Selina laid her pencil aside and gazed sightlessly at the sheets of paper strewn on the table. She sincerely, deeply loved her father, but there was no gainsaying the fact that he was a—a . . . Not precisely a rake, she decided; Papa might better be termed a ne’er-do-well. Or, if one wished to be kinder yet, a dreamer.
Papa himself had explained to Selina the circumstances of his flight from England, though not entirely of his own volition. When they lived in New York, Papa had contracted some sort of fever, and his physician had feared for his life. Apparently John Hewson had doubted his survival as well, for during one of his rare intervals of lucidity, he beckoned Selina to his bedside and seized her hand.
“If I should die, Selina—”
“You are not going to die, Papa! You can’t die!” She was thirteen years old and almost literally paralyzed with panic.
“But if I should, you will find a little nest egg in the kitchen pantry. In the preserve jar just next to the tea canister. Take the money and go back to England and throw yourself on Uncle Henry’s mercy. Much as he may disapprove of me, he will not permit his grandniece to starve.”
“Please, Papa. Please don’t die.”
“And if there’s any money left,” he croaked, “use it to pay my gambling debts. That is why I left England, you know. No, you don’t know, but Uncle Henry will surely tell you within the first hour.” He began to grow delirious again. “As I recollect, I owe the greatest sum to Lord Tannahill, but I fancy Viscount Richardson is little behind. Nor must you forget Mr. Parker ...”
His words degenerated to a mumble, and he soon lost consciousness altogether, but Selina continued to perch on the side of the bed, holding his hand, throughout the night. The next day the fever broke, and Selina stole to the pantry, opened the preserve jar and found the munificent sum of three dollars. Papa never mentioned his gambling debts again, and Selina often wondered if he remembered their conversation.
She wondered, too, how much money Papa had thought was in the jar. A thousand dollars? A thousand pounds? For as long as Selina could remember, John Hewson’s life had consisted of one grandiose scheme after another, all of which had come to naught. They had initially immigrated to Canada, where Papa became involved in the fur trade; he would make his fortune within the year, he assured Selina, and they would Go Home. Two years later, the fur enterprise collapsed—Selina was not old enough to infer or ask how—and they moved to New York. Here Papa opened an “export-import" business, and their leased house soon filled up with hideous artifacts from every known corner of the world. Papa attributed his failure in this venture to his illness (which, serious though it was, lasted a scant six days) and purchased the inn in Philadelphia. Sir Matthew had rescued them from that endeavor in the proverbial nick of time: Selina had served him the last piece of meat in the larder. And now Papa, who had been expelled from Eton, was posing as an Oxford/Cambridge-educated don.
Selina heaved another sigh, retrieved her pencil and began aimlessly to draw upon the nearest sheet of paper. Papa had once told her that his nickname. Black Jack, stemmed from his coloring, from his glossy, raven’s- wing hair and coal-colored eyes. In truth. Selina could hardly remember his hair, for John Hewson had been prematurely, entirely bald before he reached his fortieth year. But she had no reason to doubt that his lost locks had been the color of hers because she much resembled Papa in every other respect. She shared his black eyebrows, his large, heavily lashed black eyes, his stubborn chin. Her nose, like Papa’s, was well-shaped but a shade too long, and her jaws were rather square. She was tall for a woman—fully five and a half feet— and a trifle thin, as Papa had been in his youth. (Middle age had produced a slight bulge in Papa’s midsection, and his daily walk to and from Platt’s Academy had thus far failed to correct the problem.)
At any rate, Selina was compelled to own that Black Jack Hewson could have been named solely for his appearance, but she could not suppress a suspicion that his sobriquet resulted at least partially from his character as well. Papa was an incorrigible rogue, and Selina did not suppose that Lord Tannahill and Viscount Richardson were the first of his victims. No, at some early juncture, Papa had surely inveigled a penny or a piece of candy from a gullible schoolmate, and perhaps that sadder but wiser boy had recognized the deviltry behind John Hewson’s dark, snapping eyes.
Which was not to say that Papa was actually wicked'. Selina did not believe he ever had, ever would, deliberately set out to harm another human being. And if he did, if he did, if he was wicked, would it really make a difference? Selina fancied not, for she could still recollect the depth of her despair when she had thought Black Jack Hewson was going to die. She’d been only thirteen then, of course—a child—but now, at one and twenty, she viewed the prospect of Papa’s demise with the same abject desolation. Rake or rogue or ne’er-do- well, she adored him, and after a suitable period of argument, she would do almost anything he asked.
She might even marry Sir Matthew Platt. Selina circled his name, which was at the very top of the invitation list. She did not believe Sir Matthew had divined the truth about Papa’s shocking lack of educational credentials, but he was obviously disenchanted with Papa’s tutorial abilities. Indeed, though it sounded immodest even in thought, Selina suspected that Sir Matthew would have discharged John Hewson long since were it not for her. And when—if—she issued a firm and final refusal of his offer, she was quite certain he would dismiss Papa from the Academy and evict them from their home.
And then? Selina began to adorn her circle with squares and triangles and stylized flowers. Fortunately, Papa was in robust health, but nevertheless he was two and fifty; was he to embark upon yet another career? And, if so, where? In the West perhaps? Selina shuddered and inserted a vicious-looking Indian arrow between two of her roses.
She heard a creak on the floorboards overhead, glanced over her earlier notes and hastily jotted a sequential list of preparations for the ball. She reviewed this list as well and scrawled a final item at the end: “Gown for me.” She reminded herself that before she decided what to wear, she must examine the jewel chest so as to determine the latest piece Papa had purloined.
Chapter 2
The ball was to begin at nine, and at half past eight Selina studied her reflection in the cracked mirror above the dressing table. She had not felt she could afford a new gown for the assembly, for fortunately Mrs. Deveau, the sister-in-law of Mrs. Renard, possessed sewing skills far surpassing her relative’s dubious culinary talents. Mrs. Deveau had quite transformed Selina’s ancient blue muslin dress, replacing the square neck and elbow- length sleeves with a low-cut corsage and puffed sleeves of sapphire crepe and adding a matching rouleau round the bottom so as to lengthen the skirt. Selina would have preferred Mrs. Deveau to alter her newest ball gown, a lavender silk. However, her inspection of the jewel chest had revealed the disappearance of the amethyst-and-diamond choker, and with the pearls long since gone, there waSuno suitable piece of jewelry left to wear with the silk.
But the blue had turned out remarkably well, Selina decided: it did not look to be Five years old, and the rouleau conveniently hid the moth holes in the skirt. She had treated herself to a new toque, and she carefully adjusted the ostrich plume, then put on Mama’s second-best sapphire necklace and earrings. Yes, she looked very well indeed, she judged, and she drew on her white kid gloves and hurried down the stairs.
To her relief, the premises also looked considerably better than she had imagined. Her and Papa's previous entertainments had consisted of card parties, dinner parties and similar small gatherings; and Selina had
belatedly feared that the public rooms would not accommodate the sixty-odd guests they had invited to the ball. However, Sir Matthew had dispatched several of his servants to Fifth Street earlier in the day, and they had moved the drawing-room and dining-room furniture against the walls, rolled up the carpets and carried rugs and excess furniture alike to the unused coach house behind the main dwelling. Though the result hardly chal
lenged Sir Matthew’s magnificent ballroom, it did appear there would be sufficient space for dancing.
Selina’s eyes flickered from the orchestra, which was tuning up in one corner of the drawing room, to Sy Gilliat, Richmond’s famous black fiddler, who was adjusting his own instrument in the corner diagonally opposite. It sounded as if Mr. Gilliat and the orchestra were engaged in spirited competition, behavior Selina hoped would not continue throughout the evening. A particularly discordant combination of notes sent her flying into the dining room, where another, albeit silent, battle raged. Mrs. Renard was standing stiffly in front of the sideboard, glaring at the caterer’s assistants as they deposited great trays and bowls on the table.
“Good evening, Mrs. Renard,” Selina said brightly. “How handsome you look.”
“Humph," the housekeeper sniffed. “You could have saved a great deal of money, Miss Hewson, if you had permitted me to prepare the food.”
Selina elected not to point out that on the occasion of their last dinner party, Mrs. Renard had charred the roast to a blackened ruin and surrounded it with potatoes which were virtually raw. “I daresay we could have,” she agreed soothingly, “but we felt you could render greater assistance in some other capacity."
“What other capacity?” Mrs. Renard demanded. “Mr. Platt’s buder is to greet the guests, and Mr. Platt’s footmen are to serve the champagne.”
“True,” Selina gulped. In fact, she had engaged Mrs. Renard solely to clean up after the assembly. As she debated how best to break this humiliadng news to the proud Frenchwoman, she was interrupted by a voice behind her.
“Selina!”
Selina whirled gratefully around and watched Sir Matthew Platt stride across the dining room. He was, as always, impeccably attired: his small clothes and swallowtail coat had clearly been tailored in New York or Philadelphia; his striped stockings were a perfect fit; his shirt-points were lavishly but not overly starched; and his snowy neckcloth was tied in a Ballroom. (Or possibly an Irish; Selina was not a connoisseur of neckcloths.) His curly white hair just brushed the top of his coat collar, and his bright eyes were a lovely shade of pale blue. In short, Sir Matthew did cut a very arresting figure; and Selina, recalling her reflections earlier in the week, was at a complete loss to understand why it should matter that she found him so boring.
“Mrs. Renard.” Sir Matthew had reached them, and he nodded pleasantly at the housekeeper.
“Humph!” she snorted again.
“Selina.” He turned back to her and stood a bit away. “May I say that you are looking especially handsome this evening? You and the house as well; it seems so wonderfully spacious. Perhaps I can persuade you to undertake the redecoration of my poor bachelor’s quarters.”
This was a typical Sir Matthew remark—his courtship had been oblique in the extreme—and Selina wondered what he would do if she were suddenly to cast herself into his arms and shriek her acceptance of his unstated offer. Sheer speculation, of course: if she did decide to wed Sir Matthew, she would not pledge her troth in full view of Mrs. Renard and several anonymous caterer’s assistants. She essayed a modest smile and lowered her eyes.
“The transformation is largely due to you,” she said. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the loan of your servants, both this afternoon and this evening.”
“Do not tease yourself about it.” Sir Matthew waved one gloved hand. “As I have advised you in the past, you are free to use my slaves whenever the need arises.”
Selina inwardly shuddered: she judged slavery a barbaric institution and had been delighted when the trade in human beings was outlawed. But the vast majority of Virginia’s servants were black bondmen, and she recognized that Sir Matthew could’ hardly be held responsible for the dreadful custom.
“Thank you. Sir Matthew,” she murmured.
“Please, my dear.” He wagged one finger in what Selina supposed he fancied to be a flirtatious manner. “In view of your maturity, I feel such formality is entirely unnecessary. I do wish you would simply call me ‘Matthew.’ ”
“Yes, M-Matthew,” she stammered. The discussion was rendering her exceedingly uncomfortable, and a great new screech from the drawing room seemed to provide the perfect opportunity for escape. “If you will excuse me, I fear I really must speak with the musicians.”
Selina nodded to Matthew and Mrs. Renard in turn and sped back through the archway. However, Papa had come downstairs in her absence and evidently had the situation in hand: he had drawn Mr. Gilliat and the orchestra leader aside and appeared to be delivering a stem lecture. As Selina watched the scene, she felt her eyes narrowing, for Papa had obviously purchased new attire for the assembly. Yes, his breeches and coat and accessories were nearly as resplendent as Matthew’s, and Selina experienced a familiar wave of frustration. She did adore her father, but he was a man of no practical sense whatever.
The lecture was over: Mr. Gilliat and the orchestra leader exchanged chilly nods and stalked back to their respective corners. Papa strode across the drawing room, beaming with triumph.
“How lovely you look, my dear.” He planted a light kiss on Selina’s forehead. “I have devised a schedule for the musicians and instructed them most firmly that they are to adhere to it. Mr. Gilliat will play as the guests arrive, after which he and the orchestra will alternate. I should have consulted you, but I observed you in conversation with Matthew, and I did not want to interrupt.”
Papa gave her a broad wink, and Selina bit back a testy retort. Whatever her ultimate course, she alone would determine her fate: she would not be coerced into marrying Matthew or anyone else. But this was hardly the time to embark upon an argument, and as she cast about for an innocuous change of subject, Jonas, Sir Matthew’s enormous black butler, loomed up in the drawing-room doorway.
"The Earl of Worsham,” Jonas intoned. His demeanor, if not his accent, rivaled that of the most proper English butler.
Papa hastily straightened his neckcloth and rushed toward the doorway, leaving Selina to trail well in his wake. Just as he reached the entry, Jonas bowed back into the foyer, fully exposing the figure beside him, and Selina stumbled to a halt in the middle of the room.
She had not conceived a specific image of Lord Worsham; indeed, she had been far too busy to grant their guest of honor more than a passing thought. But she had vaguely imagined that any British earl would be a man of middle years, exceedingly distinguished in appearance and rigged out in such a way as to put even Matthew Platt to shame. In fact, Alexander Cochran looked to be little above thirty, and he was quite the most attractive man Selina had ever beheld. He was tall, even taller than Papa, and as lean as Papa had been in his youth, with extremely broad shoulders, which—though seemingly without effort—he held absolutely square. His hair was dark blond, the color of hay, Selina decided; and his skin, in compelling contrast, was sunburned to a remarkably deep brown. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks rather hollow, his jaws and chin firm but not excessively prominent. Were it not for his nose, Lord Worsham’s features would be almost too perfect, Selina thought; but his nose, like hers, was a trifle long.
Papa turned and gestured Selina forward, and she proceeded to the entry. Her knees were peculiarly weak, and when she reached Papa’s side, she was compelled to grasp his arm for support.
“May I present my daughter Selina?” Papa patted her hand. “This, my dear, is the Earl of Worsham.” He pronounced the title with much the same reverence Jonas had employed.
“Milord," Selina croaked. Her mouth was inexplicably dry.
“Miss Hewson.”
He swept a deep bow, then straightened, and Selina observed that his eyes were so deep a blue as to be nearly lavender. She tried to smile, couldn’t, and when the Earl quirked his dark-blond brows, she realized she was staring at him. She felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment, dropped her own eyes and perceived, to her astonishment, that Lord Worsham was most unsuitably attired. To begin with, he was not wearing evening clothes; he was, instead, cla
d in dark-blue pantaloons and a somewhat lighter frock coat. In the second place, all his garments displayed unmistakable symptoms of age: his coat and pantaloons were shiny with wear, his neckcloth was quite gray, and one of his shirt-points was distinctly frayed. Added to which, he did not look altogether fresh: both shirt-points were beginning to wilt, and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
“Permit me to apologize for my dishabille.” His lord- ship might have been reading Selina’s mind, and she lowered her eyes still further and noted that his Hessians were scuffed and dusty. “I have been away from England nearly two years and have had no chance to refurbish my wardrobe."
“A circumstance with which I can readily sympathize," Papa clucked. “As it happens, my own ensemble is new, and I fear it confirms your doubts as to the quality of provincial workmanship.”
“I encountered another problem as well,” the Earl continued loftily. “When I left the hotel—I beg your pardon, the tavern; I collect there are no hotels hereabouts—I learned there was not a single hack for hire in the entire city of Richmond. I beg your pardon again: the town. In any event I was forced to walk, and I suspect my already shabby clothes suffered greatly in consequence.”
“Pray permit me to apologize,” Papa said. “After four years of residence, I had quite forgotten the absence of hackney coaches; had I remembered, I should naturally have dispatched one of my carriages to drive you from the Eagle.”
Selina ground her fingernails into her palms. At this juncture, she was hard pressed to judge which of them she found more irksome: Lord Worsham, peering down his aristocratic nose at Richmond’s failings; or Papa, spinning still another wild fabrication. Fortunately, before she could snap an ill-chosen word at either, jonas reappeared just behind them.
The Counterfeit Countess Page 2
