Rebel Heiress (29 page)

Henrietta smiled and sympathised, but could not help a feeling of dismay at the idea of Simon with a wife. It was natural enough, she told herself. She was practically his sister and as such could feel how very long it must be before he could possibly afford to marry. But the party, she saw, was now breaking
up fast and Lady Marchmont was looking about for her. She rose and left Simon pausing first to make him promise that he would come often to see her now that he was settled in London. ‘I shall be lonelier than ever,' she said, ‘now that my dear Sally is married. You must promise to be a comfortable brother to me, Mr. Rivers.'

When had she used that phrase before? She could not remember.

In the inevitable letdown after Cedric's wedding, Henrietta had time to take stock of her position. Outwardly, at least, it was immeasurably improved. Society seemed to have accepted her at last. The Miss Giddys fawned on her and even went so far as to hurry to her with sympathy when they heard the news of British successes in North America and, more particularly, of the taking of the American
Shannon
by the British
Chesapeake
.

The tide of public opinion was against this unnecessary war by now and Henrietta's position was so much the easier. But there was more to it, she thought, than that. With a grudging respect for its percipience, she admitted to herself that society must have sensed something wrong, before, about her engagement to Charles. It was his brief visit and their appearance in public as an unmistakably affianced couple that had finally set her right in the eyes of the world.

His letters were the focal point of her days. Wellington had taken San Sebastián now and was fighting his way towards the French frontier, and though Charles wrote gaily and lovingly, it was impossible to miss the strain that underlay his words. ‘To you alone I can say it,' he wrote once. ‘I find I am not cut out for a soldier. Now that I have so much to hope for, and so much to lose, I can no longer look upon a battle as if it were some sort of a cricket match. I fear you have ruined me for the army, Henrietta.'

That letter lay under her pillow every night, and yet it filled
her with a kind of superstitious terror. Now that he no longer enjoyed fighting, would he still bear the charmed life of which Simon had spoken? Her anxiety on his account was exacerbated by her fears for her father, who wrote brief, hurried letters, sometimes to her and sometimes to her stepmother, dated often from the travelling carriage in which he journeyed to and fro between the different Allied headquarters. To his relief, Bonaparte's surprise victory at Dresden had served merely to consolidate the alliance against him and plans were well forward for an advance upon France. It was only, he said, over and over again, a matter of time and then with victory, and peace, he would be home at last. Increasingly, a note of homesickness sounded between the lines of his letters and, with it, one of anxiety for his wife. She did not sound to be in spirits, he said in one of his letters to Henrietta. He hoped that she had not overtired herself with the arrangements for Cedric's wedding. He relied on Henrietta to do her best to lessen the blow that losing Cedric must be to her.

In the same post as this appeal Henrietta received a letter from Sally, who was still on a honeymoon tour of her various properties. She and Cedric, she said, had been thinking about Henrietta all alone in Marchmont House with her stepmother. Could she not come and pay them a long visit until it was time for them to return to town? They would dearly love, she said, to have her.

It was an invitation that Henrietta had half hoped to receive. She was tired of London, tired of Marchmont house, tired of her stepmother's company. And yet, now that it came to the point, she sat down at once to write an affectionate and grateful refusal. Lady Marchmont, she knew, had wisely decided not to visit the young couple until the honeymoon was over; she would not leave her alone in town. Her father's letter had only confirmed her own anxiety about her stepmother. Lady Marchmont was pale and listless these days. She spent long hours alone in her own room, reading, Henrietta suspected, the most depressing kind of revivalist literature. Even a visit from the Miss Giddys, full of rumours of an engagement for Princess Chalotte, failed to interest her, and she amazed them and Henrietta alike by reading them a lecture on the iniquitousness of gossip.

Only when the post came did she rouse herself, and Henrietta could not decide whether it was anxiety for her husband
or for Charles Rivers that inspired her almost frenzied interest in her letters. Sometimes, though, letters from both of them would leave the hectic flush still on her cheek, her hand still shaking. What else, Henrietta wondered, could she be waiting for?

The servants, she knew, were beginning to comment on the change in their mistress. Rose spoke of her maid Fenner's anxiety about her. She did not sleep these nights, it seemed, but paced up and down her room till dawn.

‘And then the strange people that come to see her,' said Rose. ‘Gypsies and beggars and I don't know what all. Truly, miss, I don't know what's come to my lady.'

A few days later Henrietta was sitting at her embroidery in the morning room, battling with her conscience, which told her she should have accompanied her stepmother on a round of morning visits, when a footman announced Miss Gilbert.

She expected to see the elder Miss Gilbert, who had recently returned to town after a prolonged autumn visit to her sister at Shrovebridge. Instead, it was Patience Gilbert herself who hurried anxiously into the room, exclaiming at her good fortune in finding Henrietta at home and alone.

‘Truly,' she went on breathlessly, ‘I could not decide what to do for the best, but knowing how fond you were of the poor child, I thought I would just chance it and bring her to you.'

‘Bring her? What? You have brought Caroline?'

‘I do hope I have done right. I left her in the carriage for fear you would not approve. But I must explain. You will think me out of my mind, coming to you like this, but in truth this disaster has been too much for me.'

‘What disaster? Dear Miss Gilbert, I beg you will sit down and compose yourself.'

Miss Gilbert did so, wringing her hands. ‘The smallpox. Poor little Johnny Erith is dying, the doctor says, and I fear Blanche Savernake is marked for life. But you must understand, Miss Marchmont, Caroline has not been exposed. I had taken her to the seaside for a few days, hoping that alone with me she might perhaps begin to speak. But all to no avail … except that it has saved her from the smallpox. I must go back at once. Poor Miss Harris, whom I left in charge, is nearly out of her mind with worry, but I thought that since little Caroline had not been exposed I would bring her to you in the hope that you might keep her until the danger is past.'

Henrietta put her hand to her brow. ‘Miss Gilbert, I do not know what to say. Let me but think a minute. But in the meanwhile, do, I beg you let us have the child in. She will be tired and hungry after her long journey.' She rang for a footman and ordered cakes and a glass of milk, then hurried out with Miss Gilbert to the carriage, where they found little Caroline curled up asleep in a corner.

At once Henrietta regretted her suggestion. The child was well enough where she was — and suppose Lady Marchmont were to return and find her in the house? But she had gone to call, among other people on the Miss Giddys, who had recently returned from visiting Cedric and Sally. It seemed impossible that she should be home for at least another hour. And Caroline, as they watched her, stirred, woke and began to cry with fatigue and hunger. They took her indoors and Henrietta fed her milk and cakes while racking her brain as to what to do, and trying to fend off Miss Gilbert's apologies for her intrusion. What in the world was she to do with the child? Approach Lady Marchmont after all? But she had already decided against that. And besides, there was a new difficulty. Under Miss Gilbert's care Caroline's face had grown plump and rosy, losing its fine-boned likeness to Lady Marchmont. Even those haunting blue eyes no longer looked so like her mother's. Lady Marchmont might simply refuse to acknowledge her. After all, Henrietta had no proof whatever.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a scream from the doorway. She looked up to see Lady Marchmont, white as a sheet, clinging to the doorpost.

‘Caroline!' She held out her arms.

‘Mamma!' The child jumped down from Henrietta's lap and ran across the room into the arms held out to her. ‘Mamma,' she said again through her sobs. ‘Mamma, Mamma.'

For a few minutes there was amazed silence in the room, broken only by Lady Marchmont's incoherent murmurings over the child. Then Patience Gilbert rose to her feet.

‘I must go,' she said. ‘You will forgive me, I hope, Miss Marchmont. I had no intention, no idea … Naturally, I shall not say a word.' And with a half-blind curtsey to Lady Marchmont, to whom she had not even been introduced, she hurried from the room.

Her thoughts in a turmoil, Henrietta let her go. Bitterly angry with herself, she realised that she had been wrong in
everything she had thought about Lady Marchmont and the child. It was all too clear, now, what had been the matter with Lady Marchmont and why such strange people had been visiting her. She had been suffering, pining, searching everywhere for her vanished child. Now, over Caroline's head, she looked up at Henrietta.

‘I do not understand it,' she said. ‘Where did you find her? Oh, my darling, my precious.' She bent once more over the child. ‘I have found you at last. I will never let you go again.'

And again, with that miraculously discovered voice, little Caroline murmured her only word, ‘Mamma, Mamma.'

Haltingly, Henrietta began to explain, her sense of guilt deepening as Lady Marchmont listened, exclaimed and shuddered.

‘But why did you not come to me?' she asked.

It was unanswerable. Henrietta blushed and was silent.

Her silence itself was an answer. Lady Marchmont coloured angrily in her turn. ‘Henrietta! You cannot have thought … My own child, my Caroline,' and speech was lost in a flood of tears. Alarmed by this, little Caroline for her part burst into a fresh paroxysm of weeping, clinging anew to her mother. Lady Marchmont was calm at once. ‘We will talk about it later,' she said. ‘For the moment, the child must rest. Come my precious, you shall lie down on Mamma's bed and sleep your troubles away.'

When she returned, it was with an air of determination. ‘I do not care what comes of it,' she said. ‘I mean to keep the child with me.'

‘To keep her?' Henrietta did not try to conceal her amazement. ‘But, dear madam, have you considered?'

‘I have considered everything. I know it may mean ruin, but I do not care. The child needs me; nobody else does. You know well enough, Henrietta, that if he ever does come home, your father could go on perfectly well without me. As it is, he spends most of his time in the House of Lords or at his club. If he had ever needed me more everything might have been different. No, I have quite made up my mind. I shall tell him the whole story. He has the right to know. And if he will not allow me to keep the child here, well, I shall simply have to leave him. It was another matter, of course, before Cedric was established in the world, but now, who have I to consider but myself — and Caroline? Do you realize that the sight of me made her speak at
last? Henrietta, how can I part from her again? No, if your father proves adamant, as he well may, and indeed I could hardly blame him, Caroline and I will retire to the country and live together like the Ladies of Llangollen. You will come and see us I know, Henrietta, and so will Cedric and Sally. For the rest of the world, why should I care? I have served it long enough to know how barren are its rewards.'

Henrietta could not help sympathising. ‘Of course I would come and see you,' she said. ‘But I hope it will not come to that. Let us put our heads together and decide how the child may best be explained to the world. It will be much easier for my father to accept her if society has done so already.'

‘Yes,' agreed Lady Marchmont. ‘I have been thinking that very thing. And the more I think about it, Henrietta, the more it seems to me that we must stick to your original story.'

‘My story?'

‘Yes, of finding her straying in Richmond park and taking pity on her. Why not? It is impossible for slander to connect her with you, since everybody knows that you were not in this country when she was born. Henrietta, I know I have not always behaved to you as a stepmother should, but on my knees I beg that you will do this for me. Consider, you are known already as something of a rebel. What more in character than this impulsive adoption of a child? And what more logical than that I should join you in it? After all, you have concerned yourself so far already in little Caroline's affairs. How can you fail her now? Think! If, after having found me at last, she is snatched away again, to however good a school, what must be the effect on her? I fear not only for her speech, but for her reason.'

‘Yes.' Henrietta was afraid it might well be true. ‘But, ma'am, I am afraid Charles might not be best pleased. He has warned me already against doing anything out of line.'

‘Charles!' Lady Marchmont gave her a quick, strange look. ‘Yes. Charles … We must think what's best to say to him.'

‘Dear madam.' Henrietta spoke hesitantly. ‘Are you sure — forgive me — but are you sure the father would not help?'

‘The father! Henrietta, think a little. If I did not sanction the “accident” to the child …'

‘You're right, of course.' It was, indeed, unanswerable.
Everything that Miss Muggeridge had told her had suggested that someone was known to want the child out of the way. So — if not Lady Marchmont… ‘Very well,' she said at last, reluctantly. ‘That shall be our story. I must send for Simon and warn him to be ready to be cross-questioned on it. At least he is safe down from Oxford, so there is no need to fear getting him into trouble there. But there is one other thing: You must let me write a full explanation both to my father and to Charles. I owe them that.'