Rebel Heiress (8 page)

He took it with a hand that shook. ‘Yes.' He moved over to the window to read the faded handwriting. ‘God, that was a black day. When I got Abigail's letter. Both dead. Mercy and the child.' He put out his left hand to tilt her chin gently and gaze long and deeply at her. ‘It was you?'

‘Well' — now she could afford to smile at him — ‘yes and no. Because I'm very much alive, as you can see, sir.'

‘And feel.' He put down the letter and took her hands in both of his cold ones. ‘By God, perhaps my life is not such a wasted business after all. I never needed a happy surprise more, nor ever had a better one. But, come sit down and tell me all about yourself. Damme, when I think of that hellcat Abigail keeping you from me all these years, I could … Well, best not think of that. So you're Mercy's girl, are you? And almost as beautiful as she was. What did she call you, hey? It was to be Henry, you know, for a boy. I was bound it would be an heir — but I'm not complaining, I'm a young man again for sight of you, my dear. What am I to call you, eh?'

‘Henrietta, if you please, sir. My mother named me before she died.'

‘Henrietta, is it? So Mercy must have forgiven me, for all that harpy's meddling. But, come, tell me all about yourself. How did you get here, in the teeth of this damned war that's coming? And which are you, Yankee or Englishwoman? Damme, that's a rum touch, to have an enemy for a daughter! But we'll not quarrel… Henrietta, indeed. D'you know what I was thinking, when you came in? That my life was over, my day done. Now I'm a man again, thanks to you. But come,' he said again, ‘tell me about yourself.'

‘There is not much to tell, sir,' Henrietta was beginning, when she was interrupted. A door at the far end of the room opened to reveal a vision in a blue velvet riding habit. As she glided towards them, this blonde beauty looked sharply at Henrietta, summing her up from braided hair to bedraggled
skirts. Her own hair, extravagantly curling, hung around a small sharp-boned face. At the moment, the face showed surprise.

‘But where is Mr. Brummel?' she asked, ignoring Henrietta.

‘Mr. Brummel?' Her husband — for this was clearly Lady Marchmont — echoed her surprise.

‘Why, yes. I saw that ridiculous chair of his turn in at our gates and thought that if he had the courage to beard you in your den, my lord, I would not be behind him in daring.'

He looked at her quizzically under bushy brows, one hand still firmly clasping Henrietta's. ‘I regret to disappoint you, my lady, but I have seen nothing of Mr. Brummel today. Your visit is well timed, however. Here is a charming surprise for you: my daughter, Henrietta.'

‘Your
what
?' Arched brows rose sharply.

‘My American daughter, my love.' There was nothing loving about his voice. ‘I know how happy you will be to welcome her to our home.'

‘What madness is this? You know the child died at birth. Are you in your dotage so soon, my lord, to allow yourself to be imposed upon thus? And by who knows what draggletailed American female: As if your position was not unhappy enough! Do you not see that this is but a plot to embarrass you still further in the House? An American daughter, arriving so pat —'pon honour, my lord, it would make me laugh if I did not pity your gullibility.'

Henrietta was angry now. She withdrew her hand from her father's and looked her challenger up and down, noting, with the pitiless eye of youth, the fine lines about eyes and mouth that betrayed the beauty's age. ‘I am sorry, madam, that you choose to receive me so. I had hoped for a different welcome. But here' — she put her hand into the deep unfashionable pocket of her dress — ‘my father has not even asked me for these, but I have them: my mother's marriage lines, the certificate of my birth. You will find all in order. And here' — she turned back to her father — ‘my mother's miniature, my Aunt Abigail's, and yours.'

He took the miniature with a hand that trembled. Breathing heavily, he was making a visible effort to control his fury. His wife's taunts about dotage had hit him hard. ‘I thank you, my dear, but there is no need for proofs between you and me. Your own looks and that letter are enough. As for you, my lady, you
will, I think, wish to apologise to Henrietta for the wrong you have done her.' There was steel in his voice.

Lady Marchmont had been glancing rapidly through the papers Henrietta had given her. Now she dropped them casually on a table and swam towards Henrietta, arms held out, an exquisite smile lighting up the beautiful, empty face. ‘Henrietta, I know, will forgive me,' she said. ‘It was but natural, after all, that I should wish to protect you against what I could hardly be blamed for thinking an imposture. After all, I am not familiar, as you are, with the appearance of Henrietta's mother.'

‘No,' growled her husband, ‘I recollect that you banished her picture to my study when you first came to live here.' He took Henrietta's hand again and led her across the room to a picture that hung on the far wall. ‘You can see why I could be in no doubt,' he said.

Looking up at the picture, Henrietta swallowed tears. She had never seen her mother, nor, till now, any other picture of her than the tiny miniature. Looking up at the gentle, smiling face under dark curls, she was painfully aware of the likeness to herself — and the difference. She had often wondered, thinking about it all on the
Faithful,
how her mother had let Aunt Abigail bully her into despair. Now she understood. This gentle creature would have been no match for Aunt Abigail. She looked from the picture to her father. ‘I am glad that I am like you too, sir.'

He smiled down at her. ‘You have my temper, I can see. How else did you force your way into my presence? I wager Masters and the rest are shaking in their shoes for fear of the consequences. But, tell me, what magic did you use to gain admission in the first place?'

She smiled back at him. ‘Ah, there, I confess, sir, I was lucky. I met a Mr. Brummel at the coaching inn and he was so good as to send me here in his chair. I think he told his servant to make sure that I gained admission. And in fairness to Masters, I must tell you that it was with the greatest reluctance that he told me which was your study.'

‘I'll warrant it was. So Mr. Brummel sent you in his chair, did he? There's the explanation of your mystery, my lady. I can see my daughter has the gift for making friends. I wonder who was the last lady to be honoured with a ride in Beau Brummel's chair.'

A confusion of emotions chased each other across Lady
Marchmont's beautiful face, while Henrietta watched and wondered. So far, Mr. Rivers' ‘angel' had shown herself in no very amiable light. But she had herself well in hand now. ‘It was vastly kind of Mr. Brummel,' she said. ‘I must write and tell him how deeply I feel myself in his debt. For the compliment was, of course, to me — and to you, my love.' And with a ravishing smile for her husband: ‘Mr. Brummel is too truly our friend to let any connection of ours be wandering about London unprotected.'

‘No need to write Mr. Brummel,' said Henrietta cheerfully. ‘He said he would do himself the honour of calling on me tomorrow morning.'

Lady Marchmont almost lost control of her temper again. Her high colour and a tightening of the hand that held her gloves betrayed her. But she kept her voice calmly patronising. ‘Well, in that case, my dear creature, we must set about making you fit to be seen.'

From time to time in the course of that endless afternoon Henrietta almost found herself regretting that she had ever left Boston. Her father had handed her over to her stepmother with a warm, wine-flavoured kiss before he left for the House of Lords, where, he told her, the Orders in Council were to be debated.

‘It makes me happy,' he said, ‘to see you two friends before I go.'

Neither Henrietta nor Lady Marchmont said anything to disillusion him. If he could ignore the feeling that still ran high between them, so much the better. And, indeed, it seemed that Lady Marchmont was ready to strike a truce. She certainly devoted herself with the greatest enthusiasm to the task of outfitting Henrietta for her first appearance in society. But then, as Henrietta was well aware, this was largely because she would feel herself disgraced if her stepdaughter should appear as anything less than a young lady of the highest
fashion. As soon as Lord Marchmont had left the house, she hurried Henrietta up to her own boudoir and rang violently for her maid.

Fenner, a dried-up little person with a prim mouth and incredible auburn curls, must have already heard all about Henrietta in the servants' hall. She listened impassively as Lady Marchmont explained the problem: Mr. Brummel to call tomorrow; the news undoubtedly all over town already. ‘No wonder Mr. Brummel took you under his wing, my dear, your coming is a veritable gold mine of gossip to him. He will dine out on it these many weeks to come. But of course he will come here tomorrow to see what we have contrived to do with you. Fenner, send for Pierre this instant. He is my hairdresser,' she explained to Henrietta, ‘a French émigré with a perfect genius for the latest styles. I shudder to think what Mr. Brummel must have thought of those braids. And, Fenner …' She proceeded to enumerate a long list of mantua makers, milliners and so on who must also be summoned urgently to Marchmont House. ‘Of course, it would be more entertaining to visit them in their warehouses,' she explained to Henrietta, ‘but how can we venture forth with you looking as you do? Ten to one we should meet some old cat or other, and then good-bye to your chances of a voucher for Almack's, or, indeed, of recognition of any kind.'

‘What?' said Henrietta, amused. ‘Merely because I am dressed something out of the mode?'

‘Out of the mode!' Fenner had taken her cue from her mistress by now. The line was to be amused patronage. ‘Why, Miss Marchmont, they are more elegantly dressed in Bedlam. That sleeve has been dead as mutton these ten years past, and as for the collar — well, only look at my lady.'

Henrietta had already been looking, or rather trying not to. Lady Marchmont had given up all thoughts of riding and changed into a muslin housedress whose low neck and clinging lines showed her slender figure to rather too much advantage. Resolving to have her own gowns cut more discreetly, Henrietta said nothing, surrendering herself silently to Fenner, who began to comb out her long hair ready for Pierre's arrival. When he came, he too, exclaimed in his broken English over mademoiselle's bizarre appearance and went straight to work to remedy it. Soon, however, he was exclaiming again, this time with pleasure over the natural curl of her dark hair. ‘We will
attempt something a little daring, shall we not, my lady?' He turned to Lady Marchmont. ‘You have seen Milady Lamb, with her curls á la Milord Byron? With mademoiselle's hair to work on, we shall leave her crying
miséricorde!
And he went to work with a will, cutting and shaping while Henrietta suffered in spellbound alarm. At last he stood back and handed her a looking glass. ‘
Voilà
, mademoiselle, what you think, no?'

She looked, and gasped. Instead of the neat braids that had given her, always, a look of the schoolroom, a multitude of unruly curls clustered over her head and around her face. ‘There!' Pierre stepped back, satisfied at her exclamation of amazed delight. ‘It is just to add a bandeau, so, and we are ready to conquer the world. My felicitations, mademoiselle, in one little half hour we have made a beauty of you.'

It was true. Her fine firm features that had made Mr. Anderson, once, liken her to a Greek goddess, were offset by the mass of curls. No need anymore to look up Pallas Athene in a classical dictionary. Her likeness now was to a very much more frivolous inhabitant of Olympus. She put out an impulsive hand to Lady Marchmont. ‘Indeed, ma'am, I am much indebted to you.'

‘Tush, child, it is nothing.' Lady Marchmont did her best to conceal her dismay at having her goose turn so suddenly into a swan. Luckily, both Fenner and Pierre knew her well enough to guess what she was feeling.

‘Naturally,' said Pierre, ‘mademoiselle cannot expect to hold a
bougie
to milady — the great ones of fashion are not grown in a day, but with such an example before her, ah' — he kissed his fingertips — '
qui sait
? I would say, who can tell? But I hear milord; I am gone, I vanish, I take to myself wings.' And he collected up his tools with surprising rapidity and bowed his way obsequiously out by way of an antechamber, just as the main door of the boudoir was thrown open to reveal a young man dressed in what Henrietta could already recognise as the extravagant height of fashion. But while Mr. Brummel had worn his elegant clothes with ease, this young exquisite looked as if he hardly dared turn his head for fear of disturbing the intricate folds of his cravat. His fair, small, boned handsomeness was marred, in Henrietta's opinion, by a petulant turn of the lip, and there was nothing endearing about the look of haughty surprise with which he favoured her through his eyeglass.

For her part, she had expected her father, and turned to Lady Marchmont in blushing surprise at this intrusion, gathering the folds of the loose morning gown her stepmother had lent her more closely about her as she did so.

Lady Marchmont merely looked bored. ‘Cedric,' she said. ‘But how delightful. I had thought you fixed at the Pavilion this sennight or more.'

She did not, Henrietta thought, look particularly delighted as she held out a languid hand to be kissed.

‘Why, to tell truth, so had I, ma'am,' said the young man, coming forward and taking the hand with an air. ‘But —' Here he raised it to his lips, paused, considered for a moment and then continued: ‘A new perfume, I see and a delicious one. Your taste, as always, ma'am, is flawless. But I beg you will make me known to your charming companion.'

‘Why, of course. How could I be so shatterbrained? I have a most delightful surprise for you, Cedric. This is your new sister, Henrietta Marchmont. Henrietta, my love, you must allow me to present my son, Lord Beaufrage.'