The question fell like a pebble in a pond, sending out waves of bewildered silence.  The old lady drew in her breath then spoke slowly, "I do not understand, I quite thought ... when I heard ...  I think you should tell me the full story of how you came to be here."

"Very well, my lady.  I must explain a little of my history first."

"In that case," Lady Murray interrupted, "Tom, would you please ask Mrs Pearson to come down here?  I would like her to hear this."  She turned to Frances as Tom went to the door and sent another servant on the errand.  "Mrs Pearson is my companion," she explained briefly, "She was my children's nurse – I hope she will be able to help me prove if you are who you claim to be or not."

"As I have not claimed to be anybody at all, I rather think she will have trouble with that!" retorted Frances acidly.  This brought a brief smile to the other woman's face for the first time.

In a few moments the footman returned with a plump elderly woman leaning on his arm, her black eyes snapping with curiosity.  "Yes, my lady?  What did – Oh!" she broke off as she caught sight of Frances.  "Oh I am sorry, I did not know you had ..."  for a second time she broke off what she was saying.

"Well?" queried Lady Murray impatiently.

Mrs Pearson stared at Frances, her head tilted to one side, struggling with the resemblance.  "Would you mind taking off your bonnet Miss, so that I can see your face more clearly?"

Curious, Frances complied, revealing the new blond, curled wig which most resembled the natural colour of her hair.

"Master Henry!" gasped the woman clutching her throat.  Frances shot a quick look at Lady Murray and saw a quick flash of disappointment.  "Henry?" she questioned.

Mrs Pearson kept her eyes on the young woman before her. "Henry," she repeated firmly, "although her eyes are gray, not brown, the resemblance is striking."

"Would somebody please tell me who the deuce is Henry?" demanded Frances in a loud voice.

"Why your father of course," said a bewildered Mrs Pearson at exactly the same time as Lady Murray said, "He is my cousin Rupert's son."

"My father was called James," objected Frances, still in a loud voice.

"Yes dear," agreed Mrs Pearson, "Henry James Metcalf.  And your mother was -"  For the first time she glanced across at her employer and suddenly faltered. "Wasn't she?"

 "Perhaps we had better listen to her story first," suggested Lady Murray in firm tones.  "The young lady was just about to tell me about herself when I asked you to come down.  Tom, please bring chairs so we may all be seated."

Frances and Mrs Pearson seated themselves and Frances took up her tale again, looking from one to the other.  "I was born in France, twenty four years ago of English parents.  My mother's name was Amanda, Amanda Emerson I think was her maiden name and my father was James.  I never knew his surname, or if I did I have forgotten it.  Unfortunately mother died when I was only five years old so I do not remember very much about her.  My father and I moved around a lot afterwards, and changed our names frequently so that I never knew which surname was the real one.

About six months ago, my father contracted a fatal illness, and his last instructions to me were to make my way to London and seek out Lady Julia Murray and apply to her for help.  He told me to mention the name Henry Metcalf, but he was too ill to give me any further message.  I came here hoping that Lady Julia would be able to provide me with an explanation, but ... here I am instead."

"It is really most unsatisfactory," Lady Murray muttered rather fretfully.  She opened and shut her fan repeatedly while Frances remained silent.  "If you do not know who you are, how should I?"

"Well you would if you could see her!" said Mrs Pearson, confirming what Frances had begun to suspect.  Lady Murray was nearly blind. 

Mrs Pearson rose to her feet and came over to Frances to give her a hug. "Welcome my dear, I did not catch your name."

"Frances, ma'am," she replied, moved by her ready affection.

"I wish I could be certain," continued Lady Murray as if Mrs Pearson had not spoken.  "Do you know anything more of your parents' history?  Do you have anything perhaps, belonging to them?"

"My ring.  I have my father's signet ring," offered Frances, holding out her hand.

"May I?" asked Lady Murray, almost eagerly.  Frances drew off the ring and put it into the outstretched hand.  The old fingers moved carefully over it, "Yes.  It seems like Henry's.  What do you think?" she passed it to Mrs Pearson.

"I am sure it is the same one," she was more definite as she examined it closely. "The birds' wing pattern is very distinctive.  How old are you again?"

"Twenty four years, ma'am."

"Well that would be about right," nodded the companion.

"What did your mother look like?  Can you remember at all?" pursued Lady Murray, with some urgency.

"I was only a child," demurred Frances, "but I know she was beautiful, with long dark hair and she had grey eyes like mine.  She had a lovely low singing voice too, I remember.  My father missed her very much, he never remarried."

The two older ladies exchanged sudden glances, even though one could hardly see, the impulse was automatic.

"Do you know where they were married?" stepped in Mrs Pearson hastily pre-empting Lady Murray's less polite enquiry.

"Not exactly.  In France I imagine, as we lived there until mother died.  We were living in Nice at the time so perhaps it was there, I do not think father ever said."

"Hmph.  It is not exactly straight forward, is it?" said Lady Murray quizzically, addressing the old nurse.  Frances decided it was time to assert herself again.

"Let me see if I have this clear.  Are you telling me that my father was your relation?  Your second cousin in fact?  And that his real name was Henry James Metcalf?"

"It certainly seems more than probable," agreed Lady Murray cautiously.

"But there is something else, isn't there?" probed Frances sharply, "There is some mystery or other you've not told me – and why did he live abroad under another name anyway?"

"Because of the scandal of course!" came the quick response.

"What scandal?"

"I am sorry to say that he eloped."

"Is that all?  Was my mother such a mesalliance then?" exclaimed Frances in disbelief.

Provoked, Lady Murray disclosed more than she had intended. "Mesalliance?  Your mother, girl, was a good cut above Henry Metcalf, let me tell you.  He wasn't fit to touch the hem of her gown, and she ran away with him, deserted her friends and her family ..."  the voice trailed off and she sat brooding over the past.

"How can you say that about him, your own relation?" protested Frances, hotly.

"Relation?  What was that to me?  Amanda was my daughter, Julia's younger sister.  She was only eighteen years old."

Feeling rather dazed by these revelations, Frances murmured, "My mother was your daughter?"

Lady Murray pursed her lips and Mrs Pearson nodded.  "I would say so.  It appears quite clear to me that you are Henry's daughter and therefore, one supposes, Miss Amanda was your mother as they were certainly together until she died.  The only time your father wrote was to inform us of that sad event.  That is the problem, you see, neither of them ever told us about your birth."

Her mistress added, "There will have to be considerable investigation of course, before your claim can be accepted."

"I do not understand why you keep referring to my 'claim'," queried Frances, puzzled.  "What am I supposed to be claiming?"

"Why, the money of course.  If you can prove you are the oldest legitimate child of Amanda and Henry, you will be entitled to her share of the estate, about ten thousand pounds."

"Good heavens!"  Ten thousand pounds!  The vision of being able to meet Richard as an equal, flashed before her eyes for a second and her heart leapt.  Then cold reality intruded, "I do not think I will be able to provide sufficient proof." She sighed, ten thousand pounds would have been beyond her wildest expectations.

"Why not?" queried Lady Murray sharply.

"I have no documents at all.  All I have is my father's ring and that is hardly sufficient to claim a share of an estate!"

Feeling suddenly disappointed and a little depressed, Frances decided she had had enough for one day.  She replaced her bonnet and took her leave.

"Thank you, my lady, for receiving me.  I imagine our meeting has been as big a surprise to you as it has to me.  I am sure we both have many matters to consider carefully before taking any further steps."  Tucking the last strands of hair out of sight, she added, "I will bid you good day."

Both ladies were startled by her abrupt departure and Lady Murray blurted out "You are leaving then?"

"Why yes.  I may call back in a couple of days if that is convenient?"

For the first time her grandmother softened towards her and became almost human, "Of course, girl.  We have so much to discuss.  Where are you staying?  You can leave your direction with Tom if you would."

"The Regent Hotel, my lady.  A message addressed to Frances White will find me."

Rather to her surprise, nobody queried this, no doubt she had given them much more significant food for thought.  Tom escorted her to the door and Mrs Pearson looked as if she would have liked to have hugged her goodbye, but did not quite dare to.  She contented herself with a beaming smile and Lady Murray nodded stiffly in her direction.

Her head buzzing with thoughts like a swarm of bees, Frances stepped out and into the waiting carriage.  Could it all be true?  Had her mother been Amanda Murray, Lady Amanda?  Did she really have a grandmother, a home, a name?  Smiling wryly, she decide yes to the first, she was convinced in her own mind of the truth of the relationship, but two very big question marks hung over the last two.  A home?  Perhaps, if Lady Murray accepted her, but a name?  Well at least if it was not Metcalf it must be Murray!  Little as though either of them relished the idea.  Despite Mrs Pearson's intervention, Frances had known perfectly well that Lady Murray did not think her parents had been married at all!