Anne Barbour (2 page)

“My lord,” she began slowly. “I do not claim to be the marquess’s granddaughter. I say only that I might be. I have come because I am searching for myself—-for my history, that is. When I heard recently that the Marquess of Canby has been searching for his relative for a number of years, and when I discovered the circumstances in which she was lost to him, the possibility occurred to me that the son and daughter of the Marquess of Canby were my parents.”

“I am pleased, Mrs. Finch, that your motives are pure.” The earl crossed his booted legs. “Pray continue.”

Martha flushed, and lifted her chin.

“I have no recollection of my infancy. My earliest memory is of waking one morning on the beach after a storm at sea. I was about six years old, and I lay in the remains of a small boat, having been secured there with a rope. I was wrapped in a fine shawl embroidered with the initials ‘FEM.’ Around my neck I wore a silver locket, containing portraits of a dark-haired man, and a woman with fair hair. Both were elegantly dressed.”

“ ‘FEM,’ “ murmured Lord Branford, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve. “Felicity Elizabeth Marshall. Most affecting. It does seem odd, though, that a small child would have been placed, unattended, in a lifeboat.”

Martha felt beads of perspiration break out on her forehead. She had known this would be difficult, but she had underestimated the earl’s antipathy. She drew a deep breath.

“Yes. It was thought that perhaps one or both of my parents had embarked in the boat with me, but were washed overboard. At any rate,’ she continued hastily, “I was found by Josiah Sounder. Josiah was a fisherman who lived with his wife, Margaret, some distance from the village of Tenaby, which lies on the North Sea some forty miles north of Scarborough. They had both yearned for children for some years, so they made little effort to discover my identity. I became their daughter.

“Fishing was the village livelihood, and in the years following my rescue, I helped Josiah in that pursuit, or busied myself with chores about the cottage. Josiah and Margaret were elderly and lived some distance from the village. They kept to themselves. Margaret died when I was twelve, and Josiah did not live long after her death. I left the village then. I decided to make my way to London and I earned money for my journey in stages. I worked in a variety of employment along the way.” She smiled tentatively. “Extremely menial employment—mostly as a scullery maid in various inns. I would work at one place until I had enough money to move on.”

“Why did you wish to go to London?”

“I don’t know. I suppose, like so many others, I thought of London as a font of riches for someone who possessed a modicum of intelligence and a willingness to work hard. I had visions in my head of finding employment in a noble house where I might work my way up from scullery maid to housekeeper.”

“Or perhaps to catch the eye of a wealthy protector?”

Martha stared in affront. “Had that been my goal,” she snapped, “I did not lack the opportunity. However, though I was open to almost any sort of employment, I drew the line at renting out my body.”

For a moment, a startled flash leaped into the earl’s dark eyes. “My apologies,” he said, his lips twitching.

“As it happened,” she continued stiffly, “I never did reach London. In fact, it took me about a year just to get as far as York. I was fourteen, and work was hard to find there.”

She closed her eyes for a moment against the memory of endless hours trudging the streets of the city, accepting rejection with the little dignity remaining to her. How many nights had she returned cold and shivering, to a ragged nest created in a doorway or a stairwell? She had lived by her wits, stealing food and evading the attentions of the many predators who prowled the malodorous streets of this major metropolis.

She drew a deep breath and continued. “I was fortunate at last to find a position as kitchen maid in the house of a rising merchant. I did my best, and my work pleased the Murchisons’ cook. She was a kind woman, and when a position of upstairs maid became vacant, she recommended me. I became friends with another maid—a young woman who acted as abigail for the daughter of the house. I learned from her the duties of a lady’s maid, and filled in for her several times when she became ill and could not work.”

Martha lifted a hand to her eyes. “The poor girl died of the white sickness when I was seventeen, and I was chosen to become Miss Emily’s abigail.”

“You seem to have been greatly favored by circumstances, Mrs. Finch.” There was nothing but a sort of remote curiosity in his voice, and Martha felt herself bristle.

“I have found, my lord, that circumstances are what you make of them, and any favor I found came through my own endeavor.”

“Now, that I have no difficulty in believing.”

The implication of this statement was not lost on Martha, and a tide of heat rose to her cheeks once more.

“At any rate, when I was nineteen I met Matthew Finch, who owned a bookshop in St. Martin’s Lane, not far from the river. He was a fine man, and not long afterward, he asked me to be his wife. I was widowed when I was two and twenty.”

She twisted her hands in her lap and felt compelled to speak once more to forestall the comment she saw forming on his lordship’s lips.

“Perhaps I should mention here that Mr. Finch was in his sixties when we married. No, it was not what would one could call a love match—although I did love him—very much- He was a good husband, and— Her voice caught. “I grieved at his passing.”

Lord Branford yawned. “I suppose you did.”

Bran closed his mouth immediately, rather shamefaced. That was not well done of him. Though he might think her story a tissue of lies from start to finish, he had been able to ascertain before he met her that she was, indeed, a widow. As such she might well grieve for a husband, elderly or no, and he had no right to belittle her loss. He found he was having a difficult time maintaining his skepticism with this woman. She was vastly appealing and a peculiar recognition of spirit tugged at him. He almost felt as though she were a dear friend, unrecognized but returned to him after a long absence.

What nonsense. He straightened in his seat.

“And now you find yourself without a provider,” he said.

He observed with some amusement the growing anger that Mrs. Finch was unable to hide beneath her supplicant exterior.

“I have no need for a provider,” she replied austerely. “Mr. Finch left the bookshop to me and I have been running it since his death.”

“I see.” Bran shifted in his chair. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mrs. Finch. However, I must say you have shown me no evidence other than a story that could have been made up of whole cloth to indicate that you are Felicity Marshall. Therefore, I think it is time to bring our interview to a close.”

If he expected his statement to discommode Mrs. Finch, he was doomed to disappointment.

“But what if I did not make it up?” she asked reasonably. “What if it is all true? Do you not think it is up to the Marquess of Canby to accept or dismiss what I have to say? It seems to me, my lord, that it behooves you to let him make that decision.”

“Of course you would think that,” Bran retorted somewhat waspishly. This female had an extraordinary gift for bringing out the worst in him, he reflected. “You mentioned a locket,” he said after a moment. “I suppose that was conveniently lost during your travails.”

Mrs. Finch said nothing, but smiled sweetly as she reached for her reticule.

3

Martha struggled to conceal her exultation as she picked up her reticule. From it she produced a tiny bit of silver, which she handed to the earl.

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured. “The locket is still in my possession, though I had some difficulty in keeping it all these years.” Tears stung her eyes as she recalled the tenacity with which she had clung to the keepsake. She’d made up stories in her head about the people in the portraits, creating elaborate fantasies in which she became a beloved daughter, the center of their doting attention.

Martha observed the surprise in Lord Branford’s dark eyes, and watched, scarcely daring to breathe, as he turned the little silver scrap over in his fingers before opening it.

For a moment, Bran said nothing, merely gazing at the two miniatures, his expression shuttered. He did not recognize the small piece of jewelry, but he knew the two faces as well as he knew those of his own parents. Much better, in fact. He had tried for so long not to think of his parents at all that now his memories of them were faded and fragmented. He turned hastily to his perusal of the portraits. They were copies of two larger works that hung in the family gallery at Canby Park, in Bedfordshire. The subjects were the Earl and Countess of Bennington, the son and daughter-in-law of the Marquess of Canby. Bran concealed his surprise, telling himself it was more than likely that the Widow Finch had purchased the locket in a bits and pieces shop, perhaps some years ago. On discovering the identities of the pair pictured inside, she had seized the opportunity to make her claim.

Staring at the two smiling faces, Bran was struck with his own memories. Memories of Canby Park, and in the background, a small, vivacious girl, busy about her own pursuits. Felicity. A golden-haired cherub— an imperious, brown-eyed imp—a mischievous whirlwind—a demure tyrant. A plaguey nuisance, he and Stewart called her, through privately Bran adored her. Felicity returned his affection, following him about like an engaging puppy. When she was five she announced to Bran that he must not seek a bride when he grew up, for she intended to marry him herself. Ten-year-old Bran, scoffing loudly, secretly tucked away her promise, building dreams of a family that would be his alone.

Bran glanced up to observe Mrs. Finch gazing at him, a flicker of hope shimmering in her expressive, brandy-colored eyes. Felicity Marshall’s eyes? He shook himself. Lord, he was becoming as maudlin on the subject as the old gentleman. He became aware of a sense of danger emanating from the slender figure opposite him. This was perfectly absurd, of course, yet he felt somehow threatened by that wispy sense of recognition and by the fleeting vulnerability he saw in a woman who seemed to wear her self-possession like a steel cage.

“And the fine woolen shawl?” Branford asked casually.

“N-no,” Martha stammered. “It was stolen from me in the very first inn where I worked.”

Bran noted the tears that glistened briefly in her eyes. A nice touch that, he noted sourly. Stolen, indeed. Lord, there was certainly very little to indicate that she was anything but an enterprising bookshop owner from York. Bah! If it were up to him, he would send her packing, along with her false pretensions and her pretty, wistful manner. Unfortunately, it was not his decision. He stood.

“Very well, Mrs. Finch. Lord Canby wishes very much to see you, and you have told me nothing so far to prevent me bringing you to him. He will meet with you this evening.”

Martha almost cried out in her relief. Instead, she nodded serenely. She came to her feet, as well, holding her hand out to the earl. For a moment, he stared blankly at the extended hand.

“You are left-handed,” he said colorlessly.

Martha knew a moment of panic. Oh, Lord, she had not thought of that. Had she ruined everything?

“Felicity was left-handed,” the earl continued, still in that toneless voice.

Martha sagged in relief. She cast her thoughts briefly to Mary. Dear Lord, her acquaintance with the child had been too brief to notice such a detail.

“I shall leave now,” Lord Branford said coldly, “and return at six o’clock this evening. We will take an early supper here at the hotel before setting off for Canby House. Will that be acceptable?”

Martha nodded. “Of course. But—” she added quickly, “my locket!”

The earl frowned as though she were a street beggar who had just importuned him for a coin. “It will be returned to you after the marquess has had an opportunity to examine it. In addition,” he continued in a slightly softer tone, “on my way here this afternoon I heard two maids gossiping in the corridor about jewel thefts that have apparently occurred here in the hotel. Your locket will be safer in my keeping.”

He bowed slightly to her and to Mrs. Coppersmith. He snatched up his hat, gloves, and walking stick and left the room.

To Martha, it seemed as though the room expanded at his departure, and grew somehow dimmer, though the sun still streamed through the tall windows of the sitting room. She sank back into her chair, exhausted.

“There now!” exclaimed Mrs. Coppersmith. “Was that not a comfortable coze? Such a charming young man, do you not agree?”

Martha could have laughed. Charming? To her, the man seemed part ogre, part jungle predator, and part immovable object. The unexpected attraction she felt for him was threatening, for he was dangerous and hostile, and posed a threat to her immediate future. She could only pray she would have better luck with the old marquess.

Mrs. Coppersmith rose. “I am so anxious for us to talk together, as well, for I very much wish us to be friends, but I shall let you rest now.”

Rising, she led Martha into an elegant little dressing room, from which could be seen an airy bedchamber.

“When you wake, ring for Peters and she will help you with your preparations. You have plenty of time for a nice long nap.”

She hesitated for a moment, then pressed a soft kiss on Martha’s cheek before hurrying from the room. Martha, unfastening the muslin gown, moved into the bedchamber.

Never had she been surrounded by such luxury. She pulled off her serviceable shoes and lisle stockings and padded barefoot toward the bed. Her toes curled in the thick softness of the carpet and her gaze traveled over furnishings of heretofore unimagined elegance. Besides the bed, the chamber contained a dressing table, a Grecian reclining couch, and several scroll-backed chairs.

Sighing, she lay down and stared up at the richly designed bed canopy. If all went well, this sort of luxury would form her milieu for the rest of her life. She would be done with pinching pennies, days with only a scrap of bread for dinner. She closed her eyes. The first thing she would do after being installed at Canby House as Lady Felicity Marshall would be to order roast beef for dinner every night. With good wine to go with it. No watered beer for her ladyship! Then, she’d have some of those little cakes she’d seen in pastry shops, all covered with colored icings. In the summer, she’d cool her tongue with sherbets and in winter she’d warm herself with hot, spiced punch. She would— She stopped abruptly. Good Lord, she’d better stop thinking about her belly and concentrate on her strategy. She had a long way to go before she’d have the ordering of dinner at Canby House.