An Heiress at Heart

by Jennifer Delamere

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. “My brothers and I first came here as children, and we were naturally intrigued by the way the sound travels around the walls.”

  “I can definitely picture that,” Lizzie said. How odd to think that they had all, in a way, crossed paths up here. What different courses their lives had taken since then.

  She turned to look up. From here they had a closer view of the murals decorating the inside of the dome. “What do they represent?”

  She was sure Geoffrey would know the answer to this question, and he did. “These are scenes from Saint Paul’s life. There are eight in all, as you see. This first one,” he said, pointing to the mural just above them, “shows Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus. There is Paul on his knees, with the bright light of the Lord shining round about him.”

  Geoffrey gave her a brief background of the stories illustrated in each of the paintings. When he reached the last one, he said, “And this is the shipwreck, when Paul’s ship was broken up during a fierce storm.”

  “A shipwreck?” The word brought unsettling things to Lizzie’s mind: she could almost feel, as well as visualize, waves that were endlessly rolling, never ceasing. And then to be thrown into wild waters, taken away by a reckless sea, just as Tom had been. Her heart broke afresh at the thought of it. “It must have been horrifying,” she said, her voice strained.

  “It was described vividly in the Book of Acts: ‘All hope that we might be saved was lost.’ ”

  Lizzie gripped the railing. She looked across the open expanse to the other side of the whispering gallery, remembering how her brother had stood there, alive with the joy and excitement of youth. Now she saw that he had been standing beneath that mural of a shipwreck. “All hope lost,” she repeated sadly.

  Seeing her expression, Geoffrey added, “The Bible says that all two hundred and seventy-six people aboard the ship made it safely to land. God protected them.”

  He intended this as a good thing, Lizzie knew, and she said, “What a wonderful miracle.” But in her heart she sinfully wondered why the Lord could not have saved Tom. Of course, Paul had worked tirelessly to win others to Christ. Tom had boarded a ship with far different intentions. He felt he knew where Edward’s murderer was, and he was going after him.

  “I’ve always admired Saint Paul,” Geoffrey mused. “He went from being a persecutor of Christians to becoming their leader. He had a complete change of heart. He later wrote that one must forget things which are behind and reach forth for those things which are before.”

  “Forget the past?” Lizzie shook her head in disbelief. “Do you think that is ever really possible?”

  “I believe the lesson is that we must not allow past sins to keep us from living for the Lord today.”

  Lizzie had never thought about “living for the Lord.” She had always attended church, like everyone else. But with all that had happened in her life—brief periods of joy overwhelmed by grief and disappointment—God had remained distant to her.

  Nor could she even consider forgetting the past. With each new day, Lizzie was becoming more and more successful in her new life, and yet she was discovering that the past never receded. She could never forget who she truly was. No, the past was something she lived with each and every day. She would never be able to leave it fully behind.

  She turned back to see Geoffrey looking at her. She knew how easily her morose thoughts could show on her face. She did not wish him to see her discomfort, so she giggled, fanned herself, and said in a perfect imitation of the American gentleman, “I believe I am tuckered.” She looked over the railing. “But the view is bully!”

  Chapter 17

  Geoffrey stood in his library, thoughtfully staring at a large portrait of himself with his two brothers. Although it was painted when the three boys were in their early teens, their individual personalities were already quite evident. William was standing looking rather imperious, Edward was kneeling, playing with their favorite dog Buck, and Geoffrey was seated in an armchair, looking at both his brothers with an expression that today he could only describe as bemused. For a long time it had been too painful for Geoffrey to spend any time looking at this portrait. Today he found instead that the memories it brought back cheered him.

  “How well you look, sir.”

  He turned to see Mrs. Claridge standing in the doorway. “Do I?”

  She nodded. “You must have had a good morning out with Mrs. Somerville.”

  Geoffrey found to his surprise that it was not as jarring to hear Ria referred to by that name as he had once feared it would be. “Yes,” he said. “I believe it was a good morning.” He was still marveling at how much he enjoyed Ria’s company.

  “Your heart seems a bit lighter now—if you don’t mind my saying so,” she added deferentially.

  Once again, her perception amazed him. “Does it seem odd to you that my heart should be, as you say, lighter, after I am more fully aware of all that has happened?”

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I always say that knowing the worst is not as terrible as fearing it.”

  “In some ways, though, it’s not the worst. Mrs. Somerville told me fascinating things about Edward, things I never knew about him. She showed me some of his best aspects.” And some of hers, he added silently to himself. Despite her occasional missteps, he found his esteem for her was growing.

  “Perhaps that’s why her return has been so good for you,” Mrs. Claridge said.

  Had Ria been good for him? Perhaps so. “I shall invite her over here soon. I would like for you to meet her.”

  Mrs. Claridge beamed. “That’s kind of you, sir. I’m sure I would like that very much.”

  “She can tell you some of the things she told me about Edward.” He turned to look again at the portrait. “Edward accomplished many things in Australia that would have astounded us all.”

  “Not me,” Mrs. Claridge returned. “I always knew Mr. Edward was a resourceful and enterprising young man.”

  “Did you?” he said in surprise. “Somehow that fact escaped the rest of us.”

  “It’s hard, sometimes, to see these things in your own family members.”

  He pondered this. There was certainly truth in it. “Edward was a natural leader—I can see that now. He would have performed his duties very well if he had taken up the barony. Perhaps even better than William did.” He sighed. “Perhaps even better than I can.”

  Edward certainly could have carried out the social responsibilities of the peerage more deftly than Geoffrey had been doing. And now Ria had shown him Edward could have handled a leadership role as well.

  “All three of you were and are leaders, sir,” Mrs. Claridge declared. “Just in your different ways. I have no doubt you will live up to the Somerville title as well as anyone—better even.”

  He smiled gratefully at his housekeeper. “You have always been my greatest advocate.”

  He turned toward the mirror over the fireplace. “Mrs. Claridge, do you think this coat looks too serious?”

  “Serious?” she repeated, perplexed. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly,” he said truthfully. “It’s something Mr. Simpson told me once.”

  “That Mr. Simpson,” she said with a chuckle. “He is a dandy.”

  Geoffrey’s evening attire was just as “serious,” and he was secretly wondering if he should get something more stylish to wear to the Beauchamps’ ball. It was unlike him to worry about such things, but as he recalled how Edward always conducted himself so well at parties, he was suddenly seized with a foolish notion that he wanted to look good for this event. He wanted to please Ria.

  “I would not say the problem was with your coat,” Mrs. Claridge observed. “Perhaps it was only your expression that was too serious. You don’t need a tailor to improve upon that. Only yourself. And that seems to be on the mend.”

  How true, Geoffrey thought. Perhaps some of the peace he’d prayed for was coming to pass.

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  “Mrs. Dodd, we must be absolutely sure to get this right. I want my granddaughter to be above reproach.”

  Lady Thornborough’s special clothier had come to the Thornborough home to measure Lizzie for the gown she was to wear to the grand ball at Lord and Lady Beauchamp’s home. Lady Thornborough was anxious that the color and style of the gown be exactly proper for a young widow reentering society.

  Mrs. Dodd gave a crisp bob of her head. “Indeed, Lady Thornborough, I concur wholeheartedly. This event calls for just the right display of delicacy and protocol.” She was a small, trim woman, dressed impeccably from head to foot. She exuded confidence in her profession and was a perfect model of it. It was easy to see why Lady Thornborough had chosen her for the task. “I promise we will design a dress that is both stylish and appropriate.”

  Mrs. Dodd and her assistants were thorough. Lizzie was pushed, prodded, and measured from every angle. They draped sample after sample of beautiful silks over Lizzie’s shoulder to see how well they would complement her complexion. There were so many samples that a small army of assistants was needed to bring them in. The silks covered a range of dark hues, from rich maroon to vibrant midnight blue. Even the dark gray was enticing. Lizzie admired the way it shimmered as it moved, reflecting the light like silken water.

  Her initial worries about going out into society were dropping away with each successful day. Her calls with Lady Thornborough had been successful, as had a dinner at the home of a baronet. She had also been “refreshed” on etiquette by Lady Thornborough. Since Ria had left before her debutante year, it was understood that she would need instruction on deportment and the niceties of behavior at fancy balls. Geoffrey would be at the ball, too, giving her any needed advice. She was beginning to look forward to events where Geoffrey was present, feeling that somehow she could always rely on him to help her if necessary.

  Lizzie had been easily caught up in the excitement of the gown’s preparation. Of the many fine dresses she’d been privileged to wear since her arrival in London, this would be the most special—an elegant gown to be worn for only the finest occasions. Drawn to beautiful clothes for as long as she could remember, Lizzie had spent many afternoons in Hyde Park watching the beautifully dressed ladies as they rode by in their carriages or strolled along the Serpentine.

  Freddie had dressed her well, too. That was one of the first things that had led to her downfall. He promised her silks and fine linens and jewelry. He made good on the promise, too—in the beginning. When he ran out of money, he sold everything without her knowledge to buy his way home. She’d been left with only the clothes on her back. And her wits.

  “Ria, stop frowning,” Lady Thornborough said. “You know that will give you wrinkles. Is something wrong?”

  Lizzie pulled herself out of her cloud of black thoughts and relaxed her face into a smile. Those days were far behind her now, she reminded herself. She was no longer mending other people’s clothes to scrape out a living, as she had in Vienna for those months before Tom had come for her. Now the fine clothes were being tailored for her. “It’s just that I’m so vexed because I can’t make up my mind which material to choose. They are all so lovely.”

  “That is why Mrs. Dodd is here. She has made dresses for the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She knows what will suit you best.”

  Mrs. Dodd beamed. “Your confidence in my judgment is most flattering, my lady.”

  “Ah,” returned Lady Thornborough with a smile. “But the question remains: which color is the most flattering on my granddaughter?”

  “Midnight blue,” replied Mrs. Dodd without hesitation. “She will be stunning.”

  One of Mrs. Dodd’s assistants immediately retrieved the blue silk from a chair and draped it once more around Lizzie.

  Lizzie stood, looking at herself, delighted at how her eyes deepened and glittered, set off by the beautiful material.

  Lady Thornborough rose and walked over to her. They stood, side by side, studying her reflection in the mirror. “See how it brings out your father’s eyes,” she said with admiration. “How proud he would be.”

  “Would he?” Lizzie basked in these words. She was showing her true colors as a Thornborough, she thought. Fine clothes were no longer her downfall, as they had once been with Freddie. Nor were they the reason she was here. Yes, there were times when Lizzie wished she could stand here free of her deceptions, where she belonged, with her family. Since she could not, she took solace in the fact that she was fulfilling Ria’s wishes. Lady Thornborough had her granddaughter back and was pleased with her. That was what Ria had wanted. Ria’s untimely death had provided a second chance for them both. Lizzie could not allow any regret for what she had done to reach this room on this day.

  Freddie had left her in the gutter, but she had survived. Like Cinderella from the fairy tale her mother read to her when she was a little girl, Lizzie now had all those things that had once seemed out of reach.

  Except for a handsome prince.

  Chapter 18

  Martha had once again worked wonders with Lizzie’s hair. Her blond locks were braided into an intricate bun in the back, and smooth ringlets framed her face. It had been a trial to be subjected to her brushing, twisting, and pinning, but the end result had been worth it. As Lizzie reached up to finger one of the curls, the diamond and sapphire bracelet shimmered against the dark blue of her gown. Lady Thornborough had insisted she wear it tonight.

  Thanks to Mrs. Dodd, Lizzie’s gown was at the height of fashion, though the décolletage was not as low as most women’s would be tonight. There was a certain amount of propriety that she must maintain. Nevertheless, the V-shape of the neckline did drop low enough to reveal a modest portion of her neck and shoulders.

  Lizzie was happy to see that her skin had become paler during her weeks in London. She was no longer “brown as a farm girl,” as James had described her.

  She studied her hands. Now that she was no longer hauling her own firewood and doing her own washing, her nails were smoother and the cuts and scrapes on her hands had healed. The process had been quickened by the special oils Lady Thornborough had procured for her. They’d been applied and rubbed in by two maids until Lizzie felt like a prized piece of silver that had been polished with the utmost care.

  There was a light tap at the door, and Lady Thornborough entered, her dark silk dress shimmering in the candlelight. Her gray eyes shone, set off to best advantage by the gleaming jet-black broach on her dress. “I cannot believe the vision in front of me,” she said, her face alight with pride. She placed a gentle hand on Lizzie’s cheek. “It’s as if the trials of these past few years have been wiped away. You are older in experience, perhaps, and yet still so beautiful. What an enviable advantage for any woman to have!” She continued to inspect Lizzie. “You have your mother’s slender figure, although you did not grow nearly as tall as we thought you might.” She gently tilted Lizzie’s face to one side and studied her profile. “I cannot say that I see much of her face in yours.”

  Lizzie’s chest tightened. Lady Thornborough’s attempts to find similarities with Ria’s mother would, of course, be fruitless. She stepped back, straightened to her full height, and exclaimed, “I am sure I am quite tall! I shall positively tower over half the men at Lord Beauchamp’s ball.”

  “I doubt that,” Lady Thornborough said with a smile. “However, there is no doubt that you have your father’s eyes—and his confident look. At times I fancy that I see him in you.”

  Now here was a topic Lizzie did not wish to avoid. She had gazed at Herbert’s portrait many times over the past few weeks, looking for traces of herself in him. “Do I really favor him?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” Lady Thornborough answered.

  “Dearest Grandmamma.” Lizzie’s voice caught in her throat. It was easy to address her that way now. She fully believed she was a Thornborough—not the one everyone believed her to be, but a Thornborough nonetheless.

  Lizzie turn
ed to check the mirror one last time, but Lady Thornborough took her by the arm. “You have spent more than enough time on your toilette, dear. The carriage is waiting.”

  “I blame Martha for my tardiness,” Lizzie said gaily. “She spent ages on my hair.”

  With the barest smile, Martha replied, “It might not have taken so long, madam, if you had remained still.”

  Lizzie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Isn’t that just the worst irony of life? The more excited I am to get out of this chair, the longer it takes.”

  Lizzie followed Lady Thornborough out the door of the bedchamber and down the hall. She paused as they were about to descend the stairs.

  “What is it, dear?” Lady Thornborough asked.

  “I’ve forgotten my fan.” She turned back toward her room. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  When Lizzie entered her room, she found Martha sitting at the dressing table, staring pensively at a small framed silhouette of Ria. She jumped up when she saw Lizzie, looking as though she had been caught doing something wrong. Lizzie wondered what train of thought she had interrupted. “I’ve come back for my fan,” she said, trying to keep any unease from sounding in her voice.

  Martha snatched it up and placed it in Lizzie’s hands. “How careless of me not to notice.” She did not meet Lizzie’s eye.

  “That silhouette never did me justice, you know,” Lizzie said. “The artist was far too kind about the shape of my nose.” It was true that when Lizzie and Ria were compared side by side in profile, their noses were clearly different. Lizzie had always considered Ria to have the prettier of the two; her own was a tad straighter and longer. “They will pander to one’s vanity if they think they will get more money for it, after all.”

  Martha did not know how to appear to answer this remark, since by agreeing with Lizzie, she would seem to be agreeing that her mistress was perhaps less than beautiful.

  “Martha,” Lady Thornborough called from the hallway. “I need you to fetch my smelling salts from the parlor.”