Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (6 page)

“
Yes, sir?” Her voice was
soft.

Edward thought it was odd that he should notice her
eyelashes made a dusty curve on her cheeks. Something about her
made him whip the hat off his head as he spoke. “Would you be so
kind as to tell me if I have found the relatives of Mr. Jonathon
Rowland?”

“
His cousin, Mr. Carter Samuels,
lives here.”

“
Mr. Carter Samuels,” he repeated,
looking at her more closely and deciding if she weren’t so thin she
might, almost, be considered handsome. She had high cheekbones and
a slender nose, and the hand that held the edge of the door had
long fingers. Because she was standing in the shadows, he couldn’t
see the color of her eyes.

“
Mr. Samuels isn’t in. Perhaps you
might leave your card?”

“
Perhaps, miss, you may be of
service,” he said, handing her his card with a little flourish. “Is
there, by any chance, a young girl by name of Isobel, seventeen or
so, living here?”

“
Yes, Mr. St. James, there is,”
she said.

He masked his surprise at her being able to read. “I
should be extremely grateful if I could speak with her.” He sighed
with relief. He could taste good English roast beef even now. All
he had to do was collect the girl and head for home.

“
Why?”

“
I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
He was nonplussed at the question, as if it were any business of
hers! He was of a mind to chastise her for her impertinence, but
instead, he forced a smile and said, “If you would tell her I am
here, I would be in your debt.”

“
If she knew why you wanted to
speak with her, I’m sure she would consent to see you.”

It was a shame she was relegated to a life of petty
labor. Poverty ruined women at a regrettably young age. She was no
older than sixteen or seventeen, and he was certain that inside of
ten years her looks would be entirely spoiled. He took out a coin
and pressed it into her hand. “Perhaps I might convince you to tell
her I am here?”

“
I don’t want your money.” She
held out the coin until he took it back.

“
As you wish.” He shrugged and
pocketed it, restraining himself from telling her she looked as
though she could ill afford to refuse any coin. “I am staying at
the DeWitt Hotel. If you would be so kind, please tell your
mistress where she might find me and that I wish to speak with her
on a matter of the utmost importance.” He was about to go when his
eye was caught by a flash of light off something around the girl’s
neck as she took a step toward him. He tried to hide his excitement
as he reached out to examine it. “What an unusual locket! May I see
it?” She quickly covered the locket with slim fingers. “I only want
to look at it,” Edward protested. She was silent while he examined
the motto engraved on its reverse side. “Where did you get this?”
It was no wonder she hadn’t wanted him to look at it; the little
thief had stolen it!

She tucked the locket back into her shirt before
answering him in an offended tone. “It was given to me by my
father. Now, if you do not mind, my cousin will be upset if you
take up any more of my time, so unless you have a message for
him…?”

“
Your cousin?”

“
Yes.”

“
You are a servant here?” He could
keep the incredulity from neither his voice nor his
face.

“
Mr. Samuels is kind enough to
allow me to earn my keep,” she answered stiffly, looking him full
in the face. He saw then the unmistakable deep blue of her
eyes.

“
You are Isobel?” She nodded.
“Then, I have the pleasure of telling you that I am your Uncle
Edward.” He bowed and, when he straightened up, continued: “I am
gratified to have found you at last.”

She was looking at him with a stare unnervingly like
the one his brother had used on him just before ordering him to
America. “I don’t find your little joke at all amusing,” she said,
anger flashing in her eyes. “Philip put you up to this, didn’t he?
You will tell him, if you please, that it did not work.” She would
have shut the door in his face if he had not quickly put his foot
in the way.

“
I assure you this is no joke! My
brother—that is, your father—has spent the last several years and a
great deal of money trying to locate you. He expects me to return
to London with you.”

“
My father is dead.”

“
His lordship would be surprised
to hear that.”

“
His lordship? Oh, really!” Her
voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Do you think me so stupid as to
believe such nonsense? Next you will be telling me King George has
decided to ask for my hand!”

“
I can prove I tell the truth!”
Edward exclaimed. The last thing he had expected was to be
disbelieved. Provided he even found his niece, he had envisioned
informing her of her good fortune and taking the grateful girl back
to England. No arguments, no reluctance, and certainly no
suspicions about his veracity.

“
How?” she asked
skeptically.

“
Do you recognize this?” He took a
miniature out of his pocket and held it out to her.

“
No,” she said bluntly, barely
glancing at the painting of a small blond child before thrusting it
back at him. He refused to take it.

“
Turn it over.”

Isobel read the inscription on the back:

Your daughter, Isobel St.
James on the occasion of her 3rd anniversary, 23rd April
1772.

She looked at him. “So?”

“
Your mother sent this to your
father.”

“
If she sent it to my father, how
did you get it?” She handed the miniature back to him.

“
Jonathon Rowland was not your
father.” He pocketed the painting with a long sigh of
frustration.

“
Perhaps you have the wrong
Isobel?” She had offered the suggestion to be helpful and she
looked taken aback at his sharp reply.

“
No! And that necklace proves it.”
He jabbed a finger at her chest. “It was a gift from my brother to
your mother.”

“
And just who is it you say is
your brother?” She crossed her arms over her chest as though
challenging him.

“
Your father is Robert St. James,
third earl of Chessingham. Your mother sent him news of you every
year on your birthday and at Christmas. Her letters stopped coming
several years ago.”

“
My mother died when I was ten.
Why didn’t he try to find me then?”

“
I think that’s a subject you’d
best discuss with your father.” Edward began to have hope he might
be back in England before too long.

“
Am I to understand I am to meet
him sometime?” She spoke slowly, trying desperately to absorb what
this stranger was telling her.

“
Your father has instructed me to
find you and bring you back to England.”

“
But I don’t want—” She was going
to say she did not want to go to England, but stopped herself. What
was there for her in New York if what he was saying was true? “Miss
Isobel St. James.” She said the words as though savoring their
sound. She looked at him and asked, “Is he very rich?”

Though Edward was surprised by her question, he did
not show it. “He’s a wealthy man, yes.” If finding out his brother
was rich would get her to go with him, he was willing to tell her
he was Croesus.

“
Perhaps you had best speak to Mr.
Samuels.” She opened the door and let him in. “If you don’t mind
waiting, I think he would be very interested in hearing your
story.”

II

Edward took Isobel’s arm as they boarded the English
packet bound for Bristol, concerned that she would be frightened to
be on a ship for the first time. As it turned out, he needn’t have
worried, for, as she told him, she’d been sailing with Rowland more
than once. During the weeks it took to cross the Atlantic, she did
not suffer a moment of seasickness, not even when the weather
turned foul. She spent hours standing on the deck looking out over
the water as though she expected the shores of England to magically
appear.

Isobel spent the nearly ten weeks it took to cross
the Atlantic in a state of constant turmoil. Though she often
longed to go back to Boston, and sometimes wished she had refused
to go with Mr. St. James, she had to admit that if she were to go
back, there would be nothing there for her. She felt lost, as
adrift as the ship she was on. When she thought about England she
found it impossible to put aside her loyalty to the country she had
grown up in. Just the sound of the word “England” brought up a
feeling of dread and a vague sense that she was sailing toward the
enemy. Yet England was to be her home. The irony was that even if
she had refused to go, her music would likely have taken her there
sooner or later.

She listened carefully when Mr. St. James talked
about his brother, hoping she might hear some clue about herself in
his words, and she alternated between dreading their arrival in
England and being impatient to have the waiting over.

Though she was fully prepared to dislike London on
principle, Isobel fell in love with it as soon as her carriage
entered the city gates. It was utterly and completely different
from New York, and as the carriage rolled along the crowded streets
she pulled down the glass to peer out the window. The air was
filled with the shouts of street merchants hawking their wares, and
their cries assaulted her ears. For his part, Edward kept up a
constant stream of conversation, pointing out sights of interest
and taking care to inform her of their connection with men of
importance. The carriage bounced over the cobbles past a man
standing on a box, head and shoulders above the small group
gathered around him, one arm raised skyward extolling the
properties of his miracle potion, guaranteed to cure anything and
everything from boils to the gout, the pox, and fevers of the
brain. “Will it cure me of me wife?” shouted one skeptic.

“
How do you stand the jouncing?”
she complained after she was nearly thrown off the seat when they
abruptly turned a corner.

Edward did not seem to be the least affected by the
joint-destroying ride and he assured her it was a skill she could
learn. “This coach isn’t really suited to the city streets,” he
told her, “but I’m afraid it will have to do until we get to
Redruth.”

She had to wonder if they would arrive at all. The
streets were clogged with carriages of all sizes, all being driven
as if each one were the only vehicle on the road. Drivers cursed
one another with an inventiveness that, when she could decipher the
accent, made Isobel blush and Edward look sheepish. Still, she
could see it was better to be in a carriage than to be on foot.
Crossing the street was obviously a perilous undertaking. It wasn’t
until they reached some better-appointed streets that she saw
barricades set up for the protection of any poor souls unlucky
enough not to make it all the way on the first attempt. Edward
jokingly told her the more timid had been known to wait for weeks
before deciding it was safe to cross.

The carriage turned one last corner onto Albemarle
Street. “Albemarle Street is named after Christopher Monck,” he
began, “the second duke of Albemarle, who bought Clarendon House
for twenty-five thousands of pounds, then leveled it to the ground
and built Albemarle Street on the site of the old mansion. The Duke
of Albemarle Publick House is hard by on Dover Street.” He nodded
his head in that direction.

“
Do you go there often?” The
carriage pulled to a stop and Edward escaped having to answer when
the door was pulled open by a servant wearing the earl of
Chessingham’s blue-and-gold livery. “This is where your brother
lives?” She blinked in disbelief when the footman handed her down.
Edward bobbed his head in assent as he stepped down beside her.
Redruth was a forbidding blackish-gray building three stories high,
with two curving staircases that met at the second story before
carved wooden doors. Another liveried servant pulled the doors open
just as they arrived, and when they stepped over the threshold they
were met by a doleful-looking butler who took Edward’s overcoat and
hat and waited patiently for Isobel to give him her cloak. At
Edward’s prodding, she handed it to him and felt very shabby indeed
when she saw the butler’s clothes were of far better quality than
her own. As soon as she handed over the threadbare garment, the
butler passed their things to another servant, who disappeared with
them to Lord only knew where.

Edward looked at her self-conscious stance and
wished he’d had the sense to buy her some decent clothes before
they left New York. He ought to have known—he had berated himself
several times—that she had so few dresses and such a woefully
inadequate cloak. Ten weeks on the open sea did not seem to have
bothered her in the least. He’d often seen her standing on the
deck, that pitiful excuse for a cloak pulled closely about her,
staring out over the water as if the seas were calm and it was not
bitterly cold.

She had not complained even once during the long
post-chaise trip to London. It was impossible for her not to have
been uncomfortable; in spite of its being late in May, the weather
was unseasonably cool. After spending the night at Bristol, where
Edward sent word to his brother that they expected to arrive in
three or four days, they began the overland trip to London. The
roads had not been in good condition; they were muddy and the going
had been unpleasant, to say the least. Still, she had not uttered
one word of complaint until they hit the cobbles of London.