by M C Beaton
As he was tethering the reins to a post in the yard, the great door of the orphanage opened and Fanny recognized Mr. Wilks, the chairman.
He did not recognize her, though his glance only flicked over her and came to rest inquiringly on the earl.
“We were not warned of any visit,” said Mr. Wilks in his querulous, high, fluting voice.
He was a thin, spare Scotchman who affected a sort of genteel dandyism, his bottle green waistcoat being hung with a great many seals and fobs and his new hessian boots dangling with little gold tassels. He had pale blue-gray wary eyes and long bony hands with prominent knuckles.
The earl approached him and made a bow. “I am Tredair,” said the earl, “and this is one of your former charges, Miss Fanny Bride.”
Mr. Wilks looked startled, and Fanny was sure she saw a gleam of fear darting across his pale eyes.
“What is the meaning of this visit, my lord?” demanded Mr. Wilks, his voice shrill. “Our humble orphanage is pleased that the great Earl of Tredair should visit us, but it is most inconvenient—most inconvenient,” he added, looking over one hunched shoulder as if seeking help.
“We will not take up much of your time,” said the earl pleasantly. “Miss Waverley, as she now is, is naturally anxious to discover the identity of her parents.”
“Step inside, my lord,” said Mr. Wilks. “This is too painful a subject to be discussed outside.”
He stood aside to let them pass. As Fanny came abreast of him, Mr. Wilks muttered, “How could you, you ungrateful girl? Did we not do our best for you?”
Fanny opened her mouth to reply, but he strode ahead of her shouting, “Mrs. Goern!”
The door to the orphanage office opened and Mrs. Goern stood there, looking the same as Fanny had remembered her, fat and florid, like an overstuffed, heavily embroidered cushion.
“May I present the Earl of Tredair,” gabbled Mr. Wilks, “and Miss Fanny. You remember our Fanny.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Goern slowly. “What is the problem?”
“Perhaps if we could all sit down …?” said the earl, moving into the stuffy office.
Mr. Wilks sat behind a desk with Mrs. Goern beside him. Fanny and the earl sat facing them.
“Miss Fanny has come to find out her background,” said Mr. Wilks.
“That was a great mistake,” said Mrs. Goern severely. “You are a very lucky girl to have been adopted by a great lady like Mrs. Waverley. Is this how you reward her?”
“Save us your strictures, madam,” said the earl coldly. “Simply tell Miss Waverley what she wants to know.”
Mrs. Goern’s fat lips disappeared into a thin line. “If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said, getting to her feet, “I will fetch the books.”
The earl noticed that Mr. Wilks looked at the director with a certain amount of alarm, and that Mrs. Goern gave him a little reassuring nod.
They waited in silence. The earl rose and went to the barred window and looked out into the courtyard. There he saw Mrs. Goern giving instructions to a surly-looking individual. The man touched his cap and sauntered off in the direction of the stables.
After what seemed a very long time, Mrs. Goern returned, bearing two large ledgers.
“You will find, my lord,” she said, “that Miss Fanny came to us from the Foundling Hospital.”
“In the City?”
“No, my lord. In Greenwich.”
“Pray tell me why a baby found on the steps of St. Bride’s in Fleet Street should be sent all the way to Greenwich?”
“If Miss Fanny knew that much, my lord, then it was a waste of your time to bring you here,” said Mrs. Goern. “I do not know why she was sent to Greenwich, but that is the case.”
“Then tell me, Mrs. Goern, why it is that this orphanage, which houses young ladies with relatives rich enough to place them here, should accept charity cases?”
“Through the kindness of our hearts, my lord,” said Mr. Wilks piously.
Fanny sat with her head bowed, her hopes in ruins. She had never really believed that story about her being a foundling. Now she felt like a romantic fool.
The earl felt himself becoming very angry, indeed. “You will forgive me if I point out that there is nothing in your bearing and manner that leads me to suppose either of you know the meaning of kindness or charity,” he said.
“Ho!” bristled Mrs. Goern. “And just what is your business with Miss Fanny?”
“Miss Waverley is a friend of mine,” said the earl. He smiled down at Fanny. But Fanny did not see that smile, she only heard the words. If only he had said, “The lady I hope to marry.” But, of course, he could never marry her now.
“I realize this is a shock to you,” said Mr. Wilks in a wheedling tone. “And I forgive you. Pray take some refreshment.”
“No,” said the earl haughtily. “Not with such as you. Since you are not prepared to be of further assistance, we may as well leave. I assume you will tell me that the other two girls are also foundlings from Greenwich?”
“But yes, my lord,” exclaimed Mr. Wilks. “So kind of Mrs. Waverley to relieve us of three of our charity cases.”
The earl glanced out of the window where a long crocodile of girls was now walking round the yard. He studied them for a moment and then said thoughtfully, “How odd that the three should perhaps be the most beautiful and intelligent girls in the orphanage?”
“We have many such,” said Mrs. Goern with a tight expression. “Believe me, my lord, this interview is as distasteful to us as it is to you.”
“I doubt it,” said the earl. “Come, Miss Fanny.”
Too broken in spirit to ask any questions herself, Fanny followed him out. She was aware of the envious looks of the girls as she climbed into the earl’s smart carriage. She could not even bear to search their faces to see if there was anyone left in the orphanage she still knew.
The earl drove off in silence and after they had gone a little way, slowed his team to an amble. “I do not know why they should lie, Miss Fanny,” he said, “but I am sure they are lying. I think a visit to that foundling hospital in Greenwich is called for.”
“No,” said Fanny with a shudder. “No more. Enough. I have been living on dreams.”
“As you will. But I would be happy to go there for you.”
Fanny shook her head and a tear rolled down onto her glove.
“Please do not cry,” said the earl. “It does not matter. Would you like to marry me?”
“I cannot … now,” said Fanny. “In time, you would regret having allied yourself to someone of no background whatsoever.”
“That is for me to decide, dear girl.”
“Have you considered what society would say? Your family? Your friends?”
“They would say a great deal if they knew. But they won’t. As far as they are concerned you are Mrs. Waverley’s daughter.”
“Mrs. Waverley will never let me marry.”
“If she has a fondness for you … if she has one spark of affection in her whole body … she will let you marry.”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Fanny. “You do not know her. It is not possible.”
He tried to protest, but Fanny looked so white and ill that he fell silent.
He dropped her outside the church, promising to call, but Fanny barely heard him. All she wanted to do was to get safely home and bury her head in her pillow and have a good cry.
The earl drove off thoughtfully. There was a mystery there. Did the mystery lie in that whisper of Clorinda he had heard from the Prince Regent? Were the girls all royal bastards? If that was the case, then both foundling hospital and orphanage would know it was more than their lives were worth to speak the truth. But if Mrs. Waverley could be persuaded to keep quiet about Fanny’s birth and to give him permission to marry the girl, then there would be no fuss and no scandal.
By the time he reached his own home, he was feeling much more cheerful. It was as well he did not know what was happening in Hanover Square.
Fanny had climbed in the library window and had darted up the stairs to her room. She swung open the door and let out a gasp as she saw Mrs. Waverley sitting in a chair by the window.
“Come in, you scheming, lying, ungrateful girl,” said Mrs. Waverley wrathfully. Fanny entered the room slowly, pulling off her bonnet. She stood facing Mrs. Waverley.
“I have reason to believe you went to the orphanage with Lord Tredair,” said Mrs. Waverley. “I told you, you were a foundling. But my name and protection is not enough for you. How dare you make a spectacle of yourself by driving through the streets unchaperoned with a man?”
“I had to find out,” said Fanny warily. “He wants to marry me.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Mrs. Waverley. “Men like Tredair do not marry girls like you.”
“Lord Tredair says that as far as the world is concerned, I am your daughter, and therefore there can be no reason to stop the marriage,” said Fanny. “How did you know I had been to the orphanage?”
“Poor Mrs. Goern sent me a message. She was most distressed. There is no question of you marrying Lord Tredair or anyone, Fanny. If you do not behave yourself, I shall turn you out. Yes! Turn you out into the street, you ungrateful girl. Have I not given you the best of everything? Have I not taught you my principles? Men are filthy beasts … beasts. How can you do this to me … me … who has loved you like a mother?”
Fat tears rolled down Mrs. Waverley’s face and plopped in the silk of her lap.
Fanny knelt on the floor beside her. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “I shall forget him. Please don’t cry. I am not ungrateful.”
Mrs. Waverley slowly caressed Fanny’s blond hair.
“Then we will say no more about it,” she said softly. “I would not turn you out, Fanny. I said that in anger. I love you dearly. I am sorry about your background—a foundling and a bastard. But such things are not a disadvantage if you stay unmarried. Promise me you will never see Lord Tredair again.”
“I promise,” said Fanny, too crushed to realize she would soon regret that promise.
“Then kiss me, my child, and we will say no more about it.”
Fanny rose and gently kissed Mrs. Waverley’s wet cheek.
Mrs. Waverley rose as well, took out a handkerchief, and dried her eyes. She peered at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Good gracious. Lady Artemis will be here at any moment,” she cried.
Fanny was relieved to see her go.
She kicked off her shoes and flung herself face down on the bed.
But she was not to be allowed any peace.
Mrs. Waverley had only been gone a few moments when the door opened and Frederica and Felicity came in.
“Go away,” groaned Fanny. “I can’t bear anymore.”
“No, we will not go away,” said Frederica. “Your escapade was discovered, and the servants have been threatened with dismissal should one of us be found outside the house again. You fool, Fanny. I bet you found out that we are all bastards and foundlings.”
“Yes,” said Fanny dismally. “But Tredair is sure they are lying.”
“Tredair, Tredair,” mocked Felicity. “What is it to him?”
“He wants to marry me,” said Fanny, sitting up.
“Rubbish,” said Frederica. “We don’t marry. You know that. He wants you as his mistress.”
“No,” said Fanny wildly.
“Oh, yes. Do you think he will come near you after today?”
“Yes,” said Fanny mutinously.
“Well, he won’t,” said Frederica. “You’ll see. I will never, I swear, get myself in such a state over any man. Mrs. Waverley is right. Look how unhappy you are. And look at the mess you have landed us in, you wicked thing! Now we can’t get out anywhere because of your mawkish desire to marry a lord! Now we know that we are as bad as you, foundlings and bastards.”
“Shut up,” said Fanny. “Foundlings we may be, but where is the proof that we are bastards?”
“We’re trash, trash, trash,” mocked Frederica.
“Leave me alone,” screamed Fanny, picking up the water jug from beside the bed, “or I will throw this at your heads!”
“We have no intention of leaving until you come to your senses,” said Felicity. Then both girls ducked as Fanny leapt to her feet, seized the water jug, and sent it flying. Frederica and Felicity scampered out of the room, just as Fanny followed up the water jug with a bottle of perfume that smashed against the closing door. The whole room reeked of Young Miss in Her Teens. Fanny began to cry again.
***
Question time in the drawing room. Miss Follity-Benson was the only lady who was not enjoying herself. She could not get her sums to add up. She was not experiencing any of the joys of education promised her and felt obscurely resentful of the domineering Mrs. Waverley.
On impulse she raised her hand.
“Yes, Miss Follity-Benson?” cooed Mrs. Waverley.
“Would you not say that since women are made to bear children, it is going against nature if they do not do so?” asked Miss Follity-Benson.
“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Waverley with a frown. “London is full of unwanted children as is the rest of the British Isles. Any woman deciding not to have children is doing society a service.”
“But you have three daughters,” pointed out Miss Follity-Benson.
Mrs. Waverley suddenly saw a way of spiking the Earl of Tredair’s guns.
“Alas,” she said. “They are not my daughters. I do what I can to help the unwanted and unloved, you know. My three girls are foundlings and bastards and can never marry. I adopted them.”
There were exclamations of shock and surprise. Lady Artemis found she was sitting with her mouth wide open and shut it. What marvelous, wonderful news! Tredair was safe from Miss Fanny.
But Miss Follity-Benson had a kind heart. “I am sure I speak for all, Mrs. Waverley,” she said, “when I assure you that not one of us here will breathe a word of this.”
Lady Artemis thought there was a certain look of disappointment on Mrs. Waverley’s face and wondered why.
“You are most kind,” said Mrs. Waverley briskly. “Now, next question …?”
***
Breakfasts were those affairs held at three o’clock in the afternoon. The one Lord Tredair attended with Mr. Fordyce the next day was in the grounds of a large house in Kensington. The weather had turned warm and sunny, and he was strolling about with Mr. Fordyce admiring the gardens when he noticed the arrival of Lady Artemis. He felt more charitably disposed toward her than he had done before because she had helped to clean that nasty kitchen with such good will.
He noticed with amusement that Lady Artemis seemed to have a prime piece of gossip. For she moved busily from group to group, whispering and chattering, and then he heard oohs and aahs of surprise.
Mr. Fordyce noticed the busily gossiping Lady Artemis as well. “I wonder what she is talking about,” he said.
“No doubt we will hear soon enough,” said the earl. “I do not think I shall stay for the breakfast. I came to see the gardens, you know. I shall be like Brummell, who advocates one should stay just long enough to make one’s presence known, and then leave.”
“I cannot protest at your going,” laughed Mr. Fordyce, “for that leaves the field open to me.”
“With Lady Artemis?”
“Exactly, my friend.”
The earl smiled and began to move away. As he reached the entrance to the gardens, his host, Mr. Tommy Blythe, bore down on him. “Leaving so soon, Tredair?”
“Alas, yes. I have a pressing appointment.”
“You always have pressing appointments,” grumbled Mr. Blythe. “Why do you come to the Season if not to stay at the functions?”
“Perhaps I am looking for wife.”
“Never! A hardened bachelor like you? Talking of marriage, that pretty creature you went ballooning with is the talk of the party.”
“Miss Fanny was very brave,” said the earl. “Quit
e a heroine.”
“Yes, but such shocking news. I could hardly believe my ears. To think I sent cards to the Waverleys! But as m’wife pointed out, Mrs. Waverley at least knows what’s what and refused to attend, or we would have to have sent them packing.”
“What are you gabbling on about?” demanded the earl crossly.
“Why, Lady Artemis was at Mrs. Waverley’s yesterday, and she ups and tells Lady Artemis and a parcel of society misses that her three girls are adopted and not only that, but that they are bastards and foundlings!”
The earl’s hands clenched into fists. “What a hateful, scheming, cruel women,” he raged.
Mr. Blythe took a step back. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “She’s done a great thing. She could easily have fooled society and foisted her girls onto some of us, don’t you think?”
But the earl was already walking away.
He drove the mile from Kensington to Hanover Square where he demanded an audience with Mrs. Waverley. He was shown up to the drawing room. The blinds were drawn and Mrs. Waverley was lying on a chaise lounge by the window.
“Forgive me for not rising, my lord,” she said. “I have had an exhausting day.”
“Very exhausting, madam,” he said coldly. “Ruining the reputation of your adopted daughters must have been quite tiring.”
“I did it for the best,” said Mrs. Waverley. “This letter will explain why. It is from Fanny.”
The earl silently took the letter and read it. Then he went across and jerked up one of the blinds and stood by the window and read it again.
“Lord Tredair,” he read, “I will always be grateful to you for taking me to the orphanage. But I fear I may have misled you as to my feelings toward you. I shall never marry, and it would be best if I never see you again. Your humble and obedient servant, Fanny Waverley.”
“You forced her to write this,” he said angrily.
“Not I,” said Mrs. Waverley mournfully. “My lord, Fanny is a headstrong girl. Can you see me forcing her to do anything?”
“Yes,” he said. “You could threaten to throw her out.”
“I would never do that,” said Mrs. Waverley. “You see, I love Fanny.”
“I doubt if you love anyone other than yourself,” he said bitterly. “Good day to you, ma’am.”
