"Tea for my guests, Nancy," Mrs Raab said, without looking at poor Nancy, "And tell the cook to send the good biscuits."
"Oh, don't waste the good biscuits on us," Raff said, with a self-deprecating smile that sent Mrs Raab into a girlish giggle.
"My goodness, Your Grace," she simpered, "If we don't offer the good biscuits to a duke, then who will we offer them to?"
The waif-like Nancy rather looked like she could use a biscuit or two, Raff thought dourly, though he said nothing, and merely took a seat beside the fireplace. He glanced at Emily, who had been silent since their arrival, and saw that she was as pale as a ghost. Her skin, usually a becoming mix of peaches and cream, was now as grey as Nancy's drab uniform.
"Are you feeling alright?" Raff whispered with concern.
"Perfectly fine," Lady Emily replied, straightening her posture and drawing an inscrutable mask over her features. She turned away from Raff, and addressed the matron; "Tell me, Mrs Raab, about your work here. I would like to know how your establishment cares for its girls."
And so, Mrs Raab launched into a long, detailed explanation of the Asylum's work, which was only interrupted by the arrival of the tea.
"And what would you do, should a girl one day decide she wishes to find her parents?" Emily asked, once the tea had been served.
Raff, who had been subtly pretending to drink his tar-like tea, looked up with interest at the query.
"Well," Mrs Raab looked flustered, "We don't get many girls asking about that..."
"But, if they were to ask, I assume you would have a record somewhere?" Emily probed.
Mrs Raab nodded and waved a pudgy hand toward the back wall, where hundreds of ledgers sat upon the shelves.
"Of course," she said, rather waspishly, "We keep excellent records, my Lady."
"I'm sure you do," Raff interjected smoothly, sensing that, inadvertently, Lady Emily had insulted the matron. "I would like—once we have all finished this marvellous tea—to see more of the building, if it's possible. I know you must be very busy, and would hate to intrude upon your time."
"Not at all, your Grace," Mrs Raab replied, turning her attention back to Raff with a smile.
And so, once Raff had swallowed his terrible tea, and politely eaten two of the "good biscuits"—which, he thought, were actually the worst biscuits he had ever had—Mrs Raab led the trio on a tour of the Asylum.
"This is the room where the girls learn practical skills," Mrs Raab whispered, as she opened the door of a vast room in which at least two dozen girls sat, hunched over tables, squinting against the dimness.
"And what are they doing now?" Raff asked, for he was not so domesticated that he could discern the work the girls were carrying out. It looked, to his eye, like sewing, but rather more laborious and complex.
"Why," Mrs Raab beamed, "They're making bobbin lace. Such a wonderful skill for the girls to learn, and it also generates an income for the Asylum, which goes toward helping to feed and clothe the girls."
The lace mustn't generate a lot of income, Raff thought wryly, for the all the girls appeared half starved. Though, perhaps the profits went to feed the pleasantly plump matron?
"And do they work every day?" Raff asked.
"Oh no," Mrs Raab looked shocked, "They've a half day on a Sunday. Come, Your Grace, I'll bring you to see the dining hall."
Raff turned to follow Mrs Raab, but before they had a chance to move down the dark hallway, Lady Emily gave a cry of annoyance.
"Drat," she said, giving a theatrical frown, "I seem to have left my reticule behind in your office, Mrs Raab."
"I'll have one of the girls fetch it, my Lady," the matron replied.
"Oh no," Lady Emily trilled, in a high-pitched voice that sounded rather false to Raff's ear, "I simply couldn't tear them away from their work. I shall fetch it, and catch up with you and His Grace in the dining hall. I know his Grace wouldn't want to miss that portion of the tour."
Without waiting for a reply, Lady Emily turned and hared down the hallway, a glum looking Mary following in her wake.
She's up to something, Raff thought, as he and Mrs Raab continued with the tour, and, indeed, when Lady Emily caught up with them, a quarter hour later, her skin seemed rather flushed.
"Is all alright?" Raff queried, wondering at her pink cheeks and excited air.
"Fine as fivepence," Lady Emily said quickly, turning her attention to Mrs Raab, who was extolling the virtues of a balanced diet.
Raff would have believed her, had he not spotted the corner of a sheaf of torn paper, peeking from her beaded reticule. He frowned; he knew that she had been up to something.
The rest of the tour passed quickly; Mrs Raab insisted on showing them the dormitory—a vast, draughty room with mouse droppings upon the floor—before she escorted them back to the front door.
"Thank you again," the matron said, her eyes focused on Raaf, "For visiting. Do call back, whenever you like, Your Grace."
"You seem to have made an impression," Lady Emily whispered, once the door had closed behind them. Her green eyes danced with amusement and, though Raff was annoyed with her for deceiving him, he still allowed himself a moment to appreciate her beauty. During tea, he had thought her a ghost, but now, with her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and her plump mouth turned up in a smile, she resembled a fairy or a woodland nymph.
Raff kept his silence as he handed the young stable lad a few coins and assisted Emily and Mary up onto the Phaeton. It was only once they were on their way, heading down Hercules Road toward the bridge, that he voiced his annoyance.
"If you're going to pull a stunt like that again," he said, his hands gripping tightly to the reins, "Then at least have the courtesy to tell me about it first."
"What do you mean?"
Lady Emily turned toward him, wearing an overly innocent expression that faltered at his dark scowl.
"I am no fool," he murmured quietly, "Don't think to insult my intelligence, my dear. I know that you took something from Mrs Raab's office, and I want to know what it was."
"Well, it wasn't one of her hideous ornaments, if that's what you're worried about," Emily replied glibly.
He scowled again, and her smile faltered.
"Fine," his betrothed gave a sigh, "If you must know, I took a page from one of the ledgers."
"Lord," Raff heard Mary cry from her seat beside Emily, "I had nothing to do with it, Your Grace. I was an unwilling accomplice in it all."
"As was I," Raff replied dryly. He took his eyes from the road before him, to glance at Emily. "Tell me," he said, "What for; I assume there was some reason for your act of thievery?"
Lady Emily bristled indignantly under his censure, casting him a scathing look.
"Of course there was," she huffed, "It is for one of our maids, she came to us from the Asylum and she wishes to know who her parents are."
"Could she not have asked the Asylum herself?" Raff asked, frowning in confusion.
"You saw the way Mrs Raab treated those girls," Lady Emily replied with a frown of her own, "She would have turned the poor girl away."
Raff remained silent, as he tried to digest Lady Emily's reasoning. True, Mrs Raab seemed disinclined toward showing any compassion to her charges, but the manner in which Emily had gone about obtaining the information rankled him.
"I abhor dishonesty," Raff said, after a moment's taut silence, "I can forgive anything, my Lady, but I cannot forgive someone who lies to me. Do you understand?"
"I do," Lady Emily responded in a voice that, to Raff's ear, sounded extraordinarily sad.
Chapter Eight
It made no sense, Ava thought for the hundredth time, as she reread the page she had stolen from Mrs Raab's office.
The ledgers had been arranged in chronological order and Ava had easily managed to find the year of her birth, 1798, and within that ledger the month of October.
"October tenth," Mary had murmured helpfully, when Ava had hesitated.
"I'd al
ways wondered," she had replied with a slight smile, before leafing through the pages until she reached the tenth of October. There, in faded, black ink, was a short paragraph, in which Ava discerned the word "twins".
"This is it," she had whispered with excitement to Mary.
"Just rip it out," the lady's maid had murmured nervously in response, glancing over her shoulder at the door, "And read it later. We'd best hurry back before we're caught."
A clatter from the corridor outside the office had made both ladies jump, so Ava had hastily followed Mary's instructions and torn the page from its ledger.
Then, she had just had to endure the rest of Mrs Raab's tour, a guilt ridden journey home with His Grace, and tea with Emily's brother Theo and his wife—who had talked endlessly about her new drapes, before, finally, she had a moment alone.
In her bedchamber, with Mary peering over her shoulder, Ava had smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper and scanned it quickly.
Arrived, this afternoon, a genteel lady who birthed two girls, both healthy. The mother had been labouring for a day before her arrival, and following the birth, she complained of great pain, followed by a bleed, which led to her death. Her companion made arrangements for the removal of the body, but did not leave instructions for the care of the babes, except that one be named after the departed.
Ava paused and cast a sad look at Mary. "My mother bled to death," she whispered, as an unchecked tear made its way down her cheek.
"My poor child," Mary gave Ava's arm a squeeze.
"My poor mother," Ava replied gravely. The entry into the Asylum's diary had been cold and clinical, as though her mother had been a nuisance, rather than a person. It galled Ava that the woman who had given birth to her and Emily, had been reduced to nothing but a few sparse sentences. They had not even recorded her name, so she wasn't to know if she actually bore the same name that her mother had.
"There's more," Ava continued, as she noted an addendum at the bottom of the page.
During her night-time rounds, Matron Hannigan checked on the twins and found one of them had gone to our Lord.
Ava's hand dropped in shock, the page flittering from her fingers to the floor.
"It says that one of us died," she cried, turning to Mary, as though the lady's maid held the answers to all the questions she had. "How can that be?"
"I don't know, my love," Mary had replied sadly, "Perhaps it was a mix up? Those places were filled with babies, perhaps someone confused the two of you?"
"Perhaps," Ava replied vaguely, as she tried to understand just how she and Emily had come to be separated. Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the gong ringing through the house, signalling that supper was soon to be served.
"We'd best get you dressed," Mary said, jumping quickly into action. In less than half an hour, Mary had Ava washed, dressed and perfectly presentable.
"You just need to smile," Mary had said, affectionately stroking her cheek, "And no one will be any the wiser."
Was it possible that no one would notice the inner tumult affecting Ava? Given that Lord Fairfax had not even blinked when a different—albeit identical—person had been presented to him as his daughter, Ava highly doubted it. Lord Fairfax was many things, but observant was not one of them.
"There you are," Lord Fairfax called, as Ava descended the staircase, "I've been waiting for you; it's beef tonight and you know that's my favourite."
"Sorry, Papa," Ava gave an apologetic smile and allowed Lord Fairfax to take her arm and guide her into the dining room.
Inside the stately dining room, at the centre of which was a large table, big enough to accommodate two dozen guests, sat Theo and Beatrice, patiently awaiting their arrival.
"I thought Papa was going to have to fetch a Bow Street Runner to find you," Theo said cheerfully, as Ava took her seat at the table. Though the table was large, the family sat together at one end of it. Ava thought vaguely of her Aunt, Lady Lucan, who—according to Mary—sat at one end of the dining table, whilst her husband sat at the other. Apparently, if they wished to converse, they sent a footman scurrying back and forth between them.
"Never mind," Lord Fairfax interjected, "She's here now, so we can begin."
The marquess gave the footman closest to him a nod, and, within seconds, supper was being brought out. Ava stared down at her plate of rare beef in dismay, trying not to wretch as it oozed red-tinged juices.
"Rare, just the way you like it," Lord Fairfax said, smiling across at her.
Did Emily really enjoy rare beef, Ava wondered with dismay; this particular cut looked so rare that it was almost mooing up at her from the plate. Feeling rather nauseous, Ava delicately placed her fork down, hoping that no one would notice.
Luckily, Theo—the eldest of Emily's brothers—was waxing lyrical about matters agricultural; as the heir to the title, Theo had assumed responsibility for the running of Lord Fairfax's many estates.
"The work on the drainage should be completed by the end of the summer," Theo said, before casting an affectionate glance at Beatrice, "Which is lucky, because we'll be kept rather busy after that."
"Oh?" Lord Fairfax looked up from his beef, at his son's pointed tone.
"Beatrice is with child," Theo said, his face split into wide, excited smile.
"That's wonderful!"
Lord Fairfax smiled proudly at his son, and Ava echoed his sentiments, feeling, not for the first time, a little bit guilty. This was news that should be shared with family, she thought, not an interloper. The conversation turned then from estate matters, to the impending arrival of the baby. Beatrice, who was still as slim as a reed, happily stroked her stomach as they discussed names—Frederick for a boy, Adeline for a girl, which rendered Lord Fairfax rather misty eyed—nursery maids, christening gowns, the merits of Eton versus Harrow, and whether they should employ a French governess so that the child would grow up fluent.
Gracious. Ava had not known that some people cared so much about their children, that they had its life mapped out before it had even entered the world. It was, for a poor orphan, a rather astounding conversation to listen to. The child, Emily's niece, was already so loved, that Ava was quite overcome with emotion.
"Oh, my dear," Lord Fairfax leaned over and gave her hand an affectionate pat, "Don't cry, it's good news. I know you are thinking that your poor Mama would have been overjoyed to hear it, but we must not cry."
The table fell silent, as each of them remembered the late marchioness. She had died, Ava was told, just two years ago, after a particularly bad bout of influenza. Mary had warned her not to mention her too often around Lord Fairfax, for he was liable to burst into tears at the mention of her name, but this evening, he seemed quite content to recall his late wife.
"I remember the night that you were born," Lord Fairfax told his son, "You were born during the worst storm England had seen in over a hundred years—well, that is until you grew old enough to make trouble! Your mother often said that we should have called you Zeus."
"Or Thor," Ava added mildly, "He was the Norse God of thunder and lightning—it's rather more masculine than Zeus, don't you think?"
"Goodness," Lord Fairfax turned to look at Ava, "A secret passion for Shakespeare, and now a hidden knowledge of mythology. Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?"
Though he was jesting, Ava felt her heart contract momentarily with fear. It was only when Theo laughed, that she allowed herself to relax. All this subterfuge was rather tiring, Ava thought, as her heartbeat resumed its normal pace. Goodness knew how spies and the like managed it!
"Do you remember when I was born, Papa?" she ventured, hoping that Lord Fairfax might shed some light on the confusing page, hidden above in her bedroom.
"I do," Theo said, giving her a brotherly wink. At four and thirty, Theo was fourteen years older than his sister, and so would have been of an age to remember his sister's arrival into the world. "I was down from Eton on Long Leave. Mama must have gone into labour on
my first day back, for I was given full responsibility to keep Jack, Michael and Timothy entertained for three days—no easy task, I can tell you!"
"I doubt that labouring for three days was an easy task for your mother," Beatrice interjected, giving her husband a quelling glare.
"No," Lord Fairfax took up the baton to continue the tale, "It was not. Your poor Mama quite nearly expired from it all, and I had a dreadful bout of gout for weeks after—Dr Philips reckoned it was from the brandy."
"The brandy," Ava echoed stupidly, as her mind pondered this new information. If the marchioness had given birth, as it appeared she had, what had happened to that baby?
"Though, it was worth all the pain," Lord Fairfax continued, "For your mother at last had the daughter she so craved."
"And Timothy was saved from her attempts to dress him as a girl," Theo added with a snort of laughter, referring to the youngest Fairfax boy.
"That only happened the once," Lord Fairfax sternly admonished his son, "And the poor boy never lived it down—look, he's gone all the way to France to escape your jibes."
The conversation descended into gentle bickering, as Theo and Lord Fairfax debated the many fights and scrapes that the four Fairfax boys had got into over the years. From the sound of it, each kept a very detailed scorecard, for Theo was able to recall slights made against him, that had happened decades before.
"Oh, dear," Beatrice whispered across the table to Ava, "I rather fear I shall have two children on my hands."
Ava would have offered words to contradict her, but Beatrice continued on before she had a chance; "The duke will make a splendid father," she said, casting Ava a conspiratorial, womanly glance, "He is quite serious, though that is what a child needs—a rule maker, rather than a rule breaker."
To add credence to her words, Theo, who had been gesticulating wildly, knocked over his wine glass, sending a river of merlot across the pristine white table cloth.
"Oops a daisy," he said with a sheepish grin, making to wipe it with his napkin, but somehow he managed to knock over Lord Fairfax's wine glass in the process, right into Beatrice's lap, and that was the end of dinner.
The Duke's Bride in Disguise (Fairfax Twins Book 1) Page 9