Marriage Made In Hope. Sophia James
go.’ She pulled her arm away from the aged lawyer and stood there, breathing loudly.
‘Miss Anna Sherborne, I presume.’
Eyes the exact colour of his own flashed angrily, reminding Francis so forcibly of the Douglas mannerisms and temper he was speechless. Ignatius Wiggins stepped out from behind her.
‘I am sorry to be calling on you so late, my lord, but our carriage threw a wheel and it took an age to have it repaired. This is my final duty to Mr Clive Sherborne, Lord Douglas. On the morrow I leave for the north of England and my own kin in York and I will not be back to London. Miss Sherborne needs a home and a hearth. I hope you shall give her one as she has been summarily tossed out from her last abode with the parish minister.’
With that he left.
Francis gestured to the child to come further into the room and as she did so the light found her. She was small and very dark. He had not expected that, for both the mother and his uncle were fair.
She did not speak. She merely watched him, anger on her thin face and something else he could not quite determine. Shock, perhaps, at being so abandoned.
‘I am the Earl of Douglas.’
‘I know who you are. He told me, sir.’ Her voice was strangely inflected, a lilt across the last word.
Removing the signet ring from his finger, he placed it on the table between them. ‘Do you know this crest, Miss Sherborne?’
He saw her glance take in the bauble.
‘It has come to my notice that you have a locket wrought in gold with the same design embellished upon it. It was sent to you after you left the house of your father as a baby according to the papers I have been given.’
Now all he saw was confusion and the want to run and with care he replaced the signet ring on his finger and took in a breath.
‘You are the illegitimate daughter of the fourth Earl of Douglas, who was my uncle. Your mother was his...mistress for a brief time and you were the result.’ Francis wondered if he should have been so explicit, but surely a girl brought up in the sort of household the lawyer had taken pains in describing would not be prudish. Besides, it had all been written in black and white.
‘My mother did not stay around much. She had other friends and I was often just a nuisance. She never spoke of any earl.’
An arm came to rest upon a high-backed wing chair. Every nail was bitten and dirty and there was a healing injury on her middle finger.
‘Well, I promise here you will be well cared for. You have my word of honour as your cousin upon it. I will never ask you to leave.’
The shock that crossed her face told him she hadn’t had many moments of such faith in her young life and she was reeling hard in panic.
‘A word of honour don’t mean much where I come from, sir. Anyone can say anything and they do.’
‘Well, Anna, in this house one’s word means something. Remember that.’
When Mrs Wilson bustled into the room on his instructions a few moments later he asked that the girl be fed, bathed and put to bed, for even as he spoke he saw that Anna Sherborne was about to fall over with tiredness. If his housekeeper looked surprised by the turn of events she did not show it, merely taking the unexpected and bedraggled guest by the arm and leading her off towards the kitchens.
‘Come, dearie, we will find you something to eat for you have the look of the starved about you, mark my words, and in this house we cannot have that.’
When they were gone Francis’s hands moved to the tightening stock about his throat as he walked to stand beside the windows. He needed air and open spaces for already his breath was shortening.
In the matter of a few days his whole life seemed to be changing and reforming into something barely recognisable.
First, he seemed to have won the eternal gratitude of the ‘angel of the ton’ and now he was guardian to a child who gave all the impression of being ‘the spawn of the devil’.
Tomorrow he would need to find out more of Anna Sherborne’s story and try to piece together the truth about Clive Sherborne’s death.
But for now he finished his large glass of brandy and his fingers reached into the bottom pocket to feel for his letter. Pulling it out and straightening the paper, he began to read it yet again.
* * *
Sephora knew Francis St Cartmail would not write back. It had been days since the Hadleighs’ ball and she understood the difficulties in receiving a letter as an unmarried woman. Still, part of her hoped the earl might have done so clandestinely via a maid. But nothing had come.
Maria had insisted that they walk after lunch and although Sephora hadn’t wanted to come this way she found herself on a path by the Thames, her sister’s arm firmly entwined in her own.
‘You look peaky, Sephora, and Mama is worried that you might never be right again. She has asked me to talk to you about the Earl of Douglas, for she thinks you might hold a penchant for him. She is certain that you gave him something the other night at the ball and I tried to tell her of course she is mistaken, but...’
‘I did.’
Maria’s words ground to a halt. ‘Oh.’
‘It was a letter. I wrote to him to say thank you...for saving me...for giving me breath...and to also say sorry for scratching his cheek so badly. The marks were inflamed and it was all my fault.’ Stopping the babble, she simply took in a breath. ‘I am glad I wrote.’
‘And Douglas has replied?’
Sephora shook her head hard and hated the tears that pooled at the back of her eyes. ‘No. I had been hoping he might, but, no.’
‘Does Richard know about any of this?’
‘That I sent a letter? Certainly not. He is...’ She stopped.
‘Possessive.’
‘Yes.’
‘How would Mama have known of it, then?’
‘She saw me speaking with him at the ball.’
‘You conversed with the Earl of Douglas? What did he say?’
‘He implied that he would not have let me drown and that it was only a small accident. I believed him.’
‘My God. He is...a hero. Like Orpheus trying to lead his beloved Eurydice back from death. The Underworld is exactly the same metaphor for the water and both rescues were completed with such risk...’
‘Stop it, Maria, and anyway Orpheus failed in his quest.’
Her sister’s laughter was worrying. ‘When Richard holds your hand do you hear music, Sephora? Do you feel warmth or lust or desire?’
‘To do what?’
‘You don’t?’ Her whisper held a tone of sheer horror. ‘And yet still you would consider marrying him? My God. You would throw your life away on nothing? Well, I shall not, Sephy. When I marry it shall be only for love. I swear it.’
Lust. Desire. Love. What pathway had Maria taken that she herself had missed? Where had her younger sister found these ideas that were so very...evocative?
‘I shall marry a man who would risk his life for me, a man who is brave and good and true. Money shall be nothing to me, or reputation. I shall make up my own mind without anybody telling me otherwise.’
‘There are stories about St Cartmail that are hardly salubrious, Maria.’ Sephora hated the censure she could hear in her words, but made herself carry on. ‘A good marriage needs a solid basis of friendship and trust. Like Mama and Papa.’
‘They barely talk to each other any more. Surely you have noticed that.’
‘Well,