home for us. A whole house, big enough for us to take care of all the orphans we have and more besides—what do you think of that?’
‘My goodness, that is good news,’ Frances said, realising immediately that a bigger house and more children would take more money to keep up and that meant working harder than ever. As soon as she had finished Lavinia’s portrait, she must begin on Spring and Summer for the gentleman at the Royal Academy. How much dare she ask for them?
‘Where is this house?’ she asked, unwilling to spoil the matron’s happiness by pointing out the drawbacks.
‘Not too far away. In Maiden Lane. There is work to be done on it before we can move, but the older children will help and there are one or two ladies like yourself who do not mind rolling up their sleeves. We shall soon have everything set to rights.’
‘You may count on me to do whatever I can. Mrs Thomas but, just at present, my time is limited.’
‘Oh, ma’am, you already do so much, I did not mean…’
Frances laughed. ‘I know you did not, but rest assured, any spare time I have is at your disposal.’
Balancing the two sides of her life was becoming more and more difficult, but she did not want to give up either and, besides, it kept her busy and left her no time to brood. She had done enough of that when she was seventeen and had soon discovered it did not help. It had not restored Marcus to her and it would not do so now. She went home to her other life, to finish the portrait and complete the preparations for the soirée.
Because it was Lavinia’s debut in such company, Frances, with Marcus’s consent, had helped her to choose her dress and very lovely she looked. The gown was white, as befitted a young lady not yet out, made of silk and gauze and decorated with tiny seed pearls. It had a high waist, little puffed sleeves and a decorous boat-shaped neckline.
In the last few weeks Lavinia had lost the gaucheness of the adolescent girl, the slight clumsiness when moving in a crowded room and was developing a poise which would have flattered a young lady two or three years older.