Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (5 page)

By the time Eaton rattled the doorknob, I sat slack, my head tilted back with my eyes shut. To add to my ruse, I breathed heavily and irregularly through an open mouth.

“Miss Julia.” He gently tapped my arm.

I batted him away but then blinked, doing my best to look disoriented.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I fear your father has already arrived home and retired.”

I nodded, slurring nonsense words.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but I didn’t catch that.”

I sat up, squinting. “Home? Is he in bed?”

“He said to tell you he’d retired,” Eaton replied.

I rubbed my eyes, but in truth, I felt fully awake. The precision of his wording wasn’t lost on me.

“Shall I escort you to your chamber?” he asked as I studied him anew.

I shook my head. “No, but will you see to that tray? I don’t want my father to find it.”

He glanced at the untouched tea before his white gloves flashed in the semidarkness. “With pleasure. Sleep well, Miss Julia.”

I stood, pretending to find my balance. I waited until I was certain of his departure, then fell back into the chair and hugged myself.

Why should it matter, I thought, what opinion my father and Mr. Forrester had of me? Hadn’t my father said he was offering me sanctuary? Wasn’t that all I wanted? Hurt turned inward to bitterness. Had I so soon unlearned the lessons I’d picked up from William—not to expect acceptance or love? Perhaps it was better not to form any attachments while here. It would only complicate matters later. And why should I feel hurt that he’d not bothered to defend me against Mr. Forrester’s disparaging remarks?

“Let people reveal themselves first,”
Sarah, my nursemaid, used to intone.

Well, my father most certainly had. I now saw he was a cur of the worst sort. And I despised him. Tears clotted my throat, but I refused them. If I detested my father on the night I married Mr. Macy, that emotion was impotent compared to this.

I had no need of family. None.

I crossed my arms, imagining how good it would feel to march down the hall and tell them both exactly what I thought. Only I had nowhere else to go, and I knew it.

“You did what?” Forrester’s scream tore through the night and echoed down the hall, followed by, “How could you!”

The chair creaked as I stood. Though I wasn’t certain, I thought I still heard his voice. Knowing their argument was probably about me was maddening.

A few more steps found me at the door, which I eased open.

For a moment, all was silent. Moonlight streamed through the hall, washing a ghostly light over the ancestral portraits lining the stairs. Earlier that week, I had carefully looked for any trace of myself but hadn’t found any except for the young girl at the bottom of the stairs—my look-alike.

Hoping to hear more, I tiptoed into the hall and shut the door behind me. At best I picked up the occasional lilt of a male voice, but it was impossible to distinguish words.

As I continued to creep toward the library, my look-alike watched from her elaborate frame. Something about the utter boldness in her eyes made it clear that she wouldn’t hesitate to go and eavesdrop.

I bit my lip. Edward would never condone spying on my father, especially with Forrester here, accusing me of it. Besides, it was too risky. If I were caught, I had nowhere to go except back to Mr. Macy.

Nevertheless, I also knew that Henry and Elizabeth would fully approve of my spying. That thought made me ache for our foursome. I could almost envision the fight we’d have over this. Henry would grow impassioned, telling Edward he was an absolute ninny not to advise me to go and learn as much as I could, considering. Elizabeth would only frown and keep her opinion to herself as long as possible. Edward would demand to put it to a vote, which Henry would adamantly refuse. As a rule, no matter what, Edward and I solidly took each other’s side—thus Henry and Elizabeth never agreed to a vote.

Once more Mr. Forrester’s voice escalated as he argued some point.

I wiped my palms along the sides of my dress, considering the arched corridor I wanted to take. Even in the dark, the black-and-white tiles stretched so far back they looked distorted and staggered. There wasn’t even a plant or statue I could duck behind, though it was possible to flatten myself in the molding of one of the arch windows, provided no one passed by the opposite side. I pressed my lips together. I’d never done anything this daring alone, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

Especially when it would have had the four of us heatedly divided.

I lifted my gaze, as if I would find an answer inscribed on the painting, and was struck by the idea that if she could vote, she’d take Henry and Elizabeth’s side. My mouth twisted as I pictured a future date when I’d have to tell Edward that we’d been outvoted, and what did he expect me to do?

Certain that I would regret taking imaginary advice from a dead woman, I picked up my dress and tiptoed to the library door.

A NARROW SLIVER of light streamed through the dark hall as I pushed the library door open ever so slightly, thankful to find that Eaton hadn’t fully latched it.

“What did you expect I’d do?” My father’s was the first voice I heard.

“Macy couldn’t have planned your downfall better! They may forgive you for having an ill-begotten child, but to lie about it is committing political suicide. You can’t honestly think you can hide her identity from that lot!”

I took measured, tiny steps forward, fearing the door might creak and give me away, before finally taking my first glimpse. Inside, a roaring fire cracked and hissed, casting a glow on the heavily polished wood. At the hearth, Mr. Forrester spread the tails of his frock coat apart as he warmed his backside.

My father sat, bent over his desk, carefully writing out a document before him.

“She doesn’t even resemble your wife.” Mr. Forrester dropped his tails. “Nor does she possess grace or manners. How
are you going to convince anyone she’s lived her life in a finishing school? What school produces something like her?”

The uncomfortable look that passed over my father’s face as he dipped his pen told me he secretly agreed with the assessment. “You can keep wasting your breath,” my father said, “but I’m going forward with this. Either help me or leave.”

“Of all the stupidity, Roy. Tell them it was a misprint. Or send her to a real finishing school.”

My father picked up the page and perused it. “No.”

Mr. Forrester hit the oak mantel with his fist. “What about marrying her off?”

To my dismay, my father chuckled. “Is that an offer, Robert?”

Forrester sneered before slumping into a nearby chair. “No, absolutely not.” He paused a moment as if winding up again. “And what are you planning to do when it’s time to present her at court?”

My father dipped the pen, ignoring him.

“Who do you think is going to sponsor her? Have you even thought of that?”

Still my father didn’t answer.

“What? Are you just going to sit there and ignore me now?” Mr. Forrester asked. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”

“If necessary, she’ll come out this season and take her place.”

There was a derisive huff. “As what? Mrs. Macy?”

“She’s no more his wife than I am,” was my father’s response. “And you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” As if at wits’ end, Mr. Forrester grabbed his hair and held it in his fist for a second. “Even if she’s not placed here by Macy, she’ll ruin you. She’s mannerless, rude, short-tempered. One morning I found her whiskey-slinging before breakfast! No one is going to believe the story you’ve concocted.”

“Isaac met with her before determining how to handle this. He thought her capable.”

Mr. Forrester scrambled to his feet, knocking over a nearby glass. “After all he’s sacrificed for you, you’re destroying his career along with yours. Have you even considered how selfish you’re being?”

My father’s features hardened before he retrieved his pen, dipped it in ink, and started to write again. “I’m not doing anything to anyone. He and I discussed this possibility before I left, and he chose to take it.”

Mr. Forrester’s mouth pulled downward as his jaw jutted. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on your daughter. Had I known any of this would happen, I never would have fetched you that night.”

Instead of a reply, my father considered Mr. Forrester. “Would I better gain your support, Robert, if you knew that this measure thwarted Macy?”

Mr. Forrester hesitated. “How do you mean?”

Sighing, my father leaned back and opened a bottom drawer of his desk. “Look over some correspondences between her mother and myself. Simmons collected all documentation after her death, so you’ll find my letters in there as well. You’ll see that Macy has been planning to collect Julia for some time now.” He slid a black portfolio across the desk.

I gasped, but thankfully it went unheard.

Mr. Forrester gave an exasperated breath and sprawled himself into one of the teak chairs planted before the desk, leaving his arms and legs dangling. “It makes no difference. Even if Macy planned this years ago, your daughter is his strumpet now. Her loyalty sleeps with him.”

Nevertheless, he opened the portfolio with a flip of his hand and withdrew a sheet.

Sight of that first letter tortured me. After Mama’s death, I’d spent months searching for the mysterious missives that frightened her. I’d emptied her desk, torn apart her wardrobe, dumped out every drawer, and overturned her mattress. The passion seized me one afternoon after staring at the endless
rippling circles the rain had formed in puddles. Like a feebleminded woman, I went from despondent to frantic. Believing Mama had taken her own life because of a series of correspondences, I wanted answers. And I would not be put off. I had searched and searched until Sarah finally found me sitting in the middle of a wrecked room and begged me to cease.

Even from my distance, I recognized Mama’s stationery and had to resist the urge to rush into the library to snatch up the file.

I couldn’t see Mr. Forrester’s face, for he turned, but he made quick work of the first letter, then picked up the next. Again, I felt desperate. I recognized that letter too. It bore a tea stain from the time Mama’s hand shook so much, she overturned her cup while reading it. I wanted to scream. It was maddening that for once in his life, Mr. Forrester wasn’t giving commentary.

My father waited in silence, using his thumb to twist a ring on his fourth finger.

Mr. Forrester turned over the last page in the file, then hooked his elbows behind his chair. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I do know that we’re disrupting something he’s been scheming for some time now. It’s why I’m keeping her here.” My father sanded the document he’d been working on, folded it, and slid it into the shoulder bag he’d worn home that evening.

Mr. Forrester shifted in his chair, allowing me to see his face. “This is Macy we’re talking about here. How do you know he didn’t plan this too?”

My father withdrew a new sheet of paper. “Because no one would expect this bold of a move. Consider it from my point of view, Robert. I never wanted her here either. But now that Macy’s forced my hand, I’m calling his bluff and raising the stakes.”

Forrester snorted with derision. “And what if he’s not bluffing?”

“He’s stalemated, and he knows it.” My father’s voice softened as he picked up his rum. “Think on it. The legality of the
union is debatable at best, and even if he could prove it, he lacks proof that she’s the girl.”

Mr. Forrester lifted the portfolio and waved it in the air. “No proof?”

My father glowered. He looked askance, taking a swallow of the rum. A look of sadness crossed his face before he stood and held out his hand. When Forrester handed him the portfolio, he hesitated for a second as if regretting the action, but then, seemingly devoid of emotion, he tossed the entire sheaf into the flames.

Part of me felt tossed into that inferno too. I rested my cheek against the doorframe and watched helplessly as the fire devoured the documentation that held the answers to my questions. Now I would never fully know what Mama’s last thoughts and days were like.

Mr. Forrester looked as though he’d smelled something offensive. “I still say this is a trap and you’re walking right into it. How do you know that Macy hasn’t managed to create copies?”

It was clear my father hadn’t considered that. His gaze was trenchant as he studied Mr. Forrester. “I trust my staff implicitly.”

I held in my groan, knowing any one of my father’s servants could be a traitor. And if my father was unaware, then of what else was he ignorant? I crept away from the library, feeling I’d consumed as much news as I could handle in one night. I wanted time alone to ponder it.