The years keep coming and going,
Men will arise and depart;
Only one thing is immortal
The love that is in my heart.
Heinrich Heine, 1797—1856
Martin Bell arrived from Ireland, as expected, later that afternoon. He brought the bodies of George Ramsey, the late marquess of Templeston, and his companion, Mary Claire, with him.
Drew met him at the front door.
Martin clutched the handle of his battered brown leather file case in his fist as he climbed down from the wagon and embraced Drew. “It’s good to see you, my boy. I’ve brought your father home.”
Drew signaled for the group of footmen who had been assembled to unload the coffins from the back of the hearse to begin their sad task. The larger coffin bore the standard of the marquess of Templeston, while the smaller one was covered by a simple panel of black silk.
“Thank you, Marty.” Drew patted the older man on the back. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Martin’s voice was tremulous. His hand shook when he offered it to Drew and he looked a decade older than he had when he left London and sailed to Ireland. “Brace yourself.”
“I consulted with the local undertaker,” Drew said.
“The bodies were prepared in Ireland,” Martin told him. “I hired the hearse when we docked in London. The notices have already been posted there, so the only thing the local undertaker need worry about is the funeral procession and the funerals.”
Drew ushered his friend up the steps and into the house. “Everything is ready.” He opened the door to the study. “Go inside and sit down, Marty. I’ll just be a minute.”
Drew closed the door to the study and followed the footmen carrying his father’s coffin into the ballroom, where the massive mahogany dining table that would serve as a bier lay draped in black mourning cloths. He helped the men lift the coffin into place.
“Shall we open it, sir?” Newberry stood at Drew’s side.
“Not yet.” Drew shuddered. “Keep it closed until the guests begin to arrive. Set up a stand of candelabras at each corner and provide a kneeling bench.”
“What shall we do about the other?” Newberry nodded toward the footmen carrying the other coffin.
“Set up a bier in the chapel. Do the same for the young lady that you do for his lordship. I want candles burning at all times and I want someone there with her at all times. She was my father’s companion, and although we cannot give her a state funeral, we can give her the same care we give my father.”
“As you wish, milord.” Newberry quietly issued instructions to the footmen, then turned back to Drew. “Shall we post notice that the young woman will be in the chapel?”
Drew shook his head. “No, we’ll have someone greet each guest and provide remembrance cards at the door. Guests who ask for her card should be directed to the chapel. And we need flowers,” Drew remembered. “Fill the house with them.”
“Very good, milord.” Newberry bowed.
“Oh, and Newberry.” Drew thought of something else. “The ballroom will be off limits to everyone in the household this evening. I intend to sit with his lordship tonight and I would appreciate complete privacy.”
Newberry nodded. The new marquess would say his good-byes to his father in private. “I’ll see that your brandy cabinet is stocked before I retire for the evening, milord. It will be available should you require it.”
“Thank you.” Drew dismissed the butler and returned to his study. Martin had made himself at home in one of the big leather chairs before the fire. “You look like you could use a brandy.” Drew crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
“I may need an entire bottle.” Martin propped his feet upon the leather footstool in front of the hearth and buried his face in his hands.
Drew walked over to the secretary and poured each of them a deep snifter of brandy. He carried Martin’s drink over to him, then sat down beside him. “What do we know about Mary Claire?”
“Mary Claire O’Brien, aged eight and twenty, born in Limerick, Ireland. No family.”
“She was older than I thought,” Drew said.
“It surprised me as well.” Martin was thoughtful. “She appeared to be much younger. She was a lovely girl.”
“Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you, Martin?”
Martin unhooked the legs of his spectacles from his ears and carefully polished the lenses on the ends of his cravat. “Nothing can make this easier for me. Your father and I have been friends all our lives. I loved him like a brother. My duty to George didn’t end with his death. This task was a part of it. The worst bloody part of it, but a part of it nonetheless.” He paused long enough to put his spectacles back on, then turned to look at Drew. “What about you? Did you count your mission here a success?”
“Very much so.”
“You evicted her?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t that your mission?” Martin asked. “How can you claim your trip here was successful if you failed to evict your father’s mistress?”
Drew managed a lopsided smile. “My mission here changed as soon as I realized the mistress in question was Kathryn Markinson.”
“Aah…” Martin gave a long, satisfied sigh. “So, I see.”
“Of course you do,” Drew agreed. “You knew what my father had planned. You knew I couldn’t evict her even if I still wanted to. You knew who she was. You knew Kathryn was here.”
“I knew.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Drew asked. He took a deep drink of his brandy and set the glass on the table between the leather chairs.
“I tried to warn you,” Martin reminded him, “but you didn’t listen to me. You heard only what you wanted to hear. And you didn’t want to hear that the terms of George’s will prevented you from evicting her.”
Drew nodded in agreement. Martin was right. He hadn’t listened to Martin’s explanations or his warnings. He had heard exactly what he wanted to hear. “You drew up Father’s will, so I assume you knew about Kit as well.”
“Yes.” The solicitor held up his hand to forestall any comments or accusations. “I suppose you read the copy George kept here in the safe?”
“I read it,” Drew told him. “He left the dowager cottage to Kathryn and the land it sits upon to me and he arranged for us to share custody of Kit. When I read the will, I couldn’t decide if it was sheer genius or sheer madness.”
“It was both,” Martin answered. “Surely you realize there was a peculiar method to the madness.”
“Of course I do. He tied us together. For better or for worse.”
“George was attempting to put things right.”
“The best way of putting things right would have been for him to marry Kathryn and ensure Kit’s legitimacy.” Drew stood up suddenly and began to pace the room.
“He couldn’t marry her.” Martin expelled his breath in a long exasperated sigh, unwilling to allow Drew to censure George’s feelings or question his actions or his methods.
Drew nodded. “Kathryn told me that when my mother lay dying, my father promised her he would never remarry.”
Martin was thoughtful. “I wonder how she knew about that.”
“Her father told her,” Drew replied. “Is it true?”
“Yes, it’s true. George did promise Iris he would never remarry, but that was only a part of the reason he felt he couldn’t offer to marry Kathryn.”
“What was the other part?”
“Sit down, Drew, and I’ll tell you,” Martin said. “But your endless pacing is making me dizzy.” The solicitor waited until Drew sat down before he continued with his explanation. “Your father couldn’t marry Miss Markinson, I mean Mrs. Stafford, because a marriage between the two of them would prevent the two of you from marrying. The law states that a widower cannot marry his stepdaughter and the same is true for a woman. A widow cannot marry her stepson. If George had married
her, you would have become Kathryn’s stepson.”
“There are exceptions.”
“That’s true,” Martin admitted. “Upon occasion, the Crown grants an exception, but George didn’t want to rely on the generosity of the government. Seeing you and Kathryn finally wed was your father’s fondest wish.” He paused. “George’s method may have been a bit unorthodox, but how else could he guarantee that she wouldn’t marry anyone else? Besides, George always believed that if you saw each other again, you’d rekindle the flame.”
“Then he would have been very happy to learn he was right.” Drew smiled. “I asked Kathryn to marry me and she consented. I’d like you to stand up with me, Marty.”
“When?”
“As soon as the archbishop of Canterbury arrives with the special license.”
Martin grinned. “Well done.” He clapped Drew on the shoulder. “Well done.” He rubbed his palms together. “Will you ask her to join us, Drew? She should be present at the reading of the will. The codicil to the will and the envelope he left for Kit in your keeping are for your eyes and ears alone. I’m not at liberty to share the terms of the codicil with anyone but you, but you may disclose the terms or do whatever you wish with them—except disregard them.”
“What’s in the envelope for Kit?”
Martin smiled. “All in good time, my boy, all in good time. Now, if you’ll summon your intended, we can get on with the business of following George’s final instructions regarding the dispossession of his property.”
The solicitor started to get to his feet, but Drew waved him back down onto the chair. “Relax, Marty. Finish your brandy. I’ll send someone to fetch Kathryn.”
Wren arrived at the mansion a half hour later.
Drew could tell from her appearance that she’d spent much of the afternoon working. She’d removed her painting smock, but the strong aroma of turpentine clung to her dress and hair and a splotch of reddish brown paint, the same color as the sprinkle of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, bisected her right cheekbone.
Although she gave Drew a lingering glance when she entered the study, Wren’s primary focus was Martin. Her heart went out to the solicitor, for he would be as lost without George as George had been without her father. She hadn’t known until Bertrand died that the three of them—George, Martin, and her father—had been at school and university together. They’d been steadfast friends for more years than she had been alive and they had welcomed Bertrand Stafford into their midst because he was her father’s friend and mentor.
Martin started to get up from his chair, but Wren dropped to her knees and laid her head in his lap. Her throat ached and she choked on a sob. “Martin, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Martin patted her head the way her father had always done, stroking her shining blond curls. “Poor Wren,” he said. “You and I have seen much too much of death in these past few years. And for me, this is perhaps the cruelest blow of all because it came so unexpectedly.”
Watching them, Drew suddenly realized that Kathryn had grown up surrounded by her father’s friends and colleagues. She had grown up listening to their stories, learning their histories, and she had become a surrogate daughter and a pet to all of them. He walked over to Martin’s chair and offered his arm and his handkerchief to her.
She blinked back her tears as she took Drew’s arm and pushed herself to her feet. “I apologize for my display, Drew,” she said, “but Martin and I have been through so much together. As you can see, I’m quite fond of him and in truth, I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had him—and George—to rely on.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize, Kathryn.” Drew offered her his chair and got another from against the wall for himself. “I’m as fond of Martin as you are. He’s been as much a father to me, in many ways, as my father was.”
Martin cleared his throat. “That’s because you and I are of a similar temperament. We are creatures of habit who like things neat and tidy with no surprises.”
“That’s true enough,” Drew agreed.
“Whereas your father loved surprises,” Martin continued. “And he loved creating them most of all. Which brings me to one of the reasons we’re together.” He hefted his leather file case onto his lap, opened the flap, and took out a sheaf of papers, then he reached into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his spectacles and placed them on his nose. “The reading of George’s will.” Martin glanced at Wren. “Did George share any of the terms of his will with you?”
Wren nodded. “He told me that I wouldn’t have to worry about losing Kit or the cottage. He said that the next Lord Templeston would, of course, be Kit’s legal guardian, but that as Kit’s mother, I would have physical custody of him and be consulted in all matters that concern Kit. And George promised he’d make certain the next Lord Templeston understood his wishes by mentioning his bequest of the dowager cottage to my father in his will. George told me he used my married name in the document because he knew Drew wouldn’t object to Mrs. Bertrand Stafford inheriting the cottage.” She looked at Drew. “I’ve since learned that the wording of the will is not exactly as George led me to believe, but I haven’t read the document or any portion of it.”
“Is that so?” Drew remarked. “Because I could have sworn you’d read at least part of it.”
“I told you I hadn’t.”
“Yes, but you threw so much of what was in it up in my face—on a number of memorable occasions,” he drawled.
“I wasn’t certain about anything,” she admitted to Drew, “but I’d shared my concerns about Kit’s future with George and I trusted that he would keep his word. Your ignorance of my presence here at Swanslea enabled me to bluff.”
Drew turned to Martin with a wry smile. “Let that be a lesson to you, Martin. Don’t play cards with her unless you like to lose.”
“George did keep his word,” Martin said. “He simply added a few more details.” He cleared his throat and began to read the document.
Wren listened to the words and legal phrases as Martin read the will, but she didn’t really begin to pay attention to the meaning of the words, through the long lists of the usual bequests to members of the households and the marquess’s favorite charities, until her name was mentioned.
“‘… the gardens, tenants’ houses, and the acreage under pasture that make up the estate of Swanslea Park will belong solely to my son and heir, Andrew Ramsey, but the main house is to be held in trust for the legitimate heirs or issue of Andrew Ramsey or the legitimate heirs or issue of Kathryn Markinson Stafford. The house is to be held in joint trust by Andrew Ramsey and Kathryn Markinson Stafford until the time that legitimate heirs or issue of Andrew Ramsey or Kathryn Markinson Stafford reach the age of majority. Should there be no living legitimate heirs or issue of Andrew Ramsey or Kathryn Stafford, the main house, gardens, tenants’ houses, and the acreage under pasture will, upon their deaths, become the property of the Trevingshire hunt.
“‘As I gifted the dowager cottage to Wesley Markinson some years ago and the deed he held has been duly inherited by his daughter, Kathryn Markinson Stafford, I further deed to her, for her sole use for as long as she lives, the parkland surrounding the cottage, after which it will become a part of the estate held in trust for the legitimate heirs or issue of Andrew Ramsey or Kathryn Markinson Stafford. In addition, the Marquess of Templeston will provide ten thousand pounds per annum for the maintenance of the jointly held property and the dowager cottage.’”
“He gave me the park?” Kathryn was astonished.
Martin nodded. “George believed in you and the importance of the work you’re doing. He wanted you to be able to continue that work undisturbed.”
Wren exchanged a meaningful look with Drew. “You mean that I would have been within my rights to order the hunt off Swanslea Park land?”
Drew smiled. “As I recall, you were ordering them off Swanslea Park land, but since you were up a tree and powerless to prevent them from hunting,
they refused to go. Now you know that you are within your rights to force them to leave. All you have to do is send for the sheriff or magistrate.”
Martin dropped his chin and glanced over the top rim of his glasses, a puzzled expression on his face. “The Trevingshire hunted here? When? They know better. George barred them from hunting three years ago.”
“They seemed to think that since George was dead, the hunting could resume,” Wren told him.
“Good heavens!” Martin exclaimed. “You were up a tree? What happened? Was anyone hurt? Is Margo—”
“She’s fine.” Wren explained the incident, ending her recitation by saying, “Drew arrived in time to rescue us.”
Martin cleared his throat once again. “The master of the hunt clearly overstepped his bounds. Something will have to be done about that.”
“Something has been done about it,” Drew said.
“Really?” Wren was clearly surprised.
“You don’t think I’d allow them to come onto our land and tree the future marchioness without reprisal, do you?”
She wrinkled her brow. “But I wasn’t the future marchioness then.”
Drew reached over and cupped her face with his hand, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “My dear Kathryn, don’t you understand? You have always been the future marchioness.”
The sexual tension in the room rose several degrees and Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, well, you can continue your discussion about that later. But for now, we’ve a few more details to go over…”
Drew rubbed his thumb over Wren’s lips, then released her and sat back in his chair to listen while Martin read the remainder of the will.
“‘… I hereby name my son and heir, Andrew Ramsey, twenty-eighth Earl of Ramsey and sixteenth Marquess of Templeston, sole legal guardian for any and all of my children except Christopher George Ramsey, known to the family as Kit. Guardianship of Kit is to be shared with his mother, Kathryn Markinson Stafford. Kit shall not be removed from Kathryn’s home or care without her knowledge and consent, nor shall he be allowed to travel without her knowledge and consent. The sixteenth marquess shall not hire or fire any nannies, governesses, or tutors without Kathryn’s consent, nor can he send Kit to boarding school without the consent of the boy’s mother. Furthermore, the sixteenth marquess shall not arrange any betrothals or marriages for Christopher George Ramsey without the consent and approval of Kathryn Markinson Stafford.’”
Martin finished reading the will. “So you see, my dear girl, George did everything he said he would do and more.”
Wren sat very quietly. “He blamed himself.”
Martin shook his head. “Not for what happened, but for his inability to do right by you. There was never any need for you to doubt him. You could always count on George to see to your future.”
“Oh, George…”
Kathryn looked so stricken Drew thought she might faint.
“Is he in the ballroom?”
There was no need for Drew to ask whom she meant. Drew nodded.
“P-please, excuse me.” She got up from her chair and rushed out of the study.
Drew followed her as far as the door and would have followed her into the ballroom, but Martin stopped him. “Let her go, my boy. Let her cry it out and say goodbye in private.”
He hovered in the doorway, watching as Kathryn knelt beside his father’s coffin. She slipped her bare hand beneath the Templeston standard and began to cry. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders shook with the force of her grief and Drew’s heart ached at the sight of it.
Wren leaned her forehead against the coffin. She felt the smooth polished wood beneath her fingers and the soft silk flag against her forehead. Martin’s words echoed in her ears. You could always count on George to see to your future. Drew had used almost identical words the day he’d asked her to accompany him to the undertaker’s—the day they’d talked about that fateful night at Vauxhall Gardens. I knew I could count on my father to see you and your aunt safely home. Drew had asked his father to see her and Aunt Edwina safely home. But George hadn’t escorted either of them. Aunt Edwina had caught a ride with her friends and Wren had been raped and dumped at her aunt’s front door. And after all the many kindnesses he had bestowed on her, after all the care and concern he had shown her father, after all these years, George had still blamed himself for what happened.
Unable to stop the hot flow of her tears, Wren let them come. “Oh, George,” she whispered, “you more than made up for anything that happened when you gave me Kit. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you understand?”
“She’ll be all right, Drew,” Martin said as Drew made a motion to go to Wren. “Come sit down.”
Drew hesitated.
“Come on,” Martin urged. “I still have to read the codicil to George’s will.” He waved the addendum to the will in the air and showed Drew a bundle wrapped in heavy protective paper. “And I have a package for Kit addressed to you.”
Drew returned to his chair and took the package Martin handed him.
“George gave it to me to give to you in the event of his death.”
Drew unwrapped the paper and discovered a black velvet drawstring bag containing a small teakwood box. He opened the intricately carved box to reveal a gold and diamond locket. Drew held it up for Martin to see. “It’s a locket.” On a piece of paper, written in Latin in his father’s hand were the words, You shall know they are mine by the likeness they bear.
The solicitor nodded. “I thought it might be.” He unfolded the legal papers and began to read. “‘Codicil to the last will and testament of George Ramsey, fifteenth Marquess of Templeston. My fondest wish is that I shall die a very old man beloved of my family and surrounded by children and grandchildren, but because one cannot always choose the time of one’s Departure from the Living, I charge my legitimate son and heir, Andrew Ramsey, twenty-eighth Earl of Ramsey, Viscount Birmingham, and Baron Selby, on this the third day of August in the Year of Our Lord 1818, with the support and responsibility for my beloved mistresses and any living children born of their bodies in the nine months immediately following my death.
“‘As discretion is the mark of a true gentleman, I shall not give name to the extraordinary ladies who have provided me with abiding care and comfort since the death of my beloved wife, but shall charge my legitimate son and heir with the duty of awarding to any lady who should present to him, his legitimate heir, or his representative a gold and diamond locket engraved with my seal, containing my likeness, stamped by my jeweler, and matching in every way the locket enclosed with this document, an annual sum not to exceed twenty thousand pounds to ensure the bed and board of the lady and any living children born of her body in the nine months immediately following my Departure from the Living.
“‘The ladies who present such a locket have received it as a promise from me that they shall not suffer ill for having offered me abiding care and comfort. Any offspring who presents such a locket shall have done so at their mother’s bequest and shall be recognized as a child of the fifteenth Marquess of Templeston and shall be entitled to his or her mother’s portion of my estate for themselves and their legitimate heirs in perpetuity according to my wishes as set forth in this, my last will and testament. George Ramsey, fifteenth Marquess of Templeston.’”
Drew opened the locket and stared down at the miniature portrait of his father.
“George wanted me to give you this, along with the package, after the reading of the will and its codicil.” Martin got up from his chair and took an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He stared at the letter for a moment, then gave it to Drew. “I’ll just go see if Mrs. Tanglewood has a room prepared for me,” he said, patting his young friend on the shoulder, “while I leave you alone to read your letter.”
Drew waited until Martin left the room before he walked over to his desk and broke the wax seal on the envelope and read:
My dearest son,
If you’re rea
ding this letter, then I’ve met my Maker a bit sooner than I’d
planned. If everything is as it was meant to be, Martin or I would have already
destroyed this letter, but if you’re reading it, that is not the case.
I cannot rest easy in my grave until you know that I never meant to fail you.
You counted on me and my momentary thoughtlessness drastically altered your
life’s path in a manner neither of us could have foreseen. I hope that, one day,
you’ll forgive me. I bear a heavy guilt for my misplaced trust.
I love you, son, and I have always been so very proud of you—as a boy and as
the man you’ve grown up to be. Your mother and I always knew that you were
our shining accomplishment and our greatest joy. You were the light of her life
and you’ve been the light of mine.
I have entrusted to your care my second shining accomplishment and the joy of
my old age, my son Christopher George Ramsey. Kit. He needs you, Drew. He
needs a father to love and to look up to. Be that father. He cannot help the
circumstances of his birth, nor should they matter. But in a country like ours,
the order and circumstance of one’s birth is everything. I claim him as my son
because he is my son. He cannot claim legitimacy, but he can lay claim to
something more important: blood. He is your half-brother, but I would ask that
you raise him as your son for I do not want him to suffer for the actions (not
the sins) of his parents.
I did not sin in loving his mother, nor did she sin in loving me. My sin was in
putting a solemn promise to one love ahead of the needs of another. There are
those who will view Kit as an accident or a mistake. He was never an accident
or a mistake. I wanted him—loved him—just as much as I wanted and loved
you. Accept him, with my blessings, and give him the family he deserves.
For you see, Drew, my fondest wish for you was that you would meet a young
lady and have what your mother and I shared. I thought you had found it with
Wren, but something terrible happened to prevent her from marrying you.
Don’t blame her. She did what she did to protect you. She has never confided it
to me. I guessed the truth. I didn’t want to believe it, but I know it was true.
It is not my place to divulge her secret. She must be the one to do that. I can
only say that no matter what you believe of me at this moment, know that I
loved you and that I tried to atone for my mistake by watching out for the one
you loved.
You should also know that all of the ladies with whom I have been intimately
acquainted have my locket. The locket that accompanied this letter is the one I
gave to Kit’s mother. All of the ladies with whom I’ve shared a bed and pillow
—including Kit’s mother—have something else in common—a trait you cannot
fail to notice should they decide to present themselves to you.
Trust in your heart, my son. Follow it. Let it lead you to Wren’s door. Don’t
grieve too much for me, for I am with your mother now and we are both
looking out for you and your family.
My love to you and to Kit and to Wren.
Your loving and proudest of fathers,
George.
Drew refolded the letter and placed it in his jacket pocket close to his heart. He picked up the locket and held it tightly in his hand, warming the cold metal as he left the study and made his way to the ballroom.
Kathryn was gone.
But his father wasn’t alone. Newberry stood a silent vigil over the corpse of his late employer. Drew dismissed him as he entered the room. “Close the doors behind you, Newberry, and lock them. I’ll be here until morning.”
Newberry did as he was asked, leaning against the heavy wooden door only once to listen as the current marquess of Templeston sobbed out his grief at the loss of his father, his hero, his friend.
Chapter Twenty-eight