The Romany Heiress (19 page)

Of course, being a boy, he’d scoffed at his nurse’s
moral, saying he wasn’t interested in the tales of
princesses. They were for girls. His nurse had reminded
him that the story was about a prince too. That prince
was smart enough, good enough in his own heart to see
the purity and goodness of others beyond their clothes
and fancy manners. The prince had loved her when she
was a serving girl long before he awakened her with
love’s first kiss.

That part made him shift uncomfortably. Cate and he
had awakened much more down at the river and his
body would be a long time forgetting it.

The butler thankfully announced supper and they
traipsed in, ready to enjoy the meal. True to their word,
Cecile and Isabella made the occasion festive with candlelight on the table and the laying out of the abbey’s
finest china. The look on Cate’s face when she saw the
table laid out in all its splendor was priceless and filled
Giles with satisfaction at being the one who could provide her which such a slice of luxury. How many nights
had he eaten on this same china with guests who had
not once acted the least impressed or appreciative of the beauty laid before them? Cate’s appreciation was
refreshing.

Despite his earlier apprehension, the meal was a relaxing, enjoyable affair. Wine and conversation flowed
easily between the six of them and laughter reigned.
After dessert they all adjourned to the music room
where Isabella had ordered a fire laid and lamps lit so
that there could be music. Cecile was an accomplished
violinist, and she entertained them until Isabella persuaded Cate to join Cecile.

Cecile always traveled with her own violin and the
spare violin could not be denied. Giles added his own
voice to Isabella’s. “I would love to hear you play. Isabella says you play wondrously, but I am away from
the house apparently when you practice.”

Cate rose and smoothed her skirts. She hesitantly
picked up the violin and fiddled with the strings. Cecile
set out a sheaf of music. “I’ll start, jump in when you’re
ready”

The music Cecile had selected was the music of the
English countryside, simple love songs and ballads.
Giles thought it was the finest he’d heard. Cate was an
excellent musician, her music full of heart and feeling.
After a while, he noted Cecile stepped back and put
down her violin. Cate was too far gone to notice she was
playing alone. Her eyes were shut as she swayed with
the violin, her fingers flying over the strings. In her full
skirts, her movements were hypnotic. She was playing
gypsy music now, Giles was sure of it. The notes of the violin evoked images of bonfires and dancers swaying
to an earthy rhythm. He could have listened to her play
for hours, and he might have had not a discreet scratch
on the door drawn his attention.

Reluctantly he rose to answer it in hushed tones.
“Reginald, what is it?” he whispered, not wanting to
disturb the performance.

“A note, my lord. It came for you just now.” Reginald
held out the silver salver, revealing the sealed white
stationery.

Dread filled Giles. “Thank you, Reginald. You may
retire.”

Before turning back to the group, he cracked the seal
and read the brief missive. It was as he suspected. He
felt someone beside him. It was Alain.

“What is it?” Alain asked, not bothering to whisper.
The music had stopped, and everyone was looking expectantly in his direction.

Giles swallowed and mastered his emotions. He
scanned the room, wanting to remember the way they
all looked on their last evening. He wanted to remember Cate, regal and beautiful in her red gown, her face
soft in the lamplight before all hell broke loose. Before
he had to send her away.

“It’s a note from the inn. The vicar has arrived. He
will be here at the abbey tomorrow morning. We are to
expect him at ten o’clock.”

Morning arrived early and passed slowly. Giles tried
to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring
with the vicar’s impending visit. He rose at 6:00 after
spending a sleepless night in his chambers, not daring
to go down to the study lest one of the servants become
curious about the late night lights. He dressed for his
usual morning ride and set out alone.

The ritual of the morning ride offered him a chance
to organize his thoughts for the day, lay out his plans.
This morning was no different in that respect, only his
thoughts were. Tristan and Alain had quietly assured
him last night that all would be well. He knew they had
worked diligently the past month on his behalf to establish his identity should it become necessary. It would
take an army of legal experts to get past Tristan and
Alain. Aside from legitimate avenues of proof, Giles also knew he had the issue of status and credibility on
his side. There were favors that could be called in, favors that could be bestowed in order to set the record in
his favor. He didn’t want to win that way. But if it came
to that, if that was the only way to keep Spelthorne,
would he do it? In spite of his claims to Cate that having ethics meant not applying them haphazardly when
one felt like it, Giles was not at all sure what he might
feel compelled to do to keep Spelthorne. That troubled
him greatly. He did not like to think there was such a
weak spot in his armor. He hoped he wouldn’t have to
find out.

Giles spurred his big hunter forward as he approached a grassy flat area, preparing to give the horse
his head. The rush of cold morning wind ruffled his
bare head and the crisp air in his face served to exorcise
at least briefly the quandary over what he might be
driven to do.

He reined in the horse at the top of the rise on the
other side of the grassy area. He had not deliberately
chosen to come this way but now that he had, new
thoughts assailed him, new doubts. The village lay before him, rosy and peaceful in the early light of a new
day. The baker was already plying his trade and the earliest of farmers were arriving with fresh produce and
milk. From a distance it was a bucolic sight, hiding the
hard work and effort of living these lives every day.
Had he really been born to be one of them? What if
Cate’s information was correct and he was nothing
more than a cottager’s son? What if he was born to be a common tradesman? For a cottager’s son, becoming a
tradesman would have been high marks indeed. Most
likely, he’d been born to a farming family and not a
very successful one at that.

These were the thoughts that had plagued him
throughout the night. Giles reached beneath his riding
coat and drew out the gold pocket watch he carried. He
flipped over the cover. Seven o’clock. Three hours until
the verdict. He stared at the timepiece, seeing its elegance as if for the first time. Slowly, he pulled off his
riding gloves and deliberately fingered the fine wool
fabric of his coat. The three hundred pounds he spent on
his wardrobe annually did not seem exorbitant to him
against the sparkling backdrop of the ton where women
of rank spent five hundred pounds a year on a collection
of elaborate gowns worn two or three times a piece.
However, against the backdrop of village life, three hundred pounds was a fortune. Many of the workers were
exceedingly lucky to make ten or fifteen pounds a year.

What if he wasn’t Spelthorne? Where would he go?
What would he do? He had a college education from
Oxford. He supposed he could try his hand at teaching
or tutoring. That caused him to shudder. He thought of
the severely dressed tutors that had traipsed through his
life in their serviceable, worn black coats and trousers.
He shuddered as much from the possibility as he did
from the realization that he feared poverty. He was
something of a spoilt young man, fearful of living without the easy luxuries he’d been surrounded by.

Perhaps Cate would let him keep a few things. What would she let him keep? What should he ask for? His
horse? An annual allowance? Maybe she would consider pensioning him off. He grimaced at that. He
didn’t like the idea of living under the strictures of another person’s allowance. He would feel kept, owned.
Dependent on another. It didn’t take long to see that
that was precisely what he’d planned for her fate. He
liked to think that situation was different. The manor in
Shepperton would be a step up for her, a large step.
Still, she would be reliant on him for any increase or
permission for an extra purchase. No, he wouldn’t like
it any more than he was starting to expect she would,
no matter that his motives had been good ones. Still, he
would offer-if it was his to offer.

These were maudlin thoughts ! He had to shake them.
He wheeled the big hunter around and set him off at a
blister pace, giving himself over to the thrill of ride, deliberately seeking hedges to jump, creeks to gallop
through until at last Spelthorne Abbey came into view
and he cantered his steaming steed into the stable yard,
calling for a groom as if he were lord of the manor and
nothing was about to change that. Of course, nothing
was. He had let his imagination run away with him out
there in the meadows. Spelthorne was his. He had no
reason to believe Cate had any claim to it, that the story
in the journal was real.

Everyone except Cate was assembled in the breakfast
parlor when he strode in. He tried not to notice the awkward silence that fell when he entered the room. Casually, he helped himself to the dishes on the sideboard. Even though he’d bolstered his confidence in the stable
yard, he was struggling to maintain it. The blue and yellow dishes holding the eggs and kippers on the sideboard
had been specially made for his mother in Italy. They fit
the cheeriness of the room ideally. The silver pots holding the morning chocolate Isabella was so fond off had
been done as a wedding gift for his grandparents.

His eyes burned. His throat clogged. Straightening
his shoulders, he set his plate down and cleared his
throat. “Excuse me. I’d forgotten I have something to
do in the study.”

In the study, he sank down in one of the leather
chairs and stared out the window. There was nothing for
it. Between now and 10:00 when the vicar arrived, he
was a hopeless sapskull. He couldn’t pull his thoughts
out of their dark depths.

He wasn’t allowed to stew alone for very long.
Within ten minutes, Alain and Tristan slipped inside the
room and took up their positions-Tristan at the window, hands clasped behind his back, Alain in the chair
opposite Giles.

“Are you going to be alright?” Alain asked.

“Ask me in a few hours. I cannot answer that question from where I sit at present,” Giles said.

“Do you fear she is right? Is there something you
haven’t told us?” Tristan asked from the window.

“I’ve told you all I know” Giles sighed heavily.
“There will be no good outcome today. If her claims
prove false, she will be devastated. My victory will hurt
her. For whatever reason, she believes unerringly in the truth of her claims. She is not a knowing fraud in this.
Of course, I’ve made provisions for her. There is no
question of her going back to the gypsy caravan. I’ve
found a house for her in Shepperton. She’ll have a solid
allowance for the maintenance of her new lifestyle.”

Tristan whistled. “That’s quite generous of you since
she is the one who has come to see you dethroned. I do
not know if I would be so forgiving of someone who
did as much to me”

“I will not see her hurt”

“Why is that?” Tristan asked, spearing Giles with a
dark gaze.

Giles met his friend’s inquiry evenly. “I have grown
attached to her. She is not evil. She does not do this out
of a sense of revenge”

“Do you think she will do the same for you?” Tristan
cocked a dark eyebrow.

“I hope it will not come to that. I have tried not to
ponder it.”

“Unsuccessfully, I am guessing,” Alain put in softly.

Giles turned to Alain, unable to bear the burden of his
fears alone any longer. “I think a dying man must feel
this way when he suspects the end is near. Everything
becomes more cherished, more valuable. I wonder what
Cate might be convinced to let me keep should I be the
one who is in the wrong. But I find I cannot make distinctions between what I would take or leave. All of
Spelthorne is wound up together in my history like a big
ball of yarn. This morning, I saw my grandparent’s sil ver, my mother’s dishes from Italy. Everywhere I look,
there is my history, my tradition, at least what I had
been taught was my tradition. Spelthorne is me, and I
am Spelthorne. I do not know how I could leave it.”

“You won’t have to,” Alain encouraged.

“Alain’s right, you know,” Tristan argued from the
window. “You’ve put too much weight on the vicar’s
visit. In reality, this visit only decides what we do next.
The vicar is not a court of law. He is merely a witness
and mayhap not even a reliable one”

“I suppose your idea of reliable is whether or not he
agrees with us?” Giles asked.