Page 54 of The Songbird of Wychwood

CHAPTER 33

GEORGE

Percy left for the office by eight o’clock and when Eloise had eaten her fill and we’d caught up, she left to meet Mari. I was already missing the theater. But this was my life now. I’d be a fool to become maudlin when I had a handsome gentleman to care for me and this wonderful place to live in with him. It was time I settled in and made a place for myself here. And so, I began by unpacking some bags of necessities and then I made myself comfortable in the lounge. I was set up at a desk by the front window and able to see the comings and goings on Hamilton Place. I’d started to copy my songs into the wonderful leather-bound book Percy purchased for me, using the miraculous fountain pen. It felt good in my hand and the ink flowed so smoothly that I wrote and wrote, the hours passing without me realizing. The fire was now low, the morning coals having burned down to ashes, but the room was still comfortably warm. A knock on the front door startled me, and when I looked up a young lad wearing a flat cap and a threadbare coat scurried past the window. I went to investigate and by the door, there was an envelope on the floor. It was ivory with my name written in flowing purple script. I hurriedly picked it up, bemused that the employer knew my change of address before I’d officially told any, apart from my closest friends. I returned to the lounge, took a seat, and opened the letter. To my surprise it was not a notification of the next party, it was direction of a different kind.

A carriage will arrive at midday, be ready, as you are.

This was not an invitation to perform, but something else. How very curious! I was to travel as myself, and not as Miss Georgette. Would I finally meet the secretive employer, the man who owned Wychwood? The clock on the mantle said it was eleven-thirty so I had half an hour to ready myself. I hurried out to the hallway where I’d sorted my costumes onto a garment rail. The suit I wore for Lord Dickey was the best clobber I owned.

As the mantle clock struck midday there was a knock on the door. I opened it to see a carriage waited for me, the driver standing beside the open door ready to close it when I climbed in. I’d left a note for Percy and I hoped his belongings would not turn up when I was not at home to receive them. I locked the front door and stepped up into the carriage, nervous about where I was being taken and what was about to occur.

The carriage traveled through the back streets of Mayfair and Marylebone to avoid the traffic on the main thoroughfares until we turned onto the more familiar Albany Street. It ran the length of Regents Park, which housed London Zoo. I usually traveled these roads at night when the fog was thick enough to slice with a switchblade. But today was a pleasant spring day and the sky was bright with not a cloud to spoil my view. When we began the ascent up the steep roadway at Primrose Hill, I was now sure we were heading for Wychwood.

The gates of the grand mansion were already open and a coach and two waited on the drive. My driver pulled up behind it. I opened the door, stepped out then rushed up to the front door. It opened without me knocking. A man I didn’t know, not Mr. Joshua, answered the door. He appeared to be in his late fifties, but apart from silver flecks in his beard and pomaded dark hair, his face was handsome and finely boned.

“Ah, George, come in,” he said, and his familiarity too me aback. Numbly I stepped in and he closed the door. The man stood opposite me and met my confused eyes. His mouth twitched nervously before he said,

“We’re in the front parlour. I’ve lit a fire. It may be bright today but the breeze still has quite the bite of winter.” He strode away down the hallway I was so very familiar with. Intrigued, I followed him into the parlour where I’d had many a flirty conversation with the men of Club Fifty-Five. Who was he? He appeared familiar and yet I could not place where I’d met him before. Was this the employer? What did this fellow think I had to discuss with him? I entered the comfortable room and the gent closed the door behind me.

“Would you care for refreshment? I’ve made a pot of Coffee; it’s Jamaican, very good.”

“Um, yes, thank you, coffee would be welcome,” I said, “Forgive me, but what am I doing here?”

The man was silent for a moment as he moved a tray onto a small table between two hearthside chairs. “Please help yourself,” he invited and then gestured for me to take one of the seats. I removed my coat and bowler hat and tossed them over a side chair. I was befuddled but did as he directed. I sat and poured a cup of thick dark coffee, adding milk and a sugar lump.

The fellow sat to my left. He took a breath and I realised he too was nervous. Then he revealed, “My name is William Hastings, eighth Duke of Bedford.” He offered me his hand. I shook it, looking dazedly at the man, who then proceeded to prepare his own cup of coffee.

“The owner of the house is a friend and they allow people to avail of it for discrete purposes. They know many secrets of those in society, and this house is a very useful meeting place. Oh, I am not a member of the club, but I am aware of what happens here.” He paused and licked his lower lip tentatively. “My connection to you is why you were approached to entertain here.”

His connection to…me? “I beg your pardon but I don’t under—“

I never finished the sentence because he interrupted and his words took the breath from me.

“I…knew your mother, Miss Violette D’Ancie,” he revealed. I understood then, knew in my gut exactly who this man was, and the weight of understanding nearly caved my chest in.

“I’m sorry that it’s taken so long to introduce myself,” he began.

I had my ma’s eyes and her mousy brown wavy hair, but, without a doubt, this man was familiar because it was like looking into a mirror. I had the Hastings jaw line and fine boned features.

“I wish I could have, but—circumstances did not permit this meeting earlier in your life,” William…my father…finished weakly.

My heart was beating fast and my mind sort of whited out. I was unable to catch a thought or even respond. If I didn’t speak soon, I was sure he’d think me an imbecile.

“How did you know my mother?” I said, my voice sounding cold and emotionless to my ears. I needed him to say the words. This was the fellow who had abandoned us, who didn’t love my ma enough to marry her when he got her with me. My mother struggled to do her best for me, but this…this man was rich, he’s the bloomin’ Duke of Bedford for god’s sake and he could have made sure he looked after the girl he made a son with. Feelings started to come back like the tide on a stormy sea rushing to meet the shore, and the prominent emotion was rage. William Hastings pulled me from my anger spiral when he began to speak.

“I met Violette in 1834. I was in town for a Christmas celebration, an annual get together with my chums from school. I was twenty-two, and admittedly quite the hellion back then. I was always drawn to a more bohemian lifestyle and so my fellows and I attended Evans Music and Supper room in Covent Garden. That was where I first set eyes on Violette. She was so beautiful, so vibrant and I was at once bedazzled,” William paused, seemingly lost in remembrance before continuing.

“She was with a French actress I’d met before, Martine Marcel.”

I remembered Martine. She was my ma’s best friend. She’d left for America when I was around eleven years old. I remembered her farewell party, because we’d just moved into the Middlesex and ma bought a cake from a French patisserie in Regent Street, the likes of which I’d never seen before. I also recalled how mum missed her so.

“She was quite good at playing the ingénue and much in demand by directors in the London set. Martine introduced me to her friend and told me she was a costumier visiting from Paris. I was at once smitten. Violette had a way of flashing her brown eyes at me that made me feel quite drunk. She didn’t put on airs, and did not care for my status at all, happily poking fun at me in a way no one who knew my family name would have dared to do. It was…refreshing, I suppose. We became acquainted over several months. The more time I spent with her, the more I wanted to, and finally, she invited me to the apartment she shared with Martine.”

We know how this story goes! William Hastings had his way with the pretty French girl and then left her to deal with the consequences. For years I’d longed to know who my Pa was. I’d needed to understand why he hadn’t wanted us. But whenever I asked why I didn’t have a dad like the other kiddie’s ma always got upset. I guess I’d gotten my answer now. I reached for my cup of coffee and took a swallow to prevent myself from saying something I might regret. But William, my father, was lost in memories and continued his telling.

“In one week in November 1835 my life changed. I was sent word that my father had passed suddenly and I was now the Duke of Bedford. And then a day later Martine sent a telegram informing that Violette had given birth to a baby boy, and he was my son. Of course, I longed to be with Violette, I wanted to meet the child, but you must understand the weight of heredity. The requirements of my family had to come first.”

“I’m your family,” I snarled like a wounded child. “I’m your flesh and blood; you don’t get closer family than that!”