‘I’m not surprised. I am conscious of a great sense of oppression myself. I’m sure you will be the better for some rest. Shall I call for you tomorrow, early – shall we ride together? Perhaps things will seem clearer in the morning once we have both slept.’
They agreed that they would meet again the next day, and Sir Dominic escorted her home, kissing her hand as he left her and giving her a very speaking look. She smiled tremulously at him and hurried to seek the sanctuary of her chamber. Unfastening her pelisse and throwing off her bonnet and half-boots, she flung herself onto Maria’s bed and gazed unseeingly at the faded silken canopy above her.
Her head was pounding in earnest now; there would be no need to feign a headache. Rack her heated brains as she might, she had no idea what in the world they should do. Could it really be true that there were only two options open to them: to commit themselves utterly to a lifetime’s deception and a sham marriage, or to reveal some version of the truth and thus betray her sister, with all the grave consequences that might bring? If there was a solution for this riddle – and her mama had brought her up to believe that there was always an answer to be found for any problem, if only one applied one’s sense and intelligence to the matter – she could not imagine what it might be. She groaned, and rolled over to bury her face in the soft pillow and seek the blessed oblivion of sleep.
24
Dominic, meanwhile, made his way to Clarges Street, and was fortunate enough to find his widowed parent at home. She was delighted to see him, and not in the least surprised when he rather firmly requested a private interview, without the awkward presence of poor Cousin Sarah. He was fond of his cousin, and grateful for her unstinting devotion to his mother, but in these highly unusual circumstances they would do much better without her. That lady was quite sure they must have private matters to discuss – she would not think of intruding on the sacred filial bond – not the least need in the world to beg her pardon – so kind and considerate always to one who scarcely merited or expected such attention – and thus gently twittered herself out of the room.
‘I trust Miss Nightingale is well?’ Lady De Lacy said as the door closed, smiling fondly at her only child. ‘Does she require my chaperonage once more this evening? You know I am only too happy to oblige her in any way – so soon she will be a member of our family, and I am sure I could not be fonder of her if she were my own daughter.’
‘Mama,’ he replied, his face serious, ‘there is no easy way to tell you this, so I beg that you will hear me out while I explain. I am afraid what I have to tell you will be a great shock, but I have no choice but to share it. Since our engagement party, the young lady you have assumed – quite naturally – to be Miss Nightingale has in fact been her younger sister, Margaret. Meg.’
‘Dominic, do not tease me so, I beg! I don’t have the least idea what you’re saying to me,’ his mother said, her expression blank, only the restless movement of her thin hands betraying the extent of her agitation.
‘Miss Nightingale found herself unable to face the prospect of marrying me.’ Here he was saying it again for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last few days, but now he knew the reason it did not sting any longer. ‘It does not matter why. She ran away, in fact, and Mrs Greystone summoned Miss Maria’s sister – you will recall that they are identical twins – and induced her to take her place, to assume her identity. In case you should judge either of them harshly, I should tell you, if you do not know it already, that Mrs Greystone is quite in awe of her brother, frightened of him, in fact, and would do almost anything to avoid incurring his wrath.’
‘And you… you have known this for how long, Dominic?’ His mother’s voice was rising, both in volume and in sharpness.
‘Since that night of the engagement party,’ he said a touch wearily. ‘Miss Margaret revealed her identity to me immediately. She thought, unsurprisingly, that her sister’s flight might be laid at my door, through some ill-treatment or discourtesy that I had offered her after our betrothal. Miss Margaret challenged me, in fact, to explain myself. I was able to convince her that she was quite wrong in her supposition, and we have been busying ourselves in trying to discover Miss Nightingale’s whereabouts ever since. There is no point going into detail, but I think you must be able to see that, whatever happens, my marriage with Miss Maria cannot now go ahead.’ He drew a breath, glad to have the matter off his chest, and considered how best to convey some part of Maria’s plan and their qualms about it, but he was not to have the opportunity to do so.
‘Cannot go ahead?’ his mother repeated shrilly. ‘Cannot? Dominic, it must!’
‘Ma’am, I know you have become greatly enamoured of the idea, but you must see how impossible it is, that I should marry one so reluctant. Even if she could be forced to accept me by some disagreeable form of pressure to which I could never consent, my own feelings would not allow me to continue, knowing her extreme dislike of the match. If you are concerned that there will be a scandal?—’
‘My God!’ she burst out furiously, much to his astonishment. ‘There will be a scandal on a scale you cannot imagine! We will be ruined!’
‘I cannot think that matters are so very serious, ma’am. There may be a little gossip when it is known that she has cried off, but it will surely soon pass over, as such things always do.’
‘Dominic,’ she said heavily, her face pale and set, ‘I see that I must tell you all. There are machinations of which you are ignorant, but I fear the time for concealment is long past. My dear son, much as it pains me to say so, I too have been deceiving you. This marriage, which I presented to you as your father’s fondest wish, was in fact nothing of the kind!’ She paused, as if to see the effect her dramatic words had on him.
He was silent for a moment, his thoughts shifting and falling into place. ‘I had wondered…’ he said slowly at last. ‘It seemed so unlike Papa, to make a plan, and such a plan, behind my back. I have been struggling to reconcile the idea with my knowledge of him; it has given me sleepless hours. But good God, whyever would you say such a thing? I cannot think it right of you, ma’am, to deceive me so! Were you so desperate to bend me to your will that you must lie to me, on such a subject?’
She blenched, and said tragically, ‘It was a ruse. I admit it gave me grave qualms to practise on you so, Dominic. You are not the only one who has had sleepless nights over this, I promise you! But I dare say you still cannot possibly suspect why I should have taken such a grave step, my poor ignorant child?’
Dominic could not doubt the genuineness of her emotions, but as always the manner in which she chose to express them put him so greatly in mind of Mrs Siddons in one of her less successful roles that he struggled to be sympathetic. ‘Clearly not just because you have a great fondness for getting your own way, which I might otherwise have suspected,’ he responded with a little pardonable asperity. ‘I am sorry to be excessively brusque, ma’am, but really, we are in such a sad coil, I wish that you would cut line and tell me what precisely it is that you mean, and lay off these Drury Lane airs while you do so.’ When his mother made no response but rather looked at him with an oddly shame-faced expression, he felt sorry for her despite his irritation, and said more gently, ‘It cannot be so very bad. Tell me, and we will find a way through it together.’
She looked at him in silence for a moment longer, and then said baldly, as if exhausted, ‘Very well. I am being blackmailed.’
25
It was the last thing he had expected to hear. ‘Blackmailed,’ he repeated, unsure if he had heard her correctly, or if she was still indulging in her fondness for exaggeration.
‘By Lord Nightingale,’ she said. Now that she had cast off the theatrical mannerisms that had always irritated him so, he could see that she was genuinely frightened.
‘I don’t understand. You can have done nothing…’
‘Oh, indeed not!’ Lady De Lacy spat out. ‘I have done nothing, and nor, my dear son, have you. But we would be the ones who would be made to suffer for it.’
He was silent for a moment, at a loss, then a sudden burst of unwelcome illumination struck him. ‘My father,’ he said. It was not a question; it was all becoming clear to him now.
‘Your father,’ she agreed with deep and abiding bitterness. ‘Using his precious charity, his great reputation for philanthropy, as a cover to meet that shameless woman, to live with her, to make a fool of me!’
There was no point, Dominic knew, in attempting to defend Angela Jones, his father’s long-term lover, to his mother – it would be cruel as well as useless. There was little point, for that matter, in attempting to convince her that Sir Thomas’s charitable impulses had been genuine, whatever consequences had sprung from them. He and Angela between them had saved dozens, perhaps hundreds of children from the dirty and dangerous streets of London, and made life a little easier for many more they could not save. But if Lady De Lacy had ever given a fig for any of that, she did not now. ‘I didn’t know you knew,’ he said gently. ‘I had thought it could be kept from you, so that the knowledge would not hurt you. Whatever else you believe of my father, however justified your anger with him might be, please do believe that he never set out deliberately to wound you.’
‘He may not have intended to, but still he did it. I always knew,’ she whispered, her voice vibrating with pain and anger. ‘Always. I knew where he was going when he left me alone, time after time. And I knew about the child.’
Dominic passed his hand over his face for a moment, then rose from his seat and went to take his mother’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he said. ‘I truly am.’
