Friends and Relations: A Regency Romance

  FRIENDS AND RELATIONS

  Mira Stables

  © Mira Stables 1978

  Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1978 by Fawcett Coventry Books.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  “CHARMIAN!”

  The voice was little more than a husky whisper, fretful with weakness.

  The girl at the window turned swiftly, striving to mask her own anxiety with an air of cheerful competence, and took the sick woman’s wasted hand in her own warm young one.

  “Did you have a nice refreshing nap, Mama? Shall I make your tea now? I could enjoy a cup myself, and the hot drink might soothe your poor throat.”

  The invalid’s assent was languid but when the tray was brought in she drank the tea thirstily, though she did no more than nibble at a little cake. As the girl set the scarcely tasted food aside she said urgently, “You will come back as soon as you have carried the tray down? There is much that we must talk of.”

  Charmian might have said that she always did come back to her mother’s room as soon as her various domestic preoccupations permitted; that she scamped her other duties in order to spend more time with the invalid. She contented herself with arranging the pillows more comfortably and making up the fire before she left the room. During the long weeks of nursing she had learned to accept both unreasonable demands and implied criticism with patience.

  Her return caused the sick woman to try to raise herself on the pillows which brought on a fit of coughing. It left her exhausted, the handkerchief that she held to her lips ominously stained. But she refused to rest. The doctor had tacitly admitted that her time was short, and she had that on her mind, she whispered, that she must confide without further delay.

  It seemed best to let her unburden herself though the effort must take heavy toll of her small reserves of strength. Charmian said in subdued tones, “Dearest Mama. Tell me if you must. But I think perhaps I have already guessed. Can you not spare yourself the pain of making such a disclosure when you are so weak?”

  A flicker of sheer amazement stirred the pallid features. “You cannot have guessed,” Mrs. Tracy said, irritability lending strength to her voice. “Surmise you may have indulged, but the truth is too deep hidden. Tell me, pray, what imaginings you have been nourishing in your idle hours.”

  There had been few enough of those, thought Charmian ruefully. Sickness had wrought a sad change in Mama. In health she had been a devoted parent, firm, but kind withal. Who would have dreamed that she would turn into this querulous complaining creature who did not scruple to aim bitter shafts at the girl who tended her as well as youth and experience permitted? Charmian had flushed to the roots of her hair but she met her mother’s eyes squarely. There were no words to soften what she had to say, but at least it was a relief to have it out in the open at last.

  “You have never spoken to me about my father. For several years now—certainly before I left school—I have thought that perhaps I was born out of wedlock.”

  There was no denial. The still face on the pillows awaited further disclosures. Charmian said slowly, “It seemed to be the only answer to the peculiarities of my situation. If we were not precisely wealthy, we were at least well to pass. At home we enjoyed every comfort. I was sent to a very select seminary and the bills were never questioned. Dancing, riding, music—every imaginable extra—I took them all. Yet when I left school you made no push to launch me into society. By now most of my friends are married. Mary Swain has two babies. And at that time—when I left school, I mean—you were well and did not need my attendance upon you. If there was no slur on my birth, why did you make no attempt to marry me off? Most parents do, when a girl has been given an expensive education.”

  The pale lips were actually faintly smiling. “Quite astute. And not so far from the truth. No point now in further concealment. Yes, I did have a daughter, born out of wedlock, though at the time I believed myself to be married. But she died in infancy. Sometimes I have wondered if you were sent to comfort my loneliness. For why did no one come forward to claim you? Yet there were times, too,” she added broodingly, “when I almost hated you, just for being alive, while my precious Melanie was cold in her grave. Nay, child, never look so distressed. This is a time for the truth. You have been a good and dutiful daughter to me and the least I can do for you is to put you into possession of such facts as are known to me. Nor need you fear for the future when I am gone. Provision has been made for you.”

  It was the longest connected speech that she had uttered for several days and it had wearied her. She lay some time with closed eyes. Charmian was well aware of her need for sleep—the doctor had stressed it repeatedly—but for once concern for the invalid was swept aside by her own shock and dismay. She said impetuously, “But if I am not your child, Mama, who am I?”

  The heavy lids lifted. Mama—to Charmian she would always be Mama—said gently, “My dear, I do not know.”

  There was a heavy silence. Then the sick woman went on, “You were left in my care by your nurse. She did not come back, and no one ever claimed you. She was on her way to London, taking you to relatives. Grandparents, we thought, but she spoke with a strange accent so we were not sure. And now I must sleep. The full story must wait, though there is no more that I can tell you about your parentage.”

  It was long before Charmian slept. The shock of Mama’s disclosure over-ruled the demands of a weary body. But after tossing restlessly for what seemed like hours, her imagination a prey to every kind of conjecture about her strange history—or rather her lack of it—she came gradually to some kind of acceptance. Fretting would do no good. Time and diligent search might eventually reveal what kind of people she was sprung from. Meanwhile she must count herself fortunate that she had fallen into such kindly hands. At least certain matters which had long puzzled her were now explained. The total lack of resemblance between Mama and herself, for instance. For Mama was lily fair, and before she took ill she had been a Juno of a woman, while Charmian had brown eyes and golden-brown curls and, to her sad disappointment, was small and slight, with no claims at all to the luscious feminine curves that were so fashionable. Mama was gracious, controlled and dignified in ways and speech. Charmian was quick-silver, with a bubbling gaiety and zest for living that had been sadly dashed of late. She had always supposed herself to resemble the unknown Papa of whom Mama never spoke, and in her foolish teens had woven many an absurd romance about him, consoling herself in this childish fashion for the slur which she believed to stain her birth.

  She recalled these flights of fancy now with an indulgent little smile, as an adult remembers outgrown playthings. Whatever her parentage, it was improbable that her father was the Prince or the Royal Duke of her dreams! She pondered long over Mama’s personal tragedy, hearing again that bitter little confession—“At times I almost hated you, just for being alive.” It did much to explain moods that had hurt and bewildered her. On a vow that never again would she permit herself to feel resentment when Mama spoke crossly or appeared unjust, Charmian
drifted at last into uneasy slumber.

  It was a vow impossible of keeping, of course. Mama, next morning, was in her most difficult mood. Charmian could do nothing right. When she brushed out the long fair hair she was accused of roughness and undue haste. The gruel that she had prepared so carefully was too sweet. Mama was not a baby to be coaxed with sugared pap. And when her eyes strayed to the window, where a brisk October gale was rattling the fallen leaves against the casement, she was heartless and selfish, wanting only to be out of doors enjoying herself, regardless of the invalid’s sufferings. Charmian, who was naturally impatient to hear the rest of the story, found it very difficult to preserve a tranquil demeanour. As for making any enquiry about her own arrival into Mama’s life, it was more than she dare venture.

  It was not until the darkening that a much-tried girl, drawing the curtains across the rain-spattered windows, murmured tentatively that they were very snug and cozy in the firelit room with the raw autumnal night shut out, and inadvertently touched off the spring of reminiscence for which she had sought all day.

  “You do not remember any other home, of course,” sighed Mama pensively. “You were scarce a year old when we brought you here—or so we reckoned. But the first home that I can recall was Aunt Caroline’s house in Williamsburg. So very different! The summers, long and sunny and hot. And the scent of the roses! It was in June that I met my Philip. I never smell roses without remembering. He had been wounded—badly wounded—and when the army moved on they left the wounded and the prisoners behind. Philip had tried to make his own way after them, all dazed as he was with fever and his injuries, and Aunt Caroline and I found him by the roadside. Naturally we took him in and nursed him. Aunt was always a Loyalist, and I could never understand the rights and wrongs of the struggle. Why should I care that Philip wore a red coat? I knew that my father was fighting with Washington, but I had never seen him since he had left me with Aunt Caroline when I was just turned seven. If I had any politics I sided with my aunt rather than my father. But in those days we mostly left such matters to the gentlemen. When a girl is seventeen she cares more for a young man’s appearance and bearing than for the colour of his coat. Philip was handsome even when he was fever-thin, and as his health came back I fell more and more deeply in love with him. Even in sickness he was gentle and courteous. With returning vigour he had an engaging charm that I found irresistible. Aunt Caroline loved him, too. Even the authorities turned a blind eye on the fact that we were sheltering a Britisher. Though that was rather because his wits were still clouded, my poor Philip.”

  She felt silent, re-living those happy days when all had seemed so simple and straightforward. Charmian, who was beginning to feel that her own wits were clouded as she strove to sort out this jumble of apparently unrelated facts, waited respectfully, but when Mama made no move to resume her story she said timidly, “Whereabouts is Williamsburg, Mama? I have never heard you speak of it before, and I cannot recall meeting anyone else who lived there.”

  “I really don’t know what they teach girls nowadays,” sighed Mama. “When I was young we were educated at home and—but no matter for that. It is in America, goose, in Virginia. And a very happy girlhood I passed there with Aunt Caroline, despite the hardships of war. All the young men were gone off to fight, either on one side or the other, so there were few parties and no beaux. But we kept ourselves amused and cheerful. As a family we had no one involved in the fighting except Papa, and he was little more than a name to me since he had married again and handed me over to Aunt Caroline. The war did not seem very real until General Cornwallis occupied Williamsburg during his withdrawal of Yorktown. Even then, although we were frightened after the dreadful tales that we had heard, it was not so very bad. They took all our stores, of course—armies always do—and such horses as hadn’t been hidden, but there were no shellings or burnings or hangings as there had been at other places. So you see I had no personal cause to hate the British and found it all too easy to fall in love with one particular Englishman.”

  “And you and Aunt Caroline nursed him back to health,” prompted Charmian presently.

  Mama shook her head. “Not entirely. Though his wounds healed and he gained strength daily, he still could not remember anything except that his name was Philip. And we had burned his uniform in the early days when we were still trying to keep him hidden so we could not even discover what regiment he had belonged to. It troubled him a good deal at times, wondering about his family in England who doubtless thought him dead, but since he was as deep in love as I was we were mostly too happy to grieve. He was a great help to our feminine household. We were all agreed that he must come of farming stock, such a knack as he had with animals. I think he would have been content to settle in Virginia, but Aunt thought that we should go to England and try if we could not trace his family. He might have a mother breaking her heart for loss, she said, and, as she had just inherited this house, she suggested that we should come and look over it and, at the same time, set on foot enquiries about Philip. In fact she made it a condition for her consent to our marriage—and little guessed what sorrow it would bring. She had thought of a grieving mother. None of us had thought that Philip might be married and himself a father. He was so young. And surely he must have remembered a wife if he truly loved her.”

  Her voice faltered and died. And this time Charmian could not bring herself to intrude on that sorrowful reverie.

  It was fortunate that Susan, who had known Mama ever since she had gone to live with Aunt Caroline, was well acquainted with the whole story and, now that the secret was out, quite willing to amplify the disjointed snippets that Charmian got from Mama. Mama would move backward and forward in time as the mood took her and soon had Charmian thoroughly muddled as to the sequence of events, but thanks to Susan she was able to piece the story together.

  “I’ll not name names, miss, until your Mama chooses to do so in his own good time,” stipulated Susan. And with this proviso launched into brisk narrative. Aunt Caroline, she said, had been wishful to return to England for several reasons. Now that the war was as good as over and it was plain that there would be no resumption of British rule in Virginia, she was unsettled. The inheritance of the house had seemed like an omen drawing her back to her homeland. Moreover she was deeply curious about Philip’s background.

  “Anyone could see he was gentry born,” Susan explained. “Not just the high-bred looks of him but his speech and his ways. And book learning, too. Reckon she hoped he was related to some great family and that maybe she’d see her niece a ladyship. If only she’d let well alone! Though I s’pose it’d have had to come out sooner or later. Mr. Philip cared little enough. Wholly taken up with the news that Miss Bel—your Mama I should say—was in the family way, and that pleased and excited he’d no thought for anything else. In the end Miss Caroline lost patience and went off to London herself to see about making enquiries at army headquarters.”

  She paused as though wondering how far her confidences should go, and devoted all her attention to the apples she was paring.

  “I know that he was already married,” volunteered Charmian. “Married, and the father of a child. Mama told me that herself.”

  Susan sighed. “Seems he was always army mad, but he was the only son and his father was against it. Said he must first marry and beget an heir, for there was a title and estates to consider. And that’s just what he did, and him scarce twenty! Not that I think he was unwilling,” she added reflectively. “By all accounts she was a nice little piece, the girl that he married. They’d grown up as playmates and liked each other well enough. Must have been like two children playing at grown-ups—her just seventeen and scarce out of the schoolroom.”

  The apple pie went into the oven and she began to beat eggs for a custard as she took up the story again. “She had her baby within the year, a fine healthy boy, and then Mr. Philip held his Papa to his promise and was off to join his regiment, which was sent to America before his brave scarlet coat
had fairly settled itself to his shoulders. Maybe if he’d been just an ordinary sort of man they’d never have traced his family and he and Miss Bel would have lived out their lives happily enough. But he wasn’t. He did come of titled folk, just as Miss Caroline had hoped, and her lawyer had no trouble at all in tracing him. There’d been enquiries made after him already. His lordship—Mr. Philip’s father—came down himself to identify him. He was kind enough. But there could be no denying that Miss Bel was no true wife, however innocent she was. It was all hushed up of course. Nobody wanted a scandal. There was money settled on Miss Bel for the sake of the child, and Mr. Philip’s father took him home. I’ll not forget the look in Miss Bel’s eyes as she watched them go. She loved him truly, miss, and a sore price she paid for it. Just about killed Miss Caroline, too. She picked up a bit after the baby was born. A pretty little thing she was, but always frail. Miss Caroline doted on her and nearly went out of her mind when the poor mite took ill and pined. Never pulled up again after the baby’s death. The lung sickness, just like your Mama now. If you ask me, Miss Charmian, they’re a sickly stock and you can be thankful it’s not their blood that runs in your veins, for all that Miss Bel’s been so good to you.”

  Charmian nodded soberly. “So very good,” she said. “I can never thank her enough or begin to repay her. But since that first time she has never spoken of how I came into her keeping. You were there, weren’t you, Susan. Won’t you tell me about it?”

  Susan stirred her custard carefully. “Yes, I was there. And never so frightened since we’d crossed the ocean. Snow, miss. A thing to which I wasn’t much accustomed. Great whirling clouds of it, so’s you couldn’t see and scarcely breathe, and piling up in the hedges in deep drifts. Myself, I’d never have chosen to travel in such weather but Miss Bel was always on the fidget those days. Never stayed anywhere long. We’d been in Dover—she’d a fancy for old, historic places and would wander about with her sketch book in the bitter wind when I’m sure her fingers must have been too frozen to hold the pencil. So next we must be off to London. Maybe some new clothes in pretty colours would pluck up her spirits—she was tired of wearing black. Well, I’d nothing to say against that. In fact I thought it was a good idea. And it wasn’t actually snowing when we set off, though the guard on the Mail warned us that more falls were threatened.”