Marjorie Farrell (23 page)

Nora had not traveled by public conveyance, except for short trips into London, since she and Miranda had settled in Hampstead. She had forgotten how noisy and crowded the coaching inns were, and how crowded the coach itself. For the first leg of her journey she was seated between two stout country people, one woman who kept checking her basket as if to make sure that no one had stolen anything. But where would anyone go with it? wondered Nora, amused and irritated at the same time by the woman’s nervous movements. The other was a young man who was either getting a cold or in the habit of sniffling.

Her journey with Miranda had been quite different. Her daughter had been such a delightful child that she had transformed her fellow travelers into almost-friends. Nora had benefited from it, one woman taking Miranda on her lap, another clucking over her sympathetically about her widow’s status. Traveling alone, however, as a middle-aged single woman of no obvious class or occupation, elicited only suspicious glances.

Reading was impossible, and sleep seemed equally out of the question, but Nora realized she must have dozed off several times, not into a deep sleep, which relaxed, but into that border between dream and thought. She would awake from time to time, head jerking up as she became conscious that her jaw had fallen open or that she was beginning to drool on the hand she rested on. How embarrassing, she would think, and then doze off again.

She was glad, therefore, she had decided to spend her money for a private parlor and bedroom. The inn at York was old, but well-kept, and despite her status as a single woman alone, the landlord was friendly enough. The bed was a bit lopsided. It seemed as if all the former inhabitants had slept only on the left side of the mattress, probably for the same reasons I want to, thought Nora, to be near the window and away from the thin wall which separated her from the next bedroom, the occupants of which must be newlyweds, she decided as she tried to block out their gruntings and creakings and, at the same time, not roll out of bed from the decline in the mattress. She did sleep, albeit fitfully, and was awakened by the rooster in the courtyard.

It was cold, and the water in her basin was sealed off by a thin skin of ice, so she barely splashed herself awake. She was glad she had worn kerseymere and that her cloak was lined, for it would only get colder.

One more night in another moderately satisfying inn, and she was on the last leg of her journey. She had paid for a seat to Hexham, and for the last day, to her delight, she was able to sit near the window and watch as the countryside turned wilder with every mile. No wonder she had chosen to live by the Heath in Hampstead
—it was the closest she could come to the moors of home.

When they reached Hexham, it was late in the afternoon, and Nora stepped down from the coach in a daze. She had not planned further than arrival, and realized as she looked about her that she would have to get herself a room for the night, or hire a chaise and drive directly to Moorview. And since she hadn’t really decided whether she would indeed go home, and she was exhausted from the past thirty-odd hours, she picked up her valise and headed for the Lion’s Head, an inn she remembered from her childhood and which she prayed was still in existence.

It was, and she stood in front of it for a moment, remembering how her father had, from time to time, taken her into Hexham so that they could have a lemonade at the table near the window and listen for the mail coach.

“Can you hear it, Meg?” he would say, and she would listen for the rumble of wheels and the sound of the yard of tin. Out ran the innkeeper, and with no hesitation he would reach out and grab the mail pouch. It took only a minute, but the sight never failed to thrill her. Then they would return home and she would excitedly tell her mother how she had heard the coach even before Papa this time.

The inn had changed very little and she bespoke herself a room and the front parlor for her supper. Cold and tired as she was, she decided just to smooth her hair and wash her face before going down immediately to the parlor, where there would be a fire. She ordered a mulled wine, ignoring the stares of the hostess, and let the warmth of the fire and the drink reach her inside and out. She was able to remove her shawl by the time supper was served. The vegetable pie was heavy on onions and carrots, but the crust was flaky and light. She finished with an apple custard and hot tea, which woke her up enough to get herself to her bedroom, but did not completely counteract the wine’s soporific effect. She fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.

She dreamed she was in the graveyard, looking for her mother’s grave, sure it would be neglected and hard to Find. Instead, she came upon a beautifully tended plot, planted with flowers, and with two stones.

My father must be dead, she thought, but why did they not just add his name to my mother’s stone? She moved closer and saw both stones were exactly the same, the engraving reading “Honora Margaret, beloved wife,” and “Honora Margaret, beloved daughter.” Her father wasn’t dead; she was. Long dead, and long-forgiven, or why “beloved daughter?”

She awoke in the morning, calm and knowing exactly what she would do. She would go to the door and announce herself to whomever was still there, her father, his wife, or perhaps her second cousin, who had inherited by now. She would not first visit her mother’s grave, as she had originally intended. After the dream, she did not have the courage to find the grave neglected, or her own tombstone. Better to find out first whether her father, still alive, refused to see her, or, dead, had forgiven her.

The inn had only an old pony and cart for hire, since their chaise was being repaired. Luckily, although it was cold, it was clear and sunny, and she drove slowly, recognizing this tree or that granite slab, passing the path leading to the hill where she and Breen had first declared their love.

The driveway of Moorview was in good condition and the shrubbery clipped. There must be someone here, she thought, and she noticed the roses had been covered with burlap for the winter. There was some noise from the stables, but the front of the house seemed very still. Perhaps only the servants were about?

She tied the pony to the ring in the mouth of the stone lion and patted his head as she had always done as a child. Shaking out her skirts, she started for the door.

It opened before she got up the steps, so someone
had
been watching the stranger up the drive. It was Jackson, their butler, who had seemed old to her twenty years ago and whom she never thought to find here still. But at sixteen, forty-five looks old, and at thirty-six, sixty-four is not so far away, and so he looked remarkably fit to her.

“May I help you, madam?” he asked. She did not know what to say. He would hardly recognize her, yet she wanted him to, immediately. Her whole body was trembling along with her voice as she said:

“You do not remember me, Jackson? It is Meg.”

The old man took a step back, as though someone had pushed him.

“Lady Margaret has been dead these eighteen years.”

It was like her dream, only worse. Did it mean her father had declared her dead or believed her dead?

“Nonetheless, it is I, Jackson,” and Nora smiled shakily.

The butler looked closer and lost his composure, disgracing himself as the expressionless servant as he realized this small woman looked like…maybe…nay,
was
the seventeen-year-old girl he had last seen almost twenty years ago.

“Lady Margaret? We all thought you dead. Your father only heard from you once. He wanted to bring you and your daughter home, but his letter was never answered…” He was unable to say any more.

Nora stood there as speechless as their old servant. He
had
cared, he had tried to find her, had, indeed, it seemed, forgiven her. But his letter had never reached her and she had been too hurt and proud to give him another chance. She had never sent any but the first letter.

“Is my father…still alive?” she asked hesitantly.

“Why, yes, he and Lady Evelyn live very quietly now that Lord Richard is away at Oxford.”

“Lord Richard?”

“Yes, the marquess’s son.”

“My half-brother…?” Nora said wonderingly.

“Why, yes, I suppose he is. May I announce you to Lady Evelyn first, my lady? I think that it would be too great a shock for your father to hear unprepared.”

“Is he not well?”

“He has occasional ‘spells with his heart’. Nothing serious yet, the doctor says, but he must be careful.”

“Thank you, Jackson. May I sit in the morning room and wait?”

“Of course.”

Nora sat down on one of the Sheraton chairs, not wanting to relax on the sofa or feel too much at home. She heard the rustle of Lady Evelyn’s gown and stood up as she entered the room.

“It
is
you, Meg. I could not believe Jackson at first.”

“Yes, Evelyn, it is. I am so sorry to have disturbed you. I wasn’t even sure myself I would come, so I didn’t think of writing ahead.” Lady Evelyn looked very different from what Nora had remembered. She was no longer a young bride, but a matronly-looking woman whose hair had turned gray. She did not look unhappy, thought Nora, but perhaps a bit worn. She is past forty-five, after all, and has a right to look older. And how must I look to her?

Lady Evelyn kept looking at Nora as though to reassure herself she was not conversing with a ghost or prankster.

“Why did you never answer our letter, Meg?” she asked finally. “Your father answered yours, asking you home.”

“I never received it. I thought his silence meant he had not forgiven me. So I was determined not to beg again.”

“He was distraught that first year after hearing from you. At first, he would reassure himself that you had just gone somewhere else. But finally, it was easier to think you dead than alive somewhere and lost to him. Where have you been? Did your child live?” Lady Evelyn asked hesitantly.

“We lived in Edinburgh at first. When Breen died, I decided to leave, and when I didn’t hear from Father, Miranda and I headed for London. We settled in Hampstead and have lived there these sixteen years.”

“How on earth did you support yourself, or did Breen leave you a little money?”

Nora smiled at that. “No, he was a gambler, and played almost all our money away. I waited on tables at the local tavern.” Lady Evelyn winced. “I admit, it was not something I had ever imagined myself doing, but it was preferable to the poorhouse or to walking the streets. Then I discovered I had a small talent for writing, and so I have made our way by writing.”

“You write novels?”

“Yes. Not great ones, but I am competent. It has brought in enough to buy a small cottage and keep us in comfort.”

“And Miranda? Why did you not bring her with you?”

“That is, I suppose, the reason I came home. She has just become the Countess of Alverstone.” Nora had to laugh at Lady Evelyn’s expression, a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“Did you…? Oh, I shouldn’t ask, but did you marry Breen after all?”

“No. And Miranda and her new husband know that. They are the only ones who do, but I felt I owed them that. And you, Evelyn, you are also a mother now?”

Her stepmother’s face brightened. “Yes, and Richard has been the joy of our lives. He almost consoled your father for your loss. He is up at school now, but you must meet him; he is your half-brother, after all.”

“And Miranda’s uncle.”

“Yes! What a lot of changes to absorb in just a few minutes’ time.”

“May I see my father?” Nora asked suddenly.

“Of course. I think I should prepare him first, however.”

“Yes. Jackson told me that he has spells with his heart.”

“Nothing terribly serious, but the doctor says he must not exert himself as much as he used to and should be protected from sudden shocks. I am quite sure the doctor would count the appearance of a long-supposed-dead daughter as one of those. Why don’t you wait here. I’ll talk to him. He is in the library now. I’ll send for you when we are ready.”

“Thank you.”

Nora settled herself on the sofa, more relaxed now that the first hurdles had been jumped. Lady Evelyn had been surprised and a bit shocked, but not hostile. She could only hope her father proved as welcoming.

After a fifteen-minute wait, during which every creak of the floor made her jump, Jackson knocked and offered to escort her to the library.

“I think I remember the way, thank you.” And she walked slowly down the hall, drawn to this meeting and dreading it at the same time.

She gave a light knock and heard Lady Evelyn say, “Come in.”

Nora entered, and for a minute or two stood there hearing and seeing nothing, only remembering afterward that Lady Evelyn quietly excused herself and left father and daughter alone.

An old man was standing by the window, his back to her. He was smaller than her father, his neck and shoulders thicker and his legs thinner. His hair was almost completely white, and here and there a bit of scalp showed through. His hands were behind his back, the left one twisting the old silver signet ring on the right. She realized this old man was her father.

He turned just as she cleared her throat and said, “Father?”

He was not her father and he was. All these years she had held a picture of the handsome, virile marquess who had hardly aged. And now she was looking at a familiar stranger.

She was frozen. But when he said her name, his voice was the same and the timbre of it shook her to the core. They approached each other slowly.

“Meg,” he said, grasping her hands hard, as if he were afraid she would disappear again. “I cannot believe it is you after all these years. Are you sure you are not a ghost, come back to haunt me?”

“No, Father, not a ghost. At least I know few ghosts who have grown daughters after their demise.” She was desperate to make him smile, to keep them both from crying. “Come, sit down next to me on the sofa. I am sorry for coming back unannounced. I would have written, but it was a very sudden decision to come north and I wasn’t even sure I would come to the house.”