I, your mother, was born Louise Marie de Polignac in Saint-Cloud France in the year of our Lord, 1762. Daughter of the comte de Polignac, I grew up accustomed to privilege and luxury. In 1780 I sealed my marriage with your father, Louis-Armand, comte de Clarmonte, a man of great honor, charm and wealth, whose vast estate at La Rochelle was noted for its fine collection of art and antiques. When I met Louis-Armand, he was a member of the French diplomatic service, serving at the Sardinian court as ambassador to Russia. We fell in love immediately. Later, after we married, he served as an advisor to Marie Antoinette and was active on behalf of the French monarchy. This position proved to be his ultimate downfall, for the peasants revolted during this time and murdered thousands of members of the nobility who had remained loyal to the crown.
Your dear father was among them.
Even now, as I lie in my sick bed, I find the tragic events that lead to his death excruciating to recall, but for your sake, my beloved daughter, I shall recount them. In 1793, during the Reign of Terror, your father was arrested as a monarchist by the National Convention. He was imprisoned for a time, then brought before the Revolutionary tribunal on December 14, 1793. The trial was a mockery. After only minutes, he was condemned as a counter-revolutionary. Two days later, he was forced to ride in a tumbril through the streets of Paris, hands tied behind his back. Along the route, he was jeered at, spit upon by the unruly mob, until he arrived at the place de la Liberte where that ghastly device, the guillotine, awaited him. For his sake, I was there, in disguise, blending with the bloodthirsty crowd that cheered each time that swift, cruel blade dispatched yet another innocent victim. Forcing myself, I watched as your father, his head held high, walked unaided up the steps to the platform. I heard him bravely decline a blindfold. I watched his lips form the words, “I love you,” as he knelt to receive his fate and knew that those, his last words on earth, were meant for me. I watched the blade come down, and his head … ah, I can say no more on the matter, having never fully recovered from the near-unbearable agony I experienced that terrible day as I watched the only man I ever loved put to a horrible death.
During the time of his imprisonment, your father was selfless in thinking of his wife and child first while his efforts to save himself were always second.
To that end, he contacted his old and dear friend, Lord Westerlynn, with whom he had done business for many years. It was through Westerlynn’s brave and selfless assistance that your father was able to smuggle much of his precious artwork from his chateau at La Rochelle to Hollyridge Manor. At the time of your father’s death, I, too, was in dire peril of being arrested by the tribunal. Thus, you and I were forced to flee France, taking only the clothes on our backs. Arranged by Lord Westerlynn, it was an arduous journey, fraught with peril, though I doubt you remember since you were barely four years old at the time.
I shall always be grateful to Lord Westerlynn for risking his own life in order to save us and bring us to England where he gave us this haven, here at Hollyridge Manor.
At present we live in dire peril, should those members of the Tribunal discover where I am and come after me. Since it is my heartfelt wish that your childhood be without fear, I appealed to Lord Westerlynn that he pledge himself to secrecy and not reveal the true circumstances of your birth until your eighteenth birthday, at which time he would give you this letter. By then, I trust your life will no longer be in danger and that the world can know that as an only child you have, in your own right, inherited your father’s wealth and title.
Know that you are Countess Sara Sophia Alexandrine de Clarmonte.
Know that although your father’s entire estate was confiscated, his brave efforts salvaged enough art, mainly in the form of paintings, to enable you to live in luxury the rest of your life. Lord Westerlynn has found a safe place to store the artwork that was smuggled at great peril across the Channel to England. This is one of the things he will tell you about on your eighteenth birthday, at which time you will find yourself a countess, and very wealthy indeed.
And so farewell, my daughter. I leave this cruel world with joy in my heart, for soon I shall be reunited with your beloved father. My only regret is that I shall miss seeing you grow to womanhood. I know already of your sweet disposition, and how bright you are, and I can see by your eyes that you will also be beautiful. May God shine his mercy upon you, and may you lead a rich, happy, worthwhile life.
With heartfelt love,
Your mother, Louise Marie de Clarmonte
*
Astounding! Rissa dropped the letter to her desk and sat back in awe. Who would have ever thought that drab of a girl was a genuine countess?
Sara Sophia would be the toast of London if the ton found out.
But they won’t, not if I have anything to say about it.
And she definitely did. Rissa felt a glow of triumph. It was indeed satisfying to know that she was in control, that the fate of Sara Sophia — wrong! — Countess Sara Sophia Alexandrine de Clarmonte lay in her hands. She owed nothing to Sara Sophia. In fact, given a title and a fortune, the chit would then be a rival for the affections of Lord Stormont, or even that decadent Lord Wentridge. That simply would not do. Of course, it would be a pity when the poor girl left for her dreary position as a governess, never knowing the glory that was truly hers. But life was like that. If God had planned for Sara Sophia to find that letter, then she would have found it.
God meant that letter for me.
Rissa wondered if she should burn the letter. That way, for a certainty, no one would ever know. She touched the letter to the flame of the beeswax candle on her desk, then quickly drew it back, frowning in deep thought. Such an irretrievable step — perhaps she had better not. One never knew. Perhaps the letter might come in handy later on. She would keep it, tucked away at the bottom of her sewing chest, along with the keys.
As for those paintings, it appeared they were worth something after all. But how to sell them? She would have to think about it. Surely there must be a way.
A knock sounded on the door, then it opened. Clarinda. Rissa felt a surge of anger. She wondered if she could keep her vow not to say anything about the shocking scene she’d witnessed. But perhaps I should confront her, she suddenly realized. Perhaps I can use the knowledge to my advantage.
Rissa quickly closed the dictionary and set it atop the papers. Placing a smile on her face, she turned to face her sister.
Chapter 10
What is Rissa up to? thought Clarinda as she entered her sister’s bed chamber. How strange to see Rissa sitting at her desk, acting the studious scholar, papers stacked in front of her, as well as the tattered French-English dictionary they had used for their French lessons so long ago.
Rissa’s face had an odd expression, as if she had been caught at something naughty. “You startled me,” she said with an nervous smile. “I was, uh, just brushing up on my French.”
“How commendable,” Clarinda answered pleasantly. She could not resist adding, “In fact, quite the miracle.”
Rissa appeared to take a moment to digest Clarinda’s needling remark. But instead of replying in kind, as she normally would, she shifted her eyes away, a sure sign she was hiding something.
But what? Clarinda didn’t know and knew it was useless to try and find out. “Estelle wants to know what we plan to wear for dinner tonight.”
Her twin, composure quickly restored, regarded her with critical eyes. “You really should toss out that awful old riding gown.”
Ah, the old Rissa again. “Just pick something to wear for dinner. Something simple.”
“The bottle-green cotton batiste should do.”
“Fine.” Clarinda was turning to leave when Rissa asked, “Incidentally, has Sara Sophia made her plans?”
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding leaving Hollyridge Manor.” Rissa’s forehead creased in a frown. “Surely she’s not staying?”
Why all this interest in Sara Sophia? This was the second time Riss
a had asked pointed questions about her friend. “Sara Sophia is considering two positions as governess. She will chose one or the other quite soon, and then be gone. I shall miss her terribly.”
“Hmm, but of course.” Rissa made no attempt to conceal the look of relief that crossed her face. Again Clarinda turned to leave. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Rissa asked.
“Just the usual. Why do you wish to know?”
Rissa gave an elaborate shrug. “No reason. You don’t intend to go visiting or anything?”
“You know very well I am supposed to stay home and repent my many sins.” Since when did Rissa care about her plans for next day? She was planning something. It could not be good. “What are you up to?” Clarinda asked bluntly.
“Nothing.” Rissa stood and faced her with a look of deep concern. “Oh, Clarinda, I am worried about you.”
“May I ask why?”
“I was on the river path today.”
“Really? I am astounded. Don’t tell me you were actually riding Dublin.”
“That’s exactly what I was doing.” Rissa glared resentfully. “You needn’t be so high and mighty. You think you’re the best at everything — well, don’t forget I had riding lessons too.”
Clarinda realized she had been unkind. “I didn’t mean — “
“It’s quite all right,” Rissa said with a martyred air. “But what I was trying to tell you was that, quite accidentally, I saw you with … oh, dear.” Rissa rolled her eyes upward, as if she were suffering from some acute malady.
What is Rissa up to? whispered a warning voice in Clarinda’s head as she asked, “Are you talking about Lord Stormont?”
“You know very well I am talking about Lord Stormont.” Rissa looked as if she were about to cry. “I am so concerned! What if Mama and Papa find out? You know what they’d do.”
Clarinda smiled wryly. “This comes as a surprise. You mean you would actually care if I was packed off to Grandfather Montagu’s?”
“Of course I would care. You’re my twin. You mean the world to me, despite…” Rissa hung her head. “I do regret that business about Lord Cranmer. That was wrong of me. I am most concerned for your welfare, so much so, that today, when I saw the two of you by the riding path embracing, for all the world to see, I was most upset and vowed I would speak to you. How terribly reckless! Anyone could have seen you, and then what if they went and told Papa? You would be sent off … Oh, I cannot bear to think of it!”
“Why, Rissa, I am touched,” Clarinda replied, completely baffled. Could Rissa be sorry for what she’d done? And even more amazing, did Rissa actually harbor some remnants of affection for her? Despite Rissa’s selfish tantrums, they had been inseparable when they were little. Only in recent years had they grown apart. Clarinda had wondered if their alienation had in any way been her fault, but no, she knew in her heart she had done her best to keep the bonds between them close. It was Rissa who was full of jealousy, not her. But if now she felt differently, how wonderful.
“Rissa, it s my heartfelt wish that we be close again, just as we were when we were children.” Clarinda smiled wistfully. “I miss those days.”
“I, too,” Rissa answered.
If so, you’ve done a fine job of hiding it these past few years, But perhaps she shouldn’t be so cynical. “Then we’re off to a new start?”
“Of course we are, and you might begin by vowing to stay away from Lord Stormont,” Rissa answered sweetly. “You seem to have forgotten he is mine and you promised to stay away from him.”
Clarinda felt a crush of disappointment. She might have known Rissa’s gesture of friendship was too good to be true. “I did not make such a promise. If memory serves correctly, I told you to take him if you could get him, I really didn’t care.”
Rissa’s smile had disappeared. “That was then — this is now. You do care, don’t you?”
Did she care? Clarinda recalled Stormont’s passionate embrace today. The very thought of it sent a thrill through her. I do care. I did enjoy that kiss. But what of Rissa? Clarinda could almost guess her sister’s next words.
“I could tell Mama and Papa myself,” said Rissa, not in the least to Clarinda’s surprise. “It would be for your own good. They would believe me, you know, even if you tried to lie.”
She was right. Suddenly Clarinda found herself looking into a bleak future. “I don’t tell lies, Rissa. You should know me better than that.”
“Hmm…” Feigning deep thought, Rissa rested her chin on the tip of her finger. “But of course I don’t have to tell them.”
“No, you certainly don’t have to tell them. But if you don’t, I suspect you would expect something in exchange.”
Rissa smiled brightly. “I want only one thing — that you keep that promise you said you didn’t make. It’s simple. I want to hear you vow you shall have nothing to do with Stormont ever again. In exchange, I won’t mention your moment of recklessness to Mama and Papa.”
Clarinda thought of Stormont’s marvelously self-assured demeanor, his blunt masculinity, those dark, mocking eyes, that sensual mouth that could curve down in disdain or up in faint amusement. The man was devastatingly attractive, so unlike all those fops and dandies she had known before. She recalled the first time they met when she fell from Donegal, and how concerned he’d been as he bent over her. She thought of how she had been in his arms today and caught her breath just thinking of how he had swept her in his arms and pressed her against his hard, strong body. At the thought, a flickering flame stirred deep within. It was a feeling no man had ever made her feel before, not even Jeffrey.
Rissa was speaking. “…and besides, aren’t you being disloyal to Jeffrey’s memory? Where is that great love you said you had for him?”
Jeffrey.
Something clicked in her mind. Suddenly she saw her feelings for Jeffrey for what they really were. Saw that out of the real Jeffrey she had constructed Hero Jeffrey, who, she was devastated to admit, only existed in her wildest fantasies. Hero Jeffrey was her dreamy-eyed poet whose works ranked with Robert Burns and Thomas Moore. Real Jeffrey wrote mediocre verse which even at the time had sounded juvenile and insincere, though she had been loathe to admit it at the time. Hero Jeffrey was the most tender of lovers, who would, when the time came, transport her to the heights of passion; Real Jeffrey had given her nothing but an old book of poems and a rose. Not only that, he had aroused her not one iota that one time he had kissed her, not like…
Stormont. She had backed away from him today because of her supposed Great Lost Love, as well as Mama’s orders. But not next time! She could hardly wait to be pressed tight in his arms again. Oh, how different things would be!
“Well, Clarinda? Why are you staring into space?”
Clarinda realized she had better set her mind to the problem at hand. Would she toady to her sister? Never! “Tattle if you must. I find I have feelings for Lord Stormont, so I can make no such promise.”
“Are you sure?” Rissa asked, her voice glacial.
“Yes I’m very sure, so do what you have to do, although I hope you meant what you said about wanting us to be close again.” Clarinda smiled. “Of course, I still hold the deepest of affection you. Nothing will ever change that. Can we still be friends?”
Rissa smiled sweetly. “But of course. I had no idea you felt so deeply about Lord Stormont. Now that I know, he is all yours. And you can rest easy. I wouldn’t dream of telling Mama and Papa. Your secret is safe with me.”
“How wonderful that you understand,” said Clarinda, hugging Rissa tight. But even as they hugged, she had a nagging feeling something wasn’t right.
*
None but the servants were awake the next morning when Clarinda walked the mile to Hollyridge Manor to ride Donegal. When she arrived, she was not surprised to see Sara Sophia, always the early riser, grooming Sham in the cobblestone courtyard. “He’s gone?” Clarinda asked, distressed by her friend’s pale face and strained expression.
Raw
hurt filled Sara Sophia’s eyes as she nodded. “I shall miss him.” She laughed bitterly. “Call that a slight understatement. My heart aches for him. I have just lost the only man in the world I’ll ever love. Oh, I try to be optimistic — you know me — but I know what my life holds from now on. I shall always be alone, and lonely, living in someone else’s home, never my own, until I get old and die — probably in the middle of the night, all alone.”
“Oh, Sara Sophia, that’s not true!” Clarinda cried, putting comforting arms around her despondent friend. “I have never seen you in such a state. You’ll find someone else, I know you will. And meantime, you can work as a governess, which should be vastly entertaining, and most interesting, and very worthwhile, and — “
“No, it won’t.” Sara Sophia pulled away, grimly shaking her head. “Do you know what the life of a governess is like? No, how could you? Well, let me tell you, it’s a dreadful life. When you are a governess you are neither fish nor fowl — ” she laughed bitterly again ” — which I am anyway, so nothing will change. Only I shan’t eat with the master in the dining room, as I do here, I’m not good enough. Neither shall I eat with the servants because they’re not good enough. So I shall eat alone in my room like an outcast.” She buried her face in her hands. “I loved him, Clarinda,” she whispered. “I shall never forget those rides we took, the poetry he read me. He loved me, too. He told me, and I could see it in his eyes. Oh why must I be such a nobody! He wanted to marry me, regardless of my status — run off to Gretna Greene. But I couldn’t have that. What could I do but tell him I would never see him again? What could he do but leave?” Finally she looked up. “My heart is broken. I shall never love again.”
Clarinda had listened, helpless, searching in vain for something comforting to say. But Sara Sophia drew herself up bravely. “Sorry. I must stop torturing myself. Don’t be concerned, I won’t make a spectacle of myself again. I’ve decided which position I shall take.”
The Rebellious Twin Page 15
