by KJ Charles
“No,” Pen said, in chorus with Greta. “Don’t call me that. My name is Pen.”
Mr. Hapgood blinked. “Mr. Pen, then. Mr. Pen’s claim, if true, would make him the heir apparent and outweigh that of Mr. Desmond as heir presumptive—”
“Lord Moreton!” Phineas shouted. “Not ‘Mr. Desmond.’ My father is Lord Moreton.”
“It seems quite possible that he is not.” Mr. Hapgood spoke with clinical calm. “Edmund, Lord Moreton, was married to Emmeline Godfrey. Any son by that lady precedes all other heirs. It must be carefully assessed whether Mr. Pen is such a son.”
“Why are you taking his side?” Desmond demanded. His gnarled hands were tight on his cane. “You work for me!”
“I represent the Moreton estate,” Mr. Hapgood said, very coldly. “I have done so all my life. I do not take sides, Mr. Desmond: I serve the Earl of Moreton, whoever he may be. It is my strong advice that all parties to this business should consider the situation and the evidence fully. Not rush immediately to costly litigation”—he gave Phineas a meaningful look—“which would serve only to waste money and make public matters that are scarcely creditable to the Taillefer name.”
“How do you suggest we proceed, sir?” Tim asked.
Phineas shot him a glare. “It’s nothing to do with you, whatever happens.”
“It’s my name too,” Tim said. “It’s the name of everyone in this room—except Clem, of course—and I don’t imagine any of us wish to see it dragged through the mud any more than it already has been thanks to Edmund. We’ve washed quite enough dirty linen in public.”
“Do you suggest we simply hand over Crowmarsh and the title to a female impersonator?”
“Trapeze artist,” Mark said, sounding like his teeth were set. “I brought him straight from work.”
“Quite understandable,” Tim said. “And I didn’t say hand over, but for pity’s sake look at them. Of course they’re our relations, and Mr. Roy has any amount of evidence there. We have a moral obligation to investigate this properly. You wouldn’t want to steal the earldom from its true holder, would you, Uncle Desmond? To do your brother’s heir out of his inheritance? I’m sure the family means far too much to you for that.”
Desmond gave him a reptilian look. Clem said, “It’s not my name, but Edmund was my brother. It’s up to us to put right what he did wrong.”
“Installing a music-hall tumbler as Earl of Moreton is putting things right?” Phineas demanded.
“He’s an artist,” Clem said loudly. “You should see them.”
“Mr. Pen Taillefer’s position is the direct consequence of his father’s conduct,” Roy said. “If Lord Moreton’s son wasn’t brought up at Crowmarsh, that was Lord Moreton’s fault.”
“Just look at him!” Phineas shouted.
“Paint washes off,” Tim said. “Hair can be cut. The only question is whether Pen is Emmeline Godfrey’s lawful son. And you might want to discuss everything that’s happened about that in court, Phineas—what drove Edmund to turn his back on his father and make this marriage in the first place, how he abandoned his wife, how he lied to Lady Lucinda and made poor young Peter a bastard, what the twins have had to do to live while their father left them to starve, let alone whatever Mr. Lazarus here was saying about what’s been going on—” He took a much-needed breath. “You might want to rehearse all that in court and see it all over the newspapers for months, have your father’s last years spent in court and fight for your hope of dislodging Edmund’s rightful heir like rats in a sack, but then what? Perhaps you’ll claim the coronet you’ve tarnished, or perhaps you’ll lose, and Pen will be earl, but either way you’ll have made damned sure everyone knows how rotten this family is. Do you want to couple our name with that of Tichborne, and reduce us to a laughing-stock for people to discuss over breakfast? Are you so desperate to claim the title that you will trample our reputation to do it?”
Pen deduced from the open mouths of the gathered Taillefers that Tim was not usually one to make impassioned speeches. “I don’t want a title that doesn’t belong to me,” he said into the silence. “Not at all. I didn’t seek this, if it’s not mine I shan’t pursue it, and I shan’t go to court to fight about it either.”
“There,” Clem said. “That’s fair. Well said.”
“There’s sufficient evidence to prove it three times over.” Mark’s voice was flat. Pen swung to glare at him, but he was looking away, into the room, not meeting anyone’s eye.
“Why don’t people look at it without shouting, then?” Greta said. “If there’s so much evidence, it should be overwhelming. If it isn’t overwhelming, we’ll go away.”
Mr. Hapgood tutted gently. “The importance of establishing the correct line of descent—”
“We don’t care,” Greta said. “Pen’s not a puppet to act out your heraldic plays for you.”
“Either he’s the earl or he isn’t,” Roy said. “Might I second the suggestion that Mr. Hapgood should have the chance to review the evidence on behalf of the estate? To speak independently to witnesses and satisfy himself?”
“I want my own man there,” Phineas said. “Representing the family interests.”
“And I want mine too,” Clem said defiantly. “Nathaniel, I mean. Edmund was my brother. Pen and Greta are probably my niece and nephew. I want their, their, uh—”
“Interests represented,” Roy came in. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll give all parties everything they need,” Mark said. “You can all prove it for yourselves.”
“Do I have any say in this?” Pen asked. Nobody listened.
“I agree, in the interests of the family, that it is best to keep this matter private until it has been fully and fairly investigated,” Mr. Hapgood said. “If agreement cannot be reached, then we will have to proceed accordingly, but let us, ah, cross that bridge when we come to it.” He produced the proverb as though it were some dashing new piece of slang.
“Pen’s spoken very fairly,” Tim added. “He said he doesn’t want the earldom if it isn’t his. Can we all agree that we are looking for the true inheritor of Moreton, whoever he may be?”
Phineas’s face tightened. “I don’t like your implication.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Timothy implied anything,” Roy put in. “Why do you think he did?”
“Of course the true earl must be found,” Desmond said. His voice was harsh and cracked. “That is indisputable. And of course we do not want any further disgrace on our name. Edmund was a self-indulgent fool and he has hurt us all.” His mouth worked a little. “Hapgood, you’ll look into this business, discreetly. Go and speak to the witnesses.”
“With Mr. Conyers,” Phineas said.
“And Mr. Lazarus, on Clem’s behalf,” Roy added swiftly.
“All of us will wait until Hapgood reports. Any deceit or foul dealing, or any indiscretion, will be punished most severely.” Desmond looked around the room with hooded eyes. “And you—” He jabbed a finger at Pen. “You will behave as though you are what you claim to be, from this moment on, until you renounce the name of Taillefer.”
“What?” Pen said.
“You will dress like a decent man and come off the stage. I cannot have a nephew of mine swinging from ropes for gawping fools to marvel at. What if it became known that the Earl of Moreton put himself on public display in this way?”
“It’s a bit late for that,” Greta said. “We’ve been doing it since we were sixteen.”
“Then you must stop,” Desmond retorted. “At once. Ignorance may be forgiven; deliberate defiance of decency and disrespect for your position—if it is yours—will not. You have laid claim to this position; well, you will live up to it as of this moment.”
“Excuse me,” Pen said. “We’ve a performance tonight.”
“You do not, sir.”
“I must agree.” Mr. Hapgood wore a small frown. “I could not advise any further…acrobatic activity. It is not seemly.”
“This is our l
iving!” Pen felt almost too incredulous to be angry. “This is how we pay the rent. How long would you like us not to work, while you take your time looking over old documents? How exactly are we supposed to eat?” That was an exaggeration, but not a huge one. They’d had a great deal too much time off recently.
“If I may say so,” Roy put in with a swift glance at Mark, “I also think it would be advisable to suspend your performances, and, perhaps, to leave London.”
“What?”
“You can’t make us do that,” Greta said blankly.
Roy met Pen’s eyes. He looked very serious. “I’m quite sure you take my meaning. If we are to have a period of debate over your claim to the title, I think you should be somewhere other than your usual haunts. Not easily found by curious journalists or anyone else.”
“Crowmarsh,” Desmond said. Everyone turned to him.
“Father…”
“Crowmarsh,” Desmond repeated. “I am told these are my brother’s grandchildren, so let them be treated as such. Let them see what it is to be a Taillefer and to what position they aspire. Let nobody accuse the Taillefers of seeking petty advantage.” He shot Tim a malevolent look. “I insist upon it. If these are my brother’s grandchildren, they must be treated as befits their position and behave as such too. We shall not be found wanting in hospitality. They shall come to Crowmarsh while this matter is dealt with, away from undesirable associations and public curiosity, and they—will—learn. If this matter is to be kept within the family, we shall keep it there.” He rapped his stick on the floor for emphasis.
“It’s a good idea,” Roy said slowly. “I think.”
“Excuse me,” Pen said, with force. “What the hell is Crowmarsh?”
Chapter 8
Clem and Tim accompanied them on the railway journey from Paddington, on Boxing Day. Neither looked overjoyed to be returning to his boyhood home; both were mostly silent as they sat in the first-class carriage. Pen was grateful for that. Clem was charming, if odd in his manner; Tim seemed normal to a fault; both were obviously kind and obviously worried. Pen still didn’t want to talk to them.
He felt sick, and not because of the swaying racketing of the train, either. He’d felt sick since Mark had thrown him into this hogpen, knowing how little he wanted it; the nausea got worse with every hour that passed, as his stiff shirt collar closed around his throat like a noose.
If he was Earl of Moreton, he would have to do this forever. He’d be in the public eye whenever he left the house. His life and work and role and purpose, even his name would be a constant male existence. Nobleman. Earl. Lord. He saw too-large, too-hairy hands white-knuckled on his knees and shut his eyes.
“Pen?” Greta asked softly.
Pen nodded, and stared out of the window, not letting himself look at his reflection.
They’d wanted him to cut his hair. Desmond had demanded it, Phineas had insisted, Tim had awkwardly suggested, the lawyer Hapgood had advised. He would do better to be appropriate. He would make himself noticeable, even ridiculous by it. He would of course have to do it when his claim was confirmed, before any public announcement or appearance; he might as well show his sincerity by starting now.
Pen had refused to have it cut even to a decadent artistic shoulder length but he knew with a sick feeling in his stomach that at some point he’d give in. Perhaps other people—other earls—could defy convention and wear their hair down to their waists. If you had been to Eton and knew important people and grew up in a stately home, perhaps you could grow your hair or make up your face or even wear petticoats, and everyone would call it a lark, or eccentricity, or conspire on your behalf. Pen hadn’t been raised to believe he could do as he pleased, and he was afraid of the consequences.
God damn them all. God damn the earl who’d spawned them, God damn his lies to Mother, God damn whichever fool had found it necessary to expose the old swine’s bigamy, and God damn Mark, who had plunged him into this.
It had all felt like the inevitability of a nightmare since Mark had brought them into that drawing room. Loud well-spoken men making decisions, giving orders. They’d decided that the twins would go to Crowmarsh under the name of Starling, and here they were, and it was happening as all of it would happen, whatever Pen wanted. Even when he was the earl, people would tell him how things were done and he’d find himself doing them because he didn’t know how to navigate this strange, awful world and was terrified of making things worse.
At least he and Greta had had Christmas Day together. They’d cancelled their performances, miserably enduring Mr. McCollum’s justified fury, and huddled at home, barely speaking. Mark had come round three times. Mrs. Isaacs had turned him away twice; Pen had burned unread the notes he left. The third time, Mrs. Isaacs had requested that the twins deal with their visitor themselves, so Greta had gone downstairs and slapped him so hard Pen heard the crack two floors up.
Tim had come for them the next morning with a hackney cab, and they’d gone with him because without the trapeze, and without Mark, Pen hadn’t had any idea what else to do.
There was a carriage waiting at Didcot station, a huge old-fashioned thing with four horses, each black-plumed. It had a crest on the door, tied up in a black ribbon. Pen and Greta exchanged glances.
“How nice,” Greta said. “A hearse.”
“That’s mourning for Edmund. Your father,” Clem offered.
“Oh, are we supposed to mourn him?”
“It’s about seven miles.” Tim stepped ahead of Greta in order to offer her his hand. She looked at it, then up at his face. “Er. To help you into the carriage?”
“I swing off trapezes by my knees,” Greta said. “I think I can manage a step.”
“I’m sure you can, but…a lady is entitled to courtesies?”
“Lady Regret Taillefer might be.” Greta’s mouth had a set to it that presaged trouble. “Would you offer that courtesy to Greta Starling?”
“Of course he would,” Clem said. “Do you think we could get in, please? It’s cold.”
Greta looked from him to Tim and back, then put one fingertip on Tim’s hand with an exaggerated air of delicacy and hopped into the carriage. The rest of them followed.
The drive was long and uncomfortable, the carriage managing to be both draughty and stuffy. Tim and Clem exchanged a few words about mutual acquaintances, then relapsed into silence again as they rolled on toward doom.
“We’re here,” Clem said, after what felt like an hour. “Or almost. This is the drive.”
Pen yanked down the window, since it was doing little good closed, and stuck his head out. They were passing through a gateway, wrought-iron gates set in an ancient-looking red brick wall. The grounds were damp, grey, and winter-bare.
“Oh Lord,” Clem said, almost under his breath. “Here we are.”
“Aren’t you happy to be home?” Pen asked.
“This isn’t my home,” Clem said. “I just grew up here.”
“It ought to be a happier house,” Tim said. “It is beautiful, really.”
The drive turned in a sweep at that point, and Pen saw Crowmarsh. He couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. Greta joined him at the window and gave a quiet whistle. The carriage came to a stop, and Pen let himself out without waiting for anyone to come and open the door for him, ignoring Tim’s effort at objection.
Greta jumped out beside him. They stood for a moment, looking. Finally she said, “Is that a moat?”
“If it isn’t, they have a problem with damp,” Pen managed, and felt her hand slip into his as he stared, not quite taking it in. He’d heard all the words—earl, estate, aristocracy—but this was different. This was terrifyingly real.
Crowmarsh was huge, a great old pale stone thing with narrow windows like a church and towering, thin brick chimneys. A stone bridge extended from the drive where they stood, over the wide dark water that surrounded the house, to a sort of gateway as high as the house itself that looked for all the world like it belonged on a
castle.
“It’s got those square up-and-down things at the top,” Greta said, voice hushed.
“Crenellations,” Tim said behind them. “The oldest part of the house is thirteenth century. Most of it is late sixteenth, with some improvements made under the third earl around 1750 and again earlier this century. Should we go in?”
“But…” Moat, Pen’s brain was screaming. Castle.
“It’s just a house,” Clem said. “There’s eels in the moat that we used to fish for, and a lot of frogs. You get herons eating them. You can play a good game of hide-and-seek in the grounds—I mean, you can if you’re a schoolboy, though there’s nothing to stop you now, I suppose. It’s awfully draughty and there’s mice in the wainscoting, and actually there is quite a lot of damp, which isn’t surprising.” He put a hand lightly on Pen’s shoulder. “It’s only a house.”
Pen looked around and met Clem’s smile, not the full blinding beam of it but a slightly worried expression of such sympathy that he could have wept. “Thank you.”
“Come on,” Tim said. “It’s cold.”
They walked in, the four of them, leaving the servants—servants!—to carry their baggage. Over the bridge, which must have been fifteen feet in length, under the shadow of the gatehouse or whatever it was, to a huge arched oak door that stood open, with a magnificent-looking man in a black formal coat waiting for them with a stony expression.
“Who’s that?” Greta hissed. “Is it another cousin?”
The door was closed behind them. The hatchet-faced man bowed from the waist. “Miss Starling. Mr. Starling. Mr. Timothy. Mr. Talleyfer. You will find Mr. Desmond and Mr. Phineas in the Large Drawing Room.”
“Thank you, Ponsonby,” Tim said, and Pen realised that the man, who seemed to him as stately as any Member of Parliament, must be the butler.
