Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 26

She stared ahead, and the goat's sharp little horns were blurred by her tears. "I wish things were different," she said. "I wish I weren't myself, or that myself was-"

"No! You don't understand. I want you with all your face paints, and all your sultry glances, and all your wicked poetry. I want you just as you are, Bea."

It was probably a tribute to her father that she didn't believe him for a moment.

She cleared her throat. "That is remarkably kind of you. I am honored, truly. Of course, I might be even more honored if you didn't already have a fiancee. But I appreciate your willingness to add me to the list."

"Stuff that," he said, and his voice was harsh and utterly unlike the smooth cadences that members were used to hearing in the House. "Don't be honored," he said fiercely. "Be my wife."

"I can't do that." She turned and faced him, head high. "I care for you too much. You may be exhausted by your position at the moment, but you will long for it after a few months. I don't see you spending your days fis.h.i.+ng and befriending poachers, Stephen. After a month, even a year perhaps, you would yearn for your position back. And they'd never give it to you, never. Not after you married me."

"I disagree, Bea. I could marry you and stay in Parliament. But I want to resign. If I grow bored in the country, I'll find something to do. But not Parliament. I don't want to think about votes again. I'd rather think about you."

"Leave," she said tersely, hanging onto the splintered boards with all her might. "Just leave, Stephen."

The smile fell from his face.

"Please leave," she whispered.

Chapter 32.

And Motherly Love, Part Two.

Esme's mother arrived on a beautiful spring day, a week after her grandson's birth. Esme looked out her bedchamber window and there it was, rounding the bend before the road to Shantill House: a squat, ugly carriage that she remembered from her childhood. The family used to travel to and from London in it. The seats were made of slippery horsehair and sloped upward. As a child, Esme constantly slid to the carriage floor, earning a scolding for her fidgety nature.

William was sleeping in her arms, his long eyelashes curling against his cheek. "I'll never make you ride in a carriage for hours," she whispered to him. And then rethought that promise. "Well, perhaps only if we make many stops."

Then she turned aside and rang the bell. "My mother has arrived," she told Jeannie. "I must change my clothing. I'll wear the gray morning gown with the white lace trim, the one with the small tippet. And I shall wear a cap as well, perhaps with a silver ribbon so it matches."

Jeannie looked surprised. "But, madam, that gown is half-mourning, and so heavy for this weather. Wouldn't you prefer to wear something more cheerful? Surely your lady mother will wish to see you more lighthearted. We don't even have such a thing as a silver ribbon in the house!"

"No, the gray dress will be perfect." f.a.n.n.y had worn full mourning for two years after Esme's father died. The least Esme could do was appear to have a virtue, even if she had it not.

"Shall I take Master William to the nursery?" Jeannie said, once Esme was dressed in gray, complete with a lace cap but no silver ribbon.

"I'll bring him downstairs with me. I'm certain my mother is quite eager to see her grandson."

"Of course she is! And he's the bonniest boy that's ever lived. She'll likely cry with pure joy. I know my mother would."

When Esme entered the morning parlor, she found her mother seated with Marchioness Bonnington and Arabella. To Esme's relief, Bea was nowhere to be seen. Esme had a secret fear that her mother would take affront at the idea of staying in the same house with her sister's dame de compagnie and leave without delay.

She could see on the instant that f.a.n.n.y and Arabella were already twitting at each other. They were seated opposite each other, and Arabella had the look of someone who has just delivered a magnificent set-down. f.a.n.n.y was shaking her head sadly and looking at her younger sister as if she were addled. Esme hurried across the room toward them.

f.a.n.n.y looked like an exquisite watercolor rendition of Arabella. Arabella's hair was ginger; f.a.n.n.y's was a pale rose. Arabella's complexion was a tribute to French face paints; f.a.n.n.y's face had a delicate bloom all her own. Arabella's face somehow just missed being beautiful, but f.a.n.n.y had been acknowledged as flawless from the moment she'd toddled into her papa's arms.

"Mama, it is such a pleasure to see you!" Esme cried. "I've brought William, who is longing to meet his grandmother."

All three ladies looked up. Her mother gave her the melancholy smile with which she always greeted her daughter, a perfect blend of responsibility and disappointment. Impulsively Esme went to her knees beside her mother and folded the blanket back from around William's face so f.a.n.n.y could see him. He was still sleeping peacefully, as beautiful a child as she'd ever seen. William was the one thing in life that Esme had done perfectly.

But her mother looked at her rather than at William. "Esme," she said, "I must ask you to seat yourself properly. We are not en famille here. There is no need for such boisterous manners."

Lady Bonnington leaned forward. "Please don't insist on convention on my account, f.a.n.n.y dear. I find your daughter's affection for her child quite refres.h.i.+ng."

Esme rose and seated herself next to her mother on the settee. f.a.n.n.y raised her eyebrows slightly and then finally looked down at William. For a moment she stared at him in utter silence.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Esme said, unable to stop herself. "Isn't he the most darling baby you ever saw, Mama?"

Her mother closed her eyes and put out a wavering hand as if to push William away. "He looks just like your brother," she murmured, turning her face away and shading her eyes. Her hand stayed in the air, shaking slightly with the strength of her emotion.

Esme bit her lip. "William doesn't resemble Benjamin so much," she ventured. "Benjamin had such a lovely cap of black hair, do you remember? Even when he was-"

"Naturally I remember every moment of my son's short life!" her mother broke in. "You do me great disservice, daughter, to suggest that I could forget the smallest detail of my little angel's face." She sat with her face shaded by her hand, overcome by grief.

Esme was stricken into silence. She literally didn't know what to say.

"William is quite an adorable child," Arabella said. There was a crackling warning in her voice. "And I do think that he has the look of his father rather than Esme. In fact, I would say that William is the spitting image of Miles Rawlings. Why don't you look at William more closely, f.a.n.n.y?"

Esme's mother visibly shuddered. "I couldn't... I just couldn't." She waved her slim white hand in the air. "Please, remove the child. I simply am not strong enough for this sort of blow. Not today. Perhaps when I am having a better day."

"Of course, Mama," Esme said quietly, tucking William's blanket around his face. "I'll take him back to the nursery."

"Give him to the footman," her mother instructed, sounding a bit stronger. "I didn't come all the way to this house merely to watch you act like a servant."

Esme had never given William to one of the servants, but she handed him over without a murmur. She should have realized how much pain the baby would cause her mother.

No wonder f.a.n.n.y hadn't attended her confinement. The whole event was undoubtedly too distressing to contemplate. As she returned to the parlor, Esme braced herself for the look of disapproval that always crossed her mother's face. But it was, miraculously, not there. Esme blinked and almost stumbled.

"Do come here, daughter," f.a.n.n.y said, patting the seat next to her.

Esme sat down next to her, careful to not allow her back to touch the back of the settee.

"We were just discussing how much your cap suits you," f.a.n.n.y said. "I think you will find that a cap truly eases one's life. It does the necessary work of informing lecherous men that you are a woman of propriety and virtue. They never, ever make indecent proposals to a woman in a cap."

Arabella looked at Esme with a faint smile. "I've just told your mother that she needn't lend me one of hers."

f.a.n.n.y ignored that. "And Lady Bonnington has been regaling me with tales of your fiance's devotion. I must say, he sounds like an estimable gentleman. What a shame that Mr. Fairfax-Lacy stands to lose his courtesy t.i.tle if the Duke of Girton's wife gives birth to a son. The Earl of Spade, isn't he? Of course, the d.u.c.h.ess may birth a girl. We shall have to hope for the best."

"Mr. Fairfax-Lacy doesn't use his t.i.tle," Esme murmured.

But her mother swept on. "It would be even better were the earl to give up his seat in Parliament. The House of Commons is so very... common, is it not?"

"Mr. Fairfax-Lacy plans to resign his seat," Esme said. "He wishes to spend more time on his estate."

Her mother gave her a smile and patted her hand. "I'm certain that you can effect the earl's resignation without delay. I feel quite heartened by this news, dearest."

"I'm very glad to hear it, Mama."

"Perhaps you could marry by special license," her mother continued. "That would be by far the more respectable choice. No one to gawk, as would happen in a public ceremony."

"Choice? What choice does she have?" Arabella said, and there was a distinct jaundiced note in her voice.

"Whether to remain a widowed woman or marry Mr. Fairfax-Lacy immediately," f.a.n.n.y said sharply.

"Given our plans to rehabilitate dear Esme's position in society, I tend to think that immediate marriage would not be frowned upon. What do you think, Honoratia?" she asked the marchioness.

"While I am naturally eager to see Lady Rawlings settled in such a beneficial position," Lady Bonnington announced, "I do not approve of marriages within the first twelve months of mourning."

Esme breathed a sigh of relief.

Arabella gave her a wink. "You must be eager to find an appropriate spouse for your son," she said, turning to Lady Bonnington, "since he has returned from the Continent. I know there is no one of the slightest interest to him at this house party, but I am quite certain that you must have some thoughts on the subject."

Esme's mother stiffened. Clearly she had had no idea that her friend's disreputable son was even in the country, let alone in the very house in which she sat. "May I ask-" she said, her voice shrill.

But Lady Bonnington broke in. She was magnificently quelling, Esme had to admit. "f.a.n.n.y, there is no one in the world who deprecates my son's behavior more than I do. But I decided he had been in exile long enough. He has naturally attended me here; as a dutiful son, he is engaged in accompanying his mother wherever I wish to be."

"But this particular household is surely not the appropriate place to be!" f.a.n.n.y sputtered. "Given the events of last summer-"

"We do not speak of that," Lady Bonnington said with magnificent hauteur.

f.a.n.n.y snapped her mouth shut.

Esme had to hide a smile. Perhaps she could learn something of Lady Bonnington's technique herself.

"The events of last summer were grievous for everyone in this room." Lady Bonnington gave Esme a little nod, and then turned back to f.a.n.n.y. "You must understand, f.a.n.n.y, that I have decided to keep that boy on a very tight rein. Where I go, he goes. I found London entirely too stuffy and tedious this season, and I decided to retreat to the country."

f.a.n.n.y nodded. "I agree with you. It is far too early for the marquess to reenter London society. But must he be here, in my daughter's house?"

"No one could possibly question his presence, given that I am here," the dowager trumpeted.

"That is certainly true," Arabella put in merrily. "And now that you are here as well, f.a.n.n.y, this party is positively taking on the air of a wake!"

"Your levity is repugnant," f.a.n.n.y snapped. "My only pleasure in making this visit is finding that my daughter has changed so much." She patted Esme's hand. "You have become the daughter I always dreamed of."

"Yes, Esme has been remarkably silent, hasn't she?" Arabella put in.

"Silence is a virtue that few women understand. Believe me, a virtuous silence is a far greater blessing than the kind of impudent chatter that you consider conversation," f.a.n.n.y retorted.

"You must ask Esme to tell you about her Sewing Circle," Arabella said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. "I am afraid that the very sanct.i.ty of this room is wearying to such a devout Jezebel as myself."

Esme felt an unhappy hiccup in the area of her heart. f.a.n.n.y had leveled the same disapproving glare at her sister that she usually gave to her daughter. On the one hand, it was a pleasure not to be the target of her censure. But Esme didn't like to see Arabella slighted either.

"Aunt Arabella was a blessing to me during my confinement," she said after the door closed. "I don't know what I would have done without her."

"Really?" f.a.n.n.y asked with languid disinterest. "I can't imagine what that light-heeled sister of mine could possibly do to help anyone. Except perhaps a womanizer. I doubt she would have any hesitation helping such a man."

Esme blinked. She had never before realized the amount of vitriol that her mother felt toward her sister. "In fact, Arabella was quite helpful during William's birth," she said cautiously.

"I knew you would see fit to reproach me for not attending you," f.a.n.n.y said in a peevish voice. "When you see how much pain it caused me to merely look at a young child, I wonder that you would even bring it up!"

"I didn't mean to imply such a thing."

Lady Bonnington had been sitting silently, watching f.a.n.n.y and Esme with a rather odd expression on her face. "I will do Lady Withers the credit of saying that she was a source of strength to Lady Rawlings during the birth. Much more so than I was."

f.a.n.n.y shuddered. "You attended the birth, Honoraria? Why on earth would you put yourself through such an ordeal?"

" 'Twas your daughter who went through an ordeal," Lady Bonnington pointed out. "I merely counseled from the bedside."

"Yes, well," f.a.n.n.y said in a fretting tone of voice. "Naturally I am ecstatic if Arabella actually managed to summon up an ounce of family feeling. When has she ever thought of me? She simply made one short-lived marriage after another, and never a thought for my wishes in the matter."

"Aunt Arabella can hardly be blamed for the deaths of her husbands," Esme pointed out, and then wished that she hadn't opened her mouth.

"She drove them into their graves," f.a.n.n.y spat. "I grew up with the woman, and I've always known what she was like."

Esme rose and rang the bell. "Why don't I ask Slope to bring us some tea," she suggested. "You must be exhausted after your long carriage ride, Mama."

"As to that, I've been staying a mere hour or so from here, at dear Lady Pindlethorp's house," her mother said. "The season is just too tiring for someone my age, I find. Lady Pindlethorp and I have had a perfectly lovely time in the past fortnight. We have so many interests in common."

Esme turned around slowly. "You mean you have been living at a short distance? But-but you could have come for a visit at any time!"

f.a.n.n.y blinked at her. "Not until I was quite certain that you had reformed, my dear. I would never risk my reputation merely on dear Honoratia's a.s.surance, although of course I took her advice quite seriously. No, indeed. I will admit that I had quite given up hope of your reformation, as I believe I mentioned in my letter. I always thought you took after my sister, although naturally I am pleasantly surprised to find you so much changed."

Esme's jaw set. I will not scream, she thought. She felt her face growing red with the effort of not las.h.i.+ng out at her mother. Lady Bonnington seemed to guess, because she quickly turned to f.a.n.n.y and asked her if she would like to stroll among the roses in the conservatory.

"Only if I need not step a foot outside," f.a.n.n.y said. "I'm afraid that my poor departed angel, Benjamin, inherited his weak const.i.tution from me. I take a chill at the slightest breath of wind. I am virtually housebound these days, if you can believe it."

Esme curtsied to her mother, walked up the stairs to her chambers, and jerked the cap off her head so harshly that hairpins spilled on the floor. Throwing the cap on the floor didn't help. Neither did stepping on it. Neither did ripping off that horrible gray dress with its foolish little lace tippet that worked so well to give the wearer a nunlike air. None of it helped. She stood in the middle of her bedchamber, chest heaving with tears and pure rage.

She had achieved it all: the Sewing Circle, the respectability, her mother's approval, Miles's wishes-why did success make her feel so terribly enraged? And so terribly, terribly afraid, at the same time?

Chapter 33.

In Which the Goat Eats a Notable Piece of Clothing.

The irritating man hadn't left Shantill House, even after Bea had begged him. He stopped opportuning her and made no seductive moves. Instead he played duets with Helene, which left Bea embroidering on the other side of the room and trying not to think about the Puritan. She stayed away from him. No more flirtatious glances. No more flirtation, period. Certainly no more failed seductions.

It was late morning, and they were gathered in Esme's morning parlor. Arabella and her sister were conducting a genteel squabble; Esme was presumably in the nursery. Naturally, Helene and Stephen were practicing the piano. Bea sat by herself, st.i.tching away on her tapestry.