The Smile of the Stranger

by Joan Aiken

  At this the maid’s dislike and resentment broke into active manifestation. “Ho! So you’re glad to leave, are you, miss? Well, there’s some might believe that, and there’s others as mightn’t! Trying to creep into your cousins’ good books by darning their gowns—I could see through your nasty toad-eating ways!”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Juliana, really angry now. “How dare you! As if I cared what my cousins thought about me! I did it merely to while away the time.”

  “A likely tale,” muttered Partridge. “Like mother, like daughter, I say. And, Lord knows, she was a right slimy twisty Serpent, who’d creep into your bosom and kiss you one moment and bite you with her poisoned teeth next minute as soon as look at ye. Massy me, I don’t know how my lady had the heart to let you in the house, with that one in London. She’d never ’a done it if the General hadn’t given her money. I could have said how it would end! Never did I think to see one day when Master ’ud let that one go free, after what she done—and after what she done afore!”

  “You mean,” said Juliana with a beating heart, “that it was she—? Partridge, was that my mother last night in the front hall, with Lord Lambourn?”

  She felt she would rather have asked any other person than Partridge, but she had to know.

  “That one as swiped Master’s pictures?” said Partridge with grim relish. “Ah, that it was! I wonder that you can hold you head up, miss—I do indeed. Lucky for you, you was just leaving!”

  “My mother is a thief,” whispered Juliana, half to herself.

  “She is that—and worse! She’s a heartless, wicked Deceiver—throw over one poor fool so soon as she’s used him, and on to the next. Not only that—a Murderer, too!”

  The emphasis with which Partridge brought out these words was truly frightful.

  “A murderer?” Juliana faintly said, feeling weak with horror at such terrible disclosures. “Oh no—surely not, Partridge! Murderers are ha—are hanged—she wouldn’t be walking around free—”

  “Nor should she if she had her just deserts,” pronounced Partridge. “Often and often I’ve heard my lady say, ‘That heartless Fiend nearly done in my poor brother—only by the grace of Providence he found out in time.’”

  “What? How?” faltered Juliana. “How did she do it?”

  “Antimony,” said Partridge somberly. “Antimony in the poor gentleman’s gruel, and he, dear soul, all the time doubled up with gashly pains, never guessing what ailed him. There’s naught more diabolicular, to my mind, than a wife what tries to kill her husband so she can go off with another man.”

  “Who did she want to go off with?” wretchedly inquired Juliana. Partridge threw her a baleful look, which also contained a kind of pitying scorn.

  “Didn’t your pa never tell you nothing?”

  “No, he did not,” said Juliana, with more firmness. “He found it too distressing—he did not wish to talk about her.”

  “Well, and who’s to blame him?” Partridge muttered. “He were a decent-enough gentleman—though weak as water, if you ask me. Why should he be the one to skulk i’ foreign parts?”

  “Well, and why should he?” inquired Juliana, drawn, in spite of her own doubts and scruples, to apply for information to this apparently brimming source.

  “Why? Acos she were arter you, that’s why! She’d run off and left you—how flesh an’ blood could do sich a thing passes all understanding!—then, in course, when matters went awry for her, it came into her head as she’d lost summat as had value, so she was bound she’d get you back.”

  “Value?” Dismally Juliana recalled Lady Lambourn’s disreputable bargain with Sir Groby over the gaming debts. “You don’t mean she realized she loved me?”

  “Love? Laura Brooke?” Partridge gave a derisive sniff. “Her heart was as hard as her head—an’ that were like a chunk o’ Stonehenge!”

  “Did you know my mother, then?” asked Juliana curiously.

  “Did I know Laura Brooke? Her an’ me went to the same dame school in Cadnam—only she allus gave herself superior airs, nose in the sky, acos her pa were the apothecary. Then I went to be lady’s maid to your auntie, at Flintwood House, while she sat in her pa’s parlor, too good to work—took singing lessons—went to the Ringwood Assemblies—and that’s how she catched your pa, a-singing of a ballad about a saucy sailor lad.”

  “Yes, he always did love singing,” Juliana murmured.

  “And then, when he’d wed her an’ she found there was no money to be wrung outa your grandpa—off with His Highness.”

  “What?”

  Forgetting all decorum, Juliana gaped at Partridge, open-mouthed.

  “Didn’t you know that, miss?” Partridge stared back, equally astonished. “Don’t you know nothing at all?”

  “I most certainly do not!”

  “Eh, well…” Partridge surveyed her in almost friendly commiseration. “Your pa were such a delicate, thoughtful nice gentleman—ah, he had a sweet nature, he did—” She sighed, and for a moment Juliana wondered bemusedly whether the young Ann Partridge had been jealous of Laura Brooke’s fine catch. “I daresay he thought it best to bring you up iggerant of it all—though how a gal as knows naught is fit to deal wi’ the world’s wicked ways, never ask me! But doubtless that were why he saw fit to live abroad—where you’d not get to hear the talk.”

  “What—what happened?” Juliana asked nervously.

  “What happened? Your pa and ma went to live i’ Lunnon, where your pa might get writing work for newspapers; your pa were friendly wi’ Lord Maldon, as had been at Oxford College wi’ him, Lord Maldon were a bosom beau o’ the Prince’s, an’ the next thing were, your ma were a-casting out her lures at Prinney, an’ the next were, she were a-sitting in his pocket!”

  “You mean the Prince of Wales?”

  “Who else? Handsome young swell he were in those days—’seventy-nine, it would be, the year the twins was born. You were in your cradle, wi’ old Bessie Hedger, Abigail’s auntie, a-looking arter ye. Prince Florizel, they called Prinney in those days, handsome as a picture he were. Now, they say, he weighs sixteen stone!” She gave her sniff again. “I heeard as how he writ your ma eighty-ought letters afore she’d let him have his way—an’ sent her a lock of his hair. So, in the end—arter she’d tried to kill your pa, an’ he’d escaped her wicked wiles—she hitched up her skirts an’ off she went.”

  “With the Prince?”

  “None other. Set her up in a house at Kew, he did. But, arter a few months, he grew tired of her; that was allus his way; then, ’twas said, she had the devil’s own job to wring a settlement outa him—even in those days he were a mean, clutch-fisted cheeseparing niggler—in the end she thought herself lucky to get five thousand down, an’ five hundred a year pension.”

  “Good God,” murmured Juliana. Then a horrible thought struck her. “Is there—could there be any possibility that I am—could be—his daughter?”

  Partridge surveyed her candidly.

  “Well, miss, o’ course that’s what everyone were asking theirselves.”

  Uneasily Juliana remembered Lady Jersey’s interested scrutiny—Miss Ardingly’s sharp stare—Sir Groby’s disagreeably probing look—was that why the Duke of Clarence had wished to see her—because she might have been his brother’s child?

  “But now I know ye,” Partridge went on, “I be inclined to think that ye favor your pa. O’ course ye have brown eyes, an’ hisn were gray—but you get your eyes from your ma, Prinney’s eyes are gray-blue an’ he’s very fair-complexioned. They say Madam Dalrymple Elliott’s daughter is his child—Miss Seymour—and she bain’t o’ your complexion—not a bit.”

  Somewhat relieved, Juliana inquired, “So what did my mother do then? When—when the Prince left her?”

  “Took up wi’ Colonel Fotherby—an’ various others,” said Partridge circumspectly. “Then, when the Colonel l
eft her an’ the lease o’ the house at Kew run out, she went to France an’ got her claws in one o’ they Frenchy marquees. But she were allus bound to have you back, if she could; several times she applied to my lady for your pa’s direction—even writ to your grandpa, I did hear tell—but o’ course they wouldn’t demean theirselves to answer such a creature’s letters. ’Sides, mostly even my lady didn’t know where your pa had got to, he never wrote to her above once a year… Once he writ an’ said she’d tried to snatch you.”

  “You mean,” Juliana gasped, “my mother tried to make off with me?”

  Partridge nodded. “Ay—’twas when your pa wore in Swisserland—she tracked him down an’ hired kidnappers to abduct you. But he were too many for her—he took you back.”

  Dimly Juliana remembered that far-off, long-ago scene—in a boat, on a lake, with mountains all around.

  “No wonder poor Papa seemed so hunted—so distressed,” she murmured, more to herself than to the maid. “And then—and then she arrived in Florence—and he must have known that he was near death—he was afraid that she would assume authority over me after he was gone—oh, what dreadful mischance can have brought her there at such a time? Partridge, I do believe that I am the most unfortunate young lady alive! And poor Papa!”

  “Fiddlestick, miss,” said Partridge bracingly—her feelings for Juliana seemed to have undergone a transformation during the unfolding of this tale of vice and treachery—she now appeared quite amiably disposed. “Do not be putting yourself in such a pucker! For sure, you’re best out o’ Lunnon, in case your ma might try to snatch ye again, but down at Flintwood ye’ll come to no harm—the old General will see arter ye, till ye’re of age, an’ by an’ by some decent young gentleman’ll come a-courting.”

  “But—to have such a dreadful parent—to be uncertain, even, of one’s paternity!”

  “Pish!” said Partridge. “Who cares for that? Why, half her ladyship’s acquaintance have misbegotten children. Look at Lady Melbourne! A different father for each child! Look at that lot in Devonshire House! Who knows which belongs to whom? Lunnon society don’t concern itself wi’ such stuff.”

  “But my mother is also a thief!”

  Partridge scratched delicately at the frizzy hair under her white ruffled cap. Then she said, in a reflective voice, “Ay, she’s a thief. But I reckon she steals what she believes she’ve a right to. She went off wi’ a ruby ring o’ Prinney’s that were worth ten thousand pounds—she said he’d promised her twenty thousand pounds an’ she were obliged to take what she could get—Lord! what a rare kick-up about that ring, there were! But he decided he wouldn’t prosecute, so it blew over.”

  “But my uncle’s miniatures—?”

  “Ah, well—” Partridge rubbed her nose. “There were a time—after the twins were born, her ladyship were sickly-like an’ poor-spirited for a two, three years—when his lordship an’ your ma was monstrous great together—it didn’t last, acos she didn’t like his pinchpenny ways; she allus said as he promised her more than she ever had of him.”

  “Good God!” Juliana muttered. “My own uncle! No wonder he was not anxious to have me in his house. Poor man! I am amazed that he—or my aunt—could be prepared to countenance my presence there at all.”

  “Oh, he be wholly wrapped up in his politics these days,” Partridge said disparagingly. “He takes precious little heed o’ what goes on about him; an’ nothing at all o’ the female sect! While as for my lady, if the General was willing to give her five hundred pounds, so she could pay off some of her debts, I believe she’d be willing to give houseroom to King Lucifer hisself… But now, here we are, coming in to Winchester, miss; Jem coachman have made famous time, I declare! We shall have a tiddy while to wait, I dare swear, afore the carriage comes from Flintwood, for ’tis not yet noon, so we mid as well please ourselves and have a bit o’ nuncheon at the King’s Head tavern.”

  “Good gracious, are we arrived already? I had not thought the journey could pass so quickly,” said Juliana.

  She gave Jem coachman a crown, and laid out some of the rest of her last guinea on a meal at the inn: a leg of mutton, a boiled batter pudding, a rabbit smothered in onions, and an apricot tart; of which delicacies Partridge also deigned to partake. Then, observing her grandfather’s carriage pull up outside the King’s Head (which was also the designated place of assignation), Juliana impulsively gave all the rest of her money to Partridge, and thanked her for her company.

  “I am sorry to have been the cause of your being obliged to take such a long, tedious journey, Partridge; and I wish you as speedy a one home again.”

  To her astonishment, Partridge gave her a hearty kiss.

  “Bless your thoughtful heart, miss! And I’m sorry I was a mite twitty at first set-out. Now, don’t you put yourself in a pelter about what’s past, but mind what your grandpa says, and comport yourself like a pretty-behaved young lady, and you’ll do well enough.”

  With which parting advice she skipped up onto the box beside Jem coachman, and the Lambourn chariot, with fresh horses, was soon on its way back toward London.

  Juliana reflected that Partridge was the only member of her aunt’s household to have bade her a friendly farewell; indeed, the only one who had troubled to say good-bye at all.

  Abigail, the little maid from Flintwood, had been dispatched to bear Juliana company, and seemed unaffectedly delighted to see her again. “’Twill be a pleasure to have you back, miss; the house have been uncommon quiet since you went away!” she said.

  “How is my grandfather?” Juliana nervously inquired. “Did he seem very angry when he received the news that I was returning?”

  “Well, miss, I believe he was in a bit of a taking; thumped upon the table, and vowed his family would all drive him mad among them; but do not you be downhearted, miss, he will soon come about, I am sure.”

  Juliana devoutly hoped so; and in the meantime she endeavored to restore her spirits by gazing out at the countryside, which became more beautiful with every mile they traveled. Soon they were among the noble trees and great rides of the New Forest; and well before dusk they had arrived at Flintwood.

  Juliana, looking out as they drew up before the house, could see no one waiting to receive her on the steps, but she had hardly expected a welcome, and knew she must not repine.

  Mrs. Hurdle, the housekeeper, came bustling along to greet her in the hall, however.

  “Well, there, miss! Lunnon have put roses in your cheeks, to be sure! Still, Sir Horace is bound you’ll be tired arter your journey, so you’re to have supper on a tray in your room, and he’ll see ye tomorrow. I’ve a nice broth for ye, and there’s a pan of coals a-warming your bed this very minute.”

  Which Juliana took to be an intimation that the General could not be bothered with her that night. She did feel tired and stiff, after her early start, and was not sorry to postpone the interview with her grandfather until the following day. Thankfully she partook of Mrs. Hurdle’s venison broth and apple pie, bathed in a tub before the leaping flames of her bedroom fire, and slipped between the deliciously warm sheets.

  It was plain, next morning, that Lord Lambourn must have written a fulminating letter about the troubles attendant upon Juliana’s visit, for the confrontation with her grandfather was every bit as disagreeable as she had feared. The General made no attempt to conceal his displeasure at Juliana’s return to Flintwood.

  “A fine mull you have made of it, my girl, you and your cork-brained aunt; I might have known I could not entrust such a business to Caroline. Lambourn tells me you have properly disgraced yourself—made yourself the talk of the town. And then that diabolical woman had to turn up—it is the outside of enough. It would serve you justly if I was to wash my hands of you, let me tell you! Going for balloon rides with one of the Prince of Wales’s cronies—in heaven’s name, gal, what persuaded you to such a piece to folly?”

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sp; “Sir, it was the only thing to be done. It was on the journey from France, and my father—”

  “Don’t tell me about that!” he said very unfairly. “You know I have said I do not wish to hear. Nor about this Macaroni, Count van What’s-his-name, who has made your name a nayword!”

  “Sir, the Count is not a Macaroni, but a man of sense and feeling. He—”

  “Hush, girl! Not a word from you. Hold your tongue and listen to what I have planned for you. I should have handled the business from the start. That notion of your aunt’s to marry you to Feverel was quite ineligible—can’t imagine why she encouraged him. A man of my age—he’d never keep you in order! Why, you’d have the poor fellow worn to a raveling inside of a month. No, no, that would never have done.”

  Relieved that her grandfather was at least in agreement with her on one point, if for the wrong reason, Juliana remained silent as he took a turn about the room, with his hands clasped under his coattails, then stopped to announce, “Since your aunt has failed to find a respectable husband for you, and in order to keep you out of your rapacious mother’s clutches, I have resolved to marry you to a man of my choice.”

  Juliana opened her mouth to protest, to object, to bring up the name of Captain Davenport—but her grandfather’s look was so threatening, with compressed mouth, flashing blue eyes, and jutting white eyebrows under knotted brow, that, for the moment, she held her peace. And, after all, what had she to say about Captain Davenport? All she possessed were hopes.

  The General continued. “There is a distant connection of mine—a widower—son of my cousin Hortense by her first marriage. He was my aide-de-camp in the American war—and that was a cursed mismanaged business if ever there was one,” he broke off to mutter irrelevantly. “However! I have not seen the fellow since then, but he was a very decent sort, and I believe he has done tolerably enough in government service. He will be just the husband for you, miss! Old enough to stand no nonsense from you—a steady, settled sober man of middle age.”