Once a Fallen Lady

by Pendle, Eve

  He was probably right.

  “We’re having lunch as a family with some visitors,” Lydia explained when Annie had been released from her lesson and they were returning to the parlor

  “Who is it?” Annie enquired.

  Lydia didn’t answer. She took a deep breath as she opened the door to the parlor and watched her daughter walk in, looking at the assembled faces, so like her own and Annie’s. Tea had been served and they were all sat comfortably. Her mother was the first to rise.

  “Dear Annie,” her mother said, a smile lighting her eyes as she approached.

  “Hello.”

  “This is my mother, your grandmother.”

  Annie behaved perfectly, offering a cautious hug. As the other introductions were completed, Annie’s eyes widened more and more.

  Lunch was a long affair. Annie, Charles, and Catherine sat with them at the table, and the two girls were immediately firm friends. Annie was older, but Catherine bolder. Much the reverse of their mothers in the past. Then after lunch they retired to the drawing room, a relic of Lydia’s past that had been resurrected with the school and now had her family in it, as it should.

  When Charlotte went to Matilda to show her Annie’s blond doll, the same one as Alfred had given her, Lydia took the opportunity to go to Annie.

  “Are you having a pleasant day?” Lydia asked, kneeling next to Annie where she was sitting on the floor. Sometimes it was tricky to know the right question. She really wanted to know whether Annie was feeling traumatized.

  “Mama.” Annie didn’t answer her question, instead fiddling with the mane on her wooden toy pony. “Why have we not seen Aunty Matilda or Grandmother or Grandfather before? Other children see their grandparents every week, or just at Christmas if they live far away.”

  Oof. So much for avoiding trauma. Ten years of it, in fact. How to explain the social and emotional web that had caught and divided them? “Because they didn’t approve of your father. They didn’t like him because he didn’t marry me.”

  Her forehead creased. “But he’s dead. And Mr. Lowe is my Papa now.”

  The logic of a ten-year-old child was impeccable. Lydia raised her gaze to her husband, who was watching her sideways while he was laughing at something her father said. It fortified her. She turned back to Annie.

  “I called your father Captain Taylor because I was hurt when he left me before you were born. That isn’t his real name. His name is Oscar Clawson, Lord Markshall. He visited while you were ill. When you’re older, you can visit your father and his wife.”

  “The man who brought biscuits?” Inquisitiveness sparked in Annie’s eyes. “He’s my father?”

  Wonderful. Her daughter was already idealizing men she ought not to. “Yes.”

  Annie thought about this for several seconds. “Can Mr. Lowe still be my Papa?”

  “Yes.” Or maybe Annie wasn’t as naïve as she’d feared.

  “I can have a Papa and a father. Like I have Grandmother and Grandfather.”

  “And you have Aunt Matilda and Uncle Theodore.” The relief that rushed through her was moderated by the harshness of reality. “But Annie, you mustn’t talk about what I’ve told you about your father. People won’t understand. They’ll think of you badly.” They’d call her a bastard and Lydia a whore.

  Annie nodded blithely. “I know, Mama.” She pursed her lips. “Does this mean Charlotte is my cousin?” She reverted to thinking of the family she’d just found.

  “She is.” They had family now.

  “Can we spend Christmas with cousin Charlotte?”

  “If Aunt Matilda agrees, yes.” Annie was right, they should embrace their family. Too much time had been lost already.

  “Can I go and ask her?”

  “You can.” A decade after her supposed husband had died, they were a reconciled family. In the future, Annie could decide for herself whether to embrace the other side of her heritage.

  Annie scampered off to interrupt Matilda and Charlotte and Lydia returned to sit with Alfred and her father. As she sat, Alfred gave her a quick smile. She relaxed and listened to their discussion on Latin. Her father was keen that the children ought to learn the ancient language, but Alfred wasn’t so convinced it was worthwhile.

  Ten years on her own, and she had a gluttony of family. Her child, her husband, and her childhood kin. Later, once the children went to be bed, they told stories about what had happened while they’d been estranged. While Lydia had been dead. Stories of her father’s health scares, her mother’s cats, and Matilda and Lydia’s marriages. And gradually, the tears turned to laughter.

  * * *

  Later, in bed after they’d made love, Lydia rolled over and looked at Alfred. Her husband. “I told you this would end in tears.”

  For a moment, he obviously didn’t remember. Then understanding dawned. When she’d agreed he could court her, he’d said it would end in marriage, and she’d said it would end in tears.

  He leaned in for a kiss. “I don’t mind being wrong with you.”

  Author’s Note

  Here are some miscellaneous clarifications on a few things, some particularly useful for non-Brits:

  Yes, we really are that obsessed with tea. People did dry tea leaves and use them again. Lime tea (no relation of the small green fruit, totally different) is a traditional English tea, though not common now.

  Yes, you did see nods to Thomas Hardy.

  Johnson is a common surname. I don’t know what you mean.

  No part of what is written here should be taken as any sort of guide about how to treat Polio. Polio is horrible and preventable. So are lots of other diseases. Please read the science and then vaccinate your children.

  No part of what is written here should be taken as a slight to abortion or contraception. Quite the opposite. Safe and legal birth control was not available in 1875, and it is now. Women’s bodies are the responsibility and right of the woman in question, and it is not acceptable for anyone to restrict the rights of any woman to choose what happens to her body. Lydia’s story would be completely different with access to free and safe contraception and abortion.

  Vazey is Victorian slang for stupid.

  Thanks

  Thank you for reading Once a Fallen Lady, I hope you enjoyed it.

  If you have a moment, I’d really appreciate a review wherever you like to talk about books. Reviews, however brief, help readers find stories they’ll love.

  You might be curious about Lord and Lady Markshall. Their story is Falling for a Rake and it’s available now. A sample chapter follows in the ebook edition. It’s likely there’ll be another book in the Fallen series, but I don’t know when yet.

  Sign up for my new release email list at www.evependle.com and you’ll be sent an email when my next book is out, AND you’ll receive a free sexy short story, On His Knees, when you subscribe.

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  Also by Eve Pendle

  Falling for a Rake - Fallen Book 1

  He's the most notorious rake in England. She's a Perfect Lady. Neither are what they seem.

  Lady Emily can't afford a scandal. Her sister's debut is just weeks away and she has her pteridology group to safeguard. It's bad enough to be stuck in a hole overnight with Lord Markshall, and worse to have kissed him. Marriage is unthinkable. But newspaper hearsay on their "frolics and fernication" after a fern hunting accident puts everything she's worked for in jeopardy.

  Lord Markshall's whole political career is based on manipulation and disguise. Lady Emily's polite insults are just the thing to prove to himself, and everyone else, that he's still an unworthy rake. He wants her desperately, but even a fake engagement is too good for him.

  With Emily's sister's debut and a major political vote coming up, their reputations–good and bad–have never been more critical. The newspaper gossip is edging toward the truth, threat
ening to incinerate everything they hold dear. Can they understand, accept, and love each other, before it's too late?

  Six Weeks with a Lord

  Grace Alnott’s dowry comes with a condition: she must marry a lord. Desperate for money to rescue her little brother from his abusive but aristocratic guardian, she offers half her dowry in return for a marriage of convenience.

  Everett, Lord Westbury, needs money for his brother’s debtors just as cattle plague threatens to destroy his estate. Grace’s bargain is a perfect solution, until he is committed and realizes gossip exaggerated her wealth. So he makes his own terms. She must live with him for six weeks, long enough to seduce her into staying and surrendering her half of the dowry. But their deal means he can’t claim any husbandly rights. He has to tempt her into seducing him.

  Their marriage is peppered with prejudices, attraction, and secrets that will change everything.

  A Pineapple in a Pine Tree

  Five years after breaking Amelia Chilson’s heart, he’s back. Robert Danbury wants the mistletoe kiss Amelia denied him years ago, but nothing more; loving a woman again is an unthinkable risk.

  When they’re caught innocently in bed together Robert has an instant to choose: Amelia’s reputation, their lost love, or his conscience.

  More by Eve Pendle

  Excerpt: Falling for a Rake

  A rake and a duke's daughter fall into a mine shaft whilst fern hunting. They couldn't be more different, or so they think…

  Chapter One

  20 March 1875, Devon

  Lady Emily Ravensthorpe inwardly ground her teeth as she searched between stones. She had been looking for the elusive fern, Dryopteris affinis, for weeks now. It was a point of honor to add it to her collection. But Lord Markshall was watching her, so she was on her guard instead of concentrating properly.

  “Lady Emily.” Lord Markshall’s voice was like brandy cream. “Let me help you.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, my lord. And as a new pteridologist,” Emily pasted a smile to her face as she turned, “I suggest you limit yourself to attending Mrs. Burnham.” Utterly polite. No-one ever suspected any indiscretion of a lady who was beautifully polite.

  Even the reputation of a duke’s daughter was in danger with a man–she wouldn’t call him a gentleman–such as Lord Markshall. And Emily’s reputation couldn’t stand any taint. Walking deliberately into a copse of ash trees, she pushed aside the branches.

  She searched crevices and nooks. Dryopteris affinis, or the affy fern as she’d decided to call it, was delicately fronded like a piece of expensive Honiton lace. She’d only seen it once, in a fellow collector’s centerpiece of a stone arch scene, its unprepossessing beauty in deep green leaves setting off the moss-covered stones perfectly. She had just three more days to look before they had to leave for the London season. Some idle lord’s whim must not derail her search.

  “Lady Emily.” His voice was closer now. She pressed deeper into the undergrowth. At the back of the thicket was a small rock face that looked promising. She might find the affy fern there. And escape Lord Markshall.

  “I’m terribly sorry, my lord, but I’m rather busy right at this moment. Perhaps we might speak later,” she said in her society darling voice. If she could show him she was not going to fall for his rakish charms, he would leave her and rejoin the rest of the group. It would be preferable if he remained with Mrs. Burnham whose status as a widowed crone precluded the likelihood of amorous intent on his part.

  Though the broadness of his shoulders did send a little thrill down her neck.

  She pushed on through the undergrowth, detaching the brambles that caught to her skirts. Her dress was hardwearing tartan wool for these outings, the bustle at the back the only allowance to fashion, but it was still a struggle.

  “I was wondering if you might include me in your search,” Lord Markshall persisted. “I’ve recently become very interested in pteridology.”

  Recently interested, her arse. When they’d met at a dinner a week ago, he’d raised one eyebrow and asked what was wrong with hunting normal things like partridge or foxes. Just because she had hunted in the past didn’t mean she couldn’t see the error of her ways now. Fern hunting was much more genteel and suitable for ladies; that was what was good about it and wrong about fox hunting. So much so, she had formed The Ladies’ Association of Fern Enthusiasts and Hunters. This year their annual trip to search for unusual ferns was in Devon, far south of their native Cumbria.

  “I think you are confused, my lord, about this group.” She kept her voice calm and low. “Ladies are the subject, not the object, of the hunting pursuit.” Men did seem to find it difficult to understand women as active rather than passive. She pushed a branch out of the way.

  “The Lady Hunters.”

  His voice came from right behind her and she leaped in surprise. Cautiously, she turned her head, and this time, her heart jolted. He really was dreadfully handsome. Blond curly hair cropped short, as though he were some demonic cherub, blue eyes glinting with mischief. He was much taller than her, forcing her to look up at him. His chest, in a well-cut checked lounge suit, was wide. If she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders, she would have to reach both up and out to encompass him.

  He smirked. “The hunter and the hunted are not mutually exclusive, Lady Emily. You have been avoiding me.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.” She faced him down with an innocuous smile. His eyes were the dark blue of a storm over water. The moment stretched, their gazes locked, staring. She looked away abruptly.

  Ferns. She should look for the affy fern.

  “But you said yourself that men were able to come on your expeditions.”

  “I did also mention that single men were not encouraged.” Not by Emily, anyway. “It is a ladies’ group.”

  In name only, it was a ladies’ group. When one of their members had become too frail to do without the support of her husband, they’d bent the rule about no men. It had only taken that, a marriage, and Miss Green insisting that it was inequitable for membership by single gentlemen to be prohibited, for the rules to be changed. If she’d known this would be the result, she would have fought harder.

  There was a tuft of maidenhair spleenwort fern just over to the left. She made a move towards it. Where there was one fern, they could be others.

  “Why are you so against me?” he murmured.

  She gulped and incautiously looked around. The way he said against, his eyes guileless and faux sad, but his mouth curving, made Emily think of other ways of being against him, chest to chest. She could reach up and press her lips against his. He would be warm and delicious. And forbidden. And dangerous.

  This was why one did not talk to handsome degenerates. They could incite improper thoughts in the most determinedly appropriate ladies. Perhaps she ought to arrange for one of the group’s free pamphlets to be on identifying and avoiding the wrong type of man.

  She took a step back into the undergrowth, a scrubby not-quite hedge surrounding an inland cliff face. This was why she wasn’t going near him. He was treacherous to her and her reputation, and very hazardous for her family’s veneer of respectability. He made her want things that were finished for her.

  “I do prefer to search alone. May I ask you to respect that wish?” She took another step back. But she couldn’t help looking at his face as she said it. Her sister, Connie, was coming out in just a few weeks. Now, more than ever, was the time to keep scandal at arm’s length.

  “Careful, the ground might be uneven.” He reached out toward her. “There are caves and old mine workings around here.”

  “I know that,” she bit out. “And if you’d please rejoin the rest of the party.” She took another step, the stones, ivy, and sticks crunching under her boot. “I would be able to look where I was going, instead of trying to negotiate with you.”

  Connie. She couldn’t spoil everything for Connie with any tittle-tattle. The fear of scru
tiny was a constant, because if gossips noticed her, they might start to query other parts her past. She had to keep away from him.

  “I’m just curious to discover new...ferns with you.” Lord Markshall moved toward her, closing the small gap she’d created.

  Emily took a panicky step. Her heel sank and didn’t stop. The unexpected dip caught her off balance and her back-heavy skirts suddenly were pulling her. She grasped out, but she was dropping. Desperate, she threw herself forward, reaching.

  “Lady–” Lord Markshall thrust his hand toward her and she clutched onto it.

  “Oh!” Where they ought to have felt the ground, the long strings of bramble and ivy gave way and parted. She tumbled awkwardly, Lord Markshall with her, scraping and scrambling on ledges. Something caught on Emily’s shoulder and the pain ripped a cry from her. The impact turned her and so she was on top of Markshall when they finally landed with a thud and a snap. Pain shot across her body.

  It took a moment for Emily to see where they were. She was laid across Markshall, in darkness punctuated by dappled light from above. The stone around them was wet and beneath her hand was hard and gravelly. She tried to push herself up, but as she put pressure on her hand, her shoulder ripped with pain and she unintentionally let out a noise of incoherent protest.

  Markshall was silent as she managed to sit up, pushing herself with her other arm. She looked down at him, shadowy in the dark. He was still. Dead still.

  Her blood pounded against her skin. Not again. Please lord, not again. She couldn’t stand it.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, terror numbing her vocal cords. She’d killed him. Her fern hunting trip had killed him. People would talk about her as...

  “Markshall,” she whispered. Her heart was thundering like a horse galloping in her chest.