Regency Masquerade, page 8
“Come with us,” offered Lambert. “We’ve got room haven’t we Harry?”
“Are you sure?” asked Frances, picking up her baggage. In no time at all she was seated in the post chaise, barrelling along the road to London, encouraging her companions to talk about the mill they had just witnessed so that they did not think to ask her too many questions about her own activities.
Lord Carleton returned from his trip to Selby feeling tired and looking forward to his dinner. He was also thinking about Frances. They would play cards again and then, now they were betrothed, he would kiss her. He had been celibate so long that now he could hardly wait. There was no need for a long engagement surely, the thought that Frances would refuse his offer never even entered his head. He knew the way of things and a young woman in Frances’ position would not be so foolish as to refuse an offer of marriage, especially from a man as beforehand with the world as himself. His mind was racing ahead, perhaps she would let him take her in his arms, and he would hold her tightly against him, then slip his hand into ... he felt hot just imagining it.
He had his first inkling that all was not well when he rode Diabolo around to the stables.
“Did Mr Francis not find you then?” asked his groom looking a little worried. “He has not returned so I thought he must have caught up with you.”
“No, I saw no-one. We must have missed each other.” replied Carleton “Tell me what happened again Toby.”
“He took the roan out for a ride, not long after you left, my lord. He said he would take the road to Selby and might try and meet up with you.”
“How long ago?”
“Must be all of three hours now,” said the groom.
“Peter is a careful rider, ’tis probably too soon to think of accidents. ’Tis only just starting to get dark now,” Carleton thought aloud. “I am sure he will return soon.”
He left the stables and went into the house, only slightly anxious.
“Hold dinner until Peter returns, if you would,” he told Mrs Madden who had come forward to let him know dinner would be ready in half an hour, to allow him time to change his clothes.
She gave him an odd look, then said flatly, “There is no use waiting my lord, your friend has left.”
“What!” exclaimed Carleton.
“Urgent business in town my lord,” she improvised.
“Nonsense!” Carleton rushed up the stairs to Frances’ room. No, he could not believe it. All her things were gone. He stood staring, his brain grappling with the shock. Then he saw the letter on the mantelpiece and strode forward to snatch it up.
“My lord,
Forgive me but I cannot stay any longer. It is time for the masquerade to end. Please do not try to find me.
I wish you well,
F”
What did she mean? Had she not understood he was intending to honour the betrothal? He had been so certain she enjoyed his company and was even coming to feel affection for him. How could she leave him like this?
He turned back to the housekeeper who was watching him silently from the doorway.
“What did she say? Where did she go? Tell me everything!” he demanded.
“All she told me my lord was that she had urgent business to attend to in London. She said she would ride to Guildford and leave the horse there for you, then take the stage.” Mrs Pearson tried not to sound defensive.
“Something must have happened! Did anyone come to the house?”
‘No my lord,” Mrs Madden stuck to the simple story. She had not thought to invent a tale and probably would have been unable to carry it off successfully if she had.
“She must still be in Guildford, the stage would have already departed by the time she would have reached the inn,” Carleton was thinking aloud. “I will have to go after her and bring her back.”
“No! Let her go, master Richard,” the words were torn out of her. “A woman like that! Think of your reputation, your family!”
“’Tis not your affair Maddy, stay out of it!” Carleton retorted angrily. He strode though the house to the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, expect me when you see me!” he flung over his shoulder.
Diabolo was soon saddled again and Carleton was off to Guildford as fast as he could ride while there was still enough light to see by. The moon would be up later but he would have to slow down until then, a fall from his horse would help no-one.
An hour later, he rode up to the Kings Head and was met by the innkeeper himself, smoothing down his apron and looking questioningly at him.
“My Lord Carleton, Is anything the matter? What can I do for you?”
Carleton dismounted and handed the reins to a hovering stable boy, “Just walk him up and down for me will you?” he told him then turned to the innkeeper.
“Evening Mr Jackson. My business is with a young man I think you have staying here, Peter Francis. Could you take me up to him?”
But the innkeeper was shaking his head, “Got no-one of that name, no young gentleman staying here at all your lordship.”
“He brought my horse in this afternoon, the roan,” persisted Carleton.
“Oh him! No, he’s long gone, he took off with Mr Lambert in his chaise, here for the fight he was. We have your horse though, all right and tight in the stable. No trouble is there my lord?” the innkeeper added, suddenly anxious. His lordship had an awfully queer look in his eyes.
Carleton felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Jack Lambert, again. First Rosamond and now Frances preferred him. He couldn’t believe it. Was he so repulsive? Jack so attractive?
He realised the innkeeper was still waiting for his answer and managed to say casually,
“No, no trouble, I just hoped to catch him before he left. No matter. I’ll ride the roan back now I am here, if you could bring him out? I‘ll lead Diabolo.” He gave the innkeeper a generous sum to make up for the inconvenience, refused a glass of wine and was on his way home in a matter of minutes.
What was she thinking? He asked himself. Jack certainly will not offer marriage to her. Does she prefer to be his mistress rather than my wife? He felt sick. His thoughts went round and round in his head as he rode. He felt angry, hurt and offended all at once. But I am not thinking straight he suddenly realised, as far as Jack is concerned she is a man, Frances has merely accepted a lift from him, that is all. It is still true that she has run away rather than marry me but at least she hasn’t run to someone else! He considered returning to London the next day to find her and demand to know what was happening, but when he woke in the morning after an overcooked dinner and a poor night’s sleep, he decided it would be more sensible to stay and finish the business he had arranged and depart in two days time as scheduled. He decided that he needed a period of sober reflection before dashing off in pursuit of her. Perhaps when he saw her again he would offer a carte blanche instead of marriage, he thought, in a fit of pique.
CHAPTER NINE
Eventually the three travellers in the post chaise reached London and dropped a weary Frances in front of the Pelican. She was greeted by a relieved Mrs Cobb.
“I am that glad to see you again sir and that’s the truth! You would not believe the trouble we’ve had getting that man of yours to stay in bed. As soon as my back was turned up he’d get, determined to be off after you. I don’t know how many times I told him you’d be safe enough with his lordship.” She shook her head, following Frances up to the room.
“Nurse would have it he was delirious. In the end she put a stop to it by taking away his clothes.”
“Oh dear,” said Frances guiltily, “Perhaps now that I am here you could bring them back. I am sorry for all your trouble. Could I have a room for the night?”
“Of course sir, I’ll see to it at once.”
“If John is well enough, we will be on our way tomorrow. I am due to visit my cousin in Bath,” announced Frances.
One look at the scowling invalid’s face convinced Frances there was nothing that a good raking down of herself would not cure, and in a few minutes the nurse was politely but firmly dismissed with a final payment for her services, along with Mrs Cobb, and Frances leant against the wall letting the tirade wash over her. The manservant had been vastly worried to learn, when he eventually came to his senses, that his mistress had gone off into the country with Lord Carleton. Eventually her servant ran out of steam and lay glaring at her. Frances smiled, “I am glad you are so much better John! Do you think you will be fit to leave tomorrow?”
“Another minute would not be soon enough!” he growled. “Pesky women! What devilry are you up to now?”
“No devilry at all! Why just the opposite! I intend to establish a respectable residence at the Regent Hotel – it is time for me to meet Lady Murray. I have been thinking that, whatever the connection I have with the family, they will be bound to make enquiries and a respectable hotel is the best background I can think of. I shall say I have just come over from France and have no acquaintance here in London that I could stay with. I have enough money to pay for a fortnight’s accommodation, which should be quite sufficient because by then I will either have been invited to stay with Lady Murray or I will have to be off adventuring again!”
John nodded with grudging approval, “You will need the devil’s own luck to pull clear out of this one though Miss Frances!”
The next day she paid her shot at the inn and sent her servant on ahead to book rooms at the Regent. Dressed neatly as a respectable matron, Frances visited several employment agencies and was lucky enough to engage a middle aged French woman who spoke hardly any English, having come to England with her émigré mistress but then been cast off as being too expensive a luxury. Frances bound her to secrecy by promising her the price of the fare back to Paris once the two weeks were over.
That very afternoon, Miss Frances White and her companion Madame Lebrun moved quietly into their modest suite of rooms at the Regent.
Twenty four hours later, Frances found herself alighting from a hackney coach, with her new companion behind her and treading up the steps towards a blue door with a brass knocker in the centre. She wore her yellow morning dress which was clean and tidy, if not exactly fashionable and had tied a modest bonnet over her hair. Feeling nervous despite herself she knocked firmly at the door. It was opened by a footman, dressed in a blue which matched the colour of the door.
“Is Lady Murray at home, please?” she asked in a clear, low voice.
“Who may I say is calling Miss?” he asked dubiously.
“Please tell her that Henry Metcalf sent me,” answered Frances taking the bull by the horns.
The footman stared curiously and asked her to wait, then disappeared, shutting the door behind him. Frances considered again, the reason she had come. Foremost was curiosity. She had learnt all she could from common gossip and it had not been much. She still could not imagine what connection the Murrays had with her father, nor was she really sure that the lady she hoped to see today was the one he had directed her to. Still, it was all she had to go on, she certainly would not find out anything more waiting in her room at the Regent.
Just as she was wondering if she had been forgotten, the footman returned and ushered her inside.
“Lady Murray will see you Miss,” he sounded surprised, even to himself. “If you will just come this way to the morning salon. Your companion can wait here.” She followed him upstairs and along a passage. Frances was concentrating on the approaching interview and scarcely noticed the magnificent surroundings. The footman pushed open a door in front of her and announced, “The young er lady, my Lady.”
Frances stepped into the room. For some reason she had been expecting an invalid, perhaps because everyone had spoken of her as a recluse, but the woman standing before her looked as fit and sharp as a tack. She wore a fashionable dark grey gown and her thick white hair was coiled on top of her head. Bright blue eyes stared at her with strange intensity and she noticed the fingers of her right hand were clenched whitely around a French fan.
“Well?” the query was more command than question. “What message do you have for me from that man? Speak up girl. His name had not been spoken in this house for over twenty five years until today – I want to know what he wants after all this time.”
It was not an auspicious opening. Obviously the unknown Mr Metcalf had seriously incurred her Ladyship’s wrath and was not a passport to her goodwill as her father had hoped. Feeling her cause lost already Frances felt she had nothing to lose and answered honestly.
“I am sorry for intruding on you my Lady but I was advised to come to London and seek out a Lady Julia Murray and to mention Henry Metcalf. Unfortunately I hear she has passed away and so I have come to see you instead ...” She broke off as the woman in front of her seemed to sway suddenly.
“Tom, a chair!” she called imperiously. The footman hastily pulled forward a gilt chair and bent over her, making sure she was settled comfortably. “Nothing to worry about, don’t fuss Tom.” She complained. “What’s your name girl?”
“Frances, my lady.”
“Frances Metcalf eh?” she queried with a sardonic curl to her lip.
“If I am, it is the first I have heard of it! As far as I know, Henry Metcalf was not my father,” she replied coolly.
“What in heavens’ name do you mean girl? Who are you then?” Lady Murray frowned crossly.
“Perhaps you could answer a question for me first my lady. Can you please tell me who Henry Metcalf is?”
The question fell like a pebble in a pond, sending out waves of bewildered silence. The old lady drew in her breath then spoke slowly, “I do not understand, I quite thought ... when I heard ... I think you should tell me the full story of how you came to be here.”
“Very well my lady. I must explain a little of my history first.”
“In that case,” Lady Murray interrupted, “Tom, would you please ask Mrs Pearson to come down here? I would like her to hear this.” She turned to Frances as Tom went to the door and sent another servant on the errand. “Mrs Pearson is my companion,” she explained briefly, “She was my children’s nurse – I hope she will be able to help me prove if you are who you claim to be or not.”
“As I have not claimed to be anybody at all, I rather think she will have trouble with that!” retorted Frances acidly. This brought a brief smile to the other woman’s face for the first time.
In a few moments the footman returned with a plump elderly woman leaning on his arm, her black eyes snapping with curiosity. “Yes, my lady? What did – Oh!” she broke off as she caught sight of Frances. “Oh I am sorry, I did not know you had ...” for a second time she broke off what she was saying.
“Well?” queried Lady Murray impatiently.
Mrs Pearson stared at Frances, her head tilted to one side, struggling with the resemblance. “Would you mind taking off your bonnet Miss, so that I can see your face more clearly?”
Curious, Frances complied revealing the new blond, curled wig which most resembled the natural colour of her hair.
“Master Henry!” gasped the woman clutching her throat. Frances shot a quick look at Lady Murray and saw a quick flash of disappointment. “Henry?” she questioned.
Mrs Pearson kept her eyes on the young woman before her. “Henry,” she repeated firmly, “although her eyes are gray, not brown, the resemblance is striking.”
“Would somebody please tell me who the deuce is Henry?” demanded Frances in a loud voice.
“Why your father of course,” said a bewildered Mrs Pearson at exactly the same time as Lady Murray said, “He is my cousin Rupert’s son.”
“My father was called James,” objected Frances still in a loud voice.
“Yes dear,” agreed Mrs Pearson, “Henry James Metcalf. And your mother was -” For the first time she glanced across at her employer and suddenly faltered. “Wasn’t she?”
“Perhaps we had better listen to her story first,” suggested Lady Murray in firm tones. “The young lady was just about to tell me about herself when I asked you to come down. Tom, please bring chairs so we may all be seated.”
Frances and Mrs Pearson seated themselves and Frances took up her tale again, looking from one to the other. “I was born in France, twenty four years ago of English parents. My mother’s name was Amanda, Amanda Emerson I think was her maiden name and my father was James. I never knew his surname, or if I did I have forgotten it. Unfortunately mother died when I was only five years old so I do not remember very much about her. My father and I moved around a lot afterwards, and changed our names frequently so that I never knew which surname was the real one. About six months ago, my father contracted a fatal illness and his last instructions to me were to make my way to London and seek out Lady Julia Murray and apply to her for help. He told me to mention the name Henry Metcalf, but he was too ill to give me any further message. I came here hoping that Lady Julia would be able to provide me with an explanation, but ... here I am instead.”
“It is really most unsatisfactory,” Lady Murray muttered rather fretfully. She opened and shut her fan repeatedly while Frances remained silent. “If you do not know who you are, how should I?”
“Well you would if you could see her!” said Mrs Pearson, confirming what Frances had begun to suspect – Lady Murray was nearly blind.
Mrs Pearson rose to her feet and came over to Frances to give her a hug. “Welcome my dear, I did not catch your name.”
“Frances, ma’am,” she replied, moved by her ready affection.
“I wish I could be certain,” continued Lady Murray as if Mrs Pearson had not spoken. “Do you know anything more of you parent’s history? Do you have anything perhaps, belonging to them?”
“My ring. I have my father’s signet ring,” offered Frances, holding out her hand.
“May I?” asked Lady Murray, almost eagerly. Frances drew off the ring and put it into the outstretched hand. The old fingers moved carefully over it, “Yes. It seems like Henry’s. What do you think?” she passed it to Mrs Pearson.
