was very seldom placed at a disadvantage. It was one of the privileges of age.
This was entirely Caroline’s fault. A great deal that was presently disagreeable was Caroline’s fault. Imagine marrying an actor! The woman had taken leave of her wits. Not that she had ever had very many. Caroline had seemed sensible enough when she had married Edward, Mariah’s only son. Poor Edward. How he would grieve to see what a state his widow had fallen into-taking up with theatrical people and then marrying one young enough to be her own son! Edward’s death must have unhinged her mind, that was the most charitable explanation one could offer. Not made of stern-enough stuff, that was her trouble. Mariah had not fallen into pieces like that when Edward’s father had died and left her a widow at much the same age. But then she was of a different generation from Caroline, and had a backbone of steel.
Who was this Samuel person Caroline had gone and invited to tea so hastily? Apparently she had written a note this very morning and dispatched an errand boy with it to the hotel where Mr. Ellison was staying during his time in London. The acceptance had come by return. He would be delighted to call upon them at three o’clock.
He could be any sort of a person! Caroline had said he was charming, but then her marriage was witness enough as to her judgment. Heaven only knew what else she might admire these days.
Naturally, Mariah had brought her own maid, Mabel, with her from Ashworth House. That was the least comfort they could afford her. Accordingly it was Mabel who put out her best black afternoon gown-she was a widow and, like the Queen, had refused to wear anything but black for the last twenty-five years.
Mabel helped her dress, to a constant stream of instruction and criticism, of which she took little notice.
“There you are, ma’am,” she said at last. “You look very nice-fit to meet anyone.”
The old lady grunted and surveyed herself in her glass for the final time, straightened her lace collar and went to the bedroom door.
Who was this Samuel Ellison person? Of course she knew her husband had been married before. She had never told Caroline because Caroline had not needed to know, and it was not a matter Mariah desired to discuss with anyone. She had not known there was a son. It was perfectly possible this man was an impostor, but if he really resembled Edward so closely, then presumably he was genuine. She would know as soon as she saw him.
She opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. There was no need to be disquieted, even if the man was who he claimed to be. If he was, she would be pleasant to him, and the afternoon would pass agreeably enough. After all, he was American; she could hardly be held responsible if he was not socially desirable. She could apologize, disclaim all connection, and not invite him again.
And if he was charming, interesting, amusing, so much the better.
If he was an impostor she would ring for the butler and have him shown out abruptly. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone had relatives they did not care to own. It happened even in the best families.
She went down the stairs and into the withdrawing room.
Caroline was standing by the window looking out. As the old lady came in she turned around. Caroline was very handsome for her age, one might almost say beautiful, except that she had a light in her eye and a flush to her cheek which were unbecoming in a mature woman. She should know how to behave with more discretion. And that shade of burgundy was much too rich.
“You are overdressed,” the old lady remarked critically. “He will think he has come to dinner. It is barely three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Well, if he looks at you, he will expect baked meats,” Caroline retorted. “You seem to be dressed for a funeral.”
The old lady straightened to total rigidity. “I am a widow. As are you, or you were-until you went off and married that actor! I would have thought in deference to the fact that this man is apparently a member of our family, and his brother is dead, you might have worn something more in keeping with the occasion.” She sat down solidly in the best chair.
Caroline looked at her closely. “You never told us that Papa-in-law had been married previously.”
The old lady avoided her eyes. “It was not your concern,” she said coldly. “She was a woman of. .” For once she was uncertain. Dark memories brushed the edge of her mind, and she refused to allow them closer. “She ran away.” Her voice grew sharper. “She abandoned him. Went off with some worthless adventurer. .” That was a lie, but it was easier to believe and to understand. “Naturally we did not speak of it. No one would.” That was true.
“Edward might have wished to know he had a half brother,” Caroline said quite gently.
“No one knew,” the old lady replied, her voice steadier. That also was true. She had had no idea whatever that Alys had been with child. Edmund would not have let her go so easily if he had known. To lose a son would be altogether a different matter.
Mariah deliberately unclenched her hands. They were cold and a little clammy with tension. Memories long forgotten were stirring in her mind, shapeless pain, things denied so long they were only darkness now, no sharp edges, just the ache. Why didn’t someone arrive so she did not have to work so hard at not thinking?
There it was. A carriage outside. The footsteps across the hall, the murmur of voices. Thank heaven.
The door opened and the butler announced Mr. Samuel Ellison. He was tall, well built, and dressed in the latest cut of waistcoat and jacket, but all this was nothing to Mariah. Her breath almost stopped in her throat as she saw his face. He was so like her own son a wave of loss overtook her like a physical pain. It was not that she and Edward had been friends, or shared ideas or confidences, it was the bond of years of knowledge, of memories of childhood intimacy, the very fact that he had been part of her. And here was this man of whose existence she had been unaware until this morning, and he had the same eyes, the same shape of head, the same manner of moving.
Caroline was welcoming him in and, before Mariah was ready for it, presenting him to her.
He bowed, smiling at her, his expression full of interest as he looked at her face.
“How do you do, Mrs. Ellison. It is charming of you to receive me with almost no notice at all. But after so long, hoping to meet my English family, I simply could not wait another day.”
“How do you do, Mr. Ellison,” she replied. It was difficult to say the name, her own name, to a stranger. “I hope your stay in England will be a pleasant one.”
“It already is,” he assured her with a smile. “And becoming better all the time.”
She forced herself to make a civil reply, and they all sat down to exchange small talk of the usual innocuous and meaningless kind. However, almost immediately it took another turn. Caroline had made some trivial enquiry about Samuel’s youth, and he replied with a vivid description of New York, where apparently his mother had landed from the ship which had taken her across the Atlantic.
“Alone?” Mariah said in amazement. “However did she manage?” Perhaps it was an intrusive question. The answer may not have been one he was willing to give and it was made in disbelief as much as sympathy.
“Oh, there were many in the same circumstances,” he replied easily. “They helped one another, as I was telling Mrs. Fielding yesterday evening.” He glanced at her with a smile. “And my mother was a woman of remarkable courage, and never afraid to work hard.”
Mariah barely heard the continued conversation. Her mind was filled with thoughts of this woman she had never seen, who had been Edmund’s first wife and fled to America alone, without a friend or ally in the world, according to Samuel, and carrying Edmund’s child. Why had she gone if not with some lover? The answer to that lay like a dark and ugly threat just out of reach, but close. . far too close.
“And did you remain in New York?” Caroline enquired.
“Oh no,” Samuel replied with a wide smile. “When I was twenty, I decided to journey westward, just to go and see it, you understand?”
“And leave your poor mother?” Mariah said with some sarcasm. It gave her a ghost of pleasure to think of Alys by herself again. It served her right.
“Oh, believe me, ma’am, my mother was well able to care for herself by then,” he assured her, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. “She had a nice little business going in dressmaking, and employed several girls. She had made friends and knew a great many people. She missed me, I hope, but she did not mind when I packed up and went west, first to Pittsburgh, then up to Illinois.”
He continued with marvelous descriptions of the great plains that stretched for a thousand miles westwards to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
Mariah began to relax. He was merely entertaining, after all. Like most men, he loved to be the center of
