The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (31 page)

“Have I ever led you astray?” Genevieve demanded.

She hadn’t. “That isn’t the point.”

“Then just this once, Amanda.” Genevieve threaded her arm through hers. “This once, I’m going to ask you to trust me.”

Looking down into her friend’s blue eyes, the determined set of her chin… She couldn’t say no. She didn’t dare disappoint Genevieve.

Genevieve turned her in the direction of the parlor and guided her to the door. She disengaged Amanda’s arm only long enough to wrestle the door open. “Ladies,” she announced. “She is here.”

Amanda recognized Geraldine instantly. She looked so very like her sister—blond, blue-eyed, a sweet smile on her face—but with a little more of the plumpness that came from bearing children. But it was the woman sitting at her side that made Amanda’s heart stutter.

She was tall and dark-haired. She was also plump and smiling a little. But her smile had a sadness to it.

“Maria?” Amanda could not make herself move into the room.

Her next-youngest sister. The last time she’d seen her, Maria had told her she wanted nothing to do with her. Amanda couldn’t believe that Genevieve had done this to her. All her old fears assailed her. She wanted to turn on her heel and run away, before Maria could do the same in response.

But Maria didn’t run. She stood, raising one hand to her mouth. “Amanda.” And then she held out her arms.

Amanda didn’t know how she managed to cross the room and navigate around the table. Her gown caught on a teapot; she was dimly aware of Genevieve behind her snatching it gracefully before it upended itself.

But her sister was in her arms. Maria didn’t hate her forever. She hadn’t ruined absolutely everything.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in her sister’s ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

Amanda gulped back a sniff. She wasn’t going to cry. She
wasn’t.
But when she pulled away from her sister, she saw Maria’s eyes wet with tears, and found she couldn’t help herself.

Genevieve handed her a handkerchief.

It was some ten minutes later—ten minutes of incoherent exclamations, of taking her sister’s hand and being unable to let it go—before she no longer needed to dab at her stinging eyes.

“Maria,” she said. “Why are you here? I thought…”

Her sister blushed. “You thought I hated you. I did. At first. Mama and Papa told me it was your fault I didn’t find a husband that first Season. I thought you had ruined my life.”

“It was,” Amanda said seriously. “I did.”

Maria didn’t respond to this. Instead she looked out over Amanda’s shoulder. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. I
did
marry down. I resented you and Aunt Violet for years. And then… One day, I realized that the scandal you caused meant that the man I had married truly loved me. He’d married me for
me,
not for what I could bring him.” Her lip curved up in a smile. “I discovered I loved him, too, and I stopped feeling so bitter.”

“I’m glad.”

“But I don’t think I understood how badly I had erred until I had my daughter. She’s so…so
bright,
Amanda. She’s only five now, and the other day, I found her reading
Pilgrim’s Progress
aloud to her younger brother. I want you to know her.” Maria’s eyes glistened once more.

“Oh, Maria. I would love to know your daughter.”

“I started listening to what I said to her. When she was three, I told her that she couldn’t contradict the boy next door, even when she’s right, because it’s indelicate for a lady to disagree with a gentleman. I told her that she mustn’t run, because ladies never hurry. Every day, from the moment she took her first step, I’ve told her to stop: to stop thinking, to stop speaking, to stop moving about. And I didn’t know why I said any of it. Those words kept coming out of my mouth, passing through me.”

Amanda reached over and gripped her sister’s hand.

“I think that’s when I understood that you only ruined my life because my life needed ruining. Because the life you rejected demanded that I spend all my time telling my daughter to be less and my son to be more.”

“I wasn’t trying to save anyone,” Amanda said. “Just myself.”

Maria gave her a wavering smile. “Well. I started reading your paper a year ago. I would sit at breakfast with your essays and imagine that you were sitting across the table from me. That you had forgiven me for the horrible things I said to you. And then Miss Johnson came to me.”

Genevieve and Geraldine were sitting across the table from them, both silent. Geraldine wiped a demure tear from one eye. But Genevieve was smiling—a fierce, brilliant, perfect smile, one that Amanda could feel from three feet away.

“I’m wearing black,” Maria said. “I sent my number in for the demonstration and black is what I was told to wear. I brought…” She rummaged in a little bag. “This. For the gag.” She held up a dark kerchief. “Do you think this will do?”

“Maria, they’ve quashed the permit for the demonstration. We might all be arrested. You don’t have to do this.”

Maria’s smile faltered a moment. She looked at her kerchief. “Are you still going?”

“Yes,” Amanda said.

Maria looked at Amanda and raised her chin. “Let them just try and hold me, then,” she said. “I’m pregnant. My husband might not be the duke I dreamed of as a girl, but he can still make himself heard if necessary.”

Geraldine sniffed again. “Sisters,” she said.

Maria took Amanda’s hand. “Sisters,” she repeated. “I walked away from you years ago. I’ll be damned if I let you stand alone today.”

B
Y THE TIME
E
DWARD
and Patrick were called into the small, stuffy chamber behind the room where the Committee for Privileges met, the proceedings had already begun. Most of the lords on that committee likely hadn’t noticed the last-minute alteration to the agenda submitted by Baron Lowery, nor the extra witnesses that he’d had sworn in at yesterday’s poorly attended Parliamentary session.

The entire proceeding had an unreal quality to it.

It seemed impossible that Edward should be here now. Just last night, he’d married Free. Just this morning, they had come down to London on the train together. He’d not been able to keep himself from touching her, public though the ride had been. His hand kept stealing into hers, his leg had brushed hers. They’d parted ways at the station—she to go to her demonstration, he to find his solicitors. He’d had his hair cut respectably short, and he was now garbed in a severe, dark suit, tailored to his form.

She was likely already in the park where they were to gather, issuing placards to the women. Preparing for arrest. She thought he had only a little business to do before he returned. She had no idea who he was about to become.

A man was reciting the substance of James’s claim to the viscountcy in the other room—a dry, dull, monotonous stream of facts about parentage.

He doubted the full committee was in attendance. Likely, they all thought this a fairly routine matter. After all, they were merely seating a lord who had presented his claim to the queen and had the particulars duly approved by the attorney general. Under ordinary circumstances, there would be nothing for them to do but vote at the end. Half had probably sent their proxies by way of one or another member.

Edward was about to make matters deviate from the ordinary.

In the back chamber, a man came up to the two of them. “You’re on the list of witnesses?” He brushed his thinning hair away from his eyes and peered at a page in his hand. “Your names?”

“Edward Clark,” Edward said. “And Patrick Shaughnessy. We were sworn in yesterday morning.”

The man nodded, checking them off the list he held. “If they need you, you’ll be called. Until then, you can have a seat.” He gestured at a handful of chairs and bustled off.

Edward recognized the names that were being recited in the other chamber, loud enough for them to hear even in here. There was a deposition referenced from the vicar who’d baptized his brother. A family servant attested to a continuing acquaintance. He wondered if James had noticed the additions to the witness list, or if he’d brushed them aside.

The man droned on. “As to the immediate family, the eldest son of John Delacey, the fourth Viscount Claridge, was Peter Delacey, who died an infant on August 2, 1849. The second eldest son, Edward Delacey, was born on March 15, 1850. He was in Strasbourg at the time that hostilities broke out between France and Prussia; all attempts to discover him after the region once again became stable were fruitless. Hundreds were killed, the bodies not all recovered. The last letter received from Edward Delacey, presented to this body as evidence by James Delacey, was dated July 6, 1870. Under our law, after seven years have passed without word, Edward Delacey is presumed dead. That brings us to the third rightful son of John Delacey, James Delacey, who is before us now.”

There was an indistinct murmur, one that Edward could not make out.

Then a different voice spoke up. “The chair recognizes Baron Lowery.”

“Thank you. As I understand the law, Edward Delacey is merely
presumed
dead at the moment. Is that correct?”

“For all legal purposes, yes.”

“But that presumption can be rebutted for legal purposes. Including, I suppose, right now.”

There was a pause and then another murmur.

“Do you believe that presumption can be rebutted?” someone asked.

“I believe I am honor-bound to rebut it,” Lowery said. “You see, it has come to my attention that Edward Delacey is alive.”

Edward’s hands were shaking. He pressed them against his trousers, but it didn’t help. He’d avoided this as long as he could. The thought of being called by that name again, of taking his father’s seat…

Yet here he was. It was too late. Even if he stood and left the room, they’d know now, and he’d never escape again.

There was a long pause in the other room.

“I have been presented with evidence to that effect,” Lowery continued, “which I shall present to this body, if I am so allowed.”

He could hear murmured voices in the other room—his brother, no doubt, coming alive and objecting. He couldn’t hear their words, didn’t care about the objections James lodged or the matters of procedure he argued. He just wanted this over with.

After five minutes, the man who had been reciting facts before spoke again, loud enough for him to hear once more. “Lowery may proceed.”

“But—” That was James, speaking loudly enough that Edward was certain of the identification.

“James Delacey, you are not a member of the committee, and may only speak before it when duly called upon.”

Silence. And then, the voice of Baron Lowery. “I call Patrick Shaughnessy, my stable master, to testify.”

Beside him, Patrick shut his eyes and heaved a great breath.

“Go,” Edward said. “It will be all right.”

The man who had greeted them eyed them with a far more avid interest now. The door to the hearing room had been scarcely ajar; he opened it wide and gestured Patrick forward. Patrick stood, clenching his fists. He had never been easy speaking to a crowd. But he marched forward bravely into the high-walled hearing room in the House of Lords.

The greeter didn’t close the door this time. Through the opening, Edward could see Patrick make his way slowly to the front. He lowered himself gingerly into the seat that had been pulled forward.

“State your name, sir.”

Patrick leaned forward; Edward could see his lips moving, but nothing more.

“Loud enough for the lords to hear, if you please.”

“I’m Patrick Shaughnessy,” his friend said more loudly. “If it please you.”

“Can you tell us where you were born?”

“I grew up on the estates of Viscount Claridge.” His back was a rigid line. “My father was stable master there. My mother was a seamstress.”

“Did you know Edward Delacey?”

“We met when I was five, when my parents came over. We became friends almost instantly. My father taught Edward how to ride; Edward taught me how to read. From the time we were young until the day he was sent to school, we were inseparable.”

“Did that friendship continue after he went to school?”

“His father didn’t wish it to,” Patrick said slowly. “But Edward wasn’t the sort of child to turn his back on a former friend. We would sneak out together when he was home on holidays—going to boxing matches and the like.”

“Do you have any proof of this friendship?”

“Edward Delacey was accounted a competent artist,” Patrick said. “He painted a miniature of the two of us when we were thirteen. I’ve brought it with me.” Patrick groped through the bag he carried and handed over an item.

“Did Edward maintain this friendship with you?”

“We got into a spot of trouble when we were seventeen,” Patrick said. “My father was injured.” The line of his back bowed momentarily. “Our family was sent away. Edward protested the treatment and was sent to Strasbourg in punishment.”

That was one way to describe what had happened—a way that left out the radical sentiment and Edward’s own foolish choices. But Patrick’s revelation had caused another murmur in the adjoining room. The men out there likely hadn’t heard that Strasbourg was a
punishment.