Rebel Heiress (7 page)

The coach turned into a crowded yard and stopped. The steps were let down; the passengers began to push their way out, chattering excitedly, calling greetings to friends, and orders to the coachman and to the men who were already unloading the boot. Henrietta, alighting last, found the air blessedly fresh and sweet, and stood for a moment taking deep breaths to steady herself while she looked around at the animated scene. On the steps of the inn itself stood a portly red-faced man whose air of consequence proclaimed him the landlord. Henrietta went up to him.

‘I beg your pardon.' She was beginning, herself, to be conscious of her accent. ‘Would it be possible for my boxes to remain here until I can have them fetched from Marchmont House?'

‘From Marchmont House?' The man looked down at her, unsmiling. ‘And what would the likes of you be doing at Marchmont House, Miss Yankee? Lord Marchmont has not turned traitor yet that I know of, nor yet a host to enemies. But the boxes may lay here as long as you wish, so long as they are paid for — in advance.'

‘That is precisely my difficulty.' Henrietta refused to be cowed by the man's rudeness. ‘The journey has taken longer than I expected, owing to an accident on the way, and I am without funds. I will send round from Marchmont House as soon as I get there. Lord Marchmont is my father.' She had not intended to play this card, but needs must. ‘I assure you that there will not be the slightest difficulty about it.' She could only hope, passionately, that this was true.

‘Ho, no.' The man had decided she was negligible. ‘Not the slightest difficulty in the world. Lord Marchmont your father, indeed, and I suppose Liverpool is your uncle and the Duke of Devonshire your cousin! And I am to let you disappear and leave me with your boxes full of trash as if I had not enough rubbish on my hands as it is. No, no, I'm not to be caught with
that kind of chaff. Jem,' he shouted to the man who had now reached Henrietta's shabby boxes, ‘throw them there in the street. I won't have 'em here.'

Henrietta's angry protest was interrupted by a voice from behind her. ‘I beg you will not disturb yourself, ma'am,' it drawled, ‘there is nothing more unbecoming in a female than passion!' She turned in surprise to see a slim, middle-aged man who had just alighted from a sedan chair. Dressed in the most quiet of taste, he yet gave, even to her inexperienced eye, an impression of extraordinary elegance. He bowed to her and smiled with surprising sweetness. ‘You find yourself in a difficulty of some kind, I collect. Allow me the pleasure of assisting you. Sykes' — his voice took on a note of steel — ‘I had not thought you given to insulting your guests.'

The man had started at sight of him. ‘Why, Mr. Brummel, I am sure I had no idea the young lady was a friend of yours! If I had but known, it would have been quite another pair of shoes. But arriving unattended on the public coach, and without funds, too; you must admit it has a damned havey-cavey look about it. But in course if she is a friend of yours that's another story. Jem' — he raised his voice again — ‘them boxes in the front parlour and look slippy about it.'

‘And now' — Henrietta's rescuer was considering her gravely — ‘let us consider what is best for you to do. First, I must beg your pardon for having listened to your most interesting conversation with the landlord here. You are, I collect, Lord Marchmont's American daughter arrived most unexpectedly to visit him. You will forgive me if I admit my surprise. I thought I knew everything that went on in London and I confess I never heard Lord Marchmont had a child.'

‘It is all the kinder in you to have come so quickly to my rescue,' said Henrietta, ‘but believe me, I
am
Lord Marchmont's daughter, only he does not as yet know it himself. It is a long story, sir …'

‘And this is neither the time nor the place to be telling it.' He took her arm and led her towards the sedan chair from which he had just alighted. ‘Miss Marchmont, you shall promise me the full story when I do myself the honour of calling on you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I beg you will make use of my chair to carry you to Marchmont House. You will, I think, be sure of finding your father at home. Pray give him my regards, and my felicitations on so precious an acquisition.'

‘You are too good, sir.' Sinking gratefully back against the white fur that lined the chair, Henrietta heard her new champion tell the men to make sure that she was admitted to Marchmont House. Luckily for her peace of mind, she did not hear his last order to his servants, which was that having seen her safely admitted, they were to take the chair straight home for a thorough cleaning.

She leaned back in the chair, giving way to the unfamiliar jerking movement as it was carried down a succession of crowded streets. She hardly noticed the gay figures on the pavements, nor heard the unceasing cries of ‘Sweet lavender', ‘Scissors to grind' and ‘Ripe oranges'. Her mind was busy on the problem of how to greet her father. Suppose he refused to recognise her: But she would suppose no such thing, for that way lay despair.

Her porters turned sharply in at the gates of a large house, stopped and set down the chair on the gravelled sweep. One helped her to alight while the other beat a resounding tattoo on an imposing front door, set in a handsome grey stone façade. It was far and away the largest house she had ever seen, let alone entered. For a moment her courage failed her. But the heavy door had swung open, revealing a massive footman in full livery. There was a quick interchange between the two servants as she reluctantly mounted the flight of shallow stone steps that led to the door. Her reluctance, she soon saw, was matched by that of the footman, but Mr. Brummel's servant had obeyed orders and the door was held wide, then closed with a soft thud behind her. She stood in a lofty entrance hall from which a red carpeted stair rose in a graceful curve.

‘Miss Marchmont?' the man could not quite keep the question out of his voice, any more than he could entirely avoid a glance at her shabby skirts. Then he suddenly became human. ‘I am sure I do not know what to do for the best,' he said, and then, with inspiration: ‘I will fetch Mr. Masters to you.' And opening the door of a small saloon, he ushered her inside.

It was all too clearly a room in which people of no importance might be left to await the pleasure of their betters. Spindly gilt-backed chairs discouraged sitting. A glass-fronted bookcase held a drab collection of religious and political treatises. The pictures on the walls appeared to have been selected because their gilt frames matched the inhospitable chairs. A high, elegant window, revealing a prospect of the gravelled
sweep Henrietta had just left, made her wonder if she would soon find herself back there. And who, she asked herself, was the omnipotent Mr. Masters?

The door, opening again, revealed him as the butler, majestic in his garb of office, dignified, unbending, and, at the moment, sorely puzzled.

‘Miss Marchmont?' His voice, too, held a question. His eyes took one comprehensive sweep of her appearance before they fixed themselves in honest doubt on her face. ‘James tells me that you are his lordship's daughter, come unexpected from America.' His voice committed him neither to belief nor disbelief in her story.

‘Yes. And I wish to see my father. At once.' This was no time to be timid.

‘Of course you do. It is most natural. Only, you see, there is a difficulty.' He dwindled to a stop and stood looking at her with what she suspected of being compassion.

‘A difficulty? My father is not then at home? Mr. Brummel was positive that he would be.'

‘Ah… Mr. Brummel.' Masters sighed. It was all, he seemed to suggest, too difficult for him altogether. ‘He was in the right of it, of course. My lord is always at home at this hour — when he is in London, that is.'

Henrietta was getting impatient. ‘Well, and is he then
not
in London? I had understood that Parliament was sitting.'

‘Quite so. You are entirely right, Miss' — he paused — ‘Miss … Marchmont. That, in fact, is the heart of the difficulty.' He stopped again, then went on in a rush. ‘The truth of the matter, miss, and there's no use beating about the bush and making a long story of it; the truth of it is, he came home from the House yesterday in one of his tearers, and it's as much as any of our place is worth to disturb him.'

‘A tearer?' The word was new to Henrietta.

‘A passion, miss, a regular ripsnorting rage, if you'll pardon the expression. Well' — he was suddenly human — ‘can't blame him, can you? We'd all hoped, in the servants' hall, that he'd be First Minister, now poor Mr. Perceval's been killed … And to be passed over for Lord Liverpool! No wonder he's neither to hold nor to bind. But when he's like that, miss, we don't go near him.'

‘Nobody?'

‘Not my lady herself. Not till he rings, you see.'

‘I do see. And when is that likely to be?' Henrietta pulled off a shabby glove.

‘Well, miss, you can never tell. It might not be till he was ready to go down to the House again, and then, of course, there would be no stopping him. All's at sixes and sevens, you see, miss, since poor Mr. Perceval was killed. First it's to be a Whig government, then Prinney changes his mind and it's the Tories after all. Yesterday my lord was to be First Minister, but today lord knows why, it's all to do again and I believe Liverpool's the man after all. It's no wonder if my lord's in a passion: I'm sure it's very disrupting in a genteel establishment.'

Henrietta pulled off the second glove. ‘I think I begin to understand. It is politics, then, that have put my father in his tearer, as you call it. Well, I am sure I do not blame him for that. It sounds an ill-managed business enough. But perhaps the sight of me will be a distraction. At any rate, we can but put it to the proof.'

His ruddy face paled. ‘Miss, I dare not, I tell you.'

‘Very well then. If none of you has the courage to announce me, I shall just have to make shift to announce myself. He is awake, I take it?'

‘Oh, yes, miss, he has been in his study these two hours past. But I'm sure I do not know whether I should let —'

‘I do not precisely see how you can stop me. Where, pray, is the study?' This, she realised, was the crucial point. Suppose he were to refuse to direct her? But she had contrived, in the course of their brief conversation, to achieve a mastery of the man; there was something about her quiet voice that he had to respect.

He led her, then, out into the hall again and pointed to a door at the far end. ‘There it is, miss, and I'm sure I hope I'm doing right.'

She smiled at him. ‘Never trouble yourself, Masters. If the worse comes to the worst, I will say I found it out by myself.' She walked steadily down the hall, knocked once on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

‘What the devil?' came a furious growl from the far end of the room.

It was twilight in here, for heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn across the high windows, and only an occasional glint suggested the morning sunlight outside. Henrietta advanced slowly, threading her way among chairs and tables. ‘I am
sorry,' she said, ‘to break in on you so unceremoniously, but my errand is urgent, and your servants, for some reason, were reluctant to admit me.' She could see him now, sitting hunched up in a big armchair, by the embers of a fire, an older man than she had expected, with grizzled hair, strong bones, and dark-shadowed eyes in the half light. ‘I am sorry if I do not find you well, sir.'

‘I'm well enough, only blue-devilled. But who in God's name are you? I'll dismiss the whole pack of them for this.'

‘Pray do not, sir. They could hardly help themselves. You see, I am your daughter, come from America.'

‘
My what
?' He was on his feet now. ‘What lunacy is this? I have no daughter, nor any son either, as those who sent you doubtless know. You'll have time to regret this conspiracy in the Bridewell.'

In the half-light, she saw his hand go out towards a bellpull and put her own on it to stop him. Strangely enough, she found herself not in the least afraid of him. ‘Stay a moment,' she said, ‘before you do something you will regret. Have you no picture of my mother?'

‘Of whom: Of my dead wife, you would say? What's that to the purpose?'

‘Only that they say I am much like her.' She withdrew her hand from his and moved over to the window where she pulled the heavy curtain cord so that light flooded into the room. ‘Look at me, sir, and listen to me, and if you still say I am not your daughter, send me to the Bridewell, or where you will.' She turned to face him, her hand still among the soft blue velvet, the sunshine glancing across her strong, fine features and bringing out red lights in her dark hair.

His hand dropped to his side as he gazed at her. ‘Who in the devil's name are you: Your voice — the accent — I remember it so well… And those eyes, blue with dark hair. But I have no daughter; she died when she was born.'

‘No, sir.' Henrietta knew the battle was as good as won. ‘My Aunt Abigail told you I had died. I only learned this spring when she herself died, what she had done. She told me you had disowned me, but among her papers I found your letter about my death, and also, I must tell you, your letters to my mother. She never had them. Any of them. From the time you left. It was only then that I knew I had a father. I have come a long way to find you, sir.'

‘A dangerous one, if what you say is true. But why should I believe you? And yet …' He was gazing at her now as if he almost wanted to be convinced. ‘It's true, you have something of her. The voice … the eyes … the smile. Mercy … my beautiful Mercy. Can you really be her child?'

‘Here is your letter, sir. About our deaths, my mother's and mine.' She had got it out ready for him as she waited in the glum little reception room.