Colors of a Lady (20 page)

“I am not so grand. My actual family history
is quite sordid.”

“I assumed that was normal for noble
families.”

Lady Hartwell giggled behind a damp glove.
“I suppose you are right.”

“Perhaps we could move this to the
fireplace?” Her husband interjected at the very moment that Lady
Hartwell sneezed.

“If you give me a few minutes, I will
prepare your room.” Thea bobbed into a curtsy. The door slammed
open. Four footmen charged into the inn, laden down with two
trunks.

“That would be our luggage,” Lady Hartwell
announced.

“Please follow me,” the innkeeper
instructed. The footmen grunted in agreement, waddling after
her.

“I like her,” Emma decided. Her body
trembled with a violent shiver.

Thomas chuckled. “That does not surprise
me.” He removed her gloves, depositing them on a table.

“Why ever not?” She rubbed her hands
together.

“I just have a hunch.”

A hunch meant a guess with no basis in fact.
Knowing Thomas, by the morning his hunch would be proven true. Emma
was certain he knew a lot more about the history surrounding this
case than she herself knew. He remained mute on his own dealings
and Emma never thought to ask.

She wanted a scalding hot bath with steam
curling from the surface. She was not so high in her instep to ask
for such an extravagance. The innkeeper was the only one working.
There was not even a hint of another worker. No cook or servant. No
help to be seen. Emma surmised it was due her race. For an African
woman to own an inn was fascinating. How did it fall into her
hands?

“I have built a fire in your room. I hope it
will be suffice.” Thea swept down the stairs. She wiped her hands
on her apron, leaving soot marks over the crisp white linen.

“I am sure it is lovely. Thank you very much
for accepting our late arrival.”

She demurred bowing her head. “It is
expected of an innkeeper.”

“Go ahead up, Emmy, I need to speak
with...uh….I am sorry, but what is your name?” Lady Hartwell yawned
into her hand and mumbled good night. His eyes followed her slow
departure.

“Thea. Just Thea. Or Miss Thea if you are so
inclined.” Her inn was full of newlyweds. Highly placed newlyweds,
no less. These were no merchant’s daughters or butcher’s sons. They
were part of the Upper Ten Thousand. Except that girl, newly a
marchioness...she was not English. Perhaps she was half, but the
rest of her as distinctly non-English. When the candlelight caught
her face in certain angles, Thea saw glimpses of her own face.
Perhaps one of her parents had a wayward liaison with some of her
people. It was not uncommon. England was crawling with bastard
children torn between cultures and countries.

“Just Miss? You are not a widow.”

“I am, my lord.” She said nothing
further.

He changed the subject. “Please do not alert
any of the other occupants of our arrival. Especially Mrs.
Lowell.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “How did you
know the name of my guests?”

“I work for the Crown in intelligence
matters. Mrs. Lowell is not what she seems. I am here to smoke her
out.” It was not the complete truth. Thomas learned early on that
tiny lies were helpful.

“I figured as much. I do not care for the
woman. Her spirit...it is not a good one.” She shook her head. “I
will tell no one.”

“Thank you, Miss Thea. This will all be
worth your while.”

The Marquess nodded his head. He turned on
an elegant foot and headed towards the stairs to join his
bride.

Thea had enough of this night. She needed a
lot of sleep to prepare for tomorrow. At last the Seaside Arms had
guests! Some of her outstanding debts could be paid in full once
they checked out. If she was lucky, there would be extra to send
along to Juliet. She snuffed out the candles around the dining
room. The fire would not last much longer. The flames sputtered,
searching for some kindling. The innkeeper stood a few minutes to
watch it die out. Once the last ember glowed, she left to slide
into her lonely bed.

She could not sleep. It was not the storm
that had died out some hours ago. It was not the cold because their
fire still burned and her husband proved to be a constant source of
warmth. It was not even the strangeness of falling asleep in a new
bed. No. None of those reasons kept her up.

It was her mind. Something niggled at it and
would not stop until she discovered it. Emma threw the covers off
her legs. Beside her, Thomas turned over in his sleep, mumbling
about horses and spies. The instant her feet touched the cold
wooden floor, she recoiled. She felt around for her slippers. The
chilled silk was a minor improvement over the icy floor. Emma
shuffled to slide on her dressing gown, a wedding present from
Thomas crafted from bottle green velvet. It served her well on
chilly evenings such as this.

Emma lit a candle and pushed the door open.
She anticipated a creak or a groan, but it was silent. She made her
way down the short hallway to the flight of stairs. Her stomach
rumbled. It had seemed such a good idea to turn up her nose at
lunch. Emma detested peas and the stew they had been served was
mostly peas with a paltry sliver of beef. The mere consideration of
the smell was enough to make her gag.

A stronger scent of some delectable dish
overcame her revulsion. Was someone cooking? It smelled of potatoes
and spices that would burn her tongue. Emma hurried down the
stairs, following the heavenly scent. At the end of the trail, she
hoped a big steaming bowl of whatever it was she inhaled. Her hunt
led her into the kitchen where two lanterns cast a dim glow upon
the room. Their innkeeper stood hunched over a pot, stirring the
goodness inside.

Emma cleared her throat to announce her
presence. The woman jumped away from the pot and brandished the
spoon like a weapon.

They stared at one another. Emma’s arms went
up in defense. “I am sorry to startle you so. I-I just could not
sleep and then I smelled whatever delicious dish you were
stirring.”

The innkeeper tossed the spoon back into the
pot before dipping into a deep curtsy. “It is I who am sorry, my
lady. You must forgive my reaction. I am often alone in tis inn and
have been robbed often.”

“How terrible!” Emma gasped. The woman just
shook her head. Kinky coils of her midnight-black hair slipped from
her modest bun. Her sienna skin gleamed with beads of sweat. Her
mouth may be etched in fine lines, but her eyes were lively. Their
colour reminded Emma of a Southern sea—a breathtaking blue-green
shade with depths that men would die to discover. Emma had not a
clue what any Southern sea really looked like. She had just read
too many Greek myths and decided she was an expert.

“I am a widowed foreign woman. I am an easy
target for these criminals.”

Emma’s stomach answered for her. Thea
smiled. “If you do not mind to go out to the dining room, I can
bring you a bowl.”

“Does it have peas in it?” She blushed to
even ask a question. But the innkeeper continued to smile though
her lips grew tight at the corners.

“No, my lady.”

“What is your name? I rudely did not wait
ask for it earlier. My mother would disown me if she saw what a
marchioness I turned out to be.”

“It is Thea, my lady.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Thea.” Emma
peered at the stove. “Is there anything that I can help with? You
do not seem to have any other employers. It must be tiresome to
wait on your guests alone.”

“I do not have many guests, my lady. This
inn is rather run down and the keeper is a Negress. If this was
Turkey or even Italy, people would not turn up their noses.”

“England is not so welcoming,” the
Marchioness agreed with a sigh that betrayed her own
disappointments. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her
body. Thea pulled two wooden bowls down from a shelf and ladled in
generous portions of her special stew. Emma did not leave for the
dining room. She yanked out a stool and plopped down onto it.

The careless action stilled Thea. She had to
resist scolding the girl, no, the Marchioness. Juliet often treated
stools with the same perfunctory carelessness.

Lady Hartwell offered up another sigh. “The
people I call my parents…are not the ones who created me,” she
admitted in a quiet voice. Despite her fine clothing, Emma was
still a lost girl whose world had been upturned too recently.

“Oh,” was all Thea managed to say. Emma took
that syllable as a push to go further.

“My father was an Army officer, but not a
soul in my family even knows the name of my mother. She died after
I was born and my father took my back to England.”

“What happened to him?” Thea placed a bowl
before the girl. She bent over to take in a deep breath.

“He was murdered by my aunt.” She dipped her
spoon into the bowl. “At least that is what I think and it is
dreadful to even consider.” Emma slurped up the spoonful of broth.
“This is amazing!”

“Thank you, my lady. The spices are my own
special blend.”

“I have never had potato stew quite like
this.” She dipped her spoon in for more. “All I do know of my
mother is that my father loved her very much and the colour of her
skin.” She pulled up a sleeve of her gown. “Which she gave to
me.”

“Your mother was a Negress,” stated Thea.
Lady Hartwell nodded. “Does Lord Hartwell know?” She nodded
again.

“I have known him since I was a child and
the complexities of my birth do not worry him.”

“Even when you have children?”

“No, not at all.” She slanted a worried
glance to Thea. “At least I hope.”

“Your hope gives me hopes for my Juliet.
Like you, her father was an English soldier. But he abandoned us
many years ago. We lived in near poverty until a worldly
adventuress decided she needed a new companion. Juliet and I
traveled in splendor to England, where this woman offered me
employment in the inn owned by her family. When Juliet came of age,
she traveled to London for work.”

“Do you miss him?” ventured Emma. Thea
turned her face heavenward and closed her eyes. The room was silent
or a moment. Was she thinking of their tender moments and the
daughter they made together? Was she wondering if he abandoned her
at all of if it was all a misunderstanding?

“Yes, I do.” Thea’s voice choked with
memories. She beamed at Emma. “My mother said I was a fool for
getting married to a foreign officer. Perhaps she was right.” A
helpless shrug accompanied her musings.

Emma laid a hand over Thea’s. “You could not
have known.” Thea nodded.

“You are right.” She wiped the stray tears
from her cheeks. “What is your father’s name? Perhaps I met him
before. You seem to be the same age as Juliet, which means your
father may have been around where my husband had been
stationed.”

“Captain Joseph Wren.”

Thea laughed aloud, shaking her head. “It is
not possible,” she replied. “It cannot be.”

“I assure you that it is quite possible.”
Emma frowned at the innkeeper. ”Did you know him?”

She looked into the face that grew more
familiar at they spoke. This little Marchioness cocked her head to
the side, eyes dark and trying to fathom what she could mean.

“Yes,” Thea said. “I knew him well.” She
buried her face into her hands. “How did I not see this
earlier?”

“See what?”

“Joseph was my husband.”

Lady Hartwell had just come to terms with
her lot in life. At nearly twenty, her life had been disturbed in
ways that could send many to a madhouse. She bore it all with the
grace expected of her. There were few shed tears and no tantrums.
But this…this…was a Drury Lane Drama. If her father was Thea’s
husband…then was this her mother?

“M-Mother?”

1796

Lucille Wren had done what she needed to do.
She had done what Henry was too cowardly to do himself. Her eldest
brother, an earl, could not get his hands dirty like she did. But,
she did it for the family. Those silly men, Devine and Rollings,
had done their part in Africa. Now it was he turn. She would
deliver the final blow.

She tucked the incriminating letters inside
her corset. No one would dare search through a lady’s bodice. It
was helpful to her that England retained their staid ways. Lucille
stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was eighteen and the
belle of the Season. If only her stupid brother had not gotten
involved with trash, then she could have enjoyed this Season to the
fullest. It was all a game to her. After all, she knew she would
marry Lt. Devine.

They first met in 1793 when Joseph came home
on leave. They snuck glances and exchanged love notes beneath the
July sun. He opened the world to her and his mind. Devine first
spoke to her of a movement to reclaim England for the English.
There were too many dirty foreigners clogging up the streets and
the noble bloodlines. A group of like-minded clergymen formed the
Church of Supreme Holiness for those who wished to join the
cause.

At first, Lucille was aghast at the
suggestion. Her interpretation of the Bible led her to believe that
everyone, no matter their colour or religious persuasion, was a
child of God. Did Jesus himself not preach of tolerance and love
for all people? Was he not the one to forgive the harlot Mary
Magdalene?

“No,” Richard had said with that
knee-weakening smile. “We are not created equal. Only those pure of
blood could ascend to Heaven. It was the Church’s job to keep
England clean.”

Then, it began to make sense to her. The
English were favoured by God himself. Did they not have the best of
it all? Those Christians on the Continent loved to cavort with
lesser beings. Their pure white bloodlines darkened into mud with
every transgression.