Chapter 4

By the time the carriage reached the road leading to Moorhaven Manor, Marianne had learned the basics of Shakespeare from the duke and Mr Bowers.

The duke had promised to lend Marianne his favourite play, Hamlet, from the Colline library, which he said was about a prince haunted by the ghost of his recently dead father. She saw the irony in that but chose to keep her observation to herself. She barely knew the Duke of Westden, and until she got the answers she had come for, she couldn't risk offending him.

At least, she thought with some humour, he hadn't presumed that she couldn't read just because of her low social standing. In fact, in the few hours she had spent with the duke, he had cast doubt on just about every prejudice she had ever held about the rich. Mr Bowers, though not titled like his friend, was even more surprising in the way he spoke to her so informally.

"And from there," he was saying, "Westden and I made the journey from Crete to Cyprus. Despite the horror stories you may have heard about the Turks, they were extremely accommodating and principled people. It just goes to show—one cannot trust everything one reads in those travel logs."

Mr Bowers smiled, and it was easy to see why he made friends wherever he went. "Of course, there wasn't much art to interest this one." He pointed towards the duke with his thumb. "But we had our fill in Greece, didn't we?"

By that point, the duke had fallen silent. He looked up when the carriage grew quiet in anticipation of his answer, like he hadn't been listening at all. Instead, he looked nervous. Marianne glanced through the window he'd focused on. A young man was prying open the tall iron gates to the manor, and she could hear them groaning under their own weight through the carriage walls.

Up until that point, she had been so distracted by their travel stories that she had forgotten all about her anxiety. It would not be long until she was introduced to the duchess. Of the two of them, she wondered whether she or the duke was more frightened to meet his mother. From the poorly concealed horror warping his handsome features, she guessed it was probably him.

They were strangers, yet they were both grieving the recent deaths of parents. She couldn't help feeling some measure of sympathy for the duke—and Marianne felt it in full force, wishing she could put a hand on his knee and tell him that everything would be fine.

Moorhaven Manor came into view at the end of a long gravel drive lined by perfectly manicured trees on either side. Even from a distance, the building was massive. A huge, rounded portico braced the front of the house, with thick columns the same shade of pale ochre as the rest of the facade.

Two gargoyles watched the carriage approach from their stone perches by the front steps. Even the roof was impressive with an ornate balustrade and chimneys, which rose against the saturated evening sky like little soldiers in a line.

Marianne was awed by the sight. The Westden seat could not have been more different than her old apartment in Lambeth. As she stepped out of the carriage, she was completely dwarfed by the manor, wondering how many dukes had lived there and how many commoners had been given the privilege of seeing Moorhaven up close.

All four of them had exited the carriage with the driver by the time the grand doors finally opened. Marianne turned towards the yawning sound they made, her heart leaping into her throat. Servants exited the house in a tight formation, swarming the carriage and collecting their combined travelling trunks before Marianne could even introduce herself.

Perhaps that wasn't the done thing. The servants barely looked at her. Miss Barclay took her by the arm, leading her towards the house. The duke paused at the base of the steps, staring up at the open doors.

It wasn't long before a woman appeared. Marianne's breath hitched at the sight of her. She had expected the Duchess of Westden to look like the illustrations of Queen Charlotte that were sometimes displayed by newsagents around Lambeth. While the duchess was dressed in a lavish black mourning gown, she wasn't wearing a wig, and she had a natural beauty that Marianne had never seen depicted in satires of the royal family.

Her hair was the same dark brown shade as her son's, streaked with grey above her ears where it had been pulled away into a high chignon. Wrinkles contorted the skin around her eyes and mouth, but her cheeks were ripe and full of colour, blooming as she hurried down the steps to greet her son.

Marianne felt Miss Barclay turn away out of politeness as the duchess seized the duke's hands and began to cry. The duke kept his composure, speaking to her hurriedly, too quietly for Marianne to hear.

"The last time I saw my mother, she also cried—but I doubt it was for joy," Mr Bowers said, coming up beside Marianne and trying to alleviate some of the tension.

It didn't work, especially not when both the duke and his mother turned to look at the rest of them at last. The duchess' eyes widened as she saw Marianne, immediately bursting into a smile. She left the duke by the steps and approached, seizing Marianne in a hug that knocked the breath out of her lungs.

"I don't even have to ask to know who you are," the duchess said through a sob, pulling back to inspect Marianne. "Oh, merciful heavens … You're the picture of Anne. I should not be surprised. You have half her name—and all her beauty." Her gloved hands snaked down Marianne's arms until they gripped her hands, fingers trembling against her skin. "Welcome, dearest Marianne. How glad I am to see you after all these years."

Tears smarted behind Marianne's eyes. She could see the duchess' fresh grief written all over her face. It was impossible not to think about her own mother in response, remembering how much she missed her.

"Your Grace," Marianne just about managed to whisper. "I am so … I have so many …"

She shook her head, and the duchess finished the sentence for her. "Questions. Yes, of course. I imagine you must be sick with questions. Everything will be explained in due time. But pray, let me see you inside first."

The duchess stepped back with a comforting smile, greeting Miss Barclay and Mr Bowers in turn. Marianne's head was spinning. She couldn't have listened even if she had wanted to. She clenched her fists for something to hold onto. When eventually she dared to look up again, the duchess was inviting them inside the manor …

And the duke was already gone.

She soon found herself in the drawing room, where she sat alone for a few minutes, vaguely listening to the duchess order Miss Barclay to put her feet up in her quarters. Mr Bowers went after his friend, the duke, leaving Marianne at the mercy of the duchess when she returned to her.

A tea service had been set up in the time it had taken them all to go inside. As expected, the sheer number and beauty of the offered cakes made Marianne's eyes pop out of her head. Steam rose from the teapot in front of her, smelling much more fragrant, richer than the black tea she had taken her whole life.

The duchess closed the drawing room door behind her, coming over to serve Marianne tea. That felt wrong, but Marianne was in no position to question the duchess' manners.

"We have a few moments at least to ourselves," the duchess spoke through a motherly smile. She handed Marianne her teacup, placing the sugar dish and milk within her reach. "Miss Barclay is an indefatigable, loyal friend to me, but the two of us should be left to discuss your arrival alone."

"The duke …" Marianne paused, the rose-patterned china searing against her hands. She set the teacup down, feeling like a child before the duchess in all her gentility and grace. "I assume you heard about our chance meeting on the road … Your Grace."

"Please," the duchess stressed. She sat in the armchair beside Marianne and took her hand. "I insist that you call me Catherine. I have known of your existence even before you were born, and I consider you something of a niece to me. I prayed that the letter would find you well despite the circumstances. You seem to be in good health and so bright and beautiful at that."

She cupped Marianne's face, then leaned back.

"But yes, your drive with Anthony … I am glad that the two of you were able to meet before his return. I fear we will see little of him in the meantime. You have heard …" Her neck bobbed, and she forced a smile. "Of course, you will have heard that my husband recently passed away. This has been a summer of death for the both of us, sweet Marianne, which is why I am so glad that we can weather at least a portion of our joint tragedy together."

She was an eloquent speaker, and it only exacerbated Marianne's feelings of inferiority. Given how kind the duchess was being with her, it shamed her to feel that way. She felt undeserving of being in the woman's company, like a stain on her beautiful beige drawing room.

"I suppose you're right. I was sorry to hear about your husband's passing." Marianne knitted her fingers in her lap, trying to process her thoughts. "This has all been overwhelming for me. Before anything else, I would like to know how you knew my mother. I think it would give me some clarity."

The duchess—Catherine—turned her gaze to the windows. She paused in thought, nodding slowly. "Your question is so simple, and yet I could not provide an easy answer if I tried." She sighed, and Marianne braced herself.

"In my letter, I wrote that your mother and I were friends long ago. Our acquaintance predated your birth by about a year. Perhaps you will not know this—in all honesty, I am not aware of the story Anne told you—but your mother was a maid in a house in Norfolk before she ever dreamed of becoming a seamstress."

"That is … news to me." Despite the deep furrow forming in her brow, Marianne managed to keep her composure. "I had no idea that my mother had ever left London."

"She certainly did. Anne was born here, in a little town called Dereham. Her family had been there for generations. People then were not nearly as nomadic as they are now.

The man who formerly employed her had also employed her mother, and his father had employed her grandmother, and so on and so forth. They worked on an estate named Hart Green just outside of the village. It was there that she and I met." Her face flickered with sadness. "It was there that she met your father."

Marianne reeled back in shock. "That's impossible. My father was from London. He used to work the docks. My mother said …" She swallowed hard, thinking about Anne's stories. "She said he was a drunkard who drowned in the Thames not long after I was born."

The duchess was still and silent until her shoulders rose in a half-shrug. "That was a lie she told to protect you, Marianne."

Marianne's feelings warred inside her. The duchess had no reason to lie, but Marianne couldn't believe that her mother, her best friend, could have fed her such a terrible lie.

"My mother wasn't a liar," Marianne murmured. Her eyes prickled with angry tears. "You're wrong. You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"I expected that you would find this difficult to accept." Catherine's voice was soft and sorrowful. "But it is the truth. I have a drawer full of your mother's letters. You are welcome to read them for yourself this evening, and within them, you will see that my story aligns with hers. I did not invite you here to hurt you."

Marianne believed that if nothing else. "If what you're saying is true, then my real father … Did he work at the house with her?"

"In some fashion." Catherine folded her hands in front of her mouth as if she were saying a prayer. "Your father was the son of the man who owned Hart Green. He met your mother while visiting his family. It was through him that I met your mother."

"What …?" Marianne stared off into space, mind whirring. If her father had been friends with a duchess, then he must have been much more than a lowly dockworker, even in Norfolk. "Are you suggesting that my father was rich?"

"Rich … Titled … Oh, sweet girl …"

Suddenly, Catherine pushed herself out of her chair, rising before Marianne. Catherine looked down, her blue eyes rounded in despair, then started pacing.

"I wish you had known sooner. I pleaded with Anne to tell you the truth about your birth, but she was adamant that keeping you a secret was safer for you both. That may have been true, but this mess could so easily have been avoided …" She drew in a fractured breath.

"Your father's name was Nicholas Chambers, and he was a good man. He was the son of the Earl of Foxburn, who lived at Hart Green, and he had been a dear friend of mine from childhood. He and your mother fell in love through his visits, which became more frequent once he met her. We should have seen the signs. By the time I had realized what had transpired between them, it was too late. I could not reverse their love, only support it."

Marianne froze in shock. The story was ludicrous. Her mother would never have kept a secret of that magnitude from her. It was one thing to lie about a father who had died before Marianne had even had the chance to know him—but to suggest that Marianne was the illegitimate granddaughter of an earl was ridiculous.

"That's not possible." She laughed in disbelief. "If my father loved my mother—if he were a good man—where is he now?"

Finally, Catherine settled in a patch of light in front of the window, halfway turned away from Marianne. "He's dead," she murmured. "For so long, he had wanted to marry Anne—their affair was an open secret at the house—but he couldn't, knowing the scandal it would cause among his peers.

When your mother realized she was with child, Nicholas refused to abandon her, even while his father swore to disinherit him of everything he could. Nicholas didn't care. They fled England and eloped without the earl's permission. To this day, I'm still not certain where they went. There was talk of Brittany …"

She closed her eyes, wincing.

"Not long after, I received the first of your mother's letters, announcing that Nicholas had died at sea. He contracted something on a ship and didn't survive the crossing. Back in England, Anne was utterly defenceless. Before his death, Nicholas had barely made ends meet on what remained of the allowance he had accumulated over the years."

"My mother was all alone." Marianne's lip quivered as she pictured her young mother, a baby in her arms, disembarking a ship with the corpse of her dead husband. "Why would she not seek out help from her husband's family?"

"I can't say." Catherine turned to meet Marianne's gaze, basking in the light. She could see in the duchess' eyes that she had been honest about everything, as much as it hurt her. "I believe she was afraid they would try and take you from her. Make no mistake—they likely would have. The former Earl of Foxburn was not a kind man.

He might have accepted you because you were legitimate through that hasty marriage, but he would never have accepted your mother as his daughter-in-law." She shrugged. "It was known that Nicholas had eloped and had a child. Many thought that they had died with him because neither Anne nor her baby were ever heard from again."

"But you knew," Marianne said, slowly overcoming her shock.

The duchess nodded. "She made me promise to keep it a secret, and I did. Anne trusted me. Long before your father died, I had helped organize their meetings. I was beside myself with joy to see him so happy, and something was thrilling about watching a true love story unfold against all odds. I was a young mother at the time, and we delighted in that rebellion, all three of us."

Her face dropped. "I have wished every day for the past twenty years that I had been a voice of reason instead of the arbiter of all this misery … And yet, if I had not enabled their folly, I would not be standing here today speaking with you. Anne's love for you was boundless, Marianne. These secrets do not change that fact."

Marianne was in no state to argue with her. She had come to Moorhaven Manor looking for answers. What she had discovered almost made her wish she had stayed in Lambeth.

She was an earl's granddaughter, and she couldn't even begin to understand what that meant. Her father was not a wastrel that she could blindly hate. He had been a gentleman who had fiercely protected the woman he loved even though it had forced him to sacrifice everything—until it had killed him.

Her whole life had been a work of fiction. Marianne wasn't even sure who she was anymore. All her memories, experiences, and dreams were based on lies. She couldn't even begin to process what her mother had done, not while her entire being was coming undone. She needed to get her hands on those letters to prove the duchess' unbelievable story.

Her tea had grown cold. The thought of consuming anything made her want to be sick anyway. She stood, raking her hands over her face like that would make her feel better.

"I need some time … to think about all this." Marianne let her hands fall to her sides. "It's too much to digest all at once."

"Of course, I understand." Catherine uncrossed her arms, moving back towards the sofas. "And you must be so exhausted from your travel. You may retire now if you wish. I will call one of the maids to attend to you and send Anne's letters with her." When Marianne remained silent, Catherine stroked her arm.

"Just as your father did not abandon your mother when so much was uncertain, I will not abandon you. You are a lady, Marianne. If you wish to start life over as one, you will have my support. And if you wish to respect Anne's plans for you and return from whence you came, I can arrange that too. Your mother gave me her blessing to aid you, and I have waited for so long for that chance. I would like to honour her and Nicholas' memories by helping you."

"Lady Marianne …" Marianne whispered before she scoffed. "It doesn't sound right."

"Just give it time." Catherine squeezed her shoulder. "You'll be surprised how much clearer things will be after a decent night's sleep."