Regency Masquerade (12 page)

The
question fell like a pebble in a pond, sending out waves of bewildered silence.
The old lady drew in her breath then spoke slowly, “I do not understand, I
quite thought ... when I heard ...  I think you should tell me the full story
of how you came to be here.”

“Very
well my lady.  I must explain a little of my history first.”

“In
that case,” Lady Murray interrupted, “Tom, would you please ask Mrs Pearson to
come down here?  I would like her to hear this.”  She turned to Frances as Tom
went to the door and sent another servant on the errand.  “Mrs Pearson is my
companion,” she explained briefly, “She was my children’s nurse – I hope she
will be able to help me prove if you are who you claim to be or not.”

“As
I have not claimed to be anybody at all, I rather think she will have trouble
with that!” retorted Frances acidly.  This brought a brief smile to the other
woman’s face for the first time.

In
a few moments the footman returned with a plump elderly woman leaning on his
arm, her black eyes snapping with curiosity.  “Yes, my lady?  What did – Oh!”
she broke off as she caught sight of Frances.  “Oh I am sorry, I did not know
you had ...”  for a second time she broke off what she was saying.

“Well?”
queried Lady Murray impatiently.

Mrs
Pearson stared at Frances, her head tilted to one side, struggling with the
resemblance.  “Would you mind taking off your bonnet Miss, so that I can see
your face more clearly?”

Curious,
Frances complied revealing the new blond, curled wig which most resembled the
natural colour of her hair.

“Master
Henry!” gasped the woman clutching her throat.  Frances shot a quick look at
Lady Murray and saw a quick flash of disappointment.  “Henry?” she questioned.

Mrs
Pearson kept her eyes on the young woman before her. “Henry,” she repeated
firmly, “although her eyes are gray, not brown, the resemblance is striking.”

“Would
somebody please tell me who the deuce is Henry?” demanded Frances in a loud
voice.

“Why
your father of course,” said a bewildered Mrs Pearson at exactly the same time
as Lady Murray said, “He is my cousin Rupert’s son.”

“My
father was called James,” objected Frances still in a loud voice.

“Yes
dear,” agreed Mrs Pearson, “Henry James Metcalf. And your mother was -”  For
the first time she glanced across at her employer and suddenly faltered.
“Wasn’t she?”

 “Perhaps
we had better listen to her story first,” suggested Lady Murray in firm tones. 
“The young lady was just about to tell me about herself when I asked you to
come down.  Tom, please bring chairs so we may all be seated.”

Frances
and Mrs Pearson seated themselves and Frances took up her tale again, looking
from one to the other.  “I was born in France, twenty four years ago of English
parents.  My mother’s name was Amanda, Amanda Emerson I think was her maiden
name and my father was James.  I never knew his surname, or if I did I have
forgotten it.  Unfortunately mother died when I was only five years old so I do
not remember very much about her.  My father and I moved around a lot afterwards,
and changed our names frequently so that I never knew which surname was the
real one.  About six months ago, my father contracted a fatal illness and his
last instructions to me were to make my way to London and seek out Lady Julia
Murray and apply to her for help.  He told me to mention the name Henry
Metcalf, but he was too ill to give me any further message.  I came here hoping
that Lady Julia would be able to provide me with an explanation, but ... here I
am instead.”

“It
is really most unsatisfactory,” Lady Murray muttered rather fretfully.  She
opened and shut her fan repeatedly while Frances remained silent.  “If you do
not know who you are, how should I?”

“Well
you would if you could see her!” said Mrs Pearson, confirming what Frances had
begun to suspect – Lady Murray was nearly blind. 

Mrs
Pearson rose to her feet and came over to Frances to give her a hug. “Welcome
my dear, I did not catch your name.”

“Frances,
ma’am,” she replied, moved by her ready affection.

“I
wish I could be certain,” continued Lady Murray as if Mrs Pearson had not
spoken.  “Do you know anything more of you parent’s history?  Do you have
anything perhaps, belonging to them?”

“My
ring.  I have my father’s signet ring,” offered Frances, holding out her hand.

“May
I?” asked Lady Murray, almost eagerly.  Frances drew off the ring and put it
into the outstretched hand.  The old fingers moved carefully over it, “Yes. It
seems like Henry’s.  What do you think?” she passed it to Mrs Pearson.

“I
am sure it is the same one,” she was more definite as she examined it closely.
“The birds’ wing pattern is very distinctive.  How old are you again?”

“Twenty
four years ma’am.”

“Well
that would be about right,” nodded the companion.

“What
did your mother look like?  Can you remember at all?” pursued Lady Murray, with
some urgency.

“I
was only a child,” demurred Frances, “but I know she was beautiful, with long
dark hair and she had grey eyes like mine.  She had a lovely low singing voice
too, I remember.  My father missed her very much, he never remarried.”

The
two older ladies exchanged sudden glances, even though one could hardly see,
the impulse was automatic.

“Do
you know where they were married?” stepped in Mrs Pearson hastily pre-empting
Lady Murray’s less polite enquiry.

“Not
exactly.  In France I imagine as we lived there until mother died.  We were
living in Nice at the time so perhaps it was there, I do not think father ever
said.”

“Hmph. 
It is not exactly straight forward is it?” said Lady Murray quizzically, addressing
the old nurse.  Frances decided it was time to assert herself again.

“Let
me see if I have this clear.  Are you telling me that my father was your
relation?  Your second cousin in fact?  And that his real name was Henry James
Metcalf?”

“It
certainly seems more than probable,” agreed Lady Murray cautiously.

“But
there is something else, isn’t there?” probed Frances sharply, “There is some
mystery or other you’ve not told me – and why did he live abroad under another
name anyway?”

“Because
of the scandal of course!” came the quick response.

“What
scandal?”

“I
am sorry to say that he eloped.”

“Is
that all?  Was my mother such a mesalliance then?” exclaimed Frances in
disbelief.

Provoked,
Lady Murray disclosed more then she had intended. “Mesalliance?  Your mother,
girl, was a good cut above Henry Metcalf, let me tell you.  He wasn’t fit to
touch the hem of her gown, and she ran away with him, deserted her friends and
her family ...”  the voice trailed off and she sat brooding over the past.

“How
can you say that about him, your own relation?” protested Frances hotly.

“Relation? 
What was that to me? Amanda was my daughter, Julia’s younger sister.  She was
only eighteen years old.”

Feeling
rather dazed by these revelations, Frances murmured, “My mother was your
daughter?”

Lady
Murray pursed her lips and Mrs Pearson nodded.  “I would say so.  It appears quite
clear to me that you are Henry’s daughter and therefore, one supposes, Miss
Amanda was your mother as they were certainly together until she died.  The
only time your father wrote was to inform us of that sad event.  That is the
problem, you see, neither of them ever told us about your birth.”

Her
mistress added, “There will have to be considerable investigation of course,
before your claim can be accepted.”

“I
do not understand why you keep referring to my “claim”” queried Frances,
puzzled.  “What am I supposed to be claiming?”

“Why,
the money of course.  If you can prove you are the oldest legitimate child of
Amanda and Henry, you will be entitled to her share of the estate, about ten
thousand pounds.”

“Good
heavens!” Ten thousand pounds! The vision of being able to meet Richard as an
equal, flashed before her eyes for a second and her heart leapt.  Then cold
reality intruded, “I do not think I will be able to provide sufficient proof.”
She sighed, ten thousand pounds would have been beyond her wildest
expectations.

“Why
not?” queried Lady Murray sharply.

“I
have no documents at all.  All I have is my father’s ring and that is hardly
sufficient to claim a share of an estate!”

Feeling
suddenly disappointed and a little depressed, Frances decided she had had
enough for one day.  She replaced her bonnet and took her leave.

“Thank
you, my lady for receiving me.  I imagine our meeting has been as big a
surprise to you as it has to me.  I am sure we both have many matters to
consider carefully before taking any further steps.”  Tucking the last strands
of hair out of sight, she added, “I will bid you good day.”

Both
ladies were startled by her abrupt departure and Lady Murray blurted out “You
are leaving then?”

“Why
yes.  I may call back in a couple of days if that is convenient?”

For
the first time her grandmother softened towards her and became almost human, “Of
course girl.  We have so much to discuss.  Where are you staying?  You can
leave your direction with Tom if you would.”

“The
Regent Hotel, my lady.  A message addressed to Frances White will find me.”

Rather
to her surprise, nobody queried this, no doubt she had given them much more
significant food for thought.  Tom escorted her to the door and Mrs Pearson
looked as if she would have liked to have hugged her goodbye, but did not quite
dare to.  She contented herself with a beaming smile and Lady Murray nodded stiffly
in her direction.

Her
head buzzing with thoughts like a swarm of bees, Frances stepped out and into
the waiting carriage.  Could it all be true?  Had her mother been Amanda
Murray,
Lady
Amanda?  Did she really have a grandmother, a home, a name?
Smiling wryly, she decide yes to the first, she was convinced in her own mind
of the truth of the relationship, but two very big question marks hung over the
last two.  A home?  Perhaps, if Lady Murray accepted her, but a name?  Well at
least if it was not Metcalf it must be Murray!  Little as though either of them
relished the idea.  Despite Mrs Pearson’s intervention, Frances had known
perfectly well that Lady Murray did not think her parents had been married at
all!

Meanwhile,
back in Devonshire Street, Lady Anna Murray sent her footman scurrying up to
the attic with orders to find and bring down all the papers left by Lady
Julia.  Eventually Tom descended, covered in dust and bearing two small
hatboxes.

“Would
these be what you were wanting, my lady?”

“Two
brown hatboxes? Yes, give then to Mrs Pearson will you Tom?  You may leave us.”

The
old nurse was as eager as her mistress to start searching for any letter or
paper which might shed some light on the circumstances surrounding Frances’
birth.  She blew the dust off the first box and opened it.  Fearful of
overlooking anything of importance, she took out each page and examined both
sides before placing it on the small table beside her.

“Nothing
yet, my lady, merely letters from yourself and Sir Thomas’ family.”

Lady
Murray sat straight in her chair, her suspense betrayed only by the ceaseless
opening and closing of her fan.

“There
won’t be anything,” she declared abruptly, as Mrs Pearson came to the end of
the first box. “Julia would never have kept such a matter secret from
me
!”

“No
my lady,” responded the other woman a shade doubtfully. “Do you wish me to
continue?”

“Heh? 
Of course continue!  Can’t leave the job half done!”

“No,
my lady,” agreed Mrs Pearson for the second time.  She started on the second
box.  Some half hour later, she had to confess failure.  “I’ve looked through
the lot now and there’s nothing here at all.”

“Thought
as much!” exclaimed Lady Murray with mixed satisfaction.  Mrs Pearson was still
unconvinced, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Where
else would she have put documents of any importance?  Perhaps she considered
the boxes of letters too risky, too likely to be disposed of without much
attention.  Did she have a safe box?”  She looked up to find her employer
shaking her head from side to side.

“No. 
All the families’ important papers were lodged with Grayson’s solicitors at
Lincoln’s Inn and they were all examined at the time of the accident.”

“What
happened to the rest of her things, her personal things?  Are they still up in
the attic?”

“I
suppose they must be, I had everything packed away at the time.   I have been
meaning to look through it all but I have not had a spare moment.”

Realising
that what her ladyship really meant was that she had never been able to face
that heart rending task, Mrs Pearson tactfully allowed this to pass without
comment.