Miss Fanshawe's Fortune - Linore Rose Burkard Page 0,46

have access to it. “I know my way, thank you,” she said in a low voice. But he continued to walk with her to the stairs, and she felt his company like a comfort, a warm blanket on a cold day. He might have shunned her after learning about that birth record.

He suddenly turned to her. “You lived with your mother and Mrs. Baxter in Lincolnshire, did you not?”

She nodded. “Yes, at the edge of town.”

“Well, you weren’t born there. Mr. Harleyʼs clerk found that record of your birth in Gloucestershire. Did you know?”

Frannie shook her head. “I had no notion.”

“Bartlett Hall is in Gloucestershire. When we’re there at Christmas, we can ask to see the record, if you like.” He paused, then continued, “The good news is, Harley traced the annual payment you spoke of, at least to the extent of confirming that your mother did indeed deposit a sum annually. The bank as yet hasn’t come forward with the name or company name on the banknotes. Until they do, we cannot trace their origin. But it indicates that someone somewhere did indeed provide for you and your mother.”

She felt a wisp of hope and caught her breath. “Yes! I am sure it must be my father.”

“We hope to find out.” They had reached the library and he now motioned her in. Seeing no fire in the grate, he went to the bell pull.

Frannie waited, her heart torn between hope and discouragement. When he returned to her, he said, “We may hope that Charles Fanshawe is indeed your uncle and, since his name was furnished to you, that he understands the particulars of this business, both your birth and the trust. Your mother must have confided in him.”

Frannie stared at the Oriental rug as he spoke, but nodded.

He continued, “Let us hope he is prepared to be forthcoming, and that they are not conspiring to take what belongs to you.”

She slowly raised her large doe eyes to meet his. “My father—if he can be found—can sort this out properly.”

“In the meantime, your uncle may be an honest man. We’ll say nothing about the circumstances of your birth until we understand them better, and hope for his help in that regard.” He hesitated. “If the other Miss Fanshawe was entitled to the trust, her family should also have been the recipient of the annual sums, the interest sent to your mother. Mr. Harley found no record of such, and their lifestyle indicates otherwise.”

A deep unrest filled Frannie. How she longed to know the truth, no matter how damning! If only Mama were here to fill in all the gossamer threads of her past. Feeling full of shame, though she had no culpability in the circumstances of her birth, she could not meet his eyes. A chambermaid entered with a coal scuttle and set to building a fire. Sebastian casually took a book from a shelf and paged through it, while Frannie sat there squirming beneath the gloomy foreboding that she must be illegitimate. Sebastian was doing his brown best to soften the blow, behaving as though it were only a possibility, but Frannie could sense the writing on the wall. How lowering! How sad! She would never be his social equal! Could anything be more impossible than for a respectable family to accept than an illegitimate daughter?

Even if she were not a blow-by child, her father had likely refused to allow his name on her parish record. She searched her mind for other possibilities. Might her parents have divorced before her birth? Or been unlawfully wed? She was grasping at straws.

When finally the maid left, and with a small flame already growing, Sebastian put the book away and approached the settee where Frannie sat. In a gentler tone he continued, “ʼTis possible a baptismal record in Lincolnshire may yet be found which could contain the name of your father, though it is doubtful. Mr. Harley has men on it, searching as we speak. Take heart.”

She looked up at him gratefully but could not hide tears that had pooled in her eyes. She said, “If there were such a record, would it not have been discovered first? Before a parish record in Gloucestershire? I daresay I must prepare myself for the workhouse!”

Sebastian frowned. “Nonsense. Well-bred young women have other…options.” His gaze remained clouded as he surveyed her. “Indeed, Miss Fanshawe, do not despair. If the very worst is found to be true, that your father and mother never married, it is