The Love Child

“Where all the interesting people will be, so they tell me. But we stray from the point. It is not the hereafter that you are concerned with; it is the present.”

“Will you leave my daughter alone?”

“No,” he replied firmly, “I am fond of her. You yourself said I should marry and so I always intended to when I met the lady who had all the necessary qualifications.”

“And Carlotta’s fortune puts her into that category.”

“Exactly. I appear to you to be rich. So I am in a way. I have the credit of the whole of London, but bills do have to be paid in time. There are a great many of them and my life-style is expensive. You see, everyone looks to me to lead the fashion.

My tailor’s bills are so long that it takes half a day to read them. I need money.

I need that fortune badly. And the Fates have given me a very pleasant way of acquiring it.”

“She is not fifteen years old yet.”

“A delectable age. Moreover she is mature for her age. She is a warmhearted child, longing for love.”

“When I tell her of your cynical proposition what do you think she will say?”

“She will never believe you. She will think you are jealous.”

“She is not so foolish as that. What will happen when I tell her certain things about you?”

“She will tell you that she knows I am a man of experience. That is what she admires.

A man who has known many women and selects her for his wife. What greater compliment could there be?”

“The compliment might not be so great if she knew it was her fortune that made her so sought after.”

“I will convince her that I am in no need of a fortune and that the sordid suggestion comes from those who are jealous of youth and happiness.”

He took a pinch of snuff from the box and held it in between his well-manicured finger and thumb. He smiled at me as he took it.

I stood up.

“So,” he said, rising, “our little tete-a-tSte is over.”

“This shall never come to pass,” I declared. “I will do anything … anything to prevent it.”

“My dear Priscilla, you are being most unworldly. Let the child be happy. After all, how old were you when you had your first fling?”

“How dare you…”

“I dare much, my dear mother-in-law-to-be. Is that not amazing? You … my mother-in-law.

All I ask you, who at the age of fifteen -Carlotta’s age-slipped secretly into Venice to give birth to your bastard child, not to hold up your hands in horror at a man who has had a few adventures which an enlightened society would call normal for the times.”

“For the last time I ask you. Will you go away? Will you promise not to see my daughter again?”

“I will promise you two things. I shall not go away and I shall see your daughter again.”

I faced him and said: “If you attempt to put this evil plan into practice, I will stop at nothing to prevent you. I would kill you.”

The slow smile spread across his face.

“What an intriguing situation,” he said.

I turned away and walked out of the house.

I walked through the streets without seeing anyone or anything. I went straight up to my room and all the time I was asking myself what I could do now.

To whom could I go for advice? Harriet did not understand the horror of the situation.

How could she? She did not know what had happened that night in Dorchester. The escapade hi Venice she dismissed as a youthful frolic. That was something Harriet could understand.

Gregory was kind; he would do anything he could to help, but he was not the most resourceful of men and I felt this would be a situation he would not be able to grasp.

Carlotta? Suppose I talked to her? I thought of Benjie-dear Benjie, who had a great deal of his father in him. When I considered him, I did agree with Harriet that he was the one who would make Carlotta happy. He was steady, he was honest, he would be faithful and love her devotedly. I wanted her to be young for a while, to continue her lessons with Amelia Garston; I wanted her to have a gradual awakening to love and marriage. If this fearful thing which threatened was ever to come to pass, it would be complete misery for her. I could not bear to think of her being submitted to his lust as I had been.

I went to her room. She was getting ready to go out. She swung round and looked at me.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.

I touched my face.

“You look so pale and your eyes are wild. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Carlotta,” I said, “I want to tell you something.”

She came to me and kissed me. Then she pushed me into a chair and drawing up a stool sat at my feet. She put her head against my knee. For all her youthful arrogance, she had endearing ways.

“I’ve thought for some time that you had something to tell me,” she said. “In fact, I fancy you have been on the verge of it now and then. Is it very important?”

“Carlotta, I am your mother.”

She turned and stared at me. “What . ? . do you mean?” she stammered.

“I, not Harriet… am your mother.”

“My mother! But…”

“I have wanted to tell you often. I think you ought to know. Your father was Jocelyn Frinton.”

She continued to stare at me, and then understanding dawned on her.

“So that was why…”