by Pendle, Eve
Once a Fallen Lady
Eve Pendle
Copyright © 2019 by Eve Pendle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover: © 2019 by Eve Pendle. Images under licence from Shutterstock and Period Images.
Created with Vellum
Content Notes
These content notes are made available so readers can inform themselves if they want to. They’re based on movie classification notes. Some readers might consider these as ‘spoilers’.
Bad language: mild, infrequent
Sex: a fully described sex scene and masturbation
Violence: none
Other: serious illness of child
See the full (much more detailed) trigger warnings for further information if you need it: https://evependle.com/index.php/2019/11/10/cw-for-once-a-fallen-lady/
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Thanks
Also by Eve Pendle
Excerpt: Falling for a Rake
Excerpt: On His Knees
Chapter One
25 April 1873, Sussex
Lydia extended her stride and mud flicked up onto her dress. Her daughter dragged on her arm as they walked, sleepy and chuntering about daffodils.
Annie would be late for school again, and Lydia knew it was because of her failing as a mother. The leaking roof had kept Annie awake, the porridge had burnt, and–oh it hardly mattered. The teacher, Miss Moore, would show her disapproval of tardiness with all the charm of a disgruntled sow.
“Let’s race,” Lydia said as the idea caught her. If they ran the last couple of streets, Miss Moore might still be waiting outside. That would avoid having to send Annie into the already filled schoolroom. Lydia picked up her pace and lifted the hem of her skirts with her free hand. Reluctantly, Annie started to run, letting go of Lydia’s hand to use both hands to grab her dress.
A giggle rose in Lydia’s throat as they chased down West Street, but she repressed it, flanked as the street was with workers’ cottages. They turned into School Lane, with its avenue of chestnut trees, the branches adorned with white pyramid-like flowers after the long winter.
“Nearly there.” The wall of the school loomed ahead, though the road was a quagmire. “I’m going to beat you!” Lydia grinned as she turned her head to check how far Annie was behind her but kept running forward.
“No, I’ll win!” Annie laughed and picked up speed.
Annie took the other route around a big puddle and Lydia watched her as she ran, heedless of her own footing. Annie, in her haste, almost allowed her hem to drag. “Pick your skirts up higher,” Lydia called.
The ground slid under Lydia’s boot. She lurched, everything fluid where it had been solid. Toppled but weightless, she flung out her hands. Briefly she thought she might save herself, her stomach clenching under her corset. Too late. Her outstretched palms slammed into icy mud.
Agony cracked across her hands and upward. Her arms crumpled at the elbow and her breath was smashed from her chest. Mud splattered her face. Cold, hard, and biting, the fall stole her breath. The implications shuddered through her like a second blow. If she was hurt, who would look after Annie?
The pain in her arm receded, leaving grit stabbing at her palms and wind tugging her hair. Lydia regarded the waterlogged ground, shiny and pockmarked with gravel. Freezing mire seeped through to her knees, the tops of her thighs, and her elbows.
She wasn’t hurt beyond scrapes and bruises, but Annie would definitely be late for school. By striving to be respectable Lydia had caused herself more delay, work, and humiliation. Her dress was soiled with thick mud and people would notice and whisper as she walked back through the village. It would take her hours to launder it, and wash day had been only yesterday. Pinpricks threatened behind her eyelids.
“Mama?” Annie sounded small and alarmed.
Words caught in Lydia’s throat and she screwed up her eyes. Miss Moore’s lip would curl into a spiral when she saw Lydia. It would shame Annie to have a mother like her. As if she weren’t already.
“Are you hurt?” asked a voice as deep, smooth, and tempting as butter on crumpets. A male voice.
She lifted her gaze a little. Dark gray woolen trousers partially covered large black leather shoes, good quality but not fancy. Further up he appeared strong and wiry. Her stomach flipped. She raised her chin and looked straight past his matching wool waistcoat and coat, broad shoulders and a green cravat. His face held serious eyes and a concerned expression, a hat partially covered lustrous dark brown hair.
He held out a solid hand to her.
“I’m all right. I’m fine, really.” She didn’t take his hand. Men as handsome as him were nothing but danger, even when one was lying in the dirt. Scrambling to her feet, she instinctively wiped her hands on the back of her skirt. The fabric was thin beneath her fingers as she smeared mud on the only clean part of her dress. She was acutely aware of her worn cuffs. At least they were wet and splattered in mud, so he couldn’t see how poor she was.
“Thank you–” She stopped. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met.” She drank him in. He had a strong jawline and heavy brows. He was the sort of man any lady would want to examine like a beloved trinket.
She must have been staring, because his face shuttered into polite acceptance. “I’m Mr. Lowe. The new teacher.”
“Oh. Miss Moore will be pleased.” The school had been without a second teacher for some months, since the school board had dismissed Miss Barnes after her marriage.
Mr. Lowe’s mouth tugged into a droll smile. “Perhaps.” He turned to Annie. “What’s your name?”
“Annie Taylor.” Annie’s eyes were wide. She scuttled over to Lydia, grasping out for her hand. Not finding it, she gripped onto Lydia’s dress. Her dirty dress.
“Annie, shall we go in?” He looked up at the last of the other children filing into the schoolroom. “Your mother will want to go home and get dry. Good day, Mrs. Taylor.”
Lydia felt an unwelcome flush run through her. He’d assumed she was married, as of course he would. Exactly as she wanted everyone to think. In time he’d hear she was a respectable widow who kept herself to herself.
He strode away without waiting for a reply. Lydia dropped to her knees to kiss Annie on the cheek.
“He’s very stern,” Annie whispered as she kissed her back. “Do you think he’ll shout?”
“I’m sure he’ll be nice,” Lydia said with more conviction than she felt. “Now off you go.”
Annie ran after Mr. Lowe and caught him up at the school door. Lydia watched as Mr. Lowe indicated for Annie to go ahead of him, then turned before following her. Their gazes locked. She had the disconcerting sensation he could see through all her pretense, to her failure as a bourgeoisie lady and the disgrace she had become.
He tipped his hat to her as if they were meetin
g in the park, her bedecked in fine silks and him a deferential gentleman. Then he disappeared into the school, closing the door behind him.
A spot of rain hit Lydia’s cheek, frigid as reality. Then another on her drenched sleeve. She spun on her heel and began to walk home. There would be no let-up back at the cottage. No comfortable chaise or servants at the ring of a bell. Her dress needed laundering, the bucket under the holes in the roof needed to be emptied, and to dry clothes she would need to build the fire with coal she could ill afford. Within seconds the drops came down faster and harder until she was soaked, heavy, and aching, not just from her fall but the wet. The April shower was in full force, streaking her vision and hitting her with tiny stones. It was only what she deserved.
Chapter Two
15 March 1875, Sussex
The morning was grey and cool, not very promising, but at least the relentless rain had stopped. Lydia called up the stairs to wake Annie, stirred the porridge on the range, then slipped outside to check the chickens. She watched the birds stretch their wings and puff out their yellow-orange feathers. They rushed to peck frantically at the handful of corn she threw down.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of blue. A solitary magpie, its black and white feathers as daring as its raid, darted in to eat grain. Lydia shooed it off and watched it fly away, stark against the cloud. She collected up the few early eggs, brushing off the straw and the less pleasant deposits. It was best to pick up the eggs quickly if the magpies were around, as otherwise they were easy pickings.
Back in the house she took the kettle off the fire and poured the water into a tea pot, soaking the lime flowers. No Indian tea for them, too expensive. The flowers, gathered from a tree just outside the village, made acceptable tea. She saved her only-once-used and dried afterward Indian tea leaves for visitors. Pouring two cups of tea, she listened for Annie’s footsteps. There was only the muffled sound of clucking from outside and the fire crackling. Too quiet. Annie ought to be out of bed and dressed by now.
“Annie!” Lydia turned toward the stairs. “Blooming girl.” She smiled with affectionate exasperation. They’d be late for school if Annie didn’t get up soon. That or she would go without breakfast. And Lydia definitely didn’t want her to be late. Again.
There was no response. With one last stir of the oats, she moved the pan to the cooler edge of the range and ran upstairs. She poked her head around her daughter’s door. “Porridge is ready, darling. There is honey too.” A rare treat.
“Hurmm.” Annie barely opened her eyes.
Lydia sat down on the edge of her daughter’s small bed. “Come on, it’s time to get up.”
“Mama, I don’t feel well.” Annie’s voice was reedy.
Lydia touched Annie’s forehead. It felt clammy and warm. Nausea flew through Lydia.
Annie closed her eyes again.
It was just a common cold. Annie was trying to avoid going to school. Except... Annie loved school. Her blue eyes shone when she talked about her lessons. She practically worshipped her teacher, Mr. Lowe, regardless of his penchant for gravity.
“Isn’t there Geography today? If you get up, you can learn about Siam.”
Annie stirred, her little face turning up, pale but full of longing. “I can’t miss that.” Slowly, she rolled to the edge of the bed and heaved herself upright. Swaying, she pushed onto her feet. “I can go to school–”
Lydia lunged as Annie collapsed, catching her before she banged her head. “Perhaps not, darling.” She eased her daughter’s slight body back into the bed, re-covering her with the blanket. “You rest. Mama will take care of you.”
Annie’s breathing was labored.
How could she deal with this? She hadn’t been able to save enough money for a doctor, and Annie needed one. The price of bread increased constantly. As did the rent. That blasted rent…
“Papa.”
“What?” Panic shot through Lydia. “What did you say?” But her little girl’s eyelids had closed.
She stared at Annie’s wan face and dismissed the word, Papa. She must have imagined it. Because of all the things Lydia hadn’t given her, and could never provide, a father was top of the list.
Lydia would have to call a doctor. She trembled a little. The cost would eat into her meagre savings. The roof needed to be re-thatched again before winter, as it had started to leak in her bedroom despite the repairs she’d made two years ago. She could ask her sister for more money, but given she was already reliant on her for her “widow’s pension” it was a further humiliation to beg for more. She loathed depending on charity.
She would watch Annie today and if she hadn’t improved by tomorrow, she’d find the money somehow. It would only be a couple of days, and Annie would recover, Lydia told herself. Looking at Annie’s pale face, Lydia knew she wouldn’t leave her side until she was well. There was barely any food in the kitchen, but they’d make do.
A memory of being ill as a child flitted through Lydia’s mind. She’d had scarlet fever. It was a vision of being tended by gentle hands in a warm room. Low voices and little segments of fruit tempting her to eat. Chicken soup and soft bread when she began to improve. None of that would be available for her daughter.
Her life was a cautionary morality tale. Lydia could visualize it in those sets of prints for three pennies each, or a shilling for the set of twelve. It would be the tale of the downfall of the vain and proud young woman. The first images would be her, aged seventeen. Reckless, flirtatious, covetous. Beautiful, but not as lovely as her sister. Her dress in the highest fashion, but probably not (in hindsight) the best taste. The meeting between the anti-heroine and the rake, with coquettish glances and maidenly blushes. A picture of gaiety, couples dancing, ankles on show, him foppishly handsome. An illicit liaison, passing notes, and a stolen kiss. A small dog watches on disapprovingly from the corner of the picture. Then an image of the coupling–always important to get a bit of titillation into a series of pictures–their lips pressed together and his hand holding up her skirts, exposing her thigh. Revelation, with her red-faced Father disowning her and Mother pleading for it not to be true. The downfall. Alone with a newborn baby, making herself a new life under a mendacious alias. An image of attempted redemption, where she would be pictured as a pious widow, trying to scratch a living by selling eggs and care for her daughter. But to no avail. The sins of the mother are visited upon the daughter, made white and still in her bed. Then wasn’t there always justice? Herself weeping over a pauper’s grave for her innocent child. The implication being that she would have condemned her daughter with loose morals, eventually. Divine retribution. Death.
Lydia gave herself a little shake. It was simply a cold. In a few days Annie would be back at school, on time, and severe Mr. Lowe would have no cause to frown at her. Though probably he would anyway. It was as if their first meeting, with her in the mud, had despoiled her in his mind. He reserved his dark scowls for her, as though he knew all her secrets.
* * *
Alfred Lowe raised his hand, breathed in and knocked. His knuckles stung on the oak door and the little pain was welcome. Beautiful women, like Mrs. Taylor, made him nervous. But it was his duty to call upon children absent from school, as Sir Thomas was resolute about absenteeism.
He rolled back on his heels as he waited and pulled his coat more closely around him against the chilly afternoon air. It was minutes before he heard her footsteps inside. His heart beat faster with anticipation as the door opened.
He reeled from the sight of her. Since his first meeting with Mrs. Taylor he’d maintained professional distance. Seeing her fall in her attempt to get Annie to school on time had pulled at his heart and he hadn’t wanted sympathy to make him partial. She was gorgeous as ever, but her curly hair was coming out of its tie and her shoulders were hunched with tension. There was little color in her cheeks.
Her eyes filled with wariness as she saw him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe.”
“Your daughter was absen
t from school today.”
Her mouth fell open in distress.
Too abrupt. He was getting this all wrong. He swallowed and moderated his tone. “May I enquire if anything is amiss?”
“She’s a little poorly today, that’s all.” The whites of her eyes were too visible, her brows pinched together. “Just a cold. She’ll be back at school tomorrow.”
No, there was more than that. Her words said all was well, but her face was fraught with a mother’s concern.
“May I arrange for a doctor to visit Annie?” He grasped at the first practical action that occurred to him.
“Thank you, but that is quite unnecessary.” Her voice was like an over starched shirt. Her hands, wringing at her apron, said that it was essential but not financially possible. No lady enjoyed having her reduced circumstances impressed on her. He could offer to pay for the doctor, but she would refuse. Thankfully there was a better way.
“Well, at least may I inform the Society, so they may bring her some comfort? A toy perhaps.” The Elmswell Children’s Society was ostensibly a mutual society. Parents payed in a contribution and received a benefit from pooling their money to get a better rate of interest to buy essentials. They also acted as a sort of loan and second-hand shop for clothes and toys.
She hesitated and he saw her fleeting internal battle. “Thank you, that would be most kind.”
“I’ll go immediately.” He itched to take her hand and reassure her all would be well. Instead, he turned and strode away.
Sir Thomas lived two miles from the village, and he took it all at as close to a run as he could manage without incident on the wet road. His lack of a horse, as a mere teacher, rarely bothered Alfred. But right now, he’d have loved to be flying across the miles on a sleek mare.