Lady of Spirit, A (4 page)

Their house on Wilton Crescent was posh, and heaven knew Gwynn Place was like a fairyland of wealth. But Seacombe House could hold its own in the grandeur department. It was not overly large, but it had dignity in the smooth polish of the balustrade under Maggie’s hand, and when she looked down into the hall below, she saw the portraits of family members that she had not really noticed before.

Her family.

She would need to get back on the right foot with her grandparents, and learn about the people in these pictures. Elaine had had her portrait painted, and it now hung over the fireplace in the drawing room at Wilton Crescent—and would, Maggie imagined, until Lizzie someday married.

Perhaps there would be a picture of Catherine here at her childhood home. Perhaps she would finally see her mother’s face, and learn something of her story.

And in doing so, learn something of her own.

“I have no intention of resting,” Maggie said briskly after the maid—whose name was Tamsen—had unpacked their valises and shaken out and hung the dresses they were to wear to dinner. “I want to explore the house.”

“I do, too … but do you suppose we’ll upset Grandmother?”

“She can hardly be more upset with me than she is already,” Maggie said on a sigh. “I shall endeavor to be particularly silent at dinner.”

“Then the Lady will think you’re coming down with something. Just be yourself, Mags, and they can’t help but love you.”

But Maggie was not so sure. There had been a definite difference in the way the Seacombes had received her and the way they had treated Lizzie. She was quite sure that if Lizzie had spilled her tea, they would have asked if she had burned herself and offered napkins.

But perhaps she was being too sensitive—or too self-centered.

Maggie tapped on Claude’s door, Lizzie on Tigg’s.

“Didn’t I tell you this was forbidden territory?” Claude whispered when he opened it. “The grands are just down at the end of this hall, in the big bedroom overlooking the sea. They’re taking their naps.”

“Come and explore with us,” Maggie whispered back. “We want to see the house.”

“All right, but you must be quiet until we get out of this wing. Let me get my jacket and we’ll begin downstairs.”

Along with the big drawing room, there was a morning room, a study, and a library. At the back of the house, as one might expect, were the kitchens, where the staff looked up, startled, from their preparations for dinner. Claude made the introductions, and Maggie flushed a little at being curtsied to for the first time in her life.

“That felt very strange,” she whispered to Tigg as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“Best get used to it,” he said. “The Seacombes seem to be persons of importance here, if the size of this place is any indication. That makes you important, too.”

“Nonsense,” Lizzie said. “It’s not our names that make us important, it’s what we do to bring honor to them, as you should know better than anyone.”

Names again. Time to change the subject.

“Who sleeps in the other rooms in your wing?” she asked Claude when he turned along the gallery.

“No one. I don’t think they’re used.”

“I want to see the rooms our mothers had when they were young,” Lizzie told him. “Are those the empty ones?”

“Let’s find out,” Maggie suggested.

“Remember, walk softly and on no account must you giggle.”

Maggie rather doubted that seeing her mother’s old room was a laughing matter, but she took his point. It would not make the grands like her any better if she were caught snooping about without permission—she hadn’t missed the fact that only Lizzie had been invited to treat Seacombe House as her own home.

The first room was decorated in a soft green with white trim. The bed had no old-fashioned hangings, but rather a gauzy canopy that was held up by wide grosgrain ribbons in a darker green. Combs and brushes had been laid out upon the dressing-table as if their owner would step in to use them at any moment. On the nightstand lay a book, as if put aside the evening before.

“Maggie, look. It’s a copy of
Aesop’s Fables
—the book that Mama used to read to us when we were small.”

On the flyleaf was written in a girlish hand:

Elaine Seacombe, her book,

in hopes that it may strengthen her character

“I would say it worked,” Maggie remarked. “Your mother had no shortage of character, from all accounts.”

“So this was her room.” Lizzie closed the book and laid it down as she had found it. She opened the wardrobe, but if she had hoped to find dresses from decades ago, and hats and ribbons that might have told her something of her mother’s tastes, she was disappointed. The shelves contained nothing but linens and the winter spread for the bed. Its cubbyholes were empty, but in the drawers of the dresser, a faint scent rose from the paper that still lined them.

Lavender, with a hint of lemon.

Instantly, Maggie felt as though she were being enfolded in loving arms, pressing her nose to warm skin and breathing it in. A pang of loss rippled through her at the memory.

“She wore that scent,” Maggie said. “I remember.”

Lizzie nodded. “I do, too. Fancy it still being in the drawers when everything else has been cleared away. I don’t suppose we’ll find anything of her, will we?”

“I wonder why not? She was the good one.”

At the door, Tigg stirred, as if someone had poked him in the ribs. Claude was standing guard outside, empty rooms having no interest for him, but Tigg had risked the impropriety of being in a bedroom with two young ladies to offer them his silent support.

“Don’t say that, Mags,” he said softly.

“Well, she was. She was the one who married well, who became stepmother to the only boy who could be heir to the shipping empire, who did everything right.”

“Who was killed for it,” Lizzie pointed out, her voice hollow.

“That was not her fault.” She slipped an arm around Lizzie’s waist. “If what you remember is the truth, she died protecting us. Which proves my point. Come, let’s see if anything remains of
my
mother in this house.”

The other bedroom was painted in a rose pink so soft that it was nearly cream, and the medallions on the ceiling and the wainscoting had likewise been painted white. Again, there was no indication that a young lady had grown up in this room, or dressed for a ball or giggled with her sister or daydreamed in the window seat, which looked out toward the east and would have caught the morning sun over the distant rooftops of their less important neighbors.

After one comprehensive glance, Maggie went straight to the top bureau drawer and bent to breathe in whatever scent might be left there.

Cedar.

No paper. What a disappointment.

A quick search of the closet—no wardrobe here— and the other drawers produced nothing but linen and a quantity of writing paper bearing the Seacombe crest of a stone arch with a wave coming through it.

A murmur down the hall made Maggie glance up at the door.
Billy Bolt
, Tigg mouthed, and Lizzie swept around the end of the bed to join him at the door, beckoning to Maggie.

“I’ll just close up and meet you in the gallery,” she whispered. “I want to see the top floor, too.” Maybe paintings of disgraced daughters would be relegated to the servants’ rooms.

Tigg and Lizzie vanished, the polished floors creaking a little as they beat a hasty retreat down the corridor.

A board creaked under Maggie’s foot, too, as she stepped on it—a board between the closet and the bed with its cheerful flowered spread. It actually gave beneath her slipper. In her experience, only one kind of board did that: the kind that hid things a girl didn’t want other people to see.

She knelt next to it and with quick fingers, she pressed and pried—and there it was. A pinhole. Clever Catherine. A board that tilted up could be discovered by anyone who stepped upon it the right way. But to discover a pinhole required powers of observation, and also a hairpin. She removed one of hers and bent up the tip, then inserted it in the tiny hole. With one quick tug, the board came up.

Empty.

Bother.

Maggie leaned down, patting the dimensions of the dusty compartment, then reached further in. Still nothing. She changed position and tried in the other direction. At the very end of the compartment, her fingers met something.

Paper.

It was all she could do to stretch that far, her nose practically on the floorboards. She pinched the paper between her forefinger and third finger, and pulled it out.

A letter, fragile with age and folded tightly to create its own envelope, as though paper were precious and not to be wasted. Upon the front was the direction, a single word in a masculine script:
Catherine.

Maggie held it to her nose. Dust. Ink.

And fainter than memory, a scent, as if the paper had been clasped to a girlish bosom and had retained something of its owner’s essence.

Maggie recognized it at once. No wonder it had always been one of her favorites.

Lilac.

She had become very familiar with the language of flowers during Emilie’s consultations with Claire on the composition of the wedding bouquet.

Lilac, for first love.

May Day 1877

My dearest C—

It has been two nights since we met at the
sawan
and I believe you must have bewitched me, for I cannot leave off thinking about you.

I do not wish any harm or trouble to come to you on my account, so my head in all prudence advises me to go home to G.P. and take up my father’s work, which would delight him. But my heart cannot see its way to such a sensible view. It cannot see anything at all but your lovely face in the moonlight, and your eyes full of stars.

Boscawen Trevithick tells me he can offer me employment as a stoker on the great steam engine at Wheal Porth. As long as I do not have to be a tin miner, I will accept anything in order to stay in the parish.

Dare I hope you will be glad of this news? And if I should wander upon the strand, might a chance meeting occur again?

I believe I am—

Yours,

K.

“I cannot see that this course is a wise one.”

Maggie jumped at the disembodied voice and came back to herself, the letter fluttering from her hand. She knelt to pick it up, and as she did, slipped the board that had concealed it all these years back into place.

Who had spoken?

“Have you had no sleep at all, Demelza? I cannot see that you have a choice in the matter,” Grandfather said on the other side of the wall. His voice was querulous, as though he had just awakened. “If you have agreed the visit is to be two weeks, then two weeks it shall be.”

Goodness. The head of her grandparents’ bed must be right up against the adjoining wall. Had their whispers and creaking about awakened them?

Maggie slipped the letter into her pocket to ponder later, and pressed her ear to the wall beside the dresser. The Lady always said that eavesdroppers never heard any good of themselves, and perhaps that was true. But they heard any number of other useful things that more than made up for it.

“In any case, it is not likely we shall see much of them,” Grandmother said. “Claude will show them about the country, I expect.”

“Yes, more rattling about with picnics and frolics and other such nonsense. I was never more exhausted than when the last lot left. I wish Claude would leave off being a flibbertigibbet and settle down to business.”

“He has a year of university yet, dear. Would you have him abandon his education?”

“I’d have him take up a proper education at the Seacombe Steamship Company. If he’s going to inherit it, he should know it from the bottom up. Though I expect he will not make a very good cabin boy, or even a midshipman. Perhaps I shall start him as a lieutenant.”

“Is he going to inherit?”

The bed creaked as, presumably, Grandfather rolled to one elbow to gaze at his wife. “What on earth do you mean? Of course he’s going to bloody inherit. Who else have I got now that his father has crushed our hopes and betrayed the family in every possible way?”

“There are three now, Howel, as you very well know.”

“There may be three grandchildren—two we may introduce into society—but only one will inherit. Girls cannot run a business.”

Maggie’s knees turned the consistency of apple jelly and she laid a steadying hand upon the picture rail.

Two …?

Society …?

Business …?

“Of course not. But though they cannot run the company, in all fairness, the shares must be divided equally among them.”

“
Between
them. Surely you do not mean that
she
will inherit? She has no claim to what I have built all these years. Only the legitimate ones do.”

“She is Catherine’s daughter.”

Coolness settled in Maggie’s cheeks as the blood drained from her head. She should not have pulled her corset ribbons so tightly. She needed to take deep breaths now, and she could not.

“She is the by-blow of a nameless man to whom that girl gave her virtue and all hope of a claim to our wealth or our name.”

“De Maupassant adopted the child, and then became Seacombe—at your request, if you recall. She has as good a claim to that name as Elizabeth does.”

“Do not speak of that blackguard to me. I can only bear to think of him bearing my father’s name for Claude’s sake. Two hundred years of impeccable conduct are barely enough to counterbalance the shame he has brought upon it.”

“This, too, shall pass. In the meantime, I must consider what to do about the other matter. I do not wish to offend Gwynn Place. Flora Trevelyan may have come down in the world, but her son is still the viscount and the St. Ives title is still one to be reckoned with in this part of the world.”

“They can mind their own da—excuse me, dear—deuced business.”

“If Lady Claire is their guardian, the girl is their business.”

“She is received there?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, they may do as they like. I am master here, and I say she is not.”

“It’s a little late for that, since she came in through the front door.”

“You know what I mean, Demelza. You do not expect to present her to our friends and associates this evening, surely? A nameless bastard?”

“I do, and you will listen while I tell you why. You will bring more shame upon us by sending her upstairs with her dinner on a tray than you will by presenting her as Charles de Maupassant’s adopted daughter.”

“What?”

“Elizabeth is set on becoming a Seacombe, and so she will be, with my blessing and yours. Despite her unfortunate choice, at least Elaine’s marriage was legitimate. But there is no getting around the fact that the other girl’s parentage is in doubt. She will be no catch on the marriage mart, memory being what it is in Penzance. We will present her with charity and forbearance, as is only right for an adopted daughter, and then society will do what it does best—winnow the wheat from the chaff.”

Her back against the wall, Maggie’s knees failed altogether and she slid down soundlessly until she sat upon the floor, her head tilted against the wainscoting.

She should get up and leave. She should run, screaming, from this house, find the Lady, and fly away on the wind as fast as
Athena
’s engines could take her.

But still she did not move.

The bed creaked again, and then the floor. “You are sure, my dear? For the brunt of such ‘charity’ will fall upon you. Girls are not my concern.”

“Completely sure. You may leave it to me, Howel. Now, do put on a different shirt. That one has a gravy stain upon the cuff.”

Get up. Flee while they are moving about and the creaking will disguise the sound of your own steps.

When she made it out to the gallery, no one was there. Perhaps Lizzie and the boys had got tired of waiting, and continued their adventures without her.

She barely reached her room in time before the tea and biscuits came up, and she was violently sick into the wash basin.

*

Her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with exercise, Lizzie stepped into their room and halted as she saw Maggie laid down upon the bed.

“Mags? Are you not feeling well?”

“No. A little faint, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.” She swung her legs off the coverlet and sat up.

Lizzie sat beside her and passed an arm about her waist. “What is it? It smells like you’ve been sick. Did you try one of those odd fish sandwiches? I thought they smelled a little off, but what do I know about fish in this part of the world?”

“Perhaps it was the fish. I shall remember not to have it again. I’m much better now.”

Not for worlds would Maggie reveal to Lizzie what she had overheard. This was her own battle to fight, and as soon as she could think of a way to fight it, she would do so. But in the meantime, Lizzie should not be deprived of her grandparents, her family, her future.

Lizzie, erstwhile alley mouse and daughter of a traitor, to become part owner of the Seacombe Steamship Company! There was no way on this earth that Maggie would prevent that from coming to pass—because if she confided what she had heard, Lizzie would cause the scene to end all scenes, and her bright prospects would go up like an explosion of Canton rockets.

So, instead of unburdening her heart to heal the grief of her grandparents’ true opinion of her, instead of allowing Lizzie to comfort her and plan what they ought to do together, Maggie thanked heaven that she had a subterfuge ready to hand that might account for her lack of spirits.

She pulled the worn old letter from her pocket. “Look what I found under the floorboard in Mother’s old room.”

Lizzie read it swiftly, let out a long breath, then read it again with care.

“Do you think—could it be that
C
is Catherine?”

“I think it must be. Why else would this be concealed in her room?”

“Were there any more?”

“No, only this one, tucked away at the back of the compartment, as though it had been left behind when others were removed. If she and
K
began corresponding, it seems this might have been the first one. Smell it.”

Lizzie did so, an inhalation touched with reverence. “Lilac. Your mother’s scent?”

“It means ‘first love,’ remember? I wonder if she began to wear that scent then.”

“How romantic.” Lizzie smiled and turned her attention back to the letter. “I wonder who he was?”

“So do I. Liz—I think I must find out. What if he was … my father?”

Her cousin’s green eyes were solemn as she thought this through. “May 1877. We were born in March of the following year.”

“So he could have been.”

“It’s a leap, Mags. But leaving that aside, let us apply ourselves to what we can see. What can we glean of his character from what he has written?”

She should have thought of that herself, but eavesdropping had completely wiped all sensible thought from her mind. She focused on the ink, the letters, the meaning of the faded words.

“Well … his writing is confident, the letters formed with the ease of long practice. His language is that of an educated man, wouldn’t you say? He could not have been a crofter, or a tin miner. ‘
My head in all prudence advises me.’
Those are not the words of a fisherman. Or the spelling, either.”

“On that subject you would know more than I. But look at this—
‘It cannot see anything at all but your lovely face in the moonlight, and your eyes full of stars.’
Do you suppose he had been reading Byron? You know the poem—the one the Lady likes.”

“Yes, that one.”

“That’s even more of a leap, Liz. But it is lovely to contemplate, isn’t it? That, if he was my father, he might have been an educated man who read poetry. And that my mother would be the kind of woman who appreciated such a man.”

“Unlike our grandfather,” Lizzie said, “who would appreciate a man of business, or an admiral, or something. No wonder they were not allowed to be together. Poetry isn’t going to run the Seacombe Steamship Company, is it?”

“Now you are really leaping. Who says they weren’t allowed to be together?”

Lizzie turned to her, taking one cold hand in both her warm ones. “Think of what we know. Your mother was not married when she died in childbirth. I cannot believe that the man who wrote this letter would not have moved heaven and earth to marry her once he knew that you were coming into the world. Therefore, probability dictates that they were not permitted to marry.”

“Or that something happened to him before they could.”

“Or that,” Lizzie agreed slowly.

“I must find out, Lizzie. I must know. Even if
K
turns out to be a mere May Day flirtation and not my father at all, I must know the truth.” She paused. “And I do not think that I can simply ask our grandparents.”

“Why not? I have no doubt that they know.”

“I—I do not think they like me.”

It took a lot to shock Lizzie, but Maggie had done it now.

“How can you say such a thing? They were perfectly civil in the drawing room—or were, until Holly and Ivy joined the party.”

“They did get a little cranky after that—but not toward you.”

“Oh, I felt it, all right. Depend upon it, they feel the same way toward you as they do toward me—which is to say, the polite interest of strangers. We may be blood, but we are not family yet, Mags, because they’ve only just met us. Give them time to warm to us. To become used to young folk around the place. Blood will out, you’ll see, despite what the Lady says about intellect trumping all.”

But Maggie was not so sure.

For whose blood, exactly, was running in her veins? And how did she propose to find out?