Chapter 24 #2
“Indeed I was. Demanded Frotheringale get me a ticket at the last minute, and he had a devil of a time doing it. Sold out, they were, and I think he had to wheedle one out of a governor.”
Lucasta shot Jem a quick look. He was watching Judith’s expression of absorbed rapture as she explored Cornelia’s elaborate headpiece. “Then you heard me sing. In public. In front of a great many people,” Lucasta said.
She caught the eyes of her friends, who looked as worried as Lucasta felt. She’d sobbed to all three of them many a time about Aunt Cornelia’s strictures about performing. Cornelia straightened and gave Lucasta a level look.
“Indeed you did, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t sing or play wherever you wish, from here on.”
“But—” Lucasta floundered for words. “You said it was vulgar. An embarrassment. That no member of our family would perform on public stage, before common crowds.”
Cornelia snorted again. “A vulgar display for a vicar’s daughter, lass.
But you’re to marry the heir to Arendale.
There’s less than two dozen dukes in these blessed isles, and what, half a dozen marquesses?
Won’t be many below the royals who can tell you what to do.
And our sanctimonious Queen Charlotte might not let her girls step a toe in public, but I don’t see why I should be so small-minded,” Cornelia said loftily.
“Though you’d best beware how you let men like that Marchesi fawn over you. Castrato or no, people will talk.”
Lucasta bit her lip on a swift defense of Signor Marchesi. Aunt Cornelia would allow her to perform, and so would Jem. She scarcely dared breathe for wonder.
“What’s a castrato?” Starria asked.
“A type of singer,” Jem said quickly, and no one else dared elaborate.
Minnie spoke. “It seems to me we must acknowledge that Queen Lucasta is the first among us to accept an offer of marriage. She has already paid her forfeit, but it remains to be settled where the wedding breakfast shall be, and what colors she will make her maids of honor wear.”
“I do hope you’ll ask Mademoiselle Beaudoin to design them,” Cici said hopefully. “And one for me as well?”
A shadow moved across Lucasta’s happiness as she turned to face Jem.
She didn’t know how long a voyage to the West Indies might take, nor how much time he might require to collect his errant father.
It might be a year or more before they could wed, and what would she do with herself in the meantime?
The last day and a night without him, after his declaration and her refusal, had been a needle thrust through her heart.
Would she ache this much each day without him, for months, perhaps a year?
“The matter of the town coach, milord?” The butler inserted himself into the group, making a desperate appeal to Jem.
“Yes, of course.” Jem turned to him courteously. “What of it?”
“It was dispatched, milord, to the docks, at the request of—” Words failed the poor man, and he cast about in panic as every eye in the room turned upon him.
“Of whom?” Jem prompted.
“Of—that is to say—” He looked at Lady Payne, who scowled.
“It was not my idea, Payne,” she said stiffly to Jem, “but when the message came, that housekeeper of yours insisted—”
She trailed off as a group appeared in the doorway.
“Hallooo, milord,” Mrs. Cadogan called softly. “I was at the wharf just now and found one or two things that will interest you.”
Lucasta, along with everyone else, stared in blatant curiosity. The housekeeper held the hands of two small children whose faces gleamed as if the wind had nipped their cheeks, and whose hoods were pushed back to reveal tufts of tightly curled black hair.
Beside her stood a tall, dark-skinned woman in a cloak spotted with rain. She was blindingly beautiful and looked very weary. A swaddled form in her arms chirped and shifted as if the babe within were kicking to get free.
“Portia?” Jem said incredulously.
“Mama!” Three little bodies flew past Lucasta in a blur, launching themselves at their mother.
“Starria. Tressie. Hannibal.” Portia knelt and held out her arms, staring as if she saw three angels descended from heaven. “Oh, my heavens, you’ve all gotten so big!”
She greeted the children with swift kisses, then rose to face Jem with a steady, watchful gaze. The children, too, stared solemnly.
“Milord,” Portia said in a quiet voice, “I regret to tell you your father is dead. I came to bring you his things and, because—” Her voice caught as if with strong emotion, and for a long moment Jem didn’t move; he looked frozen in shock.
“Then you are the marquess,” Lady Payne whispered. “Jem, you are Arendale now.”
“Your lordship.” With the babe in her arms, Portia made a brief curtsy. The bundled babe squirmed and gurgled. “It was not safe for us,” she said, a note of desperation entering her voice. “I did not know where else to go.”
“You did the right thing,” Jem said firmly, stepping toward her. “You are free here, Portia. It is the law of this land. No one can take you anywhere against your wishes, neither you nor the children.”
“Praise be to God,” Portia whispered, closing her eyes to compose herself as she received this news. The expressions that chased across her face pierced Lucasta’s heart. She could not imagine the horrors and indignities this woman had endured.
“Not in this house.” Lady Payne’s strangled voice came from behind them. “Not here! In my house?”
Slowly, working to contain his rage, Jem turned to face her.
“I think you forget this is my house, Aunt,” he said in a soft, warning tone.
“I shall offer shelter to whom I please beneath this roof. My family will always be welcome.” He paused.
“But I understand if circumstances will not permit you to continue residence here.”
Lady Payne turned and fled the room.
“No steel in her spine,” Aunt Cornelia snorted. Hands folded over the golden knob of her walking stick, she watched the unfolding tableau with great attention. “Think she’ll come round?”
“I doubt it,” Bertie said flatly. She had risen as well, but she gave Lucasta a cautious look, as if questioning which of them should assume the role of hostess in Jem’s house. She was his cousin, but Lucasta was to be his wife.
And she, Lucasta realized, was meeting the mother of her husband-to-be’s siblings, who would become her family as well. Three more siblings, more family than she could have dreamed. Lucasta reached out to Portia with both hands.
“Please, come be seated, and take off your wet things. If I am not mistaken, Mrs. Cadogan has rushed off to the kitchen to find us refreshments, and she makes the most heavenly treats. Is it proper for me to call you Portia?” she asked self-consciously. “We have not been introduced.”
“Portia, this is my intended wife, Miss Lucasta Lithwick,” Jem said with great courtesy. “Lucasta, my father’s wife, Portia.”
“Wife,” Portia said softly. She allowed Lucasta to take the babe from her arms, searching her face with large, deep brown eyes. “But we never—"
“We can present you as his widow,” Lucasta suggested, looking to Jem.
“Hey, now! Present her to me, and you can rehearse.” Aunt Cornelia banged her walking stick on the floor.
Lucasta turned with the swaddled babe, feeling more nervous about presenting Portia to her aunt than she had at any point during the concert.
Jem had feared exposing his family to the polite world, and now his secret was to lie in the hands of Aunt Cornelia?
But she had kept Patience’s secret for all of Lucasta’s life, and she had made certain it would go no further.
Lucasta met Jem’s eyes, and her heart softened at his nod.
He had said he would be strong enough to take the risk of exposing his family, and he hadn’t batted an eye at the revelation about her birth. How had she been so lucky to find him?
“Portia, may I make you known to my Aunt Cornelia, Lady Evers, daughter of the third Viscount Frotheringale,” Lucasta said.
Cornelia acknowledged Portia’s graceful curtsy. “And what title shall we address you with, then?”
“Title?” Portia startled. “My—if we are calling him my husband, his title was Lord Payne, but I—”
“I believe there’s a Lady Payne who just removed herself from the room,” Aunt Cornelia said, “but I am confident she will accept her dowager status with dignity, eh?” A smile lifted one side of her mouth. “We shall address you as Portia, Lady Payne, and leave it at that.”
“Lady?” Portia looked dazed. In the span of a day she had gone from being a captive of the Falstead family to possessor of one of their courtesy titles. The jump would be near as dizzying, Lucasta thought, as her going from poor, plain Lucasta Lithwick to the Marchioness of Arendale.
“The children will take the name Falstead, if Lady Payne consents,” Jem added.
“And they will be free,” Portia whispered fiercely. “Free.”
Jem nodded. “I will have papers drawn up saying as much, and we will record their births in the parish register at Arendale.”
Portia sat up. “This is Selene,” she said, indicating one of the exquisite children who stood beside her, “and this is Hyperion,” indicating the other. She nodded to the babe. “And you are holding Phoebe.”
Lucasta looked wonderingly at the babe in her arms, who was mere weeks old. A bubble formed between the tiny bowed lips, and when it popped, Phoebe’s eyes widened in surprise. Lucasta laughed, but there was an ache in it.
Portia had traveled for miles with two small children and a babe who looked as if she might have been born aboard ship. An act of infinite bravery. And desperation.
“We wish to be made known to Lady Payne,” Annis announced. Lucasta looked up in surprise to see that the other girls had gathered around the settee, Judith holding the hands of the two new arrivals, getting acquainted with her new brother and sister.
“And I should like to hold my cousin.” Bertie held out her arms.