An Heiress at Heart (7 page)

“Lord Somerville, you must not think me unaware of the poignancy of our situation,” Lady Thornborough
said earnestly. “Although I am overjoyed at Ria’s safe return, I am also deeply grieved at the loss of your brother.”

Geoffrey could only acknowledge her words with a nod, not trusting himself to speak.

“You must be feeling alone in the world,” Lady Thornborough went on. “However, even though Edward is dead, we can never forget the tie that has been so closely bound. You must always consider yourself a member of our family.” Her gaze, though kind, held more than a trace of her usual imperious manner, an expectation that her wishes would be carried out.

Geoffrey searched for his voice. “You are very kind.”

His response seemed to satisfy her—for now. She seemed to know better than to press him. She stood up, and Geoffrey did likewise, more out of thankfulness to be on his feet than from mere custom.

“I will trouble you no more for the present.” The decisive, brusque woman Geoffrey knew was once again in evidence. She checked her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace and readjusted her hat before turning toward the door. “I must be going.”

“I’m sure you are anxious to return to Ria.”

“Indeed I am, although I must go to Regent Street first.”

This pronouncement took Geoffrey by surprise. Regent Street had many of the more fashionable shops. It was odd to think Lady Thornborough would be shopping today.

“I must order new dresses for Ria. She has not brought back anything that is suitable for either the current fashion or her position.”

Geoffrey paused in the act of opening the drawing room door. “Her
position
?”

“Yes. She is a young widow in half-mourning now. She must have clothing appropriate to this season of her life.”

With more assurances that she would contact Geoffrey as soon as possible, Lady Thornborough left the room with as much speed and purpose as she had entered it.

Leaving Geoffrey to speculate over just what season of life Ria’s return had put
him
in.

                                                          
Chapter 6

L
izzie sat at the dressing table, looking at herself in the mirror, as Martha put the finishing touches on her hair.

Her face was looking fuller. The fever and the months of deprivation had been assuaged by rest, quiet, and by so many bowls of Cook’s special broth that she thought she might never care to eat soup again.

In a few minutes she would be going downstairs for the first time as Victoria Somerville. She certainly looked the part. The gown Lady Thornborough had bought for her was a deep gray silk with muted pinstripes. It was expensive, flattering, and perfectly suited to the occasion.

Her hair had been pulled up and curled into ringlets behind her head. A tedious process, but she knew Ria would have loved nothing better, and so she did her best to bear it patiently.

In the week that had passed since her fever broke, Lizzie had found it simple enough to be Ria. She spent most of her time resting, speaking to no one except
Lady Thornborough, Martha, Dr. Layton, and occasionally, the young housemaid who cleaned Lizzie’s room. The real challenges of her masquerade were just beginning—and the greatest of these would be facing the Somervilles. Perhaps she had been able to fool Lady Thornborough and Martha because they so desperately
wanted
to believe Ria had returned. William and Geoffrey were far less likely to be won over so easily.

Geoffrey must be a lot like William, Lizzie thought. Ria had described William as a dispassionate man with an implacable eye for detail. Apparently the man noticed
everything.
Lizzie had known before she even set foot in England that William could easily become suspicious of her if she spent too much time in his company. She now had the same concerns about Geoffrey. Many things about the day she arrived were hazy in her memory, but she could not forget how his eyes never seemed to leave her, how he seemed to be taking in everything about her—disbelieving, untrusting. Clearly, she would have to tread carefully.

As Martha placed a few last pins, Lizzie mentally reviewed every piece of information she could remember about the layout of the house and the names of the servants. Martha had confirmed that, yes, Mr. Harding was still the butler, and Mrs. Travers was still the housekeeper. And Cook (whose real name no one bothered to remember) was the same dear woman who had fed Ria far too many sugar cakes as a child.

Lizzie thought no one would be suspicious if she did not know the names of the lesser servants. It would be only natural that she could have forgotten these details, given Ria’s reputation for flightiness and after so much time had passed.

She stood up, shooing Martha away. “I believe I am as ready as I shall ever be.” She was careful to speak with Ria’s higher-pitched voice.

“May I say you look lovely, Miss Ria.” Martha’s hand flew to her mouth. “I beg your pardon, madam. Even though you are Mrs. Somerville now, I confess I will always think of you as Miss Ria.”

Martha’s words gave her pause. Martha seemed to have accepted her, and Lizzie hoped she would be able to rely on her help in the future. “I am glad you think of me that way. I would never reprimand you for that.”

Martha eyes twinkled, even as she gave a respectful nod of her head. “Indeed, madam.”

Lizzie took one last look in the mirror before turning toward the door. Martha made as if to follow, but Lizzie held up her hand. “I would like to go down by myself.”

Martha dropped a small curtsy. “Certainly, madam.”

Lizzie stepped into the hallway. Now she would become truly acquainted with this house, not just from Ria’s descriptions but from actually exploring it for herself. To her left would be Lady Thornborough’s room and several guest chambers. Lizzie turned right, toward the staircase.

The rose designs in the wool carpet and on the wallpaper were all as Ria had described. Lizzie walked slowly, running one hand along the fine oak trim on the wall. She was still achy, but she was relieved to find she was steady on her feet.

Near the end of the passage, Lizzie found another object Ria had told her about—a lovely gilt-framed painting of a manor house in midsummer. Ria had loved the painting because it had been painted by her mother,
who died when Ria was just three. For Lizzie, it provided the first tantalizing view of Rosewood—the Thornborough estate where she would find the letters proving the truth of her parentage. She eagerly scanned the picture, taking in every detail. The stately home was depicted in a bucolic landscape of rolling hills and a profusion of blooming roses and lilacs. The canvas was warm and effervescing with life, painted with a sure hand of someone who clearly cherished the place. Lizzie was already in love with it, too.

Seeing that Martha stood at the bedroom door, watching her, Lizzie said, “Oh, Martha, how beautiful Rosewood is. I cannot wait to go there!”

Martha gave a wry smile. “You used to prefer to stay in town.”

This took Lizzie by surprise. Ria had always spoken rapturously of Rosewood. Perhaps homesickness had elevated her appreciation of it. One of the endearing things about Ria was that once she had changed her mind about something, she categorically denied she had ever felt any other way. This was the tack Lizzie decided to take for her reply. “Nonsense, Martha,” she said playfully. “I always said Rosewood was the most wonderful place in the world.”

Her teasing brought a chuckle from Martha. “Indeed you did, madam.”

Lizzie continued along the passage and made her way down the staircase to the second floor, where the library and the parlor would be located. She moved past a collection of family portraits, pausing in front of the one she wanted most to see: Sir Herbert Thornborough.

The painting showed a man of imposing stature,
richly dressed, with fair hair and blue, almost violet eyes. He was brimming with confidence, the combination of a wealthy upbringing and a strong will. How different he looked from the one day, long ago, when Lizzie had seen him. He had been older and heavier then. Lizzie had not known at the time who he was.

Her father.

Lizzie had been only five years old on that day. She had forgotten the incident until many years later when she and Ria were comparing their family histories. This was the one childhood memory they’d both shared.

Lizzie had been standing outside the dry goods store owned by Sam Poole—the man she had always thought of as her father. She’d been idly watching the street while waiting for him to close up shop so they could walk home together. She saw a little girl, the same age as herself, coming out of the apothecary shop across the street. The girl ran over to Lizzie and excitedly asked her name. Before Lizzie could answer, Herbert Thornborough came rushing out of the shop. He took Ria by the elbow and said to come away, they did not have time to stand in the street gossiping with shop people.

About that time, Sam had come out and drawn Lizzie close in a protective way, glaring at Sir Herbert as though he suspected the man might attempt to do her harm.

Ever since Ria had brought this meeting back into her mind, it had left Lizzie with conflicting emotions. Ria had said her father had gone frequently to that apothecary shop, claiming the man’s ointment was the only thing that relieved his gout. The truth of the matter, Ria insisted, was that he must have gone there only to catch glimpses of Lizzie. He must have known who she was.

Why then had he shunned her when they were face-to-face?

Was she really the product of a love affair he’d had with another woman, even while his own wife was nursing his child?

Choking back a quiet sob, Lizzie stared at the man in the portrait, wishing she could find the answer there. She saw nothing but pride and self-satisfaction in those eyes, which were so very like her own—and so different from Sam Poole’s. Sam had been a swarthy man, and Tom had grown to look just like him. But Lizzie favored neither Sam nor her mother Emma, a melancholy, distant woman with soft brown hair and hazel eyes. Now she knew why.

“They are all assembled in the Rose Parlor, madam.”

Lizzie nearly jumped at the unexpected sound of a gravelly voice. She turned to see Harding standing at her side. She had not even heard his approach. No wonder Ria had always been afraid of him. His manner was diffident, but Lizzie saw him trying to decipher the play of emotions that must have been going across her face.

“Thank you, Harding,” she said archly. “I will be there presently.” She spoke too haughtily, perhaps, but Harding’s sudden appearance unnerved her. She had been less formal in her dealings with Martha, but she had to be careful to keep her guard up with the other servants. It was important, if she was to become Ria, that she address the servants in a manner befitting her station. Lizzie hoped her words conveyed to the butler that she would move at her own leisure, not his.

He nodded and gave a brief bow before turning away.

She made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the second door. She could hear the low murmur of
voices. Despite her moment of bravado with Harding, Lizzie was aware of a cold lump of uncertainty growing in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had promised them a full account of what had happened in Australia, and she was prepared to give it—omitting a few significant details, of course.

She had so far been able to bluff her way in by her looks and by a general knowledge of the family. But how long could she keep this up? How long would it be until her ignorance of tiny details that Ria would know began to surface and alert the family that something was amiss? Lizzie hesitated, fighting a sudden urge to flee.

Then she called to mind a vibrant image of Ria. They had shared the days of hard work, the mundane evenings, the celebrations. She thought of the long hours they had spent together, talking about their families, their childhoods. She knew as much about Ria as one person could possibly know about another, as though Ria were indeed a part of herself. She had heard that twins often experienced this kind of bond. Ria and Lizzie were not twins, but they
were
sisters. Herbert Thornborough was her father. She would prove it.

These thoughts and resolutions circled in Lizzie’s brain, pushing away the uncertainty. Anticipation coursed through her like a Thoroughbred at a race. She knew what she had to do, and she firmly told herself she had the ability to do it.

With a final shoring up of her resolve, she pushed open the parlor door.

                                                          
Chapter 7