“I must go—” Ada was convinced that her father had been taken seriously ill or was dying. She jumped up as a startled housemaid came in. “Please see that Lady Georgiana is taken care of, and call the doctor!”
“Yes, miss!” The housemaid took Ada’s place and Ada went to the door. Lord Fintan followed.
“Can I help? I don’t wish to intrude but—”
“Yes, yes, please come!” Ada clutched his sleeve. If her father were sick or dying, she did not know if she could be of use. Lord Fintan would help; he was the kind of man to take charge.
They ran to the drawing room, and Ada burst through the door. The first person she saw was Rose. She stood in the center of the room, one arm around her mother. Her face was white. Mrs. Cliffe was sobbing into her hands. Her father sat on the sofa, his head in his hands as well. In front of Mrs. Cliffe stood Fiona, her face twisted with rage. She was shouting, for reasons Ada did not understand, at Mrs. Cliffe.
“…shall leave this house this instant!”
Ada ran to her father. “Papa, dear, what’s happened? Are you unwell? Georgiana came to find me—”
Her father groaned, and as he raised his head Ada was shocked to see his face was wet with tears. “Calm yourself, Ada. I’m well. I should shoot myself, no doubt, but I’m in the best of health,” he answered bitterly.
Ada shook her head in confusion. “Shoot yourself? Papa, what do you mean? Don’t say anything so terrible!”
“There, there. I’m sorry to have frightened you.” Her father’s voice softened and he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Very touching indeed!” exclaimed a bitter, furious voice. Ada looked up, startled. She had not seen Charlotte, but now she did, and saw—to her shock—that Ward was also standing by the door. Something about the self-satisfied grin on the ladies’ maid’s face made her blood boil. She jumped to her feet.
“Will someone kindly explain what is going on here?” she demanded, looking around the room.
Fiona turned on her. “I think your father is the one who owes us all an explanation,” she said coldly.
Ada turned to her father in shock. “Papa? What does she mean?”
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose and then stood up, slowly, as if every muscle ached. For the first time, Ada thought of him as an old man. The wrinkles on his face seemed to have deepened.
“Fiona is correct,” he said in a low voice. “I do owe you an explanation. All of you. But I want to correct one impression. Our relationship was over when Rosaline left the house.”
“As if I could believe that, when Ward tells us that you visited her in her room the very night you arrived back at Somerton! This explains why you were so anxious to defend her brat.”
Ada’s mouth was open with shock. Behind her, Lord Fintan coughed discreetly. She had forgotten he was there, and turned around in dismay.
“I think that I had better wait in the library,” he murmured.
Ada nodded, grateful for his tact. If this scandal—and she was beginning to realize what had happened—was to be heard by anyone outside the family, it was best for it to be Lord Fintan. She knew he was a gentleman and would not spread the story.
“I—I don’t think I quite understand,” she began faintly.
“Really, Ada, is it so hard to comprehend?” Fiona said fiercely. “Your father has kept a mistress under his roof for more than seventeen years. He has dared to bring me as his bride to a house where this hussy and their illegitimate child were actually in residence. I have associated, unknowingly, with this shameless creature—”
“One moment, please—” Ada put a hand to her head, which was beginning to thud with a headache. “You cannot possibly mean Mrs. Cliffe?”
“But I do,” Fiona said. “And she doesn’t deserve the title of Mrs.”
Ada looked at Mrs. Cliffe in disbelief. The housekeeper was no longer sobbing. She wore a look of complete resignation. She looked so respectable in her black dress, it was impossible to connect her with the words Fiona had used.
“Ada,” said her father heavily, “the truth is that Rosaline and I were young, and we had a—a—connection—”
“A very elegant way of describing it,” said Fiona scornfully. Lord Westlake winced.
“—that resulted in a child.”
Ada looked around the group, her mouth open. Her gaze lit upon Rose. Rose stood, her face pale with shock, silent tears streaking her face.
“Rose?” she said, finally understanding. “You mean to tell me, Papa, that Rose is your daughter?” The last piece of the puzzle finally fell into place in her mind: “And that Rose…is my sister?”
The rest of the day passed like a horrible nightmare. Ada stayed with Georgiana until she had recovered, and then put her to bed with the help of Priya. The nursemaid’s eyes were sympathetic, and Ada knew that the truth must be all over the house already. She could hardly bear the shame.
It was not until Georgiana was sleeping soundly that she had time to think of Rose and her mother. She hesitated, not knowing what she should do. Then she made up her mind. She could not face Mrs. Cliffe now, but Rose was another matter. It was not Rose’s fault.
She climbed the stairs to Rose’s room and tapped at the door. She had never been in her room before, there had never been need, and now she felt strangely like an intruder. She did not know what she was going to say, but she did know that she had to say something. She could not ignore what had just happened.
“Come in,” called a faint voice.
Ada pushed the door open. Rose, looking exhausted and still in shock, was placing her clothes into a small, battered trunk that lay on the bed. Beside her stood Annie, her eyes red with weeping.
“Oh my lady, I’m so glad you’ve come,” Annie burst out. “Please, can’t you help Rose? It isn’t her fault—whatever Mrs. Cliffe has done, it isn’t her fault.”
Looking down, Rose said, “Lady Westlake demands it. Either my mother and I leave the house today or she does.”
Ada shuddered at the thought of the scandal that would follow if Fiona did leave. Then she pulled herself together. “Annie is right. It isn’t your fault,” she said gently.
“I can’t let my mother go alone, my lady,” Rose said stubbornly. “Besides, I have already been dismissed.”
Ada fell silent. Rose was right, there was no answer to that. “I simply don’t know what to think,” Ada began hesitantly. “I suppose it must be true, but it seems so unbelievable, so…And how was it discovered after all this time?”
“It was Stella Ward who told Lady Westlake,” Annie said scornfully. “Just like her.”
Tears were running down Rose’s face. “We can’t show our faces in the servants’ hall now,” she whispered. “It’s better that we go.”
Ada and Annie went forward as one to put their arms around her. Ada couldn’t help but wonder how Stella Ward had weaseled this information.
“I didn’t know,” Rose sobbed. “I had no idea, you must please believe me.”
“We do, Rose, of course we do.” Ada stroked her hair. She felt terrible. This was all her father’s fault, there was no escaping it. Rose was the same age as she, which meant that he had been intimate with Mrs. Cliffe even while he was married to her mother. How could he have done it? She felt tears squeezing between her own eyelids. She summoned up courage.
“Rose, at the least, promise me you will not go far. Stay in the village. I don’t believe my father would think it fair for you both to be thrown out like this.”
Cook started when she saw Lady Ada at the door of the kitchen. The house was in such a muddle. She could hardly believe the rumors that were coming down from above stairs. But Martha and Tobias were in unbearably high spirits, and it was true that Mrs. Cliffe and Rose were nowhere to be seen. Cook was shocked to her core. “I couldn’t believe it of her,” was all she could say, over and over again. If Mrs. Cliffe could fall, then the best of them were doomed.
“My lady!” She struggled to her
feet. The day was going more and more wrong, what with the gentry in the servants’ passage.
“Please don’t get up, Cook. I just would like to take a tray to my father.” Ada looked pale and fragile. It was clear she was taking the news very much to heart.
“Of course, my lady. I never heard a bell, I’m very sorry. I’ll get Annie to take one up at once—”
“No, please let me do it.” There was real anguish in Lady Ada’s voice. Cook looked at her in surprise. “I would just like to—to do something for him myself. You understand?”
Cook nodded. She had had an ailing parent once, and she remembered the comfort that came from bringing her soup and toast. Lady Ada was a kind soul, she thought.
“I do, my lady.” She brought out some cold meat and bread. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll make some hot soup—the ranges are still warm—”
“There’s no need. Perhaps just one of those apples. Thank you.” Lady Ada smiled gratefully at her and took the tray. Cook watched her go, her heart heavy. It was a terrible thing that had happened to the household, and it was a shame it had rebounded on Lady Ada this way. She had said it from the beginning: Stella had brought trouble.
Ada set the tray on a dresser and tapped at the door of the library. She was trembling inside at the thought of this interview with her father. It would be hard even to look him in the face. She felt so sorry for him, not the least because she knew he was conscious that he had done wrong. But she could not ignore him and abandon him, as the rest of the household seemed to have done. And besides, she had to speak up for Rose and Mrs. Cliffe.
“Come in,” came the voice, finally.
Ada went in, carrying the tray before her. Her father was sitting alone at the big reading desk. The reading light was on, but he was not reading—he was staring into the darkness.
“I—I brought you something to eat,” she said quietly, setting the tray down.
“Ada.” He started. “Thank you.”
Ada hesitated. “Mrs. Cliffe and Rose have gone,” she said.
“Gone?” He sat forward, sounding shocked. “Where to?”
“I persuaded them to stay in the village, at the Averley Arms. Lady Westlake demanded that they leave the area. But I couldn’t think you would be happy to have them driven away completely.”
“Good God, no.” He sounded miserable. “Ada, I have done the most foolish, terrible thing. I owe everyone in this household the most abject apologies. But I swear to you I had no idea the consequences would be so bad.”
Ada bowed her head. She was thinking of her relationship with Ravi.
Her father went on, almost as if he were reading her mind. “Sometimes, feelings are so strong…they can override any sense of duty and responsibility.”
Ada swallowed. “And love? I mean my mother, Papa.”
Her father was silent, then he said in a low, painful voice, “You see, I grew up with Rosaline.…She and I were friends always, when she was a maid and I was a schoolboy. But I knew that I must marry well, my parents always said so. I had the greatest respect for your mother. The very greatest respect.”
“But no love,” Ada said quietly.
“No. I am so sorry, Ada.”
There was a long silence.
“I have done the most shameful, ungentlemanly thing,” her father said, almost to himself. “There is no excuse.”
“Don’t say that, Papa.”
“Oh, I did my best to put it right. I supported Rose throughout her childhood, and as soon as I knew we would be going to India I arranged for them to come back here, where they would be secure. But my life has been a lie.”
“It seems incredible,” Ada said. That her father had kept this secret all this time, that they had known nothing about it. But she could find no anger against him. She understood, all too well, what it was to be carried away by passion. The only thing now was to make sure that the innocent were protected.
“Papa, you will not let Rose and Mrs. Cliffe be thrown out, will you? It isn’t fair. Mrs. Cliffe has been loyal to you, and if you would forgive one of us for an indiscretion, then you should do the same for Rose. She is your daughter too, and you know the fault was mostly mine.”
Her father sighed. “Most certainly, they will want for nothing as long as I can provide for them. But returning to Somerton…I don’t know.”
The sun was setting, and the wood pigeons cooed from the chestnut trees around the Averley Arms. Mrs. Cliffe sat in her chair by the window, reading by the last light—or pretending to. She could not slip into her familiar novels as she always had done before.
They had asked questions at the public house. She had not answered, and Rose had made some excuse, but she could see the questions still, in their eyes, hear them in their silences. Sooner or later they would discover the truth. It was almost a relief. She had waited so long for this day, fearing it, that it was almost as if her own death had arrived. It had, in a sense—or at least, the end of her life. Before her stretched the unknown.
There was a gentle tap at the door. “Come in, Rose,” she said, knowing it was her daughter.
Rose pushed the door open and came in. One glance at her face made Mrs. Cliffe put down her book. “What is it? What has happened?”
“He’s here.”
Rose’s face was pale, with just spots of color in her cheeks. She had grown thinner over the past few days; she was hardly eating. It wrung Mrs. Cliffe’s heart to see her this way. He. It could only be one person: Lord Westlake. “Tell him to come up,” she said quietly. She stood up, smoothing down her skirts. Her heart was beating fast; it was impossible to know what was in his mind.
Rose disappeared onto the landing. A few moments later, there was a hesitant knock at the door, and Lord Westlake came in.
Mrs. Cliffe faced him with her head held high. It was strange to see him in this homely room, outside the halls of Somerton. He looked awkward and unhappy.
“Rosaline…”
“Edward.” There seemed no need for pretense anymore.
He looked around. “Are you comfortable here? I was sorry that you left. I did not want you to.”
“There was no choice,” she said.
He sighed. “I suppose not.”
There was a brief silence. Mrs. Cliffe broke it. “You knew this day would come. So did I. It makes it no easier, but let us not pretend that we did not know the consequences of our actions would be bad.”
“If I could have prevented this in any way…”
“I know. I did my best. I don’t know where Stella got her information from, but I can guess.” She thought of Martha and Tobias. Yet she did not even have the energy to be angry with them.
“I have been thinking,” Lord Westlake went on. “This situation is all my fault.”
“Not all.”
“Yes it is. All. We were both young, but I should have known better. I should have remembered my duties, the responsibilities of an Earl of Westlake.”
She bowed her head.
“I want to do the right thing, Rosaline.”
“And what is the right thing?”
“I don’t know.” He stepped forward, almost pleading. “You have always been my moral compass, though you may not have known it. You understood, better than anyone, that we were mere stewards in charge of Somerton. I have always thought of you as the model of selfless duty. What should I do, Rosaline? How can I make this better?”
“I don’t think I can tell you that.”
“It isn’t right that you should lose your character, your position, because of me.”
“I do not care about myself. I knew at the time that what I was doing was wrong. But Rose—”
Lord Westlake looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“She deserves better than this, and you know it, Edward,” Mrs. Cliffe said. “You must do right by her.”
“I will. I promise you that. I have seen what she is like, and I—I care about her. So do my daughters.”
Mrs. Cl
iffe nodded. “That is all I will ever ask of you.”
“Somerton!” exclaimed Sebastian as he drove round the corner of the lane, and through a dip in the hedgerows, saw the familiar honey-colored stone of Somerton Court rising before him. “At last.”
Oliver did not reply. Sebastian cast him an anxious glance. He had done everything he could to make up for his behavior now that the fear of exposure was lifted from him. But Oliver remained distant and cold.
He made up his mind. They had to have it out, there and then.
He pulled the motorcar over into the lee of the hedges. As the engine sputtered to a halt, he looked over at Oliver. They were quite alone; only the distant bleating of spring lambs and the close birdsong in the hedges disturbed them.
Oliver stared straight ahead, his face expressionless as only a professional valet’s could be. Sebastian sighed. “I know you are angry with me, and I’m sorry,” he began. “I was thoughtless and unkind, but I—I didn’t mean to be. There were reasons. I have had a lot on my mind.”
“Really, sir?” Oliver did not look at him. “Can you tell me what?”
Sebastian hesitated. He was ashamed of his relationship with Simon. He was ashamed he had allowed himself to be fooled, and more, to be seduced by someone so vulgar. It had been a passionate but brief affair, for he had soon realized that they had nothing in common. He did not want Oliver to think him a fool, and he did not want him to think that he made a habit of his valets.
“I can’t,” he said, aware of a strange hot sensation in his face. To his shock and almost amusement, he was blushing. Surely that had not happened since he was sixteen. “But please believe me. Things will be different from now on.”
“Very different, if the picture in The Illustrated is anything to go by,” said Oliver dryly.
Sebastian wilted inside. Of course. Of course Oliver would have seen the wretched picture. It was the talk of Oxford, why had he imagined his valet would be the only person not to have seen it?
Cinders & Sapphires (At Somerton) Page 21
