Rebel Heiress (32 page)

The experiment was not a success. A devoted enough mother according to her lights, Lady Marchmont unfortunately found her sick daughter merely tedious, and showed it. Henrietta returned from too brief a nap to find Caroline wailing fretfully while Lady Marchmont paced about the room in distracted irritation. Caroline, it seemed, wanted to be told a story. ‘And you know I can no more tell stories than the man in the moon.'
She made her escape as fast as possible, while Henrietta, privately remembering how prolific she was with social fictions, set to work to pacify Caroline, who had become hot and feverish again in the course of that fatal hour of boredom.

To Henrietta's despair, all her usual wiles, her stories of life in America, her chains of cut paper dolls and black silhouettes proved useless. Still Caroline's head moved restlessly on the pillow, still she wailed for ‘something else'. Then, all of a sudden her fretful wishes focused themselves. ‘I want Simon,' she wailed. '
He
tells me stories.'

It was quite true. Simon had an inexhaustible supply of stories — about giants, about fairies, or just about his own comic misadventures at Harrow. But Simon was busy — at work, Henrietta explained. How could she ask him to come when he had so obviously neglected them?

Caroline turned her face into the pillow. ‘I want Simon,' she cried again.

As the slow evening wore on, Henrietta tried in vain to distract her, but it was only too obvious that she was working herself up into a new bout of fever. At last, desperate and hardly admitting she was glad to the excuse — Henrietta sat down and wrote a hurried note to Simon, explaining the situation. ‘I know it is late,' she concluded, ‘but, Simon, if you
can,
I beg you will come to us.'

Told that Simon had been sent for, Caroline quieted a little and Henrietta was able to snatch a moment to run a comb through her disordered curls and repine at her crumpled reflection in the looking glass. Then Caroline's demands began again. Where was Simon? Why did he not come? Henrietta forgot all about her own appearance in her efforts to keep the child calm. When she heard the stir of an arrival belowstairs she sighed thankfully. She had known Simon would come. Caroline, too, had heard the bustle and perked up in her bed. ‘There he is,' she said. ‘Fetch him quick, Hetta, before Mamma makes him talk to her.'

Henrietta laughed ruefully and hurried out on to the landing. Looking down over the graceful balusters, she saw the footman in the act of admitting a man well muffled against the cold. ‘Simon,' she called softly. ‘At last.'

The visitor turned, in the act of being relieved of his heavy greatcoat, and looked up.

Henrietta's hand went to her heart. ‘Charles!' She hurried
down the stairs towards him, her hands outstretched her tongue faltering over words of explanation.

He cut them short. ‘Gossip seems to have been in the right of it,' he said. ‘Again.' And then, with a warning look at the man in attendance, he took her hand and would have led her into one of the small saloons.

She held back. ‘Charles. I am overjoyed to see you at last, but I cannot remain for more than a moment. The child — Caroline is ill. I must return to her straightway.' Her look, her touch, her tone pleaded with him to understand, to be patient.

‘Ah, yes.' He raised fair eyebrows over those piercing blue eyes. ‘I had almost forgot. The child.' His tone was chill.

She was beginning another attempt at an explanation; a promise that she would be with him again directly, when the footman hurried once more to the doorway. As he admitted Simon, Henrietta was alarmed by Caroline's voice from above. ‘I want Simon,' she wailed. ‘I want Hetta.'

Looking up, Henrietta saw with horror that the child had got out of bed and come out on to the landing in her nightdress. ‘I must go,' she said. ‘The child will kill herself with cold. Simon, explain to Charles.' And gathering up her skirts, she ran up the stairs, picked up the shivering child and carried her back to her bed. Then, at last, there was time to ring for Rose, who arrived at once, since it was almost her time to take over the night watch. With a quick explanation, a promise to Caroline that Simon would come to her soon, and one swift desponding glance at the haggard face in the glass, Henrietta hurried downstairs again.

She found Charles and Simon standing, apparently in silence, and not, by the look of it too friendly a one, by the library fire.

‘You keep late hours,' was Charles' greeting.

‘Yes.' She was determined not to lose her head. ‘You must think us all run quite mad, Charles, but Simon will have explained, I am sure. This illness of Caroline's has put us quite at sixes and sevens. And that puts me in mind, Simon, that I promised her you would tell her one of your stories. I would be eternally grateful …'

‘Of course.' He moved, with evident relief, to the door, then turned. ‘Charles, Henrietta is worn out with nursing.' He reddened, looked as if he would like to say more and left them.

Alone with Henrietta, Charles looked at her for a moment in silence. Then, ‘So it is Simon and Henrietta, is it?'

‘Why, yes.' She looked at him in surprise. ‘We are to be brother and sister, after all.'

‘Yes.' He took a silent turn about the room, then came back to face her. ‘Henrietta, I will be plain with you. I do not like these late night visits.'

‘Oh?' For a moment she was tempted to remind him of how, once, he had visited Lady Marchmont.

Perhaps luckily, he did not give her time to speak. ‘I hope you have not been encouraging Simon in these mad schemes of his,' he went on. ‘He seems to have thrown his bonnet over the windmill with a vengeance. I only wish I knew where it would end. Are you aware that he has practically committed himself to the Whigs? It is no wonder my grandfather is ill. If he dies, I shall look on it as Simon's fault. To have a grandson of his talking universal suffrage, and abolition and I know not what other balderdash — I wonder the old man did not have a seizure on the spot.'

‘But I believe Simon has been very careful not to flaunt his opinions in front of Lord Queensmere.' Henrietta felt bound to defend him. ‘And, surely, Charles, you of all people cannot blame him for fighting for what he thinks right. I know he has suffered greatly over his decision to throw in his lot with the Whigs, since he is aware how much it must grieve both you and your grandfather, but how can he fly in the face of his convictions? You will find, I think, Charles, that he is much changed since you last saw him. Whatever you may say against it, life in the city has made a man of him.'

‘A cit,' Charles sneered. ‘And your dearest friend, it seems. I tell you again, I do not like these late visits.'

‘Oh, Charles' — she was near losing her temper now — ‘you must try to understand. The child was calling for him. She has been at death's door these last few days. Thank God she is recovering now.'

‘Thanks to your nursing, Simon tells me.' And then before she had time to take it as a compliment: ‘Surely, Henrietta, there was someone in the house more suitable to look after the child.'

‘More suitable? But, Charles, I love her.'

‘So it seems,' he said dryly, ‘since you have chosen to bring her here and flaunt her in the face of the world.'

‘But what else could I have done?' And forgetting her embarrassment at the subject in her anxiety to make all right with him, she poured out the story of Miss Muggeridge's visit and disclosure of her mother's frightful plan.

He listened with a disapproving frown. ‘Nonsense,' he said at last. ‘I had thought better of your good sense, Henrietta, than to find you taken in by such a tale of a cock and a bull. Of course Miss Muggeridge was angling for a good bribe to protect the child. They are all alike, her kind: anything for money.'

‘But, Charles, that is all the more reason for removing Caroline from their care. You cannot imagine how she is improved now that she is living here. And it give Lady Marchmont such pleasure, too. Oh, pray, do not be angry with me on the child's account, Charles. I promise you, we have contrived it almost without scandal.'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, I confess that by all reports you have handled it cleverly enough, though why you should have taken upon yourself the responsibility of the child's “discovery” passes my understanding. I should have thought Lady Marchmont was the person to do that.'

‘But that was the way it happened. And besides, do you not see that it is impossible for any scandal to attach to me in the matter. I was not even in this country when Caroline was born.'

‘Oh, very well.' He seemed to dismiss the subject, then returned to it. ‘But I wish it clearly understood, Henrietta, that we are not going to have the child foisted upon us when we are married. You are not going to carry your softheartedness to that pitch. She is Lady Marchmont's responsibility, and Lady Marchmont's she must remain.'

‘You need not trouble yourself for that. Lady Marchmont would not part with her if you went to her on your bended knees.'

‘And what will your father say to that, I wonder?'

‘Why, everything that is kind. We heard from him some time past. Oh, I was proud of him, Charles!' Aware that she was on precarious ground, she hurried to change the subject. ‘But you have told me nothing of yourself. Are you truly home for good?'

‘It seems so. My grandfather wrote to Lord Wellington in such terms that he had no choice but to release me. And it is
true that there will be much to be done in settling the estate, though I confess it galled me to come away in the moment of victory. Bonaparte is beat, there is no question of it. It is but a matter of time now, and I doubt if there will be much more opportunity for distinction. I am probably better off at home, with a chance to look about me before the great ruck of retired officers come home with their way to make in the world. Thank God my grandfather's is an Irish title and will not immobilise me in the House of Lords. And that reminds me: When does your father come home? We must begin to look about for a seat for me.'

‘I am not sure.' She was reluctant to disappoint him. ‘But I fear he intends to stay with the Czar until they reach Paris.'

He uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Then we shall have to think again. How is your friend Sally these days? Is she still hand in glove with Lord Liverpool now that she is Lady Beaufrage?'

‘I think they remain good friends. At least, I know she and Cedric stayed with the Liverpools when they first came to town. But I am afraid they are not very happy, Charles.'

‘Happy? Whoever thought they would be? Not I, for one. But what's that to the question? You are still friends with her, I hope?'

‘Oh, yes.' She was glad to be able to reassure him.

‘Good. Then you must set about contriving for me to meet her. I cannot go into society while my grandfather is so ill, but there are a thousand ways you can arrange for us to meet and then let me alone to persuade her that I am the very man her cousin needs for his next safe seat.' He took her hand. ‘And then when I am Lord Queensmere, as I fear I shall be all too soon, and a member of Parliament as well, how can your father refuse to let us be married? That is what I am working for; that is the goal that shines before me. To win something so precious as you, what toil would I not endure?'

Gently, irresistibly, he was pulling her towards him. But why did she want to resist? What was the matter with her? His lips found hers, demanding as never before. His hands gripped her bare shoulders with a bruising intensity. ‘Henrietta' — the blue eyes burned down on her — ‘let us be married soon.'

With a little sob (could it be of relief?) she pulled away from him. ‘Charles, there is someone coming.'

For a moment, as he let her go, there was naked fury in his eyes. Then, ‘Simon, no doubt,' he said dryly. ‘We will talk more of this in the morning, Henrietta.'

To Henrietta's surprised relief, the morning brought only a brief, passionate note from Charles. His grandfather, he wrote, had taken a turn for the worse and could not be left. After protesting his bitter disappointment at being unable to visit her, Charles concluded: ‘Think, my love, about what I said to you last night. I cannot wait long for such a treasure. When the time comes, be ready for me.' They were the words of an accepted lover, words he had every right to use. Why, then, did they strike such a chill about her heart?

She lingered at home that morning, half hoping that Simon, to whom she had hardly spoken the night before, would call to ask how Caroline did. Instead, she received an early call from Mr. Gurney. Apologising for troubling her at so barbarous an hour, he explained that he had done so on purpose, in the hope of having a few words with her alone.

‘Of course.' Henrietta was polite, if puzzled.

‘Thank you.' He paused for a moment, then plunged in. ‘I hope I am doing right in coming to you, Miss Marchmont, but you are fond, I think, of my Mr. Rivers.'

To her fury she felt herself colour to the roots of her hair. ‘Why, yes,' she said, ‘we are to be brother and sister, you know.'

‘Precisely. That is just why I am come to you. Your influence, I collect, with Mr. Charles Rivers must be paramount. If you will but say a word to him on his brother's behalf, he cannot fail to listen to you.'

‘Me? Speak to Charles about Simon? I am afraid I do not understand you, Mr. Gurney.'

‘What? Has Simon not told you: I took it for certain he would have, but it is like him not to. You will have to bear with me then, Miss Marchmont, while I explain. Simon has been
doing, as I am sure you are aware, admirably well in my house. I only wish my Matt had his head for business. But what interests me in some ways still more is the political turn Simon has taken. Some of the speeches he has made at the Hampden Club have been quite out of the way… Of course I realise that I can hardly expect your father's daughter to sympathise with his politics, but for him personally I hope I can persuade you to feel.'