“Of all the stupidity, Roy. Tell them it was a misprint. Or send her to a real finishing school.”
My father picked up the page and perused it. “No.”
Mr. Forrester hit the oak mantel with his fist. “What about marrying her off?”
To my dismay, my father chuckled. “Is that an offer, Robert?”
Forrester sneered before slumping into a nearby chair. “No, absolutely not.” He paused a moment as if winding up again. “And what are you planning to do when it’s time to present her at court?”
My father dipped the pen, ignoring him.
“Who do you think is going to sponsor her? Have you even thought of that?”
Still my father didn’t answer.
“What? Are you just going to sit there and ignore me now?” Mr. Forrester asked. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”
“If necessary, she’ll come out this season and take her place.”
There was a derisive huff. “As what? Mrs. Macy?”
“She’s no more his wife than I am,” was my father’s response. “And you know it.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” As if at wits’ end, Mr. Forrester grabbed his hair and held it in his fist for a second. “Even if she’s not placed here by Macy, she’ll ruin you. She’s mannerless, rude, short-tempered. One morning I found her whiskey-slinging before breakfast! No one is going to believe the story you’ve concocted.”
“Isaac met with her before determining how to handle this. He thought her capable.”
Mr. Forrester scrambled to his feet, knocking over a nearby glass. “After all he’s sacrificed for you, you’re destroying his career along with yours. Have you even considered how selfish you’re being?”
My father’s features hardened before he retrieved his pen, dipped it in ink, and started to write again. “I’m not doing anything to anyone. He and I discussed this possibility before I left, and he chose to take it.”
Mr. Forrester’s mouth pulled downward as his jaw jutted. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on your daughter. Had I known any of this would happen, I never would have fetched you that night.”
Instead of a reply, my father considered Mr. Forrester. “Would I better gain your support, Robert, if you knew that this measure thwarted Macy?”
Mr. Forrester hesitated. “How do you mean?”
Sighing, my father leaned back and opened a bottom drawer of his desk. “Look over some correspondences between her mother and myself. Simmons collected all documentation after her death, so you’ll find my letters in there as well. You’ll see that Macy has been planning to collect Julia for some time now.” He slid a black portfolio across the desk.
I gasped, but thankfully it went unheard.
Mr. Forrester gave an exasperated breath and sprawled himself into one of the teak chairs planted before the desk, leaving his arms and legs dangling. “It makes no difference. Even if Macy planned this years ago, your daughter is his strumpet now. Her loyalty sleeps with him.”
Nevertheless, he opened the portfolio with a flip of his hand and withdrew a sheet.
Sight of that first letter tortured me. After Mama’s death, I’d spent months searching for the mysterious missives that frightened her. I’d emptied her desk, torn apart her wardrobe, dumped out every drawer, and overturned her mattress. The passion seized me one afternoon after staring at the endless rippling circles the rain had formed in puddles. Like a feebleminded woman, I went from despondent to frantic. Believing Mama had taken her own life because of a series of correspondences, I wanted answers. And I would not be put off. I had searched and searched until Sarah finally found me sitting in the middle of a wrecked room and begged me to cease.
Even from my distance, I recognized Mama’s stationery and had to resist the urge to rush into the library to snatch up the file.
I couldn’t see Mr. Forrester’s face, for he turned, but he made quick work of the first letter, then picked up the next. Again, I felt desperate. I recognized that letter too. It bore a tea stain from the time Mama’s hand shook so much, she overturned her cup while reading it. I wanted to scream. It was maddening that for once in his life, Mr. Forrester wasn’t giving commentary.
My father waited in silence, using his thumb to twist a ring on his fourth finger.
Mr. Forrester turned over the last page in the file, then hooked his elbows behind his chair. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but I do know that we’re disrupting something he’s been scheming for some time now. It’s why I’m keeping her here.” My father sanded the document he’d been working on, folded it, and slid it into the shoulder bag he’d worn home that evening.
Mr. Forrester shifted in his chair, allowing me to see his face. “This is Macy we’re talking about here. How do you know he didn’t plan this too?”
My father withdrew a new sheet of paper. “Because no one would expect this bold of a move. Consider it from my point of view, Robert. I never wanted her here either. But now that Macy’s forced my hand, I’m calling his bluff and raising the stakes.”
Forrester snorted with derision. “And what if he’s not bluffing?”
“He’s stalemated, and he knows it.” My father’s voice softened as he picked up his rum. “Think on it. The legality of the union is debatable at best, and even if he could prove it, he lacks proof that she’s the girl.”
Mr. Forrester lifted the portfolio and waved it in the air. “No proof?”
My father glowered. He looked askance, taking a swallow of the rum. A look of sadness crossed his face before he stood and held out his hand. When Forrester handed him the portfolio, he hesitated for a second as if regretting the action, but then, seemingly devoid of emotion, he tossed the entire sheaf into the flames.
Part of me felt tossed into that inferno too. I rested my cheek against the doorframe and watched helplessly as the fire devoured the documentation that held the answers to my questions. Now I would never fully know what Mama’s last thoughts and days were like.
Mr. Forrester looked as though he’d smelled something offensive. “I still say this is a trap and you’re walking right into it. How do you know that Macy hasn’t managed to create copies?”
It was clear my father hadn’t considered that. His gaze was trenchant as he studied Mr. Forrester. “I trust my staff implicitly.”
I held in my groan, knowing any one of my father’s servants could be a traitor. And if my father was unaware, then of what else was he ignorant? I crept away from the library, feeling I’d consumed as much news as I could handle in one night. I wanted time alone to ponder it.
The following morning, I sat fragmented as hot water was poured from a copper pitcher into the hip bath. The hurt that had blustered into anger and roared the previous evening had expended itself, leaving behind vast emptiness. I could stir no emotion as clouds of steam rose and mingled with my breath. Despite the fact that I was unaccustomed to bathing in front of more than one servant, I couldn’t even arouse a sense of modesty. Nothing mattered.
“She’s expected downstairs in the library in less than ten minutes,” Mrs. Coleman shouted into the next room. “Where’s Mary with the rinse water?”
“Shall I go look for her?”
“No. Stay put. I’ll need your help dressing Miss Pierson.”
I draped my arms over my knees, ignoring the chill that developed as rivulets of water ran down my back from my wet hair. I stared unseeing at the far wall, not wanting to meet my father. Having observed him last night, I could foresee no possible relationship between us now.
With a soap-covered hand, Mrs. Coleman pushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen over her eyes and studied me with a mild panic before glancing at the shelf clock. A girl raced into the room carrying a steaming pitcher, which Mrs. Coleman took with brows knit together.
The next batch of water nearly scalded me. Mrs. Coleman frowned as I winced, then set the pitcher down with a clang. “’Twill be a mercy when Miss Moray arrives to serve as your lady
’s maid.”
The mention of a lady’s maid brought to mind Nancy, the brash girl who served me at Am Meer. Memory of her bossy manner finally stirred emotion—one of the worst in my collection, a deep, aching loneliness. I felt it as keenly as I had the week Mama died. Despite my efforts, tears welled. I stood to leave the tub. If I remained here one more moment, I’d be crying. Water trickled down my body, raising gooseflesh.
“Mary!” The floorboard creaked as Mrs. Coleman struggled to stand. “Fetch Miss Pierson’s dressing robe. Ann, run and fetch the dress being altered. Step lively.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
While she waited, Mrs. Coleman rubbed a linen towel through my hair with a vigor that made me see lights.
The girl raced toward me again, carrying a fluttering robe of silk and lace. As she approached, she held out the garment, dragging its hem through the puddles surrounding the tub.
I accepted the useless robe without comment. What did I care that she should have selected a thick woollen one or should have warmed it by the fire?
“Best make haste.” Mrs. Coleman ushered me toward the main chamber. “Your father is in one of his moods. If you’re late, there’s no telling what he’ll do next.”
Tying a knot in the robe, I left the dressing room and retreated to the blaze in the main compartment of the bedchamber. Here, shadows competed with the lambent firelight shimmering over the walls. I eyed the movement, wondering what would happen if I refused to present myself to my father.
Tucking a wet clump of hair behind my ear, I leaned against the hearth. What was the worst he could do? Send Mr. Forrester in after me?
Mrs. Coleman entered the chamber, her arms full of wet linens, commanding the unfortunate Mary, “Don’t just stand there. Fetch the good lace petticoats!” She went straight to one of the wardrobes and reached for wooden boxes stacked inside. “Remind Eaton to iron Lord Pierson’s newspaper. If he acts sour about it, remind him that his footman neglected to iron the papers a fortnight ago. Grippe is no excuse. Tell James, too, that I’ll be inspecting the crystal goblets for fingerprints.”
I shivered and pulled the flimsy robe tighter. Mrs. Coleman glanced at the mantel clock as the maid raced through the room. “Five minutes!”
The door swung open and a chambermaid entered, lugging a massive gown. She breathlessly bobbed to me before turning to Mrs. Coleman. Straggles of loose hair hung from beneath her cap. “Lord Pierson’s going to be furious.”
“You’ve got cheek standing there, speaking of him thus. Talk like that again, and I’ll give you a temper more terrible than any of Lord Pierson’s.” Mrs. Coleman blotted her brow with her apron. “Has he entered the library yet?”
The girl shrugged.
“Hurry. If he hasn’t, see if you can get James to stall him.”
The girl dipped before I caught sight of her thin legs amidst the swirl of petticoats.
“There’s trouble a-brewing,” Mrs. Coleman said to me with a shake of her head. “Your father’s not been this surly since the Reform riots. If you ask me, it’s that guest of his feeding his ill temper. I wager a month’s pay that Mr. Forrester is the one who clumped mud over my floors, not that it’s any of my business.”
Mrs. Coleman made quick work of helping me from my robe and into undergarments too large for my frame. Silently, I submitted to the flurry of being dressed. Pantaloons, layers of petticoats, and an ivory satin gown all flew at me in various shades of white.
Eyeing the hands of the clock, Mrs. Coleman smoothed my wet hair with pomade and tucked it under in a simple chignon. “Make haste!” she urged when I made no movement to stand. “There’s not time for more!”
Feeling out of sorts, I grabbed a grey shawl that lay over the back of a chair. Knowing Mr. Forrester was already awake and about certainly didn’t put wings on my feet.
At the top of the stairs I paused to view the entrance hall of Maplecroft. Frost clung to the windows, blocking all views, enclosing the house. Light radiated behind the large oval dome above the ancestral portraits. I descended, keeping my eyes upon my look-alike.
At the bottom step, I stopped to read the engraved brass plaque screwed into the bottom of the frame. Lady Josephine Anna Pierson. I touched her name, trying to draw strength. Now that Mama’s locket was no longer my talisman, perhaps here was my replacement.
I turned from her and studied the hall. In the weak daylight, the plaster rosettes and ornate moldings contrasted against the Wedgwood blue, making it seem like an ice palace. The mawkish gown I wore had the weight of three dresses and completely swallowed me. But I no longer cared about my appearance.
The clack of footsteps announced that someone else had entered the hall. I turned to find James carrying a tray of piping-hot coffee and tea. He was wigged and dressed in heavy velvet. His expression was one of annoyance, and he held his arms at an odd angle, as if the thick suit of clothing chafed him. His eyes widened as he spotted me, but without so much as rattling a teacup, he assumed a formal stance. “Good morning, Miss Pierson. I am also en route to the library. Shall I escort you?”
Two emotions finally stirred. Until that second, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed even a small gesture of acceptance; thus it warmed me. Yet panic also lit through me. My ability to survive depended upon being able to shut off feeling. I had always survived that way.
“Yes, please,” was all I managed.
“The library is just ahead.” James inclined his head toward the correct door as we approached.
I nodded, nervously running my fingers over my throat as guilt washed through me at the memory of last night.
Balancing the tray on one hand, James managed to give the door a solid rap, despite his gloves.
“You may enter.” My father’s voice resonated from deep within the chamber.
I hesitated, allowing James to go first. Keeping out of sight, I heard my father’s greeting. “Yes, thank you, James. Set the tray there. Is William feeling better?”
“Yes, sir. He hopes to be back at duty tonight.”
“Good, good.”
Hoping to arrive unnoticed, I stepped up to the threshold. My father still sat behind his desk, this time clutching an old-fashioned quill pen so tightly between his fingers that it was a marvel the shaft didn’t snap. He must have seen me from the corner of his eye, for he lifted his head. He frowned, deepening the jowls about his mouth. “James, you’re dismissed.”
While James took his exit, I curtsied, feeling clumsy.
“What time did I ask you to meet me here?” my father asked.
I placed my hands on my bodice. “Seven . . . sir.”
“What time is it now?”
My gaze flitted about the room and found yet another ornate Maplecroft clock. “Ten after.”
Mr. Forrester gave a disapproving shake of his head as he added cream to his brew. “Maybe you can tell everyone her finishing school forgot to stress the importance of timeliness.”
My father shot him a warning look but returned his attention to me. “When I summon you, I expect you to be punctual. Not one minute early, not one minute late. Is that clear?”
I barely managed a nod.
My father jotted a few more lines and then, without looking up, pointed to the door behind me with his pen. “Shut the door, Daughter.”
When I’d done so, I approached his desk, keeping my feet turned outward and my steps refined as I had practiced with Mama long ago. Refusing to so much as glance at Mr. Forrester, I dropped into a chair.
“I did not grant you permission to sit.” My father dipped his pen twice in the inkwell, still not regarding me. “You will go outside, knock, and enter the room again. This time as a young lady.”
I shifted my gaze to Mr. Forrester, who smirked and swirled the coffee in his mug.
Mortified, I stood and retreated from the room as quickly as possible, then leaned against the plaster wall. Humiliation burned in my chest. It took a full minute for me to be willing to demean myself, but I
knocked.
“Enter.”
The tightness in my throat made it ache, but this time I remained at the threshold, pulling my shawl tighter. My father scratched out a few more lines. “You may be seated if you desire.”
Taking care to walk in the manner taught me so long ago, I crossed the room. When I sat, I clasped my hands in my lap and kept my head poised. It had been years since I’d been forced to remember the rules of etiquette.
My father finished his letter. In no apparent rush, he blotted it, then laid a large book on top, covering the text. Mr. Forrester took to his feet, setting his coffee down. He opened his mouth, but my father held up a hand for silence. For a moment, I suspect he saw how vulnerable I felt, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his face softened. “Have you been well cared for in my absence?”
I clenched my hands and drew them toward my stomach. “Yes, I’ve been very comfortable; thank you.”
Mr. Forrester made a huffing noise, as if frustrated at the waste of time, before throwing himself back into his seat.
My father’s jaw tightened as he ignored him. “Tell me how you made use of your time.”
“I . . . I explored your house.”
“My house?” He sat back in his chair and poured himself coffee. “Maplecroft is now your house too. What else?”
My mouth felt dry as I tried to think of something useful I’d done. “Th-there is nothing else.”
He angled his head, displeasure bristling his features. “Do you mean to sit there and tell me you spent nine days doing nothing?”
When I glanced at Mr. Forrester, he smirked again and further swirled his coffee. I struggled to compress my rising anger toward my father for lecturing me before that man. Gritting my teeth, I answered his question. “Forgive me, sir, but what else was there to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mr. Forrester leaned back and crossed his legs. “What about leafing through your father’s documents and smuggling them to Eastbourne?”
Mark of Distinction Page 4
