It was Marcus who’d found her. Marcus, who’d pulled her out from the debris. But her parents, both, were dead. She’d been orphaned at thirteen. A year later, she was in England, at Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies.
“Good heavens, Pen. What an utterly terrible thing to experience when so young. Because of that earthquake, you lost not only your family but also your heritage. It seems you lost your very self.” Alworth looked shaken.
“I lost my very self,” she echoed numbly. She turned to him with a gasp. “Yes.”
Alworth pointed with accurate, eerie knowing to the crux of the matter. She herself hadn’t realised it until he said so. She’d lost her childhood. She’d lost her heritage. She’d lost her very self that night. She no longer knew who she truly was.
Pen sat in silence as she digested this.
Was that why she clung to Marcus so much? Because he was her last tie to her childhood in India. To her parents. Because when she was with him, she knew who she was. He was her home. Her rock. A last remnant of her old identity. Without him, she felt like she floundered through life. How could one ever explain this to anyone?
“What about the Maharajah, your grandfather?” Alworth asked.
“Died long before that. Anyway, he’d disinherited my mother when she married my father. I have no family on that side. At least none who’d recognise me.”
“Back to your guardian. After he dropped you at that seminary, he just disappeared?”
Pen nodded again.
“When was it the last time you’ve actually seen him?”
Pen chewed on the inside of her cheeks. “Six years, seven months, three weeks and four days ago.”
“Six years!—my dear! How do you know the fellow’s even alive?”
She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. “The letter?” she whispered.
“Ah yes. Which was dated when?”
Pen hung her head. “Also six years ago.”
“Look at me, Pen.” She met his inquisitive gaze. “Has it ever occurred to you that this Marcus Smith might not be his real name?”
“But why? I’ve always called him that. Why would he leave me under the misapprehension that this is his real name, if it isn’t?”
“That is the question. A fellow might have all sorts of reasons not to want his identity known.”
“You make him sound like a criminal. Marcus is the nicest, kindest, most caring person I’ve ever known.”
“Is he?” Alworth gave an odd smile. “Let us hope you’re right, child.”
“Don’t call me ‘child’. How dare you insinuate he is anything but the best of characters? You don’t even know him. What do you know about loyalty and friendship, anyhow? All you care about is clothes and your club.” She curled her hands into hard balls.
“I see you have summed up my character to perfection. Which reminds me I do need a change of linen as the vehicle has whirled up quite a bit of dust. Now. Shall we return? It seems this afternoon’s ride is over.”
He drove her back in silence. Pen crossed her arms, sulking, all the time knowing she’d been inexcusably rude to him. But he had put to words some of her worst fears, and she dared not think about its implications. No. He must be entirely wrong. Marcus was Marcus. He wasn’t a criminal. She knew he wasn’t.
Alworth dropped her off at her inn.
Pen did not descend immediately. “I am sorry I was rude to you. I did not mean what I said. It was inexcusable.” She hung her head. “I tend to say things I don’t mean.”
Alworth’s lips quirked. “You mean the part about me not knowing anything about loyalty and friendship. You cut me to the quick.” He placed a hand over his heart.
Pen flushed. “It was a cruel thing to say. I have a terrible temper.” She scrambled off the vehicle.
“So I have noticed.” Then he tipped his hat. “Your servant, brat.”
He flicked the reins and drove off.
