Lady of Spirit, A (11 page)

“Would you like some time alone to come to grips with it?” He moved, as if he would push himself to his feet and leave her, but she caught his sleeve.

“I will, but later. Look, the sun is sinking and Lizzie and Lady Claire will be worried about me. I must return to the house, but … do I have your permission to share what you have told me?”

“It is your story,” he said. “I am only sorry you had to hear it secondhand.”

“If anyone was to tell me, I am glad it was you.” She smiled up at him. “Cousin.”

“Quite so.” He took her hand. “And an older cousin at that, which means you have to do what I say.”

Maggie laughed and poked him in his brocade waistcoat. “Not until you tell me this—what gets wetter as it dries?”

With a roar of mock aggravation, he chased her up the cliff path, and couldn’t catch her until they were nearly all the way to the top.

Claire did not order out the big guns very often, finding it not only embarrassing but in most cases unnecessary. Besides which, doing so made her feel a little too much like her mother, a sensation she preferred to avoid at all costs.

But some circumstances were so extraordinary that the only way to meet them was to call upon all the resources one had at hand. So, upon the departure of Mr. Polgarth and Maggie from the sea parlor, she drew on all the consequence of her title, the heritage of Gwynn Place, and three hundred years of breeding, and looked Howel Seacombe straight in the eye.

“Mr. Seacombe, I must have an explanation for this cavalier treatment of a young man who has done us no harm and nothing but good—and who was here at my invitation.”

“I am very much afraid that you do not have the time for a catalogue of his family’s sins against this one, so I will spare you,” he replied.

“On the contrary, I have nothing but time.” Tamsen had come in with a fresh pot of tea, so Claire made herself comfortable upon the sofa and began to pour. “Mr. Seacombe?”

“I mean no offense, Lady Claire, but these are matters best kept within the family.”

“I quite agree.” She set a cup in front of Mrs. Seacombe, who made no move to take it, and poured for Mr. Malvern, Tigg, and lastly Lizzie, who had remained frozen by the window like a rabbit in a clump of grass watching the hounds ranging back and forth in search of her. “Since I am Lizzie and Maggie’s guardian, I am most definitely part of the family. I am quite at leisure to hear the story, I assure you.”

She sat back with her cup of tea and raised an eyebrow in expectation.

“Which brings us to a topic that must also be discussed,” he said with a glance at his wife. “Since Elizabeth and Margaret have been restored to us, it is perhaps time to decide whether your guardianship is in fact necessary any longer.”

“Whether my—” Claire forced down the rising tone of her voice and took a sip of the excellent tea. “I was not aware the subject was under discussion in any quarter. Have you spoken of it with the girls?”
Without my knowledge?
The remainder of the sentence hung unsaid in the air between them.

“No,” came from the direction of the window with a sound like a squeak.

“Elizabeth, would you take these gentlemen into the park?” Mrs. Seacombe said. “I am sure they do not wish to be burdened with the family’s business, and it appears there are topics on which we must enlighten Lady Claire.”

The gentlemen did not move. On the contrary, Andrew smiled and said, “I for one am deeply interested in any topic that touches the girls. Lieutenant Terwilliger is of like mind—he has known them since the age of five and in fact was instrumental in saving their lives—he helped to pull them out of the river when the airship went down.”

“For which, of course, we are most grateful,” Mr. Seacombe said, a muscle working in his jaw under its fringe of beard. “But I must insist that matters which concern my family directly be kept to the smallest of circles. I am afraid I must insist. Elizabeth, obey your grandmother, if you please.”

Claire saw at once that either they must concede, or the information she sought would not be provided.

“It is all right, Andrew,” she said to him. “I shall not be long, and then I will join you. I have no doubt I shall enjoy the walk.”

When they left the room, Claire turned back to the couple who were proving to be such able antagonists. “There,” she said pleasantly. “You have my full attention. Especially upon the subject of my guardianship of the girls.”

“We will get to that in time. Allow me to put you in possession of all the facts concerning the immediate matter of Mr. Polgarth,” Mrs. Seacombe said. “I could not speak of this in front of Elizabeth, for reasons which will become obvious. It is
imperative
that any acquaintance Margaret has formed with that young man be cut off at once.”

“You of course have reasons for this?” Claire asked.

“We do. But first, you must know the most salient fact—Margaret is not who you believe her to be.”

“Are any of us?” Claire inquired politely.

“By this my wife means that she is—is—Demelza, I find I cannot speak the words.”

“She is a bastard,” Mrs. Seacombe said crisply. “The illegitimate daughter of that blackguard de Maupassant, gotten upon our innocent girl when he was not satisfied with ruining the life of our eldest.”

The blood drained out of Claire’s face and she set down the cup and saucer on the low table with the greatest of care, for otherwise they would have fallen from her nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.

“You have proof of this?”

“One has simply to look at her. The broad forehead, the amber eyes. That uncontrollable will staring out of her face.”

“Many people have eyes that color,” Claire said. For the life of her, in this moment she could hardly remember what Charles de Maupassant Seacombe looked like other than the final vision she had had of him: a figure below her on a castle roof. A figure who had just fired a pistol at and struck her beloved Maggie and who had been sizzled by a bolt from Claire’s lightning rifle in retribution. “And that is not an uncontrollable will you see. It is Maggie’s spirit, her sweetness of temper, her insight into and compassion for those around her.”

“You favor her, as any woman forced into a mother’s position might,” Mr. Seacombe said. “But his own admission makes Margaret his child—her conception an act of revenge for our refusal to be blackmailed.”

Claire’s stomach heaved and bile rose, to be forced down by will alone. How was it possible for any man to be so monstrous?

“It is the only explanation,” Mrs. Seacombe went on. “My husband made his decision, and the next thing we knew, our daughter was coming to us with a dreadful secret—that she was expecting an illegitimate child. That devil had threatened us—and then hurt us in a way that would guarantee we never forgot our mistake.”

Maggie.

“So this is the reason for the pointed difference you make in your treatment of the girls?” Claire’s lips felt stiff, as if her very face were frozen. “Maggie feels it, you know. She feels it most keenly.”

“I am sorry,” Mrs. Seacombe said just as stiffly. “But we cannot help it. His revenge is written in her features and we cannot help but see him and lose our daughter every time we look at her.”

Claire could not bear it. She must speak of something else. “But I still do not understand how Mr. Polgarth fits into this dreadful tale.”

“His family were directly involved in the acts in which we refused to participate.”

“Criminal acts? I find this hard to believe, since I have known his grandfather all my life.”

“You may know the grandfather, but the sons were a different matter,” Mr. Seacombe said heavily. “We speak of political and economic acts that in certain circles would be considered treason. But that is in the past. It is the present that concerns us. Suffice it to say that the father and the uncle tried to cover up their involvement by drawing my daughter into their schemes—even going so far as to claim responsibility for the pregnancy when of course that was impossible. They did not even know each other.”

“Are you so certain of this?”

Mrs. Seacombe gave Claire a long look. “Can you tell me that when you lived as a dependent in your mother’s house that you were permitted to racket about on your own and keep company your parents did not know of?”

“No,” Claire was forced to admit. “But I was much younger then. How old was Catherine at this time?”

“Only nineteen. And very protected and innocent of the ways of the world. Which makes it even more distressing to think that her own sister’s husb—” Mrs. Seacombe choked and could not continue.

Their distress and grief were palpable, almost another presence in the room. While Claire could not condone their treatment of Maggie for a sin she had not committed—that had been committed a generation ago—at the same time, she could empathize with parents whose child had been abused and then taken from them in such a terrible manner, by someone whom she knew from experience was quite capable of it.

“I appreciate your taking me into your confidence,” she said at last, when it was clear they would take her into it no further. “I will counsel Maggie that she must be more careful in her friendships. In return, you must do something for me.”

“Must we?” Mrs. Seacombe’s spine was beginning to straighten as she recovered.

“Yes. You must not punish Maggie for the sins her father committed. In the end, he did right by her when he adopted her as his own daughter. This does not excuse his behavior on any other front. However, in the matter which concerns me most deeply, I must have this reassurance.”

“I am not sure I can,” Mr. Seacombe said with surprising honesty. “He is like a ghost standing behind her every time I look at her.”

“Then you must look instead for the ghost of your daughter, who most assuredly would entreat you in the same manner as I do.”

“Perhaps you are right,” was all he said, and Claire realized she would have to be satisfied with that.

Leaving her tea unfinished, she went blindly from the room. Oh, what was she to do now? For Maggie would demand to know what was behind her friend’s peremptory dismissal from the house. How was Claire even to begin to tell her?

Or worse, should she step inside the circle of secrecy with the Seacombes and not tell her at all?

When one was a young lady old enough to let down her hems and put up her hair, there was nothing quite so maddening as to be told that the adults had been talking about you and you were not allowed to know what they said.

“I still cannot believe they sent you from the room,” Maggie said to Lizzie the next morning. The night before, she had confided to her cousin everything that Michael had told her, rejoicing in Lizzie’s wet-eyed appreciation of the sad romance and her empathy for her own loss. Now, they were supposed to be acting like young ladies and writing letters, but who could concentrate on that when there were mysteries springing from the sadness that demanded solutions? “And the Lady allowed it—that is the strangest thing of all.”

“They must have told her something terrible, Mags,” Lizzie said from the window, where the bright day was apparently drawing her like a moth to a lamp. “Did you see her face at dinner? I swear it was positively gray. And then she lost at cards three times in succession—which you must admit is a first.”

“It could have been the fish. After three days of fish at dinner, I’m feeling a little gray myself. I shall begin to grow scales soon.”

“This is no matter for flippancy. Are you sure Mr. Polgarth had nothing more to say on the matter of your mother and his uncle? For there must be something he is not telling us. It is the only explanation I can think of.”

“Nothing more terrible than my parents dying far apart at the hands of …” Maggie lowered her tone, for the morning-room door was open. “Those two people.”

“Please don’t be angry with me for bringing it up. I don’t mean to imply he is not telling the truth of it … but I cannot help my feeling.”

“I am sure there is more to the story, but I do not wish to hear any more about what the Lady knows or doesn’t.”

The door opened further to admit … the Lady, dressed in her nice chestnut houndstooth walking suit with the black soutache trim, and Maggie relaxed. “I am sorry to hear it,” Claire said gently, as if she had been part of the conversation all along. “Lizzie, Maggie, would you fetch your hats? I feel in need of a walk, and we must look in on Holly and Ivy. They have not been left alone this long before, and I fear for the contents of the pantry.”

Which was nonsense, since the birds were quite content in their aviary in the boarding area, but one never knew who might be listening in the halls of Seacombe House.

Claire twinkled at them. “Billy Bolt,” she whispered—their old code for doing a fast scarper to avoid trouble.

Maggie dashed upstairs and fetched their hats, and it was not until they were well down the drive and out of earshot of anyone at an open window that any of them spoke again.

“Will Mr. Malvern come with us?” Maggie asked, despite the fact that their strides were already lengthening with an unladlylike sense of freedom.

“He and Tigg have been invited by Mr. Polgarth to go surf fishing,” the Lady replied in her normal voice. “A message came after breakfast, and when Nancarrow showed it to your grandparents, being cognizant of their wishes on that head, they made their feelings plain.”

“And they are going anyway?” Lizzie said with a wide smile.

“While I cannot blame the Seacombes for their feelings, it is also true that Mr. Malvern and Tigg are independent gentlemen, unconnected with anyone here, past or present. And it is a lovely day.”

“What feelings, Lady?” Maggie was unwilling to let the subject go. “It is too bad of everyone to leave Lizzie and me out of what you are all talking about, when it concerns us most of all.”

The Lady walked on for a little without answering, her smile fading into a kind of distressed solemnity, much like the expression she had worn for most of the previous evening. Then she said, “It is only because they do not wish to hurt you, darling. And for the older generation, you know, it is difficult sometimes to speak of the past.”

“But Mr. Polgarth has done nothing wrong. All he did was tell me of my parents’ love affair—and it was beautiful, Lady. I have proof. Here is the letter I told you about and did not have a chance to show you.” She pulled it from her pocket, and the Lady read it swiftly. “They truly loved each other, and I was wanted, Michael says. And there is more. Do you realize that if Kevern—that is the
K
who signed this letter, Michael’s uncle—was my father, that makes Michael my cousin, and Polgarth the poultryman my grandfather? Is that not a lovely surprise?”

The Lady’s pace faltered. In the distance, past the valley that held Penzance in the cup of its hand, they could see
Athena
and
Victory
tugging longingly at their mooring ropes.

“Lady, what is it? Do you have a pebble in your shoe?”

“No, darling. I have a pebble in my conscience that is causing me much more pain.”

“Then you had better have it out.” There was something in the Lady’s face that made Maggie want to brace herself as soon as the words left her lips.

Claire took the girls’ hands in hers and walked between them. “You know I have never concealed the truth about any matter from you, even when it has been difficult to hear.”

That was one of the things they loved about her. She did not underestimate either their intelligence or the depth of their bravery and compassion. She simply treated them as she wished to be treated—as a woman who possessed the resources to bear what she must, if she were only prepared with the truth.

Claire’s voice gentled as she began to speak in a tone Maggie had heard only once before—when she had told her who Charles de Maupassant Seacombe really was.

Lizzie’s father.

Lizzie’s.

Not
hers
.

Maggie could not stop the story, much as the Lady did not want to tell it, much as Maggie did not want to hear it.

Oh, no. She could not have come into the world in that terrible way. No, it was a lie and the Seacombes hated her and no no no it wasn’t true! None of it was true! Her parents were Kevern Polgarth and Catherine Seacombe, and they had
loved
her and
wanted
her!

“Maggie!” Claire shouted behind her, but Maggie was already fifty yards away, running … running … leaping over a stile in the hedgerow and pelting across the field, her goal the flat granite rock in the sun, where only yesterday she had been truly happy to be herself.

*

Maggie spent the afternoon huddled up on the rock, alternately weeping and thinking and then weeping again. But when clouds began to pile up in the southwest with threatening majesty, and the wind off the sea turned cold with warning, there was nothing for it but to return to the house.

She had two choices.

In the first, she would ask the Lady for permission to spend her last night in Penzance in her own cabin aboard
Athena
, in Holly and Ivy’s sympathetic company. In the morning the Lady and Mr. Malvern and Tigg would put this place to their rudder and Maggie would never come here again, leaving Lizzie and Claude to their bright future with her blessing.

In the second, she would stay and ferret out which of the two stories she had been told was the truth, even if that meant going to France somehow to see if that dual grave indeed existed.

The first choice would be by far the easiest one to make. But as the Lady had once said, “There is the easy course—and there is the right one. Sometimes they are the same, but when they are not, that is when we show what we are made of.” Maggie had the uncomfortable feeling that if she was ever to know peace in that hollow place inside herself, she would need to choose the right course, as difficult and grievous as it might be.

Then she would quite literally know what she was made of.

Wearily, she climbed through the tall grass and heather and emerged on the cliff-top, her eyes aching and no doubt reddened from wind and crying, her bones stiff from sitting too long on the rock.

Lizzie was perched on a hillock, waiting for her.

“What are you doing here?” The wind pushed Maggie forward, and her hat slid down over her face. She settled it on the mare’s nest that had once been a neat French coil, and when she could see again, Lizzie had joined her on the path.

“I followed you, of course,” Lizzie said. “If you had flung yourself into the sea you would have needed someone to fish you out. The Lady nearly came, too, but I convinced her to leave you on your own until you got things sorted. I hope you have, because I certainly haven’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Lizzie glanced at her with an expression that clearly said,
What do you think, you gumpus?
“He was my father, too,” she said. “He was a murdering anarchist who tried to kill us both—twice—and it horrifies me every time I am reminded we’re related. But I never expected anything as terrible as this. Oh, Maggie.” She took Maggie’s cold hand in her warm one.

“Being the daughter of such a man is nothing to be proud of, that’s certain,” Maggie said.

“No wonder my mother attempted to leave him. Plunging to her death in the Thames was better than grieving her sister and living with the shame of being his wife.” Lizzie took a breath, clearly trying to shake the bitterness from her tone. “On the bright side,
we
are sisters again. Or half-sisters, at least.”

“Lizzie, do not take this the wrong way, but I cannot believe we are. I cannot believe what Grandmother told the Lady when it contradicts what Michael told me in nearly every particular.”

“And you would believe him—a man you met yesterday—over our grandparents, who have known us and our mothers both?”

“His story
felt
right, Lizzie. It touched something deep inside me that has been going wanting all these years.”

“Because you wanted it to so badly, my dearie,” Lizzie said softly.

They were on the lawn now, the house rising up beyond the hedge, its windows perpetually watching for something out beyond the horizon. Behind the glass upstairs in their grandparents’ room, a velvet drape twitched and settled back into place.

“I don’t know. Perhaps,” Maggie said. “All I know is that I must find out whose truth is the real one. When the Lady goes tomorrow, I will stay behind with you and Claude and attempt to get to the bottom of it.”

Lizzie squeezed her hand, and together, they passed into the garden, where the roses bobbed restlessly, their petals torn away by the rising wind.