A Place Called Home (15 page)

‘Dora,' Piers said sharply. ‘Lucy is in mourning for her grandfather.'

Lucy was suddenly conscious of the severity of her black silk gown and a glimpse of her reflection in one of the tall, gilt-framed mirrors was enough to convince her that she was not looking her best. She had confined her hair in a chignon at the back of her head, but tendrils had escaped and were curling wildly around her face in a frivolous manner quite unsuited to deep mourning. Her normally pink cheeks were pale and there were faint bruise-like smudges underlining her eyes. She managed a smile. ‘It's lovely to see you both.' She turned to Bedwin, who was standing very still, clutching Piers's top hat and cane with a puzzled expression on his lined features, as if he had forgotten why he had taken them. ‘Tea and cake in the drawing room, please, Bedwin.' She turned to Piers. ‘Or would you prefer Madeira or a glass of sherry?'

‘Tea will suit me very well.' He proffered his arm. ‘How are you keeping, my dear? It's been a trying time for you.'

Dora danced on ahead of them. ‘It's such a pity that your party was cancelled, Lucy. Anyway, we came to wish you well on your birthday, and Piers has a present for you.'

‘Have you, Piers?' Lucy allowed him to take her arm as they followed Theodora up the sweeping staircase. ‘A present for me? I'd almost forgotten that it was my birthday.'

‘It was going to be a surprise, but my wretched little sister has spoiled the moment,' Piers said with an indulgent smile.

Dora reached the landing and leaned over the balustrade, pulling a face at her brother. ‘Someone has to cheer poor Lucy up, and it might as well be me, since you're determined to be a grouch.' She tossed her head and strutted off towards the drawing room with Lucy and Piers not far behind.

Lucy slipped into the role of hostess, which had been drummed into her by Miss Wantage, who had believed firmly that good manners were of the utmost importance, followed by excellent deportment and the ability to maintain a ladylike appearance even in the direst of circumstances. ‘Do sit down,' Lucy said, perching on the edge of a sofa upholstered in pale green watered silk. She had only been allowed in the drawing room on Sundays when she was younger, and then she had to sit on one of the less valuable antiques.

Dora sank down on a chair by the fire, sending a meaningful glance at her brother. ‘Go on, Piers. What are you waiting for?'

‘Will you please stop nagging me, Dora? You drive a fellow mad.' Piers sat beside Lucy, taking her hand in his. ‘I was going to do this at the party, my darling, and I certainly didn't want to propose to you in front of my wretched sister, but she insisted on accompanying me today.'

Lucy's heart missed a beat, leaving her breathless. This was not the most romantic setting for a proposal, especially with Dora sitting on the edge of her seat with her hands clasped and a look of expectation on her face. But she had to stop Piers before it was too late. ‘Not now, Piers. There's something I must tell you.'

His startled expression might have been amusing at any other time, but it was followed by an impatient frown. ‘Can't it wait, Lucy? I think you know what I was about to say.'

‘It's only fair to tell you that I'm about to lose everything, Piers. My grandfather's solicitor left just before you arrived, and the news he gave me was not good.'

Dora clapped her mittened hands to her mouth. ‘Oh dear!'

‘Precisely,' Lucy said grimly. ‘There's no easy way to say this, but my grandfather's finances were shaky when he passed away.'

‘But he must have left you something, darling.' Piers held her hands, his expression neutral.

‘He left me this house, together with the estate in Essex.'

A smile softened Piers's handsome features, and he raised her hand to his lips. ‘But that still leaves you a wealthy woman. This house must be worth a small fortune.'

‘I agree, but my father's cousin, Linus Daubenay is contesting the will.'

Piers frowned, releasing her hand. ‘On what grounds, may I ask?'

‘Yes, do tell,' Dora said eagerly. ‘It sounds like the plot of a penny dreadful, not that I read such rubbish.'

Lucy glanced at their expectant faces and braced herself for their reaction when she told them the truth of her birth. She took a deep breath. ‘Apparently I was born out of wedlock. My parents didn't marry until after I came into the world. I'm sorry, Piers, I know this makes a difference.'

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, saying nothing.

‘Surely not,' Dora cried anxiously. ‘It doesn't affect the way you feel about each other, does it?'

Piers rose to his feet, pacing the room with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘Not to me, but it might to others. If it became common knowledge I'm afraid it would have an adverse effect on my parliamentary career.'

‘But you haven't been elected yet.' Dora stood up, wringing her hands. ‘This is so unfair. It's not Lucy's fault.'

‘I quite understand that it wouldn't look good if the truth came out, and I wouldn't want to hold you back.' Lucy's voice shook despite her effort to control the feeling of disappointment that threatened to overcome her. She had been abandoned as a child and she could see it happening all over again.

Piers came to a halt in front of her. ‘I need to think about this, Lucy. For one thing I was counting on your help in establishing myself as a prospective candidate in the next election. I can trace my family tree back to William the Conqueror, but funds are a little low at the moment. You do understand, don't you?'

Dora caught him by the arm. ‘That sounds awful, Piers. Are you saying that you were going to marry her for her money?'

‘No,' he said angrily. ‘Of course not, although I have to admit it was a factor. I thought I'd found the perfect bride, a woman I loved who was also financially independent. I never pretended to be a rich man, Lucy. I didn't deceive you.'

She rose slowly to her feet and even then she had to tilt her head back in order to look him in the eye. ‘I think we're even on that score, Piers.'

He flushed and looked away, clearing his throat. ‘I'm sorry, but you must understand . . .'

Dora enveloped Lucy in a hug. ‘You're a beast, Piers Northam,' she said angrily. ‘How could you do this to my dear friend?'

‘Don't be so dramatic. Lucy knows that I admire her greatly. This decision has nothing to do with my feelings for her.'

Lucy withdrew gently from her friend's sympathetic embrace. ‘I don't think any the worse of you for being honest, Piers, but perhaps we were never meant for each other in the first place. You know my background; I never made a secret of my origins.'

‘Except for one small detail,' he said bitterly.

‘That's so unfair.' Dora faced him angrily. ‘I think you've forgotten something, haven't you, Piers?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to overwhelm Lucy, but she managed to control it by taking a deep breath. She had never seen Piers at a loss, and she experienced a wave of sympathy for the man she had thought she loved. Suddenly she saw him for what he was, vain, self-centred and utterly selfish. ‘Don't tease him, Dora. I think I know what my present was to have been, and I would have had to return it anyway.'

‘It's a family heirloom,' Piers said, clutching his hand to his breast pocket. ‘It has to be given to the prospective bride of the eldest son.'

Dora picked up a cushion and threw it at him. ‘Balderdash, Piers. You talk as if we're an old aristocratic family. If we came over with William the Conqueror our ancestors were probably foot soldiers. Great-grandfather Northam made his money as an overseer on a sugar plantation in Jamaica. Slavery was the basis of the family fortune, most of which has been frittered away. We've nothing to crow about, and I'm ashamed of you for treating Lucy this way.'

‘It's all right, Dora.' Lucy could see that her friend was close to tears and she forced her lips into a smile. ‘Piers has to think about his career, and I would be the last person who would want to hold him to a vague promise of marriage.' She fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘I was besotted, but now I see you for what you are. I wouldn't marry you now even if you begged me on bended knee. I think you'd better go.'

‘Yes, Piers,' Dora said tearfully. ‘We must leave now, but I hope Lucy has it in her heart to believe that I am her true friend.'

Lucy turned to her with a misty smile. ‘We will always be the best of friends, Dora.'

‘I'm sorry, Lucy.' Piers left the room without looking back and Dora hurried after him.

The door closed on them and Lucy realised this was the end of a dream, but it was not hers. She had been a reluctant participant in her grandfather's desire to make her a suitable wife for a man of good family and even better prospects. She had grown fond of the irascible old man, but she was glad that he had not lived to see his ambitions for her shattered. She decided to do nothing until Linus made the first move.

She did not have to wait long. Two days later a letter arrived from a solicitor with an office in Lincoln's Inn. Lucy was in the morning parlour mulling over its contents when Mr Goldspink turned up in a state of considerable agitation. ‘As I feared,' he said breathlessly. ‘Mr Daubenay had nothing to lose and everything to gain by pursuing his claim, and even if we could produce a strong argument in defence we would find ourselves caught up in the legal system, which might very well bankrupt you as well as Mr Daubenay.'

Lucy placed the solicitor's letter on the table, smoothing out the folds as she studied the elegant copperplate writing. ‘What do you suggest, Mr Goldspink?' For once she had no desire to laugh at his eccentricities.

‘Perhaps we can come to a compromise,' he said slowly. ‘I would suggest that you consider moving to the house in Whitechapel. According to a bequest by your paternal grandmother the property should pass to the eldest grandchild on the death of her spouse, which quite clearly is you. She left a small annuity which accompanies the bequest. It will hardly be enough for you to live on, but at least you will be free from debt.'

‘But what about the estate in Essex and this house?'

‘The estate will be Mr Daubenay's concern, not yours.'

‘And Linus will have this house and what is left of my grandfather's fortune.'

‘From what I know of that gentleman he will go through it within a year.' He angled his head, giving her a questioning look. ‘Have I your permission to put this to Mr Daubenay's solicitor?'

Lucy nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Mr Goldspink. Please do whatever you think is necessary.'

‘A wise decision, if I may say so.' He picked up the letter and folded it carefully, slipping it inside his document case. ‘I'll take care of the legalities, but might I suggest that you go to Leman Street and inspect the property?' He put his hand in his pocket and took out a bunch of keys, laying them on the table in front of Lucy. ‘All this will take a little while, which gives you time to have the house made habitable.'

‘Thank you, I'm sure that's sound advice. I'll go there today.'

‘It is a rough area, Miss Marriott. Best not to go on your own.'

‘I grew up in a just such a place, Mr Goldspink.' This time she could not hide a smile.

‘But you were a child then,' he said, looking pointedly at her silk mourning gown, trimmed with braid and cut to the latest fashion. ‘You are a young lady now.'

His words echoed in Lucy's head as she was about to climb into the carriage. She had originally intended to visit the house on her own, but now she was having second thoughts. She hesitated. ‘I want to call at Mr Northam's house in Jermyn Street first, Tapper. Then we'll go on to Leman Street.'

The coachman leaned over to tip his hat. ‘Very good, Miss Marriott.' She picked up her skirts and allowed Franklin, the footman who had replaced James, to assist her into the carriage. He put up the steps and closed the door, standing back as Tapper cracked the whip over the horses' ears. She wondered vaguely if Linus would keep the servants on. It would be a shame to dismiss people who had given years of service to the family, but she knew that Linus had little or no conscience. She had often wondered what had become of Meg, his sweet-natured common-law wife, and their children. Bertie and Vicky would be almost grown up now and the baby Meg had been expecting must be nine, getting on for ten. Then there was Bram. He was the one she had missed the most. The short time she had spent with them in their woodland cottage had left her with happy memories, but it had come to a sudden end when her grandfather snatched her from the market place. She had written a long letter to Bram, explaining why she had left so abruptly, but she had no way of knowing whether it reached its destination. All her efforts to persuade her grandfather to allow her to visit Meg and her family had come to nothing, and she knew it was useless to ask Linus to pass on a message.

Even now, in her dreams she could see Bram as he emerged from the silky green depths of Strawberry Hill pond, his naked body bronzed and gleaming in a shaft of sunlight as he shook the water from his hair. The image still had the power to bring a blush to her cheek. She wondered what sort of man he had become, but it was unlikely they would ever meet again.

She sighed, turning her attention back to the present. She hoped that Piers would not be at home, as it was Dora she wanted to see. Having enjoyed a sheltered upbringing and rarely seeing anything of the world outside Mayfair and the delights of Oxford Street, Dora would be the ideal companion to take to Leman Street, and she would consider it an adventure. For once, Lucy was glad that she had roamed the streets of the East End as a child. Whitechapel held no terrors for a girl who had lived in Cat's Hole Buildings and Hairbrine Court.