Gaia hovered at the door. She wanted advice but didn't know how to ask. Deciding to return to her room, she pivoted toward the exit. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
Her stepmother spread her arms wide. "I've been praying you would. Come, child; sit with us"
Running, Gaia could think of no other place to be. She snuggled her head against the lady and welcomed her embrace.
Sarah stroked Gaia's hair and let her have a good cry before pushing at her shoulder. "What has happened? Has the duke's attention upset you?"
Attention? Gaia pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. "I just feel overwhelmed."
The woman lifted Gaia's chin. "Why shouldn't it? You've attracted the interest of a very powerful man, but don't go thinking too hard; we don't know whether he'll make an offer."
An offer from the duke? Preposterous. Gaia lifted her head, squinting with incredulity. He didn't want someone like her; dark, poor, hiding a scandalous secret. No, he wanted her talents. "The duke has a daughter with challenges, and he wants my help. What if what I did with Timothy doesn't work? It seems that he's putting too much faith in me."
"God will help you know what to do." She tucked a frizzy strand into Gaia's bun. "His will for you is perfect."
How could it be perfect with so many questions, so many secrets? No, it was almost perfect, allowing mistakes like Gaia to exist.
Sarah released a breath, "You are so caring. God has given you a special gift with children. No child can help but to be drawn to you. You will be able to help the duke with his daughter."
"But what if the girl doesn't understand I want only good for her?" Gaia swallowed hard. "And if she treats me as I did you, standoffish and aloof, I'll be of no use to the duke. I am so sorry."
A low weeping sound caught her attention. Gaia glanced up.
Sarah cried, "At least you now know, my love. And my independent Gaia is finally letting me help."
"How could you do it? What made you want to be a mother to Julia and me? Was Father's love that strong?"
With eyes drifting to the right, Sarah smoothed Gaia's cheek. "I remember reading of a man whose intended came to him a few weeks before their wedding and told him she was pregnant. And the babe wasn't his."
"Oh, the scandal must've made Aunt's papers." Gaia wiped her eyes again on the soft fawn linen she held betwixt her palms. She'd kept the duke's handkerchief. The hint of spice, tarragon, made her lips curl into a smile, even as a wave of guilt hit her for not returning it. Well, at least she could launder this one. "Did the man abandon the woman?"
Sarah's creamy mobcap fluttered as she shook her head. The tiny crimson rosettes the lady spent days stitching floated like rubies on a crown. Such a decent, dedicated woman. "On the contrary; he had compassion on her, marrying her and becoming a father to that son."
Gaia shivered. "Like Mr. Telfair to me. No, Mr. Telfair wanted a servant for his heir."
"He's not a villain, Gaia. And deep down, there is love and admiration."
No. There couldn't be. Mr. Telfair didn't want to be disgraced, liked the Olivers. Such pain they endured when their eldest daughter compromised her virtue. No one associated with them, let alone married her or wanted to become a father to her babe.
And was it not Vicar St. Landon, a large man sharing Cheshire's build pounding the altar, rebuking them in church? A sermon, heated like fire, spewed from his mouth. Big words, evil ones she wouldn't know the meaning of until years later, sailed from his mouth.
Head hurting, Gaia rubbed her temples. "Sarah, that fiancé was an extraordinary man."
Timothy tugged at the bow on her slipper. "Duke. Duke."
Sarah patted her son's thick mop of hair. "Cheshire, maybe; that remains to be seen. But Joseph of Nazareth was. He decided to be a stepfather, though he could never compete with the babe's true father."
She pulled Gaia to her feet and towed her to the silver tray on the side table, angling their faces so both Sarah's and Gaia's showed. White and ruddy was Sarah's, tanned and slim was Gaia's; but somehow the differences didn't seem so stark. In that instance, it seemed as if they belonged together. Maybe since they were both Telfairs by marriage, not blood, they possessed a bond. One Gaia had been too prejudiced to see.
"Joseph would have missed the opportunity to be the earthly father of the Christ if he'd let fear or pride stand in his way. I knew I would never replace your mother, but I wouldn't miss the opportunity to befriend you and Julia. How empty my heart would be without you girls."
Rotating, Gaia threw her arms about the woman, her anchor. "You are more of a mother to me than my memories. If only...."
"If only what?
"If I knew who my father was, that might explain—"
Sarah held her fast. "Mr. Telfair raised you, clothed you, and kept you safe. He is your father. Be easier on him. It's hard to deal with disappointments. And he was so hurt by your mother’s unfaithfulness."
Gaia would like to believe Mr. Telfair loved her, but she knew now the distance she felt from him was deeply-rooted. He'd never looked at her as anything but a disappointment. She'd proved convenient by helping his only remaining male heir. Mr. Telfair wasn't Joseph, and probably thought of Gaia the same as he regarded the disgraced Miss Oliver.
CHAPTER NINE
Dinner and a Miss
WILLIAM SMILED TO himself. Everything at Ontredale flowed well. The aroma of the cook's white soup filled the hall. Ordinarily, smells weren't wanted, but it made the place feel like a comfortable blanket, very much like a home.
The brass and crystal fixtures sparkled and shined. In the five days since leaving Chevron, he'd been on a terror to make everything glow. Now, no nail head or crevice of gilded trim in the entire house held dust. And best of all, no new notes. William was right to do nothing to draw attention. Hopefully, the fiend would think the last note was amiss and look elsewhere, or give up.
Slapping his head before he began wishing on stars or grasping clovers, William spied the spotless marble floor. Mr. Telfair would find no offense at Ontredale. Nothing should prevent him from lending his daughter's help. If all the hints of scandal stayed hidden behind starch and lemon polish, Mary would get the help she needed.
Marching into the dining room, William ran his fingers over the frost-colored linen tablecloths pressed with perfect creases. Dinner would be wonderful. Would Miss Gaia be impressed, too?
Of course she would. Who wouldn't?
With pep in his step, he jaunted up the long flight of stairs to check on Mary. The girl lifted sleepy eyes to him. Her little arms hugged her Spanish senorita. He kissed Mary then headed back to the drawing room. With the father's consent, he'd take Miss Telfair to meet his daughter after dinner. Would the young lady's tactics work right away?
When Mary regained her voice, would she be able to tell what happened the horrible night her mother died?
Shrugging, William sat on the sofa. One step at a time; first the talking, then the syllables, then maybe whole sentences, like who was her mother's amour. Was he there when Elizabeth tumbled down the steps?
He slapped at his skull. The child shouldn't waste words on the evil of the past. Though the blackmail notes might very well come from the adulterous dandy who stole Elizabeth's loyalty, this wasn't his daughter's burden. The sin, everything, died the night her mother fell.
Pushing away from his anger, he opened The Monk, the book he'd been reading the past week. Though fitting, the path his life seemed to have chosen, the words couldn't seep into his skull. Mary's healing was too close. With a sharp intake of breath, he settled down, plopped the pages on his lap, and waited for the clock to strike six.
When the housekeeper announced a visitor at four, two hours early, his heart lurched. Was Mrs. Wingate's roast duck even finished? He stood and brushed his ocean-blue waistcoat.
The door opened, and his mouth fell open.
"Cousin, you are a hard man to find," Deborah Smythen curtsied then rushed forward and
gripped him in a bear hug.
Nausea flooded his stomach as her over-perfumed wrists held him fast…lavender. Too sweet a fragrance, too fresh a scent on the disagreeable old maid.
He pried out of her bronzed-draped arms. "Why didn't you send a note? I could've told you that tonight was not good."
She chuckled, the notes sounding nervous. "I think you've been avoiding me. And I didn't want you to run away again."
Her green eyes tilted toward the door. "Where's my cousin, Mary? I miss her so."
William folded his arms, his ire simmering to a boil. The woman didn't seem to like children, especially a fussy child, like Mary. "She's with her nurse. Why have you come?"
"Can't family come to see family?" She moved to him again, her reddish hair bouncing with her speedy gait. Taking her pinkie, she traced the lines of the revers on his charcoal tailcoat. "You look well. Can't my Abigail and I stay, Cousin; or is there no room in your very large inn?"
He couldn't very well throw family out, though he'd like to. The word problem must be matted to Deborah's rouged cheeks. "I'm not in the mood for your tricks. I have friends dining at Ontredale today. It's very important to me."
"It was an accident, my ending up in your bedchamber. Can't you forgive my walking in my sleep?" She batted her eyes at him. "You weren't even in there when your valet came upon me."
Thank goodness for Mary's nightmares. If the shrew had been found with him, dressed as she was.... A shudder traversed his spine.
"Well, you'll need a hostess. I know exactly what to wear." She started unbuttoning her walking dress, lingering on the large bone button at her bosom. With a wink, she sailed from the room and closed the doors behind her.
William smacked his skull. She fled without him extracting the promise. What manner of chaos had he just unleashed on his household?
The doors to the drawing room opened again. Stelford walked inside. "I saw the winds of a tornado blowing up the stairs. Miss Smythen found us."
Legs tight, William bent, scooped up his novel, and tossed it into the fire. The burst of flames mirrored his fouled mood. "I know you rationalized things, but I'm convinced my cousin is trying to compromise me. My rooms will be locked night and day."
Stelford chuckled, "Miss Smythen's not the most handsome woman, but she is devoted to you."
William grimaced. He was an honorable widower, not some rake looking for comfort. Another marriage was out of the question, especially to someone who couldn't love Mary as he did. "Whatever you do, don't leave me alone with Deborah."
"You have my word." Stelford moved to the fireplace and used the poker to move the ashes about, calming the spitting embers. "Perhaps your new girl will help."
Taking a deep breath, William dropped onto the sofa. He'd been good at keeping his temper tamed, even against his friend's jokes, but a few minutes with his cousin renewed his old fiery nature. With taut fingers, he visualized strangling both Stelford and Deborah.
The evening was doomed and, with it, Mary's hope. Only a miracle would save this dinner. Looking into the flames, something inside taunted of peace. His knees wanted to buckle and force him to kneel and pray, but his military discipline kept him upright, and prepared him to face disaster head-on.
Gaia had never seen a table so covered with Wedgewood platters. Roast fowl, poached salmon, and jellies the colors of the rainbow covered the duke's pristine, white table linen. With a shy glance, she savored the room clad in gold-framed pictures and thick moldings running from ceiling to chair height. She'd never seen so much trim and fidgeted with her long sleeves, an inch too long, covering her palms.
Two servers dressed in snowy stockings and shiny blue coats stood on either side of the grand table, refilling glasses, moving dishes within reach. A rounded pass-through cut in the bright carmine-red wall exposed a servants’ entrance. Every few minutes, a different person came or exited through the passage, ferrying more rich food, clearing half-empty platters. How many people stayed in the duke's kitchen? It had to be much larger than the Telfair's meager one.
When the tall black came from the foyer and handed the duke a note, Gaia couldn't help glaring at him.
The duke nodded. For the first time, he allowed a smile. "Thank you, Albert."
Mr. Telfair dipped his powdered head, as if in silent prayer, but Gaia sensed he, too, stared. Her mother had died years ago. Would he be forever angry with her straying? Did he blame all blacks for it?
Didn't he look at Gaia daily as a constant reminder of her mother's sin?
Sarah scooped salmon and a dollop of potatoes onto his plate. "Your favorite, Mr. Telfair."
He waved at her, his hand swaying quickly, stopping her in mid-scoop. "You let your servants have free rein in the main house, Your Grace? Something your father wouldn't do."
The duke looked up from his bowl of soup. "There are many things I do he would never consider. It's a son's prerogative."
The pleasant tone of the duke’s voice didn't match the hardening line of his jaw. He quickly shoved a spoonful of the delicious soup into his mouth, masking it.
But Gaia saw it. Did he possess anger at his father? Could the mystery involve the late vicar?
Sarah shifted in her seat, fluttering the feather in her headdress. This time, the ostrich plume of her hat stood tall, as if starched for the occasion. Her willow-green dress with its half-sheer sleeves matched the color of the bowls holding the white soup. Though Aunt called the style with its fuller skirt a season long passed, there was no doubt it was a good season for Sarah. She looked very well, very elegant.
"Everything is delightful," Sarah said.
"Your Grace, the jellies. I must compliment your cook on the jellies; so many and so colorful." Aunt poked a sunburst-colored one with strawberries suspended inside the dessert. It jiggled as much as Aunt in her shimmering copper gown with cap sleeves. "So nice to have your cousin, Miss Smythen, with you tonight; family is so important."
The fancy lady leaned forward and smiled at the duke. "It is my pleasure to be at his disposal."
Cheshire nodded, but no words left his mouth. Not even a joke. Something seemed amiss. What else could be wrong?
Gaia's heart beat fast. Was the problem with his daughter worse? Or the blackmail letters? Was his cousin's arrival involved?
He caught Gaia's gaze and held it. A sense of pleading colored his eyes. The grim lines framing his face intensified. A jolt went through her. Oh, please, let nothing ill have happened.
After a servant refilled his glass, Mr. Stelford sat back in his chair. "Your Grace, I see you like this vintage; so sweet and yet reserved." He glanced at Gaia's end of the table. "Yes, a fine young combination."
Gaia's cheeks felt hot. The man insinuated that the duke liked her, but not in a good way. She struggled to finish her soup, trying hard to focus on the cream and the hint of almonds in each spoonful.
"Reservation is something everyone should have," the haughty tone of Miss Smythen's voice forced Gaia to level her shoulder and accept the forthcoming remark, or slap. "I think it a virtue," the fancy woman continued, "to cautiously approach one's station in life and to think twice before changing it."
What did she mean? The woman kept spying over her long nose at Gaia. Did Miss Smythen think she had designs on Cheshire, too?
It was obvious Miss Smythen did. She rushed to take the seat next to the duke, only to be routed by Mr. Stelford. He plopped between them while Aunt took the other side.
Miss Smythen leaned Cheshire's direction and lifted a napkin. "Your Grace, you should eat. I think you need someone to help take better care of you." If the lady had been closer, she'd probably try to wipe his chin of imagined droppings.
Serendip was bold in her flirting, an expert in her 'come hither' expressions and fan movement. Miss Smythen seemed clumsy or desperate. An image of Julia came to Gaia's mind, as well as the force of the girl's tears after the Hallows' Ball.
A lump welled in Gaia's throat, and she sipped from her glass. The
world could be very cruel to women, making them seek matches they didn't want, just for comfort or respect.
That wouldn't be Gaia's fate, now that Elliot missed her. Maybe he thought of her right now.
Putting down her drink, she turned her attention back to her own silverware. Her knife reflected the sage color of the gown Julia lent her. Her sister seemed very happy to stay with the younger girls and help with their dance lesson. Did she think her generosity would make amends for their quarrels? Julia was transparent. She wanted Gaia to give up Elliot for the duke, but how could a few weeks of one man's attention erase a lifetime of seeking Mr. Whimple?
The duke wasn't interested in her, was he? Her pulse rose when she peered up and spied him looking her direction.
Miss Smythen tapped her nails on her water glass. "So, it is very good of you Telfairs to join us at Ontredale Lodge. I think it very democratic to know all neighbors, rich or poor." Her gaze lingered on the duke, and then skipped back in Gaia's direction.
William dropped his fork. His lips flattened to a tight line. "I am honored to have you all dine with us. My cousin arrived today for a visit. It was unexpected."
"It is our pleasure, Your Grace. I understand," Mr. Telfair nodded. His eyes crinkled with a smile, probably the first time he looked upon the duke with sympathy.
Aunt placed another portion of the blueberry-colored jelly onto her plate. "Well, if you are staying, you must make your visit a few weeks to attend the Masked Ball. It's the highlight of spring."
The loud cousin clapped her hands and batted her lashes at the duke. "A ball; oh, William, a ball will be lovely. I must stay until then."
He said nothing, and lifted an apple to his mouth. His eyes rolled, and he appeared to mouth the word, 'help'.
Miss Smythen's familiarity with the duke grated on Gaia's nerves. Something burned in her chest when the woman used his given name.
Mr. Stelford leaned forward, as if rubbing his leg under the pristine linen covering the table. "I don't think you should stay that long. All Cheshire is probably missing attendance in your salon."
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