Freedom to Love

by Susanna Fraser

  Jeannette shrugged.

  “You’d likely have to go to a boarding school and—I’d miss you.”

  “You’ll have Henry.”

  “Yes. But everything else—everyone else—is strange and new. Why don’t we try a governess for the next year, and after that if you’re not happy, we can send you to school?”

  “Mmm. I suppose that will do. I’d miss you, too, and I reckon you do need me. How does it feel, being Lady Farlow?”

  “I hate it. I was looking forward to going back to Canada.”

  “You wouldn’t have been able to for at least another year, until that baby is safely born and strong enough.”

  “I know. But now I never can. This doesn’t feel like my life. Though it’s what our father wanted for me, almost.”

  “Really?”

  “Did I never tell you? He talked about taking me to Paris, claiming I was his legitimate white daughter, and marrying me to one of Napoleon’s new aristocrats. I think he thought that since the emperor himself had married a Creole woman, surely one of his generals would happily take me.”

  “It’s a good thing that never happened.” Jeannette shrugged philosophically. “Where would you be now?”

  “That was Father—full of mad dreams. When I was little, I thought he could do no wrong, and I dreamed of my triumph in Paris. It was like being a princess in a fairy story. But by the time I was your age—no, probably even younger—I knew it would never happen.”

  “He was always better at dreaming than doing.”

  “And I didn’t even want it, in the end. I realized I was more my mother’s daughter than my father’s. I didn’t want to pass just because I could if I stayed away from people who knew me and stayed out of the sun. I wanted to marry someone like Gratien, hold my head up before all the world and be proud of what I am. Now—Henry hasn’t told his family yet.”

  “I didn’t think they knew yet. None of them said anything at dinner, though Mr. Edward did say you were very dark.”

  “What did Henry do?”

  “He coughed and looked embarrassed and said, ‘Spanish ladies are much darker than English ones.’”

  “Damn him.”

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “I don’t know! I should. But I’m afraid. I don’t know what they’d think of me. I don’t know what it would do to Henry if it became widely known. Or to Felicity and Edward. What would it do to their prospects, to have a cuarterona sister-in-law?”

  Jeannette shrugged, and Thérèse hid a sigh. She shouldn’t be burdening a thirteen-year-old with such a decision. But who else did she have whom she could be honest with?

  “And what about you?” she asked after a moment. “Are you happy here? You can’t hide.”

  “No, but I’m not the one who has to be Lady Farlow.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m happy yet. I’m happy I’m free. And I’m happy to have a comfortable bed and plenty to eat, and to be off the ship. Ask me about the rest in a month or six.”

  Thérèse laughed. “That’s fair.” And was possibly the philosophy she should adopt for herself.

  * * *

  The visit to the modiste proved unsettling. Thérèse thought she succeeded in expressing only a customer’s degree of interest in dresses, fabrics and the latest fashions—flounces were certainly more prominent than she could ever recall, though Madame Sylvie and Lady Farlow both assured Thérèse she was slender enough to wear them well.

  For now, she thought, though she didn’t notice she’d rested her hand on her abdomen until she caught the modiste and her mother-in-law exchanging significant glances.

  No, what unsettled her was the instant deference she received from Madame Sylvie and all her assistants once her mother-in-law introduced her as the new Lady Farlow. It wasn’t the servility of slaves, but she’d still never expected to be treated with the same obsequiousness her mother had reserved for the grandest wives and daughters of the oldest and richest families in New Orleans. She had to admit rank had its uses when the modiste assured her the first few dresses would be delivered in days—day dresses and a traveling costume in the somber gray and black-trimmed white of half mourning, in respect for Henry’s brother, along with an evening dress of white under black gauze and lace that promised to be especially beautiful when made up.

  Thérèse also couldn’t get used to the sheer immensity of London. By comparison New Orleans—bustling, proud, vital New Orleans—seemed little more than a village. She stared out the carriage window as they traveled to and from Madame Sylvie’s, biting her tongue lest she say anything that marked her as hopelessly colonial and countrified.

  By the time they arrived home she was exhausted and once again queasy. Her companions united to send her to bed for a nap, but shortly after she awoke a few hours later, Lady Farlow summoned her for tea in the parlor, as long as she was feeling quite strong enough to be up and about. She thought about feigning continued indisposition, but surely that was the coward’s way. The sooner she learned whether she and her mother-in-law could tolerate each other the better.

  She wasn’t sure what made Henry’s mother the most intimidating person she’d ever met. The dowager baroness was tiny—clearly Henry had inherited his respectable height and solid frame from his father—but somehow not in the least delicate. Perhaps that was where the intimidation lay. Lady Farlow’s slenderness wasn’t that of a flower, to be torn to pieces with a gust of wind, but of a rapier, ready to pierce to the bone.

  “I wanted a little time alone with you, my dear,” Lady Farlow said once they were seated opposite each other, each armored with a cup of tea and a plate of dainty cakes and biscuits. “I know this must be exhausting for you, but you’re bearing up very well.”

  “Thank you, madame.” Thérèse stared into her teacup. “I know I’m not the sort of daughter-in-law you expected to have. I wasn’t raised to this.”

  A small frown furrowed Lady Farlow’s brow. “But your father was a man of property, I understand. So in our terms, you are of the gentry.”

  She supposed that would be true if her mother had been white and her birth legitimate. “Perhaps. But—if I hadn’t met Henry, the man I would’ve most likely married was the son of a shipbuilder who meant to follow his father’s trade.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone else that if I were you. For the world, you will be a planter’s daughter, a Creole aristocrat.”

  Thérèse bit her lip.

  “You will soon learn how to go on in England, as I was obliged to do as a bride. You are not lacking in cleverness, I think. Henry says you found out about his problem with letters.”

  “I did.”

  “We shall help him get by. No one need ever know. All he needs is a good secretary, and he needn’t attend Parliament.”

  No wonder Henry was so determined to hide his struggles. “I know he intends to do his part in the Lords. He wants to work toward the abolition of slavery.”

  Lady Farlow sighed and shook her head. “He has a good heart, but he must accept his limitations.”

  “He has more than a good heart,” Thérèse cried. She supposed she shouldn’t lash out at her mother-in-law, but she couldn’t bear to hear Henry dismissed, and by his own mother. “He’s one of the cleverest men I’ve ever met. He’s quick-thinking in a crisis, witty, good with people...I think he will make a wonderful baron.”

  “I’m glad to hear you speak up for him.”

  “I always will—though I’m still not sure I’ll make a suitable baroness.”

  Lady Farlow waved an airy hand. “Many a younger son has married a lady who is merely genteel, or even a merchant’s daughter with a fortune, only to be elevated to the peerage. You were clearly brought up to have the manners and speech of a lady, which is all most of society will care for, especially with as romantic a tale as you and
Henry have. You’re quite pretty, too, if rather dark...you really must take more care to use a parasol in the summer months.”

  Thérèse bit her lip. “My mother always said the same.”

  “Mothers know best.”

  What if she told part of the truth? It could give her an idea of whether she could ever dare to tell the whole. “Not all of my ancestors were white,” she said slowly. “My great-grandfather was a Choctaw Indian.”

  Lady Farlow’s impeccable posture deserted her. She slumped against the back of her chair, her hand to her heart. “Mon Dieu,” she said. “I was afraid you were going to say he was a Negro.”

  Thérèse kept her face blank and said nothing, instead taking a bite of Shrewsbury cake. She had her answer. She knew her new family’s limits. Could she live within them?

  Meanwhile Lady Farlow subjected Thérèse’s features to a minute inspection. “Truly an Indian? I don’t suppose...was he a chief?”

  “I’m quite sure he wasn’t.” He’d been a slave, probably a war captive. A chief would’ve been able to negotiate his freedom, not toil his life away growing rice and indigo for a white planter.

  “Then the least said of it, the better,” Lady Farlow said with an air of decision.

  “I’m not ashamed of my Indian blood.” Nor of any of the rest of her blood.

  “I do not say you should be, only you must consider that you are no longer in America. If society found out, some might gossip that Henry had taken a savage for a bride, and that would not be good for him, nor for Felicity. She will make her debut this spring, and we hope she can marry well.”

  “I understand,” Thérèse said soberly. “I don’t want to hurt her chances.” And so she must choose—live a lie for the rest of her life, or lose Henry.

  Chapter Twenty

  After he’d spent the better part of a year in fear of being taken for a deserter, Henry’s visit to Horse Guards proved almost comically uneventful. Upon presenting himself to the young subaltern serving as a sort of general secretary, he was left to cool his heels for almost an hour until they found an official of sufficient seniority to review his case. He was then ushered in to see a colonel he’d never met before. He briefly told his tale, stressing that he didn’t want Bertrand Bondurant’s death to become generally known, and presented the letter from Captain Hart.

  The colonel read the letter, tapped his fingers on his desk for a moment, then grinned and offered Henry his hand. Surprised, Henry shook it.

  “Welcome home, Lord Farlow,” the colonel said. “Don’t worry. The army has no wish to try you for desertion. We’ve no wars to fight, and can you imagine the public outcry if a gentleman in your position—just returned from the dead, restored to the bosom of a family already grieving their eldest son, newly elevated to the peerage—was court-martialed? We’d squander half the goodwill we earned defeating Boney for good and all this summer.”

  Henry shook his head. “I hadn’t considered it from that angle.”

  “No, why should you? It’s to your credit that you came here the morning after you returned. That alone shows you’re no deserter—such men aren’t known for turning up at Horse Guards to confess their crimes.”

  Now Henry laughed. “I suppose not.”

  “Now, I’m sure you have other business to attend to today. I suppose you’ll be selling your commission now that you’ve inherited?”

  “Yes, sir. Though I hadn’t thought that many steps ahead as yet. I only thought of clearing my name.”

  After a few more pleasantries, Henry and the colonel shook hands again, and Henry stepped out into the autumn sunshine, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His ebullition didn’t last, however—inheriting the title and losing Charles was a far greater burden. And one that he must bear till his dying day.

  He hoped Thérèse could bear it along with him. This wasn’t the life or the world she’d agreed to when she accepted his marriage offer, and it wasn’t fair to her that she must live in his world when she could never return to hers. Their original plan to build a new life all their own had had a certain symmetry, a certain equality, that he could no longer offer.

  He’d make it up to her. He’d do everything he could to ensure her happiness and comfort. Above all, he’d offer her his understanding, since no one else would. In the eyes of all the world, they’d stepped into a far better situation. Who would believe them if they said they would’ve preferred a farm in Canada, with a stout cabin, a barn and a stable for a string of carefully bred horses, to a respectable English estate, a house in Town and the titles of baron and baroness?

  He’d endeavor to point out the good he could do—that they could do together. They could more than repay the promise they’d made to the men and women who’d guided them on their escape and work for the abolition of slavery. Jeannette would have a better education and a more secure future than they could’ve given her in Canada. Their own children would have greater wealth and a higher standing in the world. Their firstborn son would be Lord Farlow after him, their other sons could enter the respectable professions of their choice, and their daughters would all make good marriages. Thérèse would like that, wouldn’t she? It was what her mother had wanted for her, wasn’t it?

  He only wished he could persuade her to tell his family about her ancestry. He doubted she had it in her to keep such a secret for the rest of her life, and the sooner truths were met, the less of an explosion they would cause. Of course it wouldn’t be easy—Mama was so concerned about his bride’s pedigree, so wishful for a French lordling or Spanish hidalgo to boast of—but she’d be better primed to accept a mixed-race Lady Farlow now, in her gratitude to find Henry alive, than she’d be in six months or six years. But it was Thérèse’s life and her story to tell.

  He spent the rest of the morning and the first few hours of the afternoon on the business that struck him as most urgent now that his name was cleared. First he authorized his regimental agent to sell his commission and instructed him to transfer his accumulated pay and prize money to his brother’s—to his—banker. He then called on the banker in question to see how the estate fared. Charles had been a careful manager, so Henry faced no immediate crisis beyond the simple fact of inheriting the title. As lords went, he wasn’t especially rich—the Farlow lands were neither that good, nor that extensive—but nor were they burdened with excessive debts. Henry hoped that the next Lord Farlow would be as content as he was, when his turn came to pass the torch.

  That business concluded, Henry decided to call on his own commanding officer, Colonel Dryhurst, before returning to Farlow House. Shortly after he announced himself to the Dryhurst butler as “Henry Farlow, come home from America,” the colonel himself appeared in the entry hall.

  “You’re alive! Good God, you’re alive!” And his commanding officer pulled him in for an embrace made masculine by hearty thumps on his shoulders.

  Henry grinned. “As you see.” He was becoming accustomed to these stunned reactions, but on the whole he would rejoice when the news of his continued existence made it at last to all his friends and acquaintances.

  But he was happy to accept a hearty handshake and another few slaps on the shoulder from the figure who appeared just behind the colonel. “Elijah Cameron! What brings you to London?”

  Cameron shook his head. “That can wait, sir. What brings you to not be buried in an unmarked grave in Louisiana?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Then you must come into the parlor and tell it,” Colonel Dryhurst said.

  Henry soon found himself seated in a small parlor, a cup of tea in his hand and a plate of biscuits at his side. Before he began on his tale he did manage to learn why Cameron was in town, since his wife Rose was in the parlor, too, along with a little black-haired girl sleeping on the sofa whom they introduced as their daughter Mary. They had
come for the week to visit the extended Cameron family and meet their new nephew, Cameron’s younger sister’s second-born. They’d left their inn temporarily in care of an under-cook whom Rose trusted to follow her recipes that were already giving the Red Lion a reputation as the best place to stop to dine or to pass a night along the Great North Road. “I wouldn’t wish to stay away more than a week,” she said, “but family is family.”

  “So it is,” Henry said. “What about little Jake? I hope he is well.”

  “Very well,” Cameron said. “We left him with my parents. I swear he and my father almost forget he’s not his grandson by birth. He wants to be a clerk, too, when he’s grown.”

  “A respectable profession,” the colonel said.

  “Yes, and I think it will suit him,” Cameron said in a tone that somehow made it clear that it wouldn’t suit him. Henry wished it otherwise. He couldn’t think of a man he’d rather have for his clerk and secretary now that he must be a lord.

  But that was as much talk of anything but his own survival that his old friends from the regiment were willing to hear. Henry again told the tale, for the fourth time that day, though in the version he’d told the banker and the regimental agent, he’d claimed to be dangerously ill until after the regiment retreated, keeping the reason his wife and sister-in-law had been in distress vague. These three got the real story, but he vowed it would spread no further abroad.

  “How remarkable,” the colonel said at the end. “I’m glad your interview at Horse Guards went well, for you acted the part of a hero.”

  “I tried to do the right thing. If I could’ve taken them to the regiment I would have, and it would’ve sped our journey, but it was impossible.”