Joanna Maitland - A Poor Relation

The elder Miss Winstanley was seated on the other side of the room, entertaining another guest. Mr Lewiston could hear her voice fairly clearly, but was unable to study her face without turning round. Surely this voice was different—lighter, younger?

After a few minutes, Lady Wycham asked Sophia to present Mr Lewiston to those other callers with whom he was unacquainted. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise to make the introductions myself, sir. I am afraid I am no longer as spry as I once was.’ While Lord Amburley, looking faintly amused, remained in conversation with Lady Wycham, Mr Lewiston accompanied Sophia to the window where Sophia performed the introductions, first to Miss Isabella Winstanley, with the reminder that they were ‘distant cousins, you will recall’, and then to the Earl of Gradely, who bowed and left.

Mr Lewiston appraised Miss Winstanley with some care. She was the same height, pretty much, he admitted, but ‘Winny’ had been thin, while this lady, though slim, was elegantly formed. No. Amburley must be wrong.

‘Is this your first visit to London, Mr Lewiston?’ enquired Isabella, looking into his face and determined to maintain the bright, youthful character that had successfully deceived him so far.

He did not immediately reply. For a moment, Isabella fancied his mind was elsewhere. She hastened to fill the silence. ‘Have you visited Westminster Abbey since you arrived in London, sir?’ she said quickly. ‘I assure you it is a magnificent edifice and repays a journey. Sophia and I attended divine service there on Sunday last. It was truly moving. The music in particular was most beautiful.’

Mr Lewiston looked suddenly nonplussed. He stammered a little as he made to answer Isabella. Then he paused for a moment, as if trying to collect his wits, before finally responding to Isabella’s inconsequential conversation in much the same vein. When Lord Amburley strolled over to join them, some minutes later, the conversation was still centred on such delights of London as might properly be discussed before ladies.

Mr Lewiston tried to bring his friend into the discussion. ‘You must have seen all the sights, of course, Leigh?’

‘Too many years ago,’ agreed Lord Amburley, making no attempt to include Isabella in his remarks. ‘I am more familiar now with the great churches of Madrid than of London, I fear. I shall be forced to reacquaint myself with them, now the war is finally over.’

Isabella was incensed. She determined that she would no longer be ignored by this arrogant man. She would force him to acknowledge her. ‘Were you many years in the Peninsula, my lord?’ she asked innocently.

‘I joined Wellesley in eighteen ten, ma’am,’ he replied tersely, directing a stern gaze at Isabella.

She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. ‘And your family was content for you to go? I fancied it was more usual for the heir to kick his heels at home, and that only younger sons joined the colours. I collect your parents did not share the received opinion?’

‘No, ma’am, you are mistaken,’ he rejoined sharply. ‘The heir did indeed remain at home. I was the younger son merely, and required to make my own way in life. I inherited the title only in eighteen twelve, on the death of my elder brother.’

Isabella paled with anger at his condescending manner. How dare he? He had purposely made her simple question sound impertinent. ‘Did you leave the army then, sir?’ she continued calmly, refusing to be daunted by his hard eyes.

‘No, ma’am. I remained until Boney was sent to Elba.’

‘Even then, he was afire to be off again when Boney escaped,’ interposed Mr Lewiston, ingenuously, ‘and would have gone, had it not been for Lady Amburley’s entreaties.’

‘You allow yourself too much latitude in interpreting my motives, George,’ returned his lordship, with a generous smile that softened his features markedly. In that moment, he seemed to Isabella to reveal a character totally different from the hard, taciturn man she had judged him to be. ‘My mother’s wishes happened to coincide with my duty. I was not in a position to quit the estates again, however much I might have been tempted.’

‘But you have yielded to temptation now, my lord, have you not, in coming to London?’ Without pause for thought, Isabella had decided that, if he would condemn her for impertinence, she would give him cause. She fixed an innocent smile on her lips.

Lord Amburley turned back to Isabella and surveyed her slowly. It was exactly the same calculating look he had given to ‘Winny’ on their encounter at the Bell inn. Then suddenly, he laughed. ‘Touché, ma’am. I have indeed yielded to the delights of the London Season. Though, before you reproach me further—’ Isabella lowered her eyes, suddenly conscious of the impropriety of her outburst ‘—I should reassure you that my estates are now in good enough order to be able to survive without my ministrations for a month or two.’

Isabella raised her gaze again to discover that he was now laughing at her. Infamous! Her earlier embarrassment was replaced by righteous anger. She must—and would—find the means of repaying him in his own coin…and soon.

The door had hardly shut behind the two men, when Lewiston launched into a slightly incoherent recital of the stages of his enlightenment. ‘What the devil do they mean by entertaining Gradely? He’s the worst sort of fortune-hunter. Puts me in mind of some ravening beast, waiting to prey on the innocent and helpless. If he should make her an offer…’

Amburley waited patiently for the tirade to end before gently steering his friend back to the question of Isabella’s identity.

‘I would not have believed that they were one and the same, but for her eyes. They are a most unusual colour. I noticed that at the inn. But she did not guess that I had rumbled her, I’d swear to that,’ Lewiston added, with obvious self-satisfaction, ‘so we still hold all the cards.’ He paused. ‘It’s a devilish tricky situation, though, Leigh,’ he added uncertainly. ‘You are quite justified in saying they have practised a disreputable deception on us, yet I cannot readily believe Miss Sophia is truly guilty. She is such an innocent… In the circumstances,’ he continued, after a moment, ‘I thought it best to say nothing, at least for the present. To be honest, I wanted time to think.’

‘Very wise, George,’ agreed Amburley. ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’

‘What the devil do you mean, “revenge”?’ exclaimed Lewiston. ‘What need have I, or you for that matter, to wreak vengeance on that poor girl?’

‘Easy, George. Remember that they set out, quite deliberately, to dupe us. Let us consider the situation dispassionately, before we pronounce upon the appropriate retribution. The facts are simple. Miss Sophia Winstanley, the heiress, has a distant cousin, Isabella, also called “Winny”. Said cousin is only a poor companion, but has now been dressed to the nines in order to appear as an equal. We do not know why, nor who is responsible for this disreputable scheme, though I must say that it is much more likely to have originated with the rich Miss Winstanley than with the poor relation.’ He cut short his companion’s attempted defence of Sophia. ‘However, I attach the largest part of the blame to the elder Miss Winstanley. A lady of her years and experience should never have consented to such a bird-witted escapade, however tempting the bait. It was always bound to fail.

‘By the way, George,’ he added, ‘I think you owe me an apology, for doubting my ability to detect a fraud.’

Lewiston’s jaw dropped momentarily.

‘Do not bother to beg my pardon, old fellow,’ Amburley said, with a sardonic smile. ‘I understand that you are much more concerned about Miss Sophia’s feelings than mine.’