"Six, I believe."
Six. That had to be… The sums weren't making sense in his head. Had she gotten pregnant on her wedding night? "When's his birthday?" Tension and heat flowed through every part of his body, and his chest grew tight.
Mr. Lawrence shrugged. "Not something we ever discussed."
Tristan watched the man, knowing he wasn’t going to reveal anything further, holding the information like cards to his chest.
Six, he repeated silently. His mind was screaming at him, telling him there was something very crucial here.
Chapter 3
Their rooms seemed desolate, as if they mourned too. But there was a stillness, as though everyone felt that Doug's suffering was over, and there was a blessing in that. Adding some coal to the stove, Sophie prepared the stew they were having for supper.
Cooking wasn't something she'd been prepared for growing up. It had been better times when her father had been alive, but with his death, their fortunes had waned. Many of the girls she had grown up with saw her as a cautionary tale, the fairy tale come true that turned into utter disaster. Only, it wasn't a disaster. She had the means of supporting herself and her son. That might count for little in finer salons, but it meant a great deal to her.
On a chair sat the bedclothes that had just come back from the washerwoman—making the bed a task for her to complete as soon as supper was eaten.
Alfie sat at the table with the reading book she had gotten him. He wanted a head start for his school and Sophie marveled at how pragmatic he was. In some ways, his personality was in stark contrast to Doug’s.
Ladling the stew into two plates, they ate at the table, both enjoying the quiet of the room, away from the bustling city outside. Holborn was never quiet. It was a respectable enough neighborhood, the residence of traders and merchants. Sophie liked it there. Not quite as far east as Spitalfields and Cheapside, but a nice neighborhood for those who wanted to work hard and enjoy a peaceful existence otherwise.
The temperance movement was strong and it kept the worst of the rowdiness out of Holborn. Sophie had gone to a few of their meetings. Caring for Doug had made outings increasingly rare, even the concerts he’d loved so much.
It felt disloyal to say it, but there were a number of things she could do with Alfie now—such as visiting the Crystal Palace, the zoo and a boat ride along the Thames. So much of their lives had revolved around Doug's illness, but perhaps it was time to explore the city a little.
Alfie was engrossed in the book, his lips moving as he tried to read. He was so independent, refusing to let her help. As always, he wanted to do things on his own—it was a point of pride.
At times, she had to wonder how much of his father was in him. To be completely honest, she knew very little about the man who had been her first husband—as opposed to Doug, for whom she had known every hope, dream and aspiration. A wave of sadness hit her, but she pressed it down. There had been too much sadness and she couldn't bear any more. So for now, she was patently ignoring it.
Lord Aberley was an easier topic to think of. A handsome man without doubt, dark and mysterious—that constant disapproving look. She really had thought a fairy tale was coming true when her brother informed her that this was the man she was to marry. The handsomest man she had ever seen.
But he’d never ceased being either disapproving or mysterious. Nothing she did had pleased him, and the only time he'd have anything to do with her was when he’d been drunk, as if it was distasteful to deal with her. The fact that they'd never had a honeymoon should have been telling, but she had been too young and naïve to understand.
And then, out of the blue, she had been ordered to leave his house, and to take absolutely nothing with her. Even then, she hadn't fully understood. Divorce had been mentioned as the carriage stood by to carry her away to her brother's rooms.
Her brother had yelled and screamed, had blamed her—and she had believed it. She'd thought she'd done something seriously wrong, and she hadn't understood what. Every single thing about herself she had questioned.
And when she'd found out she was pregnant, her brother had been absolutely livid, and Sophie had felt like the lowest creature in the world. Now that she was stronger, it was the one thing she could never quite forgive her brother for.
As much as possible, she had locked him out of their lives, which hadn't proved hard, because there was nothing for him to gain out of her and Doug. Doug was also something her brother had presented to her, a means of not having a child out of wedlock. It was the best thing her brother had ever done for her, even if he saw it as the consequence of absolute failure.
A knock sounded on the door, and Sophie closed her eyes. Think of the devil and he appeared. "Hello," Oliver called, opening the door casually. Stepping into the room, he looked dapper as always in his black tailcoat and top hat. Dressed like a gentleman ready for the night's entertainment, although it was that little bit worn around the edges. That was her brother—always had pretensions to be better than he really was. "Sophie, my love, so sorry to hear about your dear husband. But we always knew he would, didn’t we? Ill as he was. Hung in there to the very end, though, didn't he?" Oliver said, walking around their small kitchen. "I hate to see you in such squalor, but being rid of that albatross does present new opportunities for you. We'll sell that shop, of course."
"We will not," Sophie said.
Oliver turned to her with surprise raising his eyebrows. "But, Sophie… " he started as if she didn't understand.
"I will be keeping the shop. It provides for me and Alfie."
"You're a beautiful woman."
"And you are not selling me like a prized horse. I am a widow of independent means. You have no say over me whatsoever."
"Means? You call this means?" he said dismissively. His light mood was melting away quickly and she could see him swearing inside his head. Purposefully he calmed himself down. "You have suffered a shock. I understand. You are not thinking clearly."
"No, I am thinking very clearly. I am the sole charge of my life now, and you have no purpose in it other than as my brother. I am not going to marry again. I am certainly not going to participate in any of your schemes."
Sitting down at the other end of the small table, he crossed his legs. Still smiling as though he was humoring her. "You will come to feel differently in time."
"In that case, I will choose my husband. You will not have a say in it." Her head held high, she defied him. He needed to learn that she was not a little girl anymore, subject to his whims, and stupid enough to believe he actually meant her well. To him, she was leverage, but she was not going to play that game again.
"You think you're going to be happy being a shopkeep all your life? What about Alfie? What opportunities are you denying him by some ridiculous notion you have that there is nobility in poverty? You're being ridiculous."
"I have determined my course," Sophie stated and refused to back down. Oliver hadn't been around that much lately to understand that she had changed—that she wasn't the pliable little girl anymore.
Sharply, he rose, cursing. "Why must you always fail me?"
"Because I was never here to achieve things for you. And I am certainly not now, so you better resign yourself to the fact that your relation is a lowly shopkeep."
"You were always a disappointment," he stated harshly. Oliver had a tendency to lose his temper when things didn't go his way, and he blamed the people around him. Probably similar to what he did to his poor wife, whose fortune he had already blown through. Poor creature. Men like him would never understand why women clasped onto their independence and held on for dear life. It would have to be a wonderful man for her to even contemplate marrying again—it certainly wouldn't be for whatever benefit her brother sought for himself.
The door slammed as he left and Alfie turned concerned eyes to her.
"We don't need anyone in our lives," she told him. "We're perfectly happy, aren't we?"
"I don't want another
father," he said after a while.
Guilt pierced through her. At what age should she tell him that Doug wasn't actually his father? During the fresh pain of his loss was not the right time. "It's just me and you, my love," she said. "We don't need anyone else, do we?"
"No," he said with a wan smile. Luckily, Oliver had never particularly invested in the relationship between him and Alfie, so he held little sway over the boy.
With a smile, she tried to hide how angry she was with Oliver. How dare he come here and try to use her again. Did he believe she would just let him lead her into another disaster? God knew what he had in mind. She was still a divorcee, which meant her intended was some version of disagreeable if he would accept such a fault in his bride. Perhaps marriage wasn't even on Oliver's mind. Revulsion clenched her stomach. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to listen to anything he said, and if he returned, she would make that clear until he fully understood. Sophie was now an independent woman and she wasn't giving that up for anyone.
Chapter 4
PUTTING DOWN THE RAZOR, Tristan accepted a handtowel from Mr. Smyth and patted his face dry. He'd managed without a single cut even after the late evening he'd had. The conversation from last night still occupied his mind.
"It seems the former Lady Aberley had a child," he said casually, mostly because he felt he needed to say it aloud. Perhaps he should call her Miss Sophie, although she had some other name now that he couldn’t remember—or didn’t know. He should have asked. The news of her child had been too stunning for him to worry about such practicalities.
"I see," Smyth said. Smyth always listened, but he never initiated conversation. At times, though, the older man's perspective was valuable. A trusted confidant when there were no others to be had.
Smyth handed him his crisp, white shirt, which he pulled on, still warm from the ironing.
"Six years old," Tristan continued.
"Is there any chance the child is yours?"
"Who is to say? The timing would suggest there is a possibility." There had been a few times during his marriage when he'd steeled himself to perform his duty. It hadn't been something he'd particularly enjoyed, being as it had never been a marriage he'd wanted. Even so, the duty to provide an heir had forced him, just as it had forced him to more recently propose to the deceptive and manipulative Miss Cecilia Hartright.
"An heir would free you from the requirement of making another foray into marriage," Smyth said staidly and carefully, as he always did.
"Yes, there is that," Tristan replied. In fact, it would settle a great many things. The title had always come with restrictions. Being the sole heir, he hadn't been allowed to travel in case something untoward happened, and with his father's death, the duty to the title had only intensified. An heir, though, meant that the obligation was fulfilled.
It also meant he didn't have to contend with some bride he couldn't stand the sight of.
"What does Lady Woolwich say on the topic?" Smyth asked.
"I haven't told her." Minette would be beside herself with curiosity. She would likely see it as a good outcome, considering she thought him a misogynist.
He and Minette had been part of the same set in their youth and a friendship had endured. There were certain benefits to having a female friend, particularly when it came to advise about dealing with women.
If he were to tell her about this latest development, she would drive him to find this child, but Tristan felt some uncertainty at the prospect.
As a young man, his expectations on his familial relationships had been different from how reality had played out. He'd expected a wife he'd love and a happy family home. The problem was that he hadn't found anyone he remotely thought he would love, and then his marriage had been a disaster from the moment that girl's name was mentioned. Sophie. Even the name sent revulsion through his stomach.
Once free of her, his sights had been set on Cecilia Hartright, who came from a premier family, the right station and the right society. But it had made her behavior no better than the lowly Sophie, unfortunately. Now all he could see was the grasping and scheming. Or the girls were too dense and it was their mothers who were grasping and scheming.
"What will you do?" Smyth asked.
"About what?"
"The child."
The child. Could the child be his? It shouldn't prove difficult to ascertain whether the child was conceived during the marriage. If so, Tristan could likely identify which night it had occurred on, because his acquiescence to his duty were few. But then, could he be assured Sophie had been particular with her affections. There had been no affection involved, so it wasn't inconceivable that she had some lover somewhere. In which case, she had been very discreet, because Smyth would have reported any unusual activity to him.
"If the child was conceived during the marriage, then I could claim it as my heir." It would be a scandal, but everything about his dealings with women had been scandalous so far. "She is a shopkeep," he said with derision. "More than likely I can just offer her a sum for the boy and she would happily accept it."
"Perhaps," Smyth said in the way he did when he wasn't entirely agreeing. There was more that Smyth wasn't allowing himself to say.
"A creature like her—she'd sell her own mother for a purse full of gold."
Smyth was still silent. "I believe her mother passed some time ago."
Tristan rolled his eyes. Smyth tended to get distracted by facts when Tristan was making a point. The question was how much the offer would have to be.
"The boy could even be sickly, having lingered in a house with a consumptive man for years."
"You are not buying a horse, my lord."
"It feels a little like it."
"If this child is indeed your son, and being so young, he will need his mother."
"I was without my mother well before his age." Granted, Minette did accuse him of having a lump of ice for a heart. "Never did me any harm."
"As you say, my lord." Smyth would probably agree with Minette's assessment.
A son he could teach how to invest, how to manage money and men. It would be an education few would have. It was strange the idea of having a person to invest in.
The problem was that he had no idea where this child was, except that his mother had a music shop somewhere in London. He could inquire with Mr. Lawrence, but by the man's expression last night, Tristan suspected he wouldn't be all that helpful. Still, he could put a proposal in with the solicitor to take to his client, but with this particular investment, he wasn't sure if he could commit to anything sight unseen. This wasn't after all some mine in the Congo. This was a boy that would be his future heir. And who knew what kind of issue someone like Sophie would produce.
"I shall have to see the boy," he determined. "Except I don't know where he is."
"Mr. Joseph might be able to hire a man to investigate the music shops in the city until Sophie is found."
"Yes," Tristan said absently. "That might be the better way of going about it.”
*
Some ten days later, a missive came to the house from the investigator hired by Mr. Joseph, Tristan's man of business. An address in Holborn was included.
Dropping the note on his desk, Tristan drummed his fingers. For most of his adult life, the pressure to produce an heir had been ever-present, and now was the chance to simply acquire one.
"Smyth," he called and the man appeared. "Prepare the carriage." He could ride, but he wanted privacy for this. "No, actually, hire a carriage."
One did not play cards well by putting them on the table, so he wasn't going to take a carriage with his crest on the side. Anonymity was better until he had a grasp on the situation and what he wished to do.
It took some ten minutes before a carriage arrived. It was comfortable enough, beyond a mere hack and they took off for the long drive to Holborn, the streets growing ever more congested as they traveled east and northward.
Eventually the driver stopped and Tristan leaned f
orward to look out the window. They were right outside a music shop, situated on the corner and considerate enough to have ample windows. He could see the entire inside of the shop, and he immediately saw Sophie—older and more mature than what he remembered.
Her hair was tied back in a simple bun and she wore a blue dress, simple both in cut and material. For some reason, he hadn't had any expectations of seeing her—even as he had come here.
Standing with broom in hand, she swept the floor. A menial task suited to her station in life. Yet the markings of depravity weren't etched on her face as he’d expected, but there was sadness. Was that for her husband or for the loss of her position in a much loftier society? A gold band still encircled on her finger.
As he watched, she swept, stopping and smiling when a customer entered the shop. After listening to their request, she walked over to one of the stands and searched through booklets which had to be sheet music, to then retreat to her desk and wrap it in brown paper. Coins were handed to her and she smiled congenially at the customer before putting her gain in her register.
For a moment, he wondered what her expression would be if he walked in there. He didn't really know. It occurred to him now that he didn't actually know her well—not to the point where he could predict her expressions.
And then a boy came out of the back. Dark hair and icy eyes, just like his own.
Tristan exhaled. There was no doubt that the boy was his. It was as if looking at a younger version of himself.
Sophie pulled him into an embrace and the boy accepted the fussing with distracted indifference, until she spoke and he looked up at her. Kissing him on the head, she stepped away and pulled a coin out of the register. The boy greedily accepted it and Sophie smiled as she watched him run out of the store to go find whatever treat he'd been promised.
Tristan felt an urge to snatch him as he ran past.
That was his child, his son.
There was no doubt in his mind. Sophie had birthed his child. Anger seeped through him. Why had she not informed him? The answer was clear, though. Because he would have used it as an opportunity to explain to her exactly what her scheming ways had gotten her. Nothing. In fact, he wouldn't have let her in to tell him. He'd had a standing order informing his household that under no circumstances was she to be given entrance to the house.
The Discarded Wife Page 2