Chapter 11 Daughters And Sons #2
After a while, one of the card tables broke up as Miss Hester Merrington and Mrs Hastings went off to check on the mother and infant, and ensure that Richard was not plaguing them too badly, and the Miss Merringtons got up a round game with Mr Godley and Mr Hammond.
Mrs Merrington brought Simon’s sketch book back to him.
“What a talent you have, Mr Payne,” she said. “This is a charming composition. Would you consent to a framing, so that it might be hung on the wall for everyone to admire?”
“If you think it worthy of such treatment, ma’am, then I should be honoured.”
“You have not signed it yourself. Does not the artist always sign his work?”
“That squiggle in the corner is my sign — an ‘S’ and a ‘P’ combined.”
“Ah, I see it now. How ingenious! I thought that was just a part of Sophia’s necklace. Excellent! I shall ask Cousin Hester to recommend a framer, or perhaps Mr Hammond will know.” Almost without a pause, she went on, “Is Lady Juliet unwell?”
“Not that I know of,” he said, startled.
“Good. I wondered, you see, when she did not appear for dinner, but I am relieved to hear that all is well.”
She bustled away to join her daughters, leaving him puzzled.
Juliet not at dinner? Now that he thought about it, there had been two empty chairs at the table.
The new father was one of the absentees, dining with his wife, but had Juliet been the other?
He could not recall seeing her at all that evening.
After their altercation earlier that day, when she had talked about taking in lodgers, there had been no sign of her and that was most unlike her.
In particular, she never missed a meal! What on earth had become of her?
He slipped out of the room and up the stairs to her room. When he knocked, a thread of a voice bade him enter. He found Juliet curled up on her bed, still in her day dress, her face white and wan.
“My dear, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”
“No,” she whispered. “Not ill… I have received a blow, that is all. I shall make a recover before long.”
“What has happened? What can I do?”
“Nothing. There is nothing anyone can do.” She sat up abruptly. “The most dreadful thing, Simon. There, read that.”
She pushed an open book towards him.
“‘The English Peerage’? What are you—? Oh, it is Papa’s entry. ‘James William Payne, Earl of Edlesborough, Viscount Kendle, Baron Landrick. Born… succeeded his father…’. Is there a point to this?”
“Read on.”
“Very well. ‘Married Cecilia, eldest daughter of Sir Henry Rushbury of Shrewsbury, by whom he had issue Andrew, Viscount Kendle, Luke and Juliet. All your dates of birth are there. Well?”
“Read on.”
“Oh. ‘…which marriage was dissolved by act of Parliament.’ Good God! But… but she died… so we thought. Dissolved! Great heavens! And you never suspected?”
“That my mother was divorced? No, I never suspected that!” she said, with such bitterness in her voice that he was shocked.
“Aunt Tabitha always said that she died in childbed, and naturally I never enquired further. Why would I? It would not have occurred to me that she might lie to me. And then, we never moved in the sort of circles where anyone would have known otherwise. I wonder if that was why I was sent away, so that I would not know the shame of my mother’s wickedness. ”
“If so, it would have been the first time Papa ever did anything for the benefit of anyone but himself,” Simon said tartly. “More likely he simply wanted to remove any reminder of her. He could not get rid of the boys — his heirs, after all — but he could send his daughter away.”
“And then several years later, when the scandal had abated, he married again and had you and all the others. Oh, I forgot — that was why I was looking in the Peerage, to find out if we have any previously unsuspected brothers and sisters.”
“We do!” he said, looking down at the book again, surprised. “Mark and Ruth, aged twelve and six respectively, and two others who died as infants, not even named.”
“There might even be more,” she said. “The book is several years out of date.”
“So there might. Poor Mama! Ten children, and possibly more! She must be quite worn out.”
“At least she is alive,” Juliet said.
“But your mama is alive, too… or at least, she did not die in childbed all those years ago.”
“Then where is she?” she said in despairing tones. “Why did she abandon me? If she still lives, why did she never make the least push to find me? Your mama is constrained by Papa’s prohibitions, and your brothers too, I suppose, but she was not, not after…” Her voice died away to nothing.
“After the divorce? No, she would have been free of his authority, but I imagine the shame would keep her away from society and therefore away from London. And how would she find you?”
“Through the family lawyers, I imagine. I am her daughter, after all. She must be dead, Simon. I cannot believe that she would not try to find me. We could have been together all this time. I could have had a mother who loved me, and not—”
“Not Aunt Tabitha?” he said, smiling suddenly. “She was not the most maternal woman, was she? Kind in her way, but she could be harsh… unforgiving.”
“I think she did not understand children,” Juliet said.
“She had never had any of her own, or any contact with them, so when I was foisted on her, I am not sure she knew what to do with me. I suppose she meant to be kind, by telling me Mama was dead. Such a scandal! My own mother, being so wicked that her husband divorced her! It does not bear thinking about. What do you suppose she did?”
“The usual thing is breaking the marriage vows.”
“What does that — oh! You mean that she—? With another man? Heavens!”
“You know, I think you are right,” he said. “There must have been the most fearful scandal, the whole thing dragged through Parliament. Everyone would have known.”
“Of course, but—?”
“Well, the duke knew her, so he might remember what happened. He might even know what became of her afterwards.”
She jumped to her feet, and paced rapidly across the room and back. “The duke! But I cannot ask him about it. It would be too shaming.”
“No, but I can. She is not my mother, after all, but it is to do with my family, so I have the right to know.”
“He might not tell you.”
“In which case we are no worse off, but he must remember something of it. He remembered your mother very clearly, so he will know something. If you give me permission, I shall speak to him privately and see what I may learn. He might even know where she is now, and then you could contact her. Think how splendid that would be, if we could find her, Juliet. To meet your mother after all these years… would it not be a fine thing?”
“If she even wants to meet me,” Juliet said gloomily.