The Puzzle of a Bastard

by Sande, Linda Rae

  The sound of slippers on the stairs had Gabe tearing his attention from the letter to find Frances making her way down the last set of steps, her gaze attempting to take in all it could of the townhouse’s interior.

  Without her redingote and the oversized apron she always wore at work, it was apparent to Gabe that Frances possessed a pleasing figure beneath the orchid gown she wore. Trimmed in white vandyke lace, the bodice was almost too modest, though.

  “Your sister’s bedchamber is quite well-appointed,” Frances remarked in a quiet voice, as if she feared being overheard.

  “Since she is the only daughter in the family, I think Mother spared no expense,” Gabe replied with a twinkle.

  “Is she no longer in residence?”

  Gabe joined Frances at the bottom of the stairs. “Anne is on her wedding trip. She married not two weeks ago, and most of her things have already been moved into her husband’s house, so I expect she will no longer require the use of her bedchamber.”

  Frances continued to study the artifacts on display in the great hall, immediately recognizing several pieces of Wedgwood pottery mounted on caryatids located between doors to the various rooms.

  Gabe noticed her attention had been captured by the large vase on the round table located in the middle of the hall. The vase held an arrangement of hot house flowers, the last of those that his mother had ordered before the family’s departure for Rome. Despite having been delivered nearly a fortnight ago, they were still in relatively good shape for cut flowers.

  “My mother’s favorite vase,” he murmured. “She dearly loves flowers, so my father had it made for her.”

  Frances tore her gaze from the porcelain vase, her eyes widening. “Oh. At first I thought it...” She shook her head but then once again glanced at the vase. “But it cannot be.”

  “What is it?” Gabe asked, noting her curiosity.

  She allowed a sigh. “I just thought it might be from my former employer’s studio.”

  Gabe straightened, understanding the reason for her startlement. “It is.” Then his eyes widened. “Did your... did your father create it, perhaps? I understand he was quite an artist.”

  Frances stared at him a moment. “Who told you that?”

  Furrowing a brow at her query, Gabe said, “Mr. Harris.”

  Frances gave her head a shake. “Oh, of course.” After another moment, she added, “Yes, I believe it was one of his.”

  Gabe couldn’t help but notice how the words were said without emotion. Without conviction. Perhaps she no longer mourned her father. “I suppose it is a shock to see one of his creations on display a hundred and fifty miles from where it was made,” he said as he led her to the front salon. His mind raced to remember if there were any Wedgwood pieces in there.

  “Especially one that was commissioned, which is why I was surprised to see it here.”

  Gabe motioned for her to take a seat in a floral upholstered chair. Given the color of her gown, he thought she looked perfect among the blooms featured in the fabric.

  Then the meaning of her words hit him.

  Commissioned.

  The vase had been commissioned by his father especially for his mother. The design included her favorite flowers painted in minute detail on a background of green leaves and finished in a pearlescent glaze.

  He took the seat opposite Frances just as a footman appeared with the tray of coffee and a plate of walnuts.

  Should he admit he was related to the Earl of Trenton? He hadn’t told any of his co-workers at the museum that he was the bastard son of Gabriel Wellingham, but then no one would expect a museum employee to be related to an aristocrat.

  For the time being, Gabe decided to use the arrival of the coffee as a means to change the subject. When the footman had taken his leave and Frances had seen to pouring the coffee, Gabe cleared his throat. “May I ask why it was you sought employment at the museum?”

  Frances offered him a cup and seemed to struggle with how to respond. “There are not many businesses where I could work, Mr. Wellingham.”

  “Call me Gabe. We needn’t be so formal when we are not at the museum,” he said as he held out the plate of walnuts.

  Taking a few of the nuts, Frances said, “Gabe seems far too informal.”

  Her host allowed a shrug. “Gabriel is my given name.”

  “Gabriel,” she said, as if saying the word for the very first time. “You may call me Frances. As for my position, I applied when I learned the former restorer was let go. An agent acting on behalf of the museum paid a call on Mr. Wedgwood asking if he knew of anyone who could fill the position.”

  “So... he recommended you.”

  She shook her head. “He did not, in fact.”

  Gabe furrowed his brows and then his eyes widened with understanding. “He did not wish to lose you and your skills,” he guessed.

  “As a woman, I was paid less than the men he employed, so I believe he did not wish to lose a cheap employee,” she said, just before she took a drink from her cup. She seemed to savor the flavor, and Gabe wondered if she was used to the stout and bitter coffee served at the corner coffee shops in London.

  “That hardly seems fair. Especially considering your skills.”

  Frances visibly colored. “I appreciate you saying so, Mr... Gabriel,” she stammered.

  Hoping he finally had her trust, Gabe asked, “So, did you make the move to London because your father died?”

  Her eyes darted towards the fireplace, her quick gaze taking in the urn that sat atop the mantle. “That, and... well, there were other reasons,” she replied. “How is it you came to be hired as an archivist?”

  Gabe thought her method of redirecting the conversation rather deft. He almost had her telling him more about herself. “I did my studies in the Classics at Cambridge,” he replied. “I’ve always been especially interested in Ancient Greece, so I was eager to accept the position when I learned of it from Mr. Harris.”

  “So... you were not already a clerk?”

  Gabe shook his head. “I only finished university last June.”

  The tinkle of a bell sounded from out in the hall, and Barclay appeared at the door. “Dinner is served, madam, sir,” he announced.

  Setting his cup on the tray, Gabe stood and offered his hand, much like he had seen his father do hundreds of times with his mother.

  For the first time that evening, he was nervous.

  Chapter 19

  Reading and Ruminating

  Meanwhile, in the library at Woodscastle

  James was sure he had stared at the same page of the book, Thoughts and details on the high and low prices of the last thirty years by Thomas Tooke, for over an hour. Every time he was sure he was absorbing the information presented—alterations in currency, or the effects of war, or the effects of seasons on prices—he would find his mind wandering.

  A mention of furs reminded him of Emily’s muff, of how she had used it to slap his chest, in perhaps the most ineffectual beating he had taken in his entire life.

  A reference to leather had him remembering her gloved hand as she pushed away the dead leaves and snow from the daffodil shoots. Of how he had thought that hand might slap him hard across the cheek for his insolence.

  The discussion of domestic silk reminded him of how she had looked in her day gown as they ate their luncheon of a cream-based lobster soup and a cold collation of meats and cheese. Of how her dark blonde hair had looked like silk under the candle-lit chandelier.

  And, finally, the chapter on gold had him wondering just how much Emily Grandby might be worth.

  He rolled his eyes.

  Now he was thinking of her as a commodity. Which, on the one hand, she was. She no doubt had a sizable dowry. A decent inheritance. On the other...

  She was a young woman.

  At times, she seemed entirely too happy—at his expense. But at others, she seemed quite sad. The light usually dancing in her green eyes would be extinguished for a time, whatever
the cause a mystery to him.

  Then he remembered that she had every right to be sad—she was grieving. She had been betrothed to a man who had died before they could wed.

  For the first time, James wondered who the lucky man had been. Some young buck, no doubt. Someone who probably didn’t deserve her. Someone who probably planned to use his new-found wealth to buy a house in town for her and a hunting lodge in the country where he would take his newly-hired mistress and gamble every night.

  No wonder she had put voice to so many questions about mistresses that morning!

  Jealousy of whomever had gained her agreement to marry had James feeling anger.

  Anger on her behalf.

  Emily Grandby deserved a husband who would hold her in high esteem. Who wouldn’t employ a mistress or frequent brothels. Who would give her everything she wanted.

  Because wouldn’t she do the same for him?

  The thought of a cup of tea had him thinking the simple drink seemed to make even the most perplexing situation less so. Perhaps he could ring for tea, and the butler would serve him. Or he could serve himself. How hard could it be to simply pour a cup of tea?

  As is by magic, a cup of tea appeared on the desk in front of him, its saucer decorated with two biscuits. He glanced up to find Emily poised to set down a plate on which was a slice of cake.

  “Is it time for tea already?” he asked in surprise. Had she read his mind?

  “Indeed, but I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I don’t mind in the least. This is not my favorite subject,” he replied, referring to the book.

  “That’s quite obvious. I cannot imagine which topic has you looking as if you could strangle poor Mr. Tooke.”

  James attempted to school his features into a more pleasant expression. “It was not the author I was thinking about,” he murmured.

  “Oh, dear. Have I not been quiet enough?”

  “What?”

  “I was quite sure I didn’t make a sound whilst reading yesterday’s The Times,” she said, her hand waving toward the library table. Illuminated by the late afternoon light from the windows above it, the newsheet was spread out on the oak surface.

  James shook his head. “You didn’t. I didn’t even know you were in here,” he added, wondering how he could have been so unaware of her presence.

  At the moment, he was too aware of her. The light scent of her perfume wafted past his nostrils, and he had to resist the urge to follow it as he inhaled. Like a puppy, begging for attention and a scratch behind the ears.

  “Well, that is the point of being quiet,” Emily replied, making room for the cake plate by moving aside the ink pot. “So, if not the author and if not me, then who had you looking as if you wished to strangle them?”

  James settled back in the desk chair and regarded her a moment. “Your betrothed.”

  Emily jerked backwards, the comment so unexpected she had to take a moment to remember how to breathe. “Why would you be angry with him? He’s not even alive.”

  Knowing immediately that he had erred, James dipped his head. He didn’t even know why he was angry about what a dead man had done. “He took your virtue.”

  “As was his right.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Emily inhaled sharply. “My mother did, if you must know.” Well, she hadn’t said it to her, exactly, but she had said as much to her oldest daughters just before they wed.

  Emily’s hands went to her hips. “You would do the same if you ever saw fit to take a wife,” she accused.

  His eyes widened, but James found he couldn’t argue with her, at least on that point. His hands gripped the edge of the desk in front of him. “Did you love him?”

  She once again reeled, shocked by his tone of voice and glad he wasn’t standing over her. She wasn’t about to let him cow her into feeling guilt. “I did. For a time. And you should be ashamed. He loved you and your sister more than you could know.”

  James stared at her. “Henry?” he finally said in disbelief. “My older brother?”

  “Well, of course,” she replied, her dismay apparent in how her body shook.

  “Henry?”

  “How could you not know?” she asked, tears escaping despite her efforts to keep them at bay.

  “He was old enough to be your fa—”

  “Don’t! Don’t you dare,” she warned. “He was eight-and-thirty, so yes, he was older than me by fourteen years, but he told me he loved me back when I was... but twelve or thirteen.”

  “We were living in Switzerland.”

  “You’d returned from the Continent almost a decade before that,” she argued.

  James struggled with his memories of the time when his mother still lived. All three of her children had been born in Zurich. First Henry, who favored their mother and suffered the same maladies as her over the years.

  Then came James, who took after his father in both looks and manner.

  Then finally Sophia was born. Her features were the best of both of her parents, and she had been the one to suffer the most when their mother died. She’d only been seven at the time.

  Despite their mother’s death in 1810, Sophia’s temperament was most like hers. Four years of finishing school in Geneva with her best friend, Emelia Comber, had prepared Sophia for their move to England in 1817.

  James knew why his father had decided to return to British shores. The woman he had apparently loved long before he had married Bess Craven had just come out of mourning. Lord Andrew made sure his return to England coincided with when Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick would be available to marry.

  His father had never told him the history of how it was he ended up married to the only daughter of Lord Craven and his wife, Persephone. But James had never thought to ask. His parents had always seemed happy together. When his mother had died, his father had mourned her and then remained a widower for eleven years—despite well-to-do widows throwing themselves in his path at every social function. A banker in the world’s financial center was considered a good catch, after all.

  “We moved to London in eighteen-seventeen,” James murmured.

  “I know,” Emily whispered. “I was only three, but I remember it quite well because my father would take me to Merriweather Manor to show me the renovations that your father was seeing to at the time.”

  “I don’t recall you back then,” he argued.

  “That’s because you went off to Eton and Henry went to Cambridge.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  “I have two older brothers who were at Eton the same time as you,” she reminded him. “Roger and Tom.”

  He allowed a wan grin. “Of course. How could I forget?” he replied, wondering how he might compel her to say more. “How long... how long did Henry court you?” James stammered. Although he hadn’t received many letters from Henry during his time in Bath, he couldn’t recall any of them mentioning a woman of note. There was no mention of courtships. No mention of a young woman who might have caught his eye. James had begun to believe that Henry might be a molly, if only because he was aware of the same suspicions about him given his lack of a wife.

  If Henry was in love with Emily, then why hadn’t he said anything about his regard for the youngest Grandby daughter in those letters?

  As if Emily could read his mind, she said, “He waited until my older sisters had all married. The day after Christina’s wedding, he paid a call here at the house and asked if I might join him on a ride.”

  James gave a start. “But that was only last spring.” Although he had been in Bath, he had received an invitation to the wedding breakfast.

  “Yes,” she acknowledged.

  “And then he died...”

  She sighed. “A few weeks later, yes.”

  He reached for her hand and then pulled her toward him until she was forced to sit on his lap. His arms wrapped around her middle as he settled his head into the crook of her shoulder. “I am sorry for
your loss,” he whispered.

  “As I am for yours,” she murmured. Her arms settled around his shoulders, and she inhaled softly.

  His scent was so different from Henry’s. There were no hints of sweet florals or citrus but rather musk and amber, wool and man.

  The body against which she leaned was different, too. Solid, with a thick chest and broad shoulders. Arms that were long and strong, while Henry’s had been far thinner. Hands with long, broad fingers. Not bony, like Henry’s.

  When James didn’t offer a reply, Emily asked, “Did you come home for his burial? I don’t recall seeing you there.”

  He nodded. “I barely made it. Word was delayed getting to me in Bath, and then I had to be back there a few days later, and so I wasn’t able to stay at the house very long.” He paused a moment. “A relief, really. I could not abide the huge crowd at the house.”

  “You never did like it when we were being noisy children,” Emily whispered.

  “It wasn’t that bad back then,” he argued.

  “I’m quite sure you spent your entire time in our company cringing.”

  “Oh, it was that obvious, was it?”

  “Indeed. I remember thinking you would be one of those fathers who never stepped foot in the nursery. Your son would have to be sixteen or more before you would even make his acquaintance.”

  James pulled a face, about to argue. But he understood why she would say such a thing. “I could abide an hour or two of my own children, I should think,” he claimed.

  Emily’s manner sobered. “You could?”

  Ignoring the hurt he felt at hearing her response, his attention went to the ring that hung from the gold chain around her neck. “I should have known it was him,” he murmured. He reached up and grasped the ring between his thumb and forefinger. “But I didn’t recognize the ring.”

  Now he did. He had one just like it up in his jewel box.

  “He claimed it was an heirloom, but when I offered it to Lady Andrew, she told me to keep it,” Emily explained. “Do you know who it belonged to?”

  “Our grandmother.”