Chapter 3
Dread threaded through her. Surely the lady wouldn’t send them away, not yet anyway.
“Come pull that chair closer.” Mrs. Bicton-Morledge beckoned her. “Would you like some of this toast? I couldn’t possibly eat all of it.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.” Fleur drew a chair a fraction closer and smoothed the skirts of her lavender kerseymere gown under the white smock she’d borrowed from Mrs. Knollwood.
“You left here as a child, but you’ve come back as a lady. I think you must call me Helena. Will you do that?”
Stunned, Fleur almost refrained from speaking. But perhaps she’d done too much of that in the past. Mrs. Bic… Helena, did not deserve any more defiant silence. “Why… yes. Yes, I will.”
Helena grimaced. “It is better than the Mrs. Bicton-Morledge mouthful. Now why are you wearing that smock? You’re not a servant.”
“Dulcinea—Lady Ixworth—and I, we’re grateful you took us in. And we mean to help you in any way we may.”
There. It had been said.
The lady’s dimpled hand reached for hers. “I’m so happy to see the person you’ve become. I’ve been troubled all these years about not doing more for you as a child. About sending you away. There. I’ve said it.”
Fleur let out a breath, marveling at the echoed sentiment, and her heart lifted.
Helena squeezed Fleur’s hand. “Do you remember…” She took in a breath and started again. “I wanted to tell you what I could of your mother, but my husband felt it would make your… your troubled state worse. And then as you got older… I hoped we might visit you or you might visit us and I could tell you in person, rather than putting it into a letter.”
Heart pounding, Fleur nodded. “I am here now, Mrs., er, Helena.”
“Yes. I won’t die knowing I ought to have told you this. Do you remember anything of the time before you came to us?”
Fleur straightened in her chair. Sometimes an image would flash, cloudy, dream-like, a woman with hair like her own, and soft. But crying, always crying. And another, dark-haired—though she couldn’t put a face to either of them. Often, a strong whiff of jasmine would unsettle the fog, though never enough. Was that why she favored the scent?
She must find out what Helena knew. “No,” she said.
“A Swiss woman who worked as a modiste brought you to my husband. She told him what she knew of your parents, their names, where they were from, and where you born, and he wrote it down. He did give you that, didn’t he?”
Fleur nodded. She’d always known her parents’ names, but the brief account had been among the legal papers she’d received when she’d reached her majority the year before.
“Your mother had sewed for the modiste, but… she died, and apparently, they found you crying beside her body. We were packing to leave—oh there was such chaos, with uprisings and the French army advancing. My husband brought you home, and we took you with us. No one dreamed the war would last this long, but now that it’s surely over, perhaps you’d like to see what remains of your family?”
A familiar flash of anger warmed her face. As if her meager funds would support such a quest.
And what an ungrateful thought. Though she didn’t have much, Mr. Bicton-Morledge had arranged a small income for her before his own family fortunes declined.
“Lady Ixton is my family now,” she said.
Helena squeezed her hand again. “As are we, my girls and I.” A frown creased her brow. “Dulcinea mentioned your wish to find some security through marriage. When the time comes, you must make certain of a proper settlement, a dower and a promise to provide for children. And if there is an entail…”
Ah, yes. Bicton Grange was entailed. Helena and her girls were perilously close to being homeless.
“You mustn’t worry,” Fleur said. “Dulcinea and I, between us, have enough income for a roof over our heads, and yours, and your girls’ as well.” It would be a tiny roof, but they’d have shelter. “Dulcinea will delight in bossing the little girls and you while you recover from childbirth. You are going to be just fine.”
If need be, she’d pour coffee down the village doctor’s throat to sober him, be sure of that.
“Nevertheless…” Helena took in a shallow breath. “Oh heavens, I can barely breathe with this girl kicking me. You are kind, Fleur. And should I not make it?—”
“You will.”
“But should I not, it does my heart good to hear you say you’ll help my girls. I fear my husband’s cousin will be as ungenerous as Dulcinea’s cousin’s heir.” She shuddered. “Jedidiah Morledge pounds his bible prodigiously, but when he came for my dear husband’s funeral… He insisted on speaking to the doctor about my condition. Mr. Sherington hadn’t yet fallen ill, and it took his intervention—acting as Justice of the Peace and guardian to my girls—as well as that of our solicitor who’d come down from Manchester, to convince Jedidiah he must wait until this child is born to claim ownership and evict us.” Helena’s hand shook around her teacup. “Poor, dear, Sherington. We almost lost him, too. What would I have done?”
“Mr. Sherington seems to have rallied,” Fleur said.
“Thank goodness. Now, we must not worry, my girls won’t be entirely penniless either after their new sister arrives. And I know Sherington and our solicitor won’t fail them. My dear, don’t let your concern for them keep you from marrying.”
“Why, Helena,” Fleur said, “that wee one kicking you might be a boy. And you’ve borne five healthy children before; you will come through beautifully, providing you keep your strength up. Please do eat, or Cook will fret.”
“Cook will always fret. I believe I must bestir myself and attempt to go downstairs for dinner tonight, if only to keep her from leaving us like the butler did.”
Fleur stood. If the worst should happen, the very worst, she’d write the Bicton-Morledge girls into any marriage agreement she made. A husband who wouldn’t help care for orphans was no man at all, at least not a man to suit her.
“Don’t go just yet,” Helena said. “I want to discuss the plans for the Harvest Festival. I intend for Bicton Grange to participate as we always do with biscuits and cakes for the parish booth, and the girls will take part in the fun. Cora must attend the ball that night—she has an admirer in Mr. Haskell, you know. And then,” she squeezed Fleur’s hand, “let us review the list of available bachelors for you in Reabridge.”
* * *
It wasafter noon when Fleur found Dulcinea settled into a chair by the waning fire in her bedchamber. “And where have you been, gel? I had to wait for the kitchen maid to carry away my dishes.”
With her back turned, Fleur rolled her eyes, and fetched an extra shawl from the bed. Dulcinea had been in to chat with Helena after Fleur left, so she knew perfectly well Fleur had visited the nursery, helped in the still room, and accompanied the lone footman, James, delivering the harvest crews’ meat pies, another tradition that Bicton Grange would keep up. The harvest had begun in earnest, and she would be lucky if she wasn’t asked to grab a pitchfork and help.
And that would be alright. The talk with Helena that morning had unsettled her. Keeping busy meant she didn’t have to think.
Avoiding Dulcinea’s bright gaze, she settled the colorful cloth over the older lady’s legs and went to poke at the fire.
“Hah. Squash your lips together like that, gel, they’ll stay that way permanently and no man will want to kiss you.”
If she kept to her plan and captured an old man, not being kissed would be just fine.
“Not speaking, are you? You said little enough at the Sheringtons’.”
That was a lie. She’d been all that was polite toward old Mr. Sherington. It was Laurence and Gareth she’d ignored.
Dulcinea twirled her quizzing glass. “You’ll not win Sherington by mere fussing, you know. He always fancied the gels with some spark. When he was younger… What a man. What thighs.” She shivered. “That horse-faced son must take after his mother. But the other fellow, Ardleigh made me wish I was forty years younger.” She laughed. “Or twenty years. After Ixworth died, a young man with fine legs like his?—”
“Yes, yes,” Fleur said. “You ought to have turned your flirting on Ardleigh and given me more of a chance with Mr. George Sherington.”
“Softening him up for you, is all. He and I…” She sighed and a dreamy look came over her. “There was a ball, oh some thirty years ago?—”
“Oh, do spare me the talk of your conquests, my lady,” she teased. Dulcinea had been a beauty in her youth, and she was still quite comely, with a trim figure and skin she’d guarded well from the sun. “Shall you set your cap for him, then?”
“Heavens, no. Play nursemaid to an old goat in his dotage? In a Bath chair? No, no, he’d have to break that up for kindling.” She glanced toward the cheery flames, her lips quivering into a small smile. “Though there was a time when he was like a prime stallion. Times were different then.”
“Perhaps you can, er, revive him,” Fleur said. “He clearly favored you over me. Mrs. Bicton-Morledge has promised to help me meet Miss Farnham, whose widowed father is sure to be nearby.” Miss Farnham kept house for her father on a very fine manor in lower Reabridge. The presence of the spinster daughter might pose an obstacle to matrimony, but Fleur wasn’t greedy. If he would but provide a small cottage for Dulcinea, she would do her duty by everyone and when the time came, would settle for a small income upon Mr. Farnham’s passing. All else might go to the daughter.
“Will you come along on this call?” Fleur asked.
“And if young Sherington and his friend call tomorrow?”
“There is no guarantee they’ll call, and I must be about the business of securing the future.”
“With an old man.” Dulcinea shook her head. “It is a good plan, sensible, and yet I cannot truly like it for a spirited girl like you. Are you sure this will answer? There was a spark in Ardleigh’s eyes when he looked at you.”
“Ah yes, the spark. You’ve always told me to beware the spark.” She bit her lips to keep from smiling. “Ardleigh is a younger son, and likely has no income, or next to none.”
Dulcinea harrumphed.
The sound of a carriage on the drive drew Fleur to the window. A landau had drawn up. Gareth jumped out and turned to help another man who leaned heavily on his arm, a cane bracing him on the other side.
“Who is it?”
Fleur hurried to the clothes press. “Sherington is here. We must get you dressed.”
“Pah” Dulcinea flapped a hand. “You go visit him. What a pity he didn’t bring his friend Ardleigh.”
Fleur whisked away the lap blanket. “Oh, Ardleigh has come along as well. And the Sherington with him is George.” She smiled. “And he’s walking.”
Dulcinea’s eyes glinted. In fact, they positively sparked. “Is that so? Well come along, gel. Don’t stand there dawdling.”
A few minutes later,Mrs. Knollwood caught them in the corridor, winded from hurrying up the stairs.
“Oh, miss, my lady, before you go down…” She paused for a breath. “News. Mr. Sherington is bringing news. I don’t know how we’ve only just heard but…” Frowning, she paused again.
“Well get on with it,” Dulcinea said.
“There’s a babe at the vicar’s. Belongs to one of the village girls as followed the drum.”
Dulcinea clucked her tongue. “Which one?”
The hair at the back of Fleur’s neck prickled and she sent Dulcinea a quelling look. Despite relishing gossip, Mrs. Knollwood was a placid soul. Fleur had never seen her this agitated.
“That’s just it,” the housekeeper said. “No one knows.”
“Phyllis,” Fleur whispered. Helena would need to hear this possible news of her daughter and grandchild. She touched the housekeeper’s arm. “Get Mrs. Bicton-Morledge dressed for callers. We’ll bring them up to her sitting room.”
“Oh, miss, Mr. Sherington barely made it up the few steps to the portico.”
“Then we’ll have James carry his mistress down.”
The housekeeper wrinkled her nose. James was not quite as sturdy as the usual footmen.
“Or Captain Ardleigh can,” Dulcinea said.
* * *
“You did not needto accompany me.” The cross tone in Fleur’s voice cheered Gareth.
He’d spent the call at Bicton Grange observing a demure Fleur chatting quietly with all and sundry and pouring tea for Mrs. Bicton-Morledge, who, with the help of Gareth’s steadying arm, had waddled down the stairs for the occasion. Her daughter, Cora, a dark-haired young beauty who must be turning heads was present as well. The other two daughters, mere urchins, popped in for cakes before being shooed back to the nursery.
Lord Barlow had called on Sherington that morning with astonishing news. A child—a mere baby had been left with the vicar by an English couple who’d been visiting Toulouse. A year or so ago, the locals discovered the newborn in a barn next to the body of his mother who’d died giving birth. Miniatures of a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl and a British soldier were likely portraits of the lad’s parents. The English couple brought him to Reabridge because of one more found item, an amulet. They’d recognized it as one given to Reabridge girls at the annual harvest festival.
Barlow had called out of concern that Thaddeus might have been the child’s father. Neither of the Sherington men had heard Thad had married. Thaddeus wasn’t likely to be the father.
As for the mother’s possible identity, Mr. Sherington insisted he must personally deliver this news to Mrs. Bicton-Morledge. Gareth had been only too happy to accompany him.
Mrs. Bicton-Morledge had taken the news with quiet composure, deeming it unlikely the boy was her daughter Phyllis’s. Phyllis’s hair had been brown, not blond.
Still, one could see sadness and worry lurking beneath the lady’s calm surface. She’d excused herself early, and Gareth had insisted on carrying her up the stairs, Cora walking alongside.
When he returned to the drawing room, Sherington was saying his farewells and Fleur was retrieving her shawl. She’d come along for the return trip to Sherington Manor with the excuse of borrowing a novel that Lady Ixworth wanted. Then, novel, in hand, she’d declined the offer of a carriage ride home.
Gareth had snatched up the book before Fleur could quick-march from Sherington Manor with it. The Monk was now carefully wrapped in oilcloth against the possibility of rain and tucked under his waistcoat next to his heart.
He needed this time alone with Fleur. What sort of woman had she become? What experiences had she had? What did she want in her life? He needed to know her better before he wrote to Marceau with the news that he’d found the Frenchman’s prospective bride.
At least that was his excuse.
“I confess,” he said, “I was surprised to find you unmarried.”
She made no reply.
Fair enough. This was Fleur, after all.
“You are accomplished and dare I say beautiful? Do the men of… Derbyshire… not have eyes in their heads?”
“Staffordshire,” she said. “Eyes? Yes. Brains? Not many. But those who do know that beauty won’t pay rent or buy food. At least not in the respectable way.”
That was more words than he’d ever heard out of Fleur at one time, and it told him much. She had no income, and the men of Staffordshire wanted her, but not for matrimony.
“I see. Yet you and Lady Ixworth plan to return there after your visit here?”
Fleur stopped, pivoted, and studied him. “You are impertinent, Ardleigh. But then you’ve always been thus, haven’t you?”
He supposed that was true. Yet he needed to know much more before he wrote Marceau. The Frenchman would have to know how to woo her, after all.
Good old Fleur. Ever honest—if he could get her to talk—and if that required frank questioning, so be it.
Perhaps he ought to apologize, but he wasn’t one to grovel. “I’ve offended you.”
“Much offends me.” She grimaced. “I suppose you’ll run back and share whatever I tell you with your circle of so-called gentlemen. Oh yes, I know that you men gossip as madly as any females.”
Unfortunately, that was true. He thought of the many drunken conversations in the officers’ mess. “Hand to heart.” He touched the rectangle under his coats. A book such as this had once shielded him from a stray piece of shrapnel. “Your secrets will be my secrets.”
“Hmm.” That grimace again. “We have lost our home in Staffordshire. Put out by the new heir. So, no, we will not be returning there.”
The last rays of the setting sun sparked diamonds in her hair and in the corners of her eyes. Incipient tears?
The notion of his Petal near tears tugged at his heart. Fleur had feelings. He’d always suspected that, but she’d always hid her hurt behind a steel cage.
By God, she was lovely, and so strong. Not at all like the Frenchwoman Marceau had been keeping. Marceau had made commitments to her that involved a two year old and another on the way, so Gareth supposed she’d been well within her rights in her weeping. What the Veuve thought of it all, Gareth didn’t know.
How unfair the match with Marceau would be to Fleur.
A promise was a promise though, and his debt to the Veuve had to be repaid. He must at least introduce Fleur to Marceau.
“It’s a marriage you need,” Gareth said. “It will secure your future.”
“Yes,” she said, astonishing him. “And that of Lady Ixworth.”
“Lady Ixworth?” He laughed, shocked at her agreeableness to marriage and appalled that she would attach such an unlikely requirement. “Surely she has family who?—”
“She has me. And a small—very small—income. It’s no secret that the late viscount gambled away almost everything. We will stay with Mrs. Bicton-Morledge and make ourselves useful until…” She shrugged. “She might have a son.”
The Bicton-Morledge females’ predicament was common knowledge. Those gossiping males again.
“And she might not, and then what?”
One of Fleur’s long silences ensued, and she stepped out again.
He kept pace with her. “You are here husband-hunting, I take it? Don’t count on Laurence. I believe he intends to sow his wild oats for a few more years. In fact, now that his father is much improved, he’s returning to London perhaps tomorrow or the day after to see to business there.”
Her pace slowed. “You don’t offer your own hand, Captain Ardleigh?”