Chapter 1 #2
And yet, St. Didier did not strike Richard as mendacious by nature. Just the opposite. Richard took a cautious sip of lemonade and resigned himself to hearing a tale he would not enjoy, but one he’d very likely believe.
“Your mother was born Marie Welfrieda Ann Tuffington,” St. Didier said, though a prosaic opening statement would do little to soften the litany of poor choices, scandals, and sorrow to follow. “The Tuffingtons were a solid gentry family from the Wellsborough area of Yorkshire.”
“Never heard of it.” Dolforth peered into his glass of lemonade. “Your cook put lavender in the drink.”
“She favors the occasional culinary adventure and claims lavender aids digestion. You’ll find a hint of lavender in the shortbread as well.”
Dolforth was listening, for all he was also likely counting the tulips and comparing the density of St. Didier’s planting to those of his ducal relations.
He’d know to the penny what Holland bulbs cost per hundred, and he’d likely appraised the art on the walls of St. Didier’s guest parlor with similar accuracy.
One could have a schoolboy tantrum or a tantrum of mercantile genius. Dolforth had reportedly exchanged an abundance of the former for periodic displays of the latter.
St. Didier soldiered on with a history he took no joy in recounting. “Wellsborough lies at the edge of the Dales, a quiet, beautiful area despite its fierce winters. Probably hasn’t changed much for centuries. Your mother was the local belle, but her family suffered from the usual difficulties.”
“Thousands of sheep, not enough cash. What’s a squire to do?”
“Old Tuffington knew that peacetime, should it ever come, would devastate the wool markets, particularly in the north where the temperatures are not as well suited to the finer wool breeds. He made it a point to marry off his oldest daughter as lucratively as he could as soon as he could, though by all reports the pairing was also a love match.”
“Mama never once mentioned a husband.”
To St. Didier’s practiced eye, Dolforth was suffering a touch of mal de Mayfair, that peaked, twitchy, restless set of symptoms befalling younger bachelors as the London Season progressed.
They went short of sleep, many also went short of funds, and by summer’s arrival, some had made desperate matches as a result.
“At the age of seventeen, your mother wed Mr. Abernathy Blackstock, a man in his thirties, who’d inherited good land and better investments.
He was ready to settle down, set up his nursery, and favor the prettiest girl in the parish with his addresses.
She was said to be more than ready to leave old Tuffington’s household, and everybody was certain the match would prosper. ”
“I won’t like this next part, will I?” Two and a half sandwiches sat uneaten on Dolforth’s plate.
“Blackstock was a noted charmer. All smiles in the churchyard, always ready to compliment a lady’s bonnet or congratulate another fellow on the strapping little laddie gurgling in the nurse’s arms. He ran his farms conscientiously, invested prudently, and appeared to dote on his wife.
No children followed in the first year of marriage, neither was the couple blessed in the second year.
Blackstock had wanted a family, but his regard for his wife remained constant. ”
“Meaning,” Dolforth said evenly, “he and those around him blamed that wife for the absence of children. Though Blackstock was nearly twice Mama’s age when they wed, and she was in robust good health.”
“True enough. In any case, Blackstock made one of his regular pilgrimages to York, and Marie went home to the Tuffington household to bide with her younger sister, who was not yet married. Your aunt’s name is Orla Fielding.
Mrs. Orla Fielding, and she has spent her entire life in the Wellsborough area. ”
“I have a ducal auntie, too, as it happens. Sorcha, Lady Barclay, though I believe she is soon to part with the honorific, and gladly so. The Duchess of Chanderton is also my aunt-by-marriage, and I’m told you know her.”
“I am acquainted with Lady Barclay as well and consider her a friend.” St. Didier made that admission advisedly.
Dolforth had been lied to enough in his life.
Concealing any connection St. Didier had to the Dolforth family would not do.
“Lady Barclay is unaware of your situation, and I will not share any details with her or her in-laws.”
Dolforth—he was, in truth, Viscount Swidhelm—turned his chair as if to gain a better view of the garden. “I conclude Sorcha did not hire you to investigate my antecedents.”
What had it cost him to pose that careful non-question?
“She knows nothing of your antecedents other than that you are one of Lord Jerome’s several by-blows.
As far as I am aware, His Grace of Chanderton and, for that matter, Her Grace of Chanderton and the rest of the Dolforth tribe remain similarly in ignorance.
Your aunt Orla, who is widowed and not well, asked me to locate you. ”
The truth. Not the complete truth. Orla’s request had come at Miss Mabel Fielding’s relentless urging.
“My aunt is not well. Of course she’s not well by the time anybody informs me of her existence, but what of Papa Blackstock—the legal father who somehow inherited a viscountcy?”
The charmer to whom Dolforth was, in truth, unrelated.
“We will get to him. For reasons I have not been able to discern, your mother left Yorkshire for London while Blackstock was dealing with his solicitors in York. She told nobody of her plans, left no explanation, and took with her only the jewelry she’d inherited from her family or collected as part of her trousseau.
She packed what clothes she could carry and literally fled in the night. ”
“How do you know she went to London?”
“She did eventually send her sister a few letters, explaining that she was traveling under an alias and that no word of her whereabouts should be relayed to Blackstock. She also informed Orla of your existence at some point.”
Another sip of lemonade while Dolforth continued to study the garden. “And Aunt Orla otherwise kept mum about the whole situation, in defiance of law, custom, and common sense?”
“She did, likely to avoid significant additional scandal for a man who’d already endured enough gossip thanks to Marie’s departure. You can query your aunt for further details when you meet her.”
“Assuming I do. You said she’s in poor health.”
“In poor health, though comfortably situated. You asked about Blackstock, who has gone to his reward, else he’d be the viscount in your stead.
He waited seven years for your mother to return—during which time you were born—then he had Marie declared dead.
Blackstock immediately took another young bride, though his luck with wives was poor.
The second Mrs. Blackstock eventually produced a daughter and expired shortly thereafter. ”
“This is the legal half-sister you mentioned?”
“Wealtha Blackstock, younger than you by a decade or so. Legally, Blackstock is your mutual sire.”
“And yet, Blackstock’s second union was bigamous, and it is this Wealtha who is illegitimate and not I. Do you truly expect me to inflict such a scandalous revelation on a young woman who has done me no harm and wished me no ill?”
If Dolforth was exasperated, at least part of the sentiment was on behalf of a sister he’d never met and with whom he shared no blood.
“The legal details are often arcane,” St. Didier rejoined.
“They are seldom irrelevant. Orla became a mother figure to Wealtha very early in life, and has explained the truth of Marie Blackstock’s story to your sister.
Wealtha, in fact, joined households with Orla upon Blackstock’s passing—Wealtha had no other adult family.
Her legitimacy will become an issue only if somebody is particularly determined to pry.
As far as the neighbors know, as far as the Yorkshire solicitors know, Marie expired prior to the second marriage, and no bigamy occurred. ”
“Orla knows better, you know better, Wealtha knows better, and now I do too. As secrets go, the odds of the cat exiting the proverbial bag are already too high.”
“Wealtha is motivated to exercise discretion, as is Orla. I have said nothing to anybody but you, and what you do about the situation is your own business.” Though St. Didier was not above offering advice, nudges, suggestions, or a figurative kick in the arse if necessary for the common good.