by Joan Smith
“Miss Jones, I believe?” he asked, smiling. “You remember me from the coach?”
“Oh, Mr. Whewett! Was it you hiding behind that paper all the while? I thought you would be at Willowcrest by now.”
“So did I, but there’s only one carriage for hire, and it won’t be back till four, so I am stuck to cool my heels in town. Has something happened to your connection, too?”
A wave of despair washed over her. What had happened was so disastrous that her lower lip trembled. “I wasn’t met,” she confided in a troubled voice.
“I thought as much. Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you as soon as I get my carriage. I have some hope my own may be repaired and forwarded before four o’clock.”
Grace looked at him in misery and confusion. “My governess, that I was to visit, is gone,” she said. Despite her usual courage, she felt a warm tear start in her eye.
“Ah, that is too bad,” he said, patting her hand in a kind, fatherly way that caused the tears to wash over her lids and course down her cheeks in two rivulets. A hiccup of a sob caught in her throat.
“Now, you must not cry, my dear. It isn’t that serious. You have only to get back home to Lewes, a mere ten miles. I’ll see you onto the next stage.”
“I have no money!” she sniffled.
“I’ll look after it. Peculiar your governess left. Was she not expecting you?”
She shook her head in a negative. Speech was beyond her. Whewett continued, “Your mama should have made sure you were to be met, but there’s no great harm after all. Come now, wipe your eyes, and I’ll take you back to the inn to see when the next coach leaves.”
“I can’t go back there,” she managed to say, trying to sniff away her tears.
“Where, to the inn?”
“No, to Lewes. I have no mother there.”
Whewett sat dumbfounded. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Dead,” she answered on a fresh burst of tears.
“Did you just learn of it?” he asked, wondering how it could have happened in such an irregular fashion. The mother must have died in childbirth. He remembered some talk of Miss Jones wanting a brother. “You can go back to your papa.”
“He’s dead, too. I am an orphan.”
“Good God!” Whewett felt a stab of pity for the poor little creature. “But my dear, you cannot stay here. Who are your family solicitors? Some relatives will come for you.”
“Oh, you don’t understand,” she said, wiping her eyes with her knuckles till he stuffed his handkerchief into her fingers. She looked at his kindly, concerned face and decided on the spot she would tell him the truth. He might lend her some money to tide her over till she could find Miss Thomas.
“No, I don’t understand, but I wish you will explain. I’ll help you,” he promised.
Grace lifted her moist eyes and looked at him hopefully. “The thing is, I am not Miss Jones at all. I am Miss Farnsworth, and I am twenty-two years old,” she said.
Whewett remained perfectly impassive, except for a slight widening of his gray eyes and the lifting of one well-arched brow. He studied her young face, her hair chucked up in girlish curls, her roll-brimmed hat, and her freckles. “I begin to think you are a minx, Miss Whoever-You-Are. Now, let us hear the truth, if you please, without benefit of a Cheltenham tragedy. Have you run away from school? Is that it?”
Her chin lifted pugnaciously, which only increased the air of youthful rebellion. “School is closed in August.”
“You have peeled away from home in any case, or I miss my bet. You have run yourself to a standstill, so there is no need of a lecture. I wager you are ready to go home and face the music.”
“I told you, I have no home,” she said, becoming impatient.
For ten minutes she spoke on, explaining in detail her predicament. Her voice, no longer pitched childishly high, her vocabulary, her whole conduct, soon convinced him of the truth. “This is almost worse than your first story,” he said, sinking his chin in his hands to look at her in astonishment.
“I know that! The question is, what am I to do?” Her voice held a note of desperation.
Whewett continued studying her, silently now. The idea that had just cropped into his head was so outré, he could hardly believe it had even occurred to him. He was not a gentleman who routinely involved himself in drama of any sort. The even tenor of his days was seldom disturbed by anything more interesting than politics or domestic doings.
Yet, as he considered it, he found his scheme not only possible but fairly easy to execute. Miss Farnsworth passed very well for a young girl, and what he needed at that moment was a girl of the age she appeared. “Come with me,” he said.
Grace blinked in surprise. “To Willowcrest?”
“Yes, I need you.”
“What on earth for?”
“To be my daughter.”
An air of withdrawal settled on her. “You already have a daughter,” she pointed out stiffly.
“I don’t have her here.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“A great deal. Let me explain. Lady Healy was my wife’s grandmother.”
Grace, listening closely, discerned an inconsistency in his first speech. “Was? Surely she is not dead. You said you were going to visit her.”
“Ah, no, my wife is dead. Lady Healy is alive and kicking. She has come down from Scotland to see about being rid of Willowcrest. She is old, in her seventies, and not at all well. She has never seen Augusta and is eager to do so. It would mean a good deal to her.”
“Then why did you not bring your daughter with you?”
“She is out of the country. Lady Healy will think she is seeing her when she sees you. I ought to warn you, she is a—trifle eccentric.”
“If you mean she is a raving lunatic, pray say so,” Grace said sternly.
A small smile parted his lips, to hear such authority issue from what appeared to be a child’s mouth. “You will find I say what I mean. She is a trifle eccentric, no more, Miss Jones.”
“My name is Farnsworth.”
“So you say.” Her chin jutted forth, but he spoke on before she could challenge him. “I don’t blame you for lying to that wretched woman, I lied myself.”
“If you are not Mr. Whewett, pray who are you?”
“Mr. Dalmy, but it would be more proper to call me Lord Whewett.”
Grace was overcome with new doubts. She had never known a lord to hide his light under a bushel, but for a commoner to assume a handle to his name was nothing new. “You don’t look like a lord.”
His head rose, his nostrils pinched, and he said “Indeed!” in what Grace concluded could only be a noble fit of pique. “I am Lord Whewett, not that it is either here or there. About Lady Healy—she is not only eccentric, but very rich. It has been the custom in the family for the wife’s portion to go to the daughter. Lady Healy has managed to outlive both her daughter and granddaughter. If she doesn’t outlive my Augusta as well, her fortune will go to her. Lady Healy has expressed, rather imperatively, a desire to see her heir. Augusta was on holiday in Ireland with my sister when the summons came. As Lady Healy makes only a short visit, it is impossible to get Augusta back in time.”
“Why do you not just tell her so?”
“You have, no doubt, heard the old cliché, ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave ...' I have been lying to Lady Healy for years. She has often asked me to send Augusta to her in Scotland. First I made the excuse she was too young to travel, because I did not want to subject the poor child to such an ordeal. Augusta is shy, and Grandma Healy is—how shall I say it? She is autocratic, self-centered, a grande dame of the old school. She would frighten my Gussie to death, so I invented a weak constitution for my daughter. To hear Augusta is well enough to have jauntered off to Ireland might cause Lady Healy to settle the estate elsewhere for spite. I do not wish to lose my daughter her inheritance because of my doings. The money belongs to Augusta by rights, and I mean to see she gets it
. I had intended to claim my daughter had taken a turn for the worse. It would be infinitely preferable if I could produce a daughter.”
“You have chosen your new daughter poorly, sir. I do not have a frail constitution.”
“Her grandmother will be delighted at the improvement. I receive long screeds of suggested treatments. You might claim a headache or upset stomach during the visit,” he suggested.
Grace felt her interest rising, almost in spite of herself. “What does your daughter look like?” she asked.
“That does not matter. Lady Healy’s never seen her.”
Grace was shocked at the lapse. “Have you not even sent her a picture?”
“Yes, of a three-year-old Augusta. Your coloring is not so different, except that Gussie has blue eyes. She is thinner, too. You are not so very unlike my late wife. You could pass for her daughter.”
Grace felt her fears lessen at this description. So long as Whewett considered her strictly as a daughter, the visit was possible. At two and twenty, she was not unaware of the impropriety and danger implicit in the scheme of a widower and an unmarried lady traveling together. “Would it not be illegal?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t know. I did not think that would bother you.”
She bristled. “I am not a criminal, Lord Whewett!”
“Not an inveterate one, I’m sure, but you can hardly be unaware it is illegal to defraud the coaching company of half their fare by posing as a child.” This was said in no threatening way, but Grace thought she detected a hint of blackmail. Her hackles were up at once.
“It was a case of the direst necessity!”
“Just so. I have no intention of reporting you. If you do not choose to oblige me, I shall still help you—lend you money or take you somewhere. One can hardly abandon a lady in such distress. I don’t plan to use coercion, but you must see your case could hardly be worse, Miss Farnsworth. You are destitute, with no friend to turn to. You have nothing to lose, whereas I have a fortune to lose for my daughter. The risk is ninety-nine percent my own. I wouldn’t take it if I were not sure of success. Who is there to find us out? You know no one in the village except Miss Thomas, and she, one assumes, would hardly reveal your secret. We will only be here for a couple of days. There will be no need to leave Willowcrest at all. And of course I shall reward you handsomely for your acting chore,” he added temptingly.
“How much?” As he spoke, she had listened closely, and acknowledged the truth of what he said. Now she listened to hear the reward.
“What do you figure it is worth?”
“I’ve no idea. I never did anything like this before. Mrs. Bixworth pays a hundred pounds a year.”
“I’ll give you a hundred for two days.”
“Oh, no! That is too much!”
“My daughter stands to gain something in the neighborhood of fifty thousand.”
“I see,” Grace said weakly. “Then it is not too much. But still, I don’t know if I could do it. How can I, at my age, act like a child for forty-eight hours?”
Whewett hunched his elegant shoulders and smiled. “You fooled me. You fooled the coachman. You fooled that bug-eyed old nosey parker on the coach with us. I fancy, if you pulled the wool over her eyes, you will have no trouble fooling Grandma Healy. She is not so sharp-eyed these days.”
“I found it a dreadful strain to pitch my voice high, like a girl, and to remember to call everyone sir or ma’am.”
He nicked an atom of dust from his coat sleeve. “A hundred and fifty pounds, to cover the additional strain.”
“I’m not after more money,” she said with an air of offense. “The payment first offered is generous. I must think about it a moment.”
She crossed her arms, sat back very straight, with an expression of fierce concentration on her young face. Whewett watched with bated breath while she swiftly passed the pros and cons through review and took her decision. “I’ll do it,” she announced.
He breathed a vast sigh of relief. “Good girl! You won’t be sorry.”
They reached across the table and shook hands, smiling uncertainly. Having formed an alliance put them both in a happier mood. Grace, left light with relief that at least she knew where she would lay her head that night, would have a hundred pounds when the job was done, which seemed a fortune to her.
“I expect the next step is to get me some children’s clothing,” she said. “I have my skirt rolled around half a dozen times and require something more suitable. Grandma Healy—you see how quickly I am coming along—will expect Lady Augusta to wear something better than a shiny serge suit two years old. I’ll need a round bonnet, too, and flat-heeled shoes. It was the slippers I feared would give me away on the coach. I daresay you did not notice, but these are ladies’ slippers I am wearing.”
“On the contrary, I always notice a lady’s ankles,” he replied unceremoniously. “Even a young lady’s. I thought yours showed definite promise. Now, where shall we pick up these items you require?”
Grace blinked in surprise, but answered his question. “It will have to be a dress already made, if we’re lucky. Do you trust me to do it alone, or are you afraid I’ll take your money and skip?”
“I’ll take the chance.” He drew out a fat purse and began peeling off bills. “Here’s fifteen pounds. Is it enough?”
“That’s three times more than I shall need.”
“Take it all—a gift, no strings attached. If you want to, you can outfit yourself for our masquerade and meet me at the inn. If you change your mind, you can hop the next coach to wherever you like. I shan’t have you followed. Fair enough?”
Grace shook her head ruefully. “You know I can’t shab off when you make such a handsome offer.”
“I trust you are a gentleman, in affairs of business. I shall be at the inn at four. If my carriage is not there by then, I shall hire one and go on to Willowcrest. I told Lady Healy today. She does not like being balked.”
“Does she expect you to have your daughter with you?”
“She told me to bring her. I didn’t reply, but came on to make my excuses in person.”
“No reason she should be looking for any tricks, then. Did you plan all along to hire a daughter?”
“No, that would have required a trip to London. It was your sad tale that put the notion in my head. It almost seemed like fate, our meeting so felicitously.”
“It was a happy chance for me as well. I’ll be at the inn at four. Good-bye, Mr. Whewett.”
“I’ll take your case with me.” He rose and bowed gracefully. “Au revoir, Miss Farnsworth.”
She rose and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. She thought he was looking at her ankles. “I should have said Lord Whewett!”
His flashing smile might almost have been called a grin. “You should have said Papa, Doll.”
Her eyes widened at such a familiar form of address. His expression softened. “It is what I call my daughter,” he lied easily. “A pet name, you might say. Be good. Don’t go talking to strangers.” A low chuckle followed her as she hurried out of the tea shop.
Despite her gentlemanly instincts, Grace considered quite seriously bolting on Lord Whewett. He said the money was a gift, so she was free to do as she liked. Was he trustworthy? He had told his story quite frankly on the stage, only omitting that he was a lord. A man bent on mischief would not have done so.
Mrs. Sempleton had corroborated his story—she knew the Broughams. He had been sincere in trying to help her when he thought her a child. Likely he still thought of her as a child. He was a father, a solid, sensible gentleman. Except that he had come up with the outrageous idea for this masquerade. And he had noticed her ankles and called her Doll in a way that did not sound at all fatherly. Oh, what should she do?
Only two days out of her boring life. What did it matter? There was no real harm in it, and if trouble did arise, Lord Whewett must protect her to protect himself. Lords were practically impervious to le
gal proceedings. The worst she could envisage was that Lady Healy should somehow discover their trick and send her packing. She would have her money in even less than two days.
How fine it would be to have a hundred pounds! She decided to go through with it and spent the afternoon shopping. She was very careful to call all the clerks sir. Every one of them mentioned it was odd her being alone. She invented the story that her mama was waiting in the carriage. She had taken a dizzy spell. No one questioned her story when they saw her money.
At a quarter to four she walked up to the inn door, her arms full of parcels. Standing in the yard was the most elegant black chaise she had ever seen, with a crest on its side and four shiny bays in the harness. A footman wearing green livery hopped down and bowed to her.
“Allow me, Lady Augusta,” he said, taking her parcels with a sly wink. Lord Whewett had been busy to inform his servants of the charade. Funny, she had thought just the two of them would be involved in it. It was a more elaborate affair than she had envisaged.
The proprietor held the door for her and bowed till his nose very nearly touched his protruding stomach. “His lordship is waiting for you in his private parlor, milady. I hope you’ll be comfortable,” he said, and held the door wide for her to enter.
Whewett sat before a window looking over his journal. He rose when she entered. “Hallo, Gussie. How did the shopping go? A pity your woman could not have accompanied you. I trust there was no trouble?”
“No trouble, Papa,” she answered, scarcely able to hold her lips steady, for the whole business was so very strange. Servants and innkeepers bobbing to her, and a lord standing up when she entered the room, while she was rigged out like a child.
“Put Lady Augusta’s parcels there, Hucker,” Whewett directed the footman. “Would you like a cup of tea before we leave, Augusta?”
“Yes, please,” she replied happily. The bottle of wine at his elbow also interested her.
