The Secret of Haversham House

by Julie Matern

  “Why do you think he did not marry this Anne you speak of?”

  “I see two obvious reasons but they are mere conjecture. First, I would suggest that he enjoys dallying with beautiful woman for the pure thrill of the chase for he is apparently uninhibited by any sort of moral code. And second, she had no fortune. Katherine, we know, will not inherit, and the need for funds must have become critical. Goodness knows if there are any other young women he has ruined …”

  A whimper escaped from deep within Francesca, and Phillip, realizing his tactless remark, quickly corrected himself. “Not you, Francesca. God helped me to find you before you were compromised. I spoke thoughtlessly. Forgive me. No, I was thinking of Anne, who was not so fortunate.” He sent her a timid smile of apology and tenderly touched her hand. She could not meet his eyes for the shame that burned in her own.

  The tea and cakes arrived but Francesca could not eat. Only after excessive encouragement from Phillip did she drink a little.

  When he noticed that her trembling had subsided, he broached the subject of her aunt and uncle. “Do you want to tell the Barringtons?”

  “I cannot bear to tell them the truth,” she gasped.

  “I was not suggesting that you had to tell them everything. We do, however, need to decide whether to hold the scoundrel accountable. Is it moral to allow him to escape judgment out of fear, and permit him to inflict the same fate on other innocent, young women? If his finances are as desperate as I suspect, then he will soon choose another victim out of sheer necessity. I saw him playing cards with a reckless abandon at a party that only now makes sense.”

  Francesca looked sharply into his eyes with misery and alarm. “Phillip, if he anticipates exposure, I am ruined for he will surely drag my name through the dirt with his!”

  She stopped, aware that her voice had become a panic-filled crescendo. Continuing in a tight whisper, she said, “I peered into the window of his soul today, and it is dark and vile. He is utterly without scruple! He will think nothing of spreading false rumors about my character if he feels threatened.”

  “I would deem it an honor to defend you against any concocted accusations by that libertine!”

  “I am not so naive as to imagine that the gossips would not relish such a story, be it truth or fiction! I cannot bear to bring such shame on my family!”

  Phillip pondered this for a while and nodded. “You make a valid observation. I think I must write to him privately and warn him that if he breathes one word of this or if he tries to take advantage of another young woman, I will make him pay dearly. If his financial situation is as dire as I believe, such a threat may be enough to prevent him spreading malicious falsehoods. He must, after all, maintain his semblance of good character in order to seek out another heiress.”

  “So, he will go unpunished,” Francesca murmured.

  “Anne’s family have not pursued him at her request. If you want to protect other girls, you will need to bring him to justice by going public—”

  “No!” Fear flashed across her features. “Oh, Phillip, I cannot. Please do not make me. I cannot bear for my parents to ever know of this.”

  She was shaking again, and he realized that he could push her no further at this time.

  “I must confess, I would delight in beating the scoundrel till he begged for mercy!” he continued, which comment produced the merest hint of a smile from Francesca.

  “How about this for now, and we can consider further action in the future when you feel stronger? I will tell your aunt that you were just leaving with Langley when you felt a little faint and I happened upon you. We can say that, though he was very solicitous about your health, he had received a message from his father’s estate manager to call him to an urgent meeting, and I assured him that I would see you safely back to your aunt and uncle so that he might leave that instant. You can say that you feel unwell again after your arrival—”

  “In truth, I do!”

  “—and that will allow you to lay low for a few days until you have recovered your spirits. I think to insist going back home early will only raise suspicions.”

  She nodded, miserably.

  “Then let us be off. You have been gone a long while already, and we are several miles from the town.”

  Gently, he helped her to her feet and took her elbow to guide her back to the stables. On seeing a carriage for hire, he ordered it and helped Francesca inside, hiring a maid to accompany them.

  Her aunt accepted their story without reservation and bundled Francesca up the stairs to bed, clucking like a mother hen.

  As he took the carriage back to get his horse, he allowed himself to surrender to the strong feelings of protection, relief, and anger that he had suppressed. He shuddered to think what might have happened to Francesca had he not arrived when he did and thanked Providence for the strong impression to go in search of her.

  At last he had found the flaw in Langley’s character for which he had been hunting but he took no pleasure in it. The cost had been almost eternally too high.

  Twenty

  UV

  WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Delicato, delicato! I have, how do you say, treasure, in the bags!”

  Mario had been on the road for three weeks and had experienced many setbacks and frustrations. He had finally arrived in London, made inquiries, and at last discovered the location of Haversham House. He had also found a most beautiful vase for his wife while in London and was now watching a porter throw his bags onto the back of the post carriage with no care for its contents.

  After rescuing the bag, he settled himself into the carriage that was headed to Wiltshire. It was crowded, which necessitated holding the bag on his knees and being crushed into the side of the compartment. It was most inconvenient. And cold. He reflected on the huge sum that he was being paid for this commission and how much he cared for his employer, which helped improve his feelings about the situation somewhat.

  Giorgio Giaccopazzi had rescued him as a boy. Left an orphan at age twelve, he had resorted to stealing food because he was starving. Giorgio happened to be in town on business the day Mario had been caught and was being dragged before the magistrate. He was small for his age and emaciated and for some reason Giorgio had taken pity on him, telling the magistrate that he would give the boy a job and be responsible if the boy was ever caught stealing again. From that day forth, Giorgio had provided for him and even sent him to school to learn basic reading and math.

  Mario had begun working at the vineyard in the lowliest of positions, and Giorgio had personally overseen his training, mentoring and molding him. In return, Mario revered Giorgio as a father figure, and indeed, no father could have done more. He had fought hard to win his respect by working harder than anyone else and excelling in his studies and had risen from position to position until, at age thirty, he had been awarded the position of estate manager. It was a proud day, and he had been choked with emotion when Giorgio had announced that he would replace the deceased manager. He had proposed to his sweetheart that very day, and they were married the following week. Given this history, Mario would happily walk through fire for Giorgio if that were what he required.

  After several hours, the carriage had emptied, having made two stops. Mario was able to spread out and even sleep a little. He was awoken from a fitful slumber by knocking on the roof of the carriage. He jerked awake, stretched the crick in his neck, and opened the door to find himself in the middle of the English countryside in the dawn mist. The sun was just peeking above the horizon like a reluctant debutante, making the mist glow. He looked at the driver who was retrieving his valise and shrugged his shoulders while showing his palms, eyebrows raised. It was a very Latin gesture and made the carriage driver smile.

  “That way,” the driver said, pointing up a lane. “One mile that way. Can’t miss it!”

  Mario touched his cap, bowed his head in thanks, picked up his bags, then watched as the carriage was swallowed up in the mist. He turned with
resignation and began to walk up the lane.

  It was chilly and damp and he shivered. He was beginning to appreciate England, but he did not enjoy the climate and missed the warmth of his homeland. As he walked, the birds accompanied his steps and several rabbits turned tail, exposing their white hither parts. His bags became heavier and heavier, and he was just considering taking a rest when the house rose out of the haze like a dryad.

  It had a ghostly appearance because of the dewy fog but was, unarguably, of very fine architecture. It was large, but not ostentatiously so, and was very regular in appearance, with well-tended gardens and a pond in the forecourt. His footsteps crunched on the gravel drive, sounding louder than usual in the early morning quiet.

  He looked at the big front door and decided to find a tradesman’s entrance. It would not be good manners to arrive unexpected at the front door at this early hour. He walked around to the side and found a stairwell that lead down to a basement. As he descended, he saw movement in the kitchen, dropped his bag, and knocked sharply.

  A harried-looking woman with disheveled hair opened the door with an inquisitive look. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “May I enter?” he said in heavily accented English. The woman cocked her head to one side. He tried again, this time pointing to the interior of the building. “May I come in?”

  He extended a letter for the woman to see his reference. She took it and read and then stood aside for him to enter. “You have come at a very early hour, sir.” Her tone was annoyed.

  He scrunched his eyes and peered at her in incomprehension as her own country accent was very pronounced. She pointed to the clock on the wall.

  “Oh yes, mi scusi. I came by the post. I traveled all night.”

  “Well, you better come in to the kitchen then and have some tea.” She pushed him into the room and bade him sit at a large table that was empty.

  The kitchen was functional rather than decorative and had several large iron ovens. A very young maid was cleaning out the ashes while a woman he assumed was a cook was pinning up her hair under a white cap. The first woman pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit.

  “Who have we here?” asked the cook.

  “I don’t rightly know yet,” replied the other woman. “He has a letter but it is written in very poor English. Here, have a look and see if you can understand it.”

  “Where are you from?” said the cook loudly and in an exaggerated tone as though the man were deaf and stupid.

  “Italia. Italy.”

  The cook looked at the other woman and formed a silent “oh” with her lips. She took the letter and read the characters written upon it. “It says he has come from Italy at the request of a Signore Giaccopazzi of Florence with very important information for Mr. and Mrs. Haversham. What on earth? What kind of information?” She looked at Mario suspiciously.

  “I have information about a journey they make to France eighteen years ago.”

  The two women looked at each other and then at the visitor, distrust rippling off them.

  The first woman said, “Sir, as you must realize, you are very early and will have to wait on Mr. Philmore, our butler. He will decide whether you will get an audience with the master of the house.”

  Mario nodded.

  “In the meantime, I will make you some tea and toast. Whoever you are, you must be hungry.”

  The clock struck five and several more maids appeared with cleaning utensils, looking at the swarthy visitor with unfeigned interest. Mario ate the toast hungrily but with careful manners. As he partook, more and more servants entered the kitchen area, and the downstairs of the big house came to life. By the stroke of six, it was a veritable bustle with footman buttoning up their livery and lady’s maids primping their hair. Mario watched the worker bees with the same interest they showed in him.

  Apart from the paler skin and different style of clothing, he could have been back in Giorgio’s kitchens. The servants performed a well-orchestrated ballet as cooks kneaded dough and servants walked through, carrying clothes to mend and shoes to shine.

  As the clock struck seven, everyone gathered to the kitchen table and a man Mario assumed to be the butler strode in. He was tall, thin, impeccably dressed, and held his nose as though there were an unpleasant smell in the air. At his signal the servants sat down and the cooks put a bountiful, if plain, breakfast in front of them.

  After a moment, Mr. Philmore noticed the stranger. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

  “This is Mr. Lombardi,” said the plain woman in black. “He claims to have an important message for the master. He has a letter.”

  She pointed at the letter on the table and Mario stood and handed it to the butler, who read it, with every line on his face furrowed. “What is your information?” he demanded.

  “I must not tell it to anyone but your master,” he said firmly.

  “I cannot just let any stranger who claims to have ‘information’ have an audience with Mr. Haversham. You will need to give me more details or I will have to show you to the door.”

  He stood and looked imperiously down his nose at Mario.

  “Audience? I do not know this word. I say only that it is about their visit to France, eighteen years past. Mr. Haversham, he will want to see me. I know this.”

  Mr. Philmore straightened his waistcoat and put his glasses in a little pocket, shaking his head. “This is most irregular, most irregular!”

  “Please, signore. I have traveled so far. Please, the date. Tell him. My master, he is a very sick man. Please—”

  Mr. Philmore was immune to sorry tales and raised his hand to stop the man speaking. He was tempted to throw the foreigner out on his ear but feared that Mr. Haversham might be angry that he was not informed about the man, given the rather unusual circumstances. “Stay here!”

  Mr. Philmore approached the breakfast room with some trepidation about whether he had made the right choice. He took a deep breath and entered the room.

  Mr. Haversham was an early riser and was reading the newspaper, relaxed and refreshed. Philmore came to stand by him and gave a delicate cough. Without looking up, John Haversham said, “What do you need, Philmore?”

  “It may be a matter of some delicacy, sir.”

  John Haversham closed the paper and leaned back in his chair, an expectant expression on his face.

  “There is a foreigner in the kitchen who will only deliver his message to you. He said that it is concerning your sojourn in France eighteen years ago …”

  John Haversham’s shoulders stiffened immediately and the color drained from his face, stopping the butler in his tracks.

  “Did I do the right thing, sir?”

  John Haversham recovered his composure with some difficulty and with a rasp in his voice declared, “Bring him to the library in ten minutes, Philmore,” Then he roughly stood and strode from the room, leaving the butler to stare after him in awe, wondering what could have so rattled his employer.

  Twenty-One

  UV

  ENGLAND

  Mario followed the butler through the grand house to the library. As Philmore opened the door, Mario entered and came face to face with a gentleman of middle age whose every feature was etched with anxiety. He had light hair peppered with gray and eyes brimming with concern.

  The man stood abruptly, dismissed the butler and stood in front of Mario, his back to the fireplace, fight in his stance. “Who are you? What is it that you want—money?”

  “Money? No, no sir, I have news. Great news for your family!”

  “News, news? Explain yourself!”

  It was evident that Mr. Haversham was in a challenging position, ready to engage in battle. Mario felt the need to put the gentleman at ease.

  Mario resumed his narrative. “You lived in the villa Normandie in Grasse some eighteen years ago, no?

  “You seem to know already that I did!” barked John Haversham in desperate agitation.

  Mario raised his arms in defense. “Sign
ore, please. My message. You meet a woman, a woman big with child, yes? She give you her baby.”

  The look in John Haversham’s eyes shifted from anger to fear. Mario, noting the change quickly continued, “It is good, she give you baby. No problem. I here for the grandfather.”

  John Haversham sank into the other chair, gripping the arms tightly, eyes squinted in apprehension. “Her grandfather … ?”

  “Yes, yes, I start story. Grandfather, he not know about baby all these years. The mother, she get sick, very sick. As she die, she tell him. She say she had baby. No other babies. Her father lonely man. His wife die, his children die, and now his, how you say, daughter, she die. Her father very sad.

  “His name is Giorgio Giaccopazzi. He hear about baby and he say, ‘I must find this baby.’ He rich man, very rich. Much land, vineyards. He want to share with baby. He search for baby, make many travels. Now his heart, it weak. He send me to find the baby.”

  “But what does he want of her?” said John in a weak voice.

  Mario leaned forward in earnestness. “He want to meet her. Share with her. Love her.”

  John Haversham moved in his chair, the look of fear replaced by panic.

  “Is this not good news, Signore?” said Mario, perplexed.

  John’s emotions had just taken a journey that left him drained and afraid. The man’s very presence was evidence enough of the validity of his claims, but he needed more evidence.

  “How do I know that my daughter is one and the same child?”

  “His granddaughter, she have a mark, here,” and Mario pointed to the nape of his neck.

  John Haversham’s eyes opened slightly wider, a telltale sign that the comment had hit its mark, then closed them with a sigh of resignation. “No one here knows that she is adopted, not even the child herself,” he croaked, piercing the Italian with hooded eyes.

  “Ah.”

  The comment was loaded with comprehension. Mario began to fathom why his news had not been greeted with overtures of joy.

  “I will need time to think through the ramifications before taking any action. You cannot in any way understand the English attitude toward bloodlines.” Then almost to himself, “I must give this a great deal of thought.”