A letter on her lap, Amelia sat in the beautifully redecorated drawing room of her London house. Somewhat tired after she and her chaperone visited the Pantheon Bazaar to choose more toys, for nine-year old Diana, six-year old Sophie and five-year old Cassie, she waited for tea to be served.
Certain the children would be delighted with the furnished doll’s house, miniature dolls and a puppet theatre, which awaited them in the day nursery, Amelia giggled. In the bazaar, she and Mrs Deane had reacted to the exquisite dolls and other toys like a pair of overjoyed children. If the countess permitted, she would take her young guests to see the toy shops, the children’s book shops and those merchants who sold monkeys, parrots and other creatures.
At first, Amelia had felt completely out of place at Longwood. At ease by the time she left she now missed Charlotte and the children. Tomorrow, she would welcome her guests whom she looked forward to seeing again.
Most members of the ton would not return to London for the season until April, but her ladyship had decided to arrive in mid-March. Amelia scanned the countess’s letter, part of which read:
“After I recover from my journey, I shall begin the exhausting task of choosing the clothes and accessories of the finest quality my dearest Charlotte requires for her introduction to polite society. When you visited us at Christmas, your elegance and good taste charmed me. I hope you will recommend the most fashionable modistes and milliners for my patronage.”
Amelia smiled. It would not be a hardship. She enjoyed discussing the latest fashions and fabrics, styles and shopping. Now that she was no longer obliged to wear half-mourning, she would enjoy helping to choose new wardrobes for herself and Charlotte.
Mrs Deane indicated the silver tray a footman put on a table. “Shall I pour tea for you, Miss Carstairs?”
“Yes, please.” Outside incessant rain, which replaced ice and snow of recent months, poured down like screens which obscured the view of the street. “Draw the curtains,” Amelia instructed the footman.
“Something to eat?” Mrs Deane asked.
“Yes please, one of chef’s delicious queen cakes.”
While she ate and drank with enjoyment, Amelia admired her drawing room. Her choice of primrose yellow wallpaper and heavy silk curtains the colour of old gold gave an impression of sunshine even on the dullest day. The entire house, with its new décor in light colours instead of popular rich reds and dark greens, elegant furniture and large windows, flooding the rooms with light, gratified her.
Amelia tensed. Would Saunton’s mother approve? She could not think of a reason for the countess to find fault with her apartment adjacent to Charlotte’s bedroom and boudoir. Tomorrow, the vases in their rooms would be filled with greenery and early daffodils. Muscle by muscle she forced herself to relax.
Her butler brought a silver salver, on which a card reposed.
Amelia picked up the white oblong. Cheap pasteboard with the name Mrs Redmayne printed on it.
“The lady begs for a few minutes of your time,” Yates told her.
“You should have told her I am not at home to visitors.”
“I did, Miss Carstairs, but she dodged past me.”
“Where is she?”
“In the small parlour.”
“Very well, I shall speak to her, but order two footmen to wait outside the door in case I need protection.”
“Should you?” Mrs Deane asked. “One does not know what to expect from a woman who thrusts herself into a house.”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t want to give orders for any female to be manhandled out onto the street. What can I do other than grant her a few minutes of my time?”
Mrs Deane put down her cup and stood.
“Please be seated, ma’am.” Amelia patted her chaperone’s shoulder. “You were shivering all over with cold when we returned from the Pantheon Bazaar. Stay by the fire and enjoy another cup of tea, while I deal with the intruder.”
* * *
In the parlour, her face concealed by a filmy dark veil, Mrs Redmayne, a slender woman dressed in severe unevenly dyed black, faced Amelia.
“I am Miss Carstairs. What-” Amelia began
“Yes, I know you are,” the stranger interrupted. “I have often watched you from afar.”
Was the woman deranged. “Why?” she asked, scared but trying not to show it.
“Shall we sit down?” Mrs Redmayne asked. “What I am about to say will surprise you.”
Apprehensive, but curious, Amelia ignored the suggestion.
Mrs Redmayne removed her veil, straightened her back and squared her shoulders.
Delphinium blue eyes stared at her from a face which seemed familiar. “Please make your explanation short and quick.”
“Very well, but there is no easy way to reveal the truth.”
Irritated, and impatient to see the earl, who would soon visit her by prior arrangement, Amelia wanted her uninvited guest to come to the point. “What is the truth?”
“I am your mother.”
Grandmamma had cautioned her about people who would try to take advantage of her. She had not warned her that a lunatic might.
Mrs Redmayne reached out her hands. Amelia stepped back to evade them.
“No, don’t be frightened. You are shocked but-”
“How dare you tell a preposterous lie? My mamma died long ago.”
“That is what my wicked old mother, your grandmother, told you.”
Not for a second did Amelia believe the woman’s claim. Furious, she strode to the door and turned the china door knob. “If you refer to Mrs Bettismore,” her voice shook with rage, “you, are the evil one. I don’t believe you.”
The pretender tugged the bell rope. “Summon Blythe, she will confirm I am your mother.”
Surprised because the woman knew her dresser’s name, Amelia frowned. “Very well but she will prove you are a liar.”
“No, she will not. Who do you think gave Blythe paintings of me and my husband on the pretext my mother threw them away?”
How did Mrs Redmayne know about the miniatures? She could not look away from the woman. Blue eyes, a face shaped like her own, fair hair only a little paler than her golden curls. No, she must not allow herself to be misled. She did not believe the stranger’s claim.
The door opened a little. Amelia moved away from it to make room for Yates. He glanced with professional hauteur from her to the claimant. “You rang, Miss Carstairs?”
She struggled to speak, failed, but clung to her grandmother’s forewarning.
Amelia could almost hear those words, “There is something I should have told you,” which frequently repeated themselves in her mind. On the verge of death, did Grandmamma-?
Mrs Redmayne broke the silence. “Yates, please summon Blythe.”
“Miss Carstairs?” he queried.
Amelia nodded to confirm the instruction.
He returned moments later to announce not Blythe, but Saunton. With obvious surprise, the earl looked from her to the woman.
“Thank God you are here,” Amelia cried out and hurried across the room towards him.
“What has overset you?” His arms enfolded her. She pressed her cheek against him grateful for his strength. She breathed in the wholesome scent of fresh linen mingled with sandalwood. With exquisite gentleness, he held her a little apart from him and looked deep into her eyes, “What is wrong? How may I serve you?” He led her to a chair.
Yates’s cough reminded them of his presence. “Shall I tell Blythe to come here?”
Amelia drew in a deep breath to steady herself. “Yes,” she replied. She indicated Mrs Redmayne. “Saunton, this woman claims she is my mother.”
Saunton scrutinised the claimant. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Earl of Saunton whom Mrs Bettismore appointed Miss Carstairs’ guardian and one of her trustees.”
“I know. Since my mother stole Amelia, Blythe kept me informed and as I said earlier to Amelia, I have watched her from afar.”
Amelia studied Mrs Redmayne’s face. “Why?”
“I loved you when the midwife first put you in my arms, and I have never ceased loving you.”
“Saunton, I don’t believe her. My grandmother, a devout Christian woman, would not have lied. I intended to give orders for Mrs Redmayne to be shown out of the house, but she knows about the miniature portraits of my parents my dresser gave to me. If she did not hand them over to Blythe, how could she know about them? Or, maybe, Blythe told her about them.”
“I don’t know,” Saunton replied. “Shall we be seated and discuss it?” When they were settled, he spoke. “Have you considered that Blythe might be untrustworthy?”
“I would have staked my reputation on her loyalty.”
“And I would stake mine on a blood relationship between you and your visitor. The resemblance between you is remarkable. But whether she is your mother remains to be proved. Why should Mrs Bettismore have claimed you are an orphan?”
“Why? I can tell you. That manipulative old woman did not want Amelia to know the truth,” Mrs Redmayne declared. At that moment the dresser arrived. “Do you recognise me, Blythe?”
The dresser stared at the floor. “Of course I do, madam,” she said in a barely audible voice.
“Who am I?”
“My late mistress’s daughter,” Blythe answered. “Miss Carstairs, I am very sorry for keeping the truth from you but your grandmother made me promise not to reveal it.”
“Are you sure she is not a charlatan?” Amelia demanded.
Blythe swallowed several times. “No, Miss, she is your mother.”
Amelia stared at the figure swathed in black. “S…so you are in mourning for Grandmamma.”
An ugly laugh escaped the woman she could not call mother. “I don’t mourn her and would not wear black for her.” The expression in her eyes softened. “I am in mourning for my husband, Mr Redmayne,” she explained in a voice choked with emotion.
Amelia bit her lower lip so hard that she almost drew blood as she turned her attention to her dresser. “Even if you and Mrs Redmayne have not lied, I find it almost impossible to believe you concealed the truth from me. I trusted you, Blythe.”
“Please don’t dismiss me. I wanted to tell you the truth about your mother.” Tears streamed down her face. “Mrs Bettismore made me swear on the Bible never to tell you your mother did not die. She would have cast me out without a reference. No one else would have employed me. I might have starved to death.”
“Miss Carstairs, perhaps Blythe should leave us.” Like a butcher’s sharp knife Saunton’s voice cut across the room.
Her dresser scuttled out of the room without permission.
Saunton poured wine. “Drink this ratafia. It will calm you while Mrs Redmayne justifies her claim that Mrs Bettismore lied about your mother’s supposed death.” He filled another glass and handed it to the claimant. “Mrs Redmayne.”
She looked up at him over the brim of her glass.
“Apart from Blythe’s confirmation that you are Miss Carstairs’ mother, I presume you can substantiate your claim.”
“Syddon, the old woman’s man of business, will vouch for me.”
“Very well. Miss Carstairs, shall I leave you to speak in private with Mrs Redmayne?”
“No!”
“As you please,” Saunton said.
“Amelia, I hope you will understand and forgive me for what I am about to tell you,” Mrs Redmayne began. “I was sixteen-years-old when my step-father died. Mother brought me home for the funeral from The Beeches, a boarding school for young ladies. Dry-eyed, your grandmother observed all the proprieties but never offered me a word of comfort. If she mourned Mr Bettismore, whom I adored, she showed no signs of it.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief edged with a narrow black border.
“Later, I begged Mother to send me back to boarding school. She refused.
“Amelia, I was a bored young girl when I met Oliver Carstairs, an acquaintance of my friend’s brother. I fell in love with Oliver, a handsome, high-spirited young army officer who courted and flattered me. I should have known an honourable gentleman would not have persuaded me to agree to clandestine assignations.” Mrs Redmayne broke off and gulped some wine.
“I shall not reveal all of the shameful details. At the end of the London Season, Oliver left London after he promised to marry me, with his father’s permission,” she said in a husky voice. “His father refused, so we eloped. Six months after our marriage, Oliver took me to Spain where he died, the victim of a French sniper. With child, I returned to my mother in England.” Her hand trembled. Wine splashed onto her shabby bombazine gown. She tried to dab it away with the handkerchief. “How clumsy of me.” Her eyes misty, she looked at them.
Amelia’s stomach clenched and she pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Madam, every disclosure shocks me more than the last,” she said, her throat tight.
“Some more wine?” Saunton suggested. “No?” He raised his quizzing glass to his eye and looked through it at Mrs Redmayne. “I assume you reached an agreement with Mrs Bettismore after Miss Carstairs’s birth.”
“Yes, what other choice did I have? Without my signature on the papers that gave the old witch full custody of Amelia, we would have been thrown out of the house with no means of support.”
“You have a copy of them?”
“Yes, and so does my mother’s attorney.”
“He could confirm your identity?”
“Yes. My lord, I am not a liar. I am Amelia’s mother.”
A glint in his eye, Saunton regarded her. “Mrs Bettismore died six months ago, why did you not reveal the truth earlier?”
“For fear of how my daughter would judge me,” she faltered. For the first time, her eyes filled with tears. She eyed Amelia. “I kept in contact with Blythe, who gave me precious scraps of information about you. Please believe I love you.”
Her sensibilities torn in all directions, Amelia found it almost impossible to think ill of her grandmother.
“I am Miss Carstairs’ guardian,” Saunton interjected, “I have the right to demand an answer to my question. Tell us the truth. Why have you come here today?”
The widow twisted and turned her handkerchief around and around. “To see my daughter, to tell the truth about my manipulative mother and ... and-”
“And?” Saunton demanded.
“For help. When Mr Redmayne, a good, kind gentleman, died a month ago, I inherited little. My mother made no provision for me after her death. Without the allowance settled on me from the day I left my daughter in her care, I am almost destitute. Amelia, your half-brother and sister will starve if you do not help me.”
Children related to her by blood! Her mind could not cope with the knowledge. She sat straighter. “Mrs Redmayne, you almost convinced me you care about me, but Grandmamma warned me. She said people would try to hang onto my coat sleeves.”
“I love you.” Mrs Redmayne blinked tears away from her eyes. “I wish circumstances did not force me to ask for charity.”
Shaken to the centre of her being, too proud to weep, Amelia stood. If Mrs Redmayne had not vilified Grandmamma, she might have dredged up some sympathy. A Christian, she did not wish her mother and half-siblings to starve, yet she must have time to mull over her mother’s admissions. “My guardian, Mr Syddon and my banker are in charge of my affairs. In exchange for incontrovertible proof of your claims Saunton will deal with your-” she sought for the right word, “needs. Good day to you, Madam.” She glanced at the earl.
“Miss Carstairs, if you wish, you may depend on me to take charge of the matter.” Saunton opened the door. He stepped aside for her to leave the parlour.