House of Riddles

Mary woke with a jolt. Yvette, her French maid, was gently shaking her shoulder—her face looked ominous in the burning embers’ glow.

“Madame, c’est un garçon!” she whispered excitedly.

From upstairs, came a wailing soon drown by the grandfather’s clock striking midnight. Garçon. Somehow, Mary couldn’t remember what the word meant.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Le bébé, Madame, c’est un garçon!”

If Yvette was so excited that she had forgotten how to speak English, did it mean that—

“A boy?!” Mary exclaimed, leaning forward with eyes wide open. “Is it a boy?!”

Yvette barely had the time to nod. Mary rushed to the Lobelia Room in the most unladylike manner. The servants had all gathered around Mrs Smith, all cooing and smiling at the bundle in the housekeeper’s arms.

“Congratulation, Madam!” they all whispered as Mary made her way.

The baby was pale, sucking hungrily on his tiny little hand. He had a head full of black hair—just like Tom. Mary wanted to take him into her arms, but couldn’t. Not if he was unhealthy—not if his only resemblance with Tom was a tuft of black hair.

“Is he… healthy?”

Mrs Smith and the servants chuckled.

“I cud hear him blart frum the lodge, Madam,” the gardener laughed in his thick Birmingham accent.

“He cried murder as soon as he got out,” the housekeeper added.

“Did Dr Herbert check him?”

An uneasy silence fell on the corridor, broken only from the frantic whispers coming through the Lobelia Room’s door.

“N-not yet, Madam. The doctor is still tending to the… the mother.”

That last word was pronounced with utter disgust.

Mary let out a heavy sigh. She did tell Dr Herbert that her grandson had to be his priority—although she had given the Riddles an heir, the tramp was still a stramp that had ruined the family’s reputation.

“How sweet! He’s looking at his grandmother!”

The baby was staring at Mary with the solemnity that only a newborn possessed. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes… his baby blue eyes looked in the same direction! His large, baby eyes had perfectly round, perfectly centred pupils! His eyes were normal! His eyes were just like the eyes of a proper human should be!

Mary wanted to held herself back. The baby was only a few minutes old; he could have some abnormalities that would manifest as he grew—he was still that ugly tramp’s spew. Still, Mary Riddle couldn’t stop herself from reaching out for the baby—from letting Mrs Smith place him on her chest—from letting herself be mesmerized by those deep baby blue eyes staring at her from a place filled with fears, pleasures and promises.

A soft laugh escaped her lips.

She had a grandson, at last. A grandson who would follow the Riddle path! A grandson that would ensure into her hand Uncle Charles’ inheritance! A grandson who would keep the Riddle estate from the Collinses’ filthy hands! A grandson who would bring the Riddles to new heights! Why, if he ended up being as handsome and charming as Tom, he could even woo the Duke of York’s daughter! Although Mary wished that her grandson turned out as clever as her.

“What a bright, charming future you are going to have, my little one…”

* * *

The fever had seized the tramp the third day after the birth.

Not that any different could be expected, according Dr Herbert. The woman was emaciated and had spent most of her pregnancy in misery and turmoil; the delivery hadn’t been easy and the doctor had to manually remove the placenta. With all that, it would have been a miracle if the tramp didn’t get childbirth fever—sending the maid with a cough to tend her added little to nothing.

Still, the tramp was stubborn enough to keep living. Probably she wouldn’t die until Tom’s return. Mary was almost tempted to tell her son to (officially) forgive the tramp, so that she could die in peace, but the mere mention of the wench was enough to give him a nervous fit.

Anyway, it was just a matter of time before her son became a widower at the age of twenty-one.

“Mrs Warren is here, Madam,” the butler announced.

“I will receive her in the parlour.” Mary said, standing up. “Do not forget to tell Mrs Smith to take care in brewing the tea: Mrs Warren has a delicate palate.”

As soon as the news of Little Thomas’s birth had spread in both Little and Great Hangleton, Mary had been careful to refuse all visitors—the tramp’s childbed fever was quite a good excuse and made Mary look like a devoted grandmother. However, her old roommate was an exception and a much welcome distraction.

They had met and shared a room at Miss Bradford’s School for Young Ladies, the same exclusive boarding school that her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had attended. Of course, Mrs Warren, née Cornelia Malford, was not her peer, being the natural child of someone wealthy enough to send her at Miss Bradford’s and provide a rich dowry, plus a small manor in Yorkshire and a townhouse in Bath. Many young men had been attracted to Cornelia’s fortune; however, the final choice fell on a Colonel Warren. In Mary’s opinion, her friend could have done better than that.

“Cornelia, welcome!” Mary said with a smile. “My, you haven’t changed at all!”

She did the best to hide the compliment’s bitterness. Mrs Warren was a striking widow of forty-three, without a hint of grey in her pale blond hair. Based on her prideful demeanour and elegant ways, Mary supposed that the anonymous father belonged to the highest aristocracy.

“Mary, dear! How do you do?”

Indeed, some idle chat with a friend was what Mary needed to take her mind off Tom’s disgrace and the tramp’s refusal to die. It also provided her with a test subject for the new version of Tom’s ordeal, that Mary passed as an updated version with recently-discovered details.

Mary and Mrs Warren were half-way through the scones when the wetnurse brought in Little Thomas to be shown like a newly acquired valuable trinket, freshly feed, burped and changed so as to prevent any embarrassing accident or crying. As expected, Mrs Warren was just as mesmerized by the baby as anyone was upon seeing him for the first time.

“One week, already!” Mrs Warren cooed, holding the baby. “How come your daughter-in-law doesn’t join us?”

Mary let out an artful, pained sigh. “Alas, she has been suffering of childbed fever for days!”

Mrs Warren gasped, handing the baby back to the wetnurse. “Oh my! Is she being properly treated?”

“We are doing our best to lower her temperature, but there is little progress. Dr Herbert suggested to remove her womb, but then she wouldn’t be able to bear more children.”

To be honest, that was the perfect solution to hide Tom’s recent impairment. Nothing better than a ruined womb to explain why Little Thomas had no younger siblings. Of course, it would work only if the tramp survived.

“Thomas even consulted with a London obstetrician, who suggested a blood transfusion,” Mary continued. “However, my daughter-in-law would be forced to travel, and the treatment is not safe either. So, all I can do is praying that everything will turn for the better, and focus on Little Thomas.”

“That must comfort you, Mary. And I see you are keeping the family traditions!” Cornelia said in a comforting tone. “The baby is named after his father and grandfather!”

Mary’s smile stiffened. “Indeed, my daughter-in-law got enough time to name the baby. She is so…” In love? No, it didn’t sound right. “Grateful for what Tom did for her that, of course, she could but name their son after him. I would have preferred another middle name, though, like Edward after my father, or George as our sovereign, but she insisted with her father’s name!”

 Mrs Warren’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I suppose you don’t like the man.”

Mary scoffed. “I hope the name is the only thing Little Thomas gets from that beast! Besides, what Christian name is ‘Marvolo’?”

Mrs Warren coughed her tea. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, I know, I should have been firmer, but—”

“Is the name Marvolo?! Are you certain?!”

Mary frowned at her friend. “Why, yes, unfortunately.”

Mrs Warren stared back with wide grey eyes, her trembling hand spilling tea on her lap. Somehow, that tramp’s name had shocked her beyond words. Slowly, Mrs Warren placed the tea cup on the table and took some deep breath.

“Did… did your daughter-in-law wear a… a locket?” she asked with an over-controlled voice. “Oval, heavy-looking, made of gold, casted in emeralds in an ess pattern?”

Mary’s frown deepened. She had paid no attention to the tramp, but the jewel seemed to be valuable with the gold and the emeralds—Mary prided herself to have an eye for jewellery; she would have noticed something that valuable, especially if hanging on that tramp’s neck.

“No… I don’t think—”

“May I check her belongings, if you please?”

Probably the pendant was a family heirloom. One that Mrs Warren’s anonymous father had passed down to his natural daughter to prove their ties. Still, that didn’t explain how it ended up in the tramp’s family. She wouldn’t be surprised to find out that these tramps were thieves as well.

Mary called for the housekeeper, ordering to bring the tramp’s belongings. She hadn’t thought about going through them, the mere idea disgusted her—and not because it would be impolite without asking the owner’s permission. Dear Heaven, Mary was already thinking about refurbishing and redecorating the Lobelia Room!

The bundle, a worn piece of cloth stained with who knew what and exuding a weird smell, was placed on the table. Slowly, Mrs Warren opened it, inspecting each object inside. Some old leather-bound books; vials filled with strange, multicoloured liquids; a wooden stick wrapped in crude black yarn; some yellowish pieces of paper—a marriage certificate.

Mary almost tore it from Mrs Warren’s hands.

The marriage had been celebrated at Gretna Green, on Saint-Valentine Day, about six weeks after Tom’s disappearance. The groom’s signature was without doubts Tom’s—elegant and flourished. Sadly, the marriage certificate didn’t look like a false. Still, Thomas should ask their attorney to investigate it.

The tramp’s full name surprised her—Merope Maia. It sounded too genteel, too learned for tramps like those.

“Marvolo Corvinus Gaunt,” Mrs Warren read in a breathy voice. She almost fainted, gracelessly flopping on the couch and holding one of the pieces of paper. “Please, a stronger tea. And may you call for my chauffeur?”

“Why, of course, Cornelia.”

Why was her friend acting like that? Did she know the tramp and her family?

When the chauffeur arrived, Mrs Warren waved the piece of paper at him.

“Go get the locket back, and do not give those thieves more than what they paid for it; use Brother’s name if needed. Warn Uncle Hector, and Mr Abbott that Lord Gaunt’s granddaughter has been found.”

Mary blinked several times. Lord Gaunt? Did she hear well?

“Oh, and bring Dr Pomfrey here. Tell him it is an emergency.”

Mary shook herself out of her stupor and ordered for a stronger tea to be prepared—the Assam black one that Thomas favoured would do. She restrained herself from asking questions, focusing on carefully pouring the dark coppery liquid into a cup, adding more sugar than what usually Mrs Warren asked—she needed it to recover from whatever shock she had received. She waited for the cup to be emptied, for Mrs Warren to look less shaken.

”I am sorry to impose uninvited guests, Mary. Especially considering your family’s sad situation,” Mrs Warren said.

Indeed, usually Mary should have been crossed with any visitors wanting to call into her house strangers in such manner. But she couldn’t take that Lord Gaunt’s granddaughter out of her head. Were the tramps related to the aristocracy? Were they a distant, fallen branch and the heirs of the main family’s titles and possessions?

”Worry not, Cornelia. I understand that the circumstances are… peculiar,” Mary replied. She poured Mrs Warren another cup of tea—she tried to sound casual. “I am quite shocked to learn that you are familiar with the—the Gaunts.”

It disgusted her to pronounce the tramps’ name, but if the Riddles could gain something from that abominable union, Mary would bear with it.

Mrs Warren pinched her lips, lost in some unpleasant thoughts.

”The House of Gaunt is well known in… in my family’s circle.”

She was certainly talking about her anonimous father's one.

”Merope, that poor girl… she should have been my niece.”