Caren took a deep breath and let out a sigh. Her red cheeks showed a sheen of perspiration. “Of course, sir.” Her shoulders slumped. In relief?
Francesca was ashamed. She’d hardly given the poor woman a thought since they’d begun their walk, and there she was out of breath and sweaty. I only thought of myself and Mr. Fairgate. How thoughtless of me!
Releasing Mr. Fairgate’s support, she stepped back toward Caren. Taking the older woman’s arm, she helped her toward the bench. The poor woman was limping.
“Here, Caren, let’s sit down. I’m tired and out of breath. I hope you don’t mind?”
Caren’s eyes showed gratitude. Lowering her voice she whispered, “Thank you, miss.”
They settled on the bench. Francesca sat in the middle, assuming Caren would sit quite close to chaperone. To her surprise the other woman sat on the farthest end of the bench. She smiled at Francesca, and then angled away, giving them privacy.
The bench shifted. Mr. Fairgate sat on Francesca’s other side. Heat rose between their lightly touching shoulders.
A splash and a quack came from their right. Francesca widened her eyes. “Oh, look. Ducks! I didn’t even notice that pond until now.”
“That happens often. With those large trees surrounding it, the pond is quite hidden.”
More ducks splashed around in the water. Soon smaller versions with downy feathers appeared behind the adults.
“How beautiful. The babies are so cute. And look at the luminous feathers of the parents. What kind of ducks are those?”
“Pintail. Some of my favorite.”
Remembering something he’d said when they’d first met, Francesca turned her gaze back to him. “That’s right. You told me before that you studied birds. Is that right?”
“Yes. Ornithology. I love birds. Perhaps as much as you love the cats. Although I do love those dearly, as well.”
“All the cats except Belle?”
“You know, that day…” He glanced at Caren, but she appeared not to be listening. “That day with Belle, I was frightened.”
“As anyone would have been.”
“Anyone but you. But yes, I was. Thinking about it later, I realized she was only doing her duty as a mother. Protecting her unborn young.”
Something touched her hand. She snuck a glance downward. His glove rested next to hers. Not holding it, as he had during Belle’s delivery, but definitely touching. Oh, how she wished he would!
Lowering his voice, he glanced at their hands. “May I?”
Heart swelling in her chest, she swallowed to relieve her dry throat. “Y-yes.”
He lifted his hand a little, just enough to move and cover hers. Warmth spread through her. Up her arm, across her neck, down her chest, and to her stomach. “Is that acceptable?”
She nodded. For several minutes they sat in silence. Watching the ducks. Listening to various songbirds twitter and chirp. And holding hands.
Giving his hand a squeeze, she slipped hers out of his and placed it on her lap. People were walking toward them on the path and she didn’t want them to see her holding Mr. Fairgate’s hand. She smiled. “You’re right about Belle. That’s exactly what she was doing, protecting her young. Thank you for saying that.”
“Why would you thank me?”
“Because you had every right to hold it against her. Against me.”
He took her hand again. “No. I would never hold that or anything against you.” Glancing down at their hands again, he scooted a little closer. Keeping his voice low, he looked back up. Into her eyes. “Miss Hartwell, do you suppose it would be…”
“Yes, Mr. Fairgate?”
“Well, it seems we’ve formed a… friendship. Would you mind terribly if we shared our Christian names? Addressed each other as such?”
He wanted to call her by her given name? “I would like that, Mr., uh…” She laughed. “I suppose you’d better tell me what to call you.”
“I am John.”
“And I am Francesca.”
“What a lovely name. I knew it must be something of the sort.”
“How did you know?”
“Your father called you Franny.”
“Ah, yes. His pet name for me since I was a small girl.”
He shrugged. “I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I can call you that, if you’d rather.”
“I believe I like Francesca. I… like the way it sounds… when you say it.”
“Then Francesca it is. Are you enjoying the outing, Francesca?”
“Very much. Thank you again, John, for bringing me. There’s so much to see. I had no idea the Sanctuary was so large.”
“Yes, there is much to see. It takes several visits to observe it all.”
Silence settled between them.
He tilted his head toward her. “Perhaps…”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps someday you could… that is, we could return. To visit again?”
Francesca’s heart jumped. He wanted to bring her again? “That would be lovely. But I wouldn’t want to take up your time.”
“But I would enjoy it. Wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t I…?”
“Enjoy coming back? With me?” His face reddened. His eyes darkened. Leaning closer, the brim of his hat bumped hers. “Pardon. It seems I’ve knocked your hat awry. Again.”
“We seem to be having an askew-hat day.”
He laughed. “There are worse things, I imagine.”
She smiled. “Yes.” A sigh escaped her lips.
He squeezed her hand, but did not remove his. Francesca wouldn’t mind if he never removed his hand. Never left her side. Her life.
Without warning, without permission, something had stolen into her life. Her heart.
Love.
Francesca was in love.
Chapter Nine
Miss Cartwright sat down on the settee, smoothing the skirts of her white dress until not a wrinkle survived. The tick-tock of the old clock on the mantel filled the silence, pounding out a steady rhythm so unlike John’s anxious heartbeat. Because every time that woman was in the house, it was as if an unpleasant illness had descended on the premises, never to leave. Always to vex and bother. John would love nothing more than for the woman to spend time in her own home. It was as if she’d laid claim to his uncle’s house, soon to be his, and staked that claim by perching on the furniture.
Waiting.
“Where is your uncle, Mr. Fairgate?”
John sighed and glanced toward the entryway, which led to the stairs. “He’s taken to his bed today, I’m afraid. Not having a good day.”
Studying her gloved hand, she shook her head. “What a pity.”
Was there a slight smile on her lips? He lowered his eyebrows. Did it please her that Uncle Cleo was ill? That he would soon…?
No. He would not even think of what was most assuredly coming soon. Could not. Cleo had featured in all of John’s most pleasant memories during his entire life. Once he was… gone, a void would be created in John's heart that would never be able to close.
A glance toward the settee set his stomach to roiling. Miss Cartwright wanted to be a baroness. That was no secret. But to wish the hastening of an old man’s demise to achieve it? Swallowing hard, John allowed his displeasure at Miss Cartwright’s insensitivity to cloud over his grief. Anger didn’t sting as much as heartache.
“Is there something I can help you with today, Miss Cartwright?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
She frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The reason for your visit today?” Circling for carrion, perhaps?
“I don’t understand why you ask. I’m here quite often.”
“Yes. Indeed.” Oh, that it were not so. A desperate sigh escaped his lips.
Her mouth turning down in a pout, she huffed out a long breath. Waves of her putrid perfume blew across the short distance to John as he stood at the fireplace. Blasted woman stank up
the entire house!
Shrugging her shoulders, Miss Cartwright glanced toward him, her eyes never quite reaching his. “I suppose there is something of a delicate nature which we should discuss.”
“Such as?” When had she ever been delicate? About anything? She was as delicate as a stampeding rhinoceros in a foul mood.
“That young girl. Miss Hartwell. From that horrid place.”
“Yes? What about her?”
“She’s, well…” Placing her hand in front of her mouth, she stifled a lady-like cough. Was it real or a show of distaste for the other woman?
Turning full toward her, John took a step. “She is… what?”
A sigh. A glance to her left. A lowering of her eyelashes. “I’m afraid she is one of those women that some, not I, mind you, but some might refer to as…”
Tapping his boot on the hearthstones, John’s face heated. “Yes?” Speak, woman, speak.
“I should not say it. Not in the company of a gentleman.” Her hand fanning her face, she pursed thin lips.
John frowned. “I’ve spoken with Miss Hartwell on several occasions. I’m quite sure anything you have to say about her would have to be most innocuous. There’s nothing about her that would be—”
Miss Cartwright glared at him. Straight on. Gone was the demure cough. The hedged words. The averted glance. Instead the gentle whisper of a dove was replaced by the hiss of a viper. Venom dripped from her lips. “That girl is nothing more than a bit of muslin.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It would not surprise me to learn she’s nothing more than a kept woman. Allowing this or that man carte-blanche privileges.”
“Miss Cartwright! Are you saying she is… is… a light-skirts?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Completely wanton.”
“That’s absurd.” He fisted his hands at his sides. “She’s an innocent. Anyone can see that.”
“Oh? And you know this to be true?”
Face warming from his neck upward, John swallowed past dryness in his throat. “Well, I—”
“Just as I suspected. It’s only wishful thinking on your part. You have no way of knowing. Unless…” Raised eyebrows hovered over cold eyes, like predator vultures waiting for the field mouse to exit its hidey-hole.
“Watch your tongue! You’ve said quite enough. I’ll not hear such talk about Miss Hartwell.”
“You have… feelings for her, then?”
A rustle from the entryway interrupted them. “Feelings for whom?” Uncle Cleo, on the arm of the butler, shuffled into the room.
John rubbed his hand over a damp forehead. “No one, Uncle.” He and Miss Cartwright’s voices had been quite raised. Otherwise, John would have heard the steady thump thump thump of Cleo’s ungainly step on the stairs. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. In pain.” He glanced down at his feet. “Old.”
John rushed to his other side, assisting the butler in lowering Cleo to his favorite chair. Once safely seated, Cleo closed his eyes. Was it against the pain? Sadness? The inevitability of the end of life? He opened them, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Ah. Miss Cartwright. So wonderful to see you, as always.”
“Thank you, my lord. I hear you’re not feeling well?”
John stepped away and clenched his teeth together. As if Miss Cartwright gave a whit about how his uncle fared. Was there anything but malice that came from her mouth?
“Come, dear.” Cleo patted the chair next to him. “Keep an old man company.”
Standing, preening like a proud peacock, she sashayed toward the older man, darting a glance toward John. Always wanting to be the center of everyone’s attention. John could not help but compare her to Miss Hartwell.
Proud peacock to nesting finch.
Outspoken displeasure to peaceful humility.
Hate to love.
Love? To be sure, his heart never raced like that for Miss Cartwright. His palms never became sweaty. His mouth never dry in her presence. Not only Miss Cartwright, but any woman.
Any woman besides Miss Hartwell.
When he was with her, he could not look away. Longed to reach out, touch her cheek, wrap a dark tendril of her hair around his finger. Pull her close into an embrace.
When without her, his thoughts dwelt on her dark eyes, warm smile, and tender heart. Gentle countenance that took the time to speak to a lion, encourage a leopard with her new cubs, reach out her fingers so an elephant could take a curious sniff. Never had he met someone like her. Someone so sweet, so thoughtful and caring.
He sighed. Yet what could be done? He glanced toward the chairs where his uncle and Miss Cartwright sat side by side, talking of the weather, her father, sharing stories of years ago when she and John were small and played together in this very room. Were the old man and haughty woman plotting against him? Preparing for a wedding that John prayed would never happen?
****
Uncle Cleo sat in his chair by the fire, napping. John tiptoed in, not wanting to disturb the old man’s rest. How long would John have Cleo with him? Heart breaking at the thought of life without his uncle, John lowered himself into the chair next to Cleo’s, wincing when the frame squeaked.
Low flames danced in the fireplace, giving off warmth, but not so much heat as to be oppressive. He looked at his uncle, who had a blanket tucked in around his lap. Cleo always seemed to be cold of late. And ready to die. John swallowed hard. If only there would be years and years of time yet together for them. That Cleo could see him married and have children.
But not with Miss Cartwright. Try as he might, John could not imagine spending his life with her. It took his all to sit and converse with her without longing to wring her neck. But Cleo seemed determined that John marry her.
“Woolgathering, John?”
Startled, John glanced up. “Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I seem to doze off and on much these days. It’s the sum of my existence, I’m afraid.” He held out gnarled hands toward the fire. “Something seems amiss.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle.”
“You’ve done nothing to be sorry for. That I know of.” He raised a white eyebrow, giving John the same look he’d received as a child when he’d pulled Miss Cartwright’s hair.
“For some time now, I’ve wanted to discuss… something with you.”
“Now’s the time, my boy. Life is short.” He reached out and patted John’s shoulder, the hand icy through John’s coat despite the fireplace’s heat.
John cleared his throat. Yes, now was the moment. He’d been dreading this conversation for a long time. And now, he had even more reason to talk to his uncle.
Francesca.
“You see…”
“Don’t be shy, John. Say what you need to.” He folded his hands on the blanket in his lap.
Turning toward him, John looked him in the eyes, which seemed to have faded to a lighter color over the last few years. After gathering courage, he became determined to have his say. It was now or never. His happiness, nay, his whole life depended on what his uncle would say. “Lately I’ve been having doubts about what is to come.”
Cleo chuckled. “And you think I haven’t, as well?”
John frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It was a joke, John. Just trying to introduce some levity into what I can tell will be a serious conversation.”
Nodding, he tried again. “I’ll just say it, then.” He bit his lip. “There are two things, no, three, which are quite troubling to me.”
Uncle Cleo watched him but said nothing.
“The first being, I don’t want to give up my ornithology research. It’s what I love. Is there not some way for me to continue and fulfill your wishes at the same time?”
Cleo grasped his hands together. “I know I’m a strict man, as was my father. But as I’ve gotten older, I will admit I’ve revisited some of my earlier rules. I know you love what you do, John. But the
re are so many duties you will have to assume when you inherit your title.” His rubbed his chin. “I suppose there might be a way to compromise. Perhaps you could still pursue your study of birds if it were secondary to taking care of the estate and its financial matters?”
John was nodding his head before his uncle even finished. “Absolutely. Yes, I’m positive I can make that work. Thank you for considering it, Uncle. It lightens my heart to know I will not have to give it up completely.”
“Very well. That’s the first. What’s the second issue?”
Swallowing hard, John knew the next would be much tougher to say, and harder still for his uncle to hear. “It’s about Miss Cartwright.”
Cleo smiled, the wrinkles around his mouth deepening. “Yes, what about her?”
“I do not love her.”
He flipped a hand in the air. “Is that all?”
“Pardon?”
“Love is not a necessity for marriage, my boy. I did not love your aunt when we married, but I grew to, over the years. Especially since we were not blessed with children, we grew closer to each other over time.”
“I understand that. I do. But… I do not even like Miss Cartwright.”
“Perhaps you will.”
“I do not esteem her in the least.”
“That may change.”
“I loathe her. Can barely stand to be in her presence. She makes my skin crawl.” There. The words were out.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry to be blunt, but I feel so strongly about this that it needed to be said.” He bowed his head, ashamed of the way his uncle stared at him. Why must this be so difficult? Such a division between them?
Cleo sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that, John. Very sorry. But you must marry soon. Must produce an heir. You are the last of my line and we cannot let it die.”
“I know. But—”
“You said there was a third. Am I to assume it has to do with another young woman?”
John raised his head. How did his uncle know?
Cleo chuckled. “I was young once, you know. I’ve seen the sparkle in your eyes when you’ve been on certain outings. I wasn’t sure, but I had a hunch that someone had taken your eye. I had hoped it was Miss Cartwright, but also wondered if there was someone else as well. May I ask her name?”
Romance at the Royal Menagerie Page 9