by May Burnett
“All this sounds very normal so far.” James surveyed the selection of cheeses that had just been placed before them.
“Wait. The diary was from the time around my own birth, and it stated that my mother had not only me, but a little girl at the same time, - a twin sister! And what Emily and I find inconceivable,” Jonathan went on with suppressed anger, “our parents simply gave the child away to another family, casual acquaintances that moved away soon afterwards.”
James frowned. “Why would your parents give away your twin? When Charlotte had our own Roger and Violet, the idea of separating them would never have occurred to us.”
“That is what I find so strange. The diary does not record any heart-searching, remorse, or reasons why Mary Rose was handed over to strangers at the age of three weeks. She had been baptized by our father at the same time as I, right after birth. Emily speculates that our mother found two infants too much to cope with, when she would still have been exhausted from the pregnancy and birth. She was already close to forty at the time, and not strong.”
“It seems unlikely that this twin is still alive, when so many of your other siblings died young.” In fact, it sounded like a pretty long shot to James. Why would the little girl have fared better among strangers than with her own parents?
“I have reason to believe that she is still alive,” Jonathan said, to James’s surprise. “Of course I immediately wanted to find this unknown sister. I had visions of the poor girl languishing in a workhouse, or transported. I engaged an investigator, Hendrickson, the same one that Henry Beecham uses for difficult cases. It did not take him long to send me preliminary results. But there’s a hitch.” Jonathan poured the last of the wine into their two glasses. “Should we order another bottle?”
“Not when the meal is all but done – but do go on, I want to know what became of your long-lost sister. Since she’s only months away from thirty, you may have more nieces and nephews than you thought.”
“That’s the problem, I don’t know.” Jonathan, having disposed of his previous selection, added a piece of ripened cheddar to his plate. “With some difficulty, the investigator discovered where the family had moved to. Their name was Trellisham, and they had five children eventually – Prudence, Charity, Patience, Chastity, and the only boy, Donatus.”
“An interesting series of names. I suppose they wanted to unite all the virtues under one roof. But didn’t you say your sister had been baptised Mary Rose?”
“So she was, but it is not unusual to change the name of a child that young. Two of the girls were adopted, of similar age as their own eldest daughter. The two youngest, Donatus and Chastity, were the Trellishams’ own children. It is not known which of the three older girls was Mary Rose, because the parents died in a carriage accident in 1802, together with the two youngest children, when my sister would have been eight years old. The three older girls had not been in the carriage and survived. They were brought up by Mrs. Trellisham’s sister, a Lady Spalding.”
“So this family had well-born connections?”
“Not to speak of. The husband, Sir Charles Spalding, was knighted for some service he rendered the crown with his munitions works. The girls had no inheritance or dowries, for Harry Trellisham’s annuity died with him. At least in their aunt’s household they would have had enough to eat and a decent education, together with the Spaldings’ only son. Eventually that son married Prudence, who is still living in the same house with her parents-in-law, and has three children.”
“Children who might be your nieces or nephews, but odds are two to one against it.” James did not envy the young Mrs. Spalding, having to live in the same house as her in-laws. Any wife would chafe under such conditions. “Is there no family resemblance?”
“Hendrickson had seen me before he set out, when I gave him his instructions, and yet he could not tell. We Durwents don’t have any particularly distinctive features like a hawk nose or your family’s chestnut hair. Emily and I don’t look much alike either. From his assessment, it could be any of the three. Charity is widowed, Patience still a spinster.” Jonathan pushed his plate away, and put the fork down. “I propose to go there myself, to discover which of the three sisters is my twin.”
“Why exactly? What will you do when you identify her?”
“Take care of her, of course. If it is Prudence, from what Hendrickson tells me she needs a house of her own. Patience cannot be happy as a poor, unmarried relation. With a large dowry she might find a husband yet, I am told she is by no means an antidote. And Charity, the widowed sister, is in some kind of trouble Hendrickson has not yet ferreted out. One of these three women is my sister, and needs my help. After dealing with her situation, I can focus all my attention on my search for a bride.”
“Quite a complicated loose end,” James commented, after quaffing the last of his wine. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Thanks, but this is something I need to deal with myself. Give my best wishes to Charlotte when you get back to Sussex.” They were finished and paid the bill, with a generous amount added for the unobtrusive service.
“I will – and good luck in untangling this knot. I look forward to meeting your twin sister, whichever woman she turns out to be.”
Chapter 2
It took Jonathan the better part of a week to postpone all commitments, and leave detailed instructions and contingency plans for his staff. Once he was married he would need to delegate more efficiently. A well-born wife would demand far more of his time than he now devoted to extracurricular activities.
His absence would be a good test of his subordinates, to determine who should be promoted. Increased responsibility brought out the best in good men, but where large sums were involved, it also represented a risk.
His future lady might want him to give up his business concerns altogether and live as a gentleman of leisure, to spend his days reading the papers at his club, when he was not squiring her around. He’d go out of his mind with boredom within the year. Jonathan would make it clear from the outset that he was not prepared to renounce the most interesting and exciting part of his life. She could have whatever her heart desired, the most expensive jewels and fashionable toilettes, but he would not budge on that point.
Finally it was time to pack. Jonathan liked to perform this menial chore himself, so he would know exactly what he had brought with him, and where it was stowed.
“Sir, what are you employing me for?” his valet asked reproachfully when he saw the footman put Jonathan’s luggage on top of his bed at his master’s direction.
“Don’t tell me you are not looking forward to your holiday, Burton.”
“Who wouldn’t? Especially when they come so rarely. But I worry, Sir, what kind of impression you will make without me to care for your appearance.”
“You won’t be there to see it,” Jonathan pointed out.
“True, and the opinions of the yokels you will meet in the countryside hardly matter. Yet one never knows, even in the most remote areas you might run across a gentleman or lady of standing. If your boots are dull and your jacket wrinkled as you are introduced, it must give you a most lowering feeling!”
“I shall bear up somehow.” Jonathan was unmoved by the valet’s warning. “When I was at college, I did not have a valet, and yet managed fairly well. Bring me some handkerchiefs, will you? A dozen should do.”
Burton obliged, but had not given up remonstrating. “At least let me do the packing, Sir! You will get everything creased and wrinkled.”
“Very well,” Jonathan relented, “you can pack the clothes I will need in the valise; one set of evening wear should be enough. I will put my personal things in the bag.”
While Burton was selecting clothes, Jonathan took a heavy purse out of his strongbox and hid three quarters of its contents in the false bottom of his calfskin bag. On top, he put business papers and notes he could work on during the journey, and some journals to read for variety. His razor and strop, hairbrush,
comb, tooth powder and similar items followed in their special leather-covered box.
He had originally planned to devote this week to re-furbishing the new town house in Bruton Place. Its previous owner had been guided by an unfortunate passion for Egyptian monstrosities, no longer as popular as they had been.
Emily had advised him in her last letter to leave that task to his future helpmeet, claiming that young wives loved adapting their husbands’ residences to suit their own tastes. So much the better. His wife would be able to furnish not only the Mayfair house, but also the country estate he would buy as soon as he found a suitable object. That should keep her occupied for the first twelve months, and later, hopefully, there would be children to look after, while he made yet more money to bequeath to them in due course.
“How many neck cloths will you need, Sir?”
How long would he be gone?
“Pack enough for twelve days, Burton.” Presumably people could wash and iron in Bellington, as well as in any other place. In a pinch he could always buy more neck cloths in Norwich, the closest town of any size.
The folded shirts Burton removed from his wardrobe were as perfectly aligned as Jonathan’s plans for the future, mapped out from lifelong habit. It was thus that he had become one of the richest businessmen in the City before he was thirty.
The next step of his master plan required great changes in his life, and to his dismay, he felt unwonted reluctance to embrace them. He had been perfectly content with his modest but comfortable house in Chelsea and six servants, including an eccentric Italian cook. Would his wife want to keep his current staff, or choose more refined and experienced servants, suitable for a larger house and frequent entertaining? He would have to make sure that his own people did not suffer from her decisions, by finding them positions in his business ventures. He resented the still nebulous figure of his wife for obliging him to change his comfortable ways, and get rid of his loyal staff.
It would not come easy, having to defer to another person on matters he had decided by himself until now. Well-born ladies were notoriously demanding and sometimes capricious. But whatever it took, it was time to found his own family – as James had already done so successfully, with a girl and two boys thriving in his nursery.
Leaving Burton carefully folding his selections, Jonathan went to his study and re-read Hendrickson’s latest report about the three young women. Hendrickson suggested that he should arrive unobtrusively and sound out the circumstances for himself, before telling anyone about their family connection. That made sense. Even Emily had no idea of the extent of her brother’s current net worth, and sometimes protested the expensive presents he sent her and the children, worried that he could not easily afford them. As soon as great wealth entered the picture, people started to behave differently, and mercenary considerations were all too depressingly frequent.
There is an estate for sale on the outskirts of Bellington, Lobbock Manor, with a saw mill and a hog farm attached. It might offer a good pretext for your visit, the investigator wrote. I enclose a description of the property; the price demanded is twenty thousand guineas. It sounds so reasonable that it might be a lucrative deal. The former owner is deceased, and the four young heirs are determined to sell as quickly as possible.
The estate in question was too far from London for Jonathan’s purposes, and too small, nor did he propose to set up as a hog farmer. But as a pretext it would serve well enough. He had instructed Hendrickson by return mail to reserve a room for him in Bellington’s only inn, and to set up an inspection with the heirs of this estate, without divulging any details about the prospective buyer.
I have seen Miss Patience Trellisham several times since my last report. She is very active in Church matters, and organises the decoration of St. Stephen’s, the main Church of this little town. She has done this for the last four years, and is highly respected by the parish members and clergy alike. A typical activity for a spinster, Jonathan reflected. Did Patience spend her time on such pious work because she truly liked it, or for lack of more interesting alternatives?
Mrs. Spalding is frequently outdoors with her little daughter Anne when the weather is fair.
I still have not been able to catch more than a glimpse of Mrs. Randolph, the former Charity Trellisham, who never seems to stir from her modest lodgings. Mrs. Spalding has visited her twice (which is how I discovered Mrs. Randolph’s presence in this town), and Miss Trellisham once over the past two days, presumably to bring her supplies, as they usually carry a basket on these errands. Last evening Mrs. Randolph went out for a walk, wearing widow’s weeds and a thick veil, despite the darkness. My long experience tells me that this woman has something to hide.
What could it be? Most likely there was nothing particularly shocking behind Charity’s eccentric behaviour. Grief after the death of a spouse could take many forms.
Soon he’d be able to form his own conclusions. On the morrow he would depart for Bellington, driving his own curricle and new team. The staff of his small household would enjoy an overdue holiday, the first in years. He had been working them too hard.
Despite the purpose of his journey, it felt like a holiday to Jonathan as well. A small, indeterminate space of time between his carefree but busy bachelor life and his existence as the husband of a nobly born young lady, and owner of a town house and country estate. These encumbrances, from which he did not expect any personal pleasure, were the necessary setting for his wife and children, so that the latter could grow up with the unconscious self-confidence and breeding he observed in his aristocratic friends. That was something no amount of money could buy.
***
On the morning the weather had turned so dismal and wet that Jonathan changed plans at the last minute, and hired a closed coach after all, with a coachman and one outrider. He would do his unknown twin sister little good if he caught cold in the rain, and arrived in Bellington only to succumb to pneumonia, alone and unknown in a humble inn.
He had his pigskin valise and bag placed inside, on the opposite seat, where they would remain dry. Soon his conveyance was rumbling over the cobblestones, with rainwater splashing off the roof and doors. Despite having dressed warmly enough, Jonathan felt cold and uncomfortable as he left the city behind. Except for business, he had rarely done so in the last decade.
Would his future wife like to travel? He was unsure if he himself wanted to do so. His habits had become so ingrained: early rising, endless but always interesting business decisions and negotiations, lunch and a late dinner, studying reports and accounts, sometimes a brief visit to his mistress of the moment. He had not bothered to find a new one after Marcella left for France with her new husband, some eight weeks ago, longer than he usually went without satisfying his male urges. And likely it would be longer yet, since a small town was the worst possible setting for illicit dalliance.
If his wife was reasonably attractive, and did not hate bed sport as so many ladies were supposed to do, he might never need to look for another mistress again. Unfortunately there was no way to find out if a woman was likely to enjoy marital relations before the wedding, and afterwards it would be too late. Kisses might indicate how sensual a woman was, but by the time a couple exchanged a deep kiss, there was no backing out, at least for the man. He would need luck as well as all his wits about him, when he made his choice.
Setting these worries aside, Jonathan went over his childhood memories, trying unsuccessfully to recall the smallest reference to his unknown, abandoned sister. His parents had probably considered her long dead, like those other siblings before him, and two more later, whom he only dimly remembered from his earliest years. Yet his father had been a man of God, devout to all outward appearances. How could such a man have simply given away a three-week old child? How could his mother? They had not been the most affectionate parents, but good people in their dour way.
It would be pleasant to have company on future trips. He had not talked to anyone but servants and innkeepers
since his departure. Mentally, he added the requirement of lively conversation to his future wife’s attributes. Not a chatterbox, however. That would be worse than if she were mute.
He imagined her sitting opposite him, where the calfskin bag was resting now, and made an ironic bow.
“How are you, my dear?”
The calfskin bag remained obstinately silent, but his imaginary lady bitterly reproached him with the long hours of being shut up, the poor quality of the coach and the humble fare offered by the inns where they were stopping. Her refined accents only made her complaints sound more cutting.
So much for that. Jonathan dismissed the mental image of his wife, relieved that as yet she was only a figment of his imagination.
Which of the three sisters – Patience, Prudence, and Charity – was his twin? And how would she react to the revelation that she had a rich brother? Depending on what he found, it might be best to help her anonymously, and never openly claim the relationship. At the current juncture, the last thing he needed was to be embroiled in any scandal, and Charity’s hiding from sight could be construed as suspicious. At least the other two sisters sounded perfectly respectable.
Jonathan’s mission to Bellington was in effect to play deus ex machina, - a feature of drama in which all came right in the end through the contrivance of some benign outside force. Sheridan’s School for Scandal, Jonathan’s favourite play, was a typical example. In this comedy a rich uncle returned from India to England incognito, to test his nephews’ characters and enrich the most worthy. That, more or less, was what Jonathan was planning to do in this little town to which he was speeding even now.
Come to think of it, he had not been to the theatre in more than six months. No doubt about it, he needed to change his life, and not focus so relentlessly on business. Would his future wife like plays and concerts as much as he did?
What would a twin sister brought up by strangers be like? Would he know her immediately when he set eyes on her? Some people believed in such an instinct, ‘the voice of the blood,’ another trope of cheap melodrama. Jonathan suspected that this idea was just sentimental claptrap. But if there was anything to it, surely it had to work in the case of a twin, with whom he had shared a narrow womb for nine months. Strange to think that he and this unknown woman had been so close, and yet now they would meet as total strangers.
