Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

A delaide led Lord Oakley to a little-used antechamber and pulled the door nearly closed, without allowing the latch to click home. Should matters take a turn for the unpleasant, she thought it best to give herself a fighting chance of escape.

The more she observed him, however, the more convinced she became that the viscount had no nefarious intentions. She could perceive nothing but nervous excitement in the way he paced about the small space, running his hands through his hair and seeming unable to decide whether he ought to sit or stand.

A small thrill flickered in her stomach at the prospect that she might really be his sister, but she instantly dismissed the notion. True, she knew not who her parents were, but the idea that they might have been in any way important was laughable. There were tens of thousands of children made orphans every year. There were but tens of dozens of viscounts. She schooled herself to keep a rational head .

"Thank you for agreeing to this," Lord Oakley began. "It is indelicate to ask you to speak to me alone, I know, but it is not commonly known that Lord Tipton is not my father by birth, and?—"

"You are adopted, too?" Adelaide blurted. She followed her outburst with a hasty apology for interrupting, but to her astonishment, the viscount waved it away, took both her hands, and led her to the nearest chair. The taboo of not sitting in the presence of her betters was many years ingrained, and it took some persuasion on his part before she lowered herself gingerly onto the seat, all the while his manner warring with her resolve to remain impartial.

He pulled another chair over and sat, facing her. "The whole purpose of this exercise is to try and establish whether we are equals. If you wish to interrupt me, I beg you would. I daresay it will make the thing go more quickly if it is not left up to me, for I am dashed if I know how to begin."

She nodded but had even fewer ideas of what to say than he.

"Let us begin with that, then," he said into her silence. "Yes, I am adopted. My parents both died when I was about three or four years old." After a short pause, he added, tentatively, "And yours?"

"I do not know when mine died. All I know is that I was not born to the family in which I grew up. My mother—well, my most recent mother—told me." She smiled at the turn of his countenance as he attempted to comprehend. "Frances and Christopher Booker took me in because they were childless," she explained. "But Frances died when I was still an infant. I have no memory of her or my natural mother. My father married again, and that Mrs Booker died when I was ten."

"I am very sorry to hear you have suffered so much loss."

Adelaide did not think it would paint her in a favourable light to admit that she had been relieved when the last Mrs Booker had died. Not without context, at least, and the context of her childhood was something she had no desire to expound upon, even to someone who would, surely, turn out to have no connection to her whatsoever.

"You seem to have had more good fortune," she said, striving to sound cheerful. "Orphan to viscount is quite the elevation."

"Ah. Yes. That is the reason I wished to speak in private. The thing is—" He stopped talking and gave a nervous chuckle, rubbing his eyebrow with the back of his finger as he did so. "I have been keeping this secret for so long, it feels foolhardy to be revealing it to a housemaid in a darkened antechamber on nothing more than a whim."

"You must not feel obliged to tell me," Adelaide replied impatiently. "Allow me to go back to my business, and I shall happily leave you to yours." It was only kindness that had persuaded her to consent to hearing his absurd theory. As genial as he seemed, she would rather not waste her time having to coax him into telling her.

"Forgive me, I meant no offence. This is all excessively discomposing, but I should like you to know. If I am right, then you must know, for it would make my story your story." He took a deep breath. "All of society believes Lord Tipton is my father, and I am his heir. In truth, Lady Tipton was unable to bear children. The earl's true heir is his brother Damian, who was for many years in the army and then gaol and now divides his time between gambling dens and…well, it is enough to say that he leads a dissolute life.

"When I came into his care as a very young boy, Lord Tipton let it be known that I was his natural son—a ruse that was possible because he spent most of his early marriage at his country estate and came to town but rarely. To this day, that is what everybody believes. If the world were to discover that I am only his nephew, and not the heir, I would lose everything, and in all likelihood, my uncle Damian would run the estate into the ground."

Adelaide felt a familiar, sinking feeling as the implication of what he was telling her became clear. "Lord Tipton is your uncle?"

"Yes." He frowned. "Does that trouble you?"

It ought not to trouble her; she was used to being unwanted. She gave a desultory, one-shouldered shrug. "Presuming we are brother and sister, it means that when our parents died, our uncle chose to keep you and not me."

Lord Oakley's expression altered instantly to one of excessive alarm, and he dragged his chair a few inches nearer in an urgent manner.

"Pray do not think that for an instant. My birth father— the youngest of the three sons—was estranged from his family, and all contact between him and his brothers was forbidden by their father. It was known that he had a son—me—for he attempted to heal the breach after I was first born, but his father would not hear of it. He was sent away again, and there was no further contact between them. A few months after the present Lord Tipton inherited the earldom, the family received word of my parents' deaths. The orphanage to which I had been taken wrote to inform them I was there."

"And only you?"

The viscount twisted his mouth into a rueful smile and nodded. "Yes. When I was younger, I used to fancy that I could remember playing with other children, but I have long assumed it was the wishful thinking of an only child. I have not always known I was adopted, you see—I have no memory of it. But since I was told, I have often wondered whether I did have any brothers or sisters and where they might have ended up."

"I beg you would not make me the object of your longing. I should not like to be a plaything, taken up to fulfil a childhood dream only to be put down again when the novelty wears off." Adelaide knew all too well what would happen when he decided he was no longer entertained by his counterfeit sister.

He shook his head. "That is not why I am doing this. Yes, I have recollections that cannot be accounted for, but I have not gone through life suspecting every stranger I meet of being my brother or sister. Indeed, I never suspected it of anyone until yesterday, but something about you arrested me the moment I saw you. "

"Yes, my eyes, you said."

"It was your eyes that made me look, for I truly have never seen another person with the same colouring. But once I had looked, you seemed so very familiar."

It was Adelaide's turn to shake her head. "I do not think we look at all alike."

"Neither do I. That is why I was so confused. But I have finally worked out what it is. You look like my grandmother. I never met her—she died before I was born—but there is a painting of her as a young woman, in the stairwell of Chiltern Court, where I grew up. I have looked at it every time I have gone up or down those stairs for the last eighteen years of my life. Believe me when I say that, except for your eye colour, the likeness is uncanny."

Lord Oakley's excitement had returned; he was looking at her encouragingly, nodding, as though willing her to be convinced. The spark Adelaide had felt before flared ever so slightly warmer. That he wanted it to be true, that he welcomed the possibility she might be his sister, moved her in a way he would likely never comprehend.

She sighed heavily. Her wish to belong, to be a part of something, had led her down the wrong path before. Where you belong is the servants' hall , she reminded herself. And yet, against her better judgement, she found herself beginning to wish for the same thing as Lord Oakley. He seemed to be good-natured and amiable, and so utterly convinced himself.

"What was her name?" she asked tentatively.

"My grandmother's? Frederica. "

Adelaide wilted a little, and when asked why, admitted, "I was wondering whether I might have been named after someone in particular, but?—"

"I think there was a great-aunt called Sarah somewhere along the line."

"Sarah is not my real name."

"Oh. What is?"

"Adelaide."

His smile was so warm and so genuine that it quite erased the disappointment she felt when he shook his head. "I know of nobody in the family with that name, but it is very pretty, all the same."

Adelaide had always thought so, despite Mrs Booker's frequent gibes to the contrary. ‘An ugly name for an ugly child,' she had called it.

"Miss Adelaide Richmond," his lordship said, grinning boyishly. "That would be your name if it transpired you were my sister. It has a very fine ring to it, do you not think?"

Adelaide had never thought anything sounded finer, and regardless of how incredible the hope might be, her chest abruptly filled with the fiercest desire to claim it as hers forever. "I was adopted in 1799."

He resumed his fervent nodding. "As was I. From Princess Caroline's Home for the Care of Unfortunate Waifs. In Harrowsford, in Oxfordshire. Does that sound familiar?"

"I do not know where I was found. I grew up in Banbury."

"Well, that is near enough. I daresay Mr Booker could confirm the details. "

Adelaide almost protested the idea of him approaching her father but changed her mind, for she could not deny the appeal of a viscount turning up on her family's doorstep, claiming a tie with her.

"Does no one else in your family have your colour eyes, then?" she enquired. "Is it really just me?"

"My mother had them, I am told. Lord Tipton and Damian both have green eyes. Although, both do have exceedingly fair hair—the same as yours appears to be under that cap, if I am not mistaken?"

Buoyed by this new discovery, Adelaide undid the ribbon and removed her cap to reveal her light blonde hair. "It is quite fair. Fairer than my eyes are purple, at any rate."

"I never said purple—I said violet," he replied, equally animated. "What about your toes?"

"What about them?"

"If we are looking for family traits, my second toe is longer than my big toe." He shrugged. "I wondered if yours was."

"I do not believe so."

"Well, check!"

"Now?"

"Do you not wish to know? I know I do. I shall look away." And indeed, he surged to his feet and walked to stand in the corner of the room with his back to her.

"This is ridiculous," Adelaide grumbled, even as she took off her shoe. Ten minutes prior to this, she had been concerned this man meant to seduce her; now she was voluntarily undressing in his presence. He was right, though; she did wish to know .

When her right stocking was rolled completely off, she let out a loud sigh. "That is disappointing. I have perfectly well-arranged toes."

"Check the other foot."

He sounded so little like a grand lord and so much like an excitable child, Adelaide laughed and did as he bade her. "Not this foot either, I am afraid."

"Are you sure?"

In his eagerness, Lord Oakley forgot his manners and whirled round to see for himself. Adelaide, herself too caught up in the significance of the moment to recall that they were not yet brother and sister, did not tuck her feet away demurely under her skirts, but thrust them out towards him so he could see. Thus, it was with her cap removed, her hair coming unpinned, and a viscount—with whom her name had already been most pruriently connected—bent over her bared legs, that Adelaide was discovered by the butler.

"It is my fault! She only did it because I told her she was a prude for saying she wouldn't! Please do not make her go!"

"I did not do anything, Patty," Adelaide said through gritted teeth. She was shoving all her belongings into her moth-eaten case while Mrs Bunce stood over her, red-faced and tearful with anger, and Patty pawed at the housekeeper's arm, pleading with her not to send Adelaide away.

"How can you deny it?" Mrs Bunce demanded. "Mr Hardcastle caught you red-handed. And bare-legged! Oh, I am ashamed of you! Of all my girls, you had the most potential. You could have made housekeeper—now you will be nothing !" Her voice cracked and she picked up one of Adelaide's night shifts and attempted to force it into a side pocket of the case, presumably to cover her show of emotion.

Adelaide snatched it from her and pushed it in with all her other things. It was not the first time she had been told she was worthless, though it had been many years since she last heard it said. The sting had not diminished, and it stole her voice for a moment. Wordlessly, she hefted the straps of her case onto her shoulder and made her way downstairs.

It seemed every servant employed at High Brook had gathered in the servants' hall to witness her disgrace. Some cast disdainful looks at her, others appeared genuinely shocked, a few rallied in her defence. Patty had followed her belowstairs and now redirected her pleas from the housekeeper to the butler, though Adelaide could have told her that was a waste of time.

Mr Hardcastle glared at her with venomous eyes. "You have brought shame on this household. You will leave without a character, without pay, and without your virtue. Do not attempt to find work anywhere in this county—your name will henceforth be synonymous with ignominy, and I will not allow High Brook to be brought low along with you. Is that understood?"

Adelaide wondered how long he had wished to speak those words. He had never liked her, not since she refused his advances on her first night. She had been a laundry maid then and had worked her way up the ranks to housemaid in the years that followed. What would become of her now, she dared not suppose. She pushed the concern from her mind, for she refused to weep in front of this baying mob.

"Mr Hardcastle asked you whether you understood, Sarah," Mrs Bunce said icily.

"My name is Adelaide," she replied with equal frostiness. "And no, I do not understand why I am being punished for something I did not do."

She thought for a moment that Mr Hardcastle would strike her, for his face turned puce with rage and his hand curled into a fist. Instead, he struck the table and spewed forth a tirade of vile accusations. Everybody present had an opinion on which of his charges was true or false or somewhere in between, and they all began shouting over each other to make themselves heard. The shouting progressed to elbowing, the elbowing to shoving, and before she knew it, Adelaide was in the midst of a melee. She looked in desperation at Patty, and her friend reached towards her, but Adelaide was abruptly tugged backwards by her collar. Someone pulled her case off her shoulder; someone else pulled her hair.

"Take your hands off that woman this instant!"

Hands, bodies, and sound all fell away from Adelaide, leaving her standing in a vacuum in the middle of the servants' hall—into which stepped Lord Oakley. He picked her case up off the floor and held his arm out for her.

"Come."

She went with him, her skin crawling beneath the glare of so many incredulous eyes as he led her up the stairs and out of the front of the house.

"Where are we going?"

Lord Oakley, who was so much the hero in her eyes by then that he did not need to prove himself her brother to earn her abiding devotion, grinned.

"I am taking you home to meet your family."