It was Simon.
But it couldn’t be Simon. Simon was dead! His heart had failed him and he had gone away because he didn’t want her to have to nurse him, to have to see him in his weakened state.
Jessica forgot where she was, had no knowledge of the people on the balcony, or of the guests who continued to arrive. She sat on the stair, unable to move, almost unable to breathe and held fast to the stair rails as she stared at him.
Memories came rushing back, memories of his tenderness, his gentle manner, his appealing smile, that same smile she was seeing now. She thought she must be going mad, it could not be Simon. She had heard about hallucinations, about images so real they couldn’t be distinguished from reality, and that was what she was seeing now. It couldn’t be anything else.
Her eyes followed him as he joined the last of the guests who filed into the dining room, watched the footman close the doors behind them.
The hall was empty now, yet still she couldn’t move, still she sat and stared.
“Come on Jess,” said a voice beside her. “They might be having a good time, but we’ve still got work to do.”
It was the parlour maid, Cynthia, a nice girl who had come up to London from the coast somewhere. Jessica tried to open her mouth, but found no sound would come from it.
“What’s wrong?” said Cynthia. “Are you all right? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.”
Still Jessica didn’t answer. For the first time, she doubted him. For the first time, she realised he might have lied to her. But why would he do that? She cursed herself for a fool; it was obvious why he would do that. And as soon as he had what he wanted, he had left. All this time, through the twice daily prayers, through Miss Jensen and her rules, through the painful humiliation of giving birth with no husband, never once had it occurred to her that he might have lied.
The ring should have given it away. Her father recognised it, told her it had belonged to the Earl. But she thought nothing of that. She thought he must have made a mistake, that it must have been a similar ring. Even when she returned it to the Earl, along with the stolen brooch, even then she had still believed in him. She thought he had taken the things to make her feel special, because he didn’t think he was good enough for her.
“Jessica,” said Cynthia. “Do you want to go and lie down? You’re crying. What’s wrong?”
At last Jessica gathered herself together and forced a smile.
“Sorry,” she said. “It was just all so beautiful, it caught me out for a minute.”
She managed to keep her knees steady as she hung onto the banister rail to haul herself to her feet, then followed Cynthia back to the servants’ hall. They had a busy few hours ahead of them, serving the sumptuous dishes to the guests, then Jessica had to help Lady Seymour dress for the ball. She would have to stay up till past midnight to help her undress and get into bed as well; it was going to be a very busy night, and a late one. She would have little time to herself to ponder the events of the evening and decide what to do about them.
***
The Prince of Wales did turn up eventually, and hanging from his arm was a beautiful, fair haired woman whom nobody had seen or heard of before. She must have been a new mistress, or a casual one.
None of the servants could go to bed until the last guest had either left or been settled in their own room, but they had a small party in the servants’ hall. They couldn’t spend much time seeing the new century in, though, as they were needed upstairs where the guests were cheering, singing Auld Lang Syne with their crossed arms and their hands locked together.
Jessica couldn’t get Simon out of her head.
“I wonder what the new century will bring,” said Cynthia. “What do you think, Jess?”
Jessica’s eyes met hers and she forced a smile.
“I had a friend, back in the village where I was brought up, who is going to be a doctor,” she said. “She’s going to the Medical School for Women and she’s going to cure people of diseases and stuff. If a woman can do that, this century is going to be very exciting.”
Even while she spoke, she couldn’t get the image out of her head, the image of that man who had looked so much like Simon. Who was she fooling? He was Simon and she knew it.
The guests that had no carriages to take them back to their London houses were staying the night. There was a list in the butler’s pantry of who they were and what rooms they were assigned. When everyone else had gone to bed, Jessica sneaked into the little room to try to find that list. She was exhausted, but knew it would be pointless trying to sleep with all the thoughts that swirled around her mind. And she had to see this man, had to speak to him.
She tried to distance him from who she knew he was; she refused to think of him as Simon.
The list was in Mr Merton‘s little roll top desk and although it was locked, the key was sticking out of the keyhole. He always left it like that; he said he had nothing to hide and trusted the other servants not to pry. What he really meant was that he believed none of them could read.
Jessica had never let on that she could read; once she discovered that none of the others could, except the cook, she thought it would make her look self important if she told anyone. She didn’t want that; she wanted to fit in and she believed she was well liked.
Now she looked down the list, looking for a familiar name, and there it was. Mr S Swinburne. So it was him. She could no longer fool herself that it was just someone who resembled him, that he hadn’t lied to her.
Her eyes swept the rest of the list, to be sure he had a room to himself, and was pleased to see he was the sole occupant of the Blue Room. That was one of the smaller guest rooms, on the second floor, one reserved for less important guests, those who were not of the nobility.
Jessica gathered as much courage as she could find and made her way up two flights of stairs and along the gallery to the far corner of the house, to the Blue Room. She stood outside for a few minutes, half hoping it would be locked, but when she finally tried it, the door opened easily and she stepped inside and closed it quietly behind her.
He slept soundly, his back to her, his breathing even and quiet. She tiptoed across the rug that covered the floor and stood beside the bed, watching him, her heart racing so fast and so loud, she was afraid it might burst out of her chest.
She never thought to look upon that face again. It was still a face that was dear to her, but the anger and resentment, the humiliation was rapidly chasing away any shred of love that she might still have harboured.
Now she was here, she was unsure what to do next. She would have to wake him, have to hear from his own lips why he lied to her, have to tell him he had failed to get away with his deceit. She raised the wick on the oil lamp she carried and set it down on the bedside table.
He rolled over to face her and her heart leapt. It was him! It had to be him. She touched his shoulder.
“Simon,” she whispered. There was no response. “Simon,” she said again, leaning close to his ear and raising her voice.
His eyes flickered open a little, then opened wider and he scrambled to a sitting position, showing his bare chest through the opening in his nightshirt. He only stared at her, blinked a few times and swallowed hard.
“Who are you?” he said at last. “You’re one of the maids. What are you doing in here?”
She picked up the oil lamp and held it close to her face.
“Recognise me now, Simon?” she said.
He stared for only a few seconds before he spoke.
“I’m not Simon,” he said.
She laughed then; it had all seemed so tragic, but now it was only comical. Of all the things she had expected him to say, this was certainly not among them.
“Of course you are!” she cried. “You are Simon Swinburne, former estate manager to the Earl of Harrisford, former betrothed of one Jessica Milligan. Me.”
He shuffled further up the bed.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “I’m really
not Simon. I’m Stephen Swinburne, his brother.”
“Now I’ve heard everything.”
He gripped her wrist, lightly.
“No, really,” he said. “We are … were identical twins. This is not the first time I have been mistaken for him. He told me about you, told me how much he loved you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You sound just like him, you look just like him.”
“Of course,” he said. “Have you never seen twins before?”
She couldn’t rightly say that she had, but didn’t want to appear ignorant and she was still twisting this puzzle around in her mind. Could it be true? Simon was an estate manager, not someone who would have been invited to Lady Seymour’s ball.
But he spoke with so much confidence, she began to doubt herself.
“What are you doing at such a fancy ball?” said Jessica.
“My fiancée is a distant cousin of Lord Seymour,” he said.
“You fiancée?” she repeated. The very idea of him having a fiancée who was not her made her uncomfortable.
“Yes,” he said. “Frederica Marsh. We are to be married soon.”
The words coming from Simon’s lips almost tore her apart. But they were not Simon’s lips; they were his brother’s lips and he was entitled to be engaged to be married if he wanted.
Still, it hurt; it hurt like hell to have him looking the image of Simon and telling her he was soon to be married.
At last she swallowed hard and spoke.
“Well,” she said. “I wish you every happiness. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“Let’s meet,” he said. “Tomorrow. Can you get away?”
“Do you mean tomorrow?” she said, with a smile. “Or do you mean today?”
“Well, today then. Can you get away? Meet me in the park, near the zoological gardens, at the entrance,” he said. “We can talk about Simon and I can tell you how he was at the end.”
“Lady Seymour will likely sleep all day, so I might be able to meet you in the morning, just for a little while.”
“Thank you,” he said. “That will be good.”
She nodded and left, still wondering if she was being led down another of his paths.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Karma
Jessica hated the zoological gardens. The idea of all those beautiful creatures locked in cages upset her terribly and she stood outside the main gate, hoping she didn’t have to wait long.
Simon had never mentioned having a twin, but then he hadn’t mentioned much at all. She hadn’t realised it at the time, but now on reflection she realised he hadn’t told her anything about his family, hadn’t mentioned parents, siblings, not even what he had done for a living before he took up the position as Lord Harrisford’s estate manager.
This realisation made her feel even more of a fool. She should have asked him, should have found out for herself who he really was. But she had been in love for the first time and probably the last and all she wanted was to be with him.
He had talked a lot about his position on the Castle estate, about his daily duties and mostly about his closeness to the Earl. Remembering the day she had left the village, the day she had returned His Lordship’s jewels to him, she wasn’t sure she believed that last. He was trying to impress her, that was obvious and she was appreciative of that. But she had rather he hadn’t lied.
She saw Stephen Swinburne striding toward her and gathered her thoughts. He even walked like Simon, but what he had said had been so very convincing. She wondered if she should tell him about his little niece, Virginia, who she’d had to give birth to alone and who she had been forced to give up.
She still hadn’t decided when he reached her with a broad smile on his face, an appealing smile, just like Simon’s. He reached out and drew her toward him, kissed her cheek.
She shivered. She thought that a little forward, considering she had only briefly met him in the early hours of that morning. But there was something familiar about that kiss, something that couldn’t be put down to simply being a twin.
Jessica knew she was imagining things. He was so much like Simon, it was like having him back, and she knew she must not let him get too close or she would be hurt all over again.
“I think this was a bad idea,” she said. “I mean, you are so much like Simon, I keep thinking you are him, that some miracle has sent him back to me. I don’t think I’m quite safe with you.”
He smiled, that Simon smile that made her catch her breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go. We’ll not meet again. My fiancée, Frederica Marsh, is staying with Lord and Lady Seymour for the rest of the week, but I will try to stay out of your way.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I just wanted you to know that Simon’s last words were about you.”
“What did he say?” she asked, not really sure she wanted to know.
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissed her fingers, just like Simon used to do and she felt the tears gathering in her throat, spilling out over her cheeks.
“He said how unfair it was that he should fall in love, just when his life was coming to a close.”
She swallowed, turned quickly and hurried from the park, biting her lips in a vain effort to keep the tears at bay, keep them in until she was alone. As she walked, the high pitched screeching from the monkey house followed her and she wanted to join them, to screech herself as loud as she could. And she wondered what higher power had sent Stephen Swinburne to her, just when she had almost managed to bury her memories of Simon.
She was right in thinking that Lady Seymour wouldn’t wake for hours and that gave Jessica a chance to shut herself in her room and cry herself to sleep. Forgetting Simon had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do and now she would have to forget him all over again. Before, she’d had too many other things on her mind to stop and think too much, too many problems to solve. Things were better now; it was going to be even harder this time.
It was Cynthia who woke her. She might have slept through till morning otherwise, but her friend was shaking her shoulder and telling her to get up, that Lady Seymour had been calling for her.
She barely had time to splash some cold water over her face and get herself dressed in her best fancy maid’s costume before she hurried to Lady Seymour’s room.
“Sorry, My Lady,” she said. “I took a quick nap and overslept.”
The lady smiled and nodded.
“No matter,” she said. “It happens to us all. By the way, if you are going to be my personal maid, you will have to wear your own clothes. Did you not know that?”
She had known, but she didn’t really have anything she wanted anyone to see.
“No, My Lady,” she said. “I didn’t. I’ll change after I’ve helped you dress.”
“Tomorrow will do,” she said, giving Jessica some relief. That would give her time to nip out to one of the second hand clothing stalls on the market. She’d be bound to find something suitable there; not too fancy, nothing to outdo Her Ladyship.
She smiled at the idea of her ever overshadowing Lady Seymour, with her expensive gowns, designed and made specially for her. But her sleep and her grieving had done her good. She felt so much better and she would try to avoid Stephen Swinburne until he had gone, then she could get on with her own life and pretend he had never existed.
She still wrote regularly to Catherine. When she watched Mrs Kimpton carry her baby out of Magpie House, Jessica had decided to put everything behind her, to cut off all contact with everyone from her past, but she found she missed Catherine and she desperately wanted to know about Virginia and how she was faring. Babies were so fragile and many of them didn’t live past their first birthday; she had to know.
What she didn’t know was whether to tell Catherine about Simon and his twin brother. That was something she would have to think carefully about and she couldn’t do that while he was still in the house.
On the follow
ing Sunday, Lady Seymour had organised an elaborate supper party for her remaining guests. After Jessica had helped her dress for the occasion, wearing the nearly new dress she had bought in the famous Petticoat Lane market that morning, she went downstairs to the servants’ hall for her own supper. They would all eat before the Seymour supper began and now she sat at the table with the other servants and said Grace. She never prayed unless she had to and this was one of those times when she had to. Mr Merton would allow nothing else. If one person refused to say Grace before their meal, no one would get fed until they did.
Jessica felt a bit redundant now she was personal maid to Lady Seymour. She thought she ought to be helping as they all rushed about getting things ready for the supper and the upper maids rushing about upstairs.
She approached the cook.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked. “I could wash up the bowls or something.”
Mrs Cooper looked horrified.
“You?” she almost gasped. “Of course not. It’s very thoughtful, Miss Milligan, but it’s not your place, not anymore.”
“Why are you calling me that? I’ve always been Jessica.”
“Not anymore,” said Mrs Cooper.
Jessica moved away, wishing she had never taken the position of lady’s maid in the first place if this is what it meant.
She climbed the spiral staircase that led to the ground floor where activity was high as silver was laid, flowers arranged on tables, and Mr Merton followed everyone around making sure they placed every item in precisely the right place.
Not knowing what else to do, she went upstairs to see if she could help Lady Seymour with anything and as she walked along the gallery, she passed the open door to a bedchamber where Miss Frederica Marsh was chatting with her friend. Jessica couldn’t help listening; she desperately wanted to know what Miss Marsh had to say.
Knight's Acre: Till Death Do Us Part Page 17
