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

by Audrey Ashwood

  He wanted to say that he was sorry to have left her alone, but he thought better of it. It was well advised if he allowed her to tell him first what had happened.

  “The period of mourning was hell for me. I was not allowed to go outside, barely received any visitors and was on the verge of losing my sanity with boredom.” She opened her eyes and leaned back a little to look at him. “Can you imagine how dire it was, Gabriel? Can you? Her voice grew higher with each syllable. Gabriel released his arm from her shoulders and cupped her hands in his.

  “Calm down,” he muttered. “I can imagine how hard it was for you.”

  “For us, Gabriel. For all of us. It was not easy for Catherine, either.”

  “We will talk about Catherine later,” Gabriel interjected. “Now, we are talking about you.” Also, about the unborn child. Either she did not know or had not thought of it, but if the child’s father was a nobleman, there was still hope for her.

  “You say that you can imagine what it was like for us, but I do not think that you truly can.” Henrietta shook her head until a few of her dark curls broke free from her coiffure. “You are a man. You were able to go away, like Elijah, but we had to stay here and pretend to mourn the death of a man whom we did not love.”

  He winced as he heard the despair in her words. “None of us loved him,” he interjected. The old marquess had never been a father to him and his siblings, but rather the head of the family to whom they owed respect, which he ruthlessly demanded. The family legacy had taken a prominent place in day-to-day affairs, along with the duties they had to perform as Cavanaughs. “Tell me about James.” He steered his sister back to the very subject of their conversation. It felt strange to call the man by his first name, who was responsible for his sister’s misfortune, as if he knew him. “You met in Hyde Park.” He knew Henrietta full well – she had not given a tinker’s curse about the time of mourning by riding out.

  That was how it was, her next words confirmed. “I could not stand being locked up in the house and, one morning, I rode out. Alone, without Catherine. I had Raven saddled and stole out of the house at five in the morning, accompanied only by a servant. I just wanted to ride for half an hour, Gabriel, you have to believe me.”

  Of course, she had only gotten the biggest stallion in the stables saddled up to ride. Raven was not a dangerous horse, but he needed a rider who knew how to handle him. Henrietta riding side-saddle was not the best way to keep the boisterous Raven in check. “Let me guess,” said Gabriel, “everything went well until he had a clear path and realised that he could start galloping. You fell off the horse, and James was there and came to your rescue.”

  “It was just like that – except for a small but important difference.” Henrietta’s voice trembled. At first, Gabriel thought she was crying again, but then he saw her body shaking with suppressed laughter. “It was not me who fell off the horse, but James.”

  “You fell in love with a man who cannot even ride a horse?”

  Henrietta looked at him in disbelief, then laughed until tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Gabriel,” she gasped, “that is you all over.”

  Reluctantly, he felt the corners of his mouth lift up. “You are right,” he admitted, “a man’s equestrian abilities, or rather the lack thereof, are secondary.” He handed a handkerchief to his sister so she could wipe away her tears of laughter. Her nose was red, her eyes were shiny, and her hairstyle could barely be described as such, but she appeared more alive than a few minutes ago. Even though taking everything lightly was not a solution, it could sometimes relieve a burden. “What happened then?” he asked during her thoughtful silence.

  “James broke his ankle,” Henrietta continued. She was still smiling, lost in her memories. “I sent the servant for Dr Hollingsworth, but of course, I could not leave James alone.”

  “Of course not,” he uttered with an expression of a man who was teasing.

  “When the doctor finally arrived, we both knew – it was too late.” She sighed dramatically. “James was so … friendly to me, Gabriel. Despite his severe pain, he tried to send me home, so nobody would see us together, but I already knew that I could not abandon him.”

  “In other words, you fell in love with him. Is that why you brought de Coucy’s name into the picture? To protect the true culprit?”

  Henrietta nodded. “I was very afraid that you would go to his father and tell him about us. James’s family knows nothing of our love.”

  Gabriel just managed to suppress a groan. “What would have been so bad about him marrying you? You are a Cavanaugh; we can trace our lineage back to Richard the Lionheart. He and his family should be honoured for you to consider him worthy of your affection.” He stopped before he talked himself into a rage.

  “They have already arranged a marriage for him,” Henrietta said as he fell silent. “James wanted to slowly bring his father around to the idea of marrying me and no one else.” She sounded absurdly proud of James’s choice.

  “And then?” Gabriel asked, guiding her back to the story of her acquaintance. “What happened after the fall?”

  “Of course, due to his broken ankle, James could not continue with his work,” Henrietta went on, as if she had never digressed. “So he had a lot of time on his hands, just like me.”

  “You even visited him? A bachelor?” He sighed in disbelief. “What occupation does this gentleman have?”

  “Which questions should I answer first?” The scorn sparkled in her dark eyes. “No, Gabriel, I did not visit him alone. A modicum of common sense has remained with me, despite my feelings. He wrote to thank me for his rescue, as he called it. I answered him as courtesy required, and he, in turn … well, suffice to say that we wrote to each other and that he paid me a call when he could walk again.”

  “It is all very romantic,” Gabriel commented, “but perhaps you could provide some enlightening details? For example, I would like to know what his full name is, which profession he has, and how he forgot himself so much as to dishonour you.” He shook his head and raised his hand as Henrietta spoke to him. “I am trying to understand how this could happen, really I am trying, but it is not easy. Where is your James now? I suppose he knows about your condition, and his absence leaves only one conclusion, namely that he has made an escape.”

  Henrietta took a deep breath. “He is in the Navy, and his ship set sail two months ago. His full name is James Henry Fitzherbert, Lord Aldekirck. No, he does not know he is going to be a father.”

  Oberon, who had been slumbering blissfully all along, awoke and sat up. He opened his mouth, yawned and laid his head on Henrietta’s lap. With an absent gaze, her fingers rubbed the dog behind its ears.

  Had Gabriel not known better, he could have sworn that the dog grinned at him.

  Chapter 23

  “What is the matter, sweetheart? Are you not happy now that the unsavoury affair has been resolved?”

  Rose was sitting in the drawing room with her mother, leafing listlessly through a book, as the duchess asked her the question. It had been two days since the confirmation of her good opinion of Richard, yet Rose had not been able to find more than a vague kind of joy. Even the story of the dog fight, which had proved untrue, did nothing to help her feel a sense of relief. She set the book aside and looked at her mother, who sat serenely at her embroidery work, only occasionally putting it aside to take a sip of her tea.

  It was an idyllic moment of peace.

  One she had longed for in the exciting, nerve-wracking hours of searching for Lord de Coucy and the truth.

  But above all, it was a moment amongst many, strung like boring pearls on a boring chain.

  “Of course I am relieved,” Rose acknowledged. Her fingers hovered over the plate of biscuits without her choosing one of the delicacies. She had a hankering for ice cream, for the cool, bittersweet taste of lemon on her tongue – not buttery dough. “But I keep asking myself, what will happen to Lady Henrietta? She made a mistake,” she interjected hastily, as her m
other raised her finely drawn eyebrows. “I’m aware of that, but … I do not know,” she finished lamely.

  “Tell me, what is going through your head, Rose?” her mother said encouragingly and smiled at her with affection.

  “One mistake, and her life is ruined.” Rose tried to put her feelings into words. “It is not fair,” she finally said. “Why is … this thing,” she gesticulated in embarrassment with her hands, “considered a mistake for women, while tolerated when it comes to gentlemen?”

  The duchess set down the embroidery hoop and stared at her with an expression that could only be described as melancholy. “I agree with you, it does not seem fair. But a woman’s virtue is everything she owns, and she is in charge of her own condition. We do not have our own money or our own property. It is all the more important that we choose very well the man whom we spend the rest of our lives with. Henrietta made the wrong choice and now has to live with the consequences of her decision.”

  “I do not understand you,” muttered Rose in confusion. Her mother had this ability to direct any conversation so that, in the end, she always came around to her favourite topic. Like now: Rose had spoken of Lady Henrietta’s misstep, and her mother talked about Rose’s decision to marry Richard de Coucy. Oh, not that she put it into words, but all she said about the importance of choice indicated as much. “It seemed to me that you did not just persuade Lady Henrietta to tell the truth, but that you also wanted to help her. Now it sounds like you are judging her for her error.”

  “Both are true,” said the duchess. “As a mother, I can only condemn her actions, as you can imagine. But as a woman, perhaps as an older friend, I want to give her the opportunity to emerge from the situation as unscathed as possible.” She sighed. “I know that you are too sensible to risk your future for a fleeting moment of pleasure, Rose. I am relying on you.”

  Rose started to feel flushed. She thought of the kiss she had demanded of Richard. Would she have given Lord de Coucy more had he asked? But her mother was already talking. “Perhaps I am simply growing old. If I imagine a time when I am no longer around, and one of my beloved daughters happened to find herself in the same situation as Lady Henrietta is now, I would wish someone to help her.”

  Rose leaned forward. “Are you unwell, Mother? Is there anything wrong with you?” Her stomach contracted painfully, but her mother denied it.

  “No, Rose, you are not to worry. I am well. I just wish … oh, nothing.” The duchess picked up her embroidery work once more and vehemently stabbed away at the lines. Rose suppressed a smile. Her mother hated handcrafts as much as she hated them herself.

  “What is it, what is worrying you?” The role reversal came unexpectedly, but Rose began to seriously worry about her mother. It was not like her to be in such low spirits. “Rest assured, you do not have to concern yourself on my account, Mother. Soon, all your daughters will be well looked after. I shall marry Richard.”

  She could have sworn that the duchess mumbled something like “that is exactly what worries me,” but the sharp gaze that her mother darted at her, filled her with more than unease. Rose stood from her seat. “I will write to him straight away and ask him to set a date for the wedding. See you later, Mother.” She scurried out of the room and hurried upstairs to her bedroom before the duchess could say something that Rose did not want to hear.

  When she got upstairs, she sat down at her desk, took out her stationery and dipped the quill into the inkwell. But instead of writing, she gazed out of the window and onto the street.

  For two days, she had been waiting for Richard to call on her. His servant must have told him that she and the marquess had tried to speak to him but without success. It would only have been polite to return his fiancé’s visit and inquire about the reason for her appearance. It was not uncommon for Lord de Coucy to let several days slip by between his visits to Rose, but still … so soon after the engagement he could have shown more commitment, Rose thought. The disappointment of his absence affected her more than she wanted to avow herself. Then there was the event of the duel and his not appearing on the scene. Of course, the matter had been settled in the meantime, that was true. There was no more reason why the marquess and Lord de Coucy should try to kill each other. Surely, the marquess had sent Richard a message clarifying everything or had personally apologised to Richard.

  That was, if he had seen Richard.

  Rose groaned and would have liked to put her head on the table, burying it between her arms. Again and again, her thoughts returned to Lady Henrietta, Oberon, and what was much, much worse, to Gabriel Cavanaugh. Even the wretched dessert had reminded her of the visit he had promised her to Gunter’s. No, not promised. He had offered to take her there for an ice cream.

  He had talked about friendship. She had told him – less by words than by her insecurity – that she rejected his offer. Now, she could not even inquire about the dog, let alone Lady Henrietta, without appearing completely volatile.

  She crumpled up the sheet on which the ink blots had accumulated, threw it away and smoothed out a new blank sheet. After a moment’s hesitation, she plunged the quill back into the inkwell and, this time, without the slightest hesitation, wrote a brief message to Lord de Coucy, asking him to come and visit her this afternoon.

  She read the letter again before folding and sealing it. It was not the first message she had sent him, not including her very first letter, however, it was arguably the most concise she had ever written to him.

  “Lord de Coucy would like to see you,” the butler announced, just as Rose no longer expected that one of her letters would produce the desired result. She remembered her manners just in time and did not jump up but remained seated on the sofa next to her mother, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Show him in,” said the duchess. “Did you ask him to pay you a call?” she questioned, as the door closed behind the servant and they were alone again. Friday afternoon was not a traditional visiting day at the Evesham’s, as the duchess had always insisted on spending at least one afternoon a week alone with her daughters.

  Rose nodded. “Yes.”

  She did not get any further because the butler entered once more, closely followed by Richard. His appearance was flawless, as always. From his neatly combed head of red hair to his sophisticated tie and double-breasted waistcoat, his clothing met the highest of standards. Unlike the Marquess of Cavanaugh, Richard preferred bright colours whenever possible, and today was no exception. Beneath his dark Spencer shone a cream-coloured waistcoat, its colour an exact match with his trousers. It was a mystery to Rose how Richard managed to wear such light-coloured trousers all afternoon without a single stain. She, herself, seldom managed to do that, so despite the current fashion, she was inclined to wear strong colours whenever she could win her mother (or Madame Duvall, the strict dressmaker to the duchess and her daughters) over to do so.

  “Take a seat, my Lord,” invited her mother as soon as he had greeted them both. “What brings you here?”

  Rose frowned. Her mother was certainly not herself today. Rose had told her this morning why she had asked for Richard’s visit. Now, her mother pretended to be completely unaware. This was not like her at all.

  “Does a gentleman need a reason to visit his enchanting fiancé and her no less enchanting mother?” Richard’s slanted smile could soften the heart of even the most austere matron, but her mother seemed immune to it.

  “Of course not,” she said, without saying a word about the flattery he was laying on, which even Rose had to admit, was pretty thickly applied. “On the contrary. I am sure that Rose has missed you.” The indwelling reproach was to be found both in her short sentences and in the words – he should have visited more often, the duchess let him know.

  The charming smile on Richard’s face faded a little. Quickly, Rose intervened, choosing her next words very carefully. “I assume the Marquess of Cavanaugh has visited you in the meantime?” She wanted to give him the opportunity to add his view of the
situation and gazed at him expectantly.

  Richard drew his red eyebrows to form a frown. “Yes, he has indeed. An unpleasant occurrence, the whole thing. Very unpleasant.”

  Rose had noticed before that her fiancé liked to express himself in short military-style sentences, but as yet, she had never been aware of this habit being so unbecoming.

  “Anyway, I am glad it did not come to a duel,” she said, wondering about the best approach to tackle him for his absence. She chose a direct route. “I am extremely relieved that you were prevented to go. There were certainly important reasons?”

  Richard lowered his eyelids. “As a matter of fact, how have you learned about it, Lady Rose?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother tilt her head, as if to participate in Richard’s question. “Oh, it was just a silly coincidence.” She played down the issue.

  “And I thought I was going to have to challenge the marquess, because he carried you off to Battersea Fields at such an unearthly hour.” He had to be joking, thought Rose, searching in vain for a trace of humour in Richard de Coucy’s face.

  “By no means did ‘he carry me off,’ as you put it,” she replied, with a little more impatience than usual. “I went there by choice.”

  Lord de Coucy shortly glanced at her mother with a quizzical expression before turning back to Rose, but whatever he wanted to say was left unspoken. “Let us call it an immature adventure and never to be repeated,” he suggested eventually.

  This conversation was not at all going the way Rose had wished it to go. He did not even ask her reasons for her presence at the venue, nor did he make any attempt at answering her question.