Summer 1833
If it was a mistake to have married the man of her dreams, Therese could not imagine having gone down the right path.
She herself had sprawled forth from the dark alleys of New Orleans' French Quarter, daughter of a runaway slave-turned-prostitute and some haphazard patron, a waitress herself for most of her life until only very recently. How fate had brought her and the proud, noble Englishman beside her together was beyond Therese's understanding, yet she dared not question. Many a twilight she would stumble up from a seemingly sound sleep only to look at the bedecked walls about her, to run her wavering hands over the finely-threaded cotton upon her sheets. Her most favorite redeemer of reality, however, were the winsome faces of her children.
There were five of them; five darling little girls, all of them running amuck and fretting about in the library. Lord Roderick Hawthorne, the sixth Earl of Somerset, presided over them in a state of disarray as she attempted to beckon each one into her place. He stood tall and regal with his khaki-dyed general's overcoat glimmering with pins and patches, finally giving a single demand for his gossamer-donned daughters to "stop that dawdling and come take places about your mother". It was the day for their grand portrait to be painted, after all.
Therese could hardly help but smile at the sight of their unlikely little family from her opulent chair alongside his right. One by one their girls came around, taking their places as per instruction of the artist.
At her skirts the youngest and fairest, Ophelia Danielle, wobbled to her own two booties before taking place upon her mother's lap. At barely a year old she was undoubtedly Therese' most pampered child, sturdy, plump as pudding and already promising to be the most attached to her parents. She looked the least like either of them and yet the most like the Dowager Countess Isabella, Roderick's own mother, with her russet-brown ringlets and light eyes. Ophelia clung to all her sisters with equal fervor, always the one to fret that her wobbly little legs weren't yet quick enough to catch up to them. Everyone looked after her with unprecedented concern.
In her jay blue frock of gauze, four-year old Catherine Augusta took a restive stance to the right of her mother. Though so young was the most austere of Therese's children, the heart of her light sienna face soft in complexion while her hazels watched the painter with unforgiving regard. With her taupe-brown hair finally developing a rather heavy curl pattern it had to be swept back in a barrage of forceful white ribbons, the elaborate up-do seemingly much too pretentious for a child. And yet, with her little hand thoughtlessly seeking out her mother's, Therese knew this child to be wise beyond her years.
"Stand still, Freddie. Let the poor man start painting us."
The stout toffee-tinted girl bit her mischievously dimpled grin before quieting her feet in deference to her mother's words. Nearly six, Frederica Gabrielle could hardly be kept in one place for longer than a moment, her restless soul -- much like the heavy curls of her raven hair -- forbidding she waste a moment not relinquishing to her imagination. She took her place to the left of the earl, sepia gaze apologetic to a lesser effect. With a simple shake of his head Roderick briefly leaned over to straighten the frills about her pale pink gown. "Can't be without wrinkles for a moment, I see?" was all he sighed before resuming his erect settlement.
Carefully propped on hidden cushions in front of their parents sat the last two girls, Rowena and Sabine.
At eight winters, the brunette Rowena Alexandra could inarguably be the most like her mother in spirit yet more akin to her father in appearances. She feared nothing but the loss of her siblings, the cool severity of her chestnut gaze always having a way of speaking when her mouth needn't say a word. And while she managed to sit beside her sister, fair lips wrapped in silence, it was a relief to Therese that the girl decided against letting her overzealous words find a way into everyone's ears as they often did. But the pride of her father's lineage weighed well upon her delicate shoulders, much finer than it ever could upon Sabine's.
There could be no denying that the eldest child had to be the least suited for her station. Therese let her dark gaze fall to the ever-so-frail Sabine Isabella. She had always been the quiet favorite of her mother, and more than any other the ten-year old relied on the unspoken knowledge as if it were her very key into heaven. While she was honest in her abounding youth and unmistakably the most obedient girl that any parent could wish for, the auburn-haired heiress was a fool to her own weak heart. She was impressionable, devoid of the talent to read others the way even the younger Rowena could. Her golden eyes were desperate to please by any account necessary, a folly Therese could not help but fear would ultimately ruin the girl in the end. And while Roderick merely insisted saving her would be as simple as finding her a suitable earl's heir the moment she was old enough to be presented for her first season, his wife could not shake that Sabine would require more attention than that.
If not, she feared as she held the babe from her noisy cooing, We're bound to lose them all.
August 1848 : Letters from No One
She would have to get up at some point, though she could not see why now or an hour from now would make much of a difference. But with Elise tying back the drapes to allow in the morning sun, that idea was as good as dead.
"Good morning, your ladyship!"
"Good morning, Elise," Rowena mused dazedly. She slid up from the sumptuous covers to rest her back against the bolsters along her elaborate headboard, rubbing the sleep out from her sepia eyes. It was the morning after the family's arrival from their home in London, the Season having officially ended as of the previous Friday. While Rowena loved nothing more than to be knee-deep in the bustling excitement of Royal Ascot or the gregarious chatter at Almack's, it always turned out that, come August, she was quite ready to return to the quiet country life of Etheridge. And though she was in no shortage of associates by the collaborated effort of her mother's strings and Rowena's own charm, still she was found wanting for a husband.
At twenty-three, it could hardly be considered something to smile about.
The flame-haired maid set two envelopes upon the nightstand. "Two telegrams for you, your ladyship," she said lightly, smoothing her prim white apron. "Would you like for me to draw your bath with rosewater or lavender this morning?"
"Oh, do surprise me." Rowena smirked as the giggling maid left for the bathroom, glancing at the return addresses between the two telegrams. She couldn't quite bring herself to read anything from her newlywed cousin just yet -- no doubt she wrote to rub the details of their French honeymoon in her face -- but the name Prudence Goodwill sent her fingers into a swiftness. It was a pseudonym, of course -- no lady of elite esteem would give her child such an antediluvian name -- used by Sabine whenever the two exchanged correspondence. This way no one but the pair could recognize whom they truly wrote to and, in turn, be able to write freely without the suspicion of their parents.
"Oh, my God..."
It only took a moment for her to read over the hasty few lines of scribbles before Rowena scrambled to her feet. She had barely thrown the silken robe over her nightshift before rushing out the door, the telegram clutched in her hand.
Elise only caught a glimpse of the woman dash out from her bedroom before she turned off the faucet. Nothing but impending disaster could make her run out of bed on a Monday morning.
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"What's it matter?"
"Because it isn't like her ladyship is all." Elise tied back the drapes of the furthest window over before pausing, looking out onto the manicured green that was the landscape of Etheridge Place. "I never remember the Lady Rowena to get out of bed before noon, much less dash out for a simple telegram. Unless it was something of dire importance. But how many of those things does she read in bed every other morning? It can't be s--"
"It can't be," Frederica echoed with a dismissive laugh from her own bathtub. "Because it couldn't possibly be as important as you make it sound. Rowena's odd about these things, and you shouldn't pretend otherwise."
The ginger one sighed before finishing with the drapes, moving along to make the bed Frederica had abandoned. Another maid, Nan, had been fixing the room herself until Elise insisted she see to finishing Lady Rowena's. Elise had promptly shut the door behind Nan, locking it.
Working a steady lather in her palms, Frederica leaned over the tub ledge. Impatiently she insisted, "For God's sake, Elise! Will you come in here already?"
The housemaid nearly trotted into the bathroom upon request. It seemed clear she would have inquired what was wanted, but all her young mistress had to do was toss that impish little grin to hint at unspoken instructions. Elise could not help the blush about her milky cheeks before she glanced over at the locked door. "We haven't any time," she whispered.
The bubbly bathwater, still a bit more than tepid, sloshed over the porcelain ledges once the earl's raven-haired daughter grabbed at her lover's hands and yanked her forward. Their childish giggles echoed in unison before a cinnamon-tinted mouth pressed sweetly against the flushing pink of the other, lithe fingers twining as if to hold on before their feet would lift from the marble floor in their ignorant bliss. Elise gasped as she realized her naked mistress was making rushed efforts to get her much the same; she broke their kiss to press her lips against the heart of a smooth, toffee throat.
"I mean it! We've got to... ahm, get... get get you to breakfast before everyone notices you're late. Again. Oi! Do sto-- mmn, for fuck's sake, don't you stop that."
Frederica threw her head back with laughter, tearing at the seemingly endless buttons and ties before dropping to her knees. She pushed an enraptured Elise back against the washroom vanity, the ginger haphazardly stepping out from her shift until it was a worthless pile of dampened whites and blacks on the floor. She nearly crawled between her legs before shoving them apart, Frederica wasting no time in hoisting the creamy expanse of thighs upon her shoulders. Despite the pinned girl's diluted protest she whispered, "I'll see what's eating at my sister, if it makes you happy. But that just means you'll have to pay for it... later. Because right now, I'm quite ready to devour you."
She then dove deep into the soft mound of ginger curls, letting her pursed mouth kiss at the honeyed moisture that was Elise's own netherlips before delving her tongue with wanton need. The maid could hardly contain her impassioned mewling, but Frederica could hardly bring herself to mind. It was easy to ignore Elise with her thighs muffled about her lover's ears.
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While she had her own doubts about what was going on, Catherine could not have guessed the magnitude of what she actually asked for.
"She's mad."
"She needs help, Catherine!" The raven-haired sister clutched the telegram to her bosom as she paced about her the peach-and-beige trimmed bedroom. "She needs our help above anyone else's. It's our duty to come to her aid!"
"No, it isn't."
Catherine sat at her vanity mirror, cool as a cucumber while a maid busied with brushing her hair. The dark brown curlicues of it could hardly be managed with merely a comb and a brush alike, but this morning it decided to be somewhat tame. "Let's twist it and coif it for now, Madge. We'll worry about something finer before tea. No, Rowena." Her hazel eyes locked upon her fretting sister distastefully, sighing as she went on, "Mama told us years ago we're not to respond to anything she writes. It's all her own doing anyhow. She chose to run off with that blundering Scotsman, didn't she? She chose to cast the family name into suspicion and curiosity, nearly ruining the prospects for the rest of us. And for heaven's sake, do stop that ridiculous pacing, Simply watching you would make a blind man dizzy."
"That isn't fair," Rowena argued. "She's our sister, Cat."
"How can you think of her when she thought so little of us? Do you honestly think she kept us in mind when she eloped? Even if we wanted to help, how could we? There's nothing we can very well do. We've not got anything to lend, not without Papa's consent." She sneered then, "And we all know that isn't happening."
Over and over again her dark eyes read the hurried letter. Again and again Rowena's heart clenched with the apprehension of her sister's well-being, of her pregnancy. It had only been a month or so since Sabine's little son was taken by the cholera sickness sweeping the country, and in her letter it seemed Edgar, her husband, had succumbed to it as well. With Sabine nearly ready to burst at the arrival of her second child, Rowena could hardly bear the thought of her not escaping the epidemic in time to the clean country air. Even folks of the village had remained clear of the illness.
So far, in any case.
She shook her head, plopping hopelessly upon the loungechair set before the great bed. Dismal as things were, it looked as though it could be Sabine's only chance at seeking redemption on behalf of their parents. Disowned or not, the girl was their daughter, and Rowena knew her steadfast mother better than to turn away family. Yes, they had come to a nearly impossible decision, the Earl and his Countess, when they were forced to forsake their disobedient child. And yes, neither man nor wife had been heard to even mutter Sabine's name since she had been cast out those three years ago. But both would be false to the integrity of their name if they were to pretend as though their eldest daughter had been cast out of their hearts as well.
"I'll have to tell them."
At that Catherine turned, the brush in Madge's hand clunking to the floor. "You can't!" she exclaimed, hazels hardened in severity. "Mama won't hear any of it, and you wouldn't dare tell Papa."
But Rowena bit her lip against the debate frothing over in her head. "It's just like you said, Cat; there isn't any other way. Once they know she and the life of the babe are in danger, they won't have any choice but to take her back in. Sabie's her daughter just like the rest of us."
"Then you're a fool to tell," Catherine countered. She turned back to the vanity, impatient for her hair to be finished. "And you may want to be dressed before you try to convince either of them of anything. By the way, did Papa not say that one gentleman was coming to visit him today? He had some sort of news or anticipations, I think..."
At the door Rowena paused, hand upon doorknob. Heavens, but she could hardly go a full day back in the country before the society of London had to catch up with her! And while her sister was not privy to just which gentleman would come to call, Rowena had more than an idea.
No, she knew. And if he arrived with the likely intentions she expected, the Duke of Hilton would be most disappointed.
