The Counterfeit Countess

by Diana Campbell

  LODGING FOR THE NIGHT

  “I have decided to locate you in this room,” the Earl’s grandmother declared. “Next to my own, it is the largest bedchamber in the house.”

  To the Earl’s credit, he did protest. “That is very kind of you, Grandmama. However / fancy Selina and i should be more comfortable in adjoining rooms.”

  “It is an arrangement of which I thoroughly disapprove,” his grandmother snapped. “I am of the Firm opinion that married couples should share the same bed.” And with that, she left them to face each other alone in the room.

  “You promised!” said Selina, in a voice that was something between a moan and a wail. “You promised we should have separate bedchambers.”

  “I promised I should request separate bedchambers,” his lordship corrected. “And I did so.” And here he gave an elegant shrug. “I suppose we will simply have to make the best of it.”

  And looking at her handsome husband-in-name-only, Selina began to fear the worst. ...

  THE

  COUNTERFEIT

  COUNTESS

  THE

  COUNTERFEIT

  COUNTESS

  by

  Diana Campbell

  Chapter 1

  Selina could practically tell the time by her father’s schedule, which was fortunate because the clock on the drawing-room mantel functioned only intermittently and then with indifferent accuracy. Papa’s day began at half past six when Mrs. Renard, the housekeeper, admitted herself at the rear door, crept up the back stairs and tapped on her employer’s bedchamber door. If Papa was very deep in sleep, as sometimes occurred when he had consumed a slight excess of spirits the evening before, Selina herself might be awakened by Mrs. Renard’s increasingly desperate pleas.

  “Mr. Hewson? You must get up, Mr. Hewson; it is well after half past six. Please, Mr. Hewson! MR. HEWSON!”

  Normally, however, Papa woke Selina at half past seven, they breakfasted together, and Papa departed for Platt’s Academy promptly at eight. He frequently explained to new acquaintances that his daily walk to and from the Academy, a total distance of nearly two miles, was exceedingly healthful; he failed to add that he had little choice in the matter since the Hewsons did not own a carriage. In any event, Papa conducted classes at Platt’s from half past eight until half past twelve. Selina was hard put to keep abreast of her father’s subjects, for they varied from term to term: over the four years of his tutorial career, he had taught history, geography, literature, philosophy and several other topics Selina had forgotten. Insofar as Selina knew. John Hewson was not qualified to teach anything, and she

  feared that Sir Matthew Platt, founder and headmaster of the Academy, was beginning to suspect this deficiency. Papa preferred to attribute the constant change in instructional assignments to his astonishing “versatility.”

  At any rate. Papa returned to the house, at one, lunched with Selina, then hurried out on his afternoon “rounds.” In season and weather permitting, his first stop was one of Richmond's three racetracks, where—or so Selina collected—he wagered heavily on every contest. When the horses were not running (or Papa had lost most of his stake), he proceeded to a convenient tavern and played at hazard.

  Whatever Papa’s early-afternoon activities, whatever their outcome, the highlight of his day came at half past four, when he rushed to the docks in hopes of obtaining News From England. If a British ship had dropped anchor, Papa, in an excess of joy, tracked down one of its officers, escorted him to a nearby tavern, bought him numerous glasses of spirits (usually on credit) and posed endless questions about Home. If a British ship had not landed that day, Papa was compelled to entertain seamen who had previously arrived, but this procedure was far from satisfactory; “Their news is never fresh,” he glumped to Selina. And if worse came to absolute worst, Papa would condescend to speak with French, Dutch or other European officers. However, he told Selina, this approach was little better than no news at all, for “foreigners are not to be trusted.” During the recent war, when no English ships had come to Richmond, Selina had sincerely feared for her father’s sanity; and she was thankful, for that reason if no other, that hostilities had ceased.

  Papa always came home for dinner at half past six precisely, and now that hostilities had ceased, Selina could invariably determine from his demeanor whether or not his quest had been successful. If Papa had encountered a “new” British seaman, he would fairly bound into the dining room, lean cheeks flushed with triumph, black eyes glowing with excitement, and begin to chatter his News. If, on the other hand, he had been forced to make do with a “perfumed Frenchman” or some

  such abomination, he would cross the room very sedately, take his place at the head of the table and devour Mrs. Renard’s offering largely in silence.

  In short, Black Jack Hewson was a creature of habit, and when, on the first Monday evening in April, he was late for dinner, Selina surmised that an event of considerable magnitude had delayed him. Her supposition was confirmed immediately upon his arrival, for he literally sprinted across the dining room, collapsed into his chair, gasping for breath, and ripped off his neckcloth, which had grown quite limp with perspiration.

  “You will never guess whom I met at the docks today,” Papa wheezed at last.

  His tone suggest'd that he might well have encountered the Prince Regent himself, but Selina judged this a most unlikely possibility. “Who, Papa?” she asked.

  “Alexander Cochran,” he responded dramatically.

  - Selina frowned. Having been educated largely in the United States, she recollected an “Alexander Hamilton,” but “Alexander Cochran” meant nothing to her, and she shook her head.

  “One of the Cochrans," Papa elaborated. “This particular young man is the present Earl of Worsham.”

  “An earl,” Selina repeated. “How nice for you, Papa.”

  “Oh, Selina.” Papa sighed and took a bite of his chicken, which had, as usual, been cooked to the point of utter desiccation. He sighed again and laid his fork aside. “I am quite sure I have mentioned the Cochrans in the past: they are one of the oldest families in England, and the Worsham earldom dates from 1503. Really, my dear, you must attempt to remember these details; you will find them extremely important when we return.”

  Selina repressed a sign of her own. She and Papa had lived in North America for almost a dozen years, and from the very moment of their debarkation, John Hewson had talked of nothing but Going Home. In the beginning, Selina had shared his dream, but she now counted it just that: a dream, an illusion. However, she had vowed never to voice her doubts aloud, and she essayed a bright smile.

  “Those Cochrans!” she said. “And what brings Lord

  Worsham to Richmond?” She could scarcely conceive that a British peer would find much to recommend a community in which cows and goats roamed freely about the main square.

  “He has been touring the world, and he wished to see Virginia prior to his departure for England. Why, I cannot guess.” Papa ventured a second bite of chicken and glowered at his plate, as if Mrs. Renard’s cooking symbolized all that was amiss in this rough outpost of civilization. “A longing for adventure, I daresay; not uncommon amongst young men of the ton. I myself took a similar excursion when I was approximately Lord Worsham’s age.”

  Selina stifled another sigh. This was the first she had heard of such an excursion, and she would have wagered her last nickel that it was a figment of Papa’s vivid imagination. She often thought that Papa didn’t exactly intend to lie, but falsehoods stole into his conversation with alarming regularity. For example, she had heard him claim degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge, but she knew he had been sent down from Eton at seventeen and had never again darkened a cla
ssroom door until he started teaching at Platt’s Academy. She had also heard Papa present numerous explanations of his hasty departure from England, but there was, of course, a reason for these fabrications.

  In fact, the only one of Papa’s stories which Selina entirely believed was that his father—Selina’s grandpapa, whom she did not remember—was the second son of the fifth Earl of Holbourne. She believed this particular tale because on the occasion of Mama’s funeral, when Selina was nine, she had been introduced to the current Earl, and Papa had addressed him as “Uncle Henry.” Since Uncle Henry did not issue a correction, Selina assumed he was, in truth, Papa’s uncle—a theory strengthened later in the day when she overheard Uncle Henry reminding “Aunt Aurelia” of Papa’s shameful expulsion from Eton. Beyond that . . . But Selina had vowed not to challenge Papa’s inaccuracies either, and she smiled again.

  “Then I fancy you and Lord Worsham had a great deal in common,” she said.

  “Indeed we did, and I daresay you will find him most amusing as well when you meet him.”

  Papa shoved his plate altogether away and cautiously drew up his dessert bowl. The dessert was Indian pudding, one of Selina’s favorites, but Papa did not regard it as a “proper” dish, and he emitted a sniff of disgust. However, Indian pudding was one of Mrs. Renard’s very few accomplishments, and—proper or no—Papa began to wolf it down.

  “Which will happen on Saturday night,” he continued, his mouth half full. “I advised Lord Worsham that we should like to conduct a ball in his honor, and he most graciously accepted.”

  “A ball!" Selina dropped her spoon, and it somersaulted out of the dish, depositing a glob of pudding on the ragged lace tablecloth. “We cannot possibly afford a ball, Papa, not for Lord Worsham nor anyone else .. .’’

  She stopped and bit her lip, for their precarious financial circumstances were another subject she had long since elected not to discuss. But her discretion came too late: Papa neatly folded his napkin, placed it on the table and gave her a great, wounded look.

  “Selina, Selina.” He sorrowfully shook his head. “Have I somehow failed to provide for you? I assumed you were comfortable; perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Did he honestly believe she didn’t know? Selina wondered. The day after Mama's funeral, Papa had given her a small wooden chest; these, he had said, are Mama’s jewels, which she left to you. At nine, Selina had had scant interest in jewelry, and when she peered into the box, she registered only vaguely that it was filled nearly to the top, fairly heaped with wonderful, sparkling toys. She had not opened the chest again until she was sixteen and dressing for her first ball, and on that occasion it appeared that the number of pieces had been considerably reduced. Selina realized that her child’s eye might have overestimated the extent of her treasure, but after the ball she made a mental inventory of the remaining jewels. And over the ensuing Five

  years, she had watched the pieces slowly but steadily disappear: the pearls had gone first, followed by the ruby-and-diamond necklace, and six months since an entire set of sapphires had vanished. She was persuaded, again, that Papa didn’t really mean to sell her jewelry, but when the necessity (or Papa's notion of a necessity) arose ... Selina shook her head.

  “I have not provided for you?” Papa barked.

  “Yes, Papa, you have provided for me very handsomely.”

  “And have I not put you in the way of contracting an excellent marriage?”

  “I will not marry Sir Matthew,” Selina snapped.

  “So you presendy believe,” Papa said soothingly. “However, I have counseled you in the past not to leap

  to a hasty conclusion—’’

  “My conclusion is not in the least ‘hasty.’ I do not intend to wed Sir Matthew, and I shall not change my

  mind.”

  “My dear child.” Papa shook his head again. “I am utterly at a loss to comprehend your opposition. Matthew comes from a splendid family. His grandfather on his mother s side is the Marquis of Shackleford, a peerage bestowed by Charles II in 1661—”

  “This is 1815,” Selina interrupted testily. “And it is not Sir Matthew’s grandfather you wish me to marry.” “But what is your objection to Matthew?” Papa demanded. “He is young—”

  “He is eight and thirty,” Selina corrected, “and he looks to be eight and forty. His hair is almost enurely white.”

  “At least he has hair," Papa said darkly. Black Jack Hewson had lost the last of his distinctive locks some years before, and—as often occurred when he was overset—his bare scalp was gleaming damply in the candlelight. “I judge Matthew’s hair most arresting.”

  “Then perhaps you should marry him," Selina suggested.

  Papa scowled and mopped his scalp with his napkin. “Matthew is extremely wealthy,” he continued doggedly.

  Selina said nothing. “And you cannot deny, Selina, that he has been exceedingly kind to us.”

  Selina could not, in fact, deny Papa’s final point. The Hewsons had met Sir Matthew Platt four and a half years previously, during their residence in Philadelphia. At the time, Papa owned a dilapidated and remarkably unsuccessful inn, which the visiting Virginian had been forced to patronize because all the surrounding establishments were booked. The Cheshire Tavern (named after Papa’s home county) had had no guests at all for eleven consecutive nights, and when Papa discovered that this guest was a bona fide British peer, his ecstasy knew no bounds. After announcing that Sir Matthew’s room, food and drink would, of course, be complimentary, Papa engaged the visitor in animated conversation, and Sir Matthew revealed that he was touring the country to recruit instructors for the educational institution he planned to found.

  “The civilized, portions of the country,” he added grimly. “So to speak." Papa pursed his lips and nodded. “I shall tell you quite franldy, Mr. Hewson, that I am organizing my institution as a direct challenge to Girardin’s Academy. I could not stand idly by and permit the best young minds in Richmond to be molded by a Frenchman."

  “Certainly not!” Papa agreed indignandy. “I myself attended Cambridge, and I firmly believe that English education is second to none. I should be most reluctant to give up the Cheshire, which has proved highly profitable, but as you point out, it is my patriotic duty to assist you in your endeavor.”

  Later in the evening, Papa fondly reminisced about his years at Oxford, but evidently Sir Matthew did not notice the discrepancy. Papa sold the Cheshire Tavern for half the price he had paid for it, and the Hewsons moved to Richmond, where Sir Matthew gave them free use of one of his furnished rental properties. The house on Fifth Street was far from sumptuous—Selina once more noted the sagging draperies at the window, the threadbare carpet underfoot—but it was comfortable, and the neighborhood was one of Richmond’s finest.

  Sir Matthew engaged Mrs. Renard in their behalf (though Selina sometimes wondered if that could be construed as a kindness) and allowed them to borrow one of his carriages for weddings, funerals, balls and similar occasions. Most important, during the late war, when the British fleet had threatened Norfolk and all unnaturalized Britons had been ordered out of Richmond, Sir Matthew had managed to have Papa and Selina exempted. (Sir Matthew himself was a naturalized American citizen and was known in Richmond as “Mr. Platt”—a circumstance Papa chose to overlook.)

  In short. Sir Matthew had been immensely kind to the Hewsons, and he was extemely wealthy. Furthermore, Selina did not count him nearly so unattractive as she had led Papa to believe: his white hair was rather arresting, and no objective observer would have guessed him to be much beyond his eight and thirty years. However, Selina found Sir Matthew Platt excruciatingly dull. She could hardly bear to contemplate a lifetime in his Broad Street mansion, serving tea to an equally tedious horde of instructors who could—and frequendy did—discourse for hours about the various styles of ancient Greek pottery.

  But, as Papa had implied, they had discussed Sir Matthew’s suit ad nauseam, and Selina was in no frame of mind to pursue the arg
ument this evening. “Where is Lord Worsham now?” she asked.

  “He is staying tonight at the Eagle Tavern, but he will leave tomorrow for Petersburg and Williamsburg. However, he assured me he would return in ample time for the ball, so we must be about the planning.”

  Further objection was clearly fruitless, and as Papa hurried into the drawing room, Selina removed their dishes to the sideboard tray. W'hen Papa came back, he placed a pencil and several sheets of paper on the table in front of her and began Fitfully pacing the faded rug.

  “It is most unfortunate that so many of Richmond’s leading citizens are French” he lamented. “We must hope that Lord Worsham is prepared to be tolerant. Perhaps if we introduce him to Sir Matthew and Janies

  Warrell early on, he won’t notice the French; make a note of that, my dear. We shall naturally have an orchestra for waltzing, but I do feel we should hire Sy Gilliat to fiddle from time to time . .

  Papa chattered on in no rational sequence whatever until Selina’s pages were nearly full and her Fingers had begun to cramp. The point of her pencil was wearing down as well, but just before she reached the wood. Papa stopped and nodded with satisfaction.

  “I believe that does it. I have a—ahem—a matter to tend upstairs. While I am gone, make a list of the required preparations, and when I return, we shall review it.”

  He left the room again, and Selina heard his footfalls on the steps, in the upper corridor. She awaited the sound she was sure would follow, and it came almost at once: the telltale squeak of her bedchamber door. For four years, she had begged Papa to oil the hinges; for four years, the task had “slipped my mind.” One, two, three more footfalls, then silence. He had taken the jewel chest from the wardrobe shelf and was sifting through it, calculating what piece would Finance the ball.