Page 14 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)
The bell rang to indicate that the second act was about to start, and they all took their seats again.
Clem could not sink back into the story again, though, as she had before, for she could not help wondering whether, if Chris found his way back into his rightful world, he would still want to take on the bother of Clem’s domineering father for the sake of marrying Clem and her dowry.
*
Grandfather was back. Chris had hoped that Lady Fernvale—‘Aunt Fern’, as he had apparently called her when he was a child—was mistaken, but Grandfather had actually called on Lady Fernvale, hoping she would be able to give him news of Chris.
“He thought his brother might not have wished to have kept you, dear Christopher, but that he would have sent you to the Thurgoods, your mother’s people.
Of course, Mr. Satterthwaite—Mr. Percival Satterthwaite—knew he could not call on them.
Not after how he and his son—your father—deceived them so as to trick Christabel into marrying Reginald. ”
Chris remembered his father speaking of romancing his mother off her feet, but not deceiving her.
That didn’t sound good. It fit his father’s modus operandi , though, and his grandfather’s.
Clem, who had agreed to come with him, squeezed his hand.
He looked down surprised to see their fingers twined.
He had not even been aware they were holding hands.
Even so, it bolstered him and gave him courage he didn’t know he needed.
“Instead, my great uncle put me out into the street,” he said.
“Oh, dearest boy,” said Aunt Fern, her eyes filling again with tears, though she had sworn three times in the past half hour that she ‘was not a watering pot.’ “Darling, your cousin’s wife told me that your grandfather tried to leave you with them, but that they refused.
They thought you should be your grandfather’s responsibility since he was the person that you knew. A grieving boy, you know.”
Chris, who had always done his best not to think about that day, had a sudden memory.
“My grandfather and the man who looked like him argued, but in the end, grandfather took me to the other side of the square, where our carriage waited. Then he gave me my bag and told me to return, and to knock on the door. He said he would wait until I was safely inside. But he didn’t, Aunt Fern.
The person who opened the door told me to go away, and when I looked for Grandfather, he was gone. ”
His face was wet. It had been wet then, too, he remembered.
No. Not remembered. What was happening to him now as he recalled that moment was stronger than that.
He was that boy again, running frantically in the direction the carriage had been heading, calling out for his grandfather, longing for his mother, who had been in her grave for two years, or even his often absent but always cheerful father, whose funeral had been only the day before.
After he’d given up the chase, he’d thought of returning to his great uncle’s, but the angry voices between the brothers, the cold rejection from the butler—he could not face it.
He had wandered and cried, cried and wandered, until he fell in with a gang of street rats, who robbed him of his bag and all his possession, then—with careless kindness unfathomable then and even now—gave him some rags to wear and took him home with them.
Their voices echoed in his mind, their cant almost unintelligible to his ten-year-old ears. In English, it went like this.
“Here! What are you crying for?”
“Because my grandfather has left London without me.”
“Go home to your ma, then.”
“My mother is dead.”
“That’s tough, shrimp. Losing your ma. Go home to your pa, then.”
“My father is dead.”
“Bad luck. Unless he was a drunk. If he got drunk and beat you all the time, good luck.” The hard cynicism of these miniature street toughs struck him even at that moment. However often his father had disappointed Chris, he had never beaten him.
But Chris didn’t see any reason to feel sorry for them when they had his money and he had nothing. “Now I am all alone, and you have taken all my money and my clothes, so I shall either starve or freeze.”
One of the boys, bigger, with a wisdom greater than his apparent years and yet somehow and inexplicably kinder than the rest, had considered him, shrugged, and turned to the others.
“He’d better come home with us then, gang.
Right?” he’d asked in a way that was more of a command, and the other boys had agreed.
And that was Chris’s introduction to a life of crime.
“However did you survive, Christopher?” his aunt asked, recalling him to the present day. “Did some kind people take you in?” She and Clem both had tears in their eyes.
“Yes, they did, Aunt.” Let her imagine a kindly shopkeeper and a life of honest labor. She didn’t need to know the worst of it. Which, at that, could have been much worse.
Aunt Fern was able to tell Chris about his family, both the Satterthwaites and the Thurgoods, and he and Clem stayed much longer than was appropriate for an afternoon call.
When he tried to apologize as they were leaving, Aunt Fern hugged him and said, “Those rules do not apply to family, Christopher, and you are the son of the sister of my heart. I am so happy to have found you. I cannot wait to tell all your cousins.”
That would never do. “Aunt Fern, I have a favor to ask you,” Chris said. “I have a particular reason for not wanting to see the rest of my family yet. In fact, I’d rather not have them know I am here in London until I am able to work out a few things.”
“Chris,” said Clem. “Tell her why. We can trust her.”
“You tell her,” Chris said.
Aunt Fern was looking bewildered, and well she might.
“Lady Fernvale, Chris and I love one another and we want to marry,” Clem said.
“My father wants me to marry someone with aristocratic bloodlines, and he favors Chris because Chris, as far as my father knows, has no family, so Father thinks he will be able to control him by holding on to my dowry unless Chris and I do what he wants.”
“We have a plan to manage him,” Chris explained. “I will work for him as he wants, but in return, I want a small country estate—one where Clem and I can live and raise a family. That is our dream, mine and Clem’s.”
“But Christopher…” Aunt Fern’s eyes were wide and troubled. Here it came. Chris had expected her to oppose her godson’s marriage to a coal miner’s daughter, but so far, she had been everything amiable to Chris’s beloved.
What she said, though, was something very different.
“You have a country estate, dear. Your Thurgood grandmother left it to you in her will.” She frowned.
“It is not particularly small, though.” She frowned.
“In truth, I am not certain we can keep your existence a secret. Or the fact that I have acknowledged you. After last night, I expect word will have gone around the ton after last night, dear. Bagshaw is a dear boy, but a rattle, and Lady Thornstead is worse.”
She brightened. “Would it work, do you think, if we cast you off for marrying down, Christopher? Begging your pardon, Miss Wright. But I dare say it is what your father will expect us to think. We can keep the estate secret, of course. Nobody needs to know about that.”
“By ‘we’, you mean my Satterthwaite and Thurgood relatives, as well as yourself, Aunt Fern,” Chris said, slowly.
Clem tipped her head on one side, her mind clearly working behind lively eyes. “It will work if nobody finds out that you are so pleased to have Chris safe and alive, that you don’t care who he marries.”
Aunt Fern gifted her with a bright smile.
“Oh, it is not quite as bad as that, dear. If you were poor, and your father still dug coal out of the ground with his own hands, it would never do.” She chuckled.
“But the rules about like marrying like have never been as solid as some people wish to think, and it seems to me you have been raised as a lady, Miss Wright, even if you were not born one.”
“I would love Clem if she were as poor as a church mouse,” Chris declared.
Aunt Fern patted him on the arm. “Of course, you would, dear. And very sweet, too. But how much nicer that she is rich. Now, my loves, I think we should sit down and make a plan, since I suppose we cannot safely meet again until after your wedding.” She beamed.
“You shall contrive to send me the date, time, and location, and I shall be there with a veil on. I do love weddings. Come back into the parlor, my loves, and I shall send for pen and paper.”