Rebel Heiress (2 page)

‘Go to England? And on an English ship? Have you taken leave of your senses, Miss Marchmont? Do you not realise that war between the two countries is now inevitable; that it is only a matter of time before it is declared? And, besides, what would you do when you got there: I would not wish to pain you, but surely you cannot intend to go to your father — to Lord Marchmont? You know only too well that he has ignored your very existence all these years. What hope have you that he will welcome you now?'

‘The best. There is much that I must tell you. It will shock you, I fear, but I hope you know the story of my birth — it has provided enough talk for Miss Jenkin and her friends all these years. You know, I am sure, that my father came here from England as a wild younger son and met my mother (I am like her, they say), married her in haste and could not stay to repent it, for his elder brother was killed in a duel and his family sent for him to come home posthaste. My mother was not well enough to travel, and stayed here with her elder sister, my Aunt Abigail. She was to join her husband in England after her child was born. But — he never wrote to her. Of course, the posts were slow, but weeks passed and she had no word from him. Her health was affected, she pined and fretted, and died when I was born.'

‘Yes, yes,' he said somewhat impatiently, ‘it is an old story and a sad one; you will do yourself no good by reviving it now. I know only too well that your father even ignored the news of his wife's death and of your birth. After such heartless behaviour, what hopes can you have of him?'

‘Heartless indeed it would have been had he done so, but only listen to me, Mr. Anderson. Since Aunt Abigail died, I have, of course, been going through her papers. There was one box, particularly, that I had never seen opened. You know how suddenly Aunt Abigail went at last. I am sure if it had not been for that, she would have destroyed the papers it contained and thus finished her wicked work. But she was not able to do so, and thus I found the letters from my father that she had kept hidden all these years. They were loving letters, Mr. Anderson, written to my mother from England, telling her of his reception
by his family and how, after the first shock of surprise, they were prepared to welcome her as a daughter, and her child as the heir to the title. And then, a last, heartbroken note in answer to one from my aunt in which she had told him that mother and child had died together.'

‘What? You mean she suppressed his letters to his wife?'

‘Yes, and told him I was dead as well as my mother. Do you wonder I call her wicked? I do not know how I shall contrive to forgive her. All these years I have read of my father in the public prints: of the fortune he made in India, of his return to England and entry into politics; of his speeches, his successes, his position at last in the inner councils of their Tory Party. And always I have thought of him as my enemy, as having wilfully disowned me. But it was nothing of the kind. He thought me dead. Now do you understand why I must go to England?'

He had followed this passionate speech with deep attention. Now he sighed and nodded. ‘You are in the right of it, Miss Marchmont. You owe a duty to your father; you must go and tell him the truth. Yes, I will help you to get to England. But what will you do for passage money? Captain Gilbert is a good man, I know, but no philanthropist, and gladly though I would help you, I fear it is much beyond my means.'

‘You are too good. But there's no need. Before she died, Aunt Abigail gave me all the money she had. It was not much, and I fear it was but grudgingly given, but you know how she hated lawyers. She said it would save her the trouble of willing it to me. Of course, I did not then know about the house … But at least it means that I have enough for my passage and a little to spare for my expenses in England. And after that, well, I can but hope for the best.'

‘You have proofs of your birth?'

‘Oh, yes, they were all there. Aunt Abigail may have been wicked, but she was a good woman of business. No, I shall have no difficulty in convincing my father who I am, If I can but get to him.'

‘Then I will see Captain Gilbert on your behalf tomorrow. Fortunately for you, I know that though he is English he is no supporter of the iniquitous Orders in Council that have brought our two countries to the point of war. He will not hold your being an American against you.'

‘But I am not an American. Had you forgot?'

‘Indeed I had; you seem so much like one of us. Well, well, perhaps, after all, it is for the best.'

‘Yes. It would hardly be fitting for a clergyman to marry a woman of the enemy, would it?'

‘You are too quick for me, Miss Marchmont. I confess, though, that thought had passed through my head. But here we are' — his relief was obvious — ‘at your poor aunt's house. Rely on me to do your business for you tomorrow.'

She thanked him and they went in to join the decorous party assembled over tea and cookies in Aunt Abigail's dark little living room. All conversation ceased at sight of them, and Henrietta was only too well aware that they had been its subject. She sat down next to kind, busy Miss Jenkin and parried as best she might her persistent and well-meant enquiries about her plans. Gradually, however, as she sipped lukewarm tea, she became aware that Miss Jenkin was leading up to something. She had made various angling references to Mr. Anderson: ‘So fortunate for him to receive the house … but a responsibility for a single man … a minister really needs someone to take care of him,' and so on, which Henrietta had answered as neutrally as she could. Now she changed her ground.

‘I hope you will not mind it, my dear,' she said, helping herself to another cookie, ‘but dear Miss Cabot and I were speaking of you just now and wondering what the future holds for you. And — if some more eligible prospect should not open up before you' — here she paused archly for a moment, then continued — ‘if, as I say, no more attractive alternative has presented itself, dear Miss Cabot was wondering if you would care to go and live with her for a while. She has that big house, you know, and neither chick nor child to call her own. You could do very much worse, my dear, left as you are. We will say nothing against dear Miss Abigail, but the fact remains that things have not come out just as we expected, have they my dear?'

‘Have they not?' asked Henrietta. ‘I do not know exactly what anyone did expect. But you are right; let us not talk about Aunt Abigail. And, dear Miss Jenkin, just for tonight, may we not talk about me either? I am deeply grateful to Miss Cabot — please tell her so. But I can decide nothing today.'

‘My child, of course you cannot; so crushed with grief as you must be. We only wanted you to know that you had friends, however forlorn you may feel.' She pressed Henrietta's
hand and Henrietta returned the pressure in the spirit in which it was meant. No need to admit that her only feeling at Aunt Abigail's death was one of heartfelt relief, her only anguish now her doubt whether Captain Gilbert could be persuaded to take her to England.

The party seemed to her to go on forever, but at last they had all gone and she could remember the encouraging pressure of the hand with which Mr. Anderson had said good-bye. He would do his very best to get her passage on the
Faithful
she knew, by way of easing his conscience over her aunt's bequest to him. In her cold and narrow bed that night she dreamed of her imagined father and of England, the unknown, the longed-for land.

She kept herself busy all next morning sorting through the rest of her aunt's papers. She had already found all those that concerned herself and laid them aside to be taken with her to England. For she would not let herself think that Captain Gilbert might refuse to take her. In fact, she found it best not to think at all. Instead, she opened the heavy black box in which Aunt Abigail had kept her family's letters and began to sort through these. It was a heartbreaking enough task, for both Aunt Abigail's brothers had died fighting the British, one at Bunker Hill and the other at Ticonderoga. Reading their last letters, Henrietta began a little to understand Aunt Abigail's fierce hatred of the British. No wonder she had been furious when her younger sister fell in love with what she must have considered an enemy. But still — and Henrietta began systematically throwing the letters into the fire — this did not excuse what her aunt had done.

She was interrupted by a knock at the door and hurried to admit Mr. Anderson.

‘Well?' She hardly dared ask the question.

‘Successful, I hope.' He shook a few flakes of snow off his heavy overcoat. ‘Captain Gilbert will visit you this afternoon. He sympathises with your predicament, but is all too justly doubtful of the propriety of his taking you, a single girl, on a ship with no other female.'

‘Oh, fiddlestick,' she exclaimed impatiently. ‘What must I do? Dress up as a boy to ease his conscience?'

‘No, no.' He coloured. ‘He merely wishes to convince himself that you are the model of propriety I described. I only
trust, my dear Miss Marchmont, that you will not take him up so sharply.'

She blushed and laughed. ‘I beg your pardon. And indeed, I cannot begin to thank you for what you have done for me. But where am I to see Captain Gilbert?'

‘Oh, as to that, he has some business at the Capitol and said he would do himself the honour of calling on you here afterwards. Would you like me to give him the meeting?'

‘Oh, no, I thank you. There is no need for that. If I can face him on his ship, I can face him alone here.' And indeed, she told herself, she would do better without Mr. Anderson's embarrassed presence. He protested a little, but finally acquiesced, admitting that he had business of his own to attend to.

When he had gone, Henrietta flew about tidying the house. All must be shipshape and businesslike to impress the captain with her competence to deal with any situation that might arise. For the first time in her life she found herself actually enjoying the familiar task of polishing up Aunt Abigail's collection of ugly old brassware. She even caught herself singing as she scrubbed down the already spotless front steps. She had just stopped, conscience stricken, at the second line of ‘Jenny Sutton' when a sound behind her made her turn.

A square-set, solid-looking man, middle-aged and weather-beaten, was considering her with piercing blue eyes. She stood up, blushing and trying at once to roll down her sleeves and take off her apron.

‘Captain Gilbert?' she asked.

‘Himself. And can you be the desolated Miss Marchmont?'

‘Yes.' Furiously, she felt herself blushing. ‘I had not expected you so soon. But will you not come inside?'

‘Thank you. I finished my business at the Capitol more speedily than I had expected. We sail tonight.' He looked at her quizzically.

‘Tonight?' She could not conceal her dismay. ‘So soon?'

‘Yes, I am warned that there is no time to be lost. I take it that settles the question of your sailing with us. You cannot possibly be ready.'

‘On the contrary.' She was not to be put off so easily. ‘I can be ready in half an hour.'

‘Then you are a most unusual young lady.' He pulled out a large gold watch. ‘But I can give you longer than that, if you are sure you wish to come with us. It will not be luxurious, you
know. The living will be hard, the quarters rough, the society boorish. I do not know how your father's daughter will bear it.'

‘My father's daughter?' She had never thought of herself in that light before. ‘Oh, do you know my father?'

‘In some sort. As much as a poor ship's captain can know a cabinet minister. To be frank with you, that is the only reason I will for a moment consider taking you with me. I understand — you will forgive my frankness — but there is no question but that you
are
his daughter?'

‘Not the least in the world. Would you care to see my papers?'

‘No, no. You will hear that I dislike most women, but I hope I know an honest one when I meet her. You could not lie without that colour of yours betraying you. There, what did I tell you?'

Infuriated by the recurrent blush, she nevertheless returned to the attack. ‘Then you will take me?'

‘Why, yes. I rather believe I will. But on conditions, mind you. Your passage will be paid in advance. I cannot trust your father for that. It is not the way I do business.'

Of course not. Will I give it to you now?'

‘No, no. When you come aboard will be time enough. As for your cabin, I shall give you the supercargo's, next to mine. You will be safe enough there. Fortunately for you, we are short-handed this voyage; my second mate is a Yankee and chooses to remain here. And that reminds me of the most important point of our agreement. You will not tamper with my officers. I'll not have a parcel of lovesick lubbers on my hands. Is that understood?'

‘I will do my best, sir. To tell truth, I have not hitherto found myself irresistible to men.'

‘Have you not? You surprise me. But so much the better. Very well then, that is the first article of our agreement. You will leave my officers alone. If you must have society, you may have mine. I will bear you company, if necessary, and tell you what you may expect of life in England. For I have no doubt you are full of golden dreams, are you not?' He barked the last question at her, a ferocious gleam in his blue eyes.

‘Why, of course. I have dreamt of England ever since I was in short petticoats, and I do not propose to stop for you or any one. Only please take me there.'

‘I will, never fear for that. But I warn you; it will be a
dangerous voyage. War will be declared, I have no doubt, before we are many days at sea. How will you like it if we are taken by one of your men of war?'

‘One of ours, sir? I would have you remember I am as English as you.'

‘Except, I take it, for a little matter of a Yankee mother, but well spoken just the same. Very well, we will flee the damned colonials together … And that reminds me of another point of our agreement. You will not expect me to modify my language because you are aboard.'