Marriage Made In Hope

He smiled at such fancy and at his deliberate slowness in opening it. Breaking the seal, he let the sheet of crisp paper unfold before him.

Francis St Cartmail...

Her written hand was small and neat, but she had made her ‘s’ longer in the tail than was normal so that they sat in long curls of elegance upon the page.

His entire name, too, without any title. A choice between too formal and too informal, he imagined, and read on.

I should like to thank you most sincerely for rescuing me from the river water. It was deep and cold and my clothes were very heavy. I should have learned to swim, I think, and then I could have at least tried to rescue myself. As it was, I was trapped by fear and panic.

This is mostly why I have written. I scratched you badly, I was told, on your cheek. My sister, Maria, made a point of relating to me the damage I had inflicted upon your person and I am certain the Marquis of Winslow would not have made it his duty to apologise for such a harm.

It is my guilt.

I think that this rescue was not easy for you either, for Maria said you looked most ill on exiting the water. I hope you have recovered. I hope it was not because I took the very last of your breath.

I also hope I might meet you again to give you this letter and that you will see in every word my sincere and utter gratitude.

Yours very thankfully,

Sephora Frances Connaught

Francis smiled at the inclusion of their shared name in the signature as he laid his finger over the word. He could not remember ever receiving a thank-you letter from anyone before and he liked to imagine her penning this note, each letter carefully placed on the page. Precise and feminine.

Did she know anything at all about him? Did she understand what others said of him with the persistent rumours of a past he could not be proud of?

Leaning forward, he smoothed out the sheet and read it again before folding it up and putting it back in his pocket, careful to anchor it in with the flap of the fabric’s opening. A commotion outside the room had him listening. It was late, past midnight and he could not understand who might arrive at his doorstep at this hour.

When the door flew open and a dishevelled and very angry young girl stood on the other side of it he knew exactly who she was.

‘Let me go.’ She pulled her arm away from the aged lawyer and stood there, breathing loudly.

‘Miss Anna Sherborne, I presume.’

Eyes the exact colour of his own flashed angrily, reminding Francis so forcibly of the Douglas mannerisms and temper he was speechless. Ignatius Wiggins stepped out from behind her.

‘I am sorry to be calling on you so late, my lord, but our carriage threw a wheel and it took an age to have it repaired. This is my final duty to Mr Clive Sherborne, Lord Douglas. On the morrow I leave for the north of England and my own kin in York and I will not be back to London. Miss Sherborne needs a home and a hearth. I hope you shall give her one as she has been summarily tossed out from her last abode with the parish minister.’

With that he left.

Francis gestured to the child to come further into the room and as she did so the light found her. She was small and very dark. He had not expected that, for both the mother and his uncle were fair.

She did not speak. She merely watched him, anger on her thin face and something else he could not quite determine. Shock, perhaps, at being so abandoned.

‘I am the Earl of Douglas.’

‘I know who you are. He told me, sir.’ Her voice was strangely inflected, a lilt across the last word.

Removing the signet ring from his finger, he placed it on the table between them. ‘Do you know this crest, Miss Sherborne?’

He saw her glance take in the bauble.

‘It has come to my notice that you have a locket wrought in gold with the same design embellished upon it. It was sent to you after you left the house of your father as a baby according to the papers I have been given.’

Now all he saw was confusion and the want to run and with care he replaced the signet ring on his finger and took in a breath.

‘You are the illegitimate daughter of the fourth Earl of Douglas, who was my uncle. Your mother was his...mistress for a brief time and you were the result.’ Francis wondered if he should have been so explicit, but surely a girl brought up in the sort of household the lawyer had taken pains in describing would not be prudish. Besides, it had all been written in black and white.

‘My mother did not stay around much. She had other friends and I was often just a nuisance. She never spoke of any earl.’

An arm came to rest upon a high-backed wing chair. Every nail was bitten and dirty and there was a healing injury on her middle finger.

‘Well, I promise here you will be well cared for. You have my word of honour as your cousin upon it. I will never ask you to leave.’

The shock that crossed her face told him she hadn’t had many moments of such faith in her young life and she was reeling hard in panic.

‘A word of honour don’t mean much where I come from, sir. Anyone can say anything and they do.’

‘Well, Anna, in this house one’s word means something. Remember that.’

When Mrs Wilson bustled into the room on his instructions a few moments later he asked that the girl be fed, bathed and put to bed, for even as he spoke he saw that Anna Sherborne was about to fall over with tiredness. If his housekeeper looked surprised by the turn of events she did not show it, merely taking the unexpected and bedraggled guest by the arm and leading her off towards the kitchens.

‘Come, dearie, we will find you something to eat for you have the look of the starved about you, mark my words, and in this house we cannot have that.’

When they were gone Francis’s hands moved to the tightening stock about his throat as he walked to stand beside the windows. He needed air and open spaces for already his breath was shortening.

In the matter of a few days his whole life seemed to be changing and reforming into something barely recognisable.

First, he seemed to have won the eternal gratitude of the ‘angel of the ton’ and now he was guardian to a child who gave all the impression of being ‘the spawn of the devil’.

Tomorrow he would need to find out more of Anna Sherborne’s story and try to piece together the truth about Clive Sherborne’s death.

But for now he finished his large glass of brandy and his fingers reached into the bottom pocket to feel for his letter. Pulling it out and straightening the paper, he began to read it yet again.

* * *

Sephora knew Francis St Cartmail would not write back. It had been days since the Hadleighs’ ball and she understood the difficulties in receiving a letter as an unmarried woman. Still, part of her hoped the earl might have done so clandestinely via a maid. But nothing had come.

Maria had insisted that they walk after lunch and although Sephora hadn’t wanted to come this way she found herself on a path by the Thames, her sister’s arm firmly entwined in her own.

‘You look peaky, Sephora, and Mama is worried that you might never be right again. She has asked me to talk to you about the Earl of Douglas, for she thinks you might hold a penchant for him. She is certain that you gave him something the other night at the ball and I tried to tell her of course she is mistaken, but...’

‘I did.’

Maria’s words ground to a halt. ‘Oh.’

‘It was a letter. I wrote to him to say thank you...for saving me...for giving me breath...and to also say sorry for scratching his cheek so badly. The marks were inflamed and it was all my fault.’ Stopping the babble, she simply took in a breath. ‘I am glad I wrote.’

‘And Douglas has replied?’