Chapter 53 #2
“Everyone believed from the start that Henry Warren was dead, and the strength of the supposition was increased by the fact that he did not attempt to contact his wife.
It was widely believed that Henry loved his wife and was eager for his child, so if he had nothing to hide, why would he?
For a man to come forth three years later claiming to be Henry was absurd.
The whole picture fitted together too neatly.
The mystery was solved, and with the execution of the man they believed to be Francis, it was a job well done.
No one wanted to entertain the idea of another complication.
“Henry did do a good bit of ranting and raving at the gallows, telling all who would hear about his political position: his belief that the House of Lords was filled with the dissolute and the incompetent.
He shrieked and cried that a new force must emerge for England to remain a world power, but it was all just entertainment.
The crowd appreciated the show—right up until he dangled from the noose.
“The monarchy’s men certainly wanted to believe they had their man then, and particularly now.
To think that our government put a peer to death?
No, they will not consider it. If they admit an earl was hanged without his right to be tried in the House of Lords, well that is a problem our regent takes upon himself.
He would have the entirety of the House at him in a trice. ”
Darcy nodded. “So, what now? How can the man’s claim to being Henry Warren, Earl of Courtenay, be disproved?”
Hanley shook his head. “I do not know. I have much evidence that points in this direction but nothing of true proof. What I need is one thing—one unmistakeable bit of evidence—that the man living in Towton Hall right now is not Henry but Francis. That is where you come in.”
Darcy had always enjoyed the distraction of drawing and painting, especially figures, but as he had matured, it was a pastime that fell by the wayside. Painting was not generally seen as the occupation of a gentleman, and sport and athletic endeavours were equally agreeable to him.
However, since the tragedy of losing his wife and son, Darcy had found some solace in art.
There was a particular spot in the mistress’s sitting room where the light came through most of the day, and the morning after his meeting with Hanley, he seated himself there at an early hour to still his racing mind from the subjects discussed.
Hanley had departed after charging him with the task of considering how best to prove the man who lived was Francis Warren, and Darcy was determined to do it.
He had been at it—the painting and the thinking—for some time when his sister entered and looked at his canvas. “You are advancing in your art, Brother.”
Darcy put down his brush. “It gives me pleasure though I do not flatter myself that I have any particular degree of talent.”
Georgiana was studying the picture he had drawn of himself and Elizabeth walking in a park. “It reminds me of the way you described the day you were betrothed. You were in the park that day, I think.”
“We were.” He smiled fondly at the remembrance.
Naturally, Georgiana had never been told of Elizabeth’s inebriated state the night prior.
Elizabeth always remembered that night as one of great mortification, but he cherished it.
Recalling the first touch of her lips to his could never be a source of shame or censure, even though those lips had tasted strongly of brandy.
After a moment, Georgiana looked away and spoke of the matter that had driven her to seek him out: whether he wanted to dine with the Matlocks that night. As it was, he did not want to, but since it seemed less a request than an order, he agreed.
After Georgiana left, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, willing himself to be lost in the memory of that walk and their subsequent engagement.
They had teased one another, speaking of Georgiana calling her out, and then she had spoken the words he had never even permitted himself to dare to dream.
“… perhaps I should just offer for you—or rather, agree to your offer if it still stands—and avoid Georgiana’s wrath entirely.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do not wish to hurt you, but neither would I mislead you.”
He had listened carefully as she told him she feared she would never return his love, and that she did him a disservice in marrying him. Those words had certainly been disappointing, yet they ultimately had been proven wrong. She had offered him a love unlike anything he ever could have imagined.
She had spoken, he recalled, on the cautions of an unequal marriage, clearly not knowing that he was desperate for her by then.
Any scrap, any morsel or crumb of such a paradise was far above anything else he might have found.
Unequal? It was only unequal in that she had believed she offered him less when, in truth, she had given him everything in life that truly mattered.
With a sigh, he wrenched himself from his reverie. “I would be happy if I could think of something that would prove you were now with Francis and not Henry.”
He picked up his brush, intending to paint again, when another memory from that same day reared up into his consciousness.
His hand trembled as a smile came across his face. He leapt from his seat so quickly that it tumbled over, and he was nearly gone from the room by the time it hit the floor. There it is! We have it!