The Rebellious Twin (4 page)

A minute later, Estelle returned shaking her head. “She ees just out of the bath so eet will be a few minutes.”

“Is she putting on the blue?”

Estelle’s usually guarded expression dropped away for a moment, and her mouth quirked with humor. “Oui, though not without a protest.”

Good! thought Rissa. It was time they dressed exactly the same again. Clarinda’s brief rebellion had been squelched, thank goodness. In fact, yesterday in the library, Mama and Papa had done a fine job of dealing with all Clarinda’s transgressions. Rissa knew they had because she’d been standing outside, listening to every word. With great satisfaction, too, especially when they threatened to sell Donegal. How that must have hurt. Now Clarinda would not be seeing that awful Sara Sophia anymore. That would hurt, too, but it was also for the best, and Clarinda deserved it.

Tucking her hands in her muff, Rissa announced, “I shall wait at the front portico, Estelle. Tell Mama and my sister to hurry.” Rissa took a final glimpse of herself in the mirror. No question, she was dressed in the height of fashion, and beautiful besides. No one at Lady Constance Lynbury’s tea this afternoon would look half as nice, except Clarinda, of course, and she didn’t count. They would create their usual sensation. Rissa would never tire of how everybody oohed and aahed at the sight of identical twins dressed exactly alike.

When she stepped outside, onto the wide marbled portico, Rissa was surprised to see a coach and six rolling at breakneck speed up the curved driveway. Only when it came to a quick, dust-billowing halt did she realize it belonged to that dreadful old Lord Westerlynn who lived on the adjoining estate.

“Help us, mum,” cried the coachman from above. “His Lordship has taken ill.”

“Indeed?” she called. How annoying! This had better not interfere with her plans for the day. She had best fetch the butler. She started to turn, but before she could, a feeble, trembling voice called, “Clarinda! Thank God you’re home.”

Rissa looked toward the coach again. There, his withered old hands gripping the door, was old Lord Westerlynn. He was breathing hard, face deadly white, with a stricken look in his eye. “Come here, girl,” he gasped, “hurry!”

Well, really! She had no desire to go anywhere near the disgusting old man, but she supposed she hardly had a choice. And besides, she was curious to know why he was here, and so desperately anxious to talk to Clarinda. Holding her muff close, as if to shield herself, she stepped daintily down the marble steps and over to the coach. The coachman, who had climbed down from his perch, opened the door, revealing Lord Westerlynn half-sitting, half-lying on the seat, obviously in great pain, his hand clutching his chest. “Are you ill?” she inquired, using her extra sweet voice.

“Ill? Damme, I am dying!” Lord Westerlynn replied. “Off with you!” he cried, waving off the coachman. “I must talk to Clarinda alone.”

“Sir, I am not — ” Rissa began, and then thought better of it. She hardly knew the man, and no wonder. Mama had often pointed out how vulgar and uncouth their neighbor was, so she had gladly avoided him. Not so Clarinda, who had no taste in friends and visited Hollyridge Manor all the time.

What did he want to tell Clarinda? In truth, she would love to know. Perhaps, if she said nothing … yes, it was safe enough. When they were children she had pretended she was Clarinda many a time, for fun mostly, and no one ever found out. Besides, he already thought she was Clarinda, so she wouldn’t even have to tell a lie. “What is it, sir?” she asked, putting as much concern in her voice as she knew how.

The old man reached out a shaky, wrinkled, brown-spotted hand and clasped her wrist. How revolting. Her impulse was to grab her hand back, but she forced herself not to pull away. “What is it you wish to say?”

“Listen carefully,” Westerlynn gasped, “you must give these to Sara Sophia.” Calling on what must have been the last of his strength, the old man pressed two rusted keys into her palm. “‘Tis urgent. These keys will change her life — give her wealth — give her the future she deserves.”

“But what are the keys to?”

“A fortune awaits Sara Sophia. Look for the room in…”

The old man let out one last desperate, agonizing gasp. His head fell back and his wide-open eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling of the coach.

He was dead! Rissa let out one small horrified screech. How inconsiderate! Why did he have to die here? How unfair that she, so delicate, so protected all her life, should be forced to witness such a shocking sight. She turned to flee, and saw that Mama, Papa, and Clarinda were hurrying down the steps. She stopped short, suddenly realizing the drama of the scene and how she mustn’t ruin it by running off. Everyone must know that she, fragile but brave Rissa, had unselfishly rushed to the aid of the dying old man, had heard his last words while selflessly putting her own feelings aside, even though she had never in her life seen anyone dead. Everyone would admire her. She would be the center of attention, not Clarinda.

“Rissa, dear, what is it?” Mama cried.

Rissa forced a tear from her eye. Hand to her heart, she backed off from the coach, managing a slight stagger. “Oh, Mama! I was trying to help dear Lord Westerlynn as best I could, but I fear he is dead.”

“You poor child,” cried Mama, “come away.”

“Stand back, everyone,” ordered Papa.

Clarinda, her stomach knotted with dread, stood on the last step and watched as Papa went to the coach and checked the old man’s pulse. “He’s gone,” Papa finally said. “His heart, I should wager. What a pity. Old scoundrel though he was, I liked the man.”

“He was up in years,” Mama remarked, none too sympathetically, “eighty if he was a day.” She put her arm around Rissa. “Why did he have to die here? Poor Rissa has been subjected to the most horrible experience imaginable. We must get her inside so she can lie down.”

Clarinda, standing ignored on the step, felt such sorrow she could not speak. Lord Westerlynn had always shown her the utmost kindness, and shared her love of horses. She wondered if he’d said any last words. Rissa, in a half faint, supported by Mama on one side, Papa on the other, was being led gently up the steps.

“Rissa, did Lord Westerlynn say anything before he died?”

Rissa paused and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Only that he knew he was dying,” she said, “then he just gasped a little, and then he was dead.”

What was that in her hand? Clarinda wondered. She watched as Rissa slipped whatever it was into her muff. But Clarinda had learned long ago that Rissa did what was best for Rissa. It would be useless even to ask.

*

It was late in the day before Clarinda had a chance to ride Donegal to Hollyridge Manor. A sad-faced Sara Sophia greeted her outside the stable where she was watering some horses when Clarinda rode up. Slipping off Donegal, Clarinda declared, “You must be devastated. Lord Westerlynn was like a father to you.”

Sara Sophia bowed her head. “And I loved him like a daughter.”

“What will happen now?” Clarinda gestured across the formal garden towards the sprawling, four-story mansion. “I suppose the nephew inherits?”

“All goes to the nephew. I met him only once.” Sara Sophia managed a wry smile. “He wasn’t very nice. I cannot imagine he would let me stay.”

“That’s so unfair,” Clarinda cried. “Where will you go? What will you do?”

“Does it matter?” Sara Sophia’s large, luminous brown eyes focused on the stables. “The horses — that’s what I care about. But what will the nephew care? He won’t give a fig where they go.”

Clarinda wished she could assure her friend otherwise, but she, too, was sick with worry. “We shall just have to see, I suppose. And what about you?”

“Without Lord Westerlynn’s support I am penniless. Poor old dear, I suspect he thought he’d live forever. I doubt he thought ahead enough to remember me in his will, nor would I have expected him to.” Sara Sophia proudly raised her chin. “I shall be a governess. After all, I am well-versed in French, the minuet, embroidery, water colors — ” an ironic smile played on her lips ” — all the things that count for women in this world.”

Clarinda marveled at how calm her friend remained. But then, she had never heard Sara Sophia raise her voice — had never seen her angry or distressed. She was always gentle, always serene. What impressed her most was Sara Sophia’s broad vision of their world that went far beyond what was in plain sight. Impulsively she said, “I wish you could come live with me.”

Sara Sophia regarded her sadly. “That would be nice, but I suspect your parents might have a word or two to say about that.”

Doubtless, she was right. How unfair life was! How utterly tragic that a girl like Sara Sophia, who came closer to being a saint than anyone Clarinda ever knew, should be doomed to the dreary life of a governess.

*

How I envy Clarinda’s passion for life, Sara Sophia thought after her friend had gone. Clarinda was bold, brave, impetuous — everything she was not.

Clarinda was so very bright, too, except where Jeffrey was concerned. Love is blind, they say, and in Clarinda’s case that was certainly true. Too bad he had to die on the deck of HMS Victory, for more reasons than one. Sara Sophia had learned, from Lord Westerlynn’s letters to her, that Clarinda’s dreamy-eyed poet was a wastrel and a fool — perfect for Rissa, not for herself. Had Jeffrey lived, Clarinda would surely have seen him for what he was, but alas, now he was frozen in time as a hero and would forever remain so in Clarinda’s eyes. So unjust! From the grave, Jeffrey was preventing Clarinda from finding happiness.

But would her dear friend ever find happiness? Sara Sophia shook her head in chagrin. That might be difficult, considering Clarinda had a twin like Rissa, who was vain — selfish — shallow, and, from all Sara Sophia had perceived, exceedingly jealous of her twin and would do anything, even hurt Clarinda, to get her own way.

*

Two days later, in the main salon of Graystone Hall, Lady Edwina Capelle was conducting one of her rare Thursday afternoon “at homes.” Considering she spent much of her time in London, it was an event exceedingly popular with the ladies of the countryside who could take the opportunity to catch up on the latest London on-dit. Clarinda, who in the past had been adept at avoiding these tedious affairs, was seated on a striped floral settee, wondering how soon she could make a graceful exit. Mama’s athomes were a giant bore. Clarinda hated sitting stiff and ladylike, sipping tea, watching every word she said. Worse, she must listen to endless gossip in which she had no interest. It was obvious, though, she was not going to avoid it today. Several prattling ladies had already arrived and were sipping their tea when that queen of gossip, Lady Constance Lynbury, swept in, accompanied by Agatha, her new, sharp-nosed daughter-in-law, who had just arrived from her previous home in London.

White-haired Lady Lynbury was an expert at collecting gossip as well as dispensing it. Today, doubtless, she would dig out every little detail concerning Lord Westerlynn’s sad demise. Not only that, Lady Lynbury, her stout figure clad in unbecoming black, appeared to be bursting to impart some juicy tidbit. Her sharp eyes glittered, her many chins quivered, as if she could hardly contain herself.

Clarinda gave an inward sigh. She would much rather be on Donegal’s back, racing with the wind, than to have to listen to silly chatter.

After Lady Lynbury introduced her new daughter-in-law, she exclaimed, “How brave of you to receive us today, Lady Capelle. I daresay, if I’d had a man die at my very doorstep, I should be quite distraught.”

Mama put on her somber face. “Indeed, you are right, Lady Lynbury. It was a dreadful shock. Poor Lord Westerlynn! What a dear soul he was. How we grieve at his loss.”

“I understand Rissa was with him when he died?” prompted Lady Lynbury.

“Most unfortunately, yes.” Mama gave an appropriate sigh. “Dear Rissa conducted herself with the utmost bravery, despite the shocking circumstances. I am afraid she won’t be joining us today. She has not been the same since it happened and is upstairs lying down. Still in a dreadful state of shock, I might add.”

“A terrible, terrible shame,” stated Lady Lynbury, grimly shaking her head. “Such irony that he died the very day after he — well, you know.” The stout matron took a sudden interest in stirring her tea.

What is she talking about? thought Clarinda, curious despite herself.

The whole room went suddenly silent. “I know what?” asked Mama, a bit too sharply, but perhaps no one noticed.

“My dears, you will simply never believe what I just heard.” Lady Constance paused, making sure all eyes were upon her. “I have it on good authority from my nephew, who was in London at the time, that Lord Westerlynn had squandered most of his fortune, and the day before he died — you are not going to believe this!”

An impatient chorus of “tell us!” filled the room.

“He gambled away Hollyridge Manor in a game of whist.”

“What?” sounded astonished voices.

“Tossed it all,” reiterated Lady Lynbury, hardly concealing her delight at the sensation she had created.

Clarinda sat shocked and horrified. What had possessed Lord Westerlynn to risk his precious family estate? And what man was greedy enough — heartless enough — to take it away from him? “Who was the villain who stole Lord Westerlynn’s estate?” she asked.

“Why, ‘twas Robert, Lord Stormont, the Earl of Marsett,” replied Lady Lynbury. Having set the whole room into shocked confusion, she sat back content. “But you mustn’t say ‘steal’, my dear, he won it honestly enough.”

“Who is Lord Stormont?” Clarinda demanded, feeling a rising anger, “I never heard of him.”

“Of course not,” said Mama. “He was once quite the rake, but now remains much of the time at his estate in Kent. Breeds horses, I believe. These past years, he has eschewed London society like the plague.”

“I have seen him. He is quite handsome,” chirped Agatha in a bird-like voice.

“So have I,” Mama remarked, “many times at the balls and soirees in London, though not recently. He’s rather blunt — what you would call a man’s man. Never been married, either, although I can assure you, half the marriageable chits in London were after him at one time or another.”