The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  “Miss Syms ain’t kin to the Westerbys,” pointed out Sir Anthony. “Also she is of so refined and sensitive a nature that you could not imagine her attending such a funeral!”

  “Dear me,” said Lord Charles. “You have indeed been smitten. Now be a good fellow and let me finish my paper. I promise to make my bow to the fair Miss Syms.”

  Sir Anthony relapsed into rosy dreams, and Lord Charles stared unseeingly at his paper. As far as he remembered, the Symses were gentry and quite well-to-do. Nonetheless, his friend Anthony was possessed of a very handsome fortune, and already Lord Charles was wondering whether the fair Philadelphia was as selfish as she sounded. Well, he would have an opportunity to judge for himself that very evening. But how marvelous that he could discuss anything to do with Lady Jane without feeling that old sick longing! The sun of Italy had burned all his unnatural passion away, and he was heartily glad of it. Before the advent of Lady Jane, he had not been used to these violent swings of emotion. He could look back on his attempts to seduce her with some amusement. What a silly farce it had all been!

  He said casually, “What of Lady Jane? Is she still in London?”

  Sir Anthony nodded his head vigorously. “She don’t go out much. A drive in the park is all. All her life is spent rebuilding Eppington Chase. Must be costing her every penny she has. Squads of workmen at it round the clock. And the gardens! She’s having hills flattened and hills built, serpentine walks, pagodas, temples, follies, urns, and even artificial waterfalls. Miss Syms says there are thousands of workmen swarming all over the place.”

  “Oddso! And how did the enterprising Miss Syms happen to see all this? Don’t tell me she actually paid a visit to her parents.”

  “Well, no,” said Sir Anthony awkwardly. “The Bentleys were mortal fond o’ the Chase, and Mrs. Bentley just wanted to have a peek, so to speak, and took Miss Syms with her.”

  He hurried on as he saw the look of distaste on his friend’s face. “That was a strange story that came out about Westerby’s death.”

  “You forget, I have been away,” said Lord Charles, laying down his paper. “Was there not enough strange, with it being rumored that the Marchioness herself had set fire to the Chase? I heard that rumor before I left.”

  “It was like this,” said Sir Anthony, hitching his chair forward. “’Tis said that Westerby died over the shock o’ seeing the ghost of James Bentley.”

  “Tush, man. Westerby’s wits were wandering. Everyone knew that.”

  “But,” insisted Sir Anthony, “Lady Jane and Lady Hetty, they saw this ghost as well.”

  “Women’s fancies,” said Lord Charles, picking up his paper to indicate he had lost interest in the subject.

  The Italian opera was crowded to the roof that evening, despite the presence of a very democratic fog, which afflicted gallery and boxes alike and made the singers look as if they were performing behind a screen of gauze.

  Lord Charles and Sir Anthony arrived late, owing to the latter’s nervousness over matters of dress. Sir Anthony was polished and painted and patched and pomaded to the hilt. The entire contents of his jewel case seemed to be pinned over his large body, and because of the stiffened width of the skirts of his coat, he had to edge sideways through the door of the box.

  Lord Charles was dressed, with his usual care, in a fine coat of gold brocade. He wore his own hair powdered, a fact which pleased Sir Anthony very much, since he had been afraid his friend meant to shame him by arriving at the opera un-powdered.

  Lord Charles settled back in his chair and concentrated on the music. It was marvelous to be back in London and cured of that puppyish yearning for Lady Jane. Already it seemed like some folly of his youth, although his infatuation had taken place only a few months ago. It might be amusing, he reflected, as the voice of the male soprano threatened to crack the crystals of the chandelier, to see her again. He wondered if she ever thought of him. How very relieved she must have been to learn he had gone abroad. But the horrible death of her father was punishment enough. She would probably never marry, he mused, since it seemed she was already married to Eppington Chase. He glanced around the theater, but it was impossible to make out the faces in the boxes because of the thickening fog.

  At the first interval, Sir Anthony tugged impatiently at his sleeve. “Come,” he said to Lord Charles. “Now you will meet her!”

  Half amused, half irritated, Lord Charles followed him along to the Bentley box. At first he saw only the familiar features of Fanny Bentley and her mother. And then their companion turned around, and he caught his breath. Philadelphia Syms was exquisite. Her fair hair was lightly powdered, and the gold glinted underneath. Her flawless roseleaf complexion owed nothing to art, and her figure and dress were perfection itself.

  Despite the Bentleys’ fulminating looks, Philadelphia held out a little hand to him and murmured she was delighted to make his acquaintance. She had a charming smile, and Lord Charles was well able to see why his friend was so smitten.

  “I am acquainted with a friend of yours,” said Lord Charles, nonetheless determined to put the cat among the pigeons. “Lady Jane Lovelace.”

  The Bentleys looked daggers at him, but Philadelphia’s large blue eyes swam with crystal tears.

  “It makes me very sad,” she said in a soft voice, “that Jane does not wish to be friends any more. She has become so cross and angry and odd. But one cannot blame the poor thing. It must be a terrible burden to know that one’s papa died mad, and then wonder if one is tainted with the family curse oneself.”

  “There was nothing at all the matter with the Marquess of Westerby’s brains before he muddled them with an excess of liquor,” said Lord Charles tartly.

  “You must forgive me,” said Philadelphia. “I was merely trying to excuse poor dear Jane’s cold behavior.”

  Again that enchanting smile crossed her face, and Lord Charles found to his surprise that he was almost prepared to forgive her anything. Already he was making excuses for her in his mind.

  “Say you are not angry with me,” pleaded Philadelphia.

  “I could not be angry with such a vision,” said Lord Charles gallantly.

  “Then perhaps we will see you at the Osbornes’ later this evening,” said Philadelphia.

  “Osborne?” he queried. “I have not been invited.”

  “In Huggets Square,” explained Philadelphia. “Opposite Jane’s house. Sir Anthony is invited. He will take you.”

  “Lady Jane’s house,” said Lord Charles in some surprise. “She still lives there?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Philadelphia in a low voice. “After—after her stepmama threw poor Mrs. Bentley and her daughters out into the street, we thought she and Jane would move in. But they simply shut and locked the place.”

  The box was becoming crowded with Philadelphia’s admirers, and Mrs. Bentley was obviously furious at Philadelphia for spending so much time with Lord Charles.

  “I shall be there,” said Lord Charles, bending over Philadelphia’s hand again.

  After the next act had begun, Mrs. Bentley whispered savagely to Philadelphia, “What mean you, encouraging that villain? He killed my husband!”

  Philadelphia smoothed down her silken skirts. “I think Jane has a tendre for him,” she said softly. “Do you not see? I could be the very instrument to hurt them both.”

  She gave a charming laugh. “Lord Charles will fall in love with me, which will anguish Jane, and I shall out Lord Charles after he is well and truly smitten, which will anguish him.”

  “How do you know Jane is in love with Welbourne?” demanded Mrs. Bentley.

  “Servants’ gossip,” said Philadelphia airily. “I never do anything without listening closely to it first. And you yourself, ma’am, told me how they kissed passionately at Vauxhall, and yet my Lady Jane does not have a ring on her left hand.”

  “There you are, Mama!” cried Fanny. “I told you Philadelphia was a trump!”

  “A girl after my own heart,” said Mrs.
Bentley, the small curved smile deepening on her face. “I hate both of them.”

  Philadelphia quickly raised her fan to hide the look of surprise on her face. She knew Mrs. Bentley to be malicious, but the hate and venom in her voice when she spoke of Jane and Welbourne seemed murderous. But Philadelphia knew which side her bread was buttered on and was determined to ingratiate herself further with the Bentleys.

  She was very ambitious and had planned to marry and marry well, by fair means or foul, and it was easing to the mind to know that she was making her debut from a household that favored foul methods.

  But until she had met the fascinating Lord Charles, Philadelphia had never considered marrying a handsome and exciting husband. She had been prepared to settle for a title and great wealth. But were she to marry Lord Charles, why, then life would not be dull at all, and she would have the vast Welbourne fortune at the tips of her fingers.

  Of course, the Bentleys would not like it, but by the time she was safely engaged to Lord Charles, the Bentleys would be of no use whatsoever.

  Philadelphia remembered again the story of that passionate embrace at Vauxhall. It had upset Mrs. Bentley very much, so much that she had ranted and raved afterward, Fanny had said, in quite a terrible way. And then, when Lord Charles had gone abroad and Jane was still unwed, Mrs. Bentley had said, “Perhaps I was too hasty in my revenge. But it is done now.”

  What had she done? wondered Philadelphia curiously. She had been nowhere near the Chase on the night of the Marquess’s death, and everyone knew the old fool had died of an apoplexy after he thought he had seen James Bentley’s ghost.

  Philadelphia carefully stored the problem away in one of the neat compartments of her mind and turned her thoughts to the more pleasurable prospect of seeing Lord Charles later that evening.

  Perhaps it was a good thing Lady Jane did not go anywhere.…

  “You don’t go anywheres,” said Bella crossly. “It’s not right, my lady. And there’s that nice Mr. Osborne called in person to ask you to his musicale. It’s only across the square.”

  “You forget I am in mourning,” said Jane stiffly.

  “It ain’t a masquerade at Crocker’s, my lady,” grumbled Bella.

  “Bella!” admonished Jane severely. “You must stop lecturing me. I cannot go in any case. Hetty is not at home.”

  “Well, there you are!” cried Bella. “Lady Hetty do still be mortal cut up over my lord’s death but, ‘Life must go on, Bella,’ she says to me, she says. I could chaperon you, my lady.”

  “No!” said Jane firmly, bending over an old sheaf of blueprints of the Chase. “Only look here, Bella. See where the back stairs for the servants were cunningly added on!”

  Bella’s only reply was a tearful sniff.

  Jane turned back and stared in amazement at the large, fat tears rolling down Bella’s face.

  “Whatever is the matter, Bella?” she asked gently.

  “I bought me a new gown,” sniffed Bella. “And when that Mr. Osborne ’cross the square first sent his invitation and I knew Lady Hetty was to be at the Duchess’s this evening, I told all my friends in the square that I had this fine gown and I would be going to Mr. Osborne’s as my lady’s chaperon and not as a maid. They all laughed at me, my lady, and said how I was making it up, and now I shan’t be able to go and they’ll all mock me ’cause I’ve bragged so. Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  With that, Bella threw her apron over her head and sobbed her heart out.

  “Oh, Bella!” sighed Jane, looking at this elderly Ashputel who could not go to the ball. “Oh, very well. Send John, the footman, over with a message to say I accept.”

  When Bella joyfully left to find the footman, Jane made her way upstairs to commence her toilette. Well, it would not be so bad to go to Mr. Osborne’s after all. She would at last see the inside of the house that she had watched with such hungry eyes when she had first come to London. Although Mr. Osborne hailed from the untitled aristocracy, he had the unfashionable habit of inviting people to his home simply because he liked them, rather than for their high degree, so she should meet some new and interesting people. Jane sometimes still walked Wong in the square, and that was how she had met Mr. Osborne, when Wong had chased a cat into the Osborne house and then nearly died in the Osborne hall from overexertion.

  Bella bustled in and set the curling tongs on a small spirit stove to heat. “Oh, run along, Bella,” said Jane, smiling, “and work on your own appearance as you are dying to do. You may have some of my feathers for your těte, and send Polly, the housemaid, to help me with my stays. Go! Or I shall change my mind!”

  Jane decided not to powder her hair, and, with the help of Polly, arranged it in a simple style. She chose a gown of half-mourning, black taffeta with lilac bows, and wound several heavy strands of pearls around her neck.

  Soon, Bella panting behind her with excitement, Jane crossed the square through the thick unreality of the fog, to where the yellow light streamed out from Mr. Osborne’s house across the cobbles. They were late, and the musicale had already begun. After what was left of the concert was over, Jane made her apologies for arriving so late to Mrs. Osborne, whom she had not yet met, that lady being already seated in the music room with her guests on Jane’s arrival.

  Mrs. Osborne was a small, birdlike woman who always cocked her small head on one side, as if listening for worms. “Think nothing of it,” she told Jane. “We are to have cards and dancing, you know, and a great deal of people have yet to arrive. They are coming from the opera. My husband is addicted to parties,” she added, tilting her head to the other side and fixing Jane with a bright eye.

  “A pleasant addiction.” Jane smiled.

  Then she felt a light touch on her arm and, turning, found herself confronting the tight, neat features of Sir Felix Beaton. He swept her a pretty bow, genuinely delighted to see her. He had found to his surprise that he had missed her. He had assiduously courted several belles, but they had either shown immediate signs of taking him seriously or were rudely and pointedly uninterested.

  Sir Felix desired the appearance of being in love, an emotion he did not fully understand, although he was well aware it was becoming increasingly fashionable—and sometimes, he feared, it might even be here to stay.

  “Let me fetch you some refreshment,” he said after the preliminary courtesies were over.

  “Safe, that one. Very safe,” muttered Bella in the background, and Jane threw her a quelling look.

  Jane thanked Sir Felix and said she would take a glass of negus. When he had sped off on his errand, she turned once more to Mrs. Osborne, but the lady was already getting hurriedly to her feet, looking more like a sharp little bird than ever.

  “The party from the opera,” she said and began making her way to the hall.

  Jane looked around her with interest. Mr. Osborne’s house looked as if it had been expressly designed for parties, having a chain of elegant saloons on the first floor, filled with looking-glasses, objets d’art, and elegant furniture. Each saloon was a different color. The one she was in was pale pink, the adjoining one Wedgwood blue, and the farther one, which held the refreshments, crimson and gold. Above and under the babble of voices came the rippling sounds of a harpsichord as some musician performed the “Bourrée” from Suite 3 of Handel’s Water Music.

  It was pleasant to be back in the world again, reflected Jane, listening lazily to the voices, enjoying for the moment the exquisite isolation of being in humanity and yet not having to converse with any of it.

  The golden bubble of her mood burst and shattered. To see that curved smile of Mrs. Bentley was bad enough. Fanny’s porcelain malice was worse. But it was the three figures following them that made her stand very still and quickly turn her head away.

  It had been a quick glance, nothing more, but the sight of Lord Charles Welbourne smiling down into Philadelphia Syms’s face struck her with a sharp pain and then left her trembling and breathless.

  She had been so sure she had forgotten
him.

  Sir Felix appeared at her elbow with the glass of negus, and she took the mixture of hot sweetened wine and water gratefully.

  “There is dancing in one of the far saloons,” said Sir Felix. “Would you care to watch while you sip your negus? And then perhaps we can perform.”

  Sir Felix was an exceedingly good dancer, but he was extremely small in stature and so adored dancing with Jane, since she was the only lady he knew smaller than himself.

  “Gladly,” said Jane, taking his arm. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling, and she felt sure Lord Charles was staring at her.

  As a matter of fact, he had not yet seen her. Philadelphia and the Bentleys had, but they were certainly not going to point that interesting fact out to his lordship. So had Sir Anthony.

  Sir Anthony did not know whether to mention the presence of Lady Jane or not. He remembered that when Lady Jane was physically on the scene, his friend had a habit of turning twitty and morose. On the other hand, perhaps it would serve to distract him from the fair Philadelphia.

  Sir Anthony looked to where, a few yards away, Lord Charles was flirting expertly with Philadelphia, and he felt downright hurt. Never before had Lord Charles tried to annex one of Sir Anthony’s passions. As if reading his mind, Lord Charles suddenly raised his head and threw Sir Anthony a long and searching look, and then he walked across to that gentleman, leading Philadelphia with him.

  “I think I have monopolized Miss Syms enough, Anthony,” said Lord Charles lightly. He laughed down at Philadelphia. “You must forgive Anthony’s bearish appearance. He is not accustomed to his old bachelor friend flirting so assiduously. But hardened bachelor I am, alas, and so I will deliver you into the hands of a man who can appreciate your great beauty more than I.” Lord Charles deftly transferred Philadelphia’s hand from his arm to Anthony’s and strolled quickly away before Philadelphia could think of a ruse to detain him.

  Philadelphia looked after him, her beautiful mouth drooping in a disappointed moue. But her head had been well and truly turned with the adulation she had received. She was sure she had only to crook her finger to bring Lord Charles back to her side. But then, there was the presence of Lady Jane. Jane had looked very grim and not at all pretty, but gentlemen had such strange tastes.