Cecilia (The Families 0f Dorset Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  When she reached the marquess's revelation, Lady Caroline exclaimed. "How very famous!”

  Taken aback and somewhat offended at the uncomprehending nature of Lady Caroline's reaction, Cecilia doubled back and looked at her friend. Lady Caroline met her eyes and laughed.

  "It is precisely the type of adventure I myself should wish to have if I had been born into their circumstances."

  Baffled at the lighthearted way in which Lady Caroline seemed to regard the discovery which had sent Cecilia reeling, she found herself without words.

  "But please," Lady Caroline said, "continue. It was very rude of me to interrupt."

  Cecilia's mouth opened and closed. "But that is it. I left before the constables could escort him and his father to Newgate from where they will be sent back to France."

  "Oh dear," said Lady Caroline, finally beginning to show proper signs of comprehending what had occurred to overset Cecilia so entirely. She reined in the horses, pulling the phaeton to the side of the lane and turning toward Cecilia. "And what of you?"

  "What of me?" Cecilia said.

  Lady Caroline raised her brows. "Does knowing of the vicomte's circumstances alter your love for him?"

  Cecilia swallowed and frowned at the direct question. She hardly knew how to answer. "He is not a Vicomte," she said in a sullen voice.

  Lady Caroline shrugged. "And if he is not? Surely it was not his title you fell in love with, or else you should have more easily fallen in love with the marquess." She shot Cecilia a significant look to drive home her point. "So the question remains: do you still love him?"

  "Of course not!" Cecilia cried.

  Lady Caroline raised a single brow.

  "I don't know!” Cecilia said evasively. “But what does it matter? Surely you see that I could not marry a man who betrayed me so, much less one who is a poor Frenchman."

  Lady Caroline tilted her head to the side. "Why not?" She put a hand up to silence Cecilia. "You may pretend that you have no choice in the matter, my dear, but we always have a choice."

  Cecilia scoffed. "And you think I should immediately forgive a murderer?"

  Lady Caroline looked at her skeptically. "Surely you don't truly believe that? The vicomte himself refuted that allegation."

  "And we are to trust him at his word when he has been lying for decades?"

  "I certainly do," said Lady Caroline, "for why should he admit to everything but the murder charge?”

  Cecilia wrung her hands. Of course if she had to choose between believing the marquess and believing Mr. Levesque, she would still believe the latter. But... "Murderer or not, he is still the man who made me fall in love with him under false pretenses."

  "Cecilia, Cecilia," said Lady Caroline, "we all deceive each other to one extent or another. How can you be so sure that you would have acted any differently in his shoes? We all jump at the opportunity to increase our power, influence, and comfort, and with much less a case for doing so. Recall that he has been over twenty years living the life of a Vicomte, to say nothing of him being roped into the deception when he was only a child! I imagine it hardly seemed a part by the time he met you. Besides, it is not as if he set out to betray you purposefully. Indeed, it sounds as though he wished to tell you of his circumstances on more than one occasion."

  Cecilia sniffed, unsure what to make of Lady Caroline's words and very nearly certain that she was right.

  "In any case," Lady Caroline continued, "he may have fooled us all into believing him a Vicomte, but I can tell you with certainty that his ability to play a part was not such that he could fool me into believing he loved you when he did not."

  Cecilia's heart jumped inside her, the traitorous organ.

  "And of course," Lady Caroline said, sending Cecilia a sidelong glance with a hint of censure, "you must realize that the only reason he was discovered was because of you." She tilted her head from side to side. "And me. The marquess would likely never have made an effort to take revenge upon the vicomte if it were not for the vicomte stepping in to save us both at the prize fight. We owe him a great deal. Pauper or noble, he has saved my life on no less than three occasions."

  Cecilia's conscience pricked her, and she felt a moment's irritation. She had hoped to receive consolation from Lady Caroline, to be met with shared anger at the vicomte's deception; but so far from condemning the vicomte, Lady Caroline was defending him in every way possible, and making Cecilia feel as though she were the traitorous one.

  "Do you love him still, Cecilia?" Lady Caroline asked, her tone softer and more understanding. "That is what you must decide. And if you do love him, do you wish to do something about it?"

  Cecilia wrung her hands, her eyes stinging as she reflected on the joy she had felt over the past two months. It was always connected with him.

  Lady Caroline sighed. "Allow me to put a question to you which I think may help make sense of what your true feelings are."

  Cecilia nodded and swallowed.

  "If the Victomte—yes, I insist on calling him that, for he is more like a Vicomte than any of the real Vicomtes I know—if he had told you the truth, but you knew without a doubt that you could live out the rest of your lives together with no one the wiser about his low birth, would you have married him?"

  Cecilia shifted in her chair, wiping a tear from her cheek. What was the answer to that piercing question? If she said yes, it would be an admission that she cared only for society's opinion of Mr. Levesque's humble beginnings rather than the beginnings themselves. If she said no, then what kind of love did she have for him?

  "Yes, I would have," she sobbed.

  Lady Caroline patted her hand. "I am glad to hear that."

  Cecilia held her palms up on her lap. "But what does it matter, Caro? He is to be shipped off to France, and I shall never see him again."

  Lady Caroline looked at Cecilia calculatingly. "I must ask you one more question, then. If he were not shipped off to France, would you be willing to ally yourself with him, despite his loss of status, despite the fact that he will be ostracized and cut from society? Would you risk yourself to be with him?"

  Cecilia's face crumpled, and she nodded, unable to speak.

  Lady Caroline nodded officially. "That is what I needed to know: that your love is the type that is willing to endure humiliation for the sake of its object."

  "But how does that help us?"

  Lady Caroline smiled enigmatically. "It does. That is all I may say for the moment."

  And with such an indecipherable remark, Lady Caroline turned the conversation to other avenues, leaving Cecilia feeling even less comforted than at the beginning of their ride, as she had now admitted to her true emotions but felt more powerless than ever to act upon them.

  20

  Jacques shifted his legs which were stretched out on the floor, the sound of clanking irons echoing in the prison cell as he did so. He raked a hand through his disheveled hair and glanced at his father, who lay upon the sole bed in the cell. He had been sleeping quite a bit since their arrival, likely so lost to hope as to feel sapped of energy.

  It was true that there was little hope at all. With the marquess against them, there was hardly anything Jacques could say to defend against his influence and power.

  His timing had been well-planned indeed, with Middlesex Quarter Sessions set to take place just two days after their arrival at Newgate. And while Jacques was relieved at the knowledge that their time in Newgate would be short, he hardly looked forward with pleasure at the prospect of being deported to France. There was no doubt in his mind that such would be the result of their trial. The marquess would ensure it.

  Jacques let out a wry chuckle as he thought of Letty and Aunt Emily’s visit two days since. He had initially been too shocked upon seeing them, too relieved that they didn't despise him, to cry out at their coming to the prison. And even when he insisted that Letty return home without delay, she had scoffed, teasing that he could hardly force her when he was behind bars.

/>   Jacques had been touched at her insistence that she would do everything she could to ensure they were not deported, but her naïve hope had not resulted in the optimism she had clearly expected to see from him.

  Aunt Emily had been much more reserved on arrival at their cell. It was clear to Jacques that she was unsure what to believe. But, as Jacques had recounted their story, she had softened to the point of tears.

  The visit had been a needed salve on Jacques’s hurting conscience and his wounded soul. Aunt Emily and Letty, at least, still cared for them, despite knowing their origins. Nor did they believe them to be the murderers the marquess had accused them of being.

  His father stirred and then sat up, no doubt wakened by the grating of his irons against one another.

  "They should be here soon, I imagine," said Jacques, staring blankly ahead. "It must be nigh on two, and that is when the trial is set for."

  His father only nodded and sat at the edge of the hard bed.

  Jacques could hardly bear to look at his father. Gone was the vivacious, colorful personality of the last two decades—the only remnants of it were the mustard colored waistcoat and violet velvet suit he wore, smudged as they were with dirt. He was but a shadow of himself, and Jacques suspected that it was his guilt that was to blame: guilt for leading Jacques into this helpless and desperate abyss.

  But Jacques didn't blame him. He couldn’t regret the twenty-one years of life he had just lived, even if it would make their future all the more onerous by contrast. How could he regret meeting Letty or Aunt Emily and coming to know the best parts of them—the best parts of a society so often brimming with contempt and immorality?

  And then there was Cecilia. She had been as unexpected as she had been lovable; as maddening as she had been engaging. Did he regret meeting her? Did he regret the gaping hole left in his heart at knowing he would never live the life he had imagined by her side?

  Steps sounded with the accompanying jangle of keys.

  "Here for us, no doubt," Jacques said, raising himself from the floor.

  His father walked over with heavy, shuffling feet as they awaited the opening of the cell door.

  "Father," said Jacques, trying to infuse his voice with a confidence he was far from feeling, "don't fret. We will get through this, and we will do it together."

  His father looked into his eyes, his own pooling with tears and an unspoken apology.

  "You gave me a better life than I could ever have imagined for myself," Jacques said.

  His father looked away, jaw clenching. "And now you face a worse life than you could ever have imagined for yourself." He turned his head back to Jacques, with an almost haunted expression. "We will not be looked on with kindness in France."

  Jacques suppressed the desire to swallow. Showing the fear he felt would mean adding to the burden of guilt and shame his father already felt.

  The jangling of keys stopped, and the door opened with a deafening, drawn-out creak.

  The time had come.

  21

  Cecilia absently stirred her tea with a spoon, watching the way the brown liquid swirled around and around the deep hole in the center where her spoon sat. Her mother spread preserves over her toast, oblivious to Cecilia’s inner turmoil.

  Cecilia looked up as the door opened to reveal her father, who made his way to the seat at the head of the table, holding a newspaper in his hands.

  Averting her eyes, she sipped her tea in silence. Today the Levesques would be tried at the Sessions House. Today they would discover when they would be forced onto a ship to sail across the Channel to the country they hadn't called home in decades.

  "Bah!" her father called out suddenly as he spread out the pages of the newspaper. "Quarter Sessions today, and not a moment too soon. Those French paupers have trespassed on our soil for far too long. Our consolation must be that they will be met with anger and hostility even in their own country. I have heard of émigrés being beaten and tortured upon their return, and none of them impersonated nobility!"

  Cecilia swallowed, putting a hand to her stomach, which spun and churned like the tea before her.

  "How fortunate we are," said her mother, "that you did not encourage the attentions of such a charlatan! We owe Lord Retsford our loyalty and thanks for exposing the men." She smoothed the napkin on her lap. "I rest easy knowing that you will be well taken care of in the marquess's capable hands, Cecilia."

  Cecilia's spoon clanked onto the saucer holding her cup of tea. Her neck, cheeks, and ears felt hot. "I don't believe the marquess has any intention at all of offering for me, Mama. And perhaps that is for the best, as I have no intention at all of accepting him."

  Both her parents' hands stilled, her father's newspaper folding over at the top, revealing his perplexed expression.

  Her mother laughed nervously. "What ever do you mean, my dear? Of course he means to offer for you. Let us not forget how he singled you out so graciously at his own al fresco party!"

  Cecilia shook her head, feeling impatient. "Once he feels that he has my affection, I have no doubt his own attention will shift to another young woman. I understand that Lord Tidwell's daughter will come out next season, and she is generally thought to be the greatest beauty to take the ton in years."

  She saw dismay fill her mother's eyes, but it was followed by a practical tilting of her head and the resuming of eating. "Then we must take greater pains to ensure he makes an offer before next season begins. I understand he has plans to remove to Brighton next week. I think we may contrive to find ourselves there, too, don't you think, Mr. Cosgrove? A three- or four-week delay in our return to Dorsetshire is surely merited, given the situation." She looked to her husband, who nodded.

  "Yes, of course," he said. "But Cecy, my dear, you must exert yourself a little more. Perhaps we need to hire a different maid for you? One who is capable of achieving something a little more flattering than this coiffure you have been wearing of late." He looked with slight distaste at her hair. "And perhaps a little more rouge wouldn't hurt, so long as it is accompanied by your most engaging smile, eh?" He winked at her. "None of this Friday face of yours."

  She stood suddenly, the silverware clanking with the jolting of the table. She couldn't bear another second. "I don't wish to marry the marquess!" she cried, her chest heaving. Her parents regarded her with blinking, uncomprehending eyes. "And I will not parade myself about, stooping to whatever means necessary to ensure his approval—or anyone else's."

  Her father's face infused with a pink, then crimson, then purple hue, and he struck his fist on the table. Encountering a warning glance from his wife, he took in a large breath before speaking, managing an unconvincing chuckle. "Now, now, my dear. No one is asking such a thing of you. Besides, what is this? You have always wished to marry just such a man as the marquess! Recall how you convinced me not to give my blessing to Lord Brockway when he wished to pay his addresses because you were convinced you could manage a bigger catch."

  Cecilia closed her eyes, feeling sick at hearing her own folly repeated back to her. If it hadn't been for Mr. Levesque, she might well still be saying such insufferably proud and arrogant nonsense.

  "I was wrong," she said, leaning her hands on the table. "And I am very sorry for the way I have acted in the past. But I simply cannot marry someone who I hold in such aversion as I do the marquess. Please understand."

  “Well I assure you that I do not understand,” her father said. “What has aversion to say to marriage? You will do this for the Cosgrove name, Cecilia!”

  Cecilia glanced at her mother, whose lips were pursed and brows furrowed in thought, and then turned from the room in agitation.

  She took the stairs up to her bedroom as quickly as she could, heading straight for her escritoire. She dipped the quill in the ink, ignoring that it needed sharpening. She hardly needed it to look neat, so long as Letty could read it.

  She read over it once and blew on the wet ink before folding it and sealing it.

&nb
sp; Rushing toward the staircase, she came upon Isabel.

  "Good gracious, Cecy," Isabel said, stopping short to prevent a collision. "What has you in such a hurry?"

  Cecilia ran her fingers along the folded letter, hesitating for a moment. Isabel could perhaps be a great help. Cecilia could hardly ask her mother to accompany her, but Isabel or Charles could easily do so.

  "It is Quarter Sessions today," said Cecilia, almost hoping she wouldn't have to provide more explanation.

  "Is it?" Isabel tilted her head to the side, looking at Cecilia with a curious expression. And then her eyes lit up with understanding. "You wish to attend the trial of Lord Moulinet."

  Cecilia nodded slowly, looking down at the letter in her hands. "I must see him one more time, if that is all I am allowed. I doubt there is anything I can do to prevent the deportation, but I cannot sit here idly."

  Isabel nodded.

  "But there is hardly any time," Cecilia said, feeling the rush of impatience pulse through her. "Aunt Emily and Letty plan to attend, I believe, but I am afraid I may have missed my chance to go with them." She looked at Isabel, helpless and pleading.

  Isabel scanned her face for a moment and then smiled. "Let me go get Charles." She nodded, indicating the staircase. "You go instruct the chaise to be brought around."

  Cecilia grabbed Isabel's hand, swallowing the lump in her throat, grateful that her sister was so willing to be kind despite the unkind treatment Cecilia had subjected her to over the years.

  "Go," Isabel said, squeezing Cecilia's hand.

  * * *

  The arrival of Cecilia, Isabel, and Charles at the Middlesex Sessions House coincided with the arrival of various equipages transporting prisoners. Cecilia's heart picked up speed as she watched the prisoners shuffle up the steps of the building, their irons clanking against each other and making loud grating noises on the stairs. They were all filthy, and their stench could be smelt even from twenty feet away.