by Nicole Byrd
“I regret that she is not here to do so,” he said, then was afraid he had stirred her to fresh tears. “I’m afraid I know nothing—have been told nothing—about a sister. How could my mother have hidden a confinement? It all seems quite impossible.”
She found a minute handkerchief in her reticule and wiped her eyes. “But perhaps your father—”
“Is also dead,” Gabriel said, hearing his tone harden. “And my older brother is abroad, though if he had ever heard anything of this, he surely would have told me.”
She blinked hard. “Does this writing resemble your mother’s hand? You could tell me that, at least.”
Gabriel glanced back at the faded ink of the letter, still lying on top of his desk. “I’m not sure.”
“Can you not compare it to one of her letters in your possession? Surely you must have saved some of them.” He was relieved to see that she was sitting up straighter, but she also seemed to have regained her ability to argue.
“I don’t—I fear I don’t have any sample of her writing at hand,” he said.
She raised her brows, and Gabriel found it his turn to feel ill at ease. “There are reasons why . . .”
“There must be something!” she protested.
Gabriel tried to think. “My wife has a housekeeping book my mother used; the housekeeper saved it when she died. It has some receipts and lists in her hand.”
“That would do!” Miss Smith said eagerly.
“It is at our country estate, however,” he told her.
She opened her lips, and he raised one hand to forestall more debate. “I will send for it, and I shall compare it carefully with this.” He turned back to lift the letter from the desktop, but the girl was too quick. She darted around him and snatched up the sheet, holding the letter to her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding breathless. “I cannot part with this, even for a few days.”
Was she afraid he would destroy it? Gabriel started to tell her that he would not be so base, but she continued, her gaze guileless.
“It is the only thing I have that was my mother’s, whatever you think of my claim, and besides, she says in it that she loves me. I will treasure this always.” She bit her lip and pressed the page to her heart.
Gabriel had no inclination to try to wrest it from her. “Of course,” he said. “I promise you I will inform you when the book arrives. And I will write to my brother, although he is, the last I heard, in Constantinople, so I cannot expect a quick reply.”
She sighed. “Thank you for that and, indeed, for seeing me at all. I had feared you would not even admit me.”
He didn’t tell her she owed her admission to the footman, and that Gabriel himself had been quite ignorant of the quagmire she would open before him. He said only, “May I ask where you are staying?”
She told him the address and then turned toward the door. Her expression was still doleful, but she had straightened her shoulders once again. The girl had courage, Gabriel thought reluctantly. If he could only be as sure of the soundness of her mind, it might be easier to decipher this strange tale.
She still looked a little shaky. “Allow me to call for my carriage to return you safely to your residence,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No, thank you, my maid is waiting.” Her tone possessed as much dignity as a duchess’s, and he bit back a smile, not wanting to wound her further. He stood and watched as she walked out into the hall.
But he motioned to the footman and told the man quietly to hail a hackney for the women and to pay the fare before they left the house. The servant looked startled, but he nodded and accepted the coins Gabriel held out, then hurried after the young woman and her serving maid.
Gabriel went back inside and stood by his desk, but he found he was listening to the faint footsteps as the mysterious Miss Smith took her leave. It was an insane suggestion, that his mother could have had a child in secret and have sent it away. . . . And never to tell anyone, no, it was impossible to even consider.
The stranger had not asked for money, he suddenly realized. When he had first scanned the note yesterday afternoon, he’d assumed it a ruse to obtain funds. He wished again he had read the letter more carefully. He looked at the basket beside his desk, but of course, it had already been emptied. The servants were punctual in their duties—Psyche saw to that.
As if his thought had summoned her, he looked up to see his wife standing in the doorway. Gabriel jumped to his feet and hurried to greet her.
“My love, how are you?”
“I’m well,” she said, but she frowned as she accepted his kiss. “Who was that young lady who left looking so distressed? And, Gabriel, why does she have your eyes?”
Nine
By the time Gemma returned to the house, she felt quite leaden with exhaustion and the weight of dashed hopes. It was very kind of her brother—of Lord Gabriel—to send them home in a hackney. She would have had more trouble with the walk than he could have guessed. Her knees felt shaky, her shoulders drooped, and her head ached. She felt as if she had received an enormous blow.
She had. As she had told Lord Gabriel, it had been like losing her mother all over again. If someone dashed up this moment out of the crowd on the street and informed her of the death of her parent, surely she would have felt just this sense of shock and grief and pain.
So her only thought was to go straight up to her room and abandon herself to her grief and despair. What on earth was she to do now?
But Louisa was waiting and must have been listening for their return because Gemma’s hostess came out into the hall as Gemma untied her bonnet and pulled off her gloves.
“What—” she began, then paused when she saw Gemma’s face. “Lily, take Miss Gemma’s things upstairs and then please bring us some tea in the drawing room. Or would you rather go up to your bedroom, Gemma?” Her tone was solicitous, and the anxiety in her blue eyes sincere. And Louisa had had her own disappointment, important to her, even if not of the same magnitude as Gemma’s loss, Gemma reminded herself.
She had to be strong.
“The drawing room is fine,” she said, and if her voice wavered just a little, Louisa did not remark upon it. Her friend waited until they were inside the reception room and had shut the door against the servants’ curious eyes, then she put her arms around Gemma in an impulsive hug.
“It did not go well?”
The sympathy was disarming. Gemma found herself dissolving again into tears.
Louisa held her for a few minutes while Gemma sobbed, this time without reserve, then at last sat up and reached into her reticule to find her already damp handkerchief.
“Here,” Louisa said. “Mine is clean.”
Gemma accepted the dry linen square and wiped her face and blew her nose. “I think I shall have to borrow some of your cucumber slices,” she managed to say.
Louisa smiled obligingly at the feeble jest, though her expression still looked worried. “What did he say? Does he deny the claim? But how can he, with the letter from your mother to support it?”
Determined not to succumb to tears once more, Gemma drew a deep breath. “I suggested that he speak to her to confirm the statements in the letter, but, oh, Louisa, my mother is dead! So she cannot answer his—or my—questions.” Her lips trembled, and with a great effort she maintained her self control.
Louisa gasped. “Oh, I—oh dear!”
She turned her head away as Lily entered with a tray. While the servant set down the tea and cups and some plates of small cakes, they were both silent.
“Thank you, Lily,” Louisa said. Gemma felt the maid’s curious glance before she curtsied and left them alone again, carefully shutting the door behind her.
Louisa poured out the tea and added sugar and cream, but her hand trembled. “Here, I’m sure you need this,” she said, but her tone was hollow. “Gemma, you never said—I thought you knew. I feel terrible. I could have warned you.”
“What?” Gemma demanded.
“I knew that his—and your—mother is deceased. I visited their country estate last year, and her death was mentioned. But I—there was a great deal going on at the time, and I—well, I behaved very badly. And I have tried my best to forget that whole time. Perhaps I succeeded too well.” She frowned. “Oh, Gemma, I am such a wretch! I only thought you were anxious to be reunited with your brother. I should have made sure that you knew the situation.”
Gemma swallowed against the lump in her throat. Yes, if she had known, she would have been better prepared for the interview with Lord Gabriel. On the other hand, knowing that her mother was not there to back up Gemma’s claims, perhaps Gemma would not have had the courage to go to her brother at all!
“I have spent so much of my life not speaking of my situation, as you call it, that I am perhaps too secretive, even with my friends.” She sighed. “It’s not your fault, Louisa. And in a way, I’m glad I didn’t know. It would only have crushed my hopes that much sooner. At least I had a few weeks to think that my mother still waited for my return, and that thought made me very happy.”
Louisa’s anxious expression eased a little. “Try to eat a cake; you took nothing at breakfast. It was wise of Lily to think of bringing it. Some food will make you feel better. At least, that is what my aunt would advise. And I must say, she always seems to be right.”
Looking around, Gemma asked, “Where is Miss Pomshack?”
“Upstairs. She insisted on working on the ribbons we bought yesterday. She is adding a trim to one of my hats,” Louisa said. She held out a plate of small cakes, and Gemma accepted one.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning her gratitude for more than the refreshment. Louisa nodded as if she understood.
For a moment, Gemma nibbled at a sweet morsel of cake and drank her tea, hoping it would steady her, fill a little of the great emptiness inside her. Yet she knew that the void in her heart was much too big for any amount of foodstuff to affect.
Still sounding worried, Louisa added, “You are not alone in that habit. The Sinclairs are very private about their family history—it’s rarely discussed. The two brothers once had a great dispute—they fought a duel last Season, which I saw with my own eyes, and I truly thought someone would be killed. In fact, someone almost was! But I have heard almost nothing about the reasons for their estrangement. Even my aunt, who is usually most obliging, would not answer my questions. She loves the marquess, Lord Gabriel’s older brother, very much, and does not want to distress him.”
“I do not blame you,” Gemma assured her again. “But I admit, the news is such a blow. I had so much hoped to at last meet my real mother. . . .”
Tears threatened again, and she blinked hard. “I think I shall go up to my room for a while,” she said.
Louisa nodded. “If I can do anything, please call me.”
Gemma smiled wanly at her friend, then pushed back her plate and went up the stairs to her room. Her emotions were so confused, and the sorrow of her loss—the shock of having all her hopes dashed—hung over her like a blanket of stone. She lay down upon her bed and shut her eyes, but sleep would not come. The tears did.
Louisa paced up and down the drawing room, thinking back on Gemma’s earlier conversations. She could not remember that Gemma had ever actually said she expected to meet her mother, but then perhaps Louisa had simply assumed—oh, she should have been more observant; it was too bad!
The afternoon stretched ahead of her like an eternity, and although she spoke briefly to Miss Pomshack when that lady came downstairs for a cup of tea and a cake, Louisa could not settle her thoughts.
After more than an hour had passed, she went up to the floor where the guest rooms were located and paused outside Gemma’s door. She was sure she could hear sobbing from inside.
She knocked lightly. “Gemma?”
A pause, then she heard her friend say, her voice low, “Come in.”
She opened the door. One look at Gemma’s face made Louisa rush to sit on the edge of the bed and offer a hug. “Oh, my dear, you will make yourself ill. What can I do? Do you wish a dose of Miss Pomshack’s laudanum? That would make anyone sleep.”
Gemma shook her head. “I don’t care for the stuff; it leaves one feeling even more wretched later. It’s just that my thoughts go round and round, and the pain is so sharp. . . .”
Louisa felt her own eyes dampen. “I know how I felt when my father died, and I had my uncle and aunt there to comfort me. But I am here for you, Gemma.”
“It’s silly, since she died years ago, Lord Gabriel said, but, but—” Gemma hiccuped, swallowing a sob.
“But it is new to you, and not silly at all,” Louisa assured her. “It will take time for these feelings to ease, Gemma. But you are not alone, I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Gemma told her. “I think I might as well get up and wash my face. Perhaps we could go for a stroll or a drive. Perhaps some diversion would take my thoughts away from all that I don’t want to think about, not now.”
Louisa nodded. She felt a tremor of nervousness at the thought of venturing out and encountering any more high-sticklers who might snub her once again, but her own fears were so paltry compared to Gemma’s distress that she pushed them aside.
“An excellent notion; you must not slip into a melancholy. I will order the carriage,” she said. “Where is your shawl?”
They both donned hats and gloves and shawls, then, when her carriage was ready, they drove in a leisurely fashion—the traffic on the London streets seldom allowed one to do otherwise—to Hyde Park.
By the time they entered the park, Gemma seemed less wrapped in her own fog of misery, and Louisa, keeping in mind Gemma’s earlier comments, had made up her mind to be resolute and not cower out of sight of London’s censorious elite. Since the afternoon was mild and quite lovely, she instructed her coachman to pull up and allow them to step down and stroll among the flower beds.
And indeed, they spent a pleasant half hour walking along the pathways, enjoying the sight of the brightly colored spring flowers and the fresh new leaves just unfurling to green the trees. Although on such a day the park was full of people, she saw no one she knew, and Louisa was able to put aside bad memories. With the breeze grazing her cheek, and the scent of growing things in the air, Louisa’s spirits lifted, and even Gemma agreed that this had been a good idea, after all.
Glancing covertly at her friend, Louisa thought what a dreadful injustice it was to be forced to suffer the loss of a parent all over again, and in such a lonely way, with no family to share the sorrow, no funeral to attend, no way to feel that one could express one’s sorrow openly. She remembered her own dearest father’s death and how painful it had been. But at least she had had her aunt and uncle and Lucas and many other family members and friends around her, all ready to console her and offer her reassurance and good wishes. And whom did Gemma have?
She had Louisa! Louisa told herself she would put aside her own worries and think more about her friend, who must not be left to suffer alone. She tucked her arm into Gemma’s and smiled at her when Gemma looked up in inquiry.
“I was only—” But Louisa’s voice failed as she glanced down the path. What she saw approaching drove away all recollection of her newly formed good intentions. Louisa stiffened in alarm.
“What is it?” Gemma raised her brows.
“I—I did not, that is, oh, it is Miss Hargrave and Miss Simpson, the two, um, acquaintances I spoke to at the theater, and they are coming right toward us! Oh, what shall I do?” Louisa glanced around a bit wildly, wondering if they had time to flee to her carriage. “I cannot bear to be snubbed again! They will give me a direct cut, I just know it.”
“Certainly not!” Gemma said, her words crisp.
Louisa was still plotting the most direct path back to her carriage. They had been wandering along the paths as they observed the flowers, and now she wished they had stayed closer to the street.
“We shall not run away, Louisa,” G
emma said, keeping her voice low. “That would give them too much of a victory over you—you cannot wish it.”
“But I can’t bear to be slighted so publicly once again,” Louisa protested, feeling her heart pound at the thought.
“They will not,” Gemma told her with quiet certitude. “We will not allow it.”
“But we can’t stop them!” Louisa swallowed hard against rising panic.
“Remember what I said,” Gemma said, dropping her voice. “They can only hurt you if you allow them to do so.”
Louisa wished she could be that steadfast or that brave. But she was not sure she could keep her face straight if she had to face the snobbish ladies again, so soon after the embarrassing encounter at the theater.
“I don’t see how we can prevent them,” she muttered, hoping she was not blushing from shame already.
“Easily enough,” Gemma shot back. She put one hand over Louisa’s, which still lay on her arm. “Smile,” she commanded as they strolled along the path. “Look as if you are at ease and enjoying a ramble in the park.”
Louisa tried to do so, but the two other ladies were almost upon them. Just as she braced herself to either meet their indifferent gaze or to watch in mortification as the two looked away and pretended not to see her, Gemma swung them into another path so that their backs were turned to the approaching duo. While Louisa tried not to gasp, Gemma motioned toward a bed of tulips.
“A particularly fine shade, don’t you think? Perhaps a new variety? We should inform your gardener to inquire about the variety of bulb. These do make a nice display.”
Louisa bit back an attack of nervous giggles—she had no gardener to inform—but at last she understood Gemma’s tactics: ignore them before they could ignore you! Oh, my, what could Miss Hargrave and Miss Simpson be thinking? She didn’t dare to look to the side to see the answer.
She wanted to laugh, but she managed to keep her tone even as she and Gemma conversed at length about the no-doubt handsome tulips before them. Seldom had flowers been examined at such length!