The Smile of the Stranger (15 page)

“By gob!” he exclaimed, inspecting her up and down. “She
’
s a well-favored little craft, i
’
n
’
t she,
Lambourn
? Casts
those bucktoothed, potato-jawed twins of yours into the shade, hey? Here, you”—he broke off to say to a footman
—
“scamper off and bring me a glass of champagne,
I’ll
drink Miss
’
s health. And—hearken—bring a glass for Miss too! So, I hear, miss, that you saved my brother
’
s equerry, van Welcker, from a deuced near squeak with those Frenchies? Hang me! I wish I
’
d been there to see! It sounded like a monstrous fine lark. And then you flitted across the Channel together like a pair of stormy petrels, ha, ha! My brother is much beholden to you for saving van Welcker, lassie! He could ill afford to lose a friend like Frederick, let alone as pretty a set of Sevres chamberware as I
’
ve seen this seven year. He
’
d be delighted to see ye at Carlton House, I dare swear! And, bless me I you must come down to us at Bushey! I
’
ll get Mrs. J. to send you an invitation.”

Lord
Lambourn
’
s face set into a rigid mask at this suggestion, but Juliana, curtsying again, replied, “Your Royal Highness does me great honor, but I believe I must forgo the pleasure. My visit to London terminates tomorrow.”

“What? When you
’
ve not seen half the lions?” cried the Duke. “Bigod,
Lambourn
, this is a devilish mismanaged affair! Why does not Miss remain longer?”

At this point the champagne arrived, and the Duke gulped down a glassful, saying to Juliana, “Here
’
s to your bright eyes, midear!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Juliana, sipping from her own glass.

“Your Highness,” said Lord
Lambourn
in a strangled voice, “my niece
’
s grandfather has need of her. She is obliged to return to Flintwood.”

“Hang me, why can
’
t the old gentleman manage on his own? Where does he live—Hampshire? Oh well, I daresay Miss could put on sail and tack over to Brighton for a visitor to Bognor—George spends a deal of time there with Lady Jersey!”

Endeavoring to suppress his evident feelings as to the utter ineligibility of this scheme, Lord
Lambourn
signaled with a motion of his head to Juliana that she should now withdraw. She therefore curtsied a third time and bade His Highness good evening.

“
Bu
rn
me, but she
’
s as neat a little pinnace as I ever set sail in,
Lambourn
,” exclaimed the Duke loudly, before Juliana was half out of the room, “and, now I
’
ve seen her and can describe her to George, I
’ll
be hoisting anchor myself, for I promised to look in at the Charlevilles
’
ball. Here, you! Run and see for my carriage! Where are all my rascals of servants? I shall be devilish late. But I will take another glass of champagne before I go!”

Pulling the hood of her domino over her face once more, to avert the possibility of being seen by Sir Groby, supposing him to have come to the Masquerade, Juliana slipped unobtrusively through the laughing, jostling, masked crowds, and made her way toward the supper room. It had occurred to her that, since plainly no servant was going to be bothered to attend to her this evening, if she wished to avoid going hungry to bed, she had best forage for herself. No doubt there would be a tart or cake, something that she could carry up to her chamber.

The supper hall, in normal times the family dining room, lay ravaged and empty, its candles guttering in their sconces. Carcasses of turkeys and geese were picked clean, crumb
-
strewn plates were scattered everywhere, the great dishes that had contained jellies and syllabubs now held hardly a drop. Searching through the debris remaining on the white-spread tables, however, Juliana was able to find a small but sufficient repast—a roll, a chicken leg, a few grapes; and, having piled these on a plate, she was retreating through a service door and about to slip up the back stairs to her room, when she was startled by the sight of the masked figure of a lady wearing a Spanish costume with mantilla, comb, and fan, who had glided silently into the supper chamber and, thinking herself unobserved—for Juliana was in a distant and shadowed
corner
—moved swiftly to the mantelpiece, where she proceeded calmly to take from their velvet-lined case six little gold-framed miniatures, which, Juliana was aware, were among the most prized of Lord Lambourn
’
s possessions. The unknown masked lady briskly dropped them into her reticule and then quitted the room again in the same speedy and silent manner.

Juliana gasped with horror. Setting down her plate, she
‘
ran after this audacious thief, and was in time to see her descending the main staircase. Coming up the stairway at the same moment was Fitton, the butler, and Juliana immediately accosted him.

“Fitton—oh, Fitton!” Remembering that she was disguised, she pushed back her hood. “It is I—Miss Juliana. You see that lady at the foot of the stairs, dressed as a Spaniard? She is just going into the ballroom. Two minutes ago I saw her take my uncle
’
s little Fouquet miniatures from their case! She has them hidden away in her reticule!”

At first Fitton was suspicious, doubtful, very unwilling to believe Juliana, but when she showed him the empty velvet case he muttered, “Mercy on us, miss! What
’
s to be done? I can hardly accost the lady—His Lordship cannot abide any to-do or scandal.”

“No, but I think you must tell my uncle, Fitton—I am certain he would be in flat despair at the loss of his miniatures. I have heard him say he values them above everything in the house. You had best inform him directly, in case the lady slips away before the end of the ball.”

“Yes, miss,” said Fitton, looking at Juliana with a certain respect, and he hastened off to find his master. Juliana, having done what she could but hoping not to be involved in the distasteful business, turned back toward the supper parlor, intending to retrieve her plateful of food. She had gone but a few steps when she heard herself addressed in soft but urgent accents.

“Miss Paget! Miss Juliana! May I have the honor of a word with you?
”

Glancing round in surprise, momentarily forgetting that she had again pushed back her hood, she saw a black-visored chimney sweep, carrying his sack and brushes.

“Why, I thank you, sir,” she said, laughing, thinking that it was some young gentleman who wished to dance with her. “But I am in no need of having my chimneys swept and must hold myself excused!”

So saying, she pushed her hood back into position and was about to run up the stairs again when he caught her by the hand.

“Pray, pray, hear me but one moment!” he begged, and, leading her aside into a niche at the head of the stairs, he slipped aside his mask for a moment and revealed the handsome features of Captain Davenport.

“Why!” she exclaimed. “Captain Da—!”

“Hush!” he adjured her. “I am trespassing on your aunt
’
s hospitality, for I received no invitation to her Masquerade. Yet, hearing that you were so soon to be cruelly reft away from us, and returned to rustic seclusion, I could not forbear coming to make my farewells!”

“Oh!” cried Juliana, now somewhat confused and embarrassed, for, thinking the matter over during the day, she had come to the conclusion that she had acted in a rather forward and improper manner in sending a message by the Count. “You have seen Count van Welcker, then?”

“I have. He sought me out at the Cocoa Tree and imparted the sorrowful news that you were to leave tomorrow shortly after dawn. I felt I must take this chance of seeing you. But tell me, Miss Juliana, only give me one hope—may I, should occasion arise, may I come to pay my respects to you at your grandfather
’
s residence? Will you permit me to do that?”

“In Hampshire?” Joy and astonishment made her heart beat fast. “But, Captain Davenport, what possible occasion could you have to visit Hampshire?”

“Oh, I have friends residing in Southampton,” he replied. “It is the most likely thing in the world that I might have occasion to visit them. Indeed, business affairs may very probably call me thither at no very distant date. In which case it would give me inexpressible pleasure if—do you think your grandfather would permit me to wait on you at Flintwood?”

“Truly, sir, I cannot say for sure—” But, Juliana thought, why should her grandfather bar his door to this perfectly unexceptionable young man? “I believe, if you had come so far, he could hardly deny you,” she added hopefully.

“Miss Paget, you give me hope again! London will seem
—
will seem a dark desert without your presence,” he murmured in a low, constricted tone. “But if I may entertain the possibility of calling on you in the country—then there will be a star in my darkness!”

And, carrying her hand to his lips, he saluted it in the most respectful way—looked in her eyes for a brief instant
—
then, picking up his brushes, he hurried away down the staircase—Juliana, looking after him, saw him walk between the footmen and out through the front door.

She stood for a moment with her hands clasped together, then, very slowly, began to move toward the upper stairs. But she had ascended one flight only when she heard what sounded like a commotion down below in the entrance hall. There were angry cries, a woman
’
s shrill exclamation, a mans shout, the slam of a door.

Turning in sudden irrational anxiety—what if Captain Davenport had been detected and accosted?—forgetting that she had seen him make a safe departure—Juliana ran back to where she could see the entrance hall over the baluster rail. Guests were now moving toward the main doors, ready to depart, and others, in cloaks and pelisses, were waiting for their conveyances.

The scene that met her eyes at the foot of the staircase was so brief, so swiftly terminated, that, a moment later, she might have thought she had dreamed it—except that she knew she could never have imagined such a tableau.

Fitton, the butler, stood close to the front door, which was shut. Her uncle
Lambourn
, tall and severe in his black evening dress, was halfway between the door and the stair, holding a black mask in his hand; his whole posture and countenance denoted outrage, disgust, and contempt. In a defiant attitude, facing him, stood a tall woman in black Spanish costume; Juliana could not for a moment think why her face seemed so familiar; then:
“
Why—it is the woman from the Ponte Vecchior
,”
she said to herself in astonishment. “That was the harsh voice I recognized upstairs! It was
she
!”

Next instant the scene had dissolved. The woman, with a glance of loathing at Lord
Lambourn
, and with some low
-
voiced remark which made him redden up to his ears, had pulled a handful of objects out of her reticule and cast them scornfully on the floor; then, turning swiftly on her heel, with an imperious gesture to Fitton to stand aside, she had pulled open the front door and was out through it before anybody had time to prevent her departure, even did they wish to do so. But Fitton, with a cry of distress, had gone on his knees to collect the fallen treasures; Lord
Lambourn
swung round and strode up the stairs without a word. The look on his face terrified Juliana. She glanced around, to make certain that Captain Davenport had not been involved—but there was no chimney sweep in the entrance hall. Then, petrified at her uncle
’
s expression, congested with rage, she turned and silently fled up to her own room. Lord
Lambourn
had not noticed her; nobody had. As she hurried up the stairs, she could hear a buzz of amazed discussion break out among the departing guests who had witnessed the incident Juliana had no wish to hear what they said. She had no wish to hear any talk at all about what had happened. If she could have locked her door she would have done so. But no member of the family came to disturb her further that evening.

A horrible thought absorbed Juliana as she made her preparations for bed; how it had arrived, whence it had come, she did not know, but a complete certainty had taken possession of her mind.

“That woman was my mother,” she repeated to herself, over and over. “I am sure, I am sure that she was my mother!”

V
II
I

It was in very subdued and dejected spirits, next morning, that Juliana started out on her journey back to Flintwood. None of her relatives had thought fit to see her off or say goodbye to her, but this, considering the earliness of the hour, was hardly to be expected. She and Partridge left Berkeley Square at first light, traveling in one of Lord
Lambourn
’
s smaller chariots. It was hoped that in this conveyance they would be able to reach Winchester by noon, so that Partridge might be restored to her mistress that evening.

Juliana very much wished that some other escort than Partridge might have been selected for her, since it was very evident that the lady
’
s maid considered it wholly outside the sphere of her activities to be obliged to travel with a penniless, disgraced niece of her mistress, and she lost no time in making the disagreeable nature of her task as plain as she could in every way. Her aspect combined contempt and resentment in equal parts; she adopted a lofty, scornful tone whenever she had occasion to speak to Juliana, and grumbled continually to herself in a monotone, muttering various pejorative remarks about indigent hangers-on, inching place
-
seekers, grasping toe-lickers, and people who were no better than they should be, all under her breath but just loud enough to be heard.

At last Juliana, thoroughly irritated by this snapping and sneering, said clearly, “Partridge, I assure you that
I
have had no more pleasure in residing at my aunt
’
s house than
you
have taken, apparently, in my presence there. I am only too delighted to be returning to Hampshire, and I assure you it was by no request of mine that you were obliged to accompany me. I would far rather have traveled unescorted. I must ask you to be silent.”

At this the maid
’
s dislike and resentment broke into active manifestation.
“
Ho! So you
’
re glad to leave, are you, miss? Well, there
’
s some might believe that, and there
’
s others as mightn
’
t! Trying to creep into your cousins
’
good books by darning their gowns—
I
could see through your nasty toad-eating ways!”

“
Oh!” exclaimed Juliana, really angry now.
“
How dare you! As if I
cared
what my cousins thought about me! I did it merely to while away the time.”

“
A likely tale,” muttered Partridge.
“
Like mother, like daughter,
I
say. And, Lord knows, she was a right slimy twisty Serpent, who
’
d creep into your bosom and kiss you one moment and bite you with her poisoned teeth next minute as soon as look at ye. Massy me, I don
’
t know how my lady had the heart to let you in the house, with
that
one in London. She
’
d never
‘
a done it if the General hadn
’
t given her money. I could have said how it would end! Never did I think to see the day when Master
‘
ud let that one go free, after what she
done—and
after what she done afore!”

“
You mean,” said Juliana with a beating heart,
“
that it was
she—?
Partridge, was that my mother last night—in the front hall, with Lord
Lambourn
?”

She felt she would rather have asked any other person than Partridge, but she had to know.

“
That one as swiped Master
’
s pictures?” said Partridge with grim relish.
“
Ah, that it was! I wonder that you can hold your head up, miss—I do indeed. Lucky for you you was just leaving!”

“
My mother is a thief,” whispered Juliana, half to herself.

“
She is that—and worse! She
’
s a heartless, wicked Deceiver—throw over one poor fool so soon as she
’
s used him, and on to the next. Not only that—a Murderer, too!”

The emphasis with which Partridge brought out these words was truly frightful.

“A
murderer
?
” Juliana faintly said, feeling weak with horror at such terrible disclosures. “Oh no—surely not, Partridge! Murderers are ha—are hanged—she wouldn
’
t be walking around free—”

“Nor should she if she had her just deserts,” pronounced Partridge. “Often and often I
’
ve heard my lady say,
‘
That heartless Fiend nearly done in my pore brother—only by the grace of Providence he found out in time
.’
”

“
What?
How?” faltered Juliana. “How did she do it?”

“Antimony,” said Partridge somberly. “Antimony in the pore gentleman
’
s gruel, and he, dear soul, all the time doubled up with gashly pains, never guessing what ailed him. There
’
s naught more diabolicular, to
my
mind, than a wife what tries to kill her husband so she can go off with another man.”

“Who did she want to go off with?” wretchedly inquired Juliana. Partridge threw her a baleful look, which also contained a kind of pitying scorn.

“Didn
’
t your pa never tell you
nothing
?”

“No, he did not,” said Juliana, with more firmness. “He found it too distressing—he did not wish to talk about her.”

“Well, and who
’
s to blame him?” Partridge muttered.
“
He
were a decent-enough gentleman—though weak as water, if you ask me. Why should
he
be the one to skulk i
’
foreign parts?”

“Well, and why should he?” inquired Juliana, drawn, in spite of her own doubts and scruples, to apply for information to this apparently brimming source.

“Why? Acos she were arter
you
, that
’
s why! She
’
d run off and left you—how flesh an
’
blood could
do
sich a thing passes all understanding!—then, in course, when matters went awry for her, it came into her head as she
’
d lost summat as had value, so she was bound she
’
d get you back.”

“Value?” Dismally Juliana recalled Lady
Lambourn
’
s disreputable bargain with Sir Groby over the gaming debts. “You don
’
t mean she realized she
loved
me?”

“
Love
? Laura Brooke?” Partridge gave a derisive sniff.
“Her heart was as hard as her head—an
’
that
were like a chunk o
’
Stonehenge!”

“Did you
know
my mother, then?” asked Juliana curiously.

“Did I know Laura Brooke? Her an
’
me went to the same dame school in Cadnam—only she alius gave herself superior airs, nose in the sky, acos her pa were the apothecary. Then I went to be lady
’
s maid to your auntie, at Flintwood House, while
she
sat in her pa
’
s parlor, too good to work—took singing lessons—went to the Ringwood Assemblies—and that
’
s how she catched your pa, a-singing of a ballad about a saucy sailor lad.”

“Yes, he always did love singing,” Juliana murmured.

“And
then
, when he
’
d wed her an she found there was no money to be wrung outa your grandpa—off with His Highness.”

“
What
?”

Forgetting all decorum, Juliana gaped at Partridge, openmouthed.

“Didn
’
t you know
that,
miss?” Partridge stared back, equally astonished. “Don
’
t you know nothing at
a
ll
?”

“I most certainly do not!”

“Eh, well
...
” Partridge surveyed her in almost friendly commiseration. “Your pa were such a delicate, thoughtful nice gentleman—ah, he had a sweet nature, he did—” She sighed, and for a moment Juliana wondered bemusedly whether the young Ann Partridge had been jealous of Laura Brooke
’
s fine catch. “I daresay he thought it best to bring you up iggerant of it all—though how a gal as knows naught is fit to deal wi
’
the world
’
s wicked ways, never ask me! But doubtless that were why he saw fit to live abroad—where you
’
d not get to hear the talk.”

“What—what happened?” Juliana asked nervously.

“What happened? Your pa and ma went to live i
’
Lunnon, where your pa might get writing work for newspapers; your pa were friendly wi
’
Lord Maldon, as had been at Oxford College wi
’
him, Lord Maldon were a besom beau o
’
the Prince
’
s, an the next thing were, your ma were a-casting out her lures at Prinney, an the next were, she were a-sitting in his pocket
!
”

“
You mean the Prince of
Wales
?”

“
Who else? Handsome young swell he were in those days -seventy-nine, it would be, the year the twins was born.
You
were in your cradle, wi
’
old Bessie Hedger, Abigails auntie, a-looking arter ye. Prince Florizel, they called Prinney in those days, handsome as a picture he were. Now, they say, he weighs sixteen stone
!
” She gave her sniff again.
“
I heard as how he writ your ma eighty-ought letters afore she
’
d let him have his way
—an
sent her a lock of his hair. So, in the end—arter she
’
d tried to kill your pa, an
’
he
’
d escaped her wicked wiles—she hitched up her skirts an
’
off she went.”

“
With the Prince?”

“
None other. Set her up in a house at Kew, he did.
But
, arter a few months, he grew tired of her; that was alius his way; then,
‘
twas said, she had the devil
’
s own job to wring a settlement outa him—even in those days he were a mean, clutch-fisted cheeseparing niggler—in the end she thought herself lucky to get five thousand down, an
’
five hundred a year pension.”

“
Good God,” murmured Juliana. Then a horrible thought struck her.
“
Is there—could there be any possibility that I am
—
could be—his daughter?”

Partridge surveyed her candidly.

“
Well, miss, o
’
course that
’
s what everyone were asking theirselves.”

Uneasily Juliana remembered Lady Jersey
’
s interested scrutiny—Miss Ardingly
’
s sharp stare—Sir Groby
’
s disagreeably probing look—was
that
why the Duke of Clarence had wished to see her—because she might have been his brother
’
s child?

“
But now I know ye,” Partridge went on,
“
I be inclined to think that ye favor your pa. O
’
course ye have brown eyes, an hisn were gray—but you get your eyes from your ma, Prinney
’
s eyes are gray-blue an he
’
s very fair-complexioned. They say Madam Dalrymple Elliott
’
s daughter is his child—Miss Seymour—and she bain
’
t o
’
your complexion—not a bit.”

Somewhat relieved, Juliana inquired, “So what did my mother do then? When—when the Prince left her?”

“Took up wi
’
Colonel Fotherby—an
’
various others,” said Partridge circumspectly. “Then, when the Colonel left her an
’
the lease o
’
the house at Kew run out, she went to France an
’
got her claws in one o
’
they Frenchy marquees. But she were alius bound to have you back, if she could; several times she applied to my lady for your pa
’
s direction—even writ to your grandpa, I did hear tell—but o
’
course they wouldn
’
t demean theirselves to answer such a creatine
’
s letters.
‘
Sides, mostly even my lady didn
’
t know where your pa had got to, he never wrote to her above once a year
...
Once he writ an
’
said she
’
d tried to snatch you.”

“You mean,” Juliana gasped, “my mother tried to
make off
with me?”

Partridge nodded. “Ay—
’
twas when your pa wore in Swisserland—she tracked him down an
’
hired kidnappers to abduct you. But he were too many for her—he took you back.”

Dimly Juliana remembered that far-off, long-ago scene
—
in a boat, on a lake, with mountains all around.

“No
wonder
poor Papa seemed so hunted—so distressed,” she murmured, more to herself than to the maid. “And then
—
and then she arrived in Florence—and he must have known that he was near death—he was afraid that she would assume authority over me after he was gone—oh, what dreadful mischance can have brought her there at such a time? Partridge, I do believe that I am the most unfortunate young lady alive! And
poor
Papa!”

“Fiddlestick, miss,” said Partridge bracingly—her feelings for Juliana seemed to have undergone a transformation during the unfolding of this tale of vice and treachery—she now appeared quite amiably disposed. “Do not be putting yourself in such a pucker! For sure, you
’
re best out o
’
Lunnon, in case your ma might try to snatch ye again, but down at Flintwood ye
’
ll come to no harm—the old General will see arter ye, till ye
’
re of age, an
’
by an by some decent young gentleman
’
ll come a-courting.”

“But—to have such a dreadful parent—to be uncertain, even, of one
’
s paternity!”

“Pish!” said Partridge. “Who cares for that? Why, half her ladyship
’
s acquaintance have misbegotten children. Look at Lady Melbourne! A different father for each child! Look at that lot in Devonshire House! Who knows which belongs to whom? Lunnon society don
’
t concern itself wi
’
such stuff.”

“But my mother is also a thief
!
”

Partridge scratched delicately at the frizzy hair under her white ruffled cap. Then she said, in a reflective voice, “Ay, she
’
s a thief. But I reckon she steals what she believes she
’
ve a right to. She went off wi
’
a ruby ring o
’
Prinney
’
s that were worth ten thousand pounds—she said he
’
d promised her twenty thousand pounds an
’
she were obliged to take what she could get—Lord! what a rare kick-up about that ring, there were! But he decided he wouldn
’
t prosecute, so it blew over.”

“But my uncle
’
s miniatures—?”

“Ah, well—” Partridge rubbed her nose. “There
were
a time—after the twins was
born
, her ladyship were sickly-like an
’
poor-spirited for a two, three years—when his lordship an
’
your ma was monstrous great together—it didn
’
t last, acos she didn
’
t like his pinchpenny ways; she alius said as he promised her more than she ever had of him.”

“Good God!” Juliana muttered. “My own uncle! No wonder he was not anxious to have me in his house. Poor man! I am amazed that he—or my aunt—could be prepared to countenance my presence there at all.”