“No, I’m afraid she said nothing about the contents of a letter,” she began. “I didn’t know it existed until after her death.”
“Oh, I see,” Jolene said, thinking that she would learn nothing more than the vague accusations written on the paper.
“I did read it, however, before I posted it on her behalf.” She hesitated and then added, “I apologize for not recognizing your name. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
Jolene sat forward in the chair. “Then you are aware of what she asserts in her correspondence?”
Lillian Kirby cast a sympathetic glance. “Yes, I do, your ladyship. I know that the woman you believed to be your mother is not who she claimed to be.” She spoke with certainty as if she accepted it at face value.
Jolene glanced at the letter in her hand. The confirmation from another person brought an odd sense of grief to her heart. She felt as if she stood at her mother’s grave, tossed another flower upon her casket, and said goodbye all over again. A sorrowful sense of finality caused her shoulders to droop. For years, she had ardently retained the memory of Jacquelyn as her mother, but her affection and devotion had been misplaced. It had all been a lie.
Miss Kirby lean forward and then touched Jolene’s arm tenderly. “This must be a terrible shock to you.”
“What am I to believe?”
“My sister served Jacquelyn as her lady’s maid since the day she turned sixteen. She was a loyal servant to her throughout her marriage as duchess. But from what I have read, she became emotionally unsound because of her barrenness and her husband’s infidelity.”
Miss Kirby’s statement confused her even further. “What do you mean from what you have read? I don’t understand.”
“It is all recorded in my sister’s diary. She kept a meticulous account during the years she served her mistress.”
“Diary?” Jolene clutched the seat of her chair to steady herself. Her mind whirled in circles at the thought of a written record.
“Yes, a diary,” Miss Kirby repeated. “It contains entries about the duchess’ life, as well as confidences they shared during her time of service.”
Lillian rose from her seat and walked over to a sideboard opening a cupboard. She retrieved a brown, leather-bound book. For a moment, she gazed at it and ran the palm of her hand over the cover as if it were a precious possession.
“You have a right to know what is written in these pages,” she began. “However, I do not wish to give it to you unless you are ready to accept the truth.” Miss Kirby continued to cling to it, holding the diary against her chest.
What secrets would she learn between the pages of the book? Hungry for answers, she replied. “Yes, I am ready.”
Jolene lightly bit her bottom lip. She had yet to be tested. Who knew if she had arrived at the point of true readiness? Old doubts about stories written in the diary remained. What if the words were merely fabricated stories written throughout the years by a lady’s maid with an overactive imagination? Could she depend on or believe everything penned on its pages, or were the words mere twaddle?
“If you let me read it,” Jolene pleaded, “I promise that I will return it to you when I am finished.”
“I’ve read it from cover to cover and am intimately acquainted with its contents. Actually, the letter that I mailed to you fell out from between the pages after she died.” Miss Kirby gave a sorrowful glance at the diary. “I think perhaps she hesitated to post it because of the turmoil it might bring to her life.”
“What turmoil?” Jolene didn’t understand.
“My sister confessed her participation in your kidnapping on her death bed. She had never told anyone after all these years, afraid that she would be punished by the law.”
“Oh, I see.” Jolene understood what she must have felt. “But why now? Why after all this time did she tell you?”
“Oh, my dear,” Miss Kirby answered. “It was a deathbed confession to rid her soul of sin. She could not go to her grave without setting things right.” Miss Kirby’s eyes watered in tears. “She helped to kidnap you from your birth parents.”
Kidnapped. How could she have loved her mistress to such an extent? Jolene could not understand her blind loyalty. Then again, how could the woman she thought to be her mother fail to admit what she had done before going to her grave? Jacquelyn must have still harbored a vindictive heart not to tell anyone what she had done.
Miss Kirby stepped forward and held out the diary. Without hesitation, Jolene grasped it carefully noting its fragile condition.
“Some of the pages are torn, and the binding is damaged.”
“It’s on the verge of falling apart,” Jolene replied. Though she referred to the book, she expressed her own emotions.
“I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive my sister once you read the words in this book.” Dorcas’ sister earnestly pleaded.
“But how do you know this is true? Perhaps she wrote it like a fantasy-filled story for her own amusement.”
Miss Kirby smiled rather than feeling insulted that she had accused her sister of another deception. “I doubt that very much. My sister was not one to tell stories. I assure you.”
Lillian looked at her with such sincerity of heart that Jolene could not argue her point further.
“You must seek the truth for yourself, your ladyship.”
Carefully, Jolene opened the diary and glanced at a page. The paper had yellowed from age, but the ink stain had not faded from the years. “I traveled to England because of the letter. How could I ignore the words she had penned?” Jolene said, looking mournfully at the book in her hand.
“You are now embarking on another journey that will change your life forever. You are not who you think you are,” Miss Kirby spoke without wavering.
“I am Komtesse Angelique Jolene von Lamberg,” she firmly replied, as if she needed to reaffirm her identity for the sake of her own sanity. “I cannot imagine that I could be anyone else.”
“Keep an open heart,” she said.
Jolene puffed a breath of air from between her lips. Her emotions heightened and stretched in every direction, begged her to leave. “Thank you,” she quickly said, rising to her feet. “Do you wish me to return it after I have read the contents?”
“No, of course not. It is yours to keep.”
Jolene accepted the generous offer without complaint. “I shall take my leave.” She did not wish to appear ungrateful to Miss Kirby. Aware that her voice sounded short, she softened it in her parting goodbye.
“Thank you for your kindness,” she spoke. “And please accept my condolences on the loss of your sister.”
“May you find peace in your search.” Her compassionate voice touched Jolene.
Peace, she repeated in her mind. The word had become a difficult concept in light of her current situation. “Goodbye,” she said, leaving the residence.
The driver stood at attention, opened the door, and she climbed inside. Before he shut it, she asked a question. “Would you be so kind as to take me to a coffee shop somewhere in Kensington? I would like to get some refreshment and something to eat.”
The thought of returning to the Whitefield’s residence straightaway added to her anxiousness. She could not face anyone right now or have a civil conversation without losing control of her emotions.
“Of course.”
The driver shut the door, and a moment later she sat numbly in her seat looking at the brown diary that contained the pages of one woman’s journeys with her deceased, so-called mother. Hesitant to read its contents, she held it in her lap.
After traveling over a bridge that spanned the Thames, the car returned to the Kensington area of London. It slowed and came to a halt in front of a corner café. The driver parked, turned off the car, and opened her door.
“I trust you’ll find this establishment to your liking,” he said. “Shall I wait for you or return at a prescribed time?”
“Return in two hours, if you don’t m
ind,” she said. “I shall meet you here at this location.”
He tipped his hat. “Very well.”
Jolene entered the quaint establishment. It appeared to be a perfect location to hide away alone. She found an empty table by the window where pedestrians passed back and forth oblivious to her need for privacy. The bright light filtering through the window would help illuminate her reading.
“May I help you, miss?”
A waitress approached, and after a quick look at the short menu of drinks and pastries, she ordered a coffee with milk and a scone. She set the diary face up on the table. Jolene merely stared at it until her order arrived.
A few sips of coffee and a nibble of pastry helped her to procrastinate a few more minutes. Finally, she could ignore it no longer. The first entry dated July 7, 1876 contained a short account of being hired by the Spencer family as a lady’s maid to Jacquelyn.
“My new mistress, Jacquelyn Spencer, is a beautiful young woman with golden blonde hair. She treats me respectfully with a kind tone of voice when she requires my services.”
One by one, Jolene flipped the pages devouring descriptions of Jacquelyn. Her mother had turned from being a once familiar memory in her life, to a total stranger that she did not know. Apparently, Jacquelyn had been born into a rich and influential family. As most young ladies, she was well mannered, intelligent, and primed to be the wife of an aristocrat. Dorcas’ writings revealed early on how fascinated she had become with the woman that she served. The pages overflowed with compliments as if she worshiped the ground she walked on.
Jolene continued to skim and skip some pages until it brought her to Jacquelyn’s engagement to Lord Holland of Surrey. Apparently, the marriage had been one of arrangement and convenience between families. Dorcas relayed that her mistress had shared her excitement over her betrothal to the handsome lord. She had no reservations as they embarked on a short courtship that quickly led to marriage.
“She is so happy. One day she will be a duchess and bear children.”
Engrossed in the story, Jolene skipped ahead to read the entries during Jacquelyn’s early years of marriage. For an hour and a half, she had not wandered from her table or lifted her head to gaze outside the window. She drank two cups of coffee to keep herself alert. The intimate diary read like a novel of intrigue that she could not put down for one second.
As page after page told the sad tale of her mistress’ inability to conceive, the happiness of the marriage began to wane. Jolene found the account so sad that her eyes began to tear. She could feel the pain in Jacquelyn’s soul over the continued disappointment recorded each month in the journal entries.
She reached for her purse to search for a hankie to dab her nose. Just as she pulled it out, she halted when a familiar voice spoke her name.
“Lady von Lamberg, what a pleasant surprise to find you here.”
Chapter 10
More than Tea and Coffee
Jolene looked up from the diary and gasped as she saw Lord Holland standing by her table. Dressed in a brown sack coat with a vest, dotted necktie, and matching trousers, he looked quite dashing. His hand held the rim of a Homburg hat. In a panic, Jolene shut the book and slipped it onto her lap out of sight.
“Why Lord Holland, what a surprise to see you here,” she nervously responded. The corner of her eye twitched objecting to her brazen lie. She hoped he had not noticed her shiny eyes filled with womanly emotion for Jacquelyn.
“I was walking past the shop when I glanced inside the window and saw you alone.” He took a step forward and smiled. “It would have been terribly impolite of me not to greet you and offer my company.”
Lord Holland glanced at the empty chair at her table, obviously waiting for an invitation to have a seat. It would have been rude to shoo him away because of his untimely intrusion. Nevertheless, it might afford her an opportunity to pry into his life.
“Do you have time to join me for a cup of coffee or tea?” It did not take long before he had pulled out the chair and took his place.
“Thank you for the invitation.” He sat down and waved the server to his side. “I’ll have a cup of black tea, please.”
“I hope I’m not keeping you from anything, Lord Holland.” Jolene took a sip of her coffee that had turned cold. She wanted to wrinkle her nose over the stale taste but suppressed the urge. When the server returned with Robert’s tea, she asked for another cup.
“No, you’re not keeping me from anything,” he answered. “However, I insist you drop the lord and address me as Robert.” He hesitated for a moment and then daringly asked for the same privilege. “Will you allow me to call you by your Christian name of Jolene?” He took a sip of his tea and kept a steady gaze on her reaction. “Of course, if you prefer that we keep formalities, I’m happy to oblige.”
She could tell by the sly look in his eye that he would not be happy should she spurn his request. However, she saw no harm in it and allowed a smile to turn up the corner of her mouth. “No, that’s all right, you may call me...”
Jolene caught the name at the tip of her tongue that nearly flew out of her mouth. What was she thinking? Perhaps inwardly she wanted to elicit some type of response by dropping it on the table in front of him. Instead, she chose to remain elusive.
“Jolene.”
“For a minute there,” Robert replied with a broad grin, “it sounded as if you forgot your name.”
She chuckled. If he only knew, she thought to herself with a smirk on her face.
“So what are you doing here all alone in a café in Kensington having a cup of coffee? It looks as though I interrupted your reading.” He nodded toward her lap indicating he knew where she had quickly hid it from his view.
“Well, I just thought I would explore London on my own, have a bite to eat, and take a moment to read.”
“What is the book about?”
His nosiness irked her. “Oh, I guess you could say history,” she replied. The server brought her another cup of coffee, and she welcomed a sip of the invigorating stimulant.
“Good lord, how dull,” Robert replied. “You appear to me the type of woman who would prefer a book of love poems.”
Nearly choking on the brew that slid down her throat, Jolene raised her brow at Robert. “Oh really, and what gives you that impression?”
He shrugged his shoulders and lowered his gaze into his tea. “Just a hunch,” he answered.
“I do not like poetry,” Jolene admitted. “Often my curiosity lies in other subject matters.”
“Such as...?”
She narrowed her eyes over his insistent prying. “Like I said a moment ago, history.”
“Hmm,” he hummed in this throat, probably realizing she would not elaborate further. “History it is then.”
Robert avoided pursuing the conversation after her curt reply. The cue to change the subject presented itself, so Jolene steered it elsewhere. “I understand, Robert, that you are a proficient rider of horses. Have you always enjoyed horsemanship?”
By the twinkle in his eye that sparked forth, she obviously found something that brought him utter joy. No doubt, he would talk her ear off about horsemanship for at least fifteen minutes, if not more. Men always loved to express their prowess in any type of sport in which they excelled.
“I gather you discovered that piece of information from Alastair.” Robert shifted in his seat and then leaned forward.
“Yes,” she answered, leaning forward herself as if to drop a secret in front of him. “In fact, the first night I dined with the Whitefields, he complained sorely to everyone at the table that you had beaten him at another race.” She widened her eyes to feed his obvious ego to hear all about it. “To remedy any future loss, he demanded a new thoroughbred from his father.”
“Huh!” Robert laughed aloud with a smug look in his eye. “What did his father say?”
“What do you think he said?”
“Well, if I know the man well enough, he flat-out refused.”
A slow smile spread across Robert’s face. His eyes looked at her as if she had no idea what she was saying. It made her feel uncomfortable.
“Alastair couldn’t afford to purchase the caliber of horse that it would take to beat my thoroughbred.”
His arrogance over the matter surprised Jolene. Point noted on Robert’s character, she thought to herself. Can be somewhat smug and arrogant.
“Well, then no doubt you shall continue to remain victor in every race.” She almost wanted to challenge him to knock him off his high horse.
“No doubt,” he repeated with surety.
A strained moment of silence came between them. Their eyes locked together while their cups occasionally came to their lips taking intermittent sips. Jolene wondered what he plotted under that blond head of hair. The way he stared at her, he probably entertained thoughts that he should not be contemplating.
Nevertheless, the longer she looked into Robert’s eyes, the more nervous she became. As he continued to leer at her, she suddenly saw his hand slowly reach across the table and grip hers. His intentions were clear, when he gently squeezed it and then brought his thumb around in soothing circles upon the back of her hand. He desired her, and the thought so utterly repulsed Jolene that she jerked her hand from his grasp.
“Please, Robert, do not touch me in that manner.” Her high-pitched voice brought the attention of other patrons. In response, she pulled away from his intense longing and focused on the coffee in her cup. An overwhelming thought of hiding under the table filled her mind that caused a giggle to escape her throat.
Sheepishly, her gaze lifted to see poor Robert’s face looking mortified. She had spurned his slightest show of affection, and it apparently hurt him deeply. Had no woman ever rejected the so-called rascal’s advances before? The look of defeat had washed away his handsome countenance, turning it into a miserable scowl.
“I’ve wounded you, I can see,” she said, trying to show him a warm and controlled smile.
The Price of Love Page 10
