Mingled With Venom

‘I believe you think, as I do, that I am really a member of your own family.’

‘Good heavens! I don’t think anything of the kind! Whatever put such a fantastic idea into your silly young head? I suppose all girls in your position get illusions of grandeur, but yours is simply ridiculous,’ said Maria.

‘The idea came when the abuela promoted me to what I feel is my rightful position. I don’t think she took me out of the kitchen merely because I have a voice which can be trained. I think I am her husband’s child by Maybury, the abuela’s personal maid, whom you have now dismissed,’ said the girl boldly, meeting Maria’s astonished and angry eyes with a challenging glance.

‘How dare you suggest such a thing? Please drop the subject at once. I find it both ludicrous and offensive. As for Maybury, I have no use for a personal maid. That is the only reason I got rid of her and I have taken a considerable amount of trouble to find her suitable employment.’

‘I have often felt I resembled Maybury in appearance.’

‘I have never noticed it.’

‘And, of course,’ went on the newly-named Antonia, ‘Mr Rupert Bosse-Leyden is as illegitimate as I am. These things run in families. So do twins. You are a twin and Rupert and Diana have twin children, haven’t they? and Blue and Garnet are twins also.’

‘There is one thing I can tell you,’ said Maria, regaining control over her voice and her facial expression. ‘To begin with, how old are you?’

‘I think you know that I am twenty.’

‘Quite so. Well, Maybury has been employed here for the past eleven years. My father has been dead for twenty-four.’

‘I’m sorry for my thoughts and hopes, Maria.’

‘Accept what you have been given and are to go on being given, and abstain from wild speculation. It does no good and may create a great deal of mischief.’

‘I’ll remember that, Maria. When you come to London to hear me sing in public, you will notice what a good stage-presence I have. Other things run in families besides twins and illegitimacy.’

Her listener walked out of the room.

‘I shall buy Antonia the flat she wants,’ said Maria to Fiona.

‘Really? But I thought the terms of madre’s Will—’

‘I don’t want Antonia in this house.’

‘You must have a reason for saying so, I suppose.’

‘Certainly I have, but I shall not disclose it, even to you. Sufficient to say that I do not want her here now my mother has gone. You and I are sufficient company for one another.’

‘It will be nice to have the house to ourselves; not that she comes all that often.’

‘No, but she comes when she thinks she will and without giving previous notice. My mother put up with it, but I shall not. Fiona, I think I will tell you the truth, after all. I can trust you not to pass it on.’

‘Don’t say something you may regret later on, Maria.’

‘It is better that someone else should know. I shrank at first from telling you because I suppose I have old- fashioned ideas about these things, but nobody thinks anything of them nowadays. In fact, I sometimes wonder whether it isn’t rather a mark of distinction to be the result of an illicit love-affair.’

‘If it is a love-affair.’

‘Oh, well, an outsider can hardly know about that. Antonia began by pretending that she thought herself to be my father’s child. That notion I disposed of very easily, but it did not represent her true thoughts.’

‘I suppose it’s terribly frustrating to be brought up in an orphanage and not know anything about your origins,’ said Fiona, envisaging what she would feel in such a case.

‘I make all allowance for that. What I don’t understand is how Antonia knows she is my husband’s daughter. In fact, she cannot know. It was just a wild shot in the dark.’

‘But is she?—how can you be sure that she is right?’

‘I am not sure, but it is possible.’

‘Well, anything is possible; not so many things are likely. I would put this one clean out of your mind, if I were you, but I think you are right to close your doors to her if she has made that kind of allegation.’

‘My late husband was on the stage, you know, and, as the wretched girl says, some things do run in families.’

‘I see that poor Margaret Denham is to be sent for trial,’ said Fiona, thinking it best to change the subject.

‘Do you think they will find her guilty?’

‘Well, anything would be better than having the crime brought home to one of your family.’

‘Whatever can you mean?’

‘I am naming no names.’ The women eyed one another. Fiona was the first to drop her eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps your mind marched with mine. There are cuckoos in the nest, more than one of them.’

‘Oh!’ said Maria, her face clearing. ‘So that is what you think! It is more than likely, but, for the sake of all of us, the name must not be breathed.’