The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

  Thirdly, he really was tall.

  “Impossible,” Brigid said with a high-pitched voice and, flustered, she fell back into her old habit of speaking in half-sentences. “Is everything all right, Lady Feli–”

  “Of course,” Felicity snapped and gave Brigid a warning look. Felicity glanced over at the other two women, who looked with equal admiration at the man at her side, as her maid was. It was enough that ‘the priest’ knew who she was. There was no need to spread the word further about her nightly excursion than absolutely necessary. Brigid seemed to understand, for she closed her mouth and appeared guilty, then shooed the two women away with an energetic gesture.

  “Lady Feli?”

  Her heart skipped a beat, as his dark voice sounded too close to her ear. She glanced up. His eyes were of a deep blue and many fine lines curled in their corners. “I like the name. Feli, like… the happy one, or like the cat?” She answered him with a sinister expression, which did not seem to impress him. “And what is your name?” He addressed her companion directly.

  “Brigid,” the woman whispered, as they walked on. Where had all the coachmen suddenly gone to, who otherwise crowded the streets? Felicity looked around but did not find a single carriage. Now, he offered her maid the other arm, which the woman accepted with an expression of blissful adoration. Who could remain angry at such a sight? Felicity could not. She wanted to look away quickly to hide her smile, but it was already too late. The man on whose arm she was walking down the streets of Whitechapel, had seen it, and he returned it gently.

  It was strange how much she was able to read from his face, even though most of it was hidden behind a mask that only revealed his eyes and mouth. Beneath the tightly fitting fabric was a keenly shaped nose, high cheekbones, and a masculine, energetic chin. Just as Felicity went to ask him a second time to take off his mask, the clapping sound of nearing hoofs broke the silence. The masked man caught the coachman’s gaze, released Brigid’s arm, and he waved the man to stop. Some coins were exchanged between them, whilst Brigid made herself comfortable inside the hackney.

  “Send a messenger to the pater’s shelter as soon as you hear anything,” he murmured to Felicity, holding his hand out to help her ascend into the carriage. She paused on the top step. His warm fingers still embraced hers. Once again, her heart skipped a beat. His body shielded her from the icy wind, which was getting underneath her coat like a whirling dervish.

  “Don’t hesitate… even if it seems unimportant. Will you promise me that?” he asked.

  Felicity could not utter a word but nodded silently.

  “I bid you a good night, Lady Feli.”

  She sank into the seat and watched him bowing. If he had worn a hat, she was certain that he would have doffed it.

  She added another point to her list of what she knew about him. Fourth – he had a fondness for melodramatic gestures.

  Her many unanswered questions were drowned out by Brigid’s excited torrent of words, which only subsided when Felicity grabbed her by her arm and nodded towards their coach driver. The silence felt good, even though it did not last long.

  As soon as they had sneaked back into the house and finally arrived safely in Felicity’s room, Brigid began again. However, Felicity felt tired and was barely able to keep her eyes open, so she interrupted her maid.

  “Please, just help me get undressed,” she said and began to unbutton her boots. “For now, I do not want to hear any more about ‘the priest.’”

  The night was far too short. When Brigid woke her the next morning, an image of the masked man immediately appeared before her eyes, almost as if she had just spoken to him in a dream. Felicity blinked against the bright morning sun as Brigid pulled open the curtains, energetically reminding her that it was time to get up. Her second sentence turned to ‘the priest’ again.

  “I can’t believe it,” Brigid said as she handed Felicity a cup of tea. “The most attractive man in town accompanied us home,” she recalled in a dreamy voice.

  Felicity was unable to suppress a smile at the woman’s unbridled enthusiasm. “How do you know that he is attractive? You were unable to see his face,” she pointed out. “Also, he just put us into a hackney and did not actually accompany us back home.”

  “Almost, then,” Brigid replied and began with her usual preparations to get her lady dressed. “Even if his face is full of scars, it wouldn’t bother me. He has a good heart, and that’s all that matters.”

  Felicity drank the rest of her breakfast chocolate and pushed aside her blanket. “If I could only be certain that he doesn’t have any bad intentions,” she pondered, “... then all of this would be so much easier to endure.”

  “What more do you need as proof, my Lady?”

  Felicity believed that she could hear a dismissive undertone in Brigid’s voice. It was possible that she was mistaken, since the woman had turned her back to her, while she searched for a suitable dress in Felicity’s wardrobe.

  “Didn’t you tell me yourself that you didn’t want to get married to a fine lord? ‘The priest’ did not take any liberties with you, did he?” Felicity smiled furtively, because her maid had no desire to find an end in her praise of the boxer’s.

  “I’ll tell you something, my Lady. I knew many men, you know that. Most did not ask me for my name… but he did.”

  “It is just that…” Felicity began, but then shook her head. Every single one of her conversations with Brigid seemed to circle around ‘the priest.’

  “Just trust him,” the woman said, before she turned Felicity around so she could start tying the corset.

  Did she have any other choice?

  She just could not stop thinking about the boxer. During breakfast, Rose complained about Felicity’s apparent reluctance to talk, and her mother, whose health had improved dramatically, had to repeat her question about the carriage ride with Lord Layton twice.

  “It was a pleasant excursion,” Felicity replied, wondering if ‘the priest’ had kept his promise and given the letter to Joseph.

  “Has Lord Layton said anything about his wanting to repeat the outing?” Her mother bit heartily into a slice of toast and took a sip of tea.

  “No,” Felicity replied absentmindedly, wincing as her mother dropped the cup down into its saucer with a distinct clink. “I apologise, Mama. This entire time, I have been wondering if we do not have room for Joseph here in the house.”

  “Who is Joseph? And what does he have to do with Lord Layton?”

  “Nothing,” Felicity replied, since she had long learned to follow her mother’s spontaneous mental leaps. Or was it actually she, who bounced from one idea to the next? She pushed the last piece of her buttered toast back and forth on the plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that her sister was staring at something she was hiding in her lap. It was probably once again a book, the reading of which, she could not, or did not want to interrupt.

  “Joseph is a street child whom I have met in my work with Pater O’Donnell,” Felicity explained. “He is a very bright little boy, Mama.” Rose suppressed a giggle. Her sister had perfected the skill, over the years, of following conversations at the table whilst reading a book. “He could help the kitchen maid, or the servants with the harder chores in this house,” she continued, as if Rose had not made a sound.

  “We have Stephen and Jack for that. We do not need another servant, Felicity.”

  “But,” Felicity objected, but her mother glanced at her with a stern expression, and at the same time, she felt Rose kick her softly under the table. Angrily, Felicity stared at her sister, but she seemed completely unimpressed and asked a rather atypical question.

  “Mama, is it true that the Countess of Darby had all her dresses made in Paris?”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows. She, too, was surprised by Rose’s sudden interest in fashion.

  “Not completely,” she replied. “Although it is true that she employs a Frenchwoman, who designs and sews dresses exclusively for the cou
ntess and her household.”

  Felicity only half-heartedly listened to the conversation and kept looking out of the window impatiently. The sun was not yet high in the sky, which meant that she had ample time before Lady Blankhurst came to pick her up. Only when Rose raised her voice, did it catch Felicity’s interest.

  “Her servants’ liveries are very elegant,” Rose remarked. Felicity assumed that she was still talking about the Countess of Darby. “When I was in the park last week with Miss Fairbanks, she drove by us in her carriage.” Miss Fairbanks was the governess who had schooled Felicity and her sisters, and despite the fact that all of their daughters had long since grown up, she was still employed in the Evesham’s household. Had Rose lost her mind, or was there a hidden purpose for her seemingly meaningless talk?

  “Of course, it is completely over the top to drive through the park with four horses pulling the carriage, although I have to admit that her horses looked magnificent, indeed. They even had harnesses and braids that matched the colours of the boy’s livery, who ran out up front clearing the road for them.”

  Finally, Felicity understood what her sister was up to. She reached for Rose’s hand under the table and squeezed it gratefully. Unfortunately, her mother had also understood what Rose was planning, because she sighed and looked at her daughters with a stern expression. “Felicity, I do appreciate your soft heart, and Rose, I admire your sense of tactics, but I forbid you from trying to manipulate me.” She got up from the table. “The Countess of Darby has always lacked a sense of what would be deemed appropriate. If you believe that I would compete with her and also employ a boy, who takes on an equally silly and dangerous position, just so that people could see how incredibly wealthy we are, then you are mistaken.”

  Rose lowered her head in defeat, but Felicity looked straight into her mother’s face. She had no intention of giving in that easily. But that proved unnecessary. Before her mother walked out, she turned around and fixed her gaze on her daughters.

  “Felicity, you may tell this Joseph to come and ask for Mr Frost. I suppose a helping hand would not be wasted.”

  “Thank you, Mama. You are…” Felicity said.

  “… the best,” Rose finished her sentence. They looked at each other as one of the servants closed the door behind their mother.

  “So are you,” Felicity whispered and pulled her little sister close.

  “I know.” Rose smiled and got up from her chair as well. “By the way, I have something for you.”

  With a meaningful look, she glanced over towards Stephen, who pretended – much as any good servant would – to be blind and deaf. Rose turned her back to him and then handed Felicity the book she had been reading before. Felicity noticed the corner of a letter peeking out from between its pages. “I thought it would be best if not everyone in the house knew about your secret affair.”

  “I do not have a secret affair, as you call it,” Felicity protested, however it was in vain. Rose had already left to make her way back to her room or, more likely, to their father’s library to read forbidden books.

  Felicity was walking upstairs with a racing heart, and she carefully peeked between the book’s pages for the letter, as she heard a knock at the door. That must be Lady Blankhurst already. But did it have to be now? Hastily, she closed the book and asked the butler to tell Lady Blankhurst that she would join her shortly.

  Felicity hurried up to her room. Brigid was likely downstairs in the kitchen, so Felicity merely threw the book onto the bed, reached for her reticule, stumbled back to the bed, and opened the book.

  “Forbidden Love Affairs, I swear,” she murmured when she saw the title of the book. Her sister clearly did not have a particularly subtle sense of humour. Nevertheless, she was grateful to Rose, because the letter hiding inside was addressed to “Lady F.” and it had been written in the same crinkly handwriting as the last one. For a moment, she stared at the stained piece of paper, unable to form a clear thought. ‘The priest’s’ masked face appeared before her eyes and she could hear his dark voice as he offered to take care of the blackmailer. With a sudden pang of determination, she ripped open the pages.

  “Today. Same place, midnight. Alone this time, or you will regret it.”

  Chapter 11

  Luke stood in front of the house where the Catholic priest gave fallen women shelter and helped them back onto the right path. He looked for Joseph, in vain. Felicity had not given him a description of the boy, but she had said that he would be sitting in front of the house. Maybe the boy was inside eating breakfast. Luke smiled faintly, as he imagined the father warning his sinful sheep to stay on the right path with impressive images. If a sermon came with a full belly, then the choice of attending would probably be easy for most slum dwellers.

  For one last time, he looked around for a street boy, but to no avail. Apart from the usual passers-by that one could expect to see in Whitechapel, nobody was to be seen. He rapped the door knocker, and it was not long before a man opened it. Luke had to look twice to recognise Pater O’Donnell. The man was only slightly older than he was. Beneath the modest soutane, he could see the build of a man who would make a worthy opponent in the ring. However, what surprised Luke the most, was the friendly expression on the priest’s face – which did not last too long, once he absorbed Luke’s appearance.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Luke was stunned to realise that the pater was blocking the entranceway, as if he were someone who wanted to gain access violently.

  “Good day, Father,” he politely greeted the man. “I am looking for a boy named Joseph. I was told that he could be found here in front of your house, but he is not here. Is he inside the house, by any chance?” He peeked past the pater into the dark hallway but was not able to see anything.

  O’Donnell took another step forward until the two men were standing almost eye to eye. “Why are you seeking out the boy?”

  “That is private,” Luke replied, refusing to back down.

  “So is this house,” O’Donnell replied and prepared to slam the door shut, right in his face.

  “Not so fast, my friend,” Luke said, setting a foot between the door and the frame. “I assure you that I do not have any ill intentions. I come in peace.”

  “You have a strange way of showing it,” O’Donnell replied and stared at Luke’s foot.

  Luke took a deep breath and removed his foot from the threshold.

  “That’s better.” The pater looked up again. For a brief moment, his gaze hovered on Luke’s chin, which did not show any revealing signs of last night’s boxing match, thanks to his father’s theatre make up, and then he looked straight into Luke’s eyes. Whatever the pater may have read in them, the result was a significant release in his tension.

  Luke forced himself to take a step backwards. In the same moment, the priest did the same, and opened the door far enough for Luke to enter.

  “Thank you,” he said. He would have liked to know what had changed the priest’s mind, but he did not want to strain his luck with unnecessary questions.

  “Where can I find the boy?”

  “To use your own words: not so fast, my friend. I am willing to believe you, but first tell me your name.”

  “Branwell,” Luke called the first name to come to mind. “Branwell Scott.”

  “Well then, Mr Scott. Joseph is not a prisoner here, so he is free to come and go as he pleases. Also, I won’t be able to prevent him from working for you, if that is what he wants to do. But what I can do…” He paused and looked Luke straight into his face, “… is this: If I find out that you are harming the boy, physically or mentally, I will hold you personally accountable.” The priest must have noticed his scepticism, because he smiled tightly and added: “I have always been of the believe that God helps those who help themselves. Do you understand?”

  “Indeed,” Luke replied, feeling reluctant respect for the clergyman who watched over his sheep like a hawk.

  “I assure you that hi
s wellbeing will be my biggest concern.” The duel of eyes between the two lasted for a few seconds, then the pater blinked.

  “He is in the kitchen helping with the breakfast preparations,” O’Donnell explained and smiled. “At least, that is what he calls it. However, I am convinced that our cook prefers to call it something else.” He gestured for Luke to follow him. Even though the pater had granted him entrance, it seemed that he wanted to be part of the conversation between Luke and Joseph. Luke would have to think of something to either distract the priest – or wait for another opportunity to speak with Joseph in private.

  Luke forced a laugh. “Boys of that age are always very hungry.” He remembered that his father’s cook had never been particularly happy when he had plundered the pantry.

  As he followed the pater, he looked around curiously. The house was narrow but elongated. An unreliable-looking wooden construction led to the upper floor, from where he could hear a choir of female voices. “I have to admit, I did not expect your protégées to sound so happy.” Luke must have appeared surprised, because Pater O’Donnell raised his eyebrows, and then he turned to the left before opening the door to the kitchen.

  The smell of freshly baked bread welcomed him as he followed the man dressed in black. He felt heat that seemed rather pleasant after standing outside in the cold.

  A slender boy, who was hiding behind the skirts of the cook, lifted his head when the men entered. His reddish-blond hair was a wild mess. His face was pale and prematurely aged by the hard struggle for survival in the streets.