Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Oh, you must call me Hannah,” her visitor insisted as she leaned forward. “I do not want there to be any formality between us,” Hannah added. She lifted the basket. “I had Cook make some scones and bread. I daresay she makes the very best scones,” she added as she held out the basket toward her hostess.

  Sarah took the proffered basket, the expression on her face one of surprise. “Thank you, my lady,” she said in awe, real­izing from the weight that the basket probably held enough baked goods to see her and Nathan through a week or more. Probably much more.

  “Hannah,” her visitor said by way of correcting her. “May I call you Sarah?” she wondered then, her head tilted in such a way as to suggest she really hoped they could be friends.

  Sarah swallowed, surprised at Hannah’s friendly nature but suddenly suspicious of the gift she bore. Were the baked goods poisoned? Mrs. Chambers had never much cared for her. If the cook knew the baked goods were for her, she might have made them with too much salt or …

  “I told Mrs. Chambers I was going to make some calls in the village,” Hannah offered, once she realized Sarah wasn’t going to answer her question. “Mrs. Batey made a list of sev­eral households that require a bit of charity, so I will visit those later—perhaps a couple of them today.” She didn’t add that there was another basket of bread out on the stoop, covered with a cloth, and under Harold’s protection. She hoped Harold hadn’t suddenly developed a taste for bread.

  “Oh, of course,” Sarah replied, realizing the bread and scones were probably just fine. She took a deep breath. “So, the earl … told you about me?” she ventured, still expecting a fit of jealous rage to replace the rather calm façade the countess was displaying.

  Hannah dipped her head. “He did, indeed. The very first day he called on me, in fact,” she said as she remembered their ride in Hyde Park.

  Sarah poured a cup of tea as she struggled to keep her face impassive. “Milk? Sugar?” she wondered, glancing over the tea tray to be sure she had all the pieces in the proper place.

  “Yes to both,” Hannah replied with a smile. “I really wish you would consider moving into Gisborn Hall,” she said with a sigh, noting there were no servants present. “There are plenty of bedchambers, and although there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of a household staff, I’m sure we can find someone to see to your needs. And to Nathan,” she added, wondering if Sarah would even consider the arrangement given she had probably lived in the dowager house since Henry inherited the earldom. “Is he here? I would so like to meet him.”

  Pouring a cup of tea for herself, Sarah shook her head. “I quite like having my own household,” she replied gently, “Especially since Nathan will never inherit Gisborn’s prop­erty.” This last was said with a hint of regret, as if she had just then realized that by not marrying Henry Forster, she had rel­egated the boy to life as a bastard. “Nathan is with his tutor now. In the village,” she explained, in answer to Hannah’s other query. “Gisborn is quite adamant that he be ready for Abing­don School. He’ll start there in the fall. It’s close enough that Nathan can come home for the weekends, but he’ll board dur­ing the weeks. It’s a good thing it’s still another five months away. I know it will be harder on me than on him when he leaves,” she said, stopping suddenly when she realized she was prattling. Dipping her head, she added a lump of sugar to her tea and stirred it quietly.

  Hannah sipped her own tea. “I think it’s so romantic that you and Gisborn have known one another since childhood and would remain a devoted couple even now,” she com­mented, wondering why Sarah would seem so nervous in her own home. Shouldn’t I be the nervous one?

  Nearly spilling the cup of tea she held, Sarah stared at Hannah. “Romantic?” she repeated, not intending to sound surprised by the word. But never in the years Henry Forster had insisted on providing protection for her and her son could Sarah claim romance was involved. “I think … perhaps I need to …” She stopped, not sure what to say. The countess had obvi­ously jumped to conclusions about Sarah’s relationship with Henry, but those conclusions must have been based on what Henry had told Hannah. Just how did the earl describe his rela­tionship with me? “Oh, dear.” Sarah realized she had better set the countess straight on a few details while she had her alone.

  Hannah waited for a moment while Sarah seemed to have a discussion with herself. She wondered then if her visit was a mistake. She was beginning to think she should have allowed Henry to make the introductions, to help smooth things over between the two women. But since she felt no jealousy, nor any animosity toward the mistress, Hannah thought it only proper she make the first move. “I have always believed that a man only ever loves his mistress, and that he only marries so that he might have a mother for his children,” she stated,

  the mantra something she was quite sure was true. She had spoken the words often enough, sometimes to nods of agree­ment while other times to slightly shocked ladies who found the word ‘mistress’ to be an especially foul word.

  Sarah stared at her as if she were one of those who found the word ‘mistress’ especially foul. Oh, dear. She hasn’t consid­ered herself in that light, Hannah realized as she regarded the mother of Henry’s son.

  “Well, I can tell you have spent a good deal of your life in London,” Sarah said finally, a smile appearing along with a blush. She had heard the ladies of the ton could be quite glib about the men in their lives, but to hear one announce her total and complete acceptance of a mistress in her husband’s life left her stunned in an amused sort of way. “I … I don’t know what to say,” she finally admitted. “Except that …” She leaned for­ward, her back quite rigid. “I have no intention of ever living under the same roof as Henry Forster. I have never considered myself his mistress. Nor do I expect to do so now that Henry has married,” she announced with a firm shake of her head. She was still smiling, although it was more out of nervousness than of joy at having learned that Henry had finally married.

  Hannah regarded her hostess, her face taking on the pink blush that showed her embarrassment. She struggled for a bet­ter word to use. “Paramour, perhaps?” she ventured carefully.

  Sarah’s eyes widened, but her shoulders sunk a bit. Taking a sip of tea, she fought the tears that threatened in the corners of her eyes. “Perhaps,” she agreed, holding onto her teacup as if her very life depended on it. “But I must inform you, Lady Gisborn …”

  “Hannah, please,” her guest insisted as she straightened.

  Could a woman look any more lovely than the fairy princess sitting across from me? Sarah wondered, seeing Hannah in a new light. Her pale blonde hair had been braided and wound into an elaborate coronet on top of her head, and tendrils of hair curled into ringlets next to her ears and down the back of her neck. The pelisse she wore … oh, good God, I should have asked her if she wanted to remove it, Sarah realized sud­denly. The parlor was warm enough. But she’d had no inten­tion of welcoming the countess into her home. She expected whoever married Henry would despise her and require Henry keep hidden his bastard son. “But, you’re a countess,” Sarah spoke, saying the words as if the title prevented them from being friends.

  Hannah arched an eyebrow. “And you could have been,” she countered with a shrug of one shoulder. “So … we’re even.”

  Sarah blinked once, twice. And then she settled back into her chair, stunned at Hannah’s simple rejoinder. Of course, Lady Gisborn was correct. If she had ever simply accepted Henry’s suit, she could be Lady Gisborn. She allowed a tenta­tive smile.

  But then she would have to be married to Henry Forster. The smile disappeared.

  If she were married to Henry Forster, she would have to tolerate his heavy-handed manner, his humorless demeanor, his controlling personality. The man was so good in so many ways, but she had no desire to live with him. And lately, she had no desire to share his bed, either. He was handsome. Too handsome. She’d had difficulty spurning his occasional desire to bed her, finally succumbing to his soft w
ords and gentle touches. And that was the problem. Henry knew exactly where to touch her, exactly what to do to get her to agree to his wishes. But she had been quite insistent on just how he would take his pleasure, making sure he did so as quickly as possible so that he might be out of her bed and on his way back to Gisborn Hall. She never allowed him to spend the night in her bedchamber. And for those occasions when Henry insisted she and Nathan spend the night in Gisborn Hall, she spent them in his bed. She was quick to take her leave very early the following morning, not wishing to stay for a cup of chocolate, much less breakfast.

  Now that Henry was finally married, and to a beautiful woman, Sarah had hope for her own future. Now, another man could ask for her hand, a man who would offer protec­tion and a different home several miles away. He would give her the respectability she so craved. And perhaps children. She had always wanted more children.

  She was nearly thirty. Being Henry Forster’s woman, or mistress, as the countess had just described her, was no lon­ger acceptable. She longed for a life as a wife and mother to legitimate children. “I have looked forward to Henry taking a wife for several years, Hannah. You cannot know how happy it makes me to know he has finally done so. Although you might accept his taking a mistress, it will no longer be me. If the earl comes expecting to bed me, I will turn him away and encour­age him to honor his marriage vows,” Sarah said quite firmly, her shoulders squaring as she sat up straighter.

  Hannah stared at Sarah in surprise. This is unexpected. “But, Henry loves you,” she said again, her tone plaintive, the words so simple they sounded hollow. “Don’t you … love him?”

  Sarah could not have predicted such a statement coming from Hannah. Nor could she have expected such a blunt ques­tion. She gave her head a little shake. “I am merely the mother of his son. He loves me for that. Nothing more,” she tried to reason, her head shaking from side to side. “Please, … Han­nah.” The name seemed hard for her to say. “Do not think of me as his mistress. Do not think of me as his paramour or his … lover. If you must think of me at all, then do so only as the mother of Nathan,” she pleaded. “And insist he bed you exclu­sively for as long as possible.”

  Hannah stared at Sarah for several moments, surprised by the woman’s advice and left wondering how it was Henry could think this woman loved him.

  Perhaps he didn’t think it, though. He had never said any­thing about Sarah returning the affection he felt for her. Could he possibly know she didn’t share his feelings? That their rela­tionship wasn’t as mutual as he implied?

  Hannah finally nodded. “He said he would visit me every night until I am with child,” Hannah admitted in a voice barely above a whisper, finding the words easy to say to Sarah. “So, I suppose that will be at least two or three weeks, perhaps more,” she reasoned, thinking of when her monthly courses were due in the event she did not conceive before then.

  Sarah nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her teacup. “That should be enough time,” she murmured, not elaborating on what she meant by the comment. “Would you like more tea?” she asked then, realizing her own cup was empty.

  Hannah gave her a wan smile. “No, thank you. I need to make some more calls,” she spoke softly. “I have more bread to deliver.”

  “Mrs. Canker, perhaps?” Sarah wondered, her head angling to one side.

  Hannah nodded. “Yes. And Mrs. Billingsly, too,” she added, hoping she had the name right.

  Sarah returned the nod. “They are both quite old and a bit infirm, but they are also very sharp,” she said as she motioned to her forehead. “And Mrs. Canker will be quite pointed in her remarks, so do not take offense.”

  Smiling at Sarah’s comments, Hannah leaned forward. “Thank you for speaking with me. I never thought it would be awkward for you to meet me, and of course it was. But I want us to be friends. Please accept my apologies,” she said, taking Sarah’s hand in hers.

  The older woman glanced down at Hannah’s hand cover­ing hers, her face brightening with a smile. “Apology accepted, of course. Come for tea whenever you wish. And I wish you happy. I really do,” she said, a faraway look crossing her face.

  As Hannah retrieved her basket of bread from next to the front steps, she bid Sarah farewell. With Harold on her heels, she made her way to the other houses Mrs. Batey had described earlier that day.

  Mrs. Canker was as Sarah described, causing Hannah to blush at least twice with her gentle ribbing and ribald com­ments. Mrs. Billingsly, a much quieter woman, made a few complaints about aching joints and voiced her surprise at receiving scones and bread from a countess. “’Bout time we had one here,” the frail woman said, waving a crooked finger in Hannah’s direction. “’Enry needs an heir.”

  Hannah felt her face redden for at least the third time that day. “And I desperately want a child,” she countered with an embarrassed grin. “A boy first, I hope.”

  “Then it will be bottoms up for you, my lady,” Mrs. Bill­ingsly said with a nod. “On your elbows and knees if you want a boy and on your back if you want a girl.” Her chin came up a fraction, as if to drive home her point. If she thought the instruction the least bit embarrassing, she did not show it in her expression or her demeanor.

  Hannah blinked at the old woman. “Oh,” she replied, not sure how else to respond to such a comment. Was the old woman suggesting ..? Of course, she was. Elizabeth had spoken of such positions. Many of them, in fact. “Well,” Hannah said as she glanced around the sparse cottage and decided Mrs. Billingsly was doing fine on her own. “I really must be taking my leave. Do take care,” she murmured as she made her way to the door and bade Mrs. Billingsly a good day.

  While she walked, she spent the time thinking of Sarah’s words and wondering at the odd impression she had of the mistress—or not mistress.

  Hannah wondered if there was more to why Sarah didn’t live at Gisborn Hall. As the mother of the earl’s son, she and the boy should have been granted rooms, at least in the guest wing. Sarah had mentioned wanting to run her own house­hold, but at what cost? She apparently had no servants, which meant she was spending a good deal of her days doing house­work, laundry and cooking. The woman seemed level-headed, seemed to run an efficient household, what little of it there was, and seemed to love her son over all else. So why wouldn’t she consider Hannah’s invitation? Sarah hadn’t said Henry forbid it. In fact, she thought from some of the comments Henry had made that perhaps the mother of his child was a bit stubborn when it came to her independence, as if agreeing to live in

  Gisborn Hall would somehow rob her of that independence. And thinking about the way Henry spoke of Sarah and their son, it wouldn’t make sense that he would begrudge them the comfort of the larger house and the staff of servants (although Hannah was beginning to think a few more might be in order if they ever hosted guests).

  Sarah Inglenook did not wish to be Henry’s lover. Or mis­tress. Nor did she love him—at least, not in the way Hannah would expect the mother of his child to feel toward a man who so obviously loved her.

  Hannah thought of Mrs. Batey. The housekeeper had been at Gisborn Hall since before Henry took up residence there. Everyone knew servants were the best source of gossip and the history of a household. She would simply ask her. Mrs. Batey was sure to know why Sarah turned down her invitation.

  The sound of running feet and Harold’s gentle ‘woof ’ brought her out of her reverie. She turned to see a boy running in their direction, a huge grin on his face. Hannah stopped and called Harold to her side, not wanting the boy to be frightened of the large dog.

  “Hullo!” the boy called out. He was nicely dressed consid­ering his apparent age, with a scarlet coat, white linen shirt, cuffed breeches, clean stockings, and serviceable shoes. A hat was perched on his head, although it was too short to be con­sidered a top hat. “Your dog is huge, miss,” he said as he came to stand before her. Then he bowed, as if he suddenly realized he was supposed to do it before he made a comment about the dog. Harold took the op
portunity to wag his tail in greeting before obediently sitting next to Hannah.

  Hannah curtsied, realizing from the boy’s dark hair, deep blue eyes, and stern facial features that he had to be Henry’s son. The resemblance was uncanny, as if she were seeing a younger version of her husband. “I am Hannah Forster, Lady Gisborn,” she said as she held out her right hand, intending to the shake the lad’s hand.

  The deep blue eyes widened as the boy regarded her. He stepped forward suddenly, took her gloved hand, and quickly kissed the back of it, letting go his hold as if her hand was on fire. “Nathan Forster, milady,” he managed to get out, his eyes still wide. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Allowing a wide smile, Hannah nodded. “And yours.” She indicated Harold with a wave of her hand. “And this is Harold MacDuff. He’s an Alpenmastiff,” she said proudly.

  As he had been trained to do, Harold dutifully held up a paw. Nathan glanced from the dog up to Hannah, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. “You can shake his paw if you’d like,” she said with a hint of encouragement. Goodness, did the boy wonder if he was supposed to kiss the back of Harold’s paw?

  A grin appearing on Nathan’s face, he knelt down and shook Harold’s paw. “Good boy!” he said before rising to his feet. Seeing the bit of dirt from the road on his knee, he leaned over and brushed it off with a few swipes. “He looks like Mag­gie, only a whole lot … huger,” he commented. His eyebrow cocked, not unlike his father’s did when he was considering a problem, and amended his comment. “Larger. He is larger than Maggie,” he said with firm nod.

  Hannah wondered about Maggie, remembering the cook’s mention of a Maggie, but at the moment, she was more interested in the boy. “Have you just come from your tutor’s house?” she asked, turning to walk south. The dower house wasn’t much farther up the road; the walk with Nathan would allow her to get to know him a bit.