Wolves and Deer

By Catherine Haustein

In 1832, Grace Clare works at the Royal Institution under the direction of the well-known chemist Michael Faraday. But science isn't all she has on her mind. She learns that her birth mother was famous comic actress Dora Jordan. Grace is dangerously drawn into the tale of Dora's mysterious, unjust death after her twenty-year relationship with the prince who now occupies the throne--a man who betrayed his life partner and mother of his children. As the only child free to do so, Grace travels to Paris for work and to view her mother’s lonely grave. Awash with the injustice of the cruel betrayal, will Grace be doomed to a tragic life of seeking revenge or like her mother will she be laughing in the end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781624203749

Book preview

Chapter One

Upon finding herself sitting next to an aristocratic woman, Grace Clare was embarrassed by everything except her hat. Grace had come with her elderly aunt to the Faraday afternoon discourse to learn the latest science from England’s greatest chemist, after which she would approach him and ask for a job. These talks had started in 1825 as casual lectures. Now, in 1832, they had burgeoned into popular theatrical events captivating all of London. Like Grace, Michael Faraday had been born common, the son of a blacksmith; she was the daughter of a merchant and a milliner. She wanted to learn science as it was more interesting, with greater opportunity than hat making, and hat making in her home town of Dref Ysbryd, Wales, would be her future if she didn’t find employment here in London. Her plan was to present him with a gift, much as he had done to his benefactor, the scientist Humphry Davy. Faraday had flattered Davy by handing him a notebook filled with Davy’s scientific lectures—perfectly transcribed and bound by Faraday’s own hand. Grace would give Faraday one of her experiments based on his work and do him one better by handing him a hat for his wife.

Mr. Faraday held his scientific discussions and demonstrations behind the clean Corinthian columns of the Royal Institution in London. The Royal Institution’s semi-circular tiered lecture theater had seating for a thousand with no special distinctions for different social classes, and here was the problem. Sitting amidst the beau monde as a blackbird among the swans, Grace was aware of all her flaws, from her one slightly-crossed eye to her careless, curly hair under her blue silk hat with black feathers.

The woman sitting next to Grace talked to her companion loudly enough for Grace to overhear her saying that she had returned from Canada for the recent coronation.

Never did history record a man so delighted at his own crowning, said the woman, around thirty years of age with nut-brown hair in tight corkscrews and a wide-collared yellow dress. He’d been wishing towards it for most of his life.

The older woman, in a sable-cuffed red dress, muttered under her breath. He wears it loosely—the villain.

And yet, if my father wasn’t wearing the crown, would I be sitting here next to you, Baroness?

If by fate, replied the Baroness.

Grace couldn’t help peeking at the woman from the corner of her eye as everyone knew the King had no living legitimate children—his children had been born of an actress with the exception of the two dead princesses he’d fathered with the Queen.

The woman turned to Grace.

And by fate, we meet, she said to Grace. I’m Lady Mary Fox. It’s a pleasure.

Lady Mary held out her hand, and Grace took it,

Grace Clare, she said, her face as hot as a fire ship.

Mary, you have a near double, said her mother-in-law, the Baroness. By fate you sit with someone with the same nose and chin. I sense a plot coming on. The Baroness said to Grace, Mary, you see, is a writer and artistic as was her late mother.

Grace was certain Lady Mary would not wish to be compared to her in appearance. She was wearing her best dress but had no jewelry, and her hands were coarse. She’d spent most of her time cooking and cleaning for Aunt Hester who had moved to London to supervise Grace while her parents, Eleanor and Joseph Clare, were on a voyage to the East Indies. Her father had a particular dislike for royalty and now, here was Grace, next to the daughter of William IV. Yes, Lady Mary was illegitimate but nevertheless, at the top of the social pyramid, elegant in her cinched waist dress and sapphire bracelet. Grace had to say something proper so as not to appear savage.

And this is my aunt. Grace gently took the arm of her aunt sitting next to her and hoped she would deflect some attention, but her elderly aunt sat stiffly with her saggy eyes frozen large.

Standing below them, Mr. Faraday began his lecture on chemistry. He had a sparrow mouth, a black cravat, and wide-lapelled suit which gave the overall impression of Froggy-went-a-courting. His voice carried the poetry of Coleridge. One might think he loved chemistry more than his wife. He mixed iodine with ammonia and poured it on some cardboard and set it aside. He recalled how he’d made potassium from plant ashes. He spoke of potassium’s passionate attachment to air, so great it had to be stored under coal oil to keep it from spontaneous combustion. He used forceps to fish a cube of the shiny metal from a jar and tossed it into a crock of water where it burst into flame so violent that all leapt.

Oh my! It looks like a metal but burned like coal gas. What did he call it? Lady Mary said to Grace.

Potassium, Grace said. "It comes from the word potash, or potasse in French, meaning plant ashes, I’ll wager." She’d learned this from Father Clare when they’d burned branches in the apple orchard in Dref Ysbryd.

Lady Mary leaned forward, as if Grace had insulted her. It was true she’d come off as a know-it-all but meant nothing by it. She simply supposed a lady would have no experience with ashes. Grace put her hands on her lap and allowed herself to be absorbed into Mr. Faraday’s drama and the frank language of science. He was now showing the lines of force from a magnet using a compass, tracing the deflections of the north pointer with a pencil on a sheet of cardboard. He followed this by shaking iron filings on the cardboard and tapping it. The bits of iron made a pattern of lines spreading like waves from the north to south poles, just as those he’d drawn with the compass—there were two ways to illuminate the clandestine force of the magnet. Grace thought, Science doesn’t only build a Kingdom, it shines light on what might not be easily seen.

Lady Mary watched Faraday but not without frequently glancing at Grace and Aunt Hester. Grace began to fear she’d notify the police because Grace had been insolent. Grace burned inside like the potassium. She clutched her bag. She had to approach Mr. Faraday, give him the contents, and ask for a job. She couldn’t let the near-princess get in her way.

Mr. Faraday concluded his lecture by tapping the dried cardboard with a feather, causing a boom louder than a cannon firing, accompanied by a cloud of purple smoke. Ears ringing, Grace leapt to her feet, eager to leave and catch Faraday before offending Lady Mary further. Of course, poor Aunt Hester wasn’t to be rushed. She grabbed for Grace’s arm and stood slowly.

Did you learn enough for one day? she shouted, for she was deaf enough before the blast and certainly after.

Yes. ‘Tis fascinating there are forces which can’t be seen directly but affect us all. There’s no escaping them. And with that word, shall we go, Auntie?

And potassium. Such power, said Lady Mary, scrutinizing Aunt Hester and Grace. I do enjoy Mr. Faraday’s lectures, don’t you?

Yes. I wish I knew more, Grace said, as Faraday packed up his glassware and compass.

Are you from London?

Oh, no. From Dref Ysbryd, Wales.

Your diction is superb, and I adore your hat. How long will you be visiting us?

I plan to stay here and find work, for if I don’t, I’ll need to take over my mother’s hat shop. My mother, Eleanor, is a milliner, and my father, Joseph, a merchant specializing in silk, feathers, and butterflies. They are off to the East Indies.

Splendid! And you are her companion? Mary addressed Hester.

May I present my Aunt Hester Bland here to accompany me, Grace said. Lady Mary clutched Grace’s hand for longer than Grace was comfortable, as Mary focused on Aunt Hester.

Hester Bland? Is it you, Aunt Hester? I knew you looked familiar. It’s me, Mary. Your niece.

Mary? Little Mary Fitzclarence?

No longer little, as it’s been over thirty years since you left us. My name is Fox now. I was married in 1824. Didn’t I send you a notice? Mary squeezed Grace’s hand. Oh, Grace. Hester is my Aunt, too. Are we cousins? I knew something was between us when I first saw you. You remind me of my mother and how Mother was once so very happy. We lived at an estate known as Bushy House. Grandfather, King George, gave it to us in recognition of all of the children Father had. Hester, oh Hester, do you remember those delightful days?

Your father did little for it all, said Hester. The man never paid a price. Never.

Lady Mary squeezed Grace’s hand. Grace, those were such happy days. Mother worked, and Father puttered about. We laughed at dinner, and I had a kitten. Father still loved Mother and would sweep her into his arms when she came home from the theater. Then, we’d get a new baby to pass around and cuddle.

Mary squeezed Grace’s hand again. Please say something more, Grace Clare, for you remind me of times before the fall of our joyous house.

Confused by the sudden confession and friendship, hoping to catch Mr. Faraday, and noticing a woman who had fainted from the shock of the explosion, Grace said simply, A pleasure to meet you. Lady Mary’s countenance crumbled as if she might cry.

Could you please repeat that? I never dreamed I’d hear those tones again.

A pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary.

She wept. You must be a sister. Oh, Aunt Hester. She sounds just like Mother. I suspected and wished from the moment I saw her that I had another sister. There have been rumors we all clung to like a lifeboat. You’ve kept this clandestine.

Aunt Hester gripped her cane. What if I did? Was there another choice? It wasn’t safe and still isn’t.

Grace said, I must tell you. I have parents. My mother makes hats, and my father is a merchant, and I am their lone child. Although if I had a sister, I would want one like you.

Oh, Hester. Does she know where she came from? Does she know her heritage?

Not the whole story. She was promptly taken in but the woman is flighty, and I’m back to caring for my sister’s indiscretions.

Grace Clare, I declare you my discovered sister, said Lady Mary.

What-what does this mean? Grace was washed over with curiosity and caution. Father Clare never had a good thing to say about royalty, and this self-proclaimed sister of hers was royal.

I must write you, Mary said. There’s much to tell. Some of it still makes me weep.

My parents...excuse me, please. Grace watched opportunity walk away as Faraday left the auditorium.

Lady Mary pulled Grace close, looked over her shoulder, and whispered, "Our mother was an actress. Her name was Dora Jordan. I’m her second daughter and fourth child with Prince William Henry, now William IV. At the age of five months, I appeared onstage in mother’s arms when she played Cora in Pizarro. She was already pregnant during this show. I was blessed with a baby brother ten days before my first birthday. This is why it has been kept from you. It’s shameful. Actresses are shameful, and she was public with her children."

Shameful? Father Clare had taken Grace to see two performances of traveling players, As You Like It and The Country Girl. He’d impressed upon her how hardworking the players were, walking from town-to-town, giving their all to make audiences laugh and cry. Grace’s heart was beating with fear and confusion at this sudden news.

Actresses show themselves, said Lady Mary.

So does Mr. Faraday, and yet here we are watching him.

Actress are peculiar, said Lady Mary. The fainting woman, surrounded by men taking direction from Baroness Holland, was waking up.

Peculiar? Nothing Lady Mary said made sense, as if she was from the moon or Australia. Even worse, she’d ruined Grace’s plans to approach Faraday.

Lady Mary whispered. They are whores.

No, said Grace. They are learned. They can sing, dance, and recite…but my mother is not an actress. She is far from it.

Lady Mary held up her hand. Would you be so kind as to give me your card? I’ll write what I know. My heart is bursting to spill this suppressed tale. I have longed for an audience. However, we are among others and mustn’t talk about it. As your sister, I will do all I can to help you secure what you need. What might that be, besides information about Mother?

Grace could think of nothing she wanted except to get away from this Lady Mary, for she must be mad. Madness ran in the blood of the royal family—it was no secret. Grace did not want another mother. She wanted her own mother—plump but tailored—and her own father—nut brown and windswept with steamer trunks full of fabric and butterflies in frames. Grace handed Mary her card, hoping for a quick exit.

I’m so happy we’ve made acquaintance. Have you been to a Faraday lecture before? Mary asked.

Grace said, I haven’t been so fortunate. I’ve been properly sheltered. I must speak with him. I see he’s left the house already.

Not at all. There’s tea after. Come sit with us. She led Grace by the hand, and they went to the Royal Institution Library, joining some members of her family by marriage. Needing a job, Grace resolved to play along with the sister notion.

Their similarity started tongues wagging before they’d even had their first sip.

Lady Mary patted Grace’s arm and smiled. We’ve just met. Everyone, this is Grace Clare.

More like Fitzclarence, said an imposing man with a red, rubbery nose. Those rumors about the King and his stepdaughter were true!

Fitzclarence is the surname of the King’s illegitimate children, Mary whispered to Grace. There are ten of us. Pay him no mind.

Looks like Dora Jordan, praise God, said a gentleman with a high forehead. Even with a hat she shows bushy hair, as if she was a child of nature. I was a fan.

The Baroness said, As were we all, dear Charles. The great and the small laughed at the feet of Mrs. Jordan. It’s why things did not go easily for His Royal Majesty once he abandoned her. We’re overwhelming this poor child. She’s new to town and didn’t expect such a welcome.

Slim and wild-haired, Mr. Faraday entered the room with compasses, magnets, and a stack of cardboard. The truth should be verifiable, not just hearsay. Let’s get busy repeating experiment on lines of force. He set all to tracing, and the gossip halted.

At the end of the tea, as Faraday headed toward the door, Grace raced after him.

Mr. Faraday. If you please, I have a gift, a metal, and one for your wife. A gift. A hat.

Aunt Hester hobbled towards Grace. Grace, don’t be so bold.

The man halted as Grace fished in her bag and drew out a black bonnet with a ribbon to tie it under the chin. For your wife. I made it. It has a wire frame. I am good with wires.

For Sarah? Mr. Faraday took the hat.

Yes. ‘Tis a silk ribbon as black as a Bible on this hat and the sheen of oil on water. Yes, and for you, this metal so white, one would think it was part snow. I prepared it from seawater and Epsom salts and a battery and wires. It formed at the down end of the current.

He took the metal with his free hand. You made this?

Yes. My father travels and found a book about you. I read it. I copied your experiments, and I made this. And, I do so much want to work for you in any capacity, any capacity at all. Here is my card. May I come by? Lady Mary hovered near Grace’s shoulder.

Faraday read the white card bordered with lilacs. Yes, Grace Clare. Please do. Come to my laboratory.

Mr. Faraday, said Lady Mary. Be alert. Grace is my hereditary sister. I’m certain of it.

~ * ~

As they took a hackney home to their apartment, Grace was a jumble as she imagined working for Mr. Faraday in the Royal Institution.

I do hope to get a job. The metal impressed Faraday, and I’m sure his wife will fancy the hat. ‘Tis the best French silk. I’d be in heaven even washing his glassware. Such interesting conversations must go on in the Royal Institution. However, Lady Mary, as gracious as she was, made me uncomfortable. Do you think she has the royal calamity?

You are fortunate she took to you for she is in a powerful position. Mr. Faraday is the King’s servant. You are assured of the job for the King dotes on his children.

Her assertions are wild. She left me anxious.

"They are true. You are her sister and the bastard of actress Dora Jordan, who was the King’s companion for twenty years. You were born after the pair separated, and the King knows nothing of you. You have five full sisters and five brothers, along with two remaining half-sisters from Dora’s previous encounters. Dora was cursed with abundant fertility. The King couldn’t marry a commoner, took all of her earnings, and she died of a broken heart when he ran off to find a queen.

The King’s children have married well and are part of high society. The others, her three daughters with other fathers, have been less successful. One half-sister married a friend of the King and is as much the King’s as his own blood. Two half-sisters were an accessory to Dora’s downfall, allowing their husbands to tap her bank account. One of these—fathered by a man who forced himself on your mother—died in America of a laudanum overdose. Your mother was brought down by squandering sons-in-law, an unexpected tax bill from the state, and His Royal Highness not lifting a finger to help. That’s why she went to France and how she died broken and alone, said Aunt Hester. There’s no mystery. The mystery is why they have so little guilt. Aunt Hester was panting. She hadn’t given Grace time to interrupt or question the tale she’d kept hidden for twenty years.

This can’t be. How did I come to live with my parents?

Dora Jordan went to France to keep out of the way. Her children would get titles if she was forgotten. There, she consorted with Joseph Clare. At the time, he bartered in wine. Mr. Clare was madly in love with Dora and won you in a duel after the actress died. You must have noticed the truth about him.

The truth about Father?

He has African heritage. His grandmother was a slave who married her master. It’s why the actress never married him, why he and Mrs. Clare hide out in Wales.

Grace recalled it now: a woman in a casket, an old general grasping for her, Mr. Clare—slim and smart—stepping forward with a sword. A boat. A voyage. Fear and excitement washed over her for she was more than she’d thought she was. And, beneath those emotions, sorrow that her parents had kept this from her, and even stronger, anger for the injustice shown to the actress.

Dora Jordan died in France when I was four. Of what did she die, besides a broken heart? What was the diagnosis? Grace asked Aunt Hester.

No good will come from poking about it for none of us were there, said Aunt Hester. We were told about it after the fact. Nothing to be done then or now. I warned your mother about that man she carried on with, and that’s all I’m going to say.

My mother—the actress? That man? You mean the King? Can you tell me about it? It was raining and bleak. Grace gazed out the window, her mind a jumble of fatigue and excitement. A statue of a lion appeared in the lantern light, and she was startled.

Not unless I want to be sent to jail for slander. He never did impress me as he did her. All your mother had to do was look at a man and she became pregnant, and with her so busy working, I was charged with watching after the effects. It is, she said, as if we are cursed with trust. Remember my girl, a man has never stayed kind to a common woman. Her death was a tragedy that illustrates what happens when women are utterly in the hands of men. Even I am in the hands of men as I live on a stipend from the palace. I am paid for my silence. I am your aunt, for Dora Jordan was my sister.

I must visit her grave. Where is she buried?

She rests in St. Cloud, but her grave is frightful fey. Anyone who visits is cursed by her broken heart.

What about my mother, Mrs. Clare? How much of this does she know?

Aunt Hester slapped Grace’s cheek. Mrs. Clare is a ninny. A trip to the East Indies at her age? What kind of fool would attempt it? She slapped Grace again. If you turn out anything like your mother, I’ll feed you to the wolves.

Grace held her stinging cheek. I won’t let you stop me. I’ll know the actress. I’ll find her truth. It will be my food.

You’ll be blessedly thin in that case.

If the actress was, indeed, my mother, I’ll learn what happened to her. For of all involved in this cruel business, two haven’t profited—Dora Jordan and I.

Chapter Two

The first letter from Lady Mary contained a postcard of Dora Jordan as Rosalind in As You Like It. Grace consumed the details and read thus:

Monday

Dear Sister,

My heart leapt when I met you. Your voice is just like Mother’s, and you have her bushy hair. I have enclosed a postcard of her when she was young. The drawing reveals how clever she was. She played many parts as a man as those in London love, yet her hair was loose and feminine, not coiffed and curled tightly as a noblewoman’s, but natural as if she was something wild. She started a whole new look for women’s hair. Can’t you see how she lives on through your hair? You wear it loose and romantic. She was called a child of nature. See her innocent, rosy cheeks? I will tell you a secret. She used hair extensions and was an expert at make-up. What do you think of her hat? It’s meant to be a man’s but with womanly feathers. She was a clever one.

Oh, how I miss her. She created the happiest home. To think you were a tiny child when she was so cruelly taken from us. Yes, things are comfortable now with our kind stepmother Queen Adelaide. I’ve married well. I have no complaints. Yet Mother brought an air of independence and joy to our lives that’s been lost forever.

No doubt you are curious about our history. Our father is King William IV. Our mother was actress Dora Jordan, known widely as Mrs. Jordan although there never was a Mr. Jordan. I will tell you the tale. Much of it is known as fact. The rest is secret. The end is a mystery.

Please forgive the spilled ink! Talk of reform of Parliament has me in a state for the Baroness is all for it. The Queen is opposed.

Here is a recollection of mother’s arrival on English shores, in 1782 coming from Ireland where she’d worked as a performer since the age of sixteen.

Dora was applying for work as an actress in the Yorkshire Company. The director was inclined to send her away. She was shabbily dressed and shy, but her mother had been an actress, a friend of his, and so he let the pregnant girl recite. Dora spoke in clear and perfect diction, lines from a tragedy about a rape. She was hired. Athletic with comic timing, the ability to sword fight, and willingness to