Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  But, after exhausting the books on each and every one, she found nothing. A few faded bookmarks gave her pause, but these she put back and continued the search. Finally, she concluded her father had hidden the mysterious papers elsewhere, papers that would explain the trust, and prove, alas, that Mama was wrong. The trust did not belong to her, Catherine. It belonged to the other Miss Fanshawe.

  En route to King Street, Frannie worked up the courage to ask Sebastian what she had lacked courage to ask Mr. Harley. As he handed her down from the carriage, she said, “Sir, might I inquire? Did Mr. Harley find evidence to bolster my claim when he made inquiries on my behalf?” Her heart beat painfully, for she was well aware that the evidence was likely to be scarce, even non-existent.

  Sebastian hesitated. “He found the parish record of your birth.”

  “Yes?” Her heart skipped a beat. Sebastian looked regretful.

  “The entry was not complete, but appears to have been doctored. Your father’s name was blotted out.” He paused, met her eyes and added gently, “It does raise questions about the legitimacy of your birth, I’m afraid.”

  “Questions?” Dread filled her heart.

  He looked away and then back at her. “The difficulty is that your mother’s maiden name is Fanshawe, and you share that name. Charles Fanshawe of Cheapside had a sister Margaret, who must be your mother.”

  A wave of mortification washed over Frannie. Did this not indicate that she must be illegitimate? Had Mama hidden the truth from her all her life? Had Mrs. Baxter known? Her eyes brimmed with tears. Thoughts and fears filled her mind, but she stared at the ground as they walked. She would no doubt be sent packing now.

  “Mr. Harley finds it curious that your fatherʼs name was crossed out. He said it may be indicative of possible foul play.”

  “Foul play?” she asked.

  “It’s a crime to alter a parish record,” he explained. “But it was done. This raises the possibility of unusual circumstances surrounding your birth and situation in life.” He paused. “Nothing can be concluded at present.” Before she could reply, he motioned her to silence as they entered the house and handed their accoutrements to Tipps.

  “Is Mrs. Arundell here?”

  “Gone out, sir, with an acquaintance,” Tipps replied.

  Sebastian turned to Frannie, “Where shall I take you? To the library?” A smile curved his lips.

  The Arundell library was Frannie’s favourite room, stocked with more books than she’d ever seen in a home. It seemed no one else in the family frequented it, but apparently her habit of retiring there to read whenever she wasn’t needed, had been noted. She often took one of Mrs. Arundell’s magazines with her, such as Le Belle Assemblée, or, The Ladies’ Monthly Museum. She did this not because she was enraptured by fashion plates or advice for young women on etiquette or beauty, but so that none would think her a bluestocking. Her real object was to read as many new titles from the shelves as she could manage. It was also a quiet place for morning devotions, to read the prayer book.

  At this moment she thought of escaping to her bedchamber to throw herself upon the bed and have a good cry. Her birth record was shameful! Her father’s name crossed out! But another part of her rose up. She would go to the library. Only God knew how much longer she’d have access to it. “I know my way, thank you,” she said in a low voice. But he continued to walk with her to the stairs, and she felt his company like a comfort, a warm blanket on a cold day. He might have shunned her after learning about that birth record.

  He suddenly turned to her. “You lived with your mother and Mrs. Baxter in Lincolnshire, did you not?”

  She nodded. “Yes, at the edge of town.”

  “Well, you weren’t born there. Mr. Harleyʼs clerk found that record of your birth in Gloucestershire. Did you know?”

  Frannie shook her head. “I had no notion.”

  “Bartlett Hall is in Gloucestershire. When we’re there at Christmas, we can ask to see the record, if you like.” He paused, then continued, “The good news is, Harley traced the annual payment you spoke of, at least to the extent of confirming that your mother did indeed deposit a sum annually. The bank as yet hasn’t come forward with the name or company name on the banknotes. Until they do, we cannot trace their origin. But it indicates that someone somewhere did indeed provide for you and your mother.”

  She felt a wisp of hope and caught her breath. “Yes! I am sure it must be my father.”

  “We hope to find out.” They had reached the library and he now motioned her in. Seeing no fire in the grate, he went to the bell pull.

  Frannie waited, her heart torn between hope and discouragement. When he returned to her, he said, “We may hope that Charles Fanshawe is indeed your uncle and, since his name was furnished to you, that he understands the particulars of this business, both your birth and the trust. Your mother must have confided in him.”

  Frannie stared at the Oriental rug as he spoke, but nodded.

  He continued, “Let us hope he is prepared to be forthcoming, and that they are not conspiring to take what belongs to you.”

  She slowly raised her large doe eyes to meet his. “My father—if he can be found—can sort this out properly.”

  “In the meantime, your uncle may be an honest man. We’ll say nothing about the circumstances of your birth until we understand them better, and hope for his help in that regard.” He hesitated. “If the other Miss Fanshawe was entitled to the trust, her family should also have been the recipient of the annual sums, the interest sent to your mother. Mr. Harley found no record of such, and their lifestyle indicates otherwise.”

  A deep unrest filled Frannie. How she longed to know the truth, no matter how damning! If only Mama were here to fill in all the gossamer threads of her past. Feeling full of shame, though she had no culpability in the circumstances of her birth, she could not meet his eyes. A chambermaid entered with a coal scuttle and set to building a fire. Sebastian casually took a book from a shelf and paged through it, while Frannie sat there squirming beneath the gloomy foreboding that she must be illegitimate. Sebastian was doing his brown best to soften the blow, behaving as though it were only a possibility, but Frannie could sense the writing on the wall. How lowering! How sad! She would never be his social equal! Could anything be more impossible than for a respectable family to accept than an illegitimate daughter?

  Even if she were not a blow-by child, her father had likely refused to allow his name on her parish record. She searched her mind for other possibilities. Might her parents have divorced before her birth? Or been unlawfully wed? She was grasping at straws.

  When finally the maid left, and with a small flame already growing, Sebastian put the book away and approached the settee where Frannie sat. In a gentler tone he continued, “ʼTis possible a baptismal record in Lincolnshire may yet be found which could contain the name of your father, though it is doubtful. Mr. Harley has men on it, searching as we speak. Take heart.”

  She looked up at him gratefully but could not hide tears that had pooled in her eyes. She said, “If there were such a record, would it not have been discovered first? Before a parish record in Gloucestershire? I daresay I must prepare myself for the workhouse!”

  Sebastian frowned. “Nonsense. Well-bred young women have other…options.” His gaze remained clouded as he surveyed her. “Indeed, Miss Fanshawe, do not despair. If the very worst is found to be true, that your father and mother never married, it is still remains that the man has been supporting you all your life and means to continue doing so. You are not in a hopeless condition. There will be no poor house for you.” He hesitated. “And—you have friends,” he added awkwardly.

  His words were meant kindly, to remind her that the Arundells were on her side. He hoped to lighten her gloom. But Sebastian did not know, could not understand, that in addition to the crushing revelation of her low birth was the realization that she could not be considered proper wife material. She would not be respectable, making her fo
rever unfit for him. No amount of money could ever make her acceptable to this very proper man who stood to inherit a title. She sat in frozen silence. All her worst fears—true!

  Rubbing his chin, Sebastian added, “Mr. Harley remains cautiously optimistic. You must adopt his attitude.”

  She nodded disconsolately. But the thought of Mama, of her whole upbringing, how she’d been assured of a noble parent, and of the trust, made her cry indignantly, “It cannot be so black as it appears! If it were,” she said, looking up at him with anguished eyes, “I am sure my mother would have told me!” She flung her mind to grasp at anything else that might support her claim. “She was a church-going woman! And there is the ring,” she added, though in a weak tone.

  “Indeed,” he said, bracingly. Whether to soothe her spirits or because there was conviction, she could not tell. But he added, nodding, “And your father’s name was recorded before being scratched out—this suggests a legitimate birth. Nor did the record say, 'Frances Fanshawe, baseborn child of X, which is usual in cases of illegitimacy. Let us be encouraged.”

  Frannie’s heart took a lift, for he’d said, Let us be encouraged. Another thought occurred. “Could we apply to the rector or curate for the name? One of them might recall it on account of the unusual circumstance of it being scratched out.”

  He shook his head. “There is a circulating rector who seldom visits, but he’s a new man; same for the curate, who’s been there only five years. The former churchmen are no longer living. In any case, the birth might have been recorded by a clerk. And no record of a marriage has turned up thus far. I’m afraid that without it, your father’s name shall remain a mystery for the time being.” He paused and approached the fire. Leaning over it to warm his hands, he added, “We’d have to put a Bow Street runner on the case to discover more, I think. But they don’t like civil disputes. They prefer weightier matters, unsolved murders and the like.” He turned and smiled. Frannie stared at him, savoring that smile—it seemed the sweetest in the world.

  He turned back to the grate, but she continued gazing at him. In his pantaloons, boots, and jacket, Sebastian was a fine figure of a man. His features could often look stern, his eyes veiled, such as when he was quietly contemplating a matter, or looked up from the pages of a book. But when he smiled, every hard line vanished. In fact, it seemed only when he smiled that she saw his real nature, where his true feelings lay on a matter. Smiling as he was now, all was clear. He’d turned to her, his eyes infused with concern. For her.

  It made her want to cry. For one miserable fact was seeping across her brain, trickling into every space in her heart. A miserable fact she had failed to suppress or prevent.

  She loved him. She wasn’t just attracted to Mr. Arundell, as she’d previously thought. Oh, to be on equal footing with him! To have the luxury of hoping for something more to come of their acquaintance than what it was. He took a fireiron and stirred the coals while she tried to get hold of herself. When he turned to her again, rubbing his hands of coal dust, he said, “There is hope of a happy outcome. When we learn your father’s identity, there may yet be a perfectly respectable explanation, if unconventional. And if your parentage is not completely respectable, you may end up with a fortune nevertheless. You could live quietly anywhere you like. You needn’t be concerned with what society thinks.”

  Frannie nodded reluctantly with a troubled countenance. Her heart told her she could never be unconcerned with what society thought. Dark images crossed her mind like turbulent ocean swells, breaking upon her heart and suddenly they bubbled up into speech as she cried, “But I am concerned! I fear the censure of man and God! I hardly dare raise my eyes to Him if—” She could not complete the sentence.

  In a soft tone, Sebastian said, “You needn’t fear divine judgment. You had nothing to do with the circumstances of your birth, and if our religion teaches us anything, it is that forgiveness in Christ is available to all.” In a darker tone he added, “Society is the harsher judge; but let us hope for the best.”

  She sniffed and looked up gratefully, but still there lingered doubt in her breast. She said disconsolately, “I am above fond of your mother, sir. I hate to consider what she will think of me—” She stopped, unable to say more without dissolving into tears, and certainly unwilling to say it wasn’t the loss of Mrs. Arundell’s good opinion only which she feared.

  He took her hand. “My mother is a charitable woman. She shan’t abandon you, though she values upper class society.”

  His unspoken words, even though you are not upper class, cut her heart. “Thank you,” Frannie murmured, keeping her face turned down. Acutely conscious of her hand in his, she tried to memorize the feel of his large hand encompassing hers, strong, solid and reassuring, though his grasp was light. He seemed as if he didn’t notice their hands—she dared not breathe too hard, lest it wake him and he recall himself and drop it.

  He said, “Be certain that the first matter we will address with Mr. Fanshawe is your paternity. Mr. Harley assures me he has land agents on the prowl. As soon as The Golden Sovereign returns to this shore, we shall be upon him.”

  “Do we know when that is?” she asked, her face prettily scrunched in worry.

  “We will know. The maritime columns in the paper supply the expected arrival. With any luck, I’ll meet him at the dock myself.”

  Frannie’s heart sang for a moment. Sebastian Arundell, the fastidious man with clean hands, would do that? Brave the noisy, dirty, sea-stained docks for her?” She smiled gratefully at him.

  He said, “I consider it vital to reach him before his wife gets word to him.” He released her hand, bowed politely, and started toward the double doors of the room. “I’ll leave you now to your reading.”

  Frannie took a deep breath and tried to settle her mind. But just as the door almost closed behind him, she remembered something. “Oh, Mr. Arundell!” she called. Sebastian was back in an instant, his face a question.

  “Though we do not believe Mr. Fanshawe is my father, I am afraid we left his wife with the impression that he must be. That I am, indeed, the blow by of her husband’s!” She took a shuddering breath. “It is utterly horrifying to be thought of as such.”

  “I believe she knows you are her niece; but if not, Mr. Harley anticipated that a little suspicion of foul play on her husbandʼs part would make her more cooperative with us. I apologize for the aspersion it appears to cast upon your character.”

  “Little wonder she loathes my existence!”

  “She loathes it most, I believe, on account of the trust fund.”

  “Also, sir—” here she hesitated, for only an extraordinary circumstance could induce her to made this request. “When we go to Gloucestershire…would you mind very much if I do not use my motherʼs last name? The shame of it! I fear that something might arise from the past that cannot be pleasant.”

  “I don’t suppose you have anything to fear,” he said, with some surprise. “But what name would you prefer?” Frannie had somehow already decided upon this, though the idea of using an alias had seemed to form in her mind only a minute earlier. “Miss Baxter?” she asked.

  He hesitated. A little smile formed at the edges of his mouth. “Under normal circumstances I should think such a request was impertinent at best, or possibly even wicked.”

  Frannie’s breath caught in her throat. “I am trying to avoid the appearance of evil, sir,” she said. “If questions should arise, as almost certainly they will—if I am known to share my mother’s maiden name, I fear it will cast a shadow upon your family! Guilt by association is unfortunately an iron-clad tenet of society, would you not agree?”

  He gazed at her with thoughtful eyes. “I have no fear for the reputation of my family, but I understand your hesitation. Considering the mystery of your past, and that no one at Bartlett Hall could possibly be concerned in the matter, I see no reason why we must call you Miss Fanshawe.” Relief filled her heart. She thanked him.

  When he’d gone, she ope
ned her book but only stared at the words on the page uncomprehendingly. She must reconcile herself to what the circumstances suggested. That her father’s name was scratched out was ominous to her mind, more supportive of the notion that she was born out of wedlock than in it. Further, it was nothing that would stand up in a court of law, if it came to that, to bolster her claim. All she knew was that the more she probed into the matter of the trust, the worse her situation looked.

  If only she’d not had to pay Mrs. Baxter’s debts! She’d be living as she was before, in relative comfort and gentility, with her dignity intact, respectable in everyone’s eyes, and in full expectation of a yearly sum to keep her thus situated. But as she reflected upon it, she knew that those debts were hers too. Mrs. Baxter had accrued them while keeping Frannie and her mama beneath her roof. She was right to have paid what she could.

  Then another thought came. Had she not been forced from her home, she would not have met Sebastian. And, a dark voice reminded her, neither would she have fallen in love with a man she could never have.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Frannie retrieved her copy of Hamlet, determined not to reflect upon the darker possibilities of her situation. Sebastian had said Mr. Harley clung to optimism regarding her case despite her parish record, and that she must too. She opened her book. Nor would she think about Sebastian. She ought not to lose herself in foolish dreams just because he was everything she could want in a husband. His beautiful eyes, neatness, intelligence, manners, his concern for her—all qualities that blended to make one remarkable man. Especially his concern for her—he was beyond generous with his time and help. How many men would so willingly invest themselves in a cause that appeared dubious at best?