Regency Masquerade

Chapter Eighteen

The question fell like a pebble in a pond, sending out waves of bewildered silence.  The old lady drew in her breath then spoke slowly, "I do not understand, I quite thought ... when I heard ...  I think you should tell me the full story of how you came to be here."

"Very well, my lady.  I must explain a little of my history first."

"In that case," Lady Murray interrupted, "Tom, would you please ask Mrs Pearson to come down here?  I would like her to hear this."  She turned to Frances as Tom went to the door and sent another servant on the errand.  "Mrs Pearson is my companion," she explained briefly, "She was my children's nurse – I hope she will be able to help me prove if you are who you claim to be or not."

"As I have not claimed to be anybody at all, I rather think she will have trouble with that!" retorted Frances acidly.  This brought a brief smile to the other woman's face for the first time.

In a few moments the footman returned with a plump elderly woman leaning on his arm, her black eyes snapping with curiosity.  "Yes, my lady?  What did – Oh!" she broke off as she caught sight of Frances.  "Oh I am sorry, I did not know you had ..."  for a second time she broke off what she was saying.

"Well?" queried Lady Murray impatiently.

Mrs Pearson stared at Frances, her head tilted to one side, struggling with the resemblance.  "Would you mind taking off your bonnet Miss, so that I can see your face more clearly?"

Curious, Frances complied, revealing the new blond, curled wig which most resembled the natural colour of her hair.

"Master Henry!" gasped the woman clutching her throat.  Frances shot a quick look at Lady Murray and saw a quick flash of disappointment.  "Henry?" she questioned.

Mrs Pearson kept her eyes on the young woman before her. "Henry," she repeated firmly, "although her eyes are gray, not brown, the resemblance is striking."

"Would somebody please tell me who the deuce is Henry?" demanded Frances in a loud voice.

"Why your father of course," said a bewildered Mrs Pearson at exactly the same time as Lady Murray said, "He is my cousin Rupert's son."

"My father was called James," objected Frances, still in a loud voice.

"Yes dear," agreed Mrs Pearson, "Henry James Metcalf.  And your mother was -"  For the first time she glanced across at her employer and suddenly faltered. "Wasn't she?"

 "Perhaps we had better listen to her story first," suggested Lady Murray in firm tones.  "The young lady was just about to tell me about herself when I asked you to come down.  Tom, please bring chairs so we may all be seated."

Frances and Mrs Pearson seated themselves and Frances took up her tale again, looking from one to the other.  "I was born in France, twenty four years ago of English parents.  My mother's name was Amanda, Amanda Emerson I think was her maiden name and my father was James.  I never knew his surname, or if I did I have forgotten it.  Unfortunately mother died when I was only five years old so I do not remember very much about her.  My father and I moved around a lot afterwards, and changed our names frequently so that I never knew which surname was the real one.

About six months ago, my father contracted a fatal illness, and his last instructions to me were to make my way to London and seek out Lady Julia Murray and apply to her for help.  He told me to mention the name Henry Metcalf, but he was too ill to give me any further message.  I came here hoping that Lady Julia would be able to provide me with an explanation, but ... here I am instead."