The Outrageous Debutante (12 page)

‘What is it? Have you had bad news?’ Thea stepped forward, casting aside reticule and parasol, untying the satin ribbons of her bonnet.

‘No. Dear Thea.’ Her mother immediately came to take her hands and draw her towards the sofa. ‘Come and sit down. We have something that we … that we have decided we must tell you.’

Thea was not in any way put at ease by these words, but she sat and looked from one to the other, aware that Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla also exchanged glances with considerable unease.

‘Please don’t keep me in suspense.’ She tried a little laugh, but it dried in her throat. ‘I cannot imagine what should make you so stern.’

Her father took his seat behind his desk, fixed her with a direct stare and began. ‘Theodora, your mother and I have decided that we should put you in possession of a number of important facts.’

‘Hector—for Heaven’s sake!—you are not addressing a meeting of the crowned heads of Europe.’ Drusilla took her daughter’s hands. ‘Listen, Thea, first I need to say that we love you dearly. And nothing can or will ever change that.’

‘I know that—but what can it be that—?’

Lady Drusilla took a breath, determined to step into the raging torrent. ‘You have to understand—’ there was no easy way to put it ‘—you are not our daughter, dearest Thea. We are not your parents.’

Thea blinked. Looked from one to the other. Could find no words. ‘Not my parents? I do not understand. How should you not be?’

‘Your mother is—your
true
mother was my elder sister Mary.’

‘Oh.’ Thea simply could not
think
. ‘Forgive me. I find it difficult …’ Her hands tightened on those of the woman whom she had always known as her mother as if in a death grip. ‘Please … will you tell me?’

‘Of course.’ Lady Drusilla leaned forward to place a light kiss on Thea’s forehead. There was the suspicion of tears in her eyes, in spite of all her intentions to remain calm and composed as she explained. ‘Two weeks after you were born, your father died. Mostly from a dissolute life and too much alcohol—I hesitate to say, but it is true. Your mother—my sister—fell into a decline and took to her bed with smelling salts and laudanum. We—Sir Hector and I—were informed. In those days I still had some contact with my sister, although we had found her husband beyond
bearing. When we arrived at the Great House—her home—she was in a state of collapse, incoherent and hardly aware of her surroundings. And we found you, in your crib, not to put too fine a point on it, neglected and unwanted. You were hungry, I recall, not over-clean, and you were crying. A poor little scrap. At that moment my heart went out to you. I could not leave you like that and Mary certainly could not deal with you. There were serious money problems, we were to discover. The other two children were in the care of a governess of sorts, but there was no nurse to take charge of you. It was decided that we should take you and bring you up as our own. Mary was in full agreement, as much as she could agree to anything considering her tears and vapours. Sir Hector and I had no children.’ She met his eyes again for support and smiled a little as he nodded. ‘And so we took you. You were just a month old. We gave you a name of our own choosing. And from that day we brought you up as if you were our daughter.’

‘I cannot think what to say. I had no idea.’ Thea struggled to come to terms with the shattering revelation, her mind repeating over and over her mother’s words.

For a little while they sat in silence to give Thea time to take it all in.

Finally she turned to Drusilla. ‘And you said that your sister—my mother—agreed to this?’

‘Yes, she did. I would not willingly choose to speak ill of the dead, and not of my own sister, but she did not want you.’

‘Did she never ask after me, not in all the years when I was growing up?’

‘No.’ Drusilla lifted an unsteady hand to stroke her daughter’s bright hair in sympathy. ‘I could lie to you and tell you that she did. But I will not. I can make excuses for her, of course—she was unwell and even as a girl had never had the strongest of minds. And now she was alone with two young children, a new baby and a dead husband. I do not think that she wanted the responsibility of your upbringing. And perhaps you reminded her of her husband’s death. Not that
he
was any loss to her. But, no, she never
did. She told us that she never wanted to see you—or us—again. I think that she was perhaps more than a little deranged.’

‘I see.’

‘We occasionally sent money—so that she should not be completely without funds. But she never replied to my letters. They were returned unopened, although the money was always accepted. Perhaps she was ashamed. I never saw my sister again after the day I left her house with you in my arms—and she never saw you.’

‘But her loss was our gain, Thea,’ Sir Hector added. ‘We could not have had a more loving daughter if you were our own child. We are and always have been very proud of you and it delights me that you will be my heir. You must never think otherwise.’

Thea managed a smile as this simple declaration began to thaw just a little the crystals of ice in her blood.

‘But she—your sister—’ she turned to Lady Drusilla again ‘—she is now dead, as you told Lady Beatrice.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I have a brother and a sister?’

‘Yes. Edward and Sarah.’

‘Do they know about me?’

Again that look passed between Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla.

‘We do not know. Your birth must have been recorded within the family and that record was never altered to our knowledge. You were certainly baptised. As head of the family Edward is probably aware. And perhaps he was old enough at the time to understand the sudden absence of his baby sister. Other than that, I think that Mary would not have seen fit to discuss the matter with her other children. Why should she? It would not reflect well on her, after all.’

‘So I was not always Theodora.’ A genuine smile touched her mouth.

‘No. That was a name of our choosing. Your baptismal name was Sophia Mary Baxendale.’

‘I like Theodora better!’ Thea sat and thought. And then spoke in her usual clear manner, although her mother saw the depth of
sadness in her eyes and there was the slightest hitch in her voice before she steadied. ‘It is very strange. But I find that I can feel little emotion towards either a father who did not know me or an unknown mother who effectively disowned me. Neither love nor contempt. Regret, perhaps.’ She looked up at the two people who had taken her as their own, loved her and cared for her, showered her with every family blessing. How hard it must have been for them to tell her. How painful it must be to wait—as they were waiting now in silent anguish—to know what her reaction would be towards them.

Thea’s heart swelled with sudden love for them. ‘You are the mother and father whom I have always known and whom I love,’ she explained. ‘What you have told me—it makes no difference to my love for you. But …’ a frown touched her brow ‘… why tell me now? I do not understand why you should have found a need to tell me, if you have kept the secret for so many years.’

Her parents once more looked at each other, as if to draw strength.

‘It could have a bearing on your future,’ Sir Hector began. ‘On your happiness. We thought that you should know. It is not an edifying tale. I think your mother will tell it better than I.’

So she did, and throughout the telling of it, with all its implications, Thea’s blood ran cold. ‘A little over three years ago, Edward Baxendale, your brother, attempted to discredit the good name and the validity of the marriage of the Marchioness of Burford and her recently dead husband, the Marquis.’

‘Nicholas’s eldest brother?’

‘Yes. We do not know the full facts. We were not in England and, although rumour and scandal were rife, the Faringdon family kept the matter close to protect the Marchioness and her young son. But we understand that there were accusations of a bigamous marriage and a vital claim on the Faringdon estates was made. Edward’s wife, Octavia, too was involved in the charade. We believe that the motive was money—which would not be beyond belief. More than that we cannot say.’

‘So how does this …?’ But light began to dawn in Thea’s mind. It was searingly bright and struck her with a wrenching dread.

‘Whatever the content of the deceit, the result was the breaking of a scandal in London. The private affairs of the Faringdon family were held up to public scrutiny, stripped bare for all to pick over and speculate. They were the latest
on dit
during that Season, discussed as a matter for open conjecture in every drawing room and every club—until Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas apparently unmasked Edward for the villain that he undoubtedly was. Your brother could have done irreparable harm to the family. He must certainly have caused the young Marchioness great distress.’

‘That would be Eleanor, who went to New York with Lord Henry.’ Thea nodded as she put her knowledge of the family into place.

‘Yes. What I need to ask you, Thea, is this—what are your feelings towards Lord Nicholas?’

‘I …’ Thea flushed as she considered her reply. ‘I …’ She lifted her hands in a hopeless little gesture.

Her father came to the rescue.

‘Your mother thought that perhaps you were not … uninterested where Nicholas Faringdon is concerned. One thing we do know, dear girl, is that the outcome of the scandal must have left a residue of deep hatred between Faringdons and Baxendales.’

‘If Nicholas learns from some interested source that you are the sister of Sir Edward Baxendale,’ Drusilla continued, watching her daughter’s reaction anxiously, ‘we fear his reaction towards you.’

‘I see.’ Amazingly, Thea discovered that she could keep her voice cool and controlled when her inclination was to cry out in the sudden intolerable pain from the wound inflicted by the knowledge of her past. ‘That he would condemn me by association, I suppose.’

‘Yes. Because you, too, are a Baxendale. As much as Edward is.’

‘I understand. The lees in that particular cup must be bitter
indeed. But …’ She sought for a way through the terrible morass of grief that appeared to be building within her chest, hampering her breathing. ‘Why should anyone speak out after all this time? Why would it be of interest to anyone now after all these years? Would anyone even remember that I am a Baxendale by birth?’

‘They may not, of course.’ Sir Hector would have given the world to be able to offer a vestige of hope, to wipe away the distress that his daughter covered so admirably. He could not do it. ‘But it is a risk, a serious risk, now that you are well known in London circles. And if gossip begins to unite your name with that of Lord Nicholas, however loosely … We did not think it wise for you to base a relationship with Nicholas on a lie.’

‘Oh, Thea.’ Drusilla swallowed against the imminent threat of tears. ‘We did not want him to break your heart if you fell in love with him, you see.’

‘I do see.’ And perhaps, as of this moment, her heart was broken anyway.

‘You do understand why we had to tell you, don’t you?’

‘Of course. Such information could destroy any relationship between us.’

‘I fear it.’

‘So, what do you advise?’ Thea straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and tried to still her fingers, which plucked at a satin ribbon on her morning gown.

‘I think you know. You have always been open to sense—to reason.’ Overflowing with admiration for her spirit, Drusilla worked hard to put on as brave a face as her daughter. She could do no less. ‘We think it would be best if you kept your distance from Lord Nicholas. You should do everything possible to discourage any connection between you. It should not be difficult.’

Difficult? It would be well nigh impossible! Perhaps the hardest thing she had ever been asked to do in her life
.

‘And if I don’t?’ But in her heart she already knew the answer.

‘Maybe nothing. Perhaps you would fall in love. If he offered for you, then you would marry. But if he discovered the truth of
your birth, that you are in truth Edward Baxendale’s sister, would Lord Nicholas continue to look on you with love—or would he turn his back with condemnation and contempt?’

‘I could not bear that.’ A tear stole unnoticed down Thea’s cheek to soak into the little satin ruff of her gown.

‘No. It would be beyond anything. You must end it, Thea. I knew you would be sensible if we explained the situation to you.’

‘Sensible? No—it is not that.’ Thea wiped away another tear with an impatient hand. ‘It is simply that I find I have no choice.’

Leaving the library almost in flight, Thea took herself, with the long-suffering and loudly-complaining Agnes Drew, for a brisk walk in Hyde Park. The sun had vanished behind a thickening layer of high cloud and a sharp little breeze had sprung up to shiver the new leaves. The grey light and the hint of rain exactly suited her mood, so she strode out, taking no thought to the possible threat to her new French straw bonnet with ribbon and flower trim. What did a bonnet matter, however fetching, when placed in the balance against the disturbing developments of the past hour?

She needed the space in which to think, without the tortured presence of Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla both watching her with loving but anxious eyes. How she would have loved to gallop across the grass, she thought, as she saw others on horseback along the rides, although at a more seemly canter. To gallop without restraint, to allow the speed and exhilaration to cleanse her mind of the weight of knowledge that had been laid upon her. And the wave of despair that threatened to engulf her as she recalled that first fateful meeting with Lord Nicholas when their eyes had met and held, his hand clasped so firmly around her wrist. How she wished that she could experience his touch, his closeness, again. And yet, if her mother’s fears held weight, it appeared that any future together, any blossoming of love between them, could never be.

Her parentage, Thea quickly discovered, interested her very little—apart from a mild curiosity. This shocked her. Surely it
should have some meaning for her to know more of her blood relatives—that her father had been a dissolute gambler who had drunk himself into an early grave, her mother apparently a weak, pathetic creature who had withdrawn into a laudanum-created haze rather than face up to the responsibilities of her family. Thea frowned at the image painted by Lady Drusilla’s words. There appeared to be absolutely no connection between these two shadowy people and herself.