Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE, part 1

“Preposterous!” The old lady’s polished drawl exploded into a veritable vocal gorging of disbelief. “Marry you! Marry YOU! How can you possibly expect an educated, intelligent, not to mention, astute, old lady like myself, believe such a fabrication of lies! Fitzroy, whaddya think?” “My dear Aunt, of course the girl’s lying, though it beats me as to how she's come by such intimate knowledges. As I said, Aunt, there is always a bird of prey wherever there is a corpse.... Oh, dear me, I am so sorry, Aunt. It's just, well, what with poor Seyton being deceased an’ all!” Charity’s hand flew to cover her partly opened mouth. “So you say, Fitzroy, so you say.” The old lady’s grey eyes had glazed over, so that she looked to be staring into improbable distances. Lord Rispian continued with his barrage: “She’s concocted a pack of lies and nothing more than that! She’s no more than an unscrupulous, insensitive baggage, an adventuress come to claim something which by rights certainly DOES NOT belong to HER!” Charity took courage. “Dead? You say that Seyton is dead?” The two aristocrats turned level eyes upon her. “For what it matters to you, yes, he is. I have proof of it in this small signet ring. Here, Aunt: take a look for I swear I took it off Seyton’s finger meself.” “You lie! You cannot, for see, I have Lord Clover’s signet ring and it is the same, the very same, which he wed me with!” The old lady reached out her hand and took the ring which her nephew passed to her. 

She examined it, then sighed: “Does indeed seem to be my poor boy’s own ring.” Charity was endeavouring to take her own ring from off her finger. “NO! NO! THIS is Lord Seyton Clover - my husband’s - ring!” 

Some sixth sense made Charity thrust the ring even further down on her finger, however, for should this be taken from her, then she would be well and truly stymied. Changing her tactics, she jumped up and extended her finger towards the old dame. Who, curiosity prompting, examined the ring, identical to the one which her nephew had passed her, through her lorgnettes. “This is most odd,” she exclaimed. “What?” fumed Lord Rispian. “Why, they are the same! Fitzroy, what on earth is going on?” “I insist that the ring you hold, Ma’am, is the very one I removed from late late beloved Coz’s finger.” “Then you are a liar as well as a murderer!” stormed Charity. “Return to your seat, Madame,” ordered the old woman,”We shall come to the bottom of this, one way and another.”

Lord Rispian’s face suddenly became illuminated with the light of inspiration: “See here, Aunt, these are documents which my late cousin had about his person. I am sure that these should convince you of his demise. As to her...” His fat jowls wobbled in Charity’s direction, “Then I have a paper too, which says we are legally wed, though from what you have told Lady Clover, I am even now, alas,” Charity’s small voice sobbed into a hushed whisper, “I am... a widow!” 

Lord Rispian was busy with handling some sheets of parchment, which he duly passed to his aunt. Charity searched through her indispensable, looking for the incomplete wedding certificate. She was chancing her luck, for she knew that it was invalid without the signatures. 

“Oh, if only John and Molly Fibbins were to hand,” she wailed mentally to herself, for she was too much in shock to even consider that she was - once more - without a protector. 

Nonetheless, she added this sheet of paper to the pile which lay upon the old lady’s lap. Lord Rispian’s furrowed brows whistled a black fury in her direction. Hardly able to contain his wrath, for he had no doubts that what Charity said had actually come to pass and that his cousin, whether he be truly now dead, or alive, would indeed have married the bosomy beauty. How sincere he was in his detesting of the young woman, who sat now opposite him, anxiously twisting her frail hands together, that enormous bosom, discretely enough curtained behind a falling handkerchief of white lawn. He narrowed his eyes and strolling towards his aunt, picked the piece of paper up. 

“See, even if it were a legitimate service, and if it did take place, as you profess Miss Cottrell, there are no witness signatures here, nor the name of the priest who purportedly wed you. Bah! this would never stand in a court of Law.” The old lady beckoned with her faintly age mottled hands to take the paper again off her nephew. “Well, my dear Fitzroy, I cannot be totally convinced upon these matters until I receive further proof. What is this I hear about some tomfoolery of a duel?” The old lady raised her thin painted eyebrows at him. So, she had heard thus far. He should need to teach his man, Mellors, a lesson - of that his lordship was convinced. With a horse-whip across the shoulders. “Ah! Tush, Aunt – That was but a jape. Alas,” he inflexed deep, sad tones to his richly timbred voice, "How Fate does conspire to make dead fools of us all eventually.” “So it seems to appear. However, Seyton’s estates must stay untouched, as though he were intestate, until concrete evidences arrives.” 

Lord Rispian’s face was a study worthy to have been captured by Joshua Reynolds himself - for it was ashen all over, but with bright spots crimsoning the upper parts of the cheeks, his mouth was fixed in a determined grim line, his eyes were hard stony pools and his brows hovered towards the bridge of his nose as two mating blackish caterpillars might do. He cleared his throat, for the silence ensuing would have frozen an Egyptian mummy. “May we perhaps have some light refreshments, Ma’am?” 

The old dame jerked her head in his direction, "What? Oh yes.” 

Lord Rispian flicked his fingers together and one of his cousin’s lackeys came forward. 

“Madeira and cake and maybe a pot of tea with some lemon. Make it snappy, man, will ya?” 

The lackey, now becoming fast accommodated to the fact that His Lordship would not be returning and that his house was being cared for by his cousin, Lord Rispian, hurriedly did as he was bid. Charity sat motionless: she felt as though she dared not breathe. Her thoughts were in a tumbril of activity. Lord Seyton Clover’s elderly mother sat, likewise, motionless, for a few seconds then she resumed her study of the documents which she had upon her lap. “May I examine ... this ‘Marriage Certificate’, more closely, Aunt?” She looked up: “What? Yes, I suppose so. Not that it tells a great deal. I must say, though, that there does appear to be a signature ’pon it, which uncannily resembles Seyton’s.” “Signatures can easily be forged,” sneered Lord Rispian as he took the parchment and went back to his seat. He sat, sniffing, with a wry smile on his set features, holding the document, first one way and then another.