Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (7 page)

But here is the truth. My response was as cowardly as my father’s. Like him, I throbbed with anger, but something far more sinister stirred. I felt my lip curl, wondering what Mr. Macy would do if he knew I was being treated in such a manner. I grabbed the only source of power I could find, and that was the satisfying thought that I could probably have Mr. Forrester killed, and
I
wasn’t at his mercy, but rather
he
was at mine.

Such are the lies we tell ourselves.

“Tell me,” Mr. Forrester shouted, “about Marwick and Whiteclay!”

“Enough.” My father slammed his glass to the desk. “She doesn’t know. Julia, you may leave.”

Mr. Forrester positioned himself in front of my chair before
I even realized I’d been dismissed. “You swore to me I could question her.”

“Look at her face. She has no knowledge.”

“What do you think you’re protecting her from?” Annoyance threaded Mr. Forrester’s tone. “She spent her nights alone with Macy. She has no innocence.”

Instead of answering, my father stormed to the hearth. Red splotched the back of his neck as he gave the flames a brusque nod, allowing Mr. Forrester to continue.

“How many men does Macy have?” Mr. Forrester asked.

Slowly, I turned my gaze to Mr. Forrester’s jeering face. “You were there. You saw his servants.”

“Answer the question.”

“I-I met Mr. Greenham and Mr. Rooke.”

My father stiffened as though the mere mention of these names upset him. Mr. Forrester leaned on the edge of my father’s desk, his arms crossed. “So let me make sure I understand this. You married Macy, and the
only
two gentlemen you have knowledge of, out of his
entire
organization, are the two men that I’m already aware you’re acquainted with.”

“She has no acquaintance with them.” My father’s tone became feral as he faced us. “You’ve questioned her long enough.”

Mr. Forrester flung out his arms. “This is ridiculous. He’s planted her here, and because you’re afraid to allow his trollop to hear a few unsavory names—”

“That’s it!” My father’s shout seared the room to silence. His face had turned bright red, almost purple, as he dashed his tumbler to the floor.

To my dismay, he made straight toward me, wearing the expression he’d worn the night I married Mr. Macy. Before he could grasp my arm, I flung myself from my chair and stumbled into a table stacked with books.

“Now look what you’ve done.” My father turned his full tempest on Mr. Forrester.

“Me!” Mr. Forrester thumped his chest. “You’re the one bellowing like a bull. All I’m trying to do is ask a few simple questions about her husband.”

“For the last time, he’s not her husband!”

Mr. Forrester opened his mouth to argue, but thankfully before he could speak, a loud clamor filled the front hall.

“Are you expecting someone?” Mr. Forrester asked.

My father stilled with a stricken look. “No. You don’t think . . .”

Mr. Forrester slid a hand into the opposite side of his frock coat as if ready to draw out a firearm. He backed away to take a position near the door.

My father’s face became drawn and grey. The lines about his eyes deepened before his uneasy gaze fell on me. I stared back, breathless, wondering if this was the last interaction I’d ever have with my father.

Male voices boomed in the hall, approaching.

It was impossible to imagine Edward looking so resigned to fate if he were in the place of my father. Edward would have grabbed my hand and already have been testing the windows. Fear roiled in my stomach as I wished I’d never come. Then, resolved to at least show courage, I lifted my chin and shoulders, prepared to face my husband.

The door burst open. But instead of Mr. Macy, two smiling gentlemen entered, holding brown-checked hats as if they’d doffed them in a hurry. One sported a rifle, cocked open for safety. Five spaniels with silken ears and docked tails followed them and pranced in and out of the doorway, spreading muddy prints everywhere.

The shorter man I recognized. He had been amongst the party that crashed Eastbourne the night I married Mr. Macy. At that point I didn’t feel warmth toward anyone who had witnessed that night of my life. Yet I can now attest that Colonel Greenley is one of the most warmhearted men I’ve known.

“Did you see their bleeding faces, Greenley?” the taller man declared with a laugh. “Thought we were Macy, did you? I suppose I’d look like a seasick sailor too!”

A vein throbbed in my father’s forehead. “You dare to speak that name openly in my house—”

“Oh, come now!” the shorter man, Colonel Greenley, soothed. “Surely amongst ourselves—”

“Never mind me,” the tall man interrupted. “I hadn’t meant to stir up trouble. We came to find out if the plan worked. But from your reactions, I take it you have not apprehended Macy.”

My father and Mr. Forrester only glanced at each other.

“But you jolly well got the girl!” Greenley noted, rubbing the ears of one of the hounds. “So you must have had some measure of success.”

“It means nothing. She arrived during our absence,” Mr. Forrester said.

“Well, what happened? I thought you had him for certain this time.”

Mr. Forrester picked up his coffee cup and jabbed it toward me. “I’d rather not say with her present.”

“Dash it all, then.” Greenley rocked on his feet. “We came figuring you needed a distraction from this messy business. It’s a brisk morning, but there’s game to bag. What do you say, Pierson? You can tell us the whole affair.”

“A bit of fresh air will clear the lungs and clear your head,” the tall one said, “as your father used to say.”

My father’s eyes panned the soiled floor, slowly taking in the paw prints, which had spread over the floor and carpet. Two of the squirmy dogs had wiggled their liver-colored heads against my leg, making a plea for affection. I rubbed their velvety ears between my fingers as their feet dirtied the bottom of my dress. I braced myself not to care if my father abandoned me our first morning together.

“Oh, leave off,” Mr. Forrester said, setting down his drink.
“It’s not as though you can’t afford a new rug.” He faced the men. “Yes, we
will
join you. Roy, you need this more than anyone. They’re right.”

For a fraction of a second, my father glanced at me. His mouth pursed in unease.

“You’re acting worse than Tinsworth, now,” Greenley said, slapping gloves against his arm before squeezing his hands into them. “The girl will be fine. We shan’t even leave your property. Come on, man!”

My father gave a reluctant nod, then frowned.

The tall man thumped my father’s back and smiled at him. “We’ll await you in the stables. Forrester, a word with you.” He gave a whistle, and all five dogs’ heads perked at the sound. They wasted no time bounding after Mr. Forrester and the other man as they trundled down the hall.

At the threshold, my father paused and faced me. Twice he looked ready to speak but seemed to change his mind. All at once his face hardened, and he gestured to the dirtied chamber. “Have Mrs. Coleman tend to this at once!”

I dropped my gaze, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I say.” Colonel Greenley eased the door closed. “You’re going about it all wrong. You won’t get anywhere with the girl, barking orders at her like that.”

The door shut, leaving me alone. Smears of mud covered the bottom of my dress, and an ivory chair sported paw prints, as if one of the canines had leaped over the arm and sprung off the seat before it left. Recalling that the staff was already shorthanded, I felt a wave of pity for Mrs. Coleman as I found the bellpull, gave it a yank, and then turned to leave.

As is often the case in life, the truest damage from that morning was invisible, exacting a toll that would prove to be far more costly than we were prepared to pay.

I WOULD LIKEN the next four days to being adrift in a rowboat, without oars, borne amidst a thick gloom, on an ever-moving current. I found myself sitting in window seats, passing hours, subsisting on little more than an inner reality.

When Edward left, he’d carried a letter to Elizabeth from me, so I had held off writing Am Meer until I’d met with my father and had news. I now wished to write and communicate what had befallen me—especially Mr. Forrester’s interrogation and how my father hibernated from sight afterwards.

I made no attempt to write, though, for I realized my father would never allow evidence of my true identity to leave Maplecroft. Nor did I desire to risk placing my post through one of the servants, lest I choose the wrong one and it fall into the hands of Mr. Macy. For there was little doubt by then that Mr. Macy knew my whereabouts. From snatches of conversation, I pieced together that a notice had been placed in Forrester’s newspaper saying that Lord Pierson’s daughter had returned home from school. Late in my life, I saw a brittle yellow copy. It was one of those mindless snippets that typically filled the society page.

A rather bold move on my father’s part. He must have known his announcement would ripple shock to the highest rank of government. I have since been told the young queen herself sent for Lord Melbourne that very day and demanded explanation. Who would have guessed that during the season I felt most unseen, my existence was being discussed and questioned all over London. At that time, I would have compared myself to one of those foreign women I’d seen in engravings. The ones covered in veils from head to foot, standing in the background while the men talked, seeming to have no mouth, just eyes that observed.

After being accused of doing nothing, I made it my habit to occupy myself with knitting and monitoring the household. But as often as opportunity afforded, I’d drop my work, shut my eyes, and conjure up images of the past.

I recalled summer days of our foursome standing atop grassy knolls during windstorms, our arms spread wide, scarcely able to breathe as gale-force winds struck us. Elizabeth and I would stretch out our shawls behind us, allowing them to fill like sails before we’d race to the bottom of the hill.

Many times during these reveries, I’d rest my head on the side of an armchair, looking at the straggling hemlocks outside of Maplecroft, particularly recalling the hidden grove of pine trees we’d discovered in Farmer Baker’s field. That summer we’d held countless picnics beneath its feathery branches, spreading our blankets atop the thick carpet of fragrant needles. How good they smelled when warmed by the honeyed noontide light. That bower of trees became our faerie hall, though Mama and Mrs. Windham constantly bemoaned the sap and pine needles they found worked into Elizabeth’s and my best clothing.

“It’s growing dark,” Mrs. Coleman said from where she was seated at the chimney nook, breaking one such succession of thought.

My concentration broken, I looked up from the papers I’d elected to work on in her chamber. I rubbed my eyes and glanced
at the clock. To my astonishment, I’d been in her cramped sitting room, looking at five handwritten requests, for the past two hours.

Mrs. Coleman rose and set her knitting aside. “Perhaps you’d like to consider them in the morning.”

“No,” I said, trying to sound forceful like my father, whom no one questioned. I moved a new paper to the top of the stack. It should have taken me less than a quarter hour to finish these, but I’d purposely dallied as to attain some measure of company.

Mrs. Coleman’s voice turned less patient. “Perhaps you’ll want the time to dress for dinner.”

Not having been invited to dinner, I gritted my teeth. I’d not seen my father once, despite two attempts. For the last four days I’d selected his menus and approved which sheets he slept upon but somehow couldn’t gain an audience. I shook my head. “I’ll have a tray brought to my bedchamber as usual.”

Mrs. Coleman’s lips turned white as she pressed them, but she repositioned herself in her rocking chair and lifted her yarn and needles. Every few seconds, she peered over her spectacles.

I shifted under her gaze, feeling a headache lurking. Perhaps it was cruel to keep the housekeeper from her duties, but I needed company whether she wished to be here or not. I was sick with wandering about lifeless rooms under the dreary gaze of my ancestors. Thank goodness Mrs. Coleman only had amateur watercolors of irises. It was a refreshing change.

“Which request is that one?” Mrs. Coleman asked, her voice as tight as her smile.

“Eaton’s.”

The cadence of her needles increased. “Ah, and will you be approving it?”

I folded down the corner of the paper in my hands. The butler requested approval for a new set of china and serving dishes. It had been nearly two years since new sets had been ordered. Ours were feared to be gaudy now that fashion had changed.
I pressed my lips, wondering how I was supposed to know the correct answer. I hadn’t been raised to this.

“I wouldn’t fret so much over the decisions.” Mrs. Coleman jabbed the coals with her poker. “Your father will neither care nor notice whether you order new dishes. You may trust my advice, I assure you.”

I lifted the bottom corner of the paper in order to see Eaton’s suggested budget. The sum was outrageous, spreading quick fire through my limbs. Here I had lived in near poverty, and my own father had apparently thrown money everywhere except to Mama and me.