Chapter Eight
“Lord Cambrey, you have pulled off a magnificent event.”
Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Isabella Fortner, and suddenly he remembered Jane. Poor Jane, sitting alone in the tent on the site of their great triumph, drinking herself into a stupor over her boorish mother. Lady Emily Chatley obviously wished her daughter to fall for him, and vice versa.
Well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, as they said.
“Lady Fortner, I was actually looking for you. Lady Chatley is in need of your assistance. She is in the large banquet tent. Will you let me take you to her?”
“Of course, my lord.”
And with that, this sensible lady let him hurry her to the side of her friend—her mature, stable, sweet, smart, organized, loyal friend Jane, and away from the fickle, flighty, flirty Margaret Blackwood.
*
“Please, Christopher, take me home!” Maggie knew at any moment she would dissolve into tears. What she’d seen when arriving at the banquet tent had been like a slap in the face, at the same time twisting her heart until it ached.
“Eleanor will be dropped off later, I’m sure, by … the Cambreys.” She could barely say the name without wanting to cry. What a fool she’d been! An absolute ninny!
She’d seen enough and heard enough to make her finally understand Lord Cambrey and Lady Chatley were headed for an engagement. The way they touched each other and spoke softly and then laughed. Maggie’s stomach hurt merely recalling the scene she’d witnessed through the tent flap.
“I’m very sorry you’ve been sorely used,” Lord Westing told her. “I cannot believe what a scoundrel the earl has been. If your father lived, we would go to him at once and have him call Cambrey out. If you and I had an understanding, Margaret, then I would do it in his stead. I will anyway, if you like.”
She had blurted out too much, and now regretted it. What she hadn’t said, Christopher had guessed. That somehow, John had toyed with her affections, even though he was plainly attached to another.
“I have been foolish,” she muttered, thinking about trying to compete with the wealthy, polished, and titled Lady Chatley.
“No, it isn’t your fault.” Tucking her hand into his, Christopher walked her from the cool shadowy interior out of the pavilion and toward the waiting line of carriages.
“Believe me, you are not the first to have your head turned by a man who had ill-intentions. Nor will you be the last.”
He helped her into his carriage and tapped on the roof.
“Unfortunately, you are alone with me in this carriage, and your reputation is in peril once again. It is a difficult world of rules we live by, even though it is all smoke and mirrors as if we’re all in a phantasmagoria show.”
Maggie couldn’t speak at first, afraid she would cry. She appreciated Christopher’s kindness and, for the world, would not cause him any trouble.
“I will get out alone and you shall stay inside. For all anyone knows, the carriage is full of our friends, and we were never alone in it.”
He nodded, staring at her with his crystal-clear blue eyes.
“Are you all right? I have no right to ask, but we have kept company enough to be considered friends, don’t you think?”
She nodded.
“Are you in trouble, meaning, that is, did he …? Christ almighty! I can’t even figure out the polite way to ask if he’s ruined you.”
His blunt words shook Maggie out of her misery. Suddenly, she was grateful she could answer with a resounding no.
“No, not at all. The mistake was all in my head, I believe, and most likely due to my lack of worldliness. I confess,” she added with a self-deprecating shake of her head, “I am not experienced enough to know the nuances of these matters between men and women.”
There, she’d said it, admitting to being an inexperienced innocent. She would be mortified if she wasn’t already so disgusted with herself.
Christopher Westing stared at her a moment. Then he smiled.
“I think you are too kind. If you felt the gentleman was sending you signals of interest, then you were receiving such. Even if you are green in such matters, I can assure you Lord Cambrey is not. He is to blame in all this, in leading you on, and in whatever else occurred.”
The carriage came to a shaky halt. They had only seconds before the coachman opened the door.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Maggie told him. “I really don’t. For pulling me out of the public eye and into the pavilion when I was in a state fit to be tied, and for whisking me away in your carriage. You’ve been a stalwart friend.”
The door popped open and the coachman’s hand reached in.
“Send me word if there is anything more I can do, including going to speak to the bounder himself.”
“Thank you.” She left the calming presence of Christopher Westing and entered her brother-in-law’s empty townhouse, grateful her sister was still at St. John’s Wood and her mother was having tea with her friends.
Heading straight for her room, Maggie asked to have a very hot bath drawn. She would soothe herself in fragrant water and emerge a new woman, one who didn’t give a tinker’s damn for John Angsley.
Two hours later, when her family returned, a note arrived from Simon. The baby seemed to be on its way, and if they wanted to be there for the birth, they must head north at once.
No one would believe how quickly the household of women could decamp, but an hour after they’d read Simon’s words, Eleanor, Maggie, and their mother were on the way to Sheffield and to Belton Manor.
*
Cam felt sick. That was the only way to describe the sensation in his stomach and in his heart. When he discovered Margaret Blackwood had left London, and he was a mere few hours too late the next morning when he showed up on her doorstep, the disappointment was severe. Yes, he was heartsick.
Determined to ask her if she truly felt nothing for him despite their astonishing kisses, he had rapped on the door in daylight, exposed for all to see when he was turned away by a servant.
Climbing onto the seat of his lightweight tilbury, he could at least be grateful at having been spared what might have been a devastating discussion. Willing to give her the benefit of the doubt that she simply didn’t know how positively remarkable was the connection between them, Cam had intended to ask what she felt when she kissed Burnley or Westing, assuming she’d kissed him, too.
Without question, it would have been a painful conversation, and he should be grateful for its avoidance.
Flicking the reins, he started down Orchard Street, away from Portman Square as it no longer held anyone of interest. The maid had the decency to inform him Lord and Lady Lindsey had requested the countess’s family return to Sheffield, and Cam guessed it must be to do with the imminent arrival of the Lindsey heir.
Thinking of how far Margaret might have got in merely a few hours, he considered packing up his trunks and chasing her north. After all, he could as easily speak with her in Sheffield with Simon as his second, as wait for who knew how long for the Blackwoods to return to London.
But would she welcome him, or would she consider him a pesky intruder? Perhaps Westing had already been invited to Sheffield.
Turning left at the corner onto busy Oxford Street heading toward his home, Cam heard the carriage before he saw it. Or rather, he heard shouting, particularly folks yelling to “beware” and “watch out.”
Whipping his head around, he saw a high-flyer phaeton, a dangerous top-heavy antique, heading directly for him. Instantly, he knew what had happened. Some fool had been racing early in the morning at Hyde Park and had come out onto the main road still going far too fast.
Already rocking and careening on two wheels, the driver jerked the reins to try to avoid Cam.
“No,” he yelled, knowing the horses’ erratic movement would tip the carriage over. Sure enough, the phaeton overturned just before it reached him, even as he tried to get his horse in
to faster motion and avoid the collision.
His lower-to-the-ground, sporty tilbury didn’t stand a chance. Even though the two horses belonging to the other driver managed to avoid him, they dragged the sliding carriage, now driverless, directly into his rig.
Airborne in seconds and flying headfirst over his horse, Cam kept his eyes open as the cobblestone street rushed up to meet him amidst the shrieks and screams of onlookers. He stretched out his arms to break his fall, and then, everything went silent and dark.
*
Maggie was relieved to have witnessed the event of childbirth and afterbirth. Somehow the whole thing seemed less frightening now her older sister had gone through the ordeal, painfully but without problems. Relieved she would not be one of those to share a story of tragedy in her family, instead, Maggie was now aunt to a little boy with extremely strong lungs.
During the many hours of labor, she’d stayed by her sister’s side, along with the midwife, Emily, who conveniently was also the baker’s wife. They’d not only been delivered of a delightful bundle of joy, but also a basket of clove buns.
She and Eleanor and their mother had barely made it to Sheffield before her sister’s pangs began in earnest. And now thankfully, it was over, and Maggie had only recently sent Emily home driven by the Devere’s butler.
Simon and Jenny’s bedroom door was wide open, thus, after knocking once, Maggie entered, hearing her sister say, “I doubt any mid-husband, no matter how competent, would have thought to bring the baker’s best goods.”
Simon was seated in a chair pulled up next to the bed, close enough to stroke his son’s fuzzy head.
Smiling at the tired but happy new mother, Maggie snatched up one of the buns herself, before they were all gone.
“Unlikely an accoucheur would be married to a baker anyway,” she said, belatedly putting her hand to her lips after spraying crumbs onto the counterpane. “By the way, the admiral has taken Emily home. She said she would stop by again tomorrow to help you with … um …”
Oh dear! She couldn’t possibly discuss nursing with her brother-in-law in the room. Widening her eyes at her sister, she glanced at Simon.
“With what?” he asked.
What an oblivious male!
Looking into Jenny’s amused eyes once more, Maggie gestured her head from the baby to her sister’s ample bosom.
“With feeding the little one there. Emily said you didn’t seem the type to have a wet nurse.”
“Of course I won’t. Why would I let my own milk go to waste?”
“So practical,” remarked Simon, and then the two new parents grinned at each other, sharing some delighted secret. No one was mentioning the fact the wee, new Lord Devere was screaming like a mythical banshee.
Maggie ate the bun and waited to be noticed again.
“Please sit, Mags. Where’s Mummy?”
“She’ll be back shortly.” Sitting a little gingerly on the edge of Simon and Jenny’s bed, feeling a tad self-conscious, she added, “Mummy and Eleanor are still settling in.”
“I’m glad you made it in time, but sorry you had to cut your Season short again.”
Maggie couldn’t tell Jenny how extremely thrilled she was to have been called away, but she was. Absolutely ecstatic to be away from the scene of her devastation. The baby’s arrival meant she didn’t have to face another social event, another smack in the face at seeing John attending with Jane. Consequently, she shrugged.
“No ball is as important as you.”
“You can still go back,” Simon offered. “The townhouse awaits you.”
“I appreciate that. However, I believe I am done for this year.”
Maggie noticed her sister glance at her husband. Jenny would worry something was wrong, and then she’d start to ask questions if Maggie didn’t put a stop to it right then.
“The Season is ending in a couple short weeks. I see no reason to drag out the agony. There might have been an offer coming, but not one I would have accepted.”
As expected, Jenny got one of her hands free by resting the baby’s feet on her lap, and then she reached out and touched Maggie’s hand.
“No,” Maggie told her, rolling her eyes. “Don’t get all sympathetic on me. I’m perfectly fine.” She simply had to divert her older sister’s attention to something else. “What a dear little boy. If only he wasn’t bawling quite so loudly. It’s hard to hear oneself think.”
Jenny laughed. “Perhaps we should call him Lionel, for he roars like a lion.” She glanced to Simon for approval.
“I like it,” he agreed.
“Here, let me hold him.” Maggie reached for the bawling infant and then rose to her feet. Strolling about the immense bedroom, she rocked him in her arms.
The babe continued to yell.
“Hmm.” Maggie considered the little boy, Lionel Devere. Recalling what her mother did when Eleanor was a squalling babe, she slipped her smallest finger into the heir’s open mouth. She felt him clamp down firmly. Blissful silence ensued.
“Dear God in Heaven,” Simon marveled.
“How did you know?” Jenny asked.
“I saw Mummy do it with Eleanor. You were busy at the time doing something useful, I’m sure. My goodness, he’s got a good grip.”
“Let me try,” Jenny said, popping the last of the sticky bun into her mouth and wiping her fingers on the coverlet.
Maggie returned the baby to his eager mother.
“If the finger works this well,” Jenny considered, “I imagine the breast will work even better.”
“Oh my.” Maggie couldn’t even look at Simon, not with Jenny discussing breasts in his presence. She had to escape from this close-knit family in the next minute and let them find their own way. As her sister slipped her shift off one shoulder and bared her left breast, Maggie made it to the door.
“Ouch,” Jenny exclaimed, and Maggie winced for her while Simon leaped from his chair. Emily most likely wouldn’t be needed again, for it seemed the baby knew precisely what to do.
“Well,” Maggie said. “I’ll see about getting you some tea.” She slipped from the room.
Now what?
What was left to her in the upcoming days and weeks and months? Roaming the hallways of Belton Manor felt as aimless as her life. What’s more, for the first time, the onset of fall saddened her. Last year, Maggie thought by this time, she would be engaged. Or at least she imagined she would have found a gentleman with whom she would have an understanding. Maybe they would correspond over the winter and agree to meet at the holidays, conceivably announcing a Christmas engagement.
Sighing loudly at the thought of a third Season, she would encounter not only the same people but all the fresh-faced debutantes as well. Good lord!
She stopped in her tracks. Was it possible she, Margaret Blackwood, would end up firmly on the shelf of spinsterhood? Never to know the joys she’d witnessed back in her sister’s room?
It had happened to ladies she actually knew. When her sister first came out three Seasons ago, that same year, one lady who was on her fifth Season simply gave up and walked into the River Thames. Someone actually saw her do it. The weight of her clothing pulled her down nearly at once before the river spat her back up, dead upon its shore.
Ironically, this was usually the fate of the unmarried women who found themselves in the family way. The newspapers were rife with news of bodies washed onto the embankment. Normally, these women were dressed moderately, as shop girls, or in rags, hopeless creatures who had no way to care for an infant.
What had shocked the ton was the intentional drowning by a viscount’s daughter.
“She had everything to live for,” Maggie murmured out loud. Except apparently, she’d desperately wanted a husband.
Without the prospect of one, what was Maggie’s purpose? She had no intention of taking a last swim in the Thames or the local River Don, for that matter. Nor did she want to become a French tutor again, as she’d done in order to help out her family before
Jenny married the earl and saved them financially.
No, she hadn’t the patience or the humility for such a position again. It seemed like a selfless thing more suited to the faultless Lady Jane Chatley, who would most likely teach the orphans in Coddingtown.
Passing a large gilded mirror, Maggie realized she was sneering at the thought of Jane, not a particularly attractive look. Relaxing her features, she purposefully kept all thoughts of John out of her head. Except in trying to do so, the thoughts and memories flooded back.
“Bother!”
Entering the kitchen as if she owned the place, Maggie ignored the surprised look of the scullery maid and addressed the Devere cook.
“Would you send a pot of tea up to the new parents? I don’t think they need biscuits since they have sticky buns, but some apples might be welcome, or if you have no fresh fruit, perhaps some preserves.”
“Yes, miss,” came the immediate reply.
This woman had purpose. Of course, it was beastly hot in the kitchen, and the cook’s job was considered drudgery by nearly everyone. Yet, surely Maggie could find something to do with herself now she no longer had London to look forward to. Why, she could decide to become the very best auntie in the world.
“Do you need anything else, miss?”
Obviously, she was in the way and making the kitchen staff anxious.
“No, thank you. I shall most likely walk back home now while the weather is fine.”
With that, she left, realizing the cook and scullery maid and the other girl who had been chopping vegetables until Maggie showed up and interrupted their work, none of them wanted to hear her plans for a stroll in the sunshine.
How thoughtless of her!
As she headed back to their stone cottage a short walk away at Norman’s Corner, she tried to push the bleakness from her brain. What did women of a certain upbringing do if they didn’t marry?
While she pondered this, a rider galloped past her as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. He disappeared between the gates to Belton directly behind her.
Beastly Lords Collection Page 45