The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  Portland ignored his interruption. “I showed him the picture. He swears it cannot be Marie. Her face was narrow, with a pointed chin and turned-up nose.”

  “More proof that he confused her with another tenant.” John shrugged.

  “I doubt it. He recalls all three Lascars clearly – I suspect he was sweet on Marie. I next visited Orange Street.”

  John frowned, for the name again meant nothing.

  “That is where Marie Lascar lived with another military wife after Henry left for India. Without his income, she could not afford to stay at Little Bacon. Shortly before Henry died, fever claimed the other woman. Marie couldn’t afford the entire rent, so she left. The landlord doesn’t remember much. He thinks this portrait is familiar, but he can’t swear she was a tenant.”

  “Hardly a surprise,” murmured Faith.

  “I know.” Alex again stared at the picture. “To clinch matters, I visited Hare Street.”

  “Where Aunt Frobisher lived.” John relaxed. There would be no surprises from Hare Street. He knew everyone too well.

  “Mrs. Parker recognized this picture as Marie Lascar,” continued Alex. “She watched you sketch it.”

  “Aunt Frobisher was ailing,” he admitted. “I spent as much time in the Parkers’ rooms as in ours.”

  “So she said. She also identified the sketch of Francine as Marie Lascar.”

  “Which only proves that Mother and Francine resembled each other. We know that already.”

  “And neither resembled the real Marie Lascar,” he continued relentlessly.

  John tensed. “Don’t, Alex. You cannot accept the clouded memory of one old man as fact when you’ve nothing to support it. I don’t care if he was sweet on her. It isn’t possible. Can you recall every face you met thirty years ago?”

  “No, but I am not relying on one man’s memory.” He leaned closer, using his finger for emphasis. “Mrs. Parker is a font of information, John. The neighbors may be full of tales of your christening, but none of them saw Marie there.”

  “Of course, they did.”

  Alex shook his head. “You assumed they did, but in truth Marie didn’t attend. Mrs. Parker recalls quite clearly that Marie was ill and remained in bed. It is a common enough occurrence, for fevers often plague new mothers. Baptism requires only that the godparents be present. The guests were disappointed. They’d looked forward to meeting Marie since none of them had been invited to the wedding, not even Mrs. Frobisher.”

  “But—”

  “Henry didn’t call on his aunt once between his marriage and his departure for India. Thus Mrs. Frobisher met Marie for the first time when she showed up on the doorstep, accompanied by her five-year-old son. That was several weeks after Mrs. Frobisher learned of Henry’s death in India. Marie said she’d remained in her rooms until the lease ran out, then followed Henry’s instructions to seek out his aunt.”

  Faith frowned. “Why his aunt and not his parents – or hers?”

  John shrugged. “Da’s parents died when he was fourteen. He lived with Aunt Frobisher for two years before joining the army. Aunt Frobisher never discussed it, but Mother said they’d argued fiercely just before he accepted the king’s shilling. The invitation to stand godmother for me was the first step in a rapprochement, but something halted further progress – or so I pieced together from various hints.”

  “The important point is that Henry never introduced Mrs. Frobisher to Marie. The only proof we have that you are Henry’s son is that your mother possessed Marie’s papers. Thus I must seriously consider her appearance. Everyone who has seen this picture identifies it as Molly Dingle, who adopted the name Francine DuBois and took charge of the Duke of Westfield while he was still in leading strings. Those who knew Marie Lascar when she lived with her husband swear this picture is not her.”

  “Don’t say everyone when you speak of only one man who is likely confused. Time distorts many recollections. It especially exaggerates differences. How tall is he? How big?”

  “Hulking,” admitted Alex.

  “Even tall women would seem small to such a man. And thirty years of fond fantasies can exaggerate truth, making her younger and darker—”

  Alex interrupted. “There is other evidence, John.”

  “More people who clearly remember a woman they last saw more than thirty years ago?” he scoffed.

  “No. I’m frankly amazed to find even one. But while Henry’s family is gone, Marie had many relatives. I hope to find some of them. In the meantime, the duchess gave Francine the duke’s signet ring.”

  John stiffened. While he’d skimmed most of the duchess’s diary, he’d paid attention only to mentions of Chester.

  “Francine was to give it to Montrose when she told him about his inheritance,” continued Alex.

  John smiled. “I have no signet ring.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Faith prevented him from rising, though she must sense that he needed to pace. “Did you keep her things, John?” Her thumb stroked his palm.

  “A few trinkets. There wasn’t room for much at Soane’s.”

  “But you still have them.” It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded.

  Alex also nodded. “Have you looked at them recently?”

  “No. I’ve not opened that trunk since I packed it.” He feared where this would lead, but couldn’t halt the admission. “I cursed it every time I had to move, but I couldn’t leave it behind.”

  “It’s time to see what it contains,” said Faith briskly. “A grieving boy would not note the significance of things like signet rings.”

  John sent Treburn to the attic to fetch the small trunk containing his mother’s effects. No one spoke while they waited, though he clung to Faith’s hand. Only she could save him from drowning.

  * * * *

  Faith kept John’s hand in her lap, praying that she could somehow ease his pain. She wasn’t surprised at his stubbornness. Admitting that he was Montrose Willowby, ninth Duke of Westfield, meant that his revered mother had lived a lie since leaving home at seventeen, that his family history belonged to someone else, and that his nearest blood relative wanted him dead. It was enough to put anyone off.

  She couldn’t escape the irony, though. If Chester hadn’t decided to renovate Westcourt…

  Treburn returned, setting a small chest at John’s feet.

  John stared at it for a long moment, finally leaning over to lift the lid. A poisonous snake would be more welcome. Grief washed over him. And anger.

  The anger was old, dating to the day he’d packed these things away. Anger at the carter who had killed his mother. Anger at his mother for taking in extra work – if she’d been satisfied with the life they’d led, she would not have died. Anger at fate for disrupting his plans.

  Nothing had been the same again. Oh, he’d been grateful enough to learn that she’d set money aside for the apprenticeship he’d wanted so badly. But he’d felt guilty as well. If not for his dreams, she would have worked less. So in a way, he’d killed her…

  Now he was more angry than ever, for fate was again disrupting his plans. Was this his payment for daring to dream? No matter what this box held, his life would never be the same.

  His hand shook.

  A stained infantry uniform lay on top. “Da’s,” he explained shortly. “Mother received his effects along with notice of his death. I’d forgotten that.”

  Alex frowned.

  The next item was a pocket watch, engraved to Henry from Marie. How many gowns had she embroidered to afford it?

  “If Henry accepted the king’s shilling at sixteen, how did he meet Marie?” Faith asked.

  “He was wounded during the American rebellion and sent home to recover. Mother never told me how they met, but he worked on the docks for a time after their marriage – the American rebellion ended before he could rejoin his regiment, reducing the need for soldiers. Eventually the need revived. I was two when he left for India. We never saw him again.” He s
hrugged, though the tale raised questions he’d never before considered, such as why Henry hadn’t stayed with Aunt Frobisher while recuperating. Surely if the estrangement had been that serious, he would never have asked her to stand godmother for his son…

  Stifling curiosity, he lifted out other items belonging to his father, then reached his mother’s meager possessions. The needles and pins so essential to her trade. Her brush and comb. Her favorite shawl – he’d given it to her at age ten, paying for it with pennies he’d earned delivering messages for a solicitor. Her box of trinkets. The box had been a wedding present from Henry. Yet she’d hidden it from Aunt Frobisher…

  He dumped its contents on a table, spreading them so everyone could see. “My baby teeth. The enamel pin she wore to church every week. Da’s ring.”

  Alex picked it up. “The signet ring of the Duke of Westfield.”

  “It can’t be!”

  “It’s the Westfield crest, John,” said Faith taking it from Alex. “Look at it. You must recognize the design. Chester demanded that you install it in every room.” She shoved the ring into his hand.

  He stared, blinded by rampant lions and crossed swords…

  The ring flashed in a blaze of sunlight, fixed on the finger of the man he’d seen in the duchess’s apartments. Laughter tickled his ears and shook his chest as it swooped closer, until the hand caught him, then flung him back into the air. That odd warmth again blanketed him…

  It couldn’t be memory. It couldn’t!

  Alex sighed. “Before you claim she stole it or borrowed it or found it on the street, there is one proof that cannot be fabricated. Montrose has a distinctive scar on his left buttock.”

  Faith gasped. “There was nothing in the diary about a scar. What sort?”

  “Bernard recalls it well. Montrose fell into the kitchen fireplace barely a week before his father’s death. The scar might have faded by now, but it was deep enough to leave permanent marks. It originally displayed a perfect impression of the top six inches of the andiron, complete with the duke’s crest.”

  John nearly passed out. He recalled the kitchen andiron perfectly. Relic of an earlier age, it was fancier than current specimens, embellished by curlicues and a bronze crest. Yet he refused to accept that his own mark matched. Not even when Faith stared at his hip, obviously casting her mind back to last night, then nodded. “I would know if I spent the first two years of my life as Montrose! The name means nothing!”

  “But they didn’t call you Montrose,” said Faith, cupping his cheek so he had to meet her gaze. “Westfield’s heir is the Earl of Othmar. Everyone, from parents to servants, addresses him as Othmar from the moment he is born.”

  “She’s right,” said Alex briskly. “All heirs are addressed by title. My brother had to study his given names when he left for school. He hadn’t known all of them.”

  “But the duchess referred to him as Montrose in her diary,” he tried in a last desperate appeal to reason.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Faith. “He was named after her favorite uncle. But she knew her duty. The heir to a title must accept that title and all that goes with it. It is the only way to instill a proper sense of duty. Addressing him like lesser boys might let him forget.”

  John flinched, grateful that he was seated. His legs suddenly felt like water.

  He could no longer deny the truth. The name Othmar resonated in his head – just as his first sight of Westcourt had resonated. Was that why he felt so strongly connected to the house? Was it his birthplace?

  The evidence was overwhelming. And now that he accepted the possibility, other memories crowded his head. His mother had been desperate to talk as she lay dying.

  Mon— Mon— Mon—, she’d said over and over. He’d thought she feared he would forget the money she’d set aside, so he’d done his best to comfort her.

  But she’d become even more agitated, spitting out sounds until tears of frustration ran down her face. Her head had been injured so badly that the words made no sense. All he’d understood had been her overwhelming sense of failure, which he had attributed to her death before he was properly apprenticed.

  Now, when it was too late, he understood. She had tried to explain his heritage, but died believing that she’d broken her vow to the duchess.

  Other things now also made sense. Terror and grief had made it difficult to think, but he should have questioned the extent of her savings – far more than a seamstress could accumulate in a lifetime. The money must have come from the duchess. Only now did he understand the extent of Francine’s devotion and the strength of the fear that had driven her. Living in comfort might have drawn Chester’s attention, so she’d accepted a menial post as a seamstress’s assistant, then encouraged him to work, too. She’d known the trustees would watch the public schools closely. No matter what kind of background she devised, he risked exposure. So she’d kept him home, subscribing to three lending libraries and pushing him to read constantly, swearing that he would be grateful for the knowledge one day. She’d encouraged his dreams, for they required that he learn better manners than his friends exhibited. And they gave him an incentive to adopt attitudes more suited to his betters. Not once had she complained about her diminished status.

  He was so deep in memory that he barely noticed Treburn hand a note to Alex.

  What he couldn’t understand was why she had hidden the truth from him. Had she thought him too young or stupid or undependable? He’d had a right to know at ten, or certainly by twelve. Even the duchess had expected him to know by twelve. Boys that age routinely worked in factories or aboard ships. Did she think he would attack Chester?

  He had more sense, though even at twelve he would have hated hiding behind a false name.

  Which brought him to Marie Lascar. “What happened to Henry Lascar’s wife? If my mother was not she, then where is she? And where is her son?”

  Alex held out his note. “The final proof. John Lascar’s godfathers were Marie’s uncles. One of their sons works at Horse Guards. I left a message there this morning. This is his response.”

  John gingerly unfolded the missive. Samuel Pepperidge was brief. His cousin Marie Lascar had died of a fever in October of 1789 and her son with her.

  Alex nodded. “That’s when Francine left the Dingles. She must have known Marie well enough to take possession of her effects and assume her identity. The landlord paid little attention to his tenants, so would barely notice that the Marie Lascar who moved out at the end of the lease was not the one who’d moved in three years earlier. She had to leave that area, though, in case the neighbors said something. And moving took her farther from her family and any society members who might recognize her. It was another way to protect you.”

  “She certainly did an outstanding job of that,” said Faith. “Few boys orphaned before they turned twelve could have achieved as much as you did.”

  “I was thir—” His voice died, for if he was Montrose, Francine had died a week before his twelfth birthday. He was more than a year younger than he’d thought. No wonder he couldn’t recall his earliest years. He must have been four when they had moved in with Aun— Mrs. Frobisher.

  “We will call at the College of Arms in the morning,” said Alex, returning to business.

  “No. I won’t claim the title. I’m happy where I am.”

  “You have no choice,” countered Alex. “Titles follow blood and take no account of preference.”

  John glared. “I won’t do it! If you persist, I’ll move to America and renounce my citizenship. Foreigners cannot hold British titles.” He pitched the signet ring into the fire, then strode to the window, turning his back on the room and its uncomfortable intruder.

  “You would leave Westcourt to Chester?” demanded Faith, accepting the ring Portland recovered. “You would increase his power over the staff, tenants, villagers, and your remaining family? No matter how much you dislike them, they are your responsibility.”

  John’s shoulders slumped.r />
  Portland pursed his lips, then collected his papers. “He is understandably in shock, Miss Harper. Perhaps you can explain better once he’s had a chance to settle. I will return in the morning.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The moment Portland left, John dragged Faith into his arms. “I can’t do it,” he swore. “I have no use for the aristocracy. Hateful people!”

  “We spoke of this already, John. There are good lords and bad lords and everything in between. Just as there are good and bad architects. You needn’t change your ways. But you cannot turn your back on the thousands of people who depend on Westfield. Even if you could renounce the title, you are too good a man to leave them in Chester’s hands.” She pulled back to stare at his face. “Now come to bed, my dear. He’s right. You are in shock. Put off thinking about it until morning.”

  “Only if you join me.”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chester revealed his true self this morning. When I refused to discuss Montrose, he beat me. Thank God I don’t know where Francine went, for I might have weakened. The pain… I suspected I was carrying another child, but that hope is now utterly dashed.

  Duchess of Westfield, July 13, 1787

  By the time John reached his room, he was shaking so hard he could barely stand. Faith half-carried him to the bed and helped him sit.

  She remembered all too well that shock could inflict pain from head to toe. Her mother’s death – the fourth family death in two days – had left her abandoned, bewildered, and begging to follow them into the hereafter. All that day she’d sat at her mother’s bedside, clinging to her stiffening hand as she tried to make sense of a world gone mad. Not until a neighbor responded to their wailing maid had someone dragged her screaming from the room.

  For days she’d suffered debilitating pain, as if someone had scraped her raw inside and out. She’d been wracked with nausea, tormented by shaking so bad she couldn’t stand, overcome by grief. Not just for her family, but for the life they’d known. It, too, had died of raging fever, sending her to a place as alien as China or ancient Greece.