By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  C.J. squinted at the tiny print. “It is inscribed with the initials C.J.W.T. and bears the phrase ‘from her loving parents, Albert and Emma.’ What is this about?” C.J. asked in an astonished whisper.

  “The cross, child!” exclaimed Manwaring excitedly. “Is this the mystery?” he asked the pawnbroker.

  C.J. extracted the amber cross from where it lay beneath her doublet. She matched the piece of amber to the oddly shaped bit of silver.

  “What means all this?” Darlington asked, still averting his eyes from the others. Bad enough that he had been found in such a compromising posture, but had not poor Miss Welles been made to endure enough censure through his attentions to her?

  “It fits—just barely,” C.J. said, attempting to insert the cross into its silver backing.

  “Bertie.” Lady Dalrymple regarded her brother. “There must be an explanation.”

  “As I told Cassandra, I have had the unhappy occasion to consort with a number of shylocks over the years who have crossed my palm with silver. I cannot rightly recall a transaction with Mr. Dingle, though I confess his face is one I do remember.”

  “If I do not bespeak my modesty too much, I have a good memory for details. And a better one for figures,” the pawnbroker said. “Since I opened my business nearly fifty years ago, I have recorded every transaction from each client who has entered my shop. I have just given Miss Welles the piece of silver backing into which the very same amber cross she now wears was set, the entirety given to her at her birth. The marquess removed the silver backing and pawned it with me decades ago in order to satisfy a gambling debt. Truth to tell,” Dingle added, removing his conical hat and scratching an itch under his skullcap, “with my clientele . . . the buyers . . . I don’t get much call for a piece this shape. Besides, it’s too small and the value of the silver is worth bupkes. It was only good for scrap, and wouldn’t fetch much because it is not much more than an inch long, and hollowed out to make room to set the cross. But the marquess brought me a few items at the time, and so I gave him a guinea for it. His wife had just died and he had a young daughter to raise alone. My heart went out to him.”

  C.J. was stunned. “But how did you remember you had it after all these years?”

  “Remember I didn’t. It was her ladyship who remembered.”

  “I cannot take that credit, Mr. Dingle,” replied Lady Chatterton in her lovely, silvery voice. “Several weeks ago, I had occasion to visit my solicitors, and was ushered into Mr. Oxley’s office to wait while Mr. Oxley and Mr. Morton were engaged with another client. The walls are not as thick as one might imagine, even for such accommodations in the Strand. I beg you to forgive me, Euphoria, but I chanced to overhear some of the discussion about your niece’s inheriting your brother’s title and property as well as your own wealth and personal effects. I remembered that the marquess had lost his daughter when she was a child of about three years old.” Lady Chatterton regarded Manwaring with the utmost compassion. “I have always believed in my heart that his lordship has not deserved the ignominy accorded to him for this past quarter century.”

  “Ha!” snorted Lady Oliver. “He’s naught but a dissipate drunk and a degenerate. An actor!”

  Lady Chatterton ignored the interruption. “His wife died giving birth to their only child. What deeper sorrow can one possibly imagine? And how hasty everyone was to condemn him for his subsequent decline. I daresay it would take nearly inhuman strength to overcome such tragedy without some loss of dignity. Lady Dalrymple’s conversation with her solicitors gave me the notion to embark upon a quest. Over the years, the marquess had occasion to confide to me his overwhelming feelings of guilt and remorse over the unfortunate loss—or should I say ‘misplacing’—of his young daughter. He agonized over having pawned the silver from the cross given to her at birth, cognizant that he had no right to do such a thing with an item not only not his own, but the sole property of his innocent babe. I thought at the very least, I might be able to locate and reacquire the bit of sterling so that Manwaring would have something to remember his daughter by. And a few weeks ago, when I learned quite by happy accident that Lady Cassandra was alive and well and living under her aunt’s protection, I thought to help reunite father and child. And what pleasure it would afford me if the marquess could then restore the pawned item to its rightful owner! Aware that his lordship had divested himself of nearly all the material particulars of his estate, I visited every pawnshop in London, and at long last I came upon Mr. Dingle’s emporium. He most obligingly showed me his ledgers. I perused every entry under Manwaring’s name and when I spied the record with regard to the bit of silver backing, I asked Mr. Dingle if he would be so good as to send a note to Lady Dalrymple in Bath, addressed to the attention of her niece.”

  Manwaring removed his heavy headdress and placed it on the ground beside him. He was sweating profusely and accepted the loan of the Jew’s large white handkerchief.

  “What are you saying, Lady Chatterton?” C.J. asked. Her heart pounded against the walls of her chest.

  “I am saying that it appears that you have been reunited with your family after all these long years of absence.”

  A stupefied C.J. glanced speechlessly from Lady Chatterton to Manwaring to Lady Dalrymple.

  “The T is for Tobias, of course. And the W on the inscription was for your mother’s maiden name—Warburton,” murmured Lady Dalrymple.

  “Siddons,” Manwaring said slowly, regarding C.J. in the great tragedienne’s velvet doublet. “It was that season . . . yes . . . you were no more than three years old and I had taken you traveling with the theatre troupe throughout the provinces.”

  “After Emma’s death, Albert insisted on taking care of you himself. He swore you were all he had left in the world and would not even permit me to raise you,” Lady Dalrymple said, still absorbing the stunning realization that the lie she had invented to protect Cassandra had indeed been the truth all along.

  “We were in rehearsal at the Theatre Royal in Bath,” the marquess recalled. “It was a very popular melodrama that was on the bill—De Montfort. I was assigned a small, but rather significant role, if I do say so. A character named Friberg. He’s the chap who gets to introduce Jane de Montfort for her grand entrance. That was Siddons herself, and all eyes were upon me as I spoke my lines. Cassandra had been a good little tyke, amusing herself backstage with the props and the costumes and so forth, but as this was my big moment in the drama, I could not keep watch over her. Just as I spoke my line—I remember it to this day—it went”—he stepped forward and struck his most theatrical posture—“‘It is an apparition he has seen or it is Jane de Montfort,’ Cassandra went toddling across the entire width of the stage on her sturdy little legs, and disappeared into the wings. We looked high and low for her after the rehearsal, but we never saw her again.”

  Lady Oliver narrowed her eyes. “Highly irregular! Highly irregular, indeed! How do we know for sure, amid all this theatrical folderol, that this young woman is indeed who you claim she is and not an impostor?”

  “If I recall correctly, my daughter had a little birthmark on the inside of her left thigh,” the marquess said. “Shaped a bit like a tea kettle.”

  “A tea kettle? How preposterous!” sniffed Lady Oliver.

  “I can verify that information for you if you wish,” Manwaring retorted.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” replied Lady Chatterton and Lady Dalrymple in tandem.

  “I think not, old chap,” interrupted Darlington, staying the marquess with his hand. “I shall undertake the task.”

  “I’m surprised that you do not remember,” C.J. whispered into the earl’s ear.

  “I do, actually. And it happens to be true. But why squander such a delicious opportunity?” He guided C.J. to her feet, and they began to disappear behind the cluster of tall trees.

  “On second thought, perhaps it was on the sole of her right foot—,” the marquess said ponderingly. “Bless me, it’s been so many y
ears, I cannot remember . . . I need a drink.”

  Darlington and C.J. emerged from the grove. “Remarkably like a tea kettle, your lordship.” The earl winked at Manwaring. “And one of Staffordshire’s finest—I believe the mark most resembles a Wedgwood.”

  Mary threw her arms around C.J.’s neck, weeping tears of jubilation, then an emotional Lady Dalrymple embraced the couple after first removing her serpentine accessory and handing the snake off to a terrified Mary, who immediately dropped it amid the golden pebbles. “So, my niece,” the countess said, “it would certainly appear that you are indeed the very person I have claimed you to be all along.” Lady Dalrymple joined her hands with those of Darlington and C.J. “And here is your heiress after all, Percy.”

  “God grant you joy,” said Lady Chatterton, waving her wand over everyone who was in any way reunited with a loved one during the past several minutes. “But I think you need it most of all,” she added, blowing some sparkly pixie dust at a glowering Lady Oliver.

  Her head spinning from this most extraordinary of revelations, C.J. sank down onto the marble bench. So this was where she belonged; her every instinct about her visceral connections to this world had been accurate. In fact, she had been transported into the future when, so many years earlier, she had disappeared into the wings at the Theatre Royal, Bath. Now, she had come home, to continue to live the remainder of a life begun in the eighteenth century.

  “I am astounded, Clementina, that you went to all this trouble for me.” Manwaring bestowed a kiss on Lady Chatterton’s delicate fingers. “I am touched beyond all measure. Behold me, an unworthy suppliant at your feet,” he declared, dramatically prostrating himself before her.

  Outside the pavilion, the fireworks began anew, sending showers of silver and gold into the treetops and down again.

  Mathias Dingle removed his conical hat emblazoned with stars. “Our revels now are ended,” he said with a smile to Lady Chatterton.

  Darlington slipped his arm around the waist of his future wife, drawing her to him. “On the contrary, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I’ll wager they have barely begun!”

  C.J. COULD SCARCELY WAIT to return to Bath to share the news of her good fortune with Miss Austen, informing her when they met three days later that Lady Dalrymple had named C.J. as her heiress and would settle an income upon her.

  Jane gasped with delight at her friend’s great fortune. “An annuity is a very serious business.”

  Then a beaming Darlington announced for the benefit of his cousin, “And Lady Cassandra will not only eventually become Marchioness of Manwaring, she has consented to accept another title, which we fervently hope she will be able to enjoy far sooner. The young lady lately known as Miss Welles has agreed to do me the great honor of becoming the Countess of Darlington. I had thought to postpone my entreaty to Cassandra to do me the ultimate honor until I had the proper documents in hand, but once I saw her at Vauxhall, I found I could not contain myself.” He discerned a distinct blush on his fiancée’s cheeks. “I have just now come from Canterbury so as not to add a moment’s more delay, although the elaborate wedding preparations I have in mind—which will accord Lady Cassandra the fullness of the honors she deserves—will take a good deal of time and effort.”

  Miss Austen emitted an exasperated sigh. “Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation?”

  “As though I have not waited long enough,” C.J. replied with a light laugh. “You need not go to extremes on my account, Percy.”

  “Is not my Cassandra the most charming girl in the world, Miss Jane?” Darlington said, a besotted smile on his lips.

  “It requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl in the world,” Jane teased.

  “I shall endeavor to keep my head then,” C.J. replied, as the two young ladies exchanged an impish glance. “But you must allow, Jane, that your cousin is quite charming when he is smitten. Quite a contrast to how studious he looks with his spectacles on! And I daresay I cannot number many men among my acquaintance who have as thorough a knowledge and understanding—and passion—for the poetry of Shakespeare, as well as a rather wicked art collection.”

  Jane ruffled her cousin’s hair. “His friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had.”

  His lordship took his leave just as Mary appeared in the doorway. “Lady Dalrymple wishes to know if you and Miss Austen might join her in the front parlor for tea, your ladyship.” C.J. replied that they would be delighted to accept her aunt’s offer, particularly if there were rosewater biscuits to be had. She noticed an unusual brooch pinned to Mary’s livery and inquired after its provenance. “A gift it was from Mrs. Jordan and His Highness, to thank me for assistin’ in the delivery of her babe. A boy, it was. In the pink of health.”

  “Goodness!” C.J. exclaimed admiringly. “Then did you actually meet the Duke of Clarence?”

  Mary shook her head. “Oh no. But Mrs. Jordan herself pressed this into my hand.”

  “Mrs. Jordan was up and about so soon after giving birth? I pray that I may be as fortunate,” said C.J., lovingly caressing her abdomen.

  “Oh, she’s had so many babes, she says they practically pop out by themselves now,” Mary replied. “She told us she just summons the midwives to entertain her in her hours of labor so she should not have to endure them alone. Why, she was even doin’ speeches for us from the theatre while she was pushin’ out the babe. And Mrs. Goodwin asked her to do Pickle,” Mary added, referring to the role for which Mrs. Jordan had gained the most renown.

  Astonished, C.J. clapped a hand to her breast. “I pray, too, that I may have her humor under the circumstances!”

  Epilogue

  AND SO, DEAR READER, they were married. In the quiet parish church of St. Mary the Virgin, where Henry Fielding recited his vows, the third Earl of Darlington married Lady Cassandra Jane Warburton Tobias, only daughter of the eighth Marquess of Manwaring. Miss Austen’s “foolish preparation” was dispensed with at a small ceremony attended by the couple’s intimate friends and family.

  Lady Oliver was conspicuous in her absence.

  Following tradition, the groom handed his bride up into the open carriage, then climbed in beside her. The newlyweds tossed coins to those who had come to wish them well, then spurred their steeds toward the city. As they rode along Stall Street, headed for Darlington’s town house in the Circus, the new countess asked her husband to have the carriage brought to a halt. She alighted in front of an apple cart, took a good deal of care in selecting a particularly fragrant specimen, then removed a gold crown from her reticule. “For your pains, Adam Dombie,” she told the stunned costermonger.

  The following March, as the vernal equinox was celebrated with great relief that the dark days of winter had once again drawn to a close and the crisp spring air promised warmer and gentler breezes to come, Lady Darlington was delivered of twins by Mary Sykes.

  William, the boy, had his father’s dark curls and lapis-colored eyes; his sister, Nora, younger by a quarter hour, was possessed of the same deep blue eyes, but her hair was as fine and fair and golden as her mother’s had been when she was a newborn.

  Their godmother was Miss Jane Austen.

  Both babes demonstrated a remarkable, and rather immediate, inquisitiveness and shared a stubborn reluctance to go to Mrs. Fast, the wet nurse. On the afternoon following the births, Mary presented Lady Darlington with a small packet wrapped in tissue. Inside it was the cameo that had been bestowed upon the apprentice midwife by Mrs. Jordan.

  “Mary, how can I possibly accept this?”

  “It is the least I can do for your ladyship. Had it not been for you learnin’ me my letters and his lordship relievin’ me from my situation at Lady Wickham’s, I should never have made anything of myself, and now—”

  “Mary, side by side we h
ave scrubbed the rust stains from roasting pans, dyed used tea leaves black for smouch, and slept in the same bed. I cannot permit you to call me ‘your ladyship.’ I beg you to use my Christian name.”

  “Oh no, your ladyship. Will you never learn? You are a countess and I am but a midwife. It is not at all proper.”

  “Well then, you must at least permit me to address you as Mrs. Musgrove in future. And may I offer the deepest felicitations from Darlington and me.” Mary blushed a deep crimson. The twins’ godmother reappeared, bearing a tray of refreshments. “How astonishing I still find it,” C.J. remarked to Miss Austen, “that after all my peregrinations, Bath is my home after all.”

  Jane smiled, and taking Cassandra’s hand in hers, pressed it to her cheek. “A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, all in the triumph of recovered reputation and all the dignity of a countess . . . is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows.”

  An ending thus became a beginning, as Lord Darlington had so presciently predicted. And for the remainder of their days together, Lady Darlington remembered fondly her Aunt Euphoria’s advice and danced for her husband—with great regularity.

  Acknowledgments

  MANY THANKS TO my wonderful agent, Irene Goodman, who valiantly championed this book through its myriad revisions, and to my terrifically incisive editor, Rachel Beard Kahan, who took a chance on it and went well above and beyond her editorial duty by giving me a grad-level crash course via e-mail in the laws of primogeniture. Plaudits also to Shana Drehs for taking up the editorial baton without missing a step. Recognition is also due to William Richert, who was there the night “Amanda” was born; to Michele LaRue for being the most patient fan of this novel; to M. Z. R. for the magic bullet, and to Miriam Kriss for the graphic; to the generous, kind, and supportive members of the Beau Monde for their raft of encyclopedic knowledge; and to d.f for his continual, and enthusiastic, encouragement. A bouquet to Laurie Peterson for hiring me to play Jane Austen in The Novelist and to Raffaele A. Castaldo for making me believe I really was in Jane’s parlor in Steventon. Finally, a special nod to the magical city of Bath; every time I visit, I feel as if I’ve come home.