A Lord Apart Page 17

  “Apparently.”

  “Mama never told me much about her school days.”

  “Neither did mine.” Of course she’d never told him anything.

  “I had the impression she enjoyed them.”

  Daniel said nothing, because he had no impressions to share.

  Miss Pendleton blinked, unfolded the first letter in her pile, and read, “Dear Serene Serena.”

  “Ha,” said Daniel. He wouldn’t have called his mother serene. Cold, perhaps. Indifferent. But not serene.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Too curious about the letters to wonder at his stern expression, Penelope read on.

  Dear Serene Serena,

  I was so surprised to hear that you are marrying after all. How often did you vow that you never would? And you are to be a viscountess! I must imagine you in an ermine cloak and coronet. Splendid, I’m sure, but what about the life of adventure and dark intrigue you plotted? Nay, insisted upon. You had such plans! I hate to think you have given them up in just one (glorious, I’m sure) season. However, I don’t wish to sound critical. I will be delighted with anything, or anyone, who makes you happy. I trust you to judge what that will be.

  And of course I wished to hear your confidences. As you know very well. Just as you welcomed mine. Did we not both marvel at how easily we fell into friendship? And what a rare gift it was, to find a kindred spirit.

  Your forever friend,

  Kate

  “A kindred spirit. But Mama never even mentioned her to me.” Penelope found this omission surprisingly hurtful. She’d thought of herself as her mother’s closest confidante, and believed she’d known the important things about her. “I knew she went to a young ladies’ seminary in Bath.”

  “I never heard even that much.” Whitfield’s tone was harsh. “‘Adventure and dark intrigue.’ What nonsense.” He picked up the next letter in the sequence, frowning at it, and read.

  Dear Kate,

  How I miss your jokes. No one else in the world calls me Serene Serena—for very good reason, as we know! I can almost hear your laugh as you say it. I wish I really could. But you are miles away in Lancashire, and I am fixed in London for the present.

  As to that, the season was not glorious but tedious in the extreme. I hope you are not still sad about missing it. Society is a wasteland of time frittered away and money lavished on trivialities. I cannot tell you how many evenings I simply gritted my teeth and endured, like Prometheus chained to his crag with the eagle ripping at his entrails.

  “That sounds more like her,” Daniel interjected. “My mother was fond of exaggerated comparisons. Spoken with genial contempt. And very amusing to her, if no one else.”

  “And she didn’t care for society apparently,” said Miss Pendleton.

  “No. She made a point of avoiding it.” And her home and her son, Daniel thought. He read on.

  Be assured that I have not abandoned my plans. I simply discovered how little scope one has as a young lady on her own, at least of the sort I want. Marriage seems to be a necessity. Fortunately, I have found just the sort of husband I require. I’ve exacted a promise from him that I shall have my adventures. I’ve also spoken with my father’s friend, as I told you I would. He was most interested in my idea, particularly when he saw how carefully I’d laid it out. And heard of the alliance I have engaged myself to make. I shall get what I want, have no fear.

  Your ever friend,

  Serena

  Daniel scowled down at the page. “It sounds as if she was simply making use of my father,” he said. At some point, early on in his life, he’d decided that theirs was a love story for the ages. They were always off traveling together because they were a charmed twosome, he’d concluded, a world complete unto themselves. The idea had even reconciled him, a little, to being always on the outside. Now the phrase the sort of husband I require seemed to contradict that theory.

  “Or she’d found someone who shared her interests,” said Miss Pendleton.

  He remembered what Macklin had told him about the way his father changed after his engagement. That didn’t sound like sharing.

  “The next letter is from a whole year later,” his companion continued. “I wonder if all their correspondence is here?” She began to read.

  Dear Serene Serena,

  Congratulations on the birth of your son, though I must scold you for not having sent me word yourself. Am I really to hear such news from Letty Crane?

  We are following in each other’s footsteps once again as I had a boy as well. We have named him Philip. Jared is pleased and proud, as I’m sure your viscount is as well. Men set such store in handing along their titles.

  They don’t quite tell you how difficult childbirth is, do they? Or perhaps they do, but one can’t really know until the time comes. I hope you are not as worn down as I have been.

  It seems a long age of the world since we met. When I think of our endless talks at school, I get quite teary. Perhaps we can arrange a visit soon. Jared is not averse to a trip to London once I have recovered. And naturally you are always welcome here.

  Your forever friend,

  Kate

  “I don’t think they ever visited,” Miss Pendleton said. “I never heard about it if they did.”

  “Nor I,” replied Daniel. But then he probably wouldn’t have. He took up the next letter.

  Dear Kate,

  I am sorry to be slow in answering your letter. I’ve been languishing in my bed. Me! Can you imagine it? “Difficult” is a pale word to describe childbearing. You teased me about mentioning Prometheus, but I now know precisely how he felt as the eagle ripped at his entrails. You were right. A society party is not nearly that bad. Giving birth assuredly is! Our son—we have called him Daniel—had no easy passage into the world. Indeed, the doctors tell me I shall never have another child. I must say that this news was a relief. I certainly don’t wish to endure that agony again.

  I’m sad to say that a visit is not likely just now. As soon as I am fully recovered, we are departing for the West Indies. My plans begin to take form at last!

  Your ever friend,

  Serena

  Daniel wondered whether his mother had held the pain of his birth against him. She’d never mentioned it, any more than she’d told him why he had no siblings. He tried to think of one confidence she’d shared with him, and came up empty. The final lines sounded like the parent he remembered, more eager to set off for new places than to see her old friend.

  “There must be some letters missing,” said Miss Pendleton. “There was no teasing about Prometheus in these.” She turned over the rest of the papers that had come from his mother’s desk. “I don’t see any others.”

  “Perhaps some were lost, or thrown away.” His voice sounded distant, Daniel thought. He was feeling odd. None of his imaginings of growing closer to his parents had been like this. Miss Pendleton gave him a sidelong glance as she unfolded the next letter.

  Dear Serene Serena,

  I hope you are feeling better. I’m sorry that you will have no more children. I should like several, if my health allows. I’m determined it shall, though I’ve had another of my wearisome bouts of fever. Indeed, I find I am too weary to write much now. I will do better next time. May your journey be all you hoped for.

  Your forever friend,

  Kate

  “My mother was often ill,” Miss Pendleton said. “She had a recurring fever, which weakened her lungs. The least ailment sent her to her bed. For weeks sometimes.”

  “And mine didn’t write back to her for more than a year,” Daniel replied, looking at the next letter in the sequence. “I suppose she was traveling and too busy for a friend. That would be like her.”

  “There might be other lost letters.”

  “I doubt it.” He pushed on with
reading before she could reply.

  Dear Kate,

  I weep every time I hear that you’ve been poorly again. If only I had not dragged you into those dreadful marshes, and you so full of pluck, keeping watch while I tried to find that sailor’s shack and extract his story. When you fell ill afterward—I swear I’ve never regretted anything more. If I could go back and change that day, please believe that I would do so in an instant.

  Daniel looked up, met Miss Pendleton’s shocked gaze, and dropped his eyes again. He was disturbed by the emotion that vibrated through this passage. His mother had clearly been concerned about her friend. He hadn’t thought she cared deeply for anybody except his father. Now he found that there were others. Which made her treatment of him all the worse, in his opinion. He set his jaw and read on.

  I’ve never forgotten the moment we met, quaking new arrivals at Miss Scofield’s Academy. I would have set all the teachers’ backs up if you hadn’t stepped in and smoothed things over. As you continued to do for three years. I never had a better friend.

  Warn your family that if they don’t cosset you, I shall descend upon them in clouds of wrath and put some stick about, as my father used to say.

  Your ever friend,

  Serena

  “Marshes,” said Penelope. Her brain whirled. “What can your mother have wanted with a sailor in the marshes? What story?”

  “I suppose it was some adventure that she thought more important than endangering a friend,” replied Whitfield.

  “But is this the origin of Mama’s illness?” Penelope leaned over to reread the last letter. His shoulder against hers was at once a thrill and a comfort.

  “It sounds so. People do contract relapsing fevers in the marshes. And she seems to have caught one in my mother’s service.”

  His tone was so curt. Though she knew it wasn’t directed at her, Penelope hid a wince. “She was sorry.”

  “She says she was. But then she never visited. Actions speak louder than words.”

  Penelope picked up the next letter. She was both curious and daunted. The mother of these letters wasn’t the woman she remembered, and the contrast was vastly unsettling. She took a breath and read.

  Dear Serene Serena,

  Such a time since I heard from you. I suppose you are off on your travels again with not an instant for correspondence. I wrote to the Boston address you gave to tell you about my new daughter, Penelope, but I’m not certain that letter got through. Did you receive it, I wonder?

  I adore the embroidered shawl you sent me from New Orleans. I showed it to Penelope, and she was eager to chew on the fringes, which of course I did not allow! She is such a dear baby.

  I would say this to no one but you—we have always kept each other’s secrets, have we not? I prefer her to Philip. I know a mother isn’t supposed to admit such preferences, but he is a loud and unruly child. His favorite word is no, and he becomes absolutely furious when thwarted. Angrier than I thought a child could be. I often don’t know what to do with him, but Jared only laughs. I hope that school and a crowd of other boys will improve his temper.

  He will be more like you than me, I expect, standing up for his friends like Joan of Arc. Or some hero, I should say, in Philip’s case. I suppose you are doing something very like that with your secret missions. I can only say—bravo!

  Your forever friend,

  Kate

  Penelope blinked back tears. She’d known her mother favored her. It had been an uncomfortable feeling for most of her life. On the one hand, she cherished her love. On the other, it wasn’t fair. And Philip had, inevitably, noticed and resented it.

  “Secret missions,” said Whitfield. He sounded puzzled and contemptuous. “Is that some kind of joke between them?”

  “Her notebooks may tell us,” replied his companion. “I’m even more convinced they’re in code.”

  He made an impatient sound. “There’s a gap of several years before the next letter.”

  “Because some were lost,” Penelope said. She wanted to believe that Serena had kept up the connection in those years when her mother had been often ill.

  “Perhaps. This is the last one we have.”

  Penelope bent closer to look at the date. It was a week after her mother’s death. She’d never received this missive from her old friend. It had been gathered up with the others and returned.

  “I’ve just remembered. My parents took a long voyage to the East around that time,” Whitfield said as he unfolded it to read. “I suppose she didn’t bother to write until they were back. A letter sent from there would have been slow to arrive.”

  Dear Kate,

  Remember how we talked about what a different world it would be if young women had property of their own? I have seen such terrible inequities in the last few years. You really can’t conceive. Far worse than we imagined in our privileged youth in our little school. I don’t even want to tell you.

  I cannot change all that, but I am going to see to it that your daughter has what we never did. I suppose she won’t need it. And it might simply pass to her husband if she’s wed, but I don’t care. She shall have a cottage from the estate here, free and clear. And we will arrange things so that her benefactor is a secret. She won’t have to be beholden to anyone. She can do whatever she likes with the property. Might it be a godsend? A refuge? I hope so.

  John has agreed, though he doesn’t fully understand. I must say he is the most reasonable man. I am very fortunate to have found him, my second piece of great luck in the person department.

  Your ever friend,

  Serena

  “Her second piece of luck,” said Whitfield. “Not her third. No thought given to the heir and what I might think of the legacy.” He let his fist fall on the page. “Reasonable. This is all she has to say about my father?”

  “It explains why I have Rose Cottage,” said Penelope. She understood his upset, but she was still trying to take in all she’d learned from the correspondence. Her mother had never known of this generous gesture. That was sad. She would have appreciated such a significant sign of their friendship.

  “Indeed.” He put the letter with the others. “I thought she loved him. Him, at least.” His face had fallen into hard lines.

  “Your father, you mean?”

  He nodded. “But he seems to have been a mere…instrument for her schemes.”

  “That seems harsh.”

  “Can you say so when she treated your mother the same? Allowed her to ruin her health, killed her in fact?” He pushed the pile of letters away.

  Penelope’s impression was different. She’d pictured two girls conspiring together—foolish, yes, but not calculating. The accident of the fever made her sad, but not angry. “She didn’t mean to. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  His response was silence, his expression closed. He seemed an icy stranger. The correspondence, which might have brought them closer together, had opened a distance instead. Moved by the link with her mother, Penelope felt it keenly.

  She wanted to put her arms around him. And she feared that his next words would be a request for her to leave. “We’ve forgotten our purpose,” she said. “We were looking for the key to your mother’s notebooks.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m sure they’re related to the secret missions my mother mentioned.”

  “Schoolgirl blather,” he replied.

  “They’re too intricate. I think your mother was gathering information on her travels. But for whom? The Foreign Office?”

  Her host stared at her, incredulous.

  Penelope shuffled through the mass of papers on the desk. “We must find that page from the hat.”

  “Gathering information for the Foreign Office,” Whitfield said as if he thought the idea incredible.

  She nodded as her hands automatically set the papers in order, u
nfolding, reading, sorting, stacking. She was nearly at the bottom of the pile when she came upon what she wanted. “Ah, here. This looks like it.” She bent over the page, trembling with excitement. “Yes, I recognize phrases from the notebooks.” She reached for one of them to compare. And was stopped by a hand laid on top of hers.

  “Are you imagining that my mother was a spy?”

  “I don’t think I’m imagining it.” Penelope savored the warmth of his fingers on hers. “Yes. Look at this.” She put a fingertip on one line of the key. “Clouds mean ships. Because of their white sails, do you think?” She smiled at him. “Thrilling, isn’t it?”

  “It’s…unbelievable.” Withdrawing his hand, he sat back as if poleaxed.

  She opened one of the notebooks and compared entries to the key. “A flock of crows signifies regiments of troops. That’s rather funny. There are little drawings for numbers, which might have been suspicious if she listed them, I suppose. She used real places and dates at the head of each entry, so she could easily prepare a report from her notes.”

  “This is insane,” said Whitfield.

  “It was a risk,” Penelope replied. “We realized there was a code. Others might have as well if they got hold of her notebooks. That’s why she hid them, I wager.”

  Her host stared at her. “We? You did. I never would have thought of it in a thousand years.”

  “Men don’t expect a woman’s diary to be important,” Penelope acknowledged. “Particularly powerful men. That was the beauty of it for her, I’d say. I’m sure she still kept them well hidden when she was traveling, as she did here. And I bet she could talk gibberish to match her entries if necessary.”

  “All the traveling was for this,” murmured Whitfield.

  Penelope turned back to the letters and rechecked a date. “Look, it seems your parents were in Boston around 1808, after the troubles with that American ship.”

  At his blank look, she added, “I’ve forgotten its name, but the Royal Navy stopped it looking for deserters, and the Americans were very angry. I had a history lesson about it.”

  “Americans,” he repeated.

  “You do remember the war with America in 1812?”