by Julie Matern
“Oh.” She looked into the distance, pensive. Crestfallen.
“According to William, he was not a terribly serious student but hates to be idle, so he went up to college just for the fun of it.”
“Then he really must not like me since he made the pretense of being tired just now.”
“Do you really like him so very much?” asked Phillip.
“I cannot really like a man I do not know, but he presents an intrigue. And he cuts a very fine figure, don’t you think?”
“Alas, I am a poor judge of what a young lady might find attractive, Francesca.”
She glanced at him and then looked back at the picnic party. “I suppose I am annoyed that he does not pay me more attention, if I am to be totally honest. Perhaps I am not pretty enough to interest him.”
“That is most certainly not the reason,” he replied quietly.
“Are you in earnest, Phillip? Do you think me greatly improved? I am not sure of my beauty. Mother is so beautiful that I feel I am a mere shadow in comparison.”
Her honesty caught him off guard. Could this vision of loveliness really not see her own comeliness in the looking glass? She outshone her mother as the sun outshines the moon. Was it possible that she could be blind to it? He peered into her eyes to gauge her sincerity. What he saw were pools of liquid hope, devoid of guile. “I am in great earnest! You are greatly improved and can be confident in your own handsomeness, Francesca. Do not allow someone like Langley Ashbourne to steal your confidence.”
The intensity of his tone and stare were new to her, and she returned his gaze in search of something, but he turned his head quickly and resumed his walk along the brook’s edge, recommencing the light banter, and the moment passed. She reached up to put her hand through his arm, and they continued their gentle stroll. He asked her all kinds of mundane questions but did not repeat the earlier intensity of conversation, all the while, her mind questioning what, if anything, had just happened.
Of a sudden, a bird let out its sweet song, and she turned to catch a glimpse of it. As she did so, she saw Mr. Ashbourne approaching them. All previous musings fled in an instant, and she turned to Phillip. “Look! Mr. Ashbourne has come to join us!” They broke apart to make room for the newcomer.
“Enjoy your nap, Ashbourne?” said Phillip as pleasantly as he could.
“Too much jibber-jabbering from the ladies for a poor soul to get any sleep! I thought they would never stop! This looked to be the more relaxing pursuit, so I decided to join you.”
Phillip noticed that Langley looked deep into Francesca’s eyes and then, pointedly, at her lips. Subconsciously his hands clenched into fists.
“Indeed, you are most welcome!” gushed Francesca.
“What fun we had in Staffordshire, Waverley, did we not?” said Ashbourne.
“We did indeed.”
“I believe that you were particularly interested in a certain young lady there, a Miss Fairweather?”
Astonished, Francesca glanced at Phillip to gauge his reaction.
“The Fairweathers are a very pleasant family with delightful daughters, but I fear you are wrong in supposing that I was interested in one more than any other.”
“Oh, indeed I am sorry if I am mistaken, but Miss Verity Fairweather told William of her high regard for you, and I assumed the regard was mutual.”
“I do hold her in the highest regard, but then so do I all her sisters. They are very beautiful and accomplished and would be a jewel in any man’s crown.”
“Why Phillip, you have never mentioned them to me,” exclaimed Francesca before turning to Mr. Ashbourne. “Do tell me what she is like. It is high time Phillip found a wife, and perhaps I can play cupid if you think she is worthy of him.” She gave Phillip such a loving and agreeable smile that he died a little at the irony.
“Verity Fairweather can sing and play like an angel. She has recently returned from finishing school in Switzerland and can speak excellent French, or so I believe as my own French is ‘affreux!’ She can paint worthy of any London gallery and her needlework is exquisite.”
“I wonder that you are not interested in her, Mr. Ashbourne, such an accomplished young woman as that!”
“She is not my type, Miss Haversham. She is very short and remarkably fair of complexion with sunshine-colored ringlets. A fair Madonna to be sure, but, alas, my fancies tend to darker hair and a more olive complexion,” he said as he laid his gaze directly upon Francesca, who bowed her head under the weight of his gaze.
Phillip groaned.
To cover her confusion, Francesca said, “Phillip, did you not like Miss Fairweather? Are you not in search of a wife to share your life?”
Could she not know what torture her words were?
“I am focused, for the present, on establishing myself in the law so that I might have a stable home and income to offer a future bride. Who knows how long it will take to arrive at such a desirable situation.”
“But I understand that Miss Fairweather is blessed with a substantial dowry,” responded Mr. Ashbourne.
“It is true, but my fancies tend in another direction too. As lovely and accomplished as she is, Miss Fairweather is not my type either.”
“Then what is your ‘type’ Phillip?” demanded Francesca.
Phillip prayed for forgiveness as he boldly lied, “Auburn hair and a fair complexion are my preference.”
“Then I shall try to find you a wife,” said Francesca. “For I think you are very much in need of one.”
Eleven
UV
ENGLAND
The elderly waiter looked nervously down upon the stately gentleman, slumped in slumber, his white head leaning against the wing of the leather chair. He was not a favorite of the staff at the exclusive London gentleman’s club, but he was certainly one of its most venerable members. Apprehensively, the waiter cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Sir John.”
The sleeping man stirred, temporarily disoriented. The waiter tried to shield the moment from other members of the club and give Lord Haversham, Francesca’s grandfather, a modicum of privacy. “Sir John, I have some correspondence for you from the directors of the club that is of a delicate nature and rather urgent.”
He leaned over and presented the letter on a silver salver. Sir John, recovering himself, shifted in the chair and sat up, ramrod straight. He cast a stern eye upon the messenger—whose stomach clenched in anticipation of a reprimand—then reached for the note and dismissed the waiter with a slight nod. The waiter withdrew, breathing a sigh of relief.
Lord Haversham paused, looking down at the letter with disdain. Without opening it, he ripped the paper into pieces and threw it into the open fire to his right. It was so undignified to mention fiscal matters in a public place, and besides, he was a Peer of the Realm, and as such, he commanded a certain respect that was utterly lacking. It was a disgrace that this club, where his father and grandfather were founding members, should be so indelicate. He would have to seriously consider taking his membership elsewhere.
He unfolded the newspaper and turned to the international pages. After reading for some time, he leaned his august head against the chair back and groaned.
“Sir John, how do you do this fine morning?”
Lord Haversham looked up into the face of Lord Petersham, a friend of many decades. He was a man whom some called Midas; it seemed that everything he touched did, indeed, turn to gold. It rendered his current situation even more bitter. “Albert Petersham, how good it is to see you! When did you arrive in town?”
“I have just arrived, sir. My wife came down to prepare the town house a week ago, and I was summoned to appear tomorrow. Thought I would spend a night at the club before the festivities begin.”
The old friends conversed about family and other acquaintances.
“Did you hear about old Cusworth?” asked Lord Petersham. “They say he has lost everything in that South American mine venture of his! His family goes back generations at Cusworth
Hall but the bailiffs are banging at the doors. What are things coming to when one of the oldest families in the land is turned out of their family estate? There is no respect for breeding from the lower classes anymore. If that was not bad enough, it appears that his son did not marry the young heiress his father had chosen for him and instead eloped with a near pauper and has kept it a secret these twelve months! The shame of it! Cusworth’s wife is being rebuffed by her oldest and closest friends—your wife is one, come to think of it—and shunned by society. She is suffering wretchedly, or so they tell me. The heiress has married someone else, and so the money that was to rescue them is no more.”
Sir John coughed and drank from the tumbler at his side.
“And how go your American ventures? Tobacco, isn’t it?” said Lord Petersham.
“Splendidly!” Sir John lied. “I am planning a voyage in the spring when the weather improves.”
“Really, I thought I heard of some kind of blight to the crops out there? I must be mistaken.”
T
Sir John stood in the doorway looking at his wife, Augusta, for some minutes before she noticed him. Though their marriage had been arranged, they had come to respect each other over the years and had become a formidable team. She had cast a blind eye over his pursuits, and he had allowed her to blossom in the best of society. Society, it seemed, was her natural environment, and she had risen like cream to the top of it, deciding who was worthy to be accepted and who was not. Her opinion was to be valued over almost all others. A new friend could not be welcomed into the inner circle without her prior approval.
Her once chestnut hair was now a distinguished pearl gray. Her skin, though no longer tight, was not the skin of an old woman, and her cheekbones were still prominent, which gave her a regal bearing. She was reading, head bowed, and petting her little dog. He hated to disturb the scene, but it must be done.
T
Lady Augusta Haversham rolled over, her arm across her forehead, the pulse in her temples beating a tattoo. The full weight of the reality of the situation pressed heavily against her mind. Never did she ever imagine finding herself in such a state of affairs! In the world she had created, it was she who led the charge in humiliating those whose fortunes had turned. Now the shoe appeared to be in danger of transferring to the other foot and she was terrified. The crows would all come home to roost. How would she bear it?
The rage she had felt toward her husband had burned down to embers of resentment at some time in the long night. How could he have mismanaged things so poorly? Surely, they had friends who would help them, but, oh, the shame in having to go cap in hand like the dregs of society when she was its queen.
She sat up to drink from the cup on the nightstand, but the ache in her head forced her back to the pillow. She reflected upon the man she had married. Forced by her parents, who were in want of a title, to marry John Haversham II, she had gone for the week of hunting against her will, stubborn, petulant, and determined to dislike the man they had chosen for her suitor. She had omitted to pack her newest gowns to spite her mother and mount her rebellion. What a shrieking match they had waged in her bedchamber upon arrival at Haversham Hall.
She remembered how, despite her prejudice and her resolve to hate him, he had presented an excellent first impression, and she had been frustrated by feeling some affection for him against her will.
As the week had progressed, she had discovered that he was a snob of the first order who was obsessed with pure bloodlines, fiercely loyal to king and country, and reasonably intelligent, all traits she admired in a man. She could not say she loved him, but she esteemed him highly and, weighing things in the balance, realized that she could do worse. There were few guarantees in marriage anyway, and there was the title to consider, which would elevate her above her peers and even her mother. They were married six months later.
In the first few months of marriage, she discovered that, in addition to the characteristics she knew of, he was arrogant, dismissive, vain, indifferent, and, at times, ill-tempered. He was not, however, cruel or abusive in any way, and she was content with that. She made it her mission to tame him and induce him to fall in love with her with an aim to carving out a tolerable life for herself.
She was quick to master the management of the house and learned to orchestrate social events where influential people came to make things happen. It was not long before everyone who was anyone desired to see and be seen at one of Lady Augusta’s parties. Over time, she successfully built a social empire with a sophisticated hierarchy that flattered Lord Haversham’s prideful nature. He soon came to appreciate her talents and to view her as his greatest asset in manipulating society to his advantage. It was never a marriage of great romance, but it did develop into one of mutual approbation.
Now, this life she had carefully crafted was all in peril. Their scheming to have Francesca meet and marry Langley Ashbourne was all the more crucial. Francesca must be brought to bend to their will for it was the only way to save them.
Twelve
UV
FRANCE
Giorgio had endured the arduous journey to Nice in the south of France to find that the previous owner had died and that the new proprietor had only been in his position for five years. Witnessing the crestfallen expression of the gentleman, the proprietor had offered one small breadcrumb: his housekeeper had been a maid with the previous proprietor and she may have some recollection. Would the gentleman wait while he fetched her?
Giorgio looked around the vestibule, seeing everything but seeing nothing. After the passage of some ten minutes, a woman appeared dressed in black from head to toe. She had a pleasant face but wore a nervous expression. She approached Giorgio slowly. “Monsieur?”
Giorgio raised his head as though it weighed as much as a millstone but his eyes were alight with hope. In faltering French, he said, “Madame, thank you for seeing me. Please sit down.”
He noticed her hesitate as she took in his fine clothes and opened his hand to offer her the seat next to him.
“I am interested in the autumn of eighteen years ago. My daughter had come here from Italy with her maid to meet some friends from school.” The woman’s expression was blank. He continued, “After a few weeks I understand that she left her maid here, alone for several months and visited Grasse with a hired maid.”
The woman’s eyebrows raised in recognition and Giorgio took courage.
“Yes, Monsieur, now I remember it well. I was but a house maid at the time, and I would go in to see to the room of the young lady and that of her maid. When your daughter left, the maid would speak to me at length every morning and every evening. I recall that at first, she was anxious that her young charge had gone off without her, but after a few days, she seemed to adjust. The mademoiselle had left her a very generous allowance that enabled her to go on excursions and to little performances. Your daughter was very particular about sending her maid letters every week, as I recollect, which went a long way to easing her maid’s mind.”
“What happened when the young lady returned?”
“Can I ask your interest in the case, Monsieur? It was so very long ago.”
“My daughter died recently, and on her death bed began to tell me of that journey. She died before she could complete her tale. I am anxious to know what happened in Grasse.”
The austerely dressed woman nodded. “I do remember her return as it was in such haste and they were gone before I came to their rooms the next morning.”
“Did you by chance see her?” Giorgio asked.
“I was the one that opened the door to her as the proprietor and the porters were engaged at that hour. She looked ill and as though she might faint. She dismissed her hired maid and begged me to help her up to her room. She leaned on me heavily as we ascended the main staircase and asked me to help her into her bed. Then she bid me leave her. I entreated her to let me get her maid as I was afraid for her, but she was determined to be alone. I was so worried that I waited out
side her room for a full half an hour in case she should need further assistance. I believe she sent me for one of her friends at last, and then I went back downstairs to my duties.
“The next morning, I arose early to check on her but she and her maid were gone. I have wondered to this day what became of her.”
“She came home in time for Christmas,” Giorgio said. “And though she was quiet at first, I did not notice anything very wrong. She later married and was very happy until her husband died. She herself succumbed to the fever seven months ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Monsieur. Her maid was very fond of her. She was an amiable and considerate mistress by her account.”
Giorgio weighed his options and decided to trust the woman. “Would it surprise you to know that she had given birth to an illegitimate baby in her absence from this hotel?”
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth, and she brought her head down with resolve, engaging Giorgio with her eyes,
“Indeed, sir! It would make sense of a puzzle. The morning she left, the cook was outside very early meeting with the butcher, and she happened to catch sight of the mademoiselle, your daughter. The cook was a gossipy old woman, and later that morning she was telling anyone who would listen that she had a niece who had had a baby on the wrong side of the sheets that she had been forced to give it away and that the look on your daughter’s face was the very same look she had seen on her niece. The housekeeper scolded her for smearing a refined young lady’s character and told her that if she mentioned it again she would see the cook to the door. It didn’t stop her though. She would just talk about it when the housekeeper was out of the kitchen. It made me ponder on it though, Monsieur. Your sweet young lady did look haunted by something when she returned so ill, and she was as pale as a wraith.”
The light shone on the moist cheek of Giorgio and he took her hand. “Please, do you call to mind where she stayed in Grasse?”
“I do. We sent her trunks after her at her request. It was L’Hotel de Sainte Marguerite.”