The Baron and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 3)

by Paullett Golden

The girl shook her head, her body shivering against Lilith’s.

  Guiding Harriette further into the room, she tucked her into a chair next to the darkened fireplace.

  “You’ve come to see me, then?”

  When the girl nodded, Lilith leaned over to tuck her more comfortably into the chair, wrapping the blanket about exposed skin. She took a moment to stoke the embers in the fireplace, adding a log for good measure to resurrect the evening’s fire.

  “I’ll get us some tea,” Lilith said, lighting candles to combat the darkness.

  While the kettle heated, she shuffled upstairs to find the girl something dry to wear. There was not much to choose from, and the girl was of a much thinner and shorter frame than Lilith, but anything would do to get her out of the wet clothes.

  After instructing the girl to change, Lilith returned to the kitchen to sort out the tea and a dog bone. However foolish it might be to spend time making tea, much less to have tea at this time of night, she was no stranger to the sufferings of women, and such sufferings were not bound by time of day, nor should tea be. The warmth would do some good, as would the added peppermint. She would have preferred to add chamomile, but the summer’s harvest had already been well used. Peppermint would still do the trick to calm her guest.

  Harriette had changed into dry clothes and snuggled herself back under the blanket, however damp it must be now, when Lilith carried in the tea tray. There was little in this world, Lilith had found over the years, that was not resolved with a good cuppa. Embracing the silence, aside from the pounding rain and rumbling thunder outside, Lilith poured the tea with a touch of honey. Never underestimate silence or the calming effect of a simple task.

  Jasper concurred. He gnawed happily on his bone.

  Lilith took one of the girl’s hands into her own and encouraged her to drink the tea with the other.

  Harriette winced when the cup touched her split lip, but once she tasted the liquid, she closed her eyes and sighed. Not until she finished, and Lilith reached over to pour a fresh cup, did Harriette’s lower lip tremble in anticipation of her confession. Lilith nodded encouragingly.

  “Do…do you…can you…unmake a baby?” the girl stuttered.

  Lilith stared. This was not what she had expected to hear. She had expected, well, she was not certain exactly what she had expected given the various ailments she had tended over the years, not to mention the strangeness of the visit, but she had not expected this.

  “Harriette? What happened?” She reached again for the girl’s hand, squeezing it.

  The girl shook her head and repeated her request. “You must know. Mustn’t you? Can you? I…I need to unmake a baby.”

  Oh, Lilith did know ways. In a pinch, she could even suggest a few herbs. Savin, pennyroyal, rue, argot, among others, all came to mind. Savin was the most popular, but what most women did not realize was they put themselves in as much risk as their unborn child by ingesting such an herb.

  Any midwife who had read William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine would know the risks of willfully terminating a pregnancy. Lilith would never condone such a thing. She had been asked many times for various reasons, but she never assisted. If she could find a way to help the women who found themselves in such a plight, she would, but what Harriette wanted, she would not do.

  Instead of answering Harriette’s questions, she said, “You wed Mr. Wimple only two months ago. He wants children, yes?”

  Tears sprang anew. “I shouldn’t have told him. I shouldn’t have. But he realized I was increasing too soon. I’m starting to show. We’ve not been married that long. I only told him the truth because I thought he would understand.”

  Lilith nodded. “Was it he who hit you?”

  Hit was an understatement for the look of Harriette’s face. Beat would be more apt. New scuffs and scratches Lilith had not seen earlier shown in the firelight, along with an alarming gash to her temple, blood clumping with wet hair.

  “No, it was Papa. When I told Isaac, he took me home and told Mama and Papa he refused to live with a sullied woman. He accused them of lying about my virtue. I told Papa the truth, but he…he…I can’t go home, Miss Chambers. I can never return home. To either home. He won’t have me. They won’t have me. They called me…they said….” She choked on a sob, unable to finish.

  “How far along are you, Harriette?”

  Between sobs, the girl sputtered, “Over four months.”

  Ah. Yes, Lilith understood. If it had not been so long, Harriette might have convinced Mr. Wimple it was his. Had the wedding night been difficult to explain? Lilith wondered.

  “And the baby’s father? Does he know? Is he the reason you married Mr. Wimple?” Lilith asked.

  Harriette’s sobs turned to hiccups. “I…I don’t know which one’s the father. It was the…the…the Montworth brothers.”

  Lilith clenched her jaw, knowing exactly what happened, for this was not the first time she had heard that name on the lips of a distraught woman. The Montworth brothers were the sons of Lord Montworth. His estate was not far from Allshire. The two must be well into their twenties at this point, but she had been birthing their illegitimate children for years, most from young girls like Harriette.

  The first time it happened, she had sought the magistrate with Mr. Sands by her side. The problem was the magistrate was a good friend of Lord Montworth who had not seen the problem. Boys will be boys; they need to sow their oats; women lie to compromise titled men. Lilith could list for days the excuses he gave to dismiss the whole sordid affair. Each time it happened, he had grown angrier, not at the Montworth brothers, but at her. How naïve of her, he would say, not to realize what country women were up to, all angling to force gentry and aristocracy alike to marry them, regardless whose babe they carried in their belly. Though she had fought the battle of the Montworth boys for years, she had been unable to do anything to help the women or stop the boys, for they were above the law.

  While Lilith’s hatred for the aristocracy originated from how she and the other orphans were treated, her dealings with the magistrate over the Montworths’ continued ravishing of the countryside sealed her opinion. They all viewed themselves as being above the rest, better than the rest, above the law. And they were.

  It was an opinion she held until quite recently. Her brother and Walter had proven not all aristocrats were bad, but when confronted with this sort of arrogance, how was she to think better of their lot?

  Lilith did her best to console Harriette, but it was time for solutions, not pity.

  “Do you need a place to stay while Mr. Wimple cools? With time, he should realize the best solution is to raise the baby as his own. No one would be the wiser if the baby arrived a little early.” Lilith patted her hand.

  “No. I can’t go back. I can never go back. He said if I ever came back he’d…he’d…I can’t go back.”

  The girl looked quite frightened, eyes wide, face pale. While she might change her mind, Lilith did not think she would. The girl seemed most serious about never returning.

  This would prove problematic. Harriette was his wife, no matter how he felt about her or treated her. If he wanted her back, for whatever reason, he would find her and drag her back, even if by the hair in true Neanderthal fashion. Harriette would have no other place to go and no way of finding work, not without characters, and certainly not if increasing or with a babe in tow. Lilith’s heart went out to her, but there was naught she could do.

  “He spoke out of anger, Harriette. Once he’s cooled, he may feel differently.”

  “Please, don’t say you’ll take me back to him. Don’t tell him I’m here. I can’t go back.” Harriette wailed. “But…but I have nowhere to go. What will I do? No one will employ me in this condition.”

  “Stay here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll speak to the Reverend Sands. There must be some place for you to go. He’ll know what to d
o.”

  Harriette’s teacup clattered against the saucer. “No! We couldn’t possibly go to him! He knows. He must know. You were there. You heard his sermon. He as good as condemned me though it wasn’t my fault. He said wives found not to be virtuous would be shunned and stoned to death!”

  Lilith might have laughed had the situation not been so serious. How many other people had heard the sermon and thought it about them?

  “Your brother’s an earl, miss, so maybe he has a little village I could go to and pretend to be a widow. I don’t have any money, though. No one will employ a woman with a child, will they? There must be something I could do. You must know a way. I’m not afraid to work. I could be a maid if your brother would employ me. I’ll do anything. Please, help me?”

  The poor dear’s words ran together, hysteric.

  “Harriette, you’re safe here. Drink your tea. No one will harm you here.” Lilith did not answer the girl’s questions.

  What was she to say? She could not very well foist her on her brother when the censure received would be from the other servants, not from Sebastian.

  Harriette sniffled into her cup, an occasional sputtering sob finding its way between sips.

  “He’s an aristocrat, miss. That’s what I need. I need someone with persuasion who can help me. He’d know what to do.”

  The girl was right, Lilith conceded. There was little she could do being a tarnished midwife and teacher. Someone with more means and influence could help. Lilith could not see an immediate solution, for even if the girl, as she had said, moved to a village as a widow, she would still need a source of income. But one thing was for certain. Only a person of power could help.

  And then Lilith had an idea. An empowering idea. It was quite mad, really.

  She could not bring the Montworth boys or their ilk to justice or save women from scandal, ostracization, or unwanted pregnancies, but perhaps, with a bit of cunning, she could help them find a better life.

  It was time to stop fearing her own potential when there was a greater cause at hand.

  The question remained, was she brave enough to face the unknown?

  It had been nearly three months since he had last seen Lilith. She should know by now if she were with child. Walter had written to her weeks ago. No answer. He did not want to trap her or force her into a marriage she did not want, but some part of him hoped—no, he would not admit it, even to himself.

  After a frigid stroll along the long walk, a picturesque stretch running parallel to the house that offered a view of the front court and from spring to autumn bloomed with blues, purples, and whites, he met up with his gardener. The man thought Walter deranged. Or so Walter suspected. The dead of winter, and he was requesting a new garden.

  “And so, you say you’ve found a place?” Walter asked.

  “I have, my lord. The perfect place,” said Mr. Holcombe, leading the way past the long walk, through the knot garden, and near the kitchen garden and potager.

  When they reached a smallish raised bed, the gardener waved an arm. “Will this do, do you think?”

  “I want it much bigger. The place is perfect, but much bigger. Could we add three more beds?”

  Mr. Holcombe scratched his temple. “Will do. You’re sure you only want the seeds? Peculiar, like.”

  “Ah, Mr. Holcombe, don’t you see? This will be my garden. There’s a kind of peace one can find when gardening. I’ll sow and tend to these beds myself. I need only advice. I’m a novice, mind.”

  Shaking his head with a chuckle, clearly amused by his employer’s oddity, the gardener said, “A kind of peace, you say? Yes, yes, there is.”

  It had been a busy winter.

  It began with a long talk to his father.

  Walter spent nearly an entire day at his father’s grave, burrowed in a greatcoat, talking through issues he had not known he suffered. Nothing could erase the disappointment his father must have felt when his only son was showing signs of becoming a wastrel rather than a proud heir. But Walter could make amends and make the memory of his father proud.

  He had to want to be Lord Collingwood. For so long, he had run from the title. He rejected its future when his dad had been alive, and he rejected its present after his father’s death. Accepting it, wanting it, came with responsibilities he could no longer shirk. No one else could motivate or inspire him. It was something he had to do for himself. He owed it to his father. He owed it to himself.

  And so, it had been a busy winter.

  He had reacquainted himself with those living in his barony, from gentry to laborers. He knew most of them, had grown up with many of them, but he did not know them. It was time. It was past time. He was getting soft around the middle again from all the biscuits and tea he had taken with neighbors.

  Most days were spent similarly. With the lake frozen over, he took to early morning running, followed by mid-morning meetings with his steward to get to know the accounts, including making suggestions of his own under strict advisement. Late mornings were spent breaking his fast with his mother. During the afternoons, he called on villagers to get to know each of them over a cuppa.

  He had, truthfully, never had more tea or cake in his life, so by the end of each afternoon, it was a wonder he did not float away on a sea of tea. His cook was threatening to quit since he could scarcely finish dinner. It did not help she always added extra to his plates knowing his healthy appetite.

  He fell into a rhythm, a rhythm of contentment. The sentiment was new. For all the years he spent romping and causing mischief with friends, he had never felt this contented.

  The busyness of the days kept his thoughts from Lilith. The nights were another matter. Darkness and solitude were the very devil to a heartbroken soul.

  Nearly every week, he made the trek to his new property to check the build progress. Though the frost was against them, the workers had made considerable headway. He had a grand scheme. It would not only be an orphanage, school, and foundling hospital, the last of which he decided to do after careful consideration. It would also be an apprenticeship program. The program would connect aspiring pupils with tradesmen and train servants for those interested in working in a house.

  Mrs. Brighton and Mrs. Copeland inspired him.

  Already, he had called on a fair number of peers who seemed receptive to employing servants from the orphanage. Some greeted his idea with harsh criticism, even disgust, but not all. His offer was to groom servants for the specific household. In this way, he could offer bespoke staff to landowners and employment with pride to dedicated students. There was no way to know if his ideas would work, but they showed promise. Doors did not slam in his face. Far more doors opened than he expected when he first birthed this brainchild during one of his sleepless nights.

  Something he had not considered was the unwed mothers. He assumed most of the children in orphanages were sent by lords disposing of their by-blows, relations who could not care for additional children, and solicitors who had no place for a child with deceased parents. But what of mothers like Lily Chambers? Should something not be done to incentivize them to keep their baby?

  He did not think he would have the means to offer part-time care for children alongside the full-time orphans, or even staff positions for those desperate for work, but he did want to think in those directions. If the women had a place to work or a place for the child to stay, would they not abandon the child? He was hopelessly ignorant about such aspects of the world.

  Research had begun. He started by developing a network of employment agencies. Those willing to help such women were few and far between, but he did secure worthwhile connections.

  It was all a massive undertaking, one he did not in any way feel qualified to accomplish. And yet, he had managed to set the wheels in motion. In only a handful of months, he had accomplished a year’s worth of work. During this process, he learned not to u
nderestimate the power of a charming smile, coin, and a title.

  His days were long but fulfilling. So busy had he been, he had not attended a winter entertainment in two months.

  Would his father be proud? He believed so. Did it make up for disappointing his father? No.

  But it was a start.

  The only cloud in his sky arrived the morning after meeting with his gardener. A letter. Not just any letter. The letter. The long-awaited letter from Lilith.

  His hands shook as he opened it. He held it, his eyes closed, afraid to read. What did he want it to say? How would he react if the answer was no? And if it said yes?

  His breathing shallowed.

  His heart pounded.

  He opened his eyes and stared long at the page.

  Walter read the words five times in succession before crumpling the paper and tossing it into the fireplace.

  You need not trouble yourself, my lord. You’re free from obligation.

  Chapter 27

  The bâton struck Lilith’s knuckles.

  “Disgraceful. You have ten thumbs,” said the heavily accented Frenchman.

  “Have you thought, Monsieur Allaire, that it could be the inferiority of your instruction rather than my fingers?” Lilith asked, her hands suspended over the aged harpsichord.

  “Absurdité. Continuez, s’il vous plait.”

  Lilith depressed the keys, continuing from where she stopped, mangling Bach in the process.

  She never had been good with music, even as a child. As a teacher at the orphanage, she had dreaded lesson days for she could do no justice with the children’s musical instruction. Her talent was in mathematics and science. Could those not be accomplishments for a lady rather than singing or playing? The recitation of the tables could be impressive in the right company. Or what about performing a complex division problem as a parlor trick? She would be far more entertained by such diversion than listening to someone shame composers.

  The lesson ended in time for her etiquette instructor’s arrival.