The Fictitious Marquis

by Alina Adams

  "I am hardly that old."

  "You're old enough," Jamie said.

  He winked at Alexia, who giggled. She bounced in her seat and looked at Julia, still waiting for an answer to her question.

  Slowly, Julia replied, "I suppose you may, if you wish, call him Uncle Jamie. It is only that . . ."

  "Only that what?"

  "It is only that I—I am not certain how long Mr. Lowell, how long he plans to be . . . with us."

  Julia looked up and her eyes met Jamie's. He could feel her searching his face for a sign.

  A sign of what?

  Did she want him to contradict her? Did she want him to declare his intentions? Did she want him to beg for permission to stay? And, if Julia wanted him to stay, why did she not simply say so? If Julia wanted him to stay, why did she act as if she weren't certain whether or not Jamie would?

  He forced his features to remain placid. Jamie crossed his arms and stared back at her defiantly. Between them, Alexia could only look from one to the other in confusion.

  The child asked, "Are you going somewhere away, Mr. Lowell?"

  "I don't know. Am I?" Jamie asked Julia.

  The directness of his question startled her. She averted her gaze and pulled Alexia closer, using the girl as a shield between the pair of them. "That—that, I believe is up to you, Jamie."

  And they were back to where they'd started from.

  Salome came racing out of the house the moment she spotted Julia, Jamie, and Alexia from the upstairs window.

  Unable to wait even for her granddaughter to climb out of the carriage, Salome swept Alexia into a hug while the child still stood on the top step, crying and talking so quickly Jamie could barely decipher the older woman's words.

  Alexia flung both arms around her grandmother's neck, jabbering away equally as quickly. And, without a backward glance, both of them disappeared into the house, leaving Julia and Jamie standing alone on the front steps, looking after Moses as he settled their account with the livery.

  Julia and Jamie exchanged glances, newly shy in each other's presence now that Alexia were no longer around to chaperon them.

  Jamie coughed into his fist, looking down over his fingers at Julia. She busied herself with picking at the ivy growing around the banister, plucking a stray leaf here and there, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger, than dropping it to the ground.

  Jamie said, "Well, then."

  "Yes." She could not look in his eyes. Julia knew that if she looked in his eyes all would be lost.

  And, naturally, she could not look at his hands, for only a glimpse of the tanned, slightly calloused palms and fingers was enough to make Julia giddy, recalling how they'd felt against her arms when the two of them danced, and her face when he'd kissed her, and the fever that seized her body in response.

  So that left only Jamie's shoes, which, in themselves, did not fill Julia's head with images to make her swoon. But it did make for a rather awkward conversation. Him addressing the top of Julia's averted head, and her addressing his footwear.

  "I must look a fright. I'll run and change." Julia brushed past Jamie, still unwilling to tear her eyes from the ground, and ducked inside the house before he could move to prevent her.

  Later that evening, while Jamie waited for Julia to change frocks and clean up a bit, he asked Moses, "Did you come to work for Julia's family after her father married her mother?"

  "Yes, sir, that I did."

  "What sort of work did you do before?"

  The older man sighed, pausing in his task of collecting Jamie's dirty garments for the laundry, and, with a pained expression, confessed, "I swept floors at a men's club in London."

  "Gor." Jamie tried to imagine the stately and dignified Moses wielding a broom and dust pan. "Why, you're not so different from me then after all, are you?"

  "Please, sir, that difference is the only solace I have."

  Jamie burst out laughing. Who might have guessed that beneath that most proper exterior lurked such a sly sense of humor?

  "Did Julia's mother employ her entire family here?"

  "As many as she could. Sarah said that she could not bear to be living so well while the rest of us languished in poverty." Moses reflected. "She was a most extraordinary woman. But then, she had to be. As you may have guessed, not that many of my relatives ended up as wives of peers. She could be very enchanting, and very convincing. It were she who talked Master Lloyd into providing Miriam with the dowry that enabled her to wed that French fellow. Although, in retrospect, I suppose that bit of generosity was hardly for the best."

  "So," Jamie leaned forward eagerly, "let me understand this correctly. Everyone in this house is pretending to be someone that they're not. I am not a marquis, you are not a butler, and Julia is not a proper young lady of the ton."

  "I beg to differ, sir. I may not have been trained as a butler, but I have performed the duties of one for over twenty years, so, consequently, I am one. And as for Miss Julia, as long as no one discovers otherwise, she is a fine young lady of the ton in every sense of the word."

  "But not on the inside. On the inside, she is living as much of a lie as I, or you. She is playing a game."

  "A hundred years ago, sir, both Miss Julia and her parents might have been burned alive for playing such a game."

  "But we are living in a much more civilized time, Moses."

  "Oh, really? Tell me, Mr. Lowell, what do you think would happen to Julia if the truth were ever to come out about her parentage?"

  "What would happen?" Jamie shrugged. "I don't know. She wouldn't be burned alive, that much I'm certain of."

  "No. She would not be. But she would be socially ostracized. Unwelcome by the same people she once believed to be her friends. An imposter like you, Mr. Lowell, possesses more options in this nation than a half-breed of any sort. Look at how wickedly those who are part Indian are treated. Once the truth about Julia becomes common knowledge, she will end up isolated here in the country, without even a London season to look forward to. Julia's life will shrink to what is contained between these four walls."

  "But what about the Jews of London? Surely, Julia could find companionship among them?"

  "Do I need to explain to a gentleman of your sort the paradox of living in two worlds? You may be a part of both, but you will never belong to either. Julia's life and upbringing would be alien to those of her own race. The same way, I suspect, that someone of your intelligence and talent never quite fit in with the rest of the riffraff in the East End."

  Jamie couldn't be sure, but there might have been a compliment directed at him somewhere inside of Moses's speech.

  "That is most difficult," he conceded. "I guess that Julia and I are even more alike than I suspected."

  "Of course, sir," Moses agreed, then added, without a trace of the irony Jamie might have expected, "That is precisely why you have so fallen in love with her."

  "One moment, Mr. Lowell," Salome's voice caught up with Jamie as he were exiting his bedroom. He turned around reluctantly. Three months of living in this household had succeeded in making Jamie most wary when it came to a summons from Mrs. Weiss.

  She hurried down the hall after him, her gray and white taffeta dress rustling along the floor. "Please. I should like a word with you, if I may."

  Her tone was gentle, which intrigued him enough to actually slow down and allow Salome to catch up with him.

  They paused in the hallway, beside an ornate monopodium mahogany table inlaid with ebony and silver. Jamie casually leaned against it, one arm propped along the edge, and looked down at Salome expectantly.

  "I wish . . ." Salome uncharacteristically looked down at her hands, rubbing her right thumbnail along her left palm. The rest of the words came out in a hurried rush, almost as if she feared losing her nerve. "I wish to thank you. For what you did. Julia tells me she would have been quite lost without you."

  Jamie knew that it were the duty of a gentleman to respond to such a heartfelt, albeit
forced, show of gratitude with a modest assertion that she must think nothing of it. But, as Salome had spent months pointing out, he was most certainly not a gentleman.

  When no response from Jamie proved forthcoming, Salome added, "And I should like to apologize to you as well."

  Again, no answer. Jamie remained where he was, looking down at Salome with a face successfully devoid of all expression.

  Yet, she appeared determined to finish her piece, drawing confidence with every word uttered.

  "They say, Mr. Lowell, that we hate in others that trait which we most fear in ourselves. From the moment you entered this house, you reminded me of my own precarious position, of my own deception. You forced me to remember how close all of us perpetually are to discovery." Salome sighed, smiling wistfully, "When my sister, Sarah, married Julia's father, she insisted on bringing me into their household. I was a widow by then, and Miriam barely seven. Eventually, she made a fine companion for Julia. But Sarah were determined that we would never be treated like servants or poor relations by her husband's peers. The ton loved Sarah from the first day. Not only because she was beautiful. This city is filled with beautiful women. But because she was good. Truly good. She glowed with it. She drew people to her, like some priceless work of art. And she always made certain that I were included in her circle. She never bought a new gown without seeing that I were outfitted in something equally as lovely. She never accepted an invitation, unless there was also one in the post for me. I was so terrified in the beginning. I hardly opened my mouth to say a word. Funny how, in the end, that worked out to my advantage."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Everyone in London is so busy talking, they have no time to listen. I was petrified of saying the wrong thing, so I kept my mouth shut. I listened when the rest of them spoke. It branded me very popular. It even carried me through after Sarah passed away."

  Jamie said, "And then I came along, threatening to spoil it."

  "I apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Lowell. You did nothing to provoke or deserve it."

  Jamie smiled, genuinely, for what was probably the first time ever in Salome's presence. He reached for her hand, grasping firmly, and enthusiastically shaking it. "Apology accepted."

  "Thank you, Mr. Lowell."

  He continued, "And now, seeing as I am in the presence of a charlatan with decades more experience than my humble self, perchance you would care to share a few pointers?"

  Hair washed and combed, clean dress, a few hours rest, and Julia entered the parlor positively beaming. All the tension and worry that monopolized her features in France seemed to have been scrubbed away along with the dirt. Seeing her looking so very beautiful only served to remind Jamie of how close he'd come last night to breaking his vow of making Julia come to him.

  She smiled and took a seat on the windowsill. Jamie continued standing where he was, leaning casually against the bookshelf, leafing through a tome on the life and times of Leonardo da Vinci.

  Julia began, "I want to thank you, Jamie. I don't know what I would have done without you."

  Well, at least Salome had not lied about that bit of it.

  Remembering her ease in acquiring them a boat ride home, he sincerely corrected, "You would have thought of something."

  "Yes. I suppose. But I am glad that I did not have to." Julia pulled a lock of hair out from behind one ear and began twirling it around her fingers. "I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You were most kind to Miriam, and to Alexia, and to myself. I—I wish to give you something. As an expression of my gratitude. I hope that you will accept it in the manner that I—in the correct manner."

  He closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. His hands shook so hard, that Jamie could barely fit the work back into its narrow space. This, he knew, was the moment. The one he had been pushing and waiting for, for weeks. The one that would decide matters one way or the other.

  Julia said, "I—I am giving you your freedom, Jamie."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I am letting you free. Right now. Earlier than the time we originally arrange—contracted for."

  "I see." Jamie could hear himself stalling for time as he struggled to comprehend the full meaning of what she was saying.

  "Yes. Good. I am glad."

  The anger that flooded up from the depths of his soul struck Jamie against the rear of his skull like a smith's hammer, yet he struggled to keep it from floating visibly onto his features.

  Like a drowning man sinking deeper and deeper into a life-sucking undertow, Jamie frantically flailed, searching for any way to pull himself out. His common sense urged him to slip easily and comfortably into the behavior pattern he knew best. Now was the time to crank up every bit of heavily practiced charm he'd ever acquired, and let Julia have it all with such force that the lady might never know what hit her.

  Only, to his horror, Jamie found himself unable to squeeze free so much as a drop. And he did not need a public school education to explain why.

  All of Jamie's famous charms, all of his tricks and carefully chosen phrases, were false and rehearsed and so frequently misused that the words themselves had long ago ceased to have any meaning. And, consequently, none of them were in any way fit for Julia.

  Julia deserved honesty, not stock platitudes. Unfortunately, Jamie had used up seemingly every flowery word in the English language to pledge emotions that he did not feel. And now, when it came time to truly express himself, there was not a single untainted, genuine syllable left for him to offer.

  So, instead, with a great deal more calm than he actually felt, Jamie clasped on to the one tangible thing he could still hang his hat on. He inquired, "And what about my money?"

  "Money?" Julia looked as if that were the last thing she'd expected Jamie to inquire about. "Oh, your money, of course. I'll still pay you the full amount. A bargain is a bargain, after all."

  Jamie could feel himself nodding, but he no longer knew for certain exactly why. Here they were, coolly discussing his fee as if Jamie were no more than the fellow coming to walk the horses or chop wood for the fireplace.

  What about her behavior last night? What about their kiss at the ball, and the earlier one in this very parlor? Was she going to continue to insist that none of it had ever taken place?

  "You want me to go?"

  "Today, if you like," Julia said. She looked away, biting her lip and, softly, qualified, "That is, if you want to go."

  He cleared his throat. "Is it up to me then?"

  "Certainly. Who else would your decision to leave or stay be made by, Jamie?"

  "Well, there are other factors to consider."

  "Indeed."

  She was not helping him by uttering such vague generalities. Jamie attempted the lackadaisical approach, remarking, "Well, this truly is the finest home I ever had the privilege of staying in."

  "Thank you." Julia's tone was that of a polite young lady making conversation with a stranger.

  He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Julia by the shoulders and shake her, hard, until she once and for all spat out what it was that she wanted from him, what it was that she felt for him, and how it was that she expected him to just disappear and never see her again, when, for the past month, Julia Highsmith had been all Jamie could drink, live, and think of.

  But, gentleman that he had become, Jamie did no such thing. His pride would not allow it. He could not, and would not, lower himself to groveling before Julia in the same manner that a few women of his past acquaintance had done. If she wanted him to leave, then he would leave. And he would not grant her the satisfaction of knowing how much it affected him.

  But he would damn well make sure that his final exit wreaked as much havoc with his bride as it did with him.

  Crossing the room in three brief strides so that he might tower over her one last time, Jamie demanded, "And what is it that you want, Julia? Do you wish that I should go, or that I should stay? I am your legal husband, after all. You have the right to at le
ast express an opinion one way or the other."

  She scrunched deeper into the windowsill, back nearly pressing against the glass. "I—I may be your legal wife, Jamie, but you owe me nothing save what we initially agreed on."

  Again, with the rhetoric.

  "Just answer my question. Do you want me to stay and continue being your husband, or do you want me to go?"

  The minute he uttered those words, Jamie sensed that he'd gone a step too far. It was that extra phrase, "be your husband," that tipped the scales against him.

  Funny, Jamie was usually such a good card player, and here he was showing his trump much too early. He knew it, and Julia knew it. And Miss Highsmith was not the sort of lady to let a mistake by her opponent go unnoted.

  "As I have explained to you previously, Jamie, you are only my husband in the legal, not the moral, sense. I told you that I did not mean those vows which we recited in the church. So, as far as I am concerned, we are not married."

  "Well, then, would you wish for me to be your husband in the moral sense, as well?"

  At least his question made her blush and turn away. Too bad that, with Jamie standing so close by, there was nowhere that Julia could turn without having to look at him.

  Now it was Julia's turn to seize upon the tangible in lieu of trying to make sense of her more obscure emotions. "We can't very well throw ourselves a second ceremony, could we, Jamie? What would people say? It would look most odd."

  "You're right," Jamie conceded. "A second church wedding would seem terribly peculiar."

  "Well, there you have it then."

  "But, considering your rather tangled heritage, it does not necessarily need to be a church, now, does it?"

  Her eyes grew wide, as she grasped his meaning. "A synagogue?"

  "There must be some advantages to two Gods watching over you."

  "No, Jamie. No, absolutely not. What if someone were to see me going inside? I can't risk it. How would I explain myself?"

  He sighed in disgust and shook his head, running one hand through his hair and briefly resting it there. "Very well then. We could stand here all day, me finding loopholes, and you searching for excuses to reject them. But, philosophy and semantics aside, you still have not answered my question. Please, Julia, tell me. Should I go upstairs, pack my things, collect my wages, bid you and this lovely household good-bye, and then walk out that door for good? Or should I stay? Permanently."