Chapter 28 Revelation
REVELATION
EMMA
“Here it is,” I announced to Harriet. The shop doorway had a small, engraved brass panel: Debrett & Assoc., Publishers.
We had come directly from breakfast, earlier than any gentleman would call for business. That was my plan—be gone before Mr. Tinsdale arrived for his meeting.
I had thought less about how to begin, though.
The wool tassels on Harriet’s shawl were uneven. I straightened the first, but that made it worse.
As I fixed the fourteenth, Harriet said, “Are you nervous, Miss Woodhouse?”
“No,” I said. “You must call me Emma.” I began fixing the other side.
Gently, her gloved fingers stilled mine. “You are nervous. There is no reason. I know nothing will come of this meeting. I do not know why you try.” She looked up at the sky. “Should we even be out today?”
The streets were almost deserted. The few coaches rolled dangerously fast behind skittish teams, and the scarce walkers hurried, hugging building fronts and ducking from awning to awning. When they crossed roads, they cast frightened glances at the sky like mice hearing an owl’s hoot.
I forced my hand away from Harriet’s shawl. Mr. Darcy’s touch from the ball still filled me. The perfection of her clothes was habit, not necessity.
“You are right,” I admitted. “I am delaying. That is foolish. We are out today because this meeting must be today.” I knocked firmly.
A harried man of thirty opened the door. He straightened oval spectacles with ink-stained fingers, then his expression became resigned. “Good morning, ladies. I am afraid that Mr. Debrett does not hear personal appeals.”
“We are here for Mr. Tinsdale’s appointment,” I said. Harriet drew a surprised breath. I brightened my smile to compensate.
The man frowned. “You are early. That is not for an hour.”
That was nearer than I had guessed, but not near enough to be a problem. I invented an explanation. “Mr. Tinsdale asked that we review the materials before he arrived.”
“I see. Very well.” He waved us in distractedly.
For such a prestigious publication, Debrett & Associates was both untidier and smaller than I expected.
It was, however, overflowing with books.
The walls were filled with shelves of mismatched, faded volumes, some as thin as a pen, others as fat as a loaf of bread.
The countertops and floor were buried in crates spilling identical, thick editions, their titles embossed on the leather binding: Debrett’s Dracal Lineage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing all Wyves’ Descent.
The odor of fresh ink and old dust tickled my nose.
We picked through the mess and arrived at an open office door. Our guide announced “Mr. Tinsdale’s associates” and departed without a backward glance.
Mr. Debrett was white-haired and spindly, with wrinkled skin like parchment, but he maneuvered vigorously around his desk and extended his hand. I shook it and gave my name.
“Would that be the Woodhouses of Surrey?” he asked.
“It would,” I said.
“That is very favorable! A rare and potent maternal bloodline. The 1764 wyvern.”
He shook hands with Harriet. He could hardly rattle off the history of Smiths, but as we sat, he gave her a lingering glance. “Given the nature of Mr. Tinsdale’s request, you are not the associates I would expect.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I said. Perhaps he would explain the purpose of Mr. Tinsdale’s appointment. That would be convenient as I had not the slightest idea.
“Well… ladies on business is unusual enough, although I am told there is demand. The Prince himself is scouring shops for some new novel ‘by a lady.’ ” He sniffed.
“I do not publish fiction. Although I have considered it. The business of print is an endless struggle… though I suppose… if it were lucrative?” He ended with a tentative smile, as if expecting us to present a manuscript.
“It was not our being ladies that surprised you,” Harriet said. I had not expected her to chime in.
“Ah. Well, that brings us to the nature of Mr. Tinsdale’s request. It has weighed on me these last few days, so I am afraid I must decline.
” He gave a sheepish shrug. “There are those who say ‘business is business,’ you know. But my life’s work is documenting English binding.
Mr. Tinsdale’s terms are generous, but an edition that purged wyves due to ancestry”—politely, his wrinkled fingers acknowledged Harriet—“would be indefensible. There is no deficit of affinity in women of foreign blood. Draca were once bound in the Far East and Africa. The English monopoly on draca is a comparatively recent phenomenon, and due solely to the absence of draca beyond our shores. I call it the ‘Anglo-Saxon dracal migration’ and it is a puzzle, although a comforting one for an old Englishman like myself. Can you imagine if there were American wyves? Draca in log cabins!” He snorted as if caught off-guard by his own humor.
Flatly, Harriet said, “Mr. Tinsdale requested an edition that lists only white wyves.”
“That would be the effect of his criteria,” Mr. Debrett said. “He wished to title it, Strong Blood, Strong Britain. But you know this already.”
No gentleman would marry a lady thought unable to bind. If that edition became accepted, women of color would be purged from the gentry in a generation. It was a duplicitous, hateful scheme, and it would have been frighteningly easy if Mr. Debrett shared that prejudice.
Mr. Knightley had warned that Mr. Tinsdale would never help Harriet. But the very vileness of Mr. Tinsdale’s plan could help us now.
“Mr. Debrett,” I said. “We are not visiting as Mr. Tinsdale’s associates. I find his project quite repugnant.”
“Oh.” Mr. Debrett relaxed into his chair, relieved.
“I merely require your assistance to document the right to bind of Miss Harriet Smith. Due to an accident of missed records, her history is regretfully lost.” I laughed delicately. “You must agree that her status as a lady is evident.”
Mr. Debrett’s posture stiffened. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding. As I have said, Debrett’s Dracal Lineage is forged on integrity. This has been a charming visit, but I document verifiable records, not personal appeals. I cannot help you.”
Harriet rose, more dignified and ladylike than I had ever seen her. “You are very clear, sir. We are sorry for taking your time.”
I held up my hand. “Harriet, wait.”
The bluntness of his answer, and Harriet’s grace, and that word, records, spun in my mind and became resolve. My third secret must be revealed.
I drew a deep breath. “Harriet Smith has the right to bind. I can prove that Miss Smith is gentry.”
Mr. Debrett eyed me skeptically. “Prove it?”
I beckoned Harriet. Uncertainly, she sat back down. I turned to her and squeezed her palm between mine. “Dear Harriet, I can think of no other way to say this but the simplest. We are sisters.”
She shook her head. “Miss Woodhouse. I am embarrassed. It is time we left.”
“I swear it is true. We share a father. You are the natural daughter of my papa, Mr. Woodhouse, a gentleman. He told me with his last breaths.”
She became still. “That cannot be,” she whispered. “I met my father. A tradesman.”
“You met a tradesman who owed my father a great deal of money.” I opened my reticule, pulled out a bundle of papers—I had carried them to the ball, unwilling to leave them unprotected in our rented room—and held them for her.
She shook her head, tears swelling in her eyes, so I placed them on Mr. Debrett’s desk.
“He owed one hundred and twenty pounds. Papa canceled the debt after he went to Mrs. Goddard’s school and pretended to be your father.
A gentleman should have revealed himself to you, but Papa…
did not intend to do so. He thought offering a tradesman was a kindness compared to silence.
” Hot tears of shame ran down my cheeks.
Shame, but relief, too. “He regretted it.”
Harriet stared, her lips a little apart. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I… I do not know. I was stunned when he told me. Ashamed for how he treated you. For how I had treated you.”
“How you treated me? You are so kind to me. You have been my dearest friend.” She drew back. “Is this why?”
“No! We were fast friends before I knew. Our friendship is why Papa confessed to me. Why he changed his mind.”
Mr. Debrett was leafing through the pages on his desk.
“Mrs. Goddard’s was your boarding school?
” Harriet nodded without looking away from me, and he continued, “There are receipts for each year’s fees, paid through a London lawyer.
” He chuckled. “You would be astounded by how many natural children I discover. They spring up like daisies. But it is rare they are so well documented.”
Harriet’s stillness broke. Her hand flew to her mouth. “My mother! Do you know who she is?”
“I know her Christian name. Abigail.”
“Is she alive?”
“She survived your birth. Then she moved away. I do not know where.” Harriet’s hands muffled her shocked cry.
I drew a shaky breath and said it more bluntly—harder for me but perhaps easier for Harriet.
“She did not abandon you easily. Papa arranged to send her away. I am sorry. That is all I know.”
In a surge of skirts and fury, Harriet stood. “It was lies. You lied to me. You are ashamed of me.”
“No, Harriet! I promise. I had just lost Papa. It was all so strange…”
“Strange!” She gave a crazed laugh.
“I had to think of what to do,” I said desperately. “How to protect…”
Protect what? My father’s reputation? My fortune? The weeks after Papa’s death had been a whirlpool of grief and confusion and then—slowly—wonder and love.
Why had I waited? “I should have told you sooner. But Papa said—” I stopped.
Harriet’s voice was soft. “What did he say?”
My hands twisted in my lap. “He was not well. His mind was confused.”
“He said not to acknowledge me.” Her voice sharpened. “Not even to tell me?”