Francesca - Sylvia Andrew Mills & Boon Historical

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to give her his name. It made her feel more wanted, more as if she belonged. She had accepted it, as she had accepted everything else. She had never questioned his reasons. She shook her head.

      ‘It was because, Fanny, as far as we could tell, you had no other name to call yourself.’

      ‘I…I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Cassandra. I was called Francesca Beaudon at home on St Marthe.’

      ‘Francesca…Beaudon.’ Her aunt’s lip curled as she pronounced the name. ‘What right had you to such a name, pray?’

      Francesca was completely puzzled. What did her aunt mean? She shook her head. ‘I…I don’t know. Because Papa’s name was Beaudon?’

      Miss Shelwood leaned forward. ‘You had no right whatsoever to the name of Beaudon, Fanny Shelwood! None at all! Your father’s name is not for such as you. Richard Beaudon never married your mother!’

      ‘Of course Papa and Mama were married!’ cried Francesca in instant and scornful repudiation. What did this woman know about life on St Marthe? ‘Of course they were married,’ she repeated more loudly. ‘Everyone called Mama Lady Beaudon.’

      ‘Do not raise your voice to me, Fanny. I will not have it!’

      There was a silence while Francesca wrestled with her sense of anger and outrage. Finally she muttered, ‘They were married. It’s not true what you say!’

      ‘Are you daring to doubt my word?’ A slight pause, then, ‘You must accept it, I’m afraid. And, unless you learn to control your feelings better, I shall wash my hands of you, and then where would you be? You might well go the way your unfortunate mother went—with disastrous consequences to herself and you.’

      ‘It isn’t true,’ said Francesca doggedly. She sounded brave, but deep down she felt a growing sense of panic. She was not sure of the exact significance of what her aunt was saying, but there was nothing good about it. There was a girl in the village who had a baby though she wasn’t married. Everyone was very unkind to her and called her names. They called the baby names, too. It was impossible that her darling mama had been like Tilly Sefton! ‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she said, her voice rising again.

      Miss Shelwood said sharply, ‘Do stop contradicting me in that ridiculous way! What does a little girl like you know about such things? People called your mother “Lady”—’ Aunt Cassandra’s voice dripped contempt ‘—“Lady Beaudon”, because they did not wish to offend. It was merely a courtesy title!’

      When Francesca remained silent she went on, ‘Deceive yourself if you wish—but tell me this if you can, Fanny. What happened after your mother died? Did your father keep you by him, as any real father would? He did not. He packed you off to England as soon as he could and we, your mother’s family, were more or less forced to give you a home and a name! And what have you heard from your father since you left the West Indies? Nothing! No visits, no letters, no money, no gifts—not even on your birthday. Why is that, Fanny?’

      Once again Francesca was silent. She had nothing to say in defence of herself and her father. She had been hurt that she never heard anything from him, had tried to find out why, but her grandfather had always refused to mention the Beaudon name.

      Satisfied that she had made her point, Miss Shelwood went on, ‘So you see, Fanny, a marriage is most unlikely for you, do you not agree? What have you to offer a respectable man? A girl without fortune, without name and—you have to admit that you are hardly a beauty. But you may stay here with me as long as I am alive.’

      Even fourteen years later, Francesca still resented the cruel manner in which her aunt had told her of her situation. It had been like crushing a butterfly. For months afterwards she had cried herself to sleep or lain awake, thinking of her life with Maddy and her mother in the West Indies, trying to remember anything at all which might contradict what her aunt had said. But she had found nothing.

      Her father had always been a dim figure in the background, especially after Mama had fallen ill and most of her time had been spent in the pretty, airy bedroom with fluttering white curtains and draperies. It was Maddy who had been the child’s companion then, Maddy who had sworn never to leave her young charge.

      But, of course, Maddy had been forced to go when Aunt Cassandra dismissed her. Aunt Cassandra, not Grandfather. Francesca’s heart still ached at the memory of their parting. She had clung to Maddy’s skirts, as if she could keep her nurse at Shelwood by physical force, had pleaded with her grandfather, even with her aunt. But Maddy had had to go.

      As Francesca grew older, she came to accept the hard truth about her birth, if only because she could not see why her aunt should otherwise invent a tale which reflected so badly on the Shelwood name. The rest of it—that she was poor and plain—was more easily accepted. It wasn’t just what her aunt said—everyone seemed to think that she was very like Miss Shelwood, who was tall, thin and pale, with strong features.

      Francesca, too, was tall, thin and pale, and though she didn’t have the Shelwood eyes—the Shelwood eyes were dark brown, and hers were a greyish-green—her hair was very much the same colour as her aunt’s, an indeterminate, mousy sort of blonde. How Francesca wished she had taken after her small, vivacious mother, with her rich golden curls and large pansy-brown eyes, who had always been laughing!

      A sudden rumble of thunder quite close brought Francesca back with a start to the present. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were gathering fast—which direction were they travelling? Then a horn blared behind her and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She turned and was horrified to see a chaise and four bearing down on her at speed. She leapt for her life to the side of the road, but lost her balance, skidded into the ditch, and ended up in nettles, goose grass and the muddy water left over from the previous night’s rain.

      The chaise thundered past, accompanied by shouts from its driver as he fought to bring his team to a halt. At first she made no attempt to move, but lay there in the ditch, content to recover her breath and listen to crisp orders being issued some way down the road. It had taken a while to stop the chaise. Footsteps approached the ditch where she lay and came to a halt beside her.

      ‘Are you hurt?’ Betsy’s old sunbonnet had tipped forward and covered her eyes, so that all she could see when she looked up was a pair of long legs encased in buckskins and beautifully polished boots.

      ‘You were well clear of the coach, so don’t try to pretend. Come, girl, there’s sixpence for you if you get out of that ditch and show me that your fall hasn’t done any harm. Take hold of my cane.’

      That voice! It was cooler and more authoritative than she remembered. And the undercurrent of mockery was new. But the rich timbre and deep tones were still familiar. Oh, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t! Fate would not be so unkind. Francesca shut her eyes and fervently hoped that memory was playing her false. Then the end of an ebony cane tapped her hand, and she grasped it reluctantly. One heave and she was out of the ditch and standing on the road. An exquisitely fitted green coat and elegant waistcoat were added to her vision of the gentleman.

      ‘You see? You’re perfectly unharmed.’

      Francesca was not reassured by these words. She listened with growing apprehension as he went on, ‘There’s the sixpence—and there’s another penny if you’ll tell us if this lane leads to Witham Court. We appear to have taken a wrong turning.’

      Francesca swallowed, tried to speak and uttered instead a strangled croak. Fate was being every bit as unkind as she had feared! He had not yet recognised her, but if he did…

      ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ The gentleman pulled her towards him and, before she could stop him, was running his hands over her arms and legs. ‘Yes, you’re quite sound,’ he said, drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers fastidiously on it. ‘So stop shamming—there are no more sixpences, Mary, or whatever your name is. Nothing more to be got out of me, until you tell me where Witham Court is.’ His movements had been impersonal—rather as if he were feeling the legs of a horse—but Francesca’s face

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