He reared back to stare at her. “How did you know that? That is the mine on the other side of that headland, there.” He pointed further down the coast. “You can just see the engine tower above those trees.”
“I think I begin to understand.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt. “I found this, hidden under a floorboard in my mother’s old room, the first day we came.”
He read the letter swiftly, then again, more slowly. At last he folded it up and handed it back. “So you do know.”
“I know nothing. Only that a young man whose name began with K met my mother one May Day and expressed his admiration for her. Nothing else.”
“Your grandparents have not told you your mother’s story?”
Maggie could not keep the bitterness in her heart from spilling into her tone. “They barely speak to me, and when they do, they speak as they do to the servants—or at best, a companion they have hired to attend my sis—cousin.”
He gave her the courtesy of acceptance, and did not try to convince her that she must be imagining things. “Then let me tell you what I know—which is family history according to my aunt Mariah, who by all accounts was great friends with your mother, though your grandparents would have favored that friendship even less than they favor yours with me.”
“Who were my mother and aunt to be friends with, then, if they could not choose their own companions?” Maggie wondered aloud. “The daughters of rich folk?”
“I imagine so. The Seacombes are, of course, the first family in these parts, but there are several families of lesser but most respectable consequence in town. They would have encouraged friendships in that quarter. Certainly not with the children of a poultryman down here between terms, no matter how ambitious they were or how successful they became in their respective careers.”
“Tell me about your uncle.”
“Your letter appears to have been written shortly after they met. All four—Dad, Uncle Kevern, Aunt Mariah, and Aunt Tressa—had gone to the May Day celebrations in town, where your mother was crowned Queen of the May.”
“Which had nothing whatever to do with her being a Seacombe.”
“I am sure it did not,” he said with equal gravity. “But in all fairness, she was reputed to be a great beauty. My aunt Tressa enjoys miniatures, and she painted a portrait of Catherine from memory that day, crowned with flowers.”
Maggie resisted the urge to clutch at his arm, but she could not control the urgency in her voice. “I have never seen a single picture of her. Please, does this painting still exist?”
“It does as far as I know. After her husband died, she came back to keep house for my father at Gwynn Place, so it will be there on the farm if it is anywhere.”
Maggie resolved on the spot that on Wednesday, no matter what anyone said, she would go with the Lady to Gwynn Place and find that picture. “Go on.”
“Following the May Day celebrations—and presumably this meeting on the beach that he writes of— Kevern and Catherine became inseparable.”
“How did they manage, if my grandparents did not approve?”
He grinned. “The same way any of us would manage—by stealth and subterfuge. My aunt says they met in the sawan at night and would come back to the cottage along the beach at low tide. Sometimes they would go downalong with my father and my aunts, where no one would know them, and laugh and sing until the wee hours of the morning.”
“Downalong?”
“That’s a Cornish expression for the lower part of town—the docks, the fishing boats, the taverns and inns along the harbor.”
Where no one would know them, indeed.
Michael glanced at her. “The next part is not so happy—are you sure you wish to hear it?”
“I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Very well, then.” He paused a moment, gazing out to sea, where the gulls swooped and mewed. “By the end of July, your mother suspected she might be expecting you, and told my uncle. Aunt Mariah said he told her afterward that he flung himself to one knee and proposed on the spot, and that Catherine accepted.”
Maggie could picture the happy scene, and her heart filled with a joy it had never known before. She had been wanted. She had been no more than a suspicion—a twinkle in her father’s eye, as Lady Dunsmuir might say—but yet she had been wholeheartedly wanted. Her throat closed up, and tears sprang to her eyes once more.
“Catherine told your grandparents, and you can imagine their reaction.”
“Only too well,” Maggie whispered.
“They had planned a marriage for her much more grand than to a mere student from a farming family, its connection with Gwynn Place notwithstanding. Catherine was immediately packed off to the Continent, with a story put about that she was visiting her sister, who at that time was living in Paris for several months while her husband attended to his business affairs.”
“I take it that was not true?”
“No. She and Aunt Mariah, who had studied to be a nurse, spent the autumn and winter in Cornouaille, which lies opposite us in Brittany, in a tiny seaside village called Baie des Sirenes.”
“Bay of the Sirens? No, wait—Mermaids.”
“Is that what it means? I have no aptitude for languages—numbers are what speak to me. In any case, in the spring, that is where you were born. We heard later that there had been complications, and she was so debilitated by grief at her family’s hardness of heart that she did not have the strength to fight.”
The hollow that Maggie had always been conscious of deep inside filled now with an echo of that grief. Grief for what she might have known. Grief for what she did not and could never know. And above all, grief that the two people most intimately connected in this business—her grandparents—had rejected her mother in her moment of greatest need and were continuing that rejection to the second generation.
“Do my grandparents blame me?” she whispered. “For Mother’s death? For dashing all their dreams and plans for her because she loved the wrong man?”
“From all accounts, she loved exactly the right man,” Michael said gently. “I do not presume to know what is in their hearts, but I do know this … you are all that remains on the earth of a much beloved son and uncle. You know what that means, don’t you?”
The pieces that she had not considered before fell into place. “You—are my cousin. My father’s brother’s son.” And there was more. “That means Polgarth the poultryman is—my grandfather!”
From out of nowhere, joy leaped up into the hollow inside her, and expanded and filled it, warming places that had been cold and empty her entire life.
She grasped Michael’s hand. “It is true, isn’t it? The one person at Gwynn Place besides the Lady with whom I feel truly at ease, truly comfortable—is my own grandfather?”
“It is true. Though I must say, if you have a hidden talent for terrible riddles, I will disown you here and now.”
Maggie laughed in delight. “No danger there, though I have been told I have a talent for mimicry, to say nothing of an aptitude for chickens. Do you know that I have been studying genetics, and hope to make it my life’s work?”
He smiled at her with something akin to triumph. “There. You see? Even if I were not certain, that would clinch it. I had my suspicions before, because when Elaine and Charles Seacombe returned from Paris, they had two daughters instead of one. But this information gives me certainty. Oh, won’t Granddad be amazed and glad!”
And what a change that would be!
“But Michael, you have not told me the end of the story. What happened to my father?”
The smile faded somewhat. “I will end this tale, and then we will talk of happier things. Uncle Kevern, who was not permitted to see you or have anything to do with you once the Charles Seacombes had you, did what many young men do when their prospects seem dim. He joined the Royal Aeronautic Corps, and was killed in an airship crash while on maneuvers—oddly, very close to Baie des Sirenes. My father’s p
ractice was in its infancy then and no one in the family could afford to bring Kevern home for burial, but Mariah, who by then was engaged to a French boy, made certain that Kevern was buried in Baie des Sirenes with Catherine, in a single grave.”
This time the tears did well up and spill down her cheeks. “I am glad,” she cried hoarsely. “I am more glad than I can say that they did not come back here, to be separated in death—for him to be in France, and her to be under my grandparents’ disapproving eye in the churchyard every single Sunday until they die.”
“Do not be too hard on them, Maggie.”
“What else can I be? They separated my parents and if it had not been for Lizzie’s mother, I might likely have gone to the workhouse!”
“Maggie, if you only knew what our feelings were when we heard the Seacombe airship had gone down in the Thames, with total loss of life. I don’t think my grandfather has ever fully recovered.”
“Then I must be the one to tell him the real story of what happened, when we go up on Wednesday.”
“May I listen in?”
“If you don’t, I will be terribly disappointed. Michael, you do not know how this knowledge has changed me.” Maggie’s voice wobbled and she swallowed. She must get this out before she broke down altogether. “I have a family that I respected before ever I knew I belonged to it. And now to know that I was truly wanted—that my parents loved one another and intended to make a life together—it is almost too much to take in.”
“Would you like some time alone to come to grips with it?” He moved, as if he would push himself to his feet and leave her, but she caught his sleeve.
“I will, but later. Look, the sun is sinking and Lizzie and Lady Claire will be worried about me. I must return to the house, but … do I have your permission to share what you have told me?”
“It is your story,” he said. “I am only sorry you had to hear it secondhand.”
“If anyone was to tell me, I am glad it was you.” She smiled up at him. “Cousin.”
“Quite so.” He took her hand. “And an older cousin at that, which means you have to do what I say.”
Maggie laughed and poked him in his brocade waistcoat. “Not until you tell me this—what gets wetter as it dries?”
With a roar of mock aggravation, he chased her up the cliff path, and couldn’t catch her until they were nearly all the way to the top.
15
Claire did not order out the big guns very often, finding it not only embarrassing but in most cases unnecessary. Besides which, doing so made her feel a little too much like her mother, a sensation she preferred to avoid at all costs.
But some circumstances were so extraordinary that the only way to meet them was to call upon all the resources one had at hand. So, upon the departure of Mr. Polgarth and Maggie from the sea parlor, she drew on all the consequence of her title, the heritage of Gwynn Place, and three hundred years of breeding, and looked Howel Seacombe straight in the eye.
“Mr. Seacombe, I must have an explanation for this cavalier treatment of a young man who has done us no harm and nothing but good—and who was here at my invitation.”
“I am very much afraid that you do not have the time for a catalogue of his family’s sins against this one, so I will spare you,” he replied.
“On the contrary, I have nothing but time.” Tamsen had come in with a fresh pot of tea, so Claire made herself comfortable upon the sofa and began to pour. “Mr. Seacombe?”
“I mean no offense, Lady Claire, but these are matters best kept within the family.”
“I quite agree.” She set a cup in front of Mrs. Seacombe, who made no move to take it, and poured for Mr. Malvern, Tigg, and lastly Lizzie, who had remained frozen by the window like a rabbit in a clump of grass watching the hounds ranging back and forth in search of her. “Since I am Lizzie and Maggie’s guardian, I am most definitely part of the family. I am quite at leisure to hear the story, I assure you.”
She sat back with her cup of tea and raised an eyebrow in expectation.
“Which brings us to a topic that must also be discussed,” he said with a glance at his wife. “Since Elizabeth and Margaret have been restored to us, it is perhaps time to decide whether your guardianship is in fact necessary any longer.”
“Whether my—” Claire forced down the rising tone of her voice and took a sip of the excellent tea. “I was not aware the subject was under discussion in any quarter. Have you spoken of it with the girls?” Without my knowledge? The remainder of the sentence hung unsaid in the air between them.
“No,” came from the direction of the window with a sound like a squeak.
“Elizabeth, would you take these gentlemen into the park?” Mrs. Seacombe said. “I am sure they do not wish to be burdened with the family’s business, and it appears there are topics on which we must enlighten Lady Claire.”
The gentlemen did not move. On the contrary, Andrew smiled and said, “I for one am deeply interested in any topic that touches the girls. Lieutenant Terwilliger is of like mind—he has known them since the age of five and in fact was instrumental in saving their lives—he helped to pull them out of the river when the airship went down.”
“For which, of course, we are most grateful,” Mr. Seacombe said, a muscle working in his jaw under its fringe of beard. “But I must insist that matters which concern my family directly be kept to the smallest of circles. I am afraid I must insist. Elizabeth, obey your grandmother, if you please.”
Claire saw at once that either they must concede, or the information she sought would not be provided.
“It is all right, Andrew,” she said to him. “I shall not be long, and then I will join you. I have no doubt I shall enjoy the walk.”
When they left the room, Claire turned back to the couple who were proving to be such able antagonists. “There,” she said pleasantly. “You have my full attention. Especially upon the subject of my guardianship of the girls.”
“We will get to that in time. Allow me to put you in possession of all the facts concerning the immediate matter of Mr. Polgarth,” Mrs. Seacombe said. “I could not speak of this in front of Elizabeth, for reasons which will become obvious. It is imperative that any acquaintance Margaret has formed with that young man be cut off at once.”
“You of course have reasons for this?” Claire asked.
“We do. But first, you must know the most salient fact—Margaret is not who you believe her to be.”
“Are any of us?” Claire inquired politely.
“By this my wife means that she is—is—Demelza, I find I cannot speak the words.”
“She is a bastard,” Mrs. Seacombe said crisply. “The illegitimate daughter of that blackguard de Maupassant, gotten upon our innocent girl when he was not satisfied with ruining the life of our eldest.”
The blood drained out of Claire’s face and she set down the cup and saucer on the low table with the greatest of care, for otherwise they would have fallen from her nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.
“You have proof of this?”
“One has simply to look at her. The broad forehead, the amber eyes. That uncontrollable will staring out of her face.”
“Many people have eyes that color,” Claire said. For the life of her, in this moment she could hardly remember what Charles de Maupassant Seacombe looked like other than the final vision she had had of him: a figure below her on a castle roof. A figure who had just fired a pistol at and struck her beloved Maggie and who had been sizzled by a bolt from Claire’s lightning rifle in retribution. “And that is not an uncontrollable will you see. It is Maggie’s spirit, her sweetness of temper, her insight into and compassion for those around her.”
“You favor her, as any woman forced into a mother’s position might,” Mr. Seacombe said. “But his own admission makes Margaret his child—her conception an act of revenge for our refusal to be blackmailed.”
Claire’s stomach heaved and bile rose, to be forced down by will alone. How was
it possible for any man to be so monstrous?
“It is the only explanation,” Mrs. Seacombe went on. “My husband made his decision, and the next thing we knew, our daughter was coming to us with a dreadful secret—that she was expecting an illegitimate child. That devil had threatened us—and then hurt us in a way that would guarantee we never forgot our mistake.”
Maggie.
“So this is the reason for the pointed difference you make in your treatment of the girls?” Claire’s lips felt stiff, as if her very face were frozen. “Maggie feels it, you know. She feels it most keenly.”
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Seacombe said just as stiffly. “But we cannot help it. His revenge is written in her features and we cannot help but see him and lose our daughter every time we look at her.”
Claire could not bear it. She must speak of something else. “But I still do not understand how Mr. Polgarth fits into this dreadful tale.”
“His family were directly involved in the acts in which we refused to participate.”
“Criminal acts? I find this hard to believe, since I have known his grandfather all my life.”
“You may know the grandfather, but the sons were a different matter,” Mr. Seacombe said heavily. “We speak of political and economic acts that in certain circles would be considered treason. But that is in the past. It is the present that concerns us. Suffice it to say that the father and the uncle tried to cover up their involvement by drawing my daughter into their schemes—even going so far as to claim responsibility for the pregnancy when of course that was impossible. They did not even know each other.”
“Are you so certain of this?”
Mrs. Seacombe gave Claire a long look. “Can you tell me that when you lived as a dependent in your mother’s house that you were permitted to racket about on your own and keep company your parents did not know of?”
“No,” Claire was forced to admit. “But I was much younger then. How old was Catherine at this time?”
“Only nineteen. And very protected and innocent of the ways of the world. Which makes it even more distressing to think that her own sister’s husb—” Mrs. Seacombe choked and could not continue.
Magnificent Devices 6: A Lady of Spirit Page 11
