Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  He listened, nodding. “And so you worried that I might have ravished her.”

  She stopped and gave him a shrewd look. “Exactly.” She popped a grape in her mouth.

  Claire looked in astonishment from one to the other. Lady Ashworth saw her face and said, “Oh, Julian and I understand one another; he was my husband’s favorite ward, you know.”

  “Really?” Claire was honestly surprised. She’d never read a single Regency in which the ward of some wealthy patron wasn’t a woman. “Men can be wards, then?”

  “Oh, they often are!” exclaimed the lady, with a wave of a hand. “Julian’s father was great friends with the marquess, and entrusted his entire fortune to his keeping before he died. The marquess took perfect care of it, but of course it has long been in Julian’s hands entirely. I keep a keen interest in him, however, you see.” She glanced affectionately at St. John. “He is almost the son I never had!” Returning her gaze to Claire, she added, “And we are nothing if not frank with each other.”

  “You—you are a marchioness?” asked Claire, in awe.

  Lady Ashworth smiled. “Of course, my dear. And you are a marchioness’s granddaughter.” Her Ladyship gazed back at St. John, took a bite of seed cake, and said, “Where was I? Oh, yes. I hurried here the moment I got word from Mr. Timbrell of Claire’s being at the ball. As I said, I had a few frightful minutes, but I remembered”—and she smiled again at St. John—“that you found religion. I felt much assured.”

  Claire eyed St. John with an accusing look.

  He said, “You shouldn’t have. I daresay your granddaughter nearly beguiled me out of it. I was just in the process of ravishing her.”

  Lady Ashworth let out a delighted laugh. “I stopped you in time, though.” Turning to Claire she gushed, “Oh, my dear, I am enormously pleased to have you in town! You are just the thing for Julian, you know. I daresay you are the first lady to make him misbehave since he was reformed.”

  “Matchmaking for me, now?” he asked, leaning against the mantel with a casual air.

  “Surely you will allow she has a bewitching beauty,” said Lady Ashworth. “And if you marry her, you shall be more like my own son than ever!”

  “A bewitching beauty that has amnesia,” he said.

  “I do not!” cried Claire.

  They ignored her.

  “And were you really going to—going to—ravish—”

  “Shhh!” Julian put a finger over his lips. “No such thing, I assure you. I hadn’t forgotten myself that much, and I wasn’t about to.” He turned to her grandmother. “She has an amazing likeness to Miss Andrews. How do you account for it?”

  She paused and surveyed Claire a moment and then turned back to him, pointing a little piece of seedcake at him as she spoke. “Because Clarissa, too—surely you have not forgot—is my relation.”

  “How is it I have never heard of Miss Channing until tonight?”

  “She has only arrived, sir, from—the country.”

  “From another country,” put in Claire. She could not erase a feeling of indignation despite Lady Ashworth’s accounting for her presence there in the most propitious manner possible. Her explanation whitewashed all the outlandish—though true—answers Claire had given St. John, as though a load of dirty laundry was now cleaned, folded, and put away.

  “What part of the country?” St. John asked.

  Lady Ashworth wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood. “I am in a hurry, sir, if you must know.”

  “Fine. I should be pleased to have this young woman off my hands.” But he studied Claire and said to Lady Ashworth, “How long has she been afflicted?”

  “It comes and goes, sir. I suppose that is why her family kept her squirrelled away in Lincolnshire.”

  “Lincolnshire?” asked Claire. “Do I have family there?”

  “Of course, my dear.” She looked at St. John. “She’ll come out of it soon and be in her right mind. Just as if it never happened.”

  “She is a danger to herself. You ought never leave her alone. She quite insisted upon having no protection whatsoever in all of England.”

  “She claimed to be from America?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Because I am!” cried Claire.

  “You, er, brought the shawl?” asked Lady Ashworth, looking keenly at Claire.

  “You mean the tallit!” cried Claire. “It shows up whenever I’m here!” She turned and took it from the brow of the settee. Lady Ashworth gazed at it like it was a Crown Jewel. “Does it have something to do with my being here?” Claire asked.

  St. John looked at a loss. Her Ladyship stood up. “I’ll take her from here, sir. And perhaps you may call upon her soon to see how she gets on. When she is in her right mind, she is a charming creature, I assure you.”

  “She is charming already,” he said quietly, gazing at Claire. “How is it you never mentioned her to me?”

  “But I am in my right mind!” Claire cried.

  Lady Ashworth gave her a warning look, but said, “A grave failing, on my part, Julian. I beg your pardon; I suppose I was waiting for her mother to give her leave to stay with me.” Her face brightened. “And she has, just at the right time! For now you are ready for a wife. I call that providential!”

  Claire blushed pink at that, but was still smarting from her grandmother’s words, “when she is in her right mind.” Lady Ashworth motioned for Claire to follow her. But Claire felt a sudden suspicion towards the lady. She really looked nothing like the grandmother she remembered, or the one in the photos at the cottage. Alarmed, she hurried to stand behind St. John. What if this woman wasn’t really her grandmother? He turned in surprise and she hissed, “I do not have amnesia! And I am not certain this woman is my grandmother!”

  He took her hands. All of his annoyance had vanished now he understood her malady. In fact, Miss Channing now made him feel only protective. She was attractive to him before, but the revelation of her innocence—she was afflicted, not lying and deceptive—made her seem twice as beautiful. “You have nothing to fear, Miss Channing. Her Ladyship would hardly claim to know you if she wasn’t your relation.”

  “Indeed, not,” said the lady, smiling at her.

  “But I tell you, I do not know her,” she insisted softly.

  “Which adds credence to her claims,” he said, looking down gently into her eyes. “Only think for a moment—how else could you be here? Dressed properly? Speaking proper English? How could you really have come from America, which is an ocean away?”

  It did sound impossible, but Claire knew that somehow it was not. She sniffled.

  He dropped one of her hands to pull a starched white handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. “Now be a good girl and go with Grandmamma. I’ll call upon you tomorrow.”

  She looked up at him. “Will you?”

  “I shall.” Keeping one of Claire’s hands in his own, he drew her with him as he went for the bell pull. When Grey appeared, he said, “Have the ladies’ things ready.”

  He walked them to the entrance hall, keeping one of his own hands gently upon Claire’s, where it rested upon his arm.

  Lady Ashworth saw his manner towards Claire, and couldn’t remove a small smile from her face. St. John took Claire’s bonnet and gloves from Grey and helped her into them while the butler helped Her Ladyship. Seeing the tallit upon Claire, Lady Ashworth stared as if mesmerised. Her eyes met Claire’s. They were heavy with unspoken words.

  It's delightful when your imaginations come true, isn't it?

  L.M. Montgomery

  CHAPTER 19

  As soon as they were off in Her Ladyship’s shiny black coach, the door of which was emblazoned with the marquess’s seal, her grandmamma folded her hands upon her lap and surveyed Claire with an inquisitive look.

  “How is your mother?” she asked.

  “So you really are my grandmother? And you know I do not have amnesia?”

  “Yes, on both counts. But we could hardly
explain to St. John, how things stand.”

  “I tried,” Claire said.

  The woman nodded. “You see what came of it.” She gazed fondly at Claire and leaned forward to exclaim, “How delighted I was to learn of your being here! I always thought the tallit must have gone back to the cottage, but I never dreamt of it bringing my own granddaughter to me!” She paused and frowned. “Your mother certainly never did. I saw you as a child only a few times.”

  Claire nodded. “Why is it you and she don’t get along?”

  Lady Ashworth waved a hand dismissively. “Your mother is a cold woman. She never needed me like other children need their mother.”

  Claire said, “She never loved me like other mothers love their children. We rarely even talk.”

  Lady Ashworth nodded understandingly. “Precisely. She’s an odd fish. And when I tried to tell her about the shawl bringing me here, she wouldn’t believe me. She cut me off, as you probably know.”

  Claire nodded with sympathetic eyes. “How does the shawl work? Why did it bring me to a ballroom?”

  The lady gazed at her and gave a slow smile. “It brought you to St. John!”

  Claire wasn’t prepared to believe in a matchmaking shawl, but she thought back to that amazing, surprising kiss and said, “He wasn’t joking; he kissed me, you know! Though I did all I could to dissuade him.”

  “He took to you!” she said, smiling. “But he was naughty. I ought to have given him a great combing over it.”

  Claire stared at the marchioness. “You look healthier and happier than your photos.”

  The marchioness patted her bandeau and smiled again. “Happiness, I daresay, does wonders for the complexion.” She gave Claire a wide-eyed look. “You will be happy here, too, my dear.” Claire was about to say that she couldn’t possibly stay there, but the woman continued, “And I am in raptures to have you—my own flesh and blood!”

  “Why do I look like Clarissa? We are two hundred years apart!”

  “’Tis in the genes, I suppose. These things happen.”

  “Are you saying she is my—my relative? I’m an author—I made her up! I made all of this up!”

  Lady Ashworth shook her head slowly back and forth. “She is in your family tree.”

  Claire gasped. A flash of memory shot at her—she used many sources to collect names to use for characters in her books. She’d taken Clarissa and Miss Margaret’s names from a family history!

  “So it’s true,” she said, sitting back in a daze. “I really am not in the world of my novel?”

  “Not at all. These are your forebears.”

  Claire looked struck. “St. John, too?”

  “No.” She leaned forward in her seat towards Claire. “And this, my dear, is why I thank God you showed up just now, of all times. If we don’t do something speedily, St. John will not live out the year. Clarissa will kill him!”

  “Kill him?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later,” Her Ladyship said. The carriage pulled up in front of a large town mansion on Berkeley Square.

  A footman lowered the steps and assisted the ladies down. Once in the house, a butler took their things. Lady Ashworth told a servant to prepare a bedchamber for Claire, adding that Miss Channing was her honoured granddaughter. The butler looked faintly amazed, to which she said, “Surely I’ve spoken of her to you, Yates; you must have forgot.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a nod. But Claire caught him stealing a curious glance at her. She tried not to gawp at the rich rooms her grandmother led her through. Despite very poor lighting, she could see ornate gold frames which housed enormous portraits and landscapes along a wide corridor lined with a patterned red-and-gold carpet. But Claire could scarcely pay heed. Her head was reeling with the thought that she wasn’t in her book. She really was in the past!

  “But—but,” she said. “St. John was also a character in my book. How could I have got his name right, if not from the family tree?”

  “From an old newspaper report, no doubt,” put in the lady. She turned and gave Claire a grave look. “Of his untimely death,perhaps.”

  “How do you know? Have you been here in different times, then?”

  Lady Ashworth stopped. She looked about to see that there were no footmen or other servants about. When she saw none, she answered, “After my first visit, I looked up everyone I’d met. To see what their end was, you know. I read about St. John’s demise.” She motioned Claire to follow her as she opened a double door. They entered a grand bedchamber, where two maids were already busily building up a fire.

  Lady Ashworth signalled Claire to sit by her on the bed. She leaned in and said confidentially, “He has only two weeks left. You are here just in time to prevent a calamity!”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “Two weeks! Oh dear! How am I to prevent it?”

  With a care to keep her voice low, the lady continued, “Miss Andrews went scot-free after the so-called ‘accident,’ claiming that her coachman lost control of her vehicle, which barrelled into Julian’s. Everyone else was hurt—but he alone, unfortunately, was killed from a broken neck. They hung the coachman, who I’ve no doubt was merely following orders.” She paused and added, “Well, they will hang him, that is, unless we prevent the accident.”

  “I’m sure he was following orders!” put in Claire strongly, whose first chapter had portrayed just such a thing. She looked struck. “So Miss Andrews really does pull larks like that?”

  “That is precisely what she called it, now I think on it. A lark!” whispered her grandmother fiercely. She touched Claire’s arm. “But now you’re here, you can put an end to Miss Andrews’s interest in him.”

  The two maids had finished their duties. As they were leaving, Lady Ashworth called, “Send Marie.” They curtseyed and were off.

  “How could I put an end to her interest in him?” Claire asked.

  “By marrying him. She will hardly pursue a married man.”

  Claire smiled, despite herself. St. John had been kind to her—before he got naughty, that was. His handsome face loomed before her. She thought of the kiss, and being in his strong arms—a blush crept across her cheeks. But then she frowned. “Are you not forgetting, dear Grandmother—”

  “Call me Grandmamma,” the lady said. “’Tis what they do in the upper class.”

  “Are you not afraid of changing history?” Claire asked. “And I have so many questions about why I’m here and how it happens. And St. John may not wish to marry me!”

  “One thing at a time, my love,” said the lady. “As for history, after I married the marquess, I returned one last time to the cottage. I looked up the history of our family—the marquess’s family, you know—and there was my name, Charlotte Grandison, listed as his wife! And then, when I came back, well—I never returned.”

  “Have you tried?”

  Lady Ashworth gave her a guarded look. “Do you understand how you got here?”

  “No,” Claire paused. “Is it the tallit? I thought it had something to do with the cottage.”

  She looked relieved. “Yes, the cottage! But ‘tis quite the mystery how or why it happens.”

  “Do you mean you do not understand what brought you here? Or how you got back?”

  “Not precisely,” said the woman. “I think—I’ve thought long and hard on this you know—I think, once you come through a few times, you create a pathway. But the coming pathway—to the past—gets stronger, while the going back pathway—to the future—gets weaker. I say this because it got easier for me to come back, and more and more difficult to return. Finally, I could no longer return at all. I wore out my going back pathway.”

  “Oh!” Claire put a hand on her heart. She’d best not make the trip too often!

  “But I have no wish to go back, my dear.” She surveyed her granddaughter. “Your mother and I hardly spoke for decades; she denied me opportunity to know you. So in the future I am a lonely old woman. Here, I am a marchioness. Lady Ashworth. Here is where my frien
ds and family are.”

  “Do I really have ancestors in Lincolnshire?”

  “Yes. That is Clarissa’s family seat; as I said, they are in our tree.”

  “Clarissa loathes me! Her family will never own me.”

  “They will now, because I have. ’Tis poor form to deny what a marchioness allows.”

  “But how did they come to accept you?”

  She regarded Claire thoughtfully. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “I cannot stay, Grandmamma! I must return tonight! I have a dog. He’ll need attention.”

  A scratch at the door revealed a woman, probably the housekeeper. She curtseyed and said, “Miss Channing’s chamber is ready, ma’am.” Lady Ashworth’s lady’s maid breezed in around the housekeeper. “La! Madame! How late you are up tonight!”

  “Nonsense, Marie, I am often out later than this.” Turning back to Claire, she whispered, “I am sorry, my dear! I cannot tell you how to return! The tallit has a mind of its own.” Claire’s heart sank. But she figured she’d been gone no longer than three hours—Charlie would be okay for a few more.

  Lady Ashworth instructed the servant to provide Claire with nightclothes, and then stood and took Claire by the shoulders.

  “My dear—I cannot tell you what a comfort ‘tis to have you here. And you looking so beautiful! You are just the thing to save him!” She leaned over and kissed Claire on the cheek. Marie scooted over and began undoing the older woman’s gown from behind.

  “Thank you, Grandmamma. You are a comfort to me as well.” And she certainly was. Claire had gone from homelessness and dubious respectability to being the granddaughter of a marchioness! Now if she could just make her visit last long enough so she could nose out something no other Regency researcher had found. Her career would be set. She would like to save St. John’s life, but really, if he fell in love with Miss Andrews she wouldn’t have to pull any larks to get his attention, and his life wouldn’t be in danger.