The wry look appeared. “I should, infinitely. Sadly, I am plagued by a demon of curiosity. A rare thing, which promises to break the intolerable tedium of my life. You are not who you seem to be, Miss Temple, and that intrigues me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alone in the parlour, Felicity felt relieved Angelica had been obliged to attend an evening engagement. She could not have endured to read Papa’s journal in company. Or at all. But after the revelation of Lord Maskery’s letter, it was imperative to find out anything she could to throw light on his cryptic hints.
“Try for names, places and dates,” Lord Lynchmere had advised. “We need a starting point.”
It was odd indeed to be scheming with him and her hostess. She ought rather to be securing her future. Although, according to Angelica’s airy notion, to discover her antecedents would do just that. Felicity remained unconvinced. If it was not for the question concerning Papa’s allowance and what had happened to it, she must have dismissed the possibility of family interest. But her guardian…
The thoughts faded. That word had become anathema, sitting awkwardly on her tongue. Almost unconsciously, as she read, she realised she was looking for his name in the pages of the journal. Surely Papa must have mentioned him? If they were friends, acquaintances even, or related by associated interests, it would be natural for his name to appear. But so far she had not found anything to indicate the presence of Lord Maskery in Papa’s life.
Reading his journal was throwing up a plethora of memories, more and more forgotten images coming to life. Little scenes of rare domesticity, with here and there a puzzle at the time which now made sense to her adult mind.
Must take more care. Flissie woke tonight. Found her curled up in the chair in the parlour. Too distracted, too much liquor, and the creature I’d brought home was with me.
Felicity recalled the incident. She had woken as Papa lifted her, seen the painted face of a female and heard a cooing sort of voice — “oh, poor little lamb, she must be cold —” as he carried her to bed. He had murmured and petted and she had sunk back into slumber, disturbed again by odd noises and laughter coming from the room next door. By morning, however, it was forgotten. The significance was clear, and perhaps telling. She did not think Papa had again brought a female back to their lodging, no doubt careful of his small daughter asking questions impossible for him to answer.
For the most part, his entries were cryptic and irregular. He had written intermittently, with here and there a burst of description: a fall of countryside, a grotto he thought mystical, a stormy sea in a bay where a wrecked ship drew a crowd hopeful of plunder. A vague recollection of a piratical story Papa invented for her benefit surfaced. One of the fairy tales with which he had entertained her, and then written down. Or had the writing come first? From time to time he had come home flourishing a bank draft.
“We are rich again, my little sweetheart! A treat is in order, don’t you think? What would you like? Shall we have an adventure?”
An adventure often meant a change of residence, but Felicity recalled theatres, colourful markets, a waxworks once, or merely the luxury of a tea shop with buns or ices. Papa had not recorded these, but the mention of a sold story in one entry brought it all back.
We shall hie us to Middenhall after this. Mrs Kimble was ever accommodating. She may know of an apartment. High time we settled for Flissie’s sake. We liked the area and she enjoyed adventures in Savernake Forest. Far enough from the Beast. Near enough to Rusper if I should need to beard the old nipcheese.
Something clicked in Felicity’s mind. Nanny Kimble! The landlady who had seen her through the tragedy. Then it must have been in Middenhall that Papa died.
Urgent questions leapt in her head as her reading sped up. She held the letter closer to the candle she had set upon the occasional table next to her chair to facilitate reading.
Was this now Middenhall? She flicked through the entries following Papa saying they would hie there, looking for dates: November; January; then January again and one in February. He had died in February, on the last day. She was going on ten at the time, so it had to be ’94. Was it then the October of the previous year he decided to go to Middenhall? Had they been there throughout?
Flipping to the final entry, she looked for a date and found none. However, it must have been written within a few days of his death. The one before was in February. She worked backwards through the last entries of the journal, hunting for the names that had now taken on significance.
There! Yes, here it was. Middenhall. And a date in late November. Then they had been there about three months or so. The name of Rusper caught her eye.
Shall hie me to Rusper. The old nipcheese will be glad to hear I plan on taking a proper apartment. If only the Beast can be persuaded to disgorge a trifle more.
But had he been so persuaded? She read from that point on, feeling feverish with anxiety. No further mention of the plan. No word of this Rusper, or of hearing anything in return. Had Papa actually gone totheoldnipcheese? Or had he delayed, in his inimitable careless style, until it was too late?
LeftFlissiewithMrsKimble. This sentence occurred several times, showing they had remained in Middenhall.
Had Papa been absent a great deal? Felicity could not remember, those last days blurred by the subsequent cataclysm of his loss. Even Mrs Kimble had slipped out of her head, despite having been her refuge in the first hideous aftermath. Later, with the subsequent change in her circumstances, there had been too much to take in, too much heartbreak. Small wonder her mind had chosen forgetfulness.
But here were the clues. Here was the starting point Lord Lynchmere requested: a place, a date, and names.
Felicity’s heart shied away from the possibilities inherent in discovery, but equally she knew there would be no rest now, no peace of mind, without it.
Angelica was predictably scandalised. “Jaunter about the countryside together? Without the vestige of a chaperon? Raoul, have you run mad?”
Within an ace of replying in the affirmative, Raoul clicked an impatient tongue. “What difference does it make? The whole affair reeks of scandal already, and Miss Temple has no intention of attempting a further assault upon Society.”
His cousin threw up agitated hands. “That is just why, Raoul. If you are determined upon behaving in this disgraceful fashion, she won’t have a prayer of doing so. You will ruin the poor girl, and for what?”
He threw a glance at the girl in question, looking perfectly composed where she sat on the sofa, her father’s journal held between the fingers in her lap. Or were they gripping the thing? He was conscious the journey to investigate her past might well change her mind about her social prospects. He had made the offer upon learning of her discoveries, without even thinking about it. The suspicion he had indeed taken leave of his senses could not but hover in the recesses of his brain, yet there was no going back. The eager flare in Miss Temple’s eyes might have dulled, but that first instant reaction told him how vital to her was the prospect of finding out, and he would not willingly disappoint her. Or was she regretful now?
“Are you afraid, Miss Temple? Do you wish to cry off?”
A tense look came into her face. “I can’t.” Her gaze turned to Angelica. “But I can go alone, if his lordship will lend me the funds.”
