Chapter Twenty-eight

I am exposed (again)

I could not hide nor pretend I had not seen her. My mother sat in the window of a respectable coffee shop and glared at me. Then she raised one imperious finger and beckoned. I entered the coffee shop in a state of extreme shock. I was unclear whether it was the sight of my mother sitting by a window (on public display!) or whether it was the sight of my mother at all that shocked me most. The last I had heard she was still living in the country, tending her subdued livestock and tyrannising the local population with piano lessons.

‘Is something wrong with little Joe?’ I exclaimed as I reached her table.

‘Good afternoon, Euphemia. Yes, I am quite well thank you. Allow me to present my dear friend Lady Blake. We were in the Primrose League together. Celia, this is my daughter, Euphemia Martins, who I certainly raised to behave in a much better style than this.’

Words failed me as I turned to offer my hand to Lady Blake. I recognised her at once. Her eyes met mine and she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. ‘Charmed to meet you, Euphemia,’ said Lady Blake. ‘I can assure you your little brother is quite well. I understand he is staying with your mother’s local squire and learning how to shoot.’

I could only surmise that she had never met Joe, she gave out the potentially lethal information in such a casual manner. ‘He will be fine, Euphemia,’ interrupted my mother. ‘He is only to be allowed to shoot rabbits and squirrels.’

My brother is a lovely boy of infinite charm, which he needs as he frequently gets himself into mischief. I knew my brother would never deliberately harm anyone or any livestock, but I also knew he was not very good at listening or obeying instructions. It seemed the height of folly to place a lethal weapon in his hands.

‘Are you in town long?’ enquired my mother. ‘Would you care to join us for a cup of tea or would you prefer to stand there looking like a waitress?’

‘I am so sorry, Mama,’ I said contritely. ‘I have recently had a great deal on my mind. I believe I will shortly be living London to return to the Mullers’ estate, but I am uncertain as to the date of my departure.’

‘And as to whether it is significantly far in the future to allow you to consume a cup of tea?’ asked my mother.

A waiter appeared behind me and set a chair. I sat down automatically. ‘I do not wish to intrude,’ I said, casting a worried look in Lady Blake’s direction.

‘Very well,’ said my mother, as soon as I was seated, ‘I can see you are eager to be about your concerns. I will be writing to you shortly about a matter of import.’

‘I see,’ I said numbly.

‘Indeed, it is very good news,’ said Lady Blake. ‘Your mother and I are shortly to become related. Or have I said too much?’

‘My daughter has yet to meet your cousin, the Bishop. She has been living in the country for some time with friends.’

‘Bishop?’ I asked, confused. I was ignored.

‘But there is nowhere like one’s home, is there?’ said Lady Blake.

‘Are you going to work for a Bishop, Mother?’ I asked. She gave me a hard stare.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Euphemia. People of our station do not work. I am going to marry him.’

‘I am so delighted for you, my dearest. It seems both our fortunes are on the turn,’ said Lady Blake.

I rose, mumbling my excuses, and left. I wandered back to the hotel in a daze. Bertram met me in the lobby. ‘Ah, good, I was beginning to think about dinner,’ he said. ‘Shall we dine in the restaurant tonight?’

‘No, I need to speak to you in private,’ I said.

Bertram cocked an eyebrow. ‘Have you been out solving things without me? I thought you were only going to buy gloves. How much trouble can you get into buying gloves?’ His voice rose slightly. ‘I should have known. Something dire has happened, hasn’t it?’

Indeed,’ I said, ‘I met my mother and she told Martha Lake exactly who I really am.’

With this parting shot I headed towards the lift. There was an audible pause behind me. Then I heard Bertram’s positively hoofing it towards me. In the lift cage his face was a veritable picture, as he struggling not to demand answers in from of the bellboy.

Once inside our suite, he exploded, ‘So will you finally tell me your real name?’

‘Martins,’ I said quietly.

‘I mean if your mother is going around spreading it all over London, surely you can be bothered to tell me,’ Bertram continued at volume.

‘Martins,’ I said again. ‘Euphemia Martins.’

‘Martins?’ asked Bertram. ‘Martins? Why on earth would you bother to conceal a name as common as that? Unless there are some Lord and Lady Martins I have never heard of?’ His voice dripped sarcasm.

‘I cannot understand it,’ I said, taking off my gloves and collapsing into a chair in a most unladylike fashion. ‘My mother has known how important my pseudonym is. In fact she approved of my using it. She did not wish our name to be associated with service.’

‘Why? It’s a decent living,’ said Bertram.

I looked over at Bertram. He was standing legs wide, arms crossed, a fierce expression on his face. On a taller man it might have looked imposing. Dear Bertram. He had been my champion and occasionally my protector for so long. How much should I say? I felt my mother had opened this can of worms and she deserved whatever happened next.

‘As I told you, Bertram, my father was a Vicar. My mother came from a superior social class. She eloped with him when she was very young and her family cast her off. When my father died so unexpectedly we discovered he had no savings and were on the brink of destitution. My mother once again appealed to her family, but they ignored her. This is why I went into service. I saw little else that could be done, and I have a younger brother who must shortly be sent off to school.’ I vaguely registered that Bertram had sat down opposite me, but my mind was racing as I decided what details to give him. I had kept the truth from them all for so long I was desperate to divulge all, but instinct warned me not to do so. ‘My mother raised me as a lady, far above what is usual for a vicar’s daughter, and because my father observed I have a sharp mind, and he was a most intelligent man himself, he gave me access to his library. He taught me far more than my mother liked.’ I smiled slightly. ‘She would always say that intelligence in a lady is as useful as having hooves.’

‘It would mean you didn’t need shoes,’ said Bertram lightly.

I laughed at this. ‘That is exactly what I told her. I had to go to bed without supper for a week for my impertinence.’

‘She sounds a bit of a Tartar.’

‘Life has disappointed her,’ I said sadly. ‘I believe she has always tried to do her best by both Joe and I –’

‘Your brother?’

I nodded, ‘– but she also feels that she has failed. I am very sorry to say that the love between my parents did not survive their disparity in station. My mother was ill-fitted for such a lowly life.’

‘Are you going to tell me you are descended from royalty?’ asked Bertram, and I could see he was only half-joking.

‘Not at all,’ I said quickly and then for the first time I lied. My paternal grandfather had been a professor at Oxford University. His wife had died young and he had kept himself very much to himself after that. He and my father corresponded at length and when I was old enough I wrote to him up until his death, some two years before my father’s demise. He was a hugely intelligent man with a dry wit and huge sense of compassion. I prayed he would forgive me for what I must say next, but I needed to redirect Bertram’s interest, if I was to keep my grandfather, the Earl, secret. ‘My father’s family were in trade. They were drapers. My father had excellent manners, but he could not ever offer my mother the life she had been brought up to expect.’

‘So what has changed?’

‘If I understood the conversation correctly she is on the verge of marrying a Bishop. I keep thinking that I must have misheard, but her comments were concise.’

‘A prince of the church,’ said Bertram, smiling. ‘Much more suitable. Which is your mother’s family?

‘But that is not the extraordinary thing,’ I said, diverting him away from a dangerous area. ‘She was having tea with an old friend, Lady Celia Blake. The woman I knew as Martha Lake.’