Felicia quietly pulled a plate of macaroons nearer, and chewed absently. Fin was clearly convinced that the boy was legitimate — was he truly the heir? And her brother! Astonishing thought. Nor did Fin show any fear of what Mr Percival might say. He seemed to know that he was not the wicked man he had been painted.
She tried to remember the letters he had written, the coded missives intended for Mr Giles. What had they said? After the part about ‘K’ and her son, there was ‘O is in good heart.’ Oswald! Of course. And something about ‘returning to S’. Was that Shotterbourne? And the other letter, with its words about ‘Will she be safe now?’ Felicia herself… they knew of her, and were trying to protect her, just as the boy had said. Oswald. Her brother. The thought made her shiver. It was true, then. She had a family. She belonged.
Fin drew his chair near to hers, and took her hand in his. “Now we shall know the truth,” he whispered. “At last.”
Mr Percival sipped his Madeira, and then set his glass down carefully on a low table. “Let me tell you of the night of the fire,” he began. The others were silent, all watching, waiting expectantly, but Miss Buckley turned her head away from him with a disbelieving expression on her face. “Lord Arnwell was at the card table, and losing heavily. He sent me to fetch another purse of money from his room, for I had a key to the drawer where he kept such items. You all know what I found — smoke, fire, disaster. I raised the alarm, but within minutes the whole family wing was ablaze. The central staircase acted as a great chimney, drawing the flames upwards. I could see there was nothing to be done there. But there was still hope for the nursery, which was close to the upper walkway to the main part of the building.”
The marquess made a low noise in his throat, but he said nothing.
“I ran to the service stairs and along the gallery,” Mr Percival continued. “In the ante-room at the corner of the house, I met the escaping nursery party. The wet-nurse had been awake to feed the baby, and there had been time to wake the nursery maid and the governess, Miss Pickering.”
“Pickering!” Felicia cried. “That was the name on the journal I found! ‘The History of Miss Margaret Pickering, being an account of her birth, education, her rise to a distinguished position, and her present circumstances.’ There was something about trials of her fortitude as well, which was how she felt about looking after me, I daresay. It was all written in ancient Greek and I could not read it, but Mr Cotham, the curate, is translating it for me.”
“Ah! Interesting,” Mr Percival said. “So only those three survived, with the two babies, Edwina and Oswald. I sent them to the chapel to await help, for that was the furthest point from the fire, and the safest. I myself went back to do what I could to help, although the whole family wing was ablaze by then, so it seemed hopeless. Downstairs, all was in chaos, people rushing here and there, but the men had organised chains of buckets, so I was not needed for the rescue efforts. I could not find Lord Arnwell, so I decided to make my way to the chapel. As I passed through the ante-room to the chapel wing, I heard voices outside the window, two voices, a man and a woman. I will tell you exactly what they said, for the words are seared into my mind indelibly. ‘We have killed them all. They will all die, and it is our fault. You sent me to the wrong place. It was meant to be the library.’ And the other said, ‘So much the better for us. We should have done it long ago.’”
The marquess hissed. “So it was intentional, the fire?”
“So it would seem. I realised at that moment that those children were in terrible danger. A person who would plan to murder an entire family would not hesitate over two infants. The boy was the heir to the title and entailed estates, but Edwina would also have a great fortune, so she was not safe either. I knew I had to get them far away from Shotterbourne, and keep them from harm. So I went to the safe and took the money I knew was there — twenty thousand pounds. I collected the party from the chapel and told them what we had to do. We all went to the rectory and woke Giles, so that he knew his part. I gave him a letter to give to you, my lord, so that you would know that the children were safe.”
“I received no such letter,” the marquess growled.
“Giles was instructed how to place it in the secret drawer in your desk, but we had no idea how gravely ill you were, such that you would not be at your desk for many weeks or months. Perhaps the letter was found in that time. We agreed that Giles would place a notice in the Gazette if ever it were safe to return, or if it were rendered necessary by your demise. Had I known at that time how close you came to death that night, my lord, perhaps I would not have taken your son so far away, but at the time it seemed the only way.”
The marquess nodded, but said nothing.
Mr Percival continued, “I entrusted Edwina to Miss Pickering and the nursery maid, with ten thousand pounds to enable them to establish themselves, and instructions not to tell a soul where they were or who Edwina was. I myself took Oswald with his wet-nurse and the remaining money. We went to Scotland, to the Earl of Strathmorran, an old friend of mine, who agreed to aid our exile. Oswald was to be raised as a gentleman at Glenbrindle Castle with James’s own sons, and I offered to earn my bread tutoring the boys. I did not know until recently where Miss Pickering went, but it seems she went to Giles’s old haunt of Southampton. And there we all stayed, waiting for a message that never came. I communicated irregularly with Giles, not often, for I did not dare, and when his man intercepted one of the letters we devised a more devious way to correspond, such that my letters were directed to Hawkewood Hall. This arrangement you have breached, nephew, I understand.”
“Devious indeed, to write in code,” Fin said, with a smile. “But perhaps you were not aware that my father taught me how to understand such codes?”
Mr Percival laughed. It was astonishing to Felicia, overwhelmed as she was with one revelation after another, how much at ease they all were, even the marquess, who gazed at the boy — his son! — avidly. How different their lives had been. Oswald had grown up in a castle with the sons of an earl, with people around him, with friends. She had scraped carrots from the mud with her bare hands under Miss Pickering’s heartless gaze. Even the nursery maid had left. Fin perhaps saw something of her grief, for he picked up the hand he held and stroked it gently.
“It was Giles who alerted us to the possibility that Edwina had been found, and in the most fortuitous fashion,” Mr Percival said. “There was an evening you all dined here, and Lord Arnwell said something about Edwina, and how Miss Oakes was very like her in manner, and… and it made sense to him. He remembered a conversation about her birthday, and realised then that the Buckleys had the same suspicion, and that she might be a target for them — in marriage, perhaps, for the fortune, but perhaps for some worse fate. When she left Derbyshire, Giles accompanied her in the hope of finding out whether that suspicion was correct. Oswald and I joined him in Southampton while he tried to find out if the Miss Armiger who had raised Miss Oakes was in fact Miss Pickering, the governess. Meanwhile, Oswald and I watched over Edwina,” Mr Percival went on, with a smile towards Felicia. How strange to be addressed by such a name! “It was not our intention to frighten you, but we could not be certain of your safety once your identity had been suspected.”
“You could have told me who you were,” she said mildly.
“We felt the time was not ripe to reveal ourselves. We needed to be sure that you were indeed Edwina, but Finlassan forestalled us by whisking you back here. So here we are, and now you know the truth.”
“A fine story,” Miss Buckley sneered. “Yet you cannot prove any of it. These impostors will not convince any impartial judge. Why, they could be any street urchins, taught a degree of etiquette and dressed suitably. You have not the slightest proof.”
“So you have already said, and you would be quite wrong,” Mr Percival said equably. “The Earl of Strathmorran and his entire household will vouch for the identity of Oswald, having known him from the moment of his arrival. His former wet-nurse,
Molly, is part of the household to this day, and will testify that the babe she nursed is indeed the Earl of Shotterbourne.”
“I can vouch for him, too,” the marquess said unexpectedly. “He has his mother’s eyes. I have not the least doubt that he is my son.”
Mr Percival smiled, but said, “Edwina is more difficult to prove, since Miss Pickering is dead, but fortunately we have her testimony in the journal she wrote, which the curate is translating, and no doubt it will confirm everything.”
“There is no doubt in my mind,” the marquess said, “and I see that Finlassan also is convinced. What about you, Buckley? Do you acknowledge the truth of it?”
Mr Buckley chewed his lip anxiously. “I do… I do acknowledge it, but there is one point which is not yet clear to me. Mr Percival Warborough spoke of two voices whom he overheard speaking about the fire, yet he did not name them.”
“You can guess, I believe,” Lord Arnwell said gently. “I see it in your eyes.”
Buckley nodded. “Yet it must be spoken aloud, I believe. Mr Warborough must say the names.”
“Let me do it for him, for it is all terribly clear to me at last,” the marquess said. “The man who set the fire as directed and discovered too late that he had burned the family wing instead of the library — that was your father, Lambert Buckley, a weak man, easily led by a stronger mind, but not evil, I think. The other, who told him where to start the fire with the intention of eliminating my entire family at one stroke — you all know the name, I am sure. Who else knew the house well enough to misdirect Lambert? Who else had a desire to see my branch of the family wiped out in favour of Lambert’s? Who else hated me for winning the title and almost bankrupting Lambert? Who else must be kept away from my surviving children at all costs? Who?”
He raised one implacable finger and pointed directly at Edith Buckley.
She laughed weakly. “Such nonsense! As if anyone would believe such a story. It is ridiculous. She is a fraud, and the boy too.”
“And you knew,” the marquess said in a low voice. “You knew that Oswald and Edwina survived. You found the hidden letter from Percy, and you kept it from me, hoping, no doubt, that grief and despair would see me into my grave. I am very sorry to disappoint you, but it seems that I will outlast you, unless by some miracle you evade the hangman’s rope. Percy, Oswald, Finlassan… might I trouble you to secure her? There is a cellar where she may be held until the magistrates can be got here. The courts will settle it.”
Miss Buckley jumped to her feet, and the men rose and stepped towards her. “Never!” she shrieked, and turned and ran for the door, the men in pursuit. Wrenching open the heavy door, she disappeared onto the gallery above the hall, with a thunder of booted feet behind her. And then…
A long wailing scream. A series of crashing thumps. Then silence.
Felicia raced out onto the gallery, the marquess just behind her. Fin, Mr Percival and Mr Buckley stood at the top of the marble stairs. At the bottom, a crumpled, motionless heap, her head at an odd angle, lay Miss Buckley.
“No one touched her,” Mr Buckley said, his voice high with distress. “She tripped on her gown, I think. She just fell.”
From a side door at the furthest end of the gallery emerged a figure in white muslin. Lady Lucia peered over the balustrade at the figure below.
“Edith?” she said, in a high, quavering voice. “Are you all right, Edith, dear?”
She looked across at the group at the top of the stairs, then back to the still, silent body. One embroidered slipper had come to rest halfway down the stairs, an incongruous and chilling sight.
“Edith? Edith?”
The gentlemen took charge of the situation. Felicia found herself being hustled back into the drawing room. Beyond the closed door could be heard the occasional low murmur of voices. Once there was a high, keening wail, soon hushed. After that, silence. Felicia sat down, placed the macaroon plate on her knee and began to eat.
After a while, the door opened, and the marquess entered with Mr Jameson… no, he was the Earl of Shotterbourne, Felicia remembered, Lord Arnwell’s son and heir. Oswald. Her brother! The two seemed on good terms, the marquess resting one hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Well, that is not the ending any of us would have wished,” Lord Arnwell said sombrely, “but perhaps it is better so. Edith will still face justice from the One who judges us all, but she escapes earthly justice and we can begin a new life, free from her suppurating evil. I have never liked her, with her sneaking ways, but I never thought she was responsible for the fire. I had never imagined her to be so wicked.”
“How is Lady Lucia?” Felicia said.
“She is in the care of her maids, and the physician is sent for. I do not know how she will go on, truly I do not.”
His voice was so bleak that Felicia ran to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “We must all help her.”
“Indeed we must, Princess.”
She pulled away from him. “You need not call me that any longer, for I have a name now. I have a family at last.”
“So you have, little one. You are not the Prinzessin von Nichts, and I am no longer il Conte di Niente. May I call you Edwina?”
She nodded. “And I… I shall call you Papa.”
And she buried her face in his chest and wept for joy.
Epilogue (October)
‘Castle Square, Southampton. 9th October. My very dear friend, for so I may always call you, I trust, and I know not how else to address you. Miss Oakes you were to me at first, and then Felicia, and briefly Lady Edwina, and soon you will be Lady Finlassan, and it is fortunate that the last will be of some duration so that I may have time to grow accustomed. I need not add that you will wear your new name with grace, as you have all your previous titles. Your many letters have been avidly read, as you may imagine, and you will excuse my lack of response for you have had all the news and I have had none. But now at last I have something to impart to you of a nature most exciting for me, and such as I know will make you happy, dear friend. You know, of course, that Mr Giles Warborough returned to our sleepy town a little over a week ago, and at first we were all astonished at his speedy return and the alacrity with which he accepted every invitation, no matter how trivial. But no longer! Within three days, his attentions became so marked that even I, scarcely daring to hope, could not be deceived. Yesterday, he spoke to Papa and asked permission to pay his addresses and — we are engaged! I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to have attached so amiable a man, who is everything I could have wished for in a husband. Papa was concerned that he is so much older than I am, but I do not regard it — he is six and forty, although one would never guess it from his appearance or the vigorous manner in which he engages in the country dances, and he is vastly more interesting than the callow young men who courted me previously. Mama is disappointed, naturally, for she had such hopes of a title for me, but Giles is the son of an earl and therefore an Honourable, and that will be enough for her to boast of. He had some thought of leaving his curate to manage at Church Compton and buying Summer Cottage for us to live in, but Mama has persuaded him that living near Hawkewood Hall and Shotterbourne would suit me much better, and so it would, for then I shall see my very dear friend as often as I wish, and just think how charming that will be. Mama and I will be in London later this month, so we will no doubt see you there. Wish me joy, my best of friends, as I wish for you also. Your deliriously happy friend, Jane Pollard (soon to be Jane Warborough).’
~~~~~
The curricle bounced down the Shotterbourne drive so rapidly that Felicia was obliged to cling tightly to the rail.
“Is it necessary to travel quite so fast?” she said.
Fin merely laughed. “My dear, when a gentleman acquires a sporting vehicle and a fine set of matched greys, he cannot crawl about like a curate in a gig, looking like a slow-top.”
“Better a slow-top than overturned in a ditch,” she murmured, but he laughed heartily at her and urge
d the greys even faster. He laughed so much these days that she hardly knew him.
Between them, Hercules sat, tongue lolling, his ears blown back, looking as if he were enjoying the ride hugely. He had insisted on following her when she had moved to Shotterbourne, to Lord Arnwell’s delight, although what would become of him when she married Fin and returned to Hawkewood she could not guess. Probably he would divide his time between the two houses and be fed twice as often and be thoroughly spoilt.
At the far end of the drive, the new troop of gardeners paused their scything to doff their hats as the curricle bowled past them. Then the greys swept through the open gates and into the village. Felicia waved to the Miss Trimms peering interestedly from the window of their cottage. A few men loitering outside the inn removed their hats, and two maids from Hawkewood curtsied as they drove through the village. Then they turned into the gates of Hawkewood Hall and immediately turned aside onto a narrower road.
“Oh, are we not going to the house?” Felicia said. “I told Juliana and Margarita I would see them today.”
“And so you shall,” Fin said with a broad grin. Ah, a surprise! How he loved to surprise her, and such moments were a sign of his affection, but if only… No, she must not be churlish and wish for more. He cared about her and exerted himself to please her, and that must be enough. She could not expect him to love her, for his heart belonged to Juliana, she understood that. There was no point in yearning for more from him, or else she might grow bitter and discontented. She would be happy with what she had, as she always had been.
They drove swiftly through the shrubbery, dank and gloomy at this time of the year. Then an open area with a small lake and a neat stone pavilion that she had never seen before. Beyond that was a wild, rock-strewn landscape, untamed by man, before they plunged into a ragged woodland of birches and scrubby saplings, their leaves strewn across the track.
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