“But, I thought . . .”
“Clearly, when one spends the better part of one’s days in the company of madmen, one loses one’s own ability to think sanely. Although I have not seen my daughter in some years, that does not alter her birthright or her lineage. Come to me, my child!”
Manwaring opened his arms, striking his most paternal posture, and C.J. saw Lady Dalrymple behind him, beckoning her to go along with the charade. When Haslam unlocked the cage, C.J. tumbled to the straw beneath her, nearly falling on the inert Lady Rose. Owing to her close confinement, her limbs had all the strength of tapioca pudding. C.J. stumbled to her feet, trying to recover the sense of feeling in her legs. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and tried to make herself presentable. “Papa?” she questioned tentatively. “Papa, is that you?”
“My child, my dearest, only daughter,” Manwaring sobbed in a maudlin display that nevertheless had Haslam reaching for his linen pocket square. “I thought never to see you again.”
“I-Is this indeed your daughter, your lordship? Look closely.” The apothecary bent to whisper in the stout man’s ear. “If you have not seen your daughter in some time, this young woman could be an impostor.”
The rail-thin medic received a swift elbow to the gut for his pains. “Not know my own daughter, you charlatan?! My little Cassandra . . .” Manwaring ran stubby fingers through C.J.’s matted curls. “She has her mother’s hair. Look! Her mother’s eyes!” He raised his hands to the young woman’s face, pudgy thumbs pushing down her cheekbones as if to accentuate C.J.’s brown eyes. “Euphie, the locket,” he called, reaching out an arm toward his sister, who was sobbing noisily into her handkerchief.
Lady Dalrymple fumbled with the clasp on her locket.
“Heavens, Euphie,” a frustrated Manwaring sighed. “Come forward and show Haslam the resemblance. Is it not remarkable, sir?” the marquess asked when the locket was opened and the portrait revealed.
“Indeed it is, your lordship,” the apothecary was reluctantly compelled to agree, as he glanced from the painted miniature to the disheveled inmate.
“And look, she wears the cross that was her gift at her birth from me and my late wife Emma, Cassandra’s dear, departed mother. Such a beautiful woman Emma was.” Now Manwaring’s tears were genuine. It had been years since he’d spoken aloud of his late wife, and it was her untimely demise that had triggered his rapid descent into the hellish depths of drink and gambling. Compounding matters, he had defiled her legacy to their daughter, having been forced to pawn the engraved silver backing into which the cross had been inserted. The marquess reached for C.J.’s throat and fingered the pockmarked amber talisman. “I’d recognize that nick in the bottom right corner anywhere,” he sniffled, practically slobbering on his starched cravat.
C.J. reexamined the cross and, to be certain, there was a notch in it. Lady Dalrymple briefed her brother well, she thought with a smile. “We have . . . ever so much . . . to discuss, Papa,” she began haltingly, but the marquess enfolded her in a paternal bear hug.
“Hush, my pet. There will be time aplenty for swapping stories.” He turned to address the apothecary. “First we must get my own flesh and blood released from this pit of insanity,” and turning back to C.J., he added, “and get you home, where Mary will fix you a nice hot bath. And,” he muttered to himself, “I think, under the circumstances, a brandy would not be remiss.”
Lady Dalrymple glared at the marquess, then fixed her stern gaze on the keeper of the madhouse. “I expect that you will release my niece immediately, Haslam,” she ordered. “And that you will deliver to me all of your papers concerning her incarceration. You will keep no copies, do you understand?”
The apothecary, cut down to size, merely nodded meekly, then showed the little party the door.
Once safely in the confines of the carriage, Darlington, who had remained a silent, shadowy figure for much of the duration of their visit to Bethlehem, extended his hand to the marquess. “Congratulations, my man. That was well done! Bloody well done!”
Manwaring preened like a peacock. “Nice to know the old boy’s still got a sense of improvisation,” he crowed.
Lady Dalrymple patted her brother’s knee. “I am quite proud of you, Bertie,” she smiled. “And you may keep the suit, especially as you sobbed all over the front of your silk waistcoat.”
“Would you mind terribly if I returned home today, by the Royal Mail?” Albert asked his sister.
“Just when I was wondering if I’d miss you.”
As they approached the city, Darlington gave a command to the coachman to stop near the Abbey so Manwaring could catch the next Royal Mail coach.
“Now don’t spend everything I gave you at the taverns, Bertie,” Lady Dalrymple cautioned in her most sisterly tone. “My solicitors have the strictest instructions that the funds must be used to pay off your creditors first.” Manwaring looked stricken. “It’s time one of us grew up, love. Might as well be you.” The countess gave her brother a sloppy peck on the cheek and squeezed his arm. “Be well, Bertie.”
The marquess turned to C.J. and beamed. “The pleasure has been all mine, Miss . . .”
“Welles. Cassandra Jane Welles, your lordship.” She permitted him to kiss her proffered hand. “Garrick would have been proud of you.” She winked at Manwaring, who lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Would he now? Well, bless my soul, you are an excellent judge of talent, Miss Welles. May I be so bold as to express the hope that we meet in future.”
“I should like that,” C.J. replied. And she meant it.
They watched as Manwaring waved a cheerful good-bye at the carriage, and when he thought they were no longer looking, he turned and walked into the nearest pub.
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” C.J. said, smiling and shaking her head.
“I just hope he leaves himself enough to get
