by May Burnett
She met his eyes with momentary trepidation. That week alone at an inn could spell social ruin for any unmarried young lady. Would Thomas look on her in condemnation? But there was no change in his concerned, warm expression.
“By letter, I enrolled myself in the Merleton Academy for Girls under the name of Helen Milding, the child of an officer deceased in India. My handwriting could easily pass for that of an older woman. I pretended to be young Helen Milding’s bed-ridden great-aunt in Grimsby, unwillingly saddled with this responsibility, and unable to look after a young girl even during holidays.”
“Such cases do happen,” Thomas agreed. “The school would mostly have cared that the great-aunt could afford their fees. You had brought sufficient funds?”
“Yes, luckily. They had to stretch to the uniforms and all other necessities too. The supposed aunt sent the purse and a letter along with the new student, for two years in advance. When I handed the money over, in female garb once more, the headmistress exclaimed at the risk – it might have been stolen on the road, and what then? I pretended that I had been travelling under the escort of my aunt’s housekeeper, but the woman had fallen ill on the way.” It had taken a whole series of bold lies to insert herself into the Academy, but they had eagerly wanted those fees, and thus were predisposed to believe her story.
“How did you choose that particular school? Liverpool is not exactly close to Lincolnshire.”
“About a year earlier I had found an advertisement for the establishment in a newspaper forgotten by some former guest. At the time I thought it might be pleasant to be among other young people… when I needed a refuge I remembered it. I reasoned that a girl’s boarding school catering to the gentry and professional classes would be the best place to hide in plain sight. Liverpool was big enough, and a city where my uncle was extremely unlikely to ever turn up.”
“Shrewd reasoning for a girl who had lived in a rural schoolroom until then.”
She bristled at the implied slur on her younger self. “We did receive papers and new books, and until my mother’s death we had many guests staying at Colville Hall. While I was not allowed to mingle, I liked to eavesdrop on them, and I read all the time, whatever I could lay my hands on. It was not as sheltered an existence as you may think.” When he made no reply she went on, “While I waited for the school’s agreement to my enrolment, it occurred to me to write other letters – with my father’s seal, – as additional proof of my identity in five years’ time. My uncle would not simply welcome me back and would deny whatever I claimed. I knew that I would have to fight for my rights.”
“Why did you write to the Home Secretary, Lord John? Where did you find the parchment?”
She was nonplussed at the unexpected question. “The parchment was kept on my father’s desk. He sometimes used it for the most important correspondence. How can you know about that?”
“Someone in the Home Office told me about it.” Thomas sounded evasive.
“And you just happened to travel to Chatterham afterwards, to study ants? I suspect you have not been entirely frank with me either, Mr. Seymour. You never planned to write a drama or book about the case, confess it.” A sudden doubt assailed her. He could not be in her uncle’s pay, could he? No, her instincts could not have betrayed her that far. No accomplice of Lord Colville’s would have asked such questions in Chatterham. Thomas had clearly known even less than she did.
“My ambitions are not literary,” he readily admitted. “From what I was told by my acquaintance in the Home Office, your letter was taken to be a hoax, as it was not at all in the style expected of a schoolgirl. Since it did not state your intention to disappear, it was puzzling what the letter’s purpose was supposed to be.”
“Just to have it kept in their files. From what you say, they did so.”
“I was enjoined not to tell anyone of its existence, but as its author you would already know about it. What exactly is your plan, once you turn twenty-one? I know you well enough now, to be sure that there is a plan.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but I was reckoning without the demise of the false Lady Marian by drowning. That makes everything much more difficult. As long as my uncle could not produce me, I had him at a disadvantage. Now he can point to that coffin in the family crypt.” That a stranger was interred with her family felt deeply wrong to Nell. If she had anything to say to it, that would change soon.
“If that coffin is opened, what will be found?” Thomas wondered. “How long does it take for a body to become a skeleton? Maybe my father will know. As a student he cut open dead bodies.”
“I had hoped to find out the identity of that woman, that is why I went to Chatterham. But there were no useful witnesses left, except the coroner, I must suppose.” And maybe Doctor Rimblescarp, but she was reluctant to approach a medical professional in her disguise.
“I confess I am baffled by the way the whole thing was stage-managed,” Thomas said.
“It does seem stage-managed, doesn’t it? I believe there are illusionists who can create almost any false impression in their audience.”
He looked at her, arrested. “We may have underestimated your uncle and his man.”
“What can you mean?”
“Think back to that showy purple afternoon dress. I believe it was chosen expressly to fix the identity of the victim in any witnesses’ minds. Mrs. Pelham regarded it as conclusive, that dress and seaweed draped over the body.”
Nell shivered. “A gruesome image, considering that body was supposed to be mine.”
“Yet Mrs. Pelham never came close enough, I would wager, to see if the drowning victim was actually dead.”
Nell sat bolt upright. Could it be …? Her uncle and his solicitor were capable of any villainy – but maybe murder would not have served their purposes in this particular case. “I see,” she said slowly. “That would explain the companion and maid too. All three would have been confederates, most likely professional actresses. The Coroner would have had to be in on the hoax as well.”
“It does not strike me as impossible to find a corruptible coroner. Almost anyone has their price. Maybe the whole thing was staged in Chatterham of all places, because they found a suitable accomplice there. As for the companion and maid, as well as the impostor Lady Marian, if there was no actual murder or drowning they might merely have been paid off and threatened with gruesome retribution if they ever talked. The risk to Lord Colville would have been minor. Who would take the word of such riff-raff against a respected peer? The coroner would risk his own livelihood and freedom if he ever talked. And if Lord Colville used Robles as an intermediary throughout, it would be impossible, or at least very hard, to prove his own involvement.”
Nell had to agree that his theory made sense. Yet a crucial question remained. “Then who is in that lead-rimmed coffin? It cannot be empty, as I shall demand that it be opened when I claim my fortune back.”
Thomas shrugged. “It is not all that hard to acquire a body. My father could tell you stories of body-snatchers … for the right amount, it can be done. A few months later, it will be impossible to properly identify, barring such things as rotten teeth or broken limbs. Though I suppose the hair colour remains. Lady Marian was a brunette, I understand.” He cast a quizzical look at her blonde curls. “Conveniently, the most common hair colour in the British isles.”
“You think so?” Nettled, Nell undid the hairpins fixing her wig under the bonnet, and drew it off, bonnet and all. It was a relief to shake out her straight hair. It only fell to the shoulders since she had cut it to better fit under the wig. “I was getting sick of those corkscrews.” The wig had also made her scalp itch, but that was not a detail she was prepared to share with Thomas.
He stared, eyes wide. “It is incredible what a difference that makes. I humbly beg your pardon for implying your hair has a commonplace shade. It most emphatically does not.”
Nell’s hair was composed of various-coloured strands, honey-light to the colour of dark
ale, giving an appearance of rich old wood. She had combed it with a henna tincture in the school to add a reddish sheen, but that had nearly worn off since the last application.
“That unusual hair might help identify you,” he said. “I see why you hid it under the wig. But it enhances your eyes - you are far more beautiful with your natural shade, or shades.”
“Thank you. I am told my maternal grandmother had this same multi-shaded hair, but again, it is not conclusive proof, merely a corroborating detail.”
“You do not have any hidden birthmarks?”
“No, and even if I had, who is left who could testify to it?”
“Coming back to your plan …”
“Once I was of age, I would hire the best solicitor and barrister I could find, and demand my fortune back, to the last penny. The Earl must not profit from his greedy scheming. I would write a will, leaving everything to some worthy person or cause – mostly for my own safety. I had not made up my mind yet who should be my heir, as they must be guaranteed to continue the civil case against Lord Colville in the event of my demise, and in a position to win against a man of his influence. Someone who would not compromise or settle for half. If you have any suggestion, let me know.” She had even considered leaving her fortune to the Crown. Anyone who could not be intimidated or bullied by her uncle. But that was only a precaution – she fully intended to enjoy her fortune herself, for the length of her natural lifespan.
“I cannot think of any cause like that offhand - but you still have several months until you can write that will?”
She nodded. “My birthday is September 28th, three more months and one week. Believe me, I am counting the days. I have been counting them since April 1838.”
He frowned in worry, - how unusual to have another person care what became of her. “You must on no account be found until that date. Although, as you are officially deceased your uncle cannot openly demand your return under his control even if he should locate you.”
“If he does, I fear he would really resort to murder, without a second thought. As long as I live elsewhere under an assumed name, who could or would connect him with the crime?”
“Indeed,” Thomas murmured, brows contracted in deep thought.
“That is why I jumped at your suggestion to stay with your family in Yorkshire for a while. He cannot possibly find me there.”
“I hope you are right. I am doubly glad I did not use my last name in Chatterham. Even if Robles suspects that the veiled Mrs. Smith may have been his quarry, and learns that I have carried you off, he cannot know where we went from there.”
“Mrs. Smith is no longer,” she declared, “nobody will ever see or hear of her again.”
“And Mr. Thomas too. Yet one never knows. He might find out my name and direction through a description, though the likelihood is small. What name will you use in Yorkshire?”
“I am used to Nell Milding, and do not see any reason to change it.”
“And after your birthday, I imagine, you will switch back to Marian Colville?”
“Not until after I have written that will, and engaged legal advisors.” It would feel strange to go back to a name she had discarded nearly five years earlier. “I don’t feel like Lady Marian anymore; Nell is who I am now. It may not be easy to go back to that name.”
“You are closer to a Helen of Troy, than to Maid Marian,” he said. “What made you pick that particular name?”
“No reason, really. I could not use any name that we had ever had in the family, and it had to be a first name in common use. Milding – from mild – was the opposite of how I felt at the time, and sounded suitably harmless.”
“You should have used something like that in Chatterham, instead of Mrs. Smith.”
“I know. I picked Smith for being so common, but it may have been too common.”
“I happen to know at least two people actually called Smith, so it was not that so much … more the combination of the name, the widows’ weeds, and the educated voice.”
“A lesson I shall keep in mind.”
“With any luck, you may never again need to use a false name or identity after September.”
“I certainly hope so,” she sighed. “I myself hardly know who I am, anymore.”
He nodded. “Little wonder, after all you have been through. I admire your composure, talking about such painful topics. At times you must have been lonely, desperate, and in need of a confidant?”
Nobody had asked her that in years. “Of course I was unhappy, but I could not afford emotional displays. Looking back, the loss of all my family, one blow after the other, had already numbed and hardened me to some extent. My pain was dull and steady, like a toothache, – it still is, even now – but my anger sustained me.”
Chapter 11
The plan to present Nell as a friend of Charlotte Seymour was foiled within seconds of their arrival. As their carriage drew up in the courtyard of a large Elizabethan manor, set amidst well-tended gardens and old trees, a number of persons converged on the vehicle as though by magic. By the time they had descended they were surrounded by two young ladies, a groom, a kitchen maid carrying a pail with carrots, a grubby boy, a footman and the butler.
“Thomas! We were not expecting you!” the younger of the two ladies exclaimed, and enveloped her brother in an impulsive hug. Her sister – a tall, stately blonde, who had to be the redoubtable Amelia – contented herself with pressing his hand, but from the warmth of her regard, her affection for Thomas was just as evident.
“Hullo Charlie – Amelia – ,” Thomas began, but was ruthlessly interrupted.
“And who is this?” The younger lady was looking at Nell with undisguised curiosity.
Thomas and Nell exchanged a quick glance.
“This is Miss Helen Milding, a distant cousin of ours,” Thomas said glibly. “I have brought her for a visit – high time she got to know our side of the family. Nell, these are my sisters Amelia and Charlotte Seymour.”
Amelia and Charlotte stared, as well they might at such a bold invention. Nell tried to smile like a relative on first encountering family. “How do you do.” Her voice sounded wan.
Would his sisters give Thomas the lie? From the expression of the younger it was a distinct possibility. “Milding?” Charlotte began in a voice of patent scepticism, but Amelia gave her a slight push, silencing whatever she was going to say.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Milding. How kind of you to honour us with a visit, so unexpectedly.” Amelia’s expression reserved judgement until she had heard more. An intelligent woman; only to be expected with such a brother. “Mother will be most interested to meet a family connection. Please come inside, Miss Milding.”
Charlotte grinned. “How diverting! I want to hear all about your meeting, Thomas, and the exact degree of our relationship.”
At least he had not introduced her as his fiancée, as he had mooted earlier. That would really have set his sisters’ back up.
After Thomas had consulted with the butler about the bestowal of their luggage, the four young people trooped indoors. Thomas snagged Nell’s arm, hanging back a little. “Courage,” he murmured, “this is not an ogre’s lair, don’t look so worried.”
“They must know that we are not related.”
“Of course they do. But I had to say something in front of the servants, after Charlie put us on the spot like that.”
Following his sisters, Thomas ushered her into a pleasantly warm and well-lit sitting room, where a svelte middle-aged woman sat on a piano bench, playing a lively melody. She broke off the moment she heard footsteps and turned in the direction of the door.
“Mother,” Thomas said, and went forward to kiss the lady’s cheeks. Nell would have known their relationship without this confirmation, for the blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes were eerily similar. How strange that Mrs. Seymour was not able to see – her eyes looked perfectly normal, and lovely. She had to be well into her forties, with children of Amelia’s
age, but she looked younger.
“I have brought a guest to stay for some weeks,” Thomas went on. “Miss Helen Milding.”
“Welcome to Yardley Manor,” the lady of the house said. “Milding? I do not believe I know the name. How did you meet Thomas?”
“Thank you for the welcome, Ma’am,” Nell began, only to be interrupted by the impulsive Charlotte.
“I knew it! If you do not know the name either, Mother, she cannot possibly be a family connection. What kind of hum are you trying to pull, Thomas?”
“Charlie,” Thomas said, “your lack of decorum and courtesy are a severe trial. Do try for some reserve.”
Everyone stared at him except his mother, whose lips twitched slightly.
“Thomas!” Charlotte cried, “How can you say such a thing!” She sent a hostile look at Nell, whom she clearly held to blame for her brother’s unexpected stricture.
“Please do not argue over me,” Nell said uncomfortably, “I can easily go away, and find some other shelter. I would not for the world bring dissension into your family.”
“Well said,” Mrs. Seymour said, “sit down, Miss Milding, and explain why you need shelter at all. I am all agog. If Thomas has brought you here, I do not doubt he had an excellent reason.”
“They arrived together, in a closed post chaise,” Charlotte reported to her mother. “I half expected Thomas to say Miss Milding and he were married. What will father say?”
Nell blushed under Amelia’s cool regard, while Thomas scowled.
“That sounds a little unusual,” Mrs. Seymour said calmly, “but let Thomas explain, Charlotte, rather than entertaining us with your reflections on the matter.”
Charlotte bit her lips. Amelia folded her arms across her chest and regarded the scene with a faint, amused smile.
Nell waited for Thomas’ explanation with some trepidation. What would he tell his mother? She was not the kind of person one could lie to. A brief glance at his profile showed him completely unruffled.
