by Holly West
I watched him closely as he formulated his response. He seemed to experience a range of emotions all within a few seconds. “Margaret was betrothed to Nathan Fitch,” he finally said, as though that answered everything.
The night Margaret learned of the betrothal—a few months before I left for Amsterdam—she’d burst into my room and flung herself across my bed, inconsolable.
“It isn’t as bad as all that,” I’d said, stroking her hair as she sobbed into my pillows. “Your father loves you, he wouldn’t do anything to make you unhappy.”
She turned her head slightly so that she could speak. “You’re wrong, Isabel. He’s determined to make me do it. He thinks I can’t possibly decide such an important matter for myself.”
I’d continued to soothe her, but in the end, she was right. Sir Richard insisted that she marry Nathan and in fact, the marriage plans had already begun.
“I know she was betrothed,” I said to Sir Richard now. “But she wasn’t happy about it. She and I spoke about it often before I left for Amsterdam. Maybe she was so distressed about it because she loved Adam instead.”
“If she did, I assure you I knew nothing about it.” He glanced again at Margaret’s portrait and leaned back in his chair as if to gain some distance from me. “You’re implying that I was forcing Margaret to marry a man she didn’t love. Have you considered the possibility that Adam stole this portrait?”
I hadn’t actually thought of that. It seemed too far out of character for him to do such a thing. Nevertheless, I said, “I’ll concede it’s a possibility. But you said yourself that you’d never seen this portrait before. Perhaps she had it painted in secret, with the intent of giving it to Adam.”
“I said I didn’t recall ever seeing it. It was a long time ago. I can hardly be blamed for not knowing about every little thing my daughter did, especially something as trivial as having her portrait painted.”
The conversation had become contentious, which wasn’t my intention. “You misunderstand me. I’m in no way questioning the care you took with Margaret or implying that you were forcing her to marry. Margaret loved you very much—she never would’ve done anything to disappoint you. I simply want to know the truth—there are things about my brother’s past I know nothing about.”
“You think Margaret would’ve never purposely disappointed me,” he said sadly. He paused. “Do you want to know the truth? The truth is that in the end, Margaret broke my heart.”
The pain in his eyes discomfited me. “Please tell me what happened.”
“Margaret didn’t die of consumption. She ran away.”
“Ran away? Where did she run to?”
“I don’t know. It was July, 1665, and as you already know, the family was confined at Bingley House, waiting out the plague. Margaret was to marry Nathan Fitch, but the nuptials were postponed due to the pestilence. But it was understood by all that the marriage would take place when things were safer and the scourge had passed.
“It’s true that Margaret was unhappy that summer,” he continued. “I thought it was because she’d been forced to stay at Bingley House. She’d become accustomed, as we all had, to traveling to the city regularly for parties and such. Lady Winser was very strict about it—she feared for her children’s lives and hardly let them out of the house during that time. She didn’t want to risk either one of them getting sick. Margaret hated being cooped up and complained about it incessantly.”
“But surely she knew it was only temporary, for her own good?”
“The young always think they’ll live forever, don’t they? Margaret thought her mother and I were being unreasonable. Even so, I never thought she’d do what she did.”
“Did you have a quarrel about it?”
“Oh, there were many quarrels. But I never took them too seriously. Margaret had always been impetuous, you know that. She often spoke without giving thought to how hurtful her words were.” Sir Richard chuckled. “She was rather impossible to live with that summer, but I attributed it all to her circumstances. We were all of us on edge.”
He took a deep breath and a silence hung between us while I waited for him to continue. I knew the story was painful for him to recount and I gave him the courtesy to tell it in his own time.
“The night she left,” he said, “was one of the more pleasant I can recall from that time. She was cheerful and loving, the way a daughter should be. I even remember telling Lady Winser that perhaps Margaret’s disposition had finally changed for the better and that we’d weathered the storm with her. My wife happily agreed. It wasn’t until the following morning that we discovered she’d run away in the middle of the night.”
“To London?”
“It’s what we assumed.”
A terrible thought occurred to me. “You’re a rich man, Sir Richard. Is it possible that Margaret was kidnapped?”
“There was evidence that she’d packed a bag when she left. And we never received a ransom request—for what other reason would she have been kidnapped? No, I think she fled to London on her own. I sent a man into the city to look for her and when he came back empty-handed, I went myself. There was no sign of her.”
“You told me you’d gone back to London to find Adam in mid-July and learned from his landlady, Mrs. Downey, that he’d gone to a pesthouse and died. Was this the same trip?”
He paused then said, “Yes.”
“You had no reason to believe that Margaret had gone to London to meet Adam?”
“None at all. But being in the city myself, it seemed reasonable to visit Adam to see how he and the shop were doing. I had no idea he was ill until I was informed by Mrs. Downey.”
“Mrs. Downey said Adam had gone to the City pesthouse. Did you inquire after him there?”
Sir Richard appeared shocked by my question. “Of course not. To do so would’ve been taking an unacceptable risk with my own life.”
“Even if Margaret might’ve been there?”
“Ah, but you see, I had no reason to believe that she would be. I checked with friends who’d remained in the city, but no one had seen her. After a couple of days I returned to Bingley House, hoping that she would eventually come home.”
“But she never did?”
He shook his head. “A week went by, then two. Poor Nathan had no inkling that his future bride had fled, and when she didn’t return after a month, we assumed the worst. We decided it was best for everyone if we told Nathan and his family that Margaret had fell ill with consumption and died.”
His admission horrified me. How could he and Lady Winser live with themselves after concocting such a terrible lie? And what if Margaret would’ve returned? What would they have done then?
Sir Richard gave me a wry half smile. “I can see by your expression that you disapprove of our decision.”
“What you did was inexcusable. You killed Margaret off without even knowing if it was true!”
“I can’t say I blame you for your reaction. At the time it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do—we did it to spare Nathan’s honor.”
“Nathan’s honor? You’ll pardon me, Sir Richard, but I think you did it to spare your own honor. But at what cost? Margaret might’ve been alive! Why, she might still be alive!”
Sir Richard returned the portrait to me. “This is yours now,” he said. I laid it in my lap. “You’re right. She might’ve been alive. But you’re forgetting a very important fact. I’ve not laid eyes on my daughter since that last night, when she was so sweet and loving. No one has heard a word from her. So to Lady Winser and me, Margaret is dead. What choice have we but to accept that?”
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.
“Because you’re determined to delve into the past. You want the truth. Well, I’ve just given it to you. It’s terrible and it’s unforgivable, but it’s the
truth nonetheless.”
Sir Richard’s shame was palpable. He’d taken a considerable risk by confessing what he and his wife had done. As despicable as it was, I understood why he’d kept it hidden for all of these years.
“And now,” he continued, “I hope this matter has been put to rest for you. I don’t know the precise reason that Margaret left Bingley House and I doubt I ever will. Perhaps it’s as you believe, that she wanted to be with Adam. If that’s the case, I wish she would’ve told me. But there is one thing I don’t doubt, Isabel, and I haven’t for a very long time. My daughter is dead. Adam is dead. And this, unfortunately, is the only truth that matters.”
Chapter Sixteen
My mind swam with thoughts about Adam and Margaret as Sam and I traveled to Coal Yard Alley that night. I wouldn’t have gone at all were it not for the sorry state of my account ledger. The king’s generous gift might’ve increased my worth but that had little real impact, for I would never sell it. Its sentimental value far outweighed its value in gold.
Sir Richard’s admission still stung. His deception felt like a betrayal; if he’d fabricated such an outlandish story about Margaret’s flight from Bingley House, what else had he lied about? It disturbed me that the one person I’d trusted in all of this had misled me all along.
It was the first time Sam and I and been to Coal Yard Alley together in nearly three months. He remained in the street, hoping that his presence would encourage potential customers. It felt like the old days, when I’d first rented the room on the third floor of this dilapidated room, discreet enough so that the nobility I wanted to serve would feel hidden and safe. Considering the state of my business now, perhaps it was too hidden.
I busied myself lighting the fire, which took far longer than it generally took Charlotte. When it was sufficiently bright, I turned and raised my skirts to warm my buttocks against it. I was just going to sit down when Sam came in, looking exhilarated. “We’ve a visitor!” he exclaimed. “You’ll never guess who it is.”
“The king?” I said dryly, in no mood for games.
“You’re not far off. It’s been a long time since I last saw her, but if I’m not mistaken our visitor is Barbara Palmer.”
Sam escorted the woman into my room, motioning for her to sit on the bench across from me. She laid her muff next to her and pulled back her blue velvet hood, revealing long tendrils of auburn hair, a shade similar to my own. I’d not seen her in more than four years, when she left London for France. But one glimpse at her unusual violet eyes convinced me it was indeed Barbara. Barbara Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland.
Anger seeped up from my chest, warming my cheeks. What the devil was she doing here? She was the reason I’d been sent to Amsterdam in the first place—she’d convinced Charles to send me. At the time, she was one of his most powerful mistresses and she knew he’d fallen in love with me. She wanted me out of the way. It was impossible for me not to lay the blame for many of my misfortunes upon this contemptible woman, including Adam’s death. It mattered not that she wasn’t directly responsible; if I hadn’t gone to Holland he might still be alive.
It wasn’t the first time she’d visited my room at Coal Yard Alley. I’d started my business in 1672, just as her influence with Charles was waning. Over the years, she’d done too many unforgivable things; he’d grown tired of her constant complaints and interference and he was no longer willing to overlook her shortcomings. He was done with her and she knew it. She came to Mistress Ruby, wanting advice about how to prevent her inevitable ousting.
I had little to fear from her at that point, but I still considered her presence at court a nuisance. There was nothing I would’ve liked better than to see her banished. But while the king had fallen out of love with her, she still wielded enough power among the courtiers that I wanted her endorsement for Mistress Ruby. It would attract just the sort of customers I was hoping to serve. Thus, as much as I’d wanted to turn her away or give her bad advice, I’d chosen my words carefully.
“The king is not yet ready to give your ladyship up,” I’d begun. She was then the Countess of Castlemaine, a title she’d acquired through her husband, Roger Palmer, when Charles had made him the first Earl of Castlemaine. The circumstances of the title—it could only be inherited by Barbara’s male children regardless of whether Roger ever remarried—made it obvious to everyone that it was an honor bestowed because of his wife’s performance in the royal bedchamber rather than any service that Roger had performed himself. Roger was humiliated by it, but then he was far from the only man who had benefitted from his wife’s private service to the crown.
“But you should stay away from him for a period of time,” I’d continued. “You’ve made yourself too available to him, you’re at his beck and call. For all of that, you might as well be his wife. Give him a chance to yearn for you.”
She’d been angry at first, as though my suggestion that she’d erred in her dealings with His Majesty was insulting in some way. But she knew well enough it was the truth, for why else would she be here? I could tell she was listening closely, considering my words.
I knew she’d never be able to stay away from Whitehall, for as much as she might want to comply with my advice, she was afraid of being forgotten. My hope was that she’d continue to make a nuisance of herself and fall out of favor with Charles while still considering my counsel wise and recommending me to other courtiers.
In the end, it worked. The king eventually demanded that Barbara leave Whitehall. In desperation, she made one last visit to Mistress Ruby, during which I told her that if there was no possibility for reconciliation, she should get what she could from him.
As it turned out, what Barbara wanted was a duchy for her and titles for each of the children she’d borne Charles. Desperate as he was to get rid of her, he agreed to her demands, making her the first Duchess of Cleveland. She absconded to France soon after that.
Looking at her now, I could see that she appeared considerably older than she had the last time I’d seen her. She was thirty-eight now, and though she was still beautiful, her mouth was pinched and the lines beneath her eyes were pronounced. Had life in Paris treated her so badly? Knowing Barbara, she had only herself to blame. She was, as they say, her own worst enemy.
“I’ve been here before,” Barbara said to me now. “Do you remember me?”
I never admitted to knowing the identity of my visitors. If they saw fit to reveal themselves, that was one thing, but Mary Bixby, the soothsayer who’d schooled me, had told me that I should always err on the side of discretion.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
Predictably, she appeared displeased. Barbara craved notoriety and in denying recognition I’d insulted her vanity. She shifted on the bench as though she were in some discomfort. “Good Christ. Haven’t you got a cushion or something?”
“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, madam.”
“I’m the Duchess of Cleveland. You may therefore address me as ‘Your Grace.’”
“Pardon me, Your Grace. How may I be of service to you?”
“I’ve been away from London for quite some time and now I have a mind to come back. I want to know if it’s a favorable time for my return.”
God’s blood, Barbara intended a return to Whitehall. I wondered if Charles knew about it.
“Well?” Barbara said.
“My fee is two pounds.”
Barbara laughed. “Two pounds? I’ll give you a shilling and you’ll be happy with it.”
I was about to make a tart remark but then realized that I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to confide in me.
Still, I wouldn’t accept a mere shilling as a fee, regardless of the circumstances. I’d worked too hard to build my business to bow to the whims of my customers. If word got out that I was bargaining with my visitors, I might never command such high f
ees again.
“You’ll give me two pounds if you want my counsel.”
Her lips spread into a smile and her catlike eyes turned up at the corners. “You’re an impudent old witch, aren’t you? Tell me, do you have integrity too?”
“I’ll leave that for Your Grace to decide.”
She harrumphed, took the requested coins out of a leather purse and handed them over.
“Very well then,” I said, tucking them away. “You want to know if you’re welcome here in England. What makes you think that you wouldn’t be?”
“His Majesty and I had a falling-out. Oh, nothing serious, mind you, but I found it necessary to leave the country for a period of time. Temporarily, of course, just to clear the air between us. I want to know if he’s ready for my return.”
“I can’t help Your Grace unless you’re honest with me.”
Her eyes blazed. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m a fortune-teller. Do you think I can’t deduce the true circumstances of your leaving England?”
She made a face. “All right then. I’ll admit, my leaving wasn’t on the friendliest of terms. There’s no point in remaining in London if the king won’t see me. I want to know if he’s changed his mind.”
“What you’d really like to know is whether His Majesty will welcome you back into his bed.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Of course that’s what I want to know!”
I set my head to the side and regarded Barbara, searching carefully for the overblown arrogance she was known for. But I was surprised by what I saw instead: fear.
I detested this woman. I considered her personally responsible for the fact that I’d not been in London when Adam had died. I had therefore never given much thought to the ways in which Barbara and I were alike, but now, I saw the woman I could become if I went through with my decision to move back to Whitehall—lonely and rejected, exiled to a foreign country with no real home of my own. I shivered at the thought.