Chapter 19 #2
“It is just us, Abbigail,” Marce coaxed.
“My father…he thought I’d ruined myself, but I didn’t, I swear to it. I never—”
“You needn’t explain anything to me.” Marce stood and called Darla back into the room.
“Please see Abbigail to her bedchamber—with Natasha—and have a bath brought up for her.” She paused, turning her attention back the girl.
“I will have Darla procure two gowns and underpinnings for you. Are your shoes suitable for the time being?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Please let me know if you need anything else.”
“There is one other thing…”
“Of course,” Marce said.
“I do not have enough coin for the coach to Dover,” Abbigail confessed, her cheeks coloring with shame. “My aunt, she is old, and I do not want to burden her…”
Marce thought of the stash in her drawer…barely enough for a new home and to keep Craven House going until the move. “Do not fret over the funds. I will see that you have the fare and some coin to take with you for emergencies.”
“You are too kind, madam,” she said, her voice thickening.
“It is what another did for my family once, long ago. I am more than happy to help you, Abbigail, and any other woman—or family—that comes to me for assistance. Now, find your room, bathe, rest, and be ready to join us for our meal when the clock strikes two.”
“Yes, thank you.” She gave Marce a quick curtsy and followed Darla from the room.
Alone once more, Marce glanced about the red and gold office.
She’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss this room—and every other space in the large house.
Running her hand along the smooth, wood surface of the desk, Marce thought back to when her mother reigned over Craven House.
She was a fair, kind, and compassionate woman.
Someone who’d known the struggle of wedding above one’s class, gaining a taste of high society, and then being cast back down just as quickly.
During her brief years as a marchioness, her mother had met many people, but not one remained at her side after Benton threw her from her home.
No one offered her and her two young children lodging during the harsh time.
Not one individual had come to call on her once she settled at Craven House.
But, oh, how the men of society had flocked to Madame Sasha.
Her richly adorned brothel, her parties held once a year at the home of whichever lord offered his country estate as a gathering place, her bed…
It was the one thing Marce would never sacrifice.
She’d perish before lying with any man just to further her own needs.
Her mother had taken up with Pengarden, Sam and Jude’s father, after her husband died, and then Payton’s father—a kind, but lowly blacksmith.
Then it had been Julian Delconti, the Duke of Harwich.
Had there been others? If there were, Marce was unaware of who they were.
Despite all the men who’d occupied Sasha’s bed, she’d still been, first and foremost, a mother.
She’d made certain that her children were fed and clothed.
Extra coin went for tutors and afternoons and evenings spent about London: the museums, the playhouses, and occasionally, a day trip to the countryside not far outside London proper.
Like her mother, Marce would continue to do her best for everyone involved.
Glancing at the clock atop the hearth mantel, she was surprised to see how quickly her morning had passed.
In just ten minutes, the tall clock in the foyer would chime midday.
Two hours until she and the few women under her care who did not have employment would meet in the dining hall for a meal.
Two hours until she must look each in the face, smile, chat about her day and theirs, and not mention one word about their impending troubles.
They all counted on her, had accepted her offer of a house and safety—something Marce had no right to offer anyone.
Once she purchased her own home, she’d be free to promise these women something as grand as a fresh start at life or a bed to sleep in until their situation improved.
But at this moment, they were all living on borrowed time, at the mercy of the duke.
It was everything she’d feared all these years.
He could arrive at any moment to shatter their hopes and cast them from their lodgings and out into the cruel London streets.
Would Natasha be forced to return to her punishing husband?
Would Abbigail rather sleep in a filthy alley off Oxford Street than seek her father’s home once more?
Marce carried the burden of options. She could fall at Garrett’s feet and beg for shelter or go to Ellington for a room.
She even had the possibility of seeking out Lord Cartwright’s mother, Jude’s mother-in-law, for housing.
Where would all the others go until Marce could secure rooms for them?
Marce needn’t squander her energy on that front until the time presented itself.
With luck, Mr. Adams would write to her about a suitable property within her price range.
The door opened, slamming on its hinges, and Marce let slip a startled yelp as she nearly leapt from her seat.
“I told you she’d be here,” Payton, her youngest sibling hooted with victory. “Now pay up.”
“I don’t think our wager was—” Garrett’s deep tone rebutted.
“You fawning, fly-bitten coxcomb!”
“Payton Samuels,” Marce warned, regaining her seat. “Where in all that’s holy did you gain such a foul mouth?”
Both Garrett and Payton halted before her desk, and Payton managed a remorseful glance in her direction.
“Well?” Marce prodded.
“The baron’s children, they have been left fallow for far too long.”
“Then you, as their new governess, should teach them better ways,” Marce scolded. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you will return home immediately and never be allowed from your room again.” Marce only hoped she had a room to put Payton in if the need to fulfill her threat presented itself.
“I am doing my best, sister, but these children…they are demons.” Payton threw herself down on the lounge Garrett favored, leaving their brother to sit in the chair Abbigail had vacated not long before. “I swear, they will be the death of me.”
“The death of you?” Marce’s brow arched high. “One is six, the other eight. Barely out of the nursery.”
“They are a troublesome and quarrelsome pair.” Payton laid her arm across her forehead. “I swear I will do my best to show them the correct decorum a young lady should exude.”
For not the first time since relenting to Payton’s badgering requests to take the paid position, Marce doubted that her youngest sibling was in any way qualified to instruct proper young girls on the correct ways they should conduct themselves.
Yet, she knew it was more prudent to have Payton away from Craven House and removed from the turmoil soon to come.
Garrett snorted, throwing a bookend across the small room at Payton.
It landed on the girl’s stomach and brought forth an oof. Payton shot to a seated position to glare at their brother.
“Stop with your whining,” Garrett chastised. “Always with the whining and sulking.”
“I do not su—”
“You do,” Marce and Garrett said in unison.
Marce pinched the bridge of her nose, begging for some of the solitude she’d had directly before leaving for Hadlow the previous week.
“My apologies, Payton, I did not mean to offend you; however, you must remember that you are the adult, and the children are your pupils. They are under your care and guidance.”
“Then mayhap a switch to the backside will halt their—”
“No!” Garrett shouted at the same time Marce voiced her objection. “I know nothing of children—besides you heathens”—he nodded to Payton, and she suspected that he also meant Jude and Sam—“however, perhaps sweets and toys are a better method for gaining their compliance.”
For a split second, Marce feared all her sacrifices and hard work in raising her siblings in a loving home had been for naught.
That was until Garrett and Payton turned wide-eyed stares on her and fell into fits of laughter.
Garrett’s deep and hearty, and Payton’s more of a light giggle more suited to a girl half her age.
“You two are incorrigible.” Marce turned her attention to the mess of papers and files littering her desk to hide her grin.
She would miss these moments with her family.
Once she moved out of London, their visits would not likely be regular.
Her smile faded as she asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Payton needs funds.”
“I most certainly do not need money,” Payton countered. “I gain a handsome wage from the baron and whatever else I need, I get from—”
Marce narrowed her glare on her sister and said through clenched teeth, “You best not be about to say the gaming tables.”
To Payton’s credit, she widened her stare and made to look innocent. “Of course not, dear sister, I was going to say…”
Marce waved her hand, making it known that silence was favored over a lie. In no way was Marce prepared to punish or judge the vices of others when her own hands were stained with deception.
One could only play the hypocrite for so long before—
A pounding drifted down the hall from the front of the house. Another unexpected visitor?
“Are you expecting someone?” Garrett asked, his stare focused on her.
“I—well…I do not think so,” she replied.
“You appear a sickly green, sister.” Payton leaned across the desk, poking Marce in the cheek. “And your arms are covered in goose pimples.”
Marce hadn’t any need to look in the mirror or down at her exposed arms above her gloves to know how she appeared. It was the physical representation of the sense that came over her each time she heard an unfamiliar sound at Craven House—doom, dread, and disaster.
She only prayed she could hold the inevitable at bay until after her siblings had departed.