Black Sheep's Daughter

by Carola Dunn

  "Why yes, ma'am. I have read most of my father's library."

  "Do not on any account mention it! Nothing is so fatal to a young lady's chances as being known as a bluestocking. Sir Archibald never permitted Muriel to enter his library. Do you sketch? Play the piano? The harp, perhaps?"

  "Only the ocarina, ma'am."

  Marco was persuaded to play a duet with her. Muriel thought it charming but Lady Parr was not impressed.

  "Impossible," she declared.

  Teresa began to feel thoroughly inadequate. "It is a lowering reflection," she confided to Marco later, "that my one talent, shooting straight, is not on the list of ladylike accomplishments."

  * * * *

  However, by the time the Scillies were sighted, Lady Parr pronounced herself satisfied. "You are vastly improved, I vow, Miss Danville," she said. "I daresay it is not too much to hope you will not disgrace yourself in your uncle's house. I should be excessively mortified if the duchess were to lay any fault in your conduct at my door."

  "Indeed I must thank you for all your efforts in my behalf," Teresa assured her. "I shall endeavour to behave with the utmost decorum." She curtsied the precise curtsy proper to the widow of a baronet.

  Her resolve was very soon put to the test, when the Destiny sailed into Spithead. "A lady preserves her composure under all conditions," she remembered. "Only yokels gape." She wanted to gape at the spectacle of hundreds of vessels lying at anchor or sailing to and fro in the narrow waterway between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. With great effort she managed to preserve her countenance, though she did say to Andrew, "I never dreamed there were so many ships in the whole world!"

  It was dusk when they went ashore in the naval dockyards. Captain Fitch bid them farewell with so obvious an air of relief that, as had become her habit, Teresa sought Andrew's eyes to confirm her amusement.

  With a sudden pang, she realised that, even if she saw him in London, they could never again be on such intimate terms. He would soon be married to Muriel and she, she decided, would collect dozens of beaux, among whom she was bound to find someone else who shared her sense of humour.

  While they waited for Rowson to bring carriages to take them into Portsmouth, the slavers were marched off the frigate in chains. As they passed their captain, Harrison, looked round and saw Teresa.

  "You wait, Miss Marplot Danville," he snarled, his lips twisted in a vicious grin. "I'll get you for this!"

  Chapter 8

  A hired carriage pulled into the well-lit courtyard of the Star and Garter. From it descended a tall, fair young gentleman. The landlord, who had just stepped out to take the air on this mild September evening, bustled forward. Yes, he had several excellent rooms available. A private parlour? Of course. Two post chaises and three riding horses to start for London in the morning? Certainly, certainly. He rubbed his hands together and bowed to the imposing lady who now followed the gentleman from the carriage.

  A youth and two young ladies emerged next. As mine host ushered the party towards the door, he heard another carriage drive up and glanced backwards.

  "That will be our servants," the gentleman informed him.

  From the second carriage stepped a respectable-looking manservant--with a parrot on his shoulder! He handed down a perfectly normal lady's maid, and then a Black female, dressed just as if she too was a perfectly normal lady's maid.

  "Y-your servants, sir?" stammered the innkeeper, goggling.

  The gentleman's lips twitched, but before he could answer the elder of the two young ladies, the dark one, spoke up. "Yes, and please see that the parrot comes in to the parlour. It is by far too cold to leave him in the stables." She threw an indignant look at the gentleman, as if the stables was his suggestion. He shrugged resignedly.

  "Hello, hello," said the parrot. "Hello, dinner."

  As the heads of several ostlers, an idling tapster, and a passing sailor all turned towards the bird, the landlord swallowed his instinctive protest. "Hungry is 'e?" he asked. "What's 'e like to eat?"

  The young lady grinned at the gentleman. "When he says 'dinner' it doesn't necessarily mean he's thinking of food," she said, walking into the inn beside the landlord as she explained. "I expect he is hungry though."

  "Messy eaters, parrots," said the landlord judiciously. "I seen 'em afore. Might be better if your man feeds 'im in the taproom, afore 'e takes 'im up."

  "That will do very well," agreed the young lady with a sunny smile.

  As expected, the news that there was a talking parrot in the taproom of the Star and Garter spread like wildfire. The crowd that gathered to hear Gayo swear at them in English and Spanish drank more ale in an hour than the regulars drank in a week. What was more, lots of them stayed on when Rowson took him upstairs, and in the morning a new crowd waited in hopes of his reappearance. Many of the latter were lucky enough also to catch a glimpse of the African abigail.

  "I feel as if I'm in charge of a travelling circus!" Andrew muttered to Rowson as he mounted his hired hack.

  Teresa, who had been impressed by the amenities of the coaching inn, was silenced by the bustling streets of Portsmouth when she saw them in daylight. She understood at last why Andrew had referred to Cartago as a mere village. The coach, in itself a wonder to one used to ox-carts, rolled smoothly along on the paved surface, past row after row of neat brick buildings. There were people everywhere, on horseback, in carriages, walking or running, dressed in finery or rags, talking, shouting, singing, enjoying the rare sunny day.

  Since Lady Parr did not admonish Teresa for gaping, she guessed that she had succeeded in schooling her expression to hide her awe.

  They reached the end of the town and continued along the open highway. Nothing could have been more different from the jungle trail to Limón. The road was wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other; in fact their chaise frequently overtook slow wagons, and was overtaken by a mail coach and a curricle or two.

  Teresa was fascinated by the countryside. The rolling hills were patchworked with ocher fields, already harvested, and pasture of a brilliant green hue quite unlike that of the tropical forests. Autumn was already tinting the woodlands with russet and gold. In the hedgerows, crimson haws and scarlet hips vied with silky white tangles of old man's beard. Hump-backed stone bridges crossed gentle, gurgling streams that sparkled in the sun, so very different from the rushing mountain torrents and slow, smooth lowland rivers of Costa Rica.

  She mentioned this to Andrew when he rode alongside.

  “No caimans,” he assured her with a grin.

  Every few miles they passed through villages where thatched cottages clustered round a stone church. The cottage gardens blazed with tall pink hollyhocks, honey-scented alyssum and blue-mauve Michaelmas daisies. To Teresa, everything looked peaceful and prosperous, and somehow smugly self-satisfied.

  "Is it not delightful to be back in England, Mama?" sighed Muriel. "How I have missed it! I shall never go away again."

  They stopped in the small town of Petersfield to change horses and drink tea in one of the many coaching inns. The main street was lined with modern houses of red brick, with regular facades of rectangular windows, giving an impression of restrained elegance.

  Teresa fetched Gayo from the servants' coach and carried him into the inn's coffee room. It was warm, with a roaring fire in the wide hearth. Gayo was on his best behaviour. Even when the inevitable crowd gathered he confined his swearing to Spanish, incomprehensible to all but one old Peninsula soldier who sat in a corner cackling.

  Annie had her own group of admirers. In Portsmouth, where black sailors were not uncommon, a black abigail was a momentary wonder. In rural Petersfield she was a sensation. It was all Rowson could do to stop the yokels feeling her fuzzy hair to see if it was real.

  "Travelling circus it is, sir," he said to Andrew as they set off again.

  Marco chose to join the ladies in the carriage for a stage. He found riding with an English saddle prodigious tiring. By the time they stopp
ed in Godalming for lunch, his thighs (one of the unmentionable parts of the body) had stiffened so that he staggered into the King's Arms and collapsed into a chair with a groan.

  The King's Arms gained as much custom from their presence as had the last two inns. In fact, the innkeeper confided that Gayo and Annie drew a bigger crowd between them than had turned out when Tsar Alexander stopped at his hostelry a few months since.

  The triumphal procession continued through Guildford without stopping, and paused for tea and a change of horses in Esher, to the delight of yet another landlord. They crossed sinister Wimbledon Common in the twilight without Teresa having to draw her pistols against a highwayman, then rumbled across the wooden bridge at Putney.

  It was dark when they drove through Fulham and Chelsea and Kensington, but Teresa could tell by the twinkling lights of a thousand villas that the open country was behind them. She could not repress a gasp as at last they entered the gas-lit streets of Mayfair.

  Lady Parr nodded indulgently and patted her knee. "'Tis amazing bright, is it not?"

  "Indeed, ma'am, I can scarce believe it is night. And the houses! There are so many houses, and so tall!"

  "London is a monstrous fine city," said Muriel with a happy smile. "Kingston and Spanish Town are nothing to it, I vow. I am prodigious glad to be back."

  A few minutes later the carriage came to a halt and Andrew appeared at the door. "Here we are in Hill Street," he announced, opening it. "The house is all lit up, my lady. I believe your brother is at home. We shall leave you here and go on to Stafford House. May I have your permission to call tomorrow morning to see how you go on?"

  One of the postilions had run up the steps and banged on the door, which opened to reveal a glimpse of the elegant interior. A pair of footmen came down and, directed by Kinsey, began unloading the Parrs' luggage from the other coach. Lady Parr and Muriel both kissed Teresa's cheek before descending to the pavement.

  "I am grown excessively fond of you, child, I declare," said her ladyship in a surprised voice, then sailed up the steps and into the house.

  "You will visit us, will you not?" asked Muriel wistfully, and disappeared in her mother's wake.

  * * * *

  Andrew and Marco joined Teresa in the chaise and they set off again. "Not far now," said Andrew reassuringly. "Stafford House is on Park Lane. I hope the duke and duchess are in residence."

  "Where else would they be?" asked Marco, surprised. "Is that not their home?"

  "I had not thought," said Teresa, "but I recall that Papa spent most of his childhood in the country. I expect the duke has a country house as well?"

  "Several."

  Teresa was silent, trying to imagine what it would be like to have more than one home. Her father's family clearly lived on a lavish scale she found hard to believe. How could she ever make a place for herself in such a world? She was not merely a yokel, but a barbarian. She reached for Marco's hand.

  All too soon the carriage pulled up. Rowson appeared, opened the door and let down the step.

  Andrew jumped out and turned to offer Teresa his hand. "Be brave," he whispered.

  Wide stone steps between elaborate wrought iron railings led up to a pedimented front door; above, a row of pilasters added to the air of impressive elegance. Teresa looked up, counting rows of windows, but the top of the facade was lost in darkness.

  Marco stepped down beside her. "Ionic columns," he said matter-of-factly, pointing to the pilasters. "I've seen them in pictures of the old Greek temples. Narrower and more elaborate than Doric, but less ornate than Corinthian."

  Teresa laughed. If her little brother accepted this enormous mansion with such nonchalance, she could do no less. "Very decorative," she said, and went up the steps.

  Rowson had already knocked and the door was swinging open. A wrinkled old man in green livery with crimson piping bowed to Teresa. "What can I do for you, madam?" he enquired in a reedy voice.

  "The hall porter," Andrew hissed in Teresa's ear as he stepped forward. "His Grace's niece and nephew, Miss Danville and Mr Marco Danville, to see his Grace," he announced.

  The porter looked flustered. He beckoned to a liveried footman who stood motionless against the wall, and whispered to him. The footman departed in haste.

  A few moments later a portly butler in black appeared. He was completely bald, and as he advanced with stately tread across the hall, the light of several dozen wax candles reflected from his shiny pate. "Miss Danville?" His voice managed to be at once imperious and suspicious. "His Grace is not at home. I believe his Grace is not expecting you?"

  "No, he does not even know of our existence," said Teresa candidly. "We could not advise him of our arrival since we only reached England yesterday."

  "Indeed, miss." The butler's nostrils quivered in an inaudible sniff. "I am given to hunderstand that you claim to be his Grace's niece."

  Teresa's chin rose. A light rain was beginning to fall and she had no intention of standing on the doorstep getting wet while this haughty man interrogated her. He was, she reminded herself, no more than a servant. "I am the duke's niece, Lord Edward Danville's daughter. We shall wait until he or my aunt returns."

  As she spoke she advanced into the hall, followed by Marco, Andrew, Annie and Rowson. In the face of this concerted front, the butler stepped back. Then he saw the parrot on Rowson's shoulder. His spine stiffened. "The bird can wait in the stables," he said coldly, and beckoned the footman, whose eyes were popping in his still otherwise expressionless face. "James, take the bird round to the mews."

  James's jaw dropped and he stepped forward with every indication of alarm. "Me, Mr Boggs?" he faltered.

  "¡Hijo de puta!" said Gayo indignantly. "Misbegotten sea scum!" With a squawk, he flew to Teresa’s shoulder.

  She noticed that Andrew's shoulders were shaking and glared at him. "The parrot will stay with me," she told the butler, with all the hauteur of an aristocrat born and bred. "It is far too cold for him outside in this abominable climate. Where do you wish us to await my uncle?"

  Mr Boggs, routed, looked around the hall as if he wondered if he dared keep them standing there indefinitely.

  For the first time Teresa noticed her surroundings. The circular, domed entrance was floored with pink veined marble, and marble pillars flanked each doorway that opened onto it. At some point Rowson, with quiet efficiency, had carried in their bags and the pathetic, grubby little pile looked hideously out of place. Opposite the front door, a double stair with ornately carved banisters, gleaming from much polishing, curved up to a wide landing.

  Marco, oblivious of the altercation behind him, was examining a glossy red vase on a stand in a niche between the staircases. "Samian ware," he announced.

  Andrew joined him. "I believe that must be the original Greek pottery, not a Roman imitation," he proposed.

  "If you will come this way, miss, gentlemen." Boggs interrupted the discussion of classical pottery. Leaving Annie and Rowson perched on the edge of a pair of straight chairs in the hall, the butler ushered Teresa, Marco and Andrew into a small, chilly, back parlour.

  To Teresa's annoyance and Andrew's amusement, he stationed James outside the door. "For all the world as if we were burglars!" she fumed.

  * * * *

  By the time they had waited three quarters of an hour, Teresa's annoyance had grown to wrath and Andrew was no longer amused. They had not eaten since luncheon in Godalming, which now seemed part of another life. Not only was the room to which they were confined cold but its furniture was sparse and uncomfortable.

  "I believe this chair was designed to discourage sitting!" said Marco after twisting and turning for some minutes. He was still stiff from his introduction to the English saddle.

  "I believe this room was designed to discourage importunate visitors," Andrew snorted. "I am going to send James to discover at what hour the duke is expected to return home." He started towards the door.

  "I cannot think why we did not enquire before," agreed T
eresa. "Do you think we might with propriety request a pot of coffee at least?"

  Andrew grimaced. "I'm afraid not, as you are not yet resident here." He opened the door, conferred with the footman, and returned to announce, "The duke is dining with Lord Liverpool. He is not expected back before eleven, or later."

  Teresa glanced at the clock on the mantel above the empty fireplace. It was half past eight.

  Gayo, bored, flapped over to the window and began to climb the curtains, muttering imprecations.

  "Perhaps we had best go to a posada for the night and return in the morning," suggested Teresa. "Only we already owe you, Sir Andrew, for the inn last night and the carriage, and I cannot pay you until I have seen Don Eduardo's banker."

  "I can stand the nonsense, but I think you will do better to wait here, tiresome though it is. By the time we summon a hackney, find an hotel and settle you in it, the duke will have come home, and then the battle is to be fought again tomorrow."

  "It was a battle royal, was it not?" She laughed. "I fear it is yet to be won. Surely my uncle cannot be half so formidable as his butler! Perhaps you are right and we ought to stay, but we must not keep you from your own fireside, not to mention your dinner."

  An expression of yearning crossed Andrew's face but he said staunchly, "I shall not desert you after these thousands of miles we have crossed together."

  At that moment a loud, cheerful voice was heard outside and the door was flung open. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood there grinning. His face was so much like Don Eduardo's that Teresa gasped as she rose to her feet.

  "I'm John Danville," he announced. "That rascal Boggs tells me you're my cousins. Damned—beg pardon, dashed—if I knew I had any I hadn't met, but welcome to London!"

  "Thank you!" said Teresa, curtsying with a joyful smile. "I am Teresa Danville, and this is my brother Marco. How very like Papa you look, Lord Danville."

  He strode forward to take both her hands in his and kiss her cheek. "Lord Danville's my elder brother, Tom," he corrected, shaking Marco's hand vigorously. "Starchy sort of fellow, make a good duke. I'm just Lord John; Cousin John to you, of course."