Sally James (15 page)

Miranda slipped her arm behind Mademoiselle’s head and raised her slightly, just as the woman’s eyes flickered open.

“My baby! You cannot be! She died! I do not in the least understand!” she whispered in so low a voice that only Miranda heard what she said. The other two girls had by now appeared. and Therese directed them to remove Mademoiselle, then turned to apologise profusely to her customers for this untoward disturbance in her normally well conducted and genteel establishment.

Miranda was silent while Araminta, with the help of a solicitous Therese herself, finished her business. Then Araminta looked at her little pearl surrounded watch and exclaimed she must fly, for she had another engagement.

“Come, Miranda, I will leave you in Green Street on my way.”

Miranda shook her head. She was determined to probe this odd occurrence.

“I will take a chair, Araminta. Do not delay for me.”

Araminta hesitated, loth to leave what she had started, but she really was late for a most important guest her mother expected, a duchess, and she dared not offend that influential lady. She judged the result of the meeting could be used skilfully to scatter some hints about Miranda’s dubious connections, and on the whole she was satisfied, and left.

Miranda turned to Therese. “The woman is obviously ill. Would you allow me to take her home in a hackney?”

Therese was not an inconsiderate employer. Mademoiselle was an excellent worker normally, and Therese realised she would be unlikely to be able to work properly for the rest of the day. Besides, she did not care to offend this new client, the ward of Sir Denzil Trewyn. The girl had obviously approved of the hat he had purchased for her, and was likely to bring new custom. She gave her permission graciously, and sent out to procure a hackney. Then Mademoiselle was assisted out to it and Miranda asked her for her direction. They were silent until the cab deposited them outside a modest but clean looking house near to St Paul’s, and then Miranda paid it off and insisted on helping Mademoiselle to her room. As soon as they were inside, Mademoiselle turned to her urgently.

“I should not ask! I know it will cause trouble for me! But who are you?”

Miranda had been thinking hard on the way to the house. She had noticed the resemblance between herself and this woman, and was sure that now, incredibly, she was on the brink of discovering something about her family.

“Please sit down. Are you really feeling well enough to talk? It will not disturb you?”

“No. I must know! I could not bear to remain in ignorance!”

“I feel the same.”

Quietly Miranda told her that she had until recently been living on an island off the Cornish coast, but she did not know her real name, or who her parents were. She suppressed the part about having been told she was mad, but said briefly she had only recently come to London for the first time, and was staying with Lady Beverley.

“You know no more about your family?”

“Only that I was born in Redruth.”

“It must be! Oh, I can scarce believe it! You – I ought perhaps not to say!” she finished hurriedly.

“Yes, you must, for there is some mystery here. I need to discover what my parentage is, and why this mystery surrounds it. I think you can help me.”

Mademoiselle le Brun considered her for a long while in silence.

“I believe you are my own daughter!” she said softly at last “But how can it be? They told me you had died!”

* * * *

Gradually, painfully, the story unfolded as Miranda gently encouraged her.

“I am French, but we fled from Paris during the Terror, and eventually crossed to England. My grandmother was English, and when my parents died I was taken in by her relatives, cousins of my mother, who lived in Cornwall. I was just fifteen at the time. Then, a year later, the eldest son, who was in some sort of disgrace over a duel he had fought, was sent down to the country while the scandal blew over. He was twenty, handsome, and in that desolate part of Cornwall, with no other society near by, we were thrown much together.

“My dear, I am so horribly ashamed, but I was young and lonely, and my governess was lax. She was always reading books I had no interest in, for I was no scholar. But that is no excuse! I allowed him to seduce me. He had promised to marry me, saying he had written to his father for permission and we would be married soon when Sir Henry came to Cornwall. He said he wanted to go himself to London to persuade his father, but dared not appear there because of the duel. I was a fool to believe him! When he knew there was to be a child he was angry, and said he had never intended marriage, and I would have to go away until the child was born, and then put it in a foundling’s home. But the housekeeper discovered my secret, and wrote to Sir Henry, and he came down. He was furious with us both, but he forced Henry to marry me. My baby, you, it must be, was born at Redruth where Sir Henry had a town house. I was very happy for just over a year, and then Sir Henry died.

“My Henry had gone back to London, and I saw very little of him. I lived so quietly I saw very few people apart from the servants, but I was content with my baby, and the governess had been allowed to remain as my companion. She had pleaded with them, when Sir Henry would have dismissed her, for she had nowhere else to go, and he would not have given her a character. But all changed after old Sir Henry died.

“Henry came down and told me he did not consider our marriage valid as he had been under age and forced into it. Now he would be able to free himself of me, and make an advantageous marriage. I had long ceased to love him, and was not averse to parting with him, but I had to consider my baby, and preserve her rights. I would not have her declared illegitimate. I fought, and argued, but he threatened to take the child to a foundling’s home. I said I would expose him to the world he was so anxious to impress. I think he knew that after his wild youth my story would be believed by some people, and he shrank from murdering me! At last we came to an agreement. He said he would acknowledge the child, and make provision for her, and give her an equal share of his inheritance with any more children he might have, if I agreed to disappear. He could say I was dead, and I would not therefore be a bar to any future marriage. He gave me money, and I knew I could earn my living with my needle. It seemed to me the only way to ensure your safety. I never knew what he did afterwards with you, but I wrote frequently to discover how you were. A couple of years after I had left you, he wrote to inform me you had died of some childish ailment. I did not believe him, but had no means of obtaining the truth, and feared he had done what he had threatened. For a while I did not wish to live myself, but it is not so easy to die at will!”

Miranda had listened to this recital in horror, and now put her arms comfortingly about Mademoiselle le Brun.

“You must indeed be my mother. Oh, how glad I am at last to find you! I have hated not knowing anything about my birth. It is wonderful to know I still have a mother living! But who is my father?”

“I ought not to tell you, for he is evil. He will take his revenge.”

“No. I am not afraid of anything he can do. Denzil – that is the man who rescued me from the island – Sir Denzil Trewyn, he will protect us both.”

Mademoiselle le Brun looked at her, then spoke hesitantly.

“I suppose you have a right to know, and also you can claim what is your due. You are his only child. He did indeed marry again, an heiress, but it cannot be legal while I live. He has no other children, so you must be his sole heir. It would not be fair to you to hide it. You are certain this man, Sir Denzil, will manage this for you?”

Miranda nodded eagerly, smiling confidently.

“Oh yes, I do not think Denzil is ever at a loss. And we will force him also to make provision for you, so that you no longer have to work for Therese!”

“I do not desire that, or to have any more dealings with him. But I will tell you. It is Sir Henry Carstairs.”

“What?” Miranda was incredulous, thinking of the man she had met briefly the previous night at the theatre.

“You know him? You do not believe me,” her mother said sadly.

“I – I must! But from all I have heard he is a most respected man, an M.P. He is associated with the Bill for prohibiting climbing boys. Could he really be capable of the wicked things you say?”

“Men can often change. Or they can do things in their private lives that they condemn in public. And he was excessively wild in his youth.”

“Yes.” Miranda was thoughtful.

They talked for some while longer, and rejoiced in the discovery of each other. Miranda learned more details of her early life, and that Miss Brockton had been her mother’s governess. This was presumably why she had been willing to isolate herself with Miranda on the island. Sir Henry had his hold over her too. Then Miranda left, promising to tell Denzil the whole story, and come to see her mother in a few days at Therese’s.

* * * *

Miranda took a hackney back to Green Street, her mind a seething tangle of thoughts. She was shocked at the utterly unexpected discovery of her mother and the distressing manner of it, yet overwhelmed at the thought that at last she had someone who belonged to her, someone, moreover, as close as a mother. Delight at this, mingled with regrets for the lost years and the normal childhood of which she had been deprived, and horror at the tale she had heard, left her in a totally confused and bewildered state of mind. She was anxious to pour it all out into Judith’s sympathetic ears at the first available opportunity.

Judith, however, had gone to visit friends, and Miranda had to await her with as much patience as she could command. This patience was sorely tried since Judith’s return was delayed so long that when she did arrive, it was with barely sufficient time to change and receive the guests expected for an intimate little dinner party.

This party had been hastily arranged by Judith after she had heard of Tom Devoran’s approach to Denzil with his request for permission to offer for Miranda. Much as she liked Tom, she did not feel that either Miranda’s or Denzil’s best interests would be served by allowing Miranda to marry him. She had watched with growing approbation Denzil’s absorption in Miranda. For years she had been putting eligible damsels in Denzil’s way, and had been coming reluctantly to the conclusion that he was a hopeless case so far as matrimony was concerned. With the advent of Araminta she had, suppressing her dislike of the girl and Mrs Floode, been prepared to approve of anyone who could make Denzil happy. But as she had met and grown to love Miranda, she had come firmly to the conclusion that Miranda was the ideal wife for her brother.

She had watched them both carefully, and it was clear to her, seeing Miranda’s expression in unguarded moments when she had been watching Denzil, that the girl was head over heels in love with him. And he, previously impervious to the charms of dozens of females who had tried to attach him, and unwilling to gratify them with more than a flirtation, was, to his sister’s perceptive eye, deeply enamoured of Miranda. She considered his scruples utter nonsense, and was hopeful that given time he would overcome them. But time was unlikely to be granted them if Miranda, in despair, accepted second best in the shape of Tom or one of her other suitors. Judith determined to throw every rub she could in the way of Tom’s being able to further his suit, and she had devised this dinner party as one method by which she might achieve this. Her reasoning was that if she encouraged others of Miranda’s admirers to pay court to her, the girl would have leisure to think less of Tom, and might be induced to delay her choice until Denzil, as Judith phrased it to herself and her spouse, came to his senses.

Judith had therefore invited Richard and Mary Fellowes to dine, and numbers were made even by the inclusion of Sir Timothy Baines, a pleasant young man who had often driven Miranda out, and whom she appeared to regard with favour.

Miranda had to allow herself to be distracted from her own discoveries and worries, and entertain these guests. She had no opportunity of speaking alone with Judith, and the party finished so late that, exhausted by the emotions and turmoil of the day, she was only too thankful to fall in with Judith’s recommendation that she go straight to bed.

* * * *

While these revelations were being made to Miranda, the man she had been told was her father had been hearing some himself. While he was sitting at his breakfast, Sir Henry Carstairs had been informed Miss Brockton desired an interview with him. Grimly he smiled. On meeting Miranda the previous evening, he had immediately been struck by her close resemblance to the girl he had known so many years ago. He had planned to make enquiries this very day, wondering which of the two explanations that had occurred to him was the true one. Had the child he had not seen for seventeen years somehow contrived to leave the island, or had Mademoiselle le Brun had another daughter who was the image of her? Miranda had looked too old for this, he judged, since another daughter could not be more than fifteen, and so he favoured the first supposition. The prompt appearance of Miss Brockton, who had never before left her charge on the island, seemed to confirm it.

“Miss Brockton?” Lady Carstairs mused, after he had told his butler to show the visitor into his study, and inform her he would join her in a few minutes. “Who is she, Henry? She has been most importunate, calling here every few days for weeks past, despite being informed you were not due back from Canada until this week.”

Sir Henry looked sharply at her. “What did she say her business was?” he asked slowly.

Lady Carstairs shook her head. “She did not. I asked if I might be any assistance to her, for she seemed so distressed, poor woman, but she averred that only you might help her. Who is she, and what can she want?”

“That I had best go and discover.”

He rose, strolled from the breakfast parlour and into the small room he used as a study. Miss Brockton was sitting nervously on the edge of her chair, and she rose hastily to her feet as he entered the room.

“Miss Brockton, good morning. This visit is a surprise,” he greeted her coldly, and indicated that she sit down again, which, apparently reluctantly, she did. He seated himself behind the large desk that took up a great part of the room, and regarded her with detached curiosity, wondering how she would confess to the escape of her charge.