Scandal's Heiress

by Amelia Smith

  #

  Hyacinth came down to supper feeling not at all at ease. Aunt Celia would not look kindly on her desire to discover her inheritance. Hyacinth was sure of it. She hoped, though, that her aunt would eventually see the sense in claiming it and putting it to good, charitable use, rather than letting it fester in a banker's vault.

  Aunt Celia sat at the end of the table, keeping a sharp eye on every detail of the supper.

  “Sophie, do sit up. Your posture is very important,” she said, regarding her daughter coolly.

  “Yes, Mother,” Sophie said, fiddling with her napkin. She seemed like a very quiet girl, Hyacinth thought. Aunt Celia dominated the conversation with instructions to the younger ladies about fashion and the latest styles in London. She strayed from the topic only long enough to ask Hyacinth who this Mr. Butler was.

  “Oh,” Hyacinth said. “Just an acquaintance, a business associate of sorts.”

  “Business? Well, that won't do. But at least he's not a suitor. I think we can find a knight for you, or perhaps even a Sir Pently. A plain Mister just won't do. Unless he's very well-connected, of course. Is this Mr. Butler well-connected?” she asked.

  “I'm afraid I have no idea,” Hyacinth said.

  Aunt Celia just shook her head. “I do think we should add some trim to that gown,” she said to Sophie, and went back to talking about one dress and another.

  In between courses, the evening post arrived. The butler laid it beside Aunt Celia's plate and she snatched it up immediately.

  “Excellent!” she proclaimed. “Here's The Lady's Magazine. I'll see if there are any new styles here which would especially suit Hyacinth. I can have one of my old gowns made over to look very like this one here,” she said. She turned the pages, searching for illustrations. She was so intent on the engravings that she didn't notice the letter underneath the magazine until her plate was removed. She squinted at it.

  “Another letter for you!” she handed it to Hyacinth. “You are very much in demand already!”

  Hyacinth glanced at the letter. “It's from Father,” she said.

  Aunt Celia frowned. “Well, that's not very thrilling, is it? You can open it later.”

  Hyacinth had already broken the seal. She glanced down. Like most of her father's dispatches, it was short and to the point.

  “I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've read it already.”

  “That's Horatio,” Aunt Celia sighed. “Too busy to take the time to write a proper letter.”

  “I don't mind,” Hyacinth said. “It's just asking me to attend Admiral Nelson’s funeral. It’s to be held on the sixth of January at Saint Paul’s."

  Aunt Celia set down her fork and wove her fingers together for a moment, thinking.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “I had heard something about that. Admiral Nelson himself was hardly high ton, but everyone is talking about it, even here. It will be something of an event. Ordinarily, no one would be in Town at that time of year, but perhaps we should consider going. I hear that all of the right people will be there.”

  Sophie brightened at the mention of London.

  “Oh, can we go, Mother?” she asked. “It is so quiet here. There’s hardly anything to do.”

  Aunt Celia favored her daughter with an indulgent smile. “Very well, dear, but you must promise not to ruin your eyes with too much reading from that lending library. Reading can ruin a girl's looks.”

  Hyacinth frowned. “I quite like reading, myself,” she said.

  “I do, too,” Sophie said, “though Mother thinks it's dull. Have you read Shakespeare’s sonnets, Cousin Hyacinth?”

  “Of course I have,” Hyacinth answered. “Which is your favorite?” The conversation turned to poetry for a few minutes, until Aunt Celia recovered the reins to discuss what color dress Hyacinth should wear, if they went to the funeral.

  “Lilac could complement your eyes,” she said, “with a little dark trim. Yes, that would do nicely.”

  “I don't believe I have a gown in that shade,” Hyacinth said. “I prefer blue.”

  “Like that dark thing?” Aunt Celia said. “Of course that won't do. We will have to have gowns made for you, as soon as possible.”

  As they were pushing their chairs back from the table a little while later, Aunt Celia announced that she had made up her mind.

  “We will travel to London just after Christmas,” she said. “That will give us time to see Hyacinth fashionably attired for the event.”

  “But Aunt Celia,” Hyacinth said, “it's a funeral. I hardly think I’ll need to be dressed at the height of fashion.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Celia said, “it will be your first appearance in London. Besides, the Admiral deserves to be sent off in style. Even if all the right people aren’t there, some of them will be, and I insist that you make the most of it.”

  “Very well, Aunt,” Hyacinth said. “I will defer to your judgment.” In matters of fashion only, she added to herself.

  #

  Chapter 8: The Funeral

  “Mourning clothes,” Thomas directed.

  “Begging your pardon,” Jones said, “but your brother has been gone nearly a year now, and you have responsibilities, as you know.”

  Thomas lifted the cup of coffee and stared into it. The gilded glory of Windcastle House's breakfast room brought back memories of the years before he'd sailed away, years when he'd been on the verge of becoming a fashionable gentleman, but was still stuck in boyhood. Mostly, though, it made him aware of his own travel-worn clothes. The butler, good old Mr. Jones, was treating him as if he were still a boy. Thomas didn't really mind. It was going to take him a while to get his land-legs.

  “I haven't mourned Richard properly,” he said.

  The butler nodded.

  “And there's Gregory.”

  “Marquess Gravely succumbed two months ago, and as dear as he was to all of us, he's only your cousin.”

  Thomas set his coffee down with a clatter.

  “So his death makes me heir presumptive, is that it?” He did not want to be heir presumptive.

  “No,” the butler clarified, “that would be your father.”

  “My father is sixty if he's a day, and the duke hasn't fathered a child in twenty years.”

  “Certainly not a legitimate heir,” the butler agreed. “Also, Marquess Gravely left a widow.”

  “Gregory married? He can't have been old enough.” Thomas's cousin had been such a sickly boy that it was hard to imagine him fathering a child, though. Impossible, in fact.

  “He did, and he was twenty-two,” the butler said. “Also, you will note that there are men in your family who have lived past ninety, and the Duke is not yet in his grave. Your fate is not assured, not at all, Sir Pently.”

  Thomas frowned. The thought of his father or his uncle living on in bitterness until ancient old age didn't comfort him in the least. And had Mr. Jones just called him Richard? No.

  “What was it you just called me?” he said.

  “Sir Pently,” Jones answered. “It's your title now. And you are likely to outlive your mother, so you'd best be prepared to be a Sir Pently, too.”

  Thomas stood up, took a piece of toast, and walked out of the room.

  “And should your father inherit the duchy before he passes, you'll be Marquess Gravely.”

  Thomas cursed under his breath and thought longingly of the Factory in Trivandrum.

  “The tailor will be here in an hour,” Mr. Jones said.

  “Tell him to bring black,” Thomas said. “Lots of black cloth.”

  #

  “If Sophie likes, we can have a few new dresses made up for her, too,” Aunt Celia said the next day. They had just chosen two of Aunt Celia's old dresses to have the Brighton dressmaker make over for Hyacinth, which would supplement her wardrobe until they reached London.

  Sophie nodded dispiritedly. “I hardly ever get an opportunity to wear them out.” She slumped back in her seat. “It is so awkward! There is nothing for me t
o do! I am too old for children’s things and not old enough for balls.”

  “Aren’t there some young people’s socials?” Hyacinth asked.

  “Oh, certainly,” Aunt Celia answered, “but I never enjoyed them myself.”

  “Really?” Hyacinth said.

  “Well, I was never pretty,” Aunt Celia said, “not like my dear Sophie.”

  “But you're such a paragon of fashion,” Hyacinth said. It was hard to imagine that her aunt could ever have been a wallflower.

  “That's a different matter,” Aunt Celia said. She was buxom and red-cheeked, but her nose was a little too long to be called pretty, and her teeth were crooked.

  “No one notices, now,” she continued. “A good dressmaker can cover a multitude of faults, and the right hairstyle takes care of most of the rest. And that is why we will be going to London immediately after Christmas.”

  With that, Aunt Celia swept out, leaving Hyacinth and Sophie to themselves.

  “Sophie?” Hyacinth said. “Are you really looking forward to going to London?”

  Sophie nodded vigorously, which made her curls shake. “Yes, very much so, it’s just that mother thinks…”

  “Thinks you ought to be more like her?” Hyacinth whispered.

  “No… I don’t know, something like that. But I do wish she…” Sophie shook her head and would not continue, despite an encouraging nod from Hyacinth.

  “Does the town house have a very good library?” Hyacinth asked, changing the subject. The shelves of Aunt Celia’s Brighton library were filled with dummy books.

  Sophie nodded. “It’s better than this one, and there’s the lending library, too,” she said.

  “Well, when we’re in London, I would also very much like to go to the lending library. I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  Sophie’s face lit up. When she smiled, her youthful awkwardness faded away and hinted at her future beauty. “Would you really?” she said. “Oh, Hyacinth, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “And I’m glad I’ve come, too,” Hyacinth said. It was not entirely the truth, but poor Sophie did look lonely, and she was glad that there was someone she could help, if only by finding her something to read.

  In Gibraltar, Hyacinth had been almost entirely her own mistress, although she’d had many responsibilities. Her aunt treated her like a child. She was not a child, but for now, there was nothing to do but write to the solicitor to let him know that she had arrived in England, and to give him her London address.

  #

  Thomas leaned back into the soft leather upholstery of an armchair at Nathan's club, a snifter of brandy in his hand. It was a week after Christmas, and he had hardly left Windcastle house, except to come to the club a few times.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Smithson?” a voice said. “You’ve been sitting with that same glass half an hour and not tasted a drop.”

  “Have I?” Thomas looked up to see a familiar-looking man he couldn’t quite place. Who had called him Mr. Smithson. Thomas lifted his glass and racked his brains.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” the man said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Thomas admitted.

  “Frank Churchill, from Darjeeling,” he said, and it all clicked into place.

  “Darjeeling. Of course,” Thomas said. He'd spent the past weeks trying to re-build his childhood memories of who was who, and Nathan had been making a sport of bringing him up to snuff on knowledge of clubs and gaming hells. He was thankful that at least Nate hadn't brought him to any brothels. Yet. India was a world away. “India has completely gone out of my mind,” Thomas apologized.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Mr. Churchill said. “You were a good negotiator.” He took the chair opposite Thomas. Frank Churchill had been in the Subcontinent long before Thomas arrived. He was stationed in the north, so Thomas hadn’t seen too much of him, but they'd corresponded on trade matters once or twice, and had met in Calcutta. Mr. Churchill had a reputation as an intelligent man who stepped on people’s toes when he was drunk, which was often, but Thomas had never had any quarrel with him.

  “Maybe with the natives I could talk my way around things,” Thomas said, “but I found it harder going within the Company.”

  “Ah, we all have our failings,” Mr. Churchill said, pouring himself a drink. “What’s brought you back to London? Business or pleasure?”

  “Family,” Thomas said, finally taking a sip of his drink. It was better brandy than they’d been able to get in India, that much was sure. “And you?”

  Mr. Churchill tilted his head. “It’s all a bit of one thing and another. I take it you’ve left the company?”

  Thomas didn’t answer.

  “So have I,” Mr. Churchill said. “I’m starting a small enterprise. Would you be interested in joining in on it?”

  “I don’t buy stock in other men’s companies, as a rule,” Thomas said.

  “No, that’s not at all what I meant,” Frank said, in a way that made Thomas think that it was exactly what he’d been after. “The thing is, I have big plans, and at the moment I’m working virtually alone, just a pair of clerks in my offices here and in Calcutta. What I could use is another man, a man with your experience, to run the home office while I trade in India. I just thought of it now, seeing you here. I was just having a hard time working out how I’d do it without a business partner here, a man who knew India as well as you do.”

  Thomas emptied his glass. It was a refreshing change to be seen as his old self. “I'll think about it,” he said, “but the family has me quite bound up with one thing and another. I might even have to leave London for the hinterlands.”

  “That's a pity,” Mr. Churchill said. “Think on it, though. I could do with a partner in this venture. Just think, Sikkim!”

  Thomas had half stood up to go, but he sat down again. “You think they’ll open to trade with you?” he said incredulously. “When the Company can’t crack in?”

  Mr. Churchill winked. “Ah, but I haven’t stepped on their toes, haven’t stolen their jewels.”

  “Surely they’ll just see you as another Englishman?”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Churchill said. “You see, I’ve married one of their women.”

  Thomas’s face fell. “Married. Actually married?” He had always thought it was impossible. Sarita was a Hindu, of sorts, and to marry outside of her religion would have been in some ways worse than carrying on the affair that they’d shared. It had not been marriage, though; it had been an arrangement. As fond as he’d been of Sarita, he hadn’t found a way to actually marry her, which he might have been able to do, if he had truly tried. If Mr. Churchill had found a way, then it must have been possible. It was too late, now. But at least he and Sarita had been happy together, if only for a little while.

  Either Mr. Churchill didn’t notice the effect his pronouncement had had on Thomas, or else he chose to ignore it. He also didn't mention whether or not his wife had traveled with him to London. He wasn't sure why, but Thomas suspected that she hadn't.

  “We were married three years ago. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything of it,” Mr. Churchill said.

  “No one saw fit to tell me.” Thomas considered pouring himself another drink, but his mind was addled enough by his old colleague’s pronouncement that he didn’t want to blur it any more.

  “It would have been harder if she’d been a Hindu,” Mr. Churchill said, “but she is a Buddhist, a niece of the king of Sikkim.”

  “You are well-placed, then,” Thomas said.

  “But not so well-positioned in London,” Frank said, standing to go. “Do consider my offer.”

  Thomas nodded noncommittally and they said their goodbyes. He sat frozen in his chair for a long moment after, then walked back to his new fate: Windcastle House.

  #

  A week after Christmas, Aunt Celia's household was packed off to her London residence. The new Earl Talbot had built a house for himself in fashionable Mayfair, but had agreed to let his
uncle’s widow maintain the family's old Elizabethan manse in Bloomsbury as a sort of second dower house. Celia had made it her own.

  “I hardly ever go to my actual dower house,” she said as they rolled into London. “It is such a dreary place. I don’t know how I endured that area when Charles was alive.”

  Hyacinth made polite listening noises.

  “I quite like it there,” Sophie ventured timidly.

  “Of course you would,” Celia said. “You were a child there, and your aged father doted on you.”

  “I remember it a little,” Hyacinth said. “At least in summer, it was very pretty. And although it might not have been as lively as London society, the children’s parties were quite entertaining.”

  Sophie’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, they were! I remember…”

  Aunt Celia laid her hand on her daughter’s arm. “They were very nice, dear, but in a few years, you’ll be able to come to balls, and you’ll never think of them again.”

  Sophie slumped back in her seat, and they rode on in silence until they came at last to the old London residence of the Talbots.

  #

  On the morning of the funeral, Maria helped Hyacinth into her new lilac dress. It fit around her shoulders and bosom like a finely made glove, and Aunt Celia insisted that its high waist and low neckline were the height of fashion, and not at all inappropriate for a funeral.

  “You look beautiful,” Maria said.

  Hyacinth felt half-dressed, and pulled the shawl closer. Her hair was done up tidily, as she’d asked, but not fussed with for hours as Aunt Celia's would be. The dress had cost more than she’d imagined a dress could possibly cost, but Aunt Celia insisted that it was worth it. She’d been too busy getting her bearings to put up much resistance. She hadn't heard from the solicitor, and was starting to worry about it, but they had only been in London for a week.

  “I suppose it will have to do,” Hyacinth said, looking at herself in the mirror one last time.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Maria said. “I don’t think the Admiral would have lost sleep over the fashion in necklines.”