by May Burnett
Over August and September Silas had managed to put the betrothal completely out of his mind; but now he was faced with his future spouse every day and had to listen to her uninspired music nightly as an added penance. When they were married he would forbid her to touch a piano ever again, at least in his hearing.
“Ah, there you are, Silas. How about a game of billiards?” Peter stood before him, suggesting the game like a puppy bringing a ball to his master. Silas hid his exasperation. There was no better entertainment on offer, alas.
“Very well, but don’t complain if I trounce you again.” Actually Peter was not bad, and with a bit of practice might soon outplay him, but it would not do to admit as much. “I’d better change first, though. Meet you at the table in thirty minutes.”
Peter fell into step with Silas. “You never get tired of riding? Today it was over three hours.”
“I need to move,” Silas said, though it was not his habit to explain himself. “All this sociability and respectability is giving me the fidgets.”
“I suppose our home is rather dull,” Peter allowed, with a grimace. “Don’t I know it. But Anthea is a nice girl; you might spend more time with her.”
Was this moon-calf admonishing him? Silas scanned Peter’s face, but could not discern anything but ingenious good-will.
“We’ll have plenty of time for that once we’re shackled,” he said casually. “It’s a life sentence, you know.”
Peter frowned faintly. “Don’t say that in her and my parents’ hearing, they take this business very seriously.”
“Of course they do. So does my Mother. How do you usually pass the time here, Peter?”
“Well, it’s only been a year since I came down from Oxford, and I have been travelling a bit … and spent the season in town … I do have some friends in the neighbourhood, though I haven’t seen so much of them recently. Father makes me visit the tenants, inspecting drains and such.”
“How boring. There will be time enough for that once you are the Earl.”
“Ye-es,” Peter said, but uncertainly. “I rather like it, and as you say, there is not much else to do.”
On his way to the billiards room, Silas ran across Sir Christopher Denham, the oldest of the current bunch of houseguests. He bowed respectfully, as it was his practice to maintain a charming façade where it cost him little effort.
“How do you do today, Sir?”
“Well enough,” the baronet replied. “The fresh country air does wonders for my sleep.”
“But for all that, I surmise London is the place you love best?”
“Most of the time. We are very fortunate to live in the greatest city in the world. And how is your lovely fiancée, Lady Anthea, this morning?”
Silas shrugged. “I have not yet seen her, but I have no doubt she is her usual charming self.” Not yet married, and already people were expecting him to know all about her doings and take responsibility for her well-being.
“Well, give her my thanks for the lovely flowers in my room when you do see her,” the old man said with a shade of disapproval. “She has a deft hand with them, and an artistic eye.”
“Oh, she is full of virtues and talents.” His irony must have been stronger than intended, for a frown began to form on Sir Christopher’s brow.
“I am expected, please excuse me.” Silas escaped before the other took him to task, as old people so often impertinently felt entitled to do.
Being cooped up with the same small group for weeks on end was already straining his nerves. In his normal life Silas kept everyone who might be the least censorious or even too curious about his pastimes at arms’ length, and rarely had to defer to anyone. Even in the Upper House, which he attended since he had realized that his vote on contentious issues was a valuable commodity, it was easy enough to feign respect for the bigwigs of both parties; as an unpredictable independent vote he was treated with kid gloves in return.
But here in the countryside, his self-control threatened to snap a dozen times a day. Smiling at inane comments, pretending an interest in the forthcoming wedding celebrations and in his betrothed’s utterly commonplace thoughts and interests, almost exceeded his acting ability.
And this was only the beginning of the second week. But there was nothing for it - he had to endure until the end of the month. At least by the beginning of November he could proceed to Leicestershire, away from all these prosy bores.
Chapter 5
First impressions tend to last forever.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
When the Durwents’ large, well-sprung Berline drew up in front of Desborough Hall, the sun was close to sinking over the horizon. Hall was a modest appellation for what amounted to a medium-sized palace, Cherry reflected as she peered out through the window, waiting for their groom to attach the steps. The second carriage with their servants and luggage had drawn up right behind.
Jonathan descended first and carefully helped her step down, his hands on her thickening waist, as he had done at every stop on the way. Not the slightest jolt must disturb the child growing in her womb. “Chin up,” he murmured.
Cherry raised her head a little straighter as she waited for the tall, elegant man approaching their coach, followed by a small army of footmen and grooms. There was still enough light to make out the Earl’s strong features. He stopped some five yards away, his blue eyes fixed on Cherry in intense scrutiny. After a few long seconds he breathed out, and drew closer.
“Welcome.” The voice was deep and gruff; he seemed at a loss how to go on. Cherry’s own voice was failing her, so she was grateful to Jonathan for jumping into the breach.
“We are happy to accept your invitation, Desborough,” he said smoothly. “As it is rather chilly out here, and my wife is in delicate condition, maybe we should go inside?”
The Earl started. “Yes, of course,” he said at once. He was still staring at Cherry, now belatedly taking in her shape. “I had not realized you were so far along. Thank you for coming at such a time.”
He offered his arm, and Cherry took it without hesitation. Slowly they approached the huge portals, held open by bewigged and powdered footmen, with Jonathan bringing up the rear.
“We need to talk,” the Earl said to both of them in the large hall dominated by a magnificent double staircase of marble, adorned with a number of pseudo-Greek statues and urns at strategic spots. “Maybe after you have refreshed yourselves, in my library?”
They agreed, and were led up the staircase to large and elegant connecting chambers, decorated with prettily arranged flowers. Cherry washed and changed out of her travelling clothes into afternoon attire, from the valises the servants had instantly delivered. She would have to change again for dinner in less than two hours, and gave orders to ready one of her favourite evening gowns right away. It had been made up to fit loosely. She could not bear stays when her stomach was growing by the day.
“Are you ready?” Jonathan came through the door connecting their chambers. He had washed his face and hands, and combed his brown hair. “From the way he stared, the Earl still had lingering doubts until he actually clapped eyes on you. I am curious what he’ll have to say to us now. You look very pretty.”
“Thank you. After the long stop and nap at lunch, I am not at all tired.”
A footman was waiting outside to conduct them to a beautifully furnished library, where the earl was already waiting. Breathing in the familiar scents of leather and paper, Cherry was ceremoniously settled into a large armchair upholstered in patterned silk cloth. The earl and Jonathan sat down also, facing her and each other.
Her host was once again staring at her with unnerving intensity. Still in his early fifties, Lord Desborough was a tall, energetic man whose greying hair was much lighter in colour than hers. His blue eyes were also quite unlike her hazel ones.
“I do not see any resemblance between you and me,” Cherry said. “Maybe this is all a misunderstanding.”
“No,” the Earl replied at once. “Until I saw you today, I could not be entirely sure, but at this moment I am convinced that you are in fact my daughter Madeline. You take after your mother. It is only right that I acknowledge you publicly, and I will do so before dinner tonight. Except for my wife, nobody knows just yet.”
“Are you quite certain?” Cherry had decidedly mixed feelings about this development.
“You will not have any doubt either, once you have seen your mother’s portrait. It is in my London residence, unfortunately, not here. You are without any question Lady Madeline Desborough.”
“Durwent, now,” Cherry reminded him. “I am a married woman, Sir.”
“Call me Father, if you will,” the Earl offered. “Though I realize it will take time until that feels natural.” If it ever does. Cherry nodded.
“How is it,” Jonathan said, “that Cherry was lost for these thirty years? Did you not look for her?”
The Earl frowned. “I was grossly misled. The servants who absconded with Mariah’s - my wife’s – jewels, spun a convincing tale that she had left for the colonies with the baby and a lover. Consequently my search centred on the Colonies, hampered by the distance and the war – and of course, as the premise was false, entirely fruitless. Eventually I lost hope and stopped looking, as it seemed impossible that such a tiny infant could survive under rough conditions. When I finally remarried I was certain Mariah was long dead, since her health had not been strong. She had a very bad cough and frequently gasped for air in a most alarming manner. Her physicians were surprised when she was successfully brought to bed of you, Madeline. They had warned me that she might not last so long.”
“It feels strange to be called Madeline. I have become used to Cherry, at least among family.”
“Then I shall call you that,” the Earl said, trying the sound, “Cherry. The Madeline I remember was a tiny baby, whom I only saw a few times. Cherry is derived from Charity, I gather? I am very glad that you were taken in and brought up by good people, from all accounts, even if they only survived Mariah by some years.”
“Indeed, they were wonderful parents. I was very lucky, all things considered.” She switched to a subject much more urgent in her mind. “How will your wife and your other children react to suddenly having an older sister thrust upon them?”
The Earl grimaced faintly, confirming her suspicion that there were turbulent waters ahead. “They will be delighted,” he said. “How could they not be?”
Cherry and Jonathan exchanged a rueful glance. “If they do not appreciate Cherry as she deserves, we can always cut our stay short,” Jonathan said. “My wife’s comfort, which very much includes her peace of mind, is my first and last consideration.”
Desborough stared at him coolly. “You are very lucky, Durwent, to have met and married my daughter before her identity was discovered.”
Cherry bristled. “On the contrary, without Jonathan’s help, it never would have been discovered at all. I am the lucky one, that he married me when I was desperate, destitute and of uncertain parentage.” She glared at the Earl.
Jonathan grinned at her affectionately. “Thank you, my dear. We shall have to agree to disagree on who was luckier.”
“Well,” the Earl said in a more conciliatory manner, “I am glad to find my daughter comfortably and from what I observe, happily established, even if it is not the kind of match to which your bloodlines and fortune would otherwise have entitled you.”
Cherry was not to be so easily appeased. “I am old enough to have learned that character is far more important than bloodlines. Some people lose their family members, others go out and find them. Jonathan is the latter kind.”
The earl winced. “Point taken. I daresay he is a better man than I, and do not want to mar what should be a joyful reunion with a quarrel. Your temper reminds me of your mother, I might mention.”
“Neither do we seek any quarrel with you,” Jonathan said peaceably. “We came because it is only right for Cherry to meet her original family, but we do not want or need anything from you.”
“Easily said,” the Earl said gloomily, “but it is not that simple. We can talk of inheritance issues some other time, but Madeline’s – Cherry’s – reappearance is complicated, from a legal standpoint. There was a trust that was mistakenly dissolved, and may have to be re-established. I shall need to involve my solicitors, and so will you, I expect.”
“For such a personal issue,” Jonathan looked at Cherry questioningly, “I would want to consult my long-time solicitor and friend, Henry Beecham.” She nodded in agreement.
“The radical MP?” Lord Desborough raised his brows. “The one who married Amberley’s sister, Minerva? I had not realised that he still practiced the law.”
“Only for his particular friends and cases of special interest,” Jonathan explained.
“I see. But all that will have to wait. For now I had rather focus on the miracle of your survival, Cherry. Your mother was only twenty-one when she died so tragically, much younger than you are now.”
“I would like to hear more about her, and see that portrait when we are back in London.”
“And so you will,” Lord Desborough promised. “Do you realise you are carrying my first grandchild? When is it due?”
“Around Christmas.” Cherry shifted a little in the chair. She had already sat quite long enough today.
Something of her momentary discomfort must have shown on her face, for Lord Desborough immediately said, “I imagine you will want to rest at least a short while before dinner, which is served at seven, unless we entertain neighbours. We can continue talking then.”
Cherry rose, and took Jonathan’s arm again. “Very well – Father.” The word, which she had not used since she was eight years old, sat strangely on her lips. In her mind, her father was a cheerful blond man who had died much too young in a carriage accident, not this tall aristocrat. Apparently fate was determined to provide her with two fathers, as well as two husbands, in chronological order. She already had two sisters. Two of everything? She would not mind two children, or even more.
They were led back to their suite by the dignified, imperturbable butler. Did he know why Mr and Mrs Durwent had been invited? Very likely, upper servants tended to closely follow their masters’ concerns. She needed to talk to her own maid before the woman was blindsided by the announcement later this evening.
Childers had already laid out the dress she had designated, with the proper shoes, fan, and a warm wrap. There was not enough time for a bath before seven; tomorrow would have to do. While Cherry was dressing, she told her maid that she was apparently the eldest daughter of the house, by the Earl’s first wife. The woman did not betray her training by showing any overt emotion, but the way she said, “I see, Ma’am – or rather, my lady,” contained a wealth of satisfaction. Cherry smiled. Since the status of servants depended on that of their masters in a big household like this, Childers was now a far more important personage below stairs.
Her maid was fastening the tiny buttons at the side of her dress when Jonathan emerged from his own room with an oblong box in his hands. “This should go well with your colours tonight.” He produced a necklace of pearls and rubies, with matching earrings.
“You know I do not need any more jewels, and hardly ever wear them,” Cherry chided, even as she took and fastened the earrings. “But thank you, Jonathan.”
“They happened to catch my eye, more for the design than their value,” Jonathan explained. “And this is a special occasion, after all, when exceptions can be made. I cannot like to see you wearing jewels your first husband bought for you.”
“But then he never gave me a country estate or a Rubens. Or a child.” Was that a suppressed smirk on the face of her maid? Surely not.
Jonathan wrapped the Norwich shawl around her exposed shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”
“Unless the dining room here is very cold and draughty, I shall be fine,” she reassured him. “Please don’t
fuss, Jonathan.”
“Fussing is the prerogative of an expectant father. I am afraid, my lady, you will simply have to put up with it.”
He was doing his best to distract her from the impending meeting with the rest of the family. Cherry smiled to let him see it was working. If anything untoward happened, at least she would have his steady support.
Chapter 6
Hospitality is an art form it behoves every young lady to master.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
Anthea came down a good half hour early before dinner. Her curiosity was rewarded and further excited when she ran into a tall young man she had never met before. Surely he was too young and bronzed to be Mr. Durwent? Besides, there was something about his out-of-fashion clothes that screamed they had not been created in England.
For a long moment she stood in stupid silence, just looking up at him. His eyes were green and his overlong brown hair gleamed with health. The mouth quirked with humour, in what she guessed was a frequent expression.
“It seems there is nobody around just now to introduce us,” he said, bowing politely. “Charles Denham, at your service.”
“I am Anthea Desborough. Welcome to our Hall, Mr. Denham. I have known your grandfather for an age. How strange that we have not met before this.” Sir Christopher had mentioned his grandson now and then, but as usual when she was not acquainted with the person discussed, Anthea had barely listened.
“That is my loss, my lady. I was stationed in the West Indies until recently.”
That explained the clothes and the unusual tan, which despite being deeply unfashionable only added to his attractiveness.
“We seem to share a tendency to be overly punctual,” Mr Denham said after a short pause.
