Chapter 5
As Gareth escorted the ladies to their gig, Mr. Sherington passed by and hailed them from the window of his carriage. Chuckling, Gareth saluted.
It was astounding how quickly Sherington had discarded his Bath chair. Either Fleur or Lady Ixworth—and Gareth’s money was on the latter—had raised George Sherington from his funk.
In fact, today Sherington insisted on taking the older lady up into his more comfortable equipage, promising to convey her back to Bicton Grange while the younger ones shopped.
“What a lucky thing that Mr. Sherington came along, and Cora met up with a friend equally enthusiastic about ribbons.” They’d tied up the gig and his horse and were strolling the market square. “I’m rather glad you and I have this time alone together,” he added, squashing a smile.
He was alone with an even more silent than usual Fleur.
“Interesting morning wasn’t it?” he said. “Perhaps we’ll learn something more about the child very soon.” The vicar had been speaking with all the families who’d lost sons in the war and had daughters unaccounted for. “I heard that he almost had a cat fight in his parlor between Mrs. Pownell and Mrs. Buckley.”
“More gossiping with your gentlemen friends?”
“Yes. I suppose it was that.” He smiled, but she didn’t look his way.
“I at least know who my parents were,” she said finally.
Ah. His heart skipped a beat. Fleur had found a bittersweet blessing in the poor lad’s tale.
For his part, the mystery had induced a great deal of… Unease? Was that it? War—the relentless boredom, the sudden fierce battle, the jittery realization that one had survived—all produced unaccountable unions: soldiers with wives following the drum and suddenly widowed, soldiers with local women—taboo but inevitable, and soldiers with the usual assortment of other camp followers.
“Might Cora have been wrong?” he asked. “Might that have been her sister in the miniature?”
Fleur glanced up at him. Her eyes, gray and luminous, looked as though storm clouds were gathering.
“I hadn’t seen Phyllis since she was a child. But surely Cora is right.” She chewed her lower lip. “Helena—Mrs. Bicton-Morledge—is fr-fragile.”
His Petal’s voice broke on that last word.
“Mrs. Bicton-Morledge? Do you care for her? She sent you away, didn’t she?”
Fleur studied the window of Randall Clark’s Mercantile, though he knew she wasn’t looking at the crockery displayed there. “At first… well, you know what sort of child I was. I was angry, frightened. But I came to be grateful. Dulcinea—well…”
He clutched his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to hold her, waiting as she gathered her thoughts.
“Helena spoke with me about it, seeking to make amends. She fears dying in childbirth. She w-worries what will become of her girls.” Her voice shook, and she turned away from him again.
He eyed her sidewise, thunderstruck. Meeting Sam had certainly stirred her, but this uncharacteristic display of emotion was not about her sorrows. She’d mentioned her desire to secure not just her own future but Lady Ixworth’s as well. Now she’d be planning to include Mrs. Bicton-Morledge and her daughters in her marriage settlements.
He ought to have noticed before: she wore the same dress he’d seen her in yesterday, and the day before that, an unadorned lavender that might be half-mourning for Lady Ixton’s cousin or for her former guardian, Bicton-Morledge. Her dress, her bonnet, the twist of her hair, were all simple and unaffected. Her half boots had scuff marks that no polish could cover. Her only jewelry was a garnet cross at her neck.
Fleur’s quest for a marriage wasn’t solely about money to save herself. She would sacrifice herself on the altar of a loveless marriage to save Lady Ixton and all of the Bicton-Morledge girls as well should the very worst happen.
Touch his heart it might—and it did—but it also spelled trouble for his matchmaking endeavor. Marceau wouldn’t take in a whole passel of females of all ages, nor would the Veuve support it. The lady had barely come to tolerate him, a British officer. He didn’t fool himself that it was his charming personality; the Veuve had a mercenary streak, and he was useful to her.
“When is the babe due?”
“It ought to arrive in October. But she is grown so very big… These things are not always easy to determine.”
The child’s birth would be a day of reckoning for the household of women.
“Surely the heir won’t put her and her girls out,” he said. At least not immediately.
She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but from what she tells me about him, he certainly won’t allow Dulcinea and me to stay.”
He hadn’t written to Marceau yet. There was time. The Frenchman’s last letter had mentioned negotiations with wine merchants and the possibility of traveling to Manchester for an auction. His London host had steered him toward the best evening entertainment, and he was availing himself of the most discerning establishments for gentlemen.
In other words, Marceau was visiting every decent brothel in London, steeling himself for the upcoming nuptials. Having thought to eventually gain the Veuve’s approval of a marriage to his amour, he’d bristled at the notion of an arranged marriage to a cousin no one knew. His mistress’s tiresome weeping and the Veuve’s nagging had brought about his final agreement.
Fleur was only a year or two younger than Marceau, but she was much older in other ways. The Frenchman didn’t have the disposition for a strong wife, much less a strong wife with Lady Ixworth in tow.
A sickening feeling swept over him. Honor was important, and he’d defended his own ardently all through his young years, mostly with his fists, only once with a sword. But this… this marriage? Debt of honor or no, Marceau shouldn’t have Fleur. It wouldn’t do. He’d travel to France himself and explain all to the Veuve.
And Fleur… she could travel with him and meet her grandmother. Lady Ixworth could come as well. Neither lady would expect luxury; he could sell one of his precious bottles to pay their passage.
“That poor lad,” Fleur said, interrupting his planning, “Perhaps his father is still alive.” She stopped and frowned up at him. “Could he be Thad’s?”
“Unless Thad was secretly married, no.”
“You would know if he’d married, wouldn’t you?”
“I… I lost touch with him quite often. We served in different regiments and for a time… well, I was captured by the French.”
Her gaze skittered over him. “Captured?” She stopped dead and put her hands to her hips. “Captured, Gareth?”
“Yes.”
“Did they… harm you?”
He drew in a breath, a memory flashing, quickly squashed. He’d never been one for grudges or crying the victim. In fact, he’d had it easier than many others. “No, no not really. Oh, there was a bit of thrashing about, but their commander soon saw that I was an officer and a gentleman.”
“And tried to wheedle secrets out of you.”
Yes, he’d first been beaten and then charmed. “It didn’t work, if you’re wondering.”
She eyed him up and down. “I never thought to ask—besides the scar on your jaw, were you wounded?”
Wounded? More likely than not, he’d carry the shrapnel of battle to his death along with various scars. But most of those, of course, he’d received earlier, in Spain. A French surgeon had kindly and cleanly removed the only bullet he’d received. “Only a few scratches.”
“You were beaten and tortured, and yet not injured?”
He shrugged. “As it happened, I escaped.”
Was this the right time to bring up Etienne Marceau?
“I was helped by a Frenchman and his old aunt. They took me in, hid me, tended my, er, scratches.”
Her mouth dropped open and then she frowned. “You were wounded, Gareth. How long were you with those people?”
“A mere few weeks. And the wounds were nothing. I was lucky. Very lucky. The French are not all bad, you see.”
“Huh,” she said with disgust.
“No.” He caught her arm, stopping her, and drawing her into an opening between two buildings. “I like the French generally. And in particular,” he touched his fingers to her jaw, “I like you.”
A tiny gasp escaped her. “I am not?—”
“But you are. And certainly, you have family there.”
“No.” She pushed past him and hurried back to the square.
“Thank you for reminding me why I must marry,” she said, bristling with anger as he caught up with her. “I am French by birth, but as soon as I marry an Englishman, I will take my husband’s citizenship.”
“So who is it to be? Sherington? Farnham?”
“Perhaps whoever takes the baby will need a nursemaid… But no. That Miss du Plessac will have the position.”
“Perhaps. But… I’ve heard rumors that she and the vicar’s son are engaged.”
She stopped and her brows drew together. “If that’s so, I might yet find work.”
“Have you ever cared for a small child?”
“Only Phyllis and Cora when all of us were little.”
“And if you’re a nursemaid, what of Lady Ixworth?”
“Sherington likes Dulcinea. We might both have a home.” She threw up her hands. “I’m grasping at straws I suppose.”
“Well there is still Mr. Farnham,” he teased. “Perhaps he’ll be smitten and offer for you.”
He thought it unlikely. Farnham had spoken fondly of his late wife. He didn’t seem like a man in search of a new one.
“Is Mr. Farnham sensible?”
“I suppose so. Obsessed with his drainage. We rode all about his acres. Fascinating stuff, if you like that sort of thing.” His own family estate was on higher ground. Most vineyards were as well.
“Financially stable?”
“I didn’t poke into finances.”
“Handsome?”
Mr. Farnham was, in fact a lean hardy man who appeared to have all his hair and teeth.
“I’m no judge of that, I’m afraid.”
Fleur snorted and waved. Cora and her friend had stepped out of a shop.
“I’ll bid you farewell, Captain.”
A tall man dressed in laborer’s clothing stopped Cora and tipped his hat. There was something familiar about him.
Cora smiled up at the fellow. Even from here, Gareth could see she was flirting.
“Who is that?” Gareth asked. “He’s awfully friendly with Miss Cora.”
Fleur shaded her eyes and an assessing look came over her. “You don’t recognize him? That’s Bevan Haskell. He manages the crews of itinerant harvest workers. He’s visited the steward at Bicton Grange to arrange the wages, and even paid a call on Helena.”
“Cora oughtn’t to be so familiar with him. And you—after the way he treated you?”
“We were children then. And… as for Cora, well, Haskell has a reputation as a hard worker. After his father died, he held the family together. He has a freehold he shares with a brother-in-law, and he’s respected in the community.”
“He’s a brute and beneath her station.” He stepped out to cross the square, but Fleur’s hand stayed him.
“Don’t,” she said. “Helena is not any more concerned about him than any other young man. He’s not likely to whisk her off to follow the drum.”
Haskell had spotted them. He lifted his hat, said a few words to Cora, and departed.
“There now,” she said, “he’s gone, and I see Cora has a package. She and I will be off. Haskell is a man with important work to do, and Cora and I have duties to attend to. You may go as well and be about whatever your business is.”
He winced at her dig. It was true, he was taking a break from soldiering, but he had important business of another sort.
She wouldn’t get rid of him that quickly. “I’ll ride along beside you and gather the latest gossip from Cora to share with Sherington, and perhaps stop at the Book and Bell later for more news. Someone might know something about the lad’s parents.”
“Intelligence gathering. Did you do a bit of that during the war?”
In fact, he’d been on a mission when he was captured. A long moment passed, and she scoffed. “Silence, Captain Ardleigh? Well then, I’ll be careful to guard the names of the gentlemen I’ll be calling on, so you don’t get to them first again. Unless you’d be willing to help me? Surely somewhere in England there’s a man for me.”
“And for your elderly companion.”
“In fact, Dulcinea has just turned two and sixty, and she is healthier than many ladies half her age, and still very attractive. She’s kept her figure as well.”
Lady Ixworth did look well for her age, but the only lady whose figure interested him was the one next to him. He took her hand and set it over his arm, itching to touch more, to wrap his arm around her waist and feel again the softness where her hip curved.
Alas, there was another man for Fleur, Etienne Marceau, if she’d have him. With him, she’d have the security of family, and an entrée into a prosperous business. She’d have a husband who wasn’t likely to leave her, but who would cheat like the devil on her and never love her.
IfGareth would allow Etienne Marceau to have her. Because, God’s truth, he wanted her for himself. Fleur ought to be his. She ought to be not just taken to wife, she ought to be loved.
* * *
While he rode silentlyand Fleur deftly handled the gig, Cora told them about the plans for the Harvest festival the following weekend. On Saturday, the booths would go up on the green. On Sunday, there’d be a special afternoon church service, and following that, some of the landowners would hold dinners. On Monday, there’d be a parade of wagons, a fair, and dancing. There’d be Morris dancers, games, booths, and a grand bonfire.
For the second time this day, Gareth became lost in his thoughts, something he generally avoided at all costs. The cropped fields and hedgerows they passed brought to mind other hedges he’d dragged his injured self in and out of, hiding from the French.
When the hedgerows of Champagne ended, the road ran along sweeps of trellised vines, the naked twists sporting green buds here or there. At the sound of an approaching cart, he’d staggered into a row where he must have fainted. The next thing he knew, a strong, wiry Frenchman was half dragging him along, all the while cursing under his breath about a woman.
Struggling for one last gasp of strength to break free, Gareth spotted a cart. It wasn’t a gendarme holding the lines, not unless they were enlisting old women.
She railed at the young man to put the stranger into the cart bed, and then to cover him with a scratchy tarp in case of patrols. Once horizontal, Gareth succumbed to the blackness again and woke up in a creaky cot on a lumpy mattress in a room warmed by a small brazier. It felt enough like heaven that he’d slept for three days straight.
He discovered his wounds had been tended to, his clothing cleaned, and a covered dish and flask of wine left on the side table for him.
Etienne Marceau had saved him from the peril of a cold hungry night passed out in the vineyard. Not so much because he’d wanted to; Marceau’s great aunt, the Veuve Hardouin had demanded it.
At this point of the war, helping an enemy officer held little risk for them. Marceau had been too young for the Jacobin madness. Later, he’d avoided conscription in the Grande Armée by keeping his emperor supplied with champagne from the family winery. The Veuve was no fool; she could see the end of the war coming. She’d staged cargo in the lowlands, awaiting an armistice, and seized the opportunity to forge bonds with an English officer who could help Hardouin and Marceau weather the precarious time between armistice and a return to peace and the expansion of their trade.
Plus, Gareth’s death in the vineyard might have spoiled the next year’s harvest.
He chuckled to himself.
“What’s funny?” Cora called, shaking him out of his reverie. “Oh look. They’ve finished the north field.”
The brisk autumn air carried the scent of freshly mowed barley, bringing old memories of his family home, and more recent ones of Champagne where he’d immersed himself as fully as possible for a sheltering enemy soldier in the operations of the vineyard.
He’d risen from his sickbed and joined the Veuve and her nephew for meals, conscious of the need to attempt to contact his regiment. Before he could do so, news came, first of the emperor’s defeat at Toulouse, and then of his surrender. Meals and conversations had led to tours and chats with the Veuve’s workers, and a few months later, a visit during the height of the harvest. He’d pitched in and helped, relishing the excitement of harvest, the soreness and sense of accomplishment after a day of physical labor.
At some point, he’d remembered a little girl with the surname of Hardouin, setting in motion his current quandary.
He was in love with Fleur.
He was in love with Fleur. He, with his two hundred pounds a year. His family didn’t have room for him, much less a wife and children if he married.
He thought of the softness of Fleur under her garments. There would be children, plural.
He wanted to marry her. It was madness. There’d be no champagne for them. They’d be scrimping to have a roof over their heads and food on the table. It would be foolish, reckless, irresponsible.
“Captain, you’ve passed the turn off for Sherington Manor,” Cora called, breaking him out of this particular reverie.
“Why so I have,” he said. “I believe I’ll just ride along the rest of the way and call on your mother.”
“You don’t have to,” Cora said, subdued. “She’ll be resting today. Yesterday about did her in. She was worried but… I don’t think the girl in that locket was Phyllis. Nor did the soldier look like her William. William had dark hair like yours, Captain.”
“You met him?”
“Oh yes. The militia camped near here and came to all the village fêtes. He was very kind. When he offered for Phyllis, Papa said they must wait.”
“But they didn’t.”
“They married in Scotland. That’s all we know.”
Another foolish jump into matrimony.
It wasn’t a leap he would take. In the long run, it wouldn’t be kind. It wouldn’t be honorable. He’d write the letter summoning Marceau to Reabridge as soon as he returned to Sherington Manor.