“But before that?” Sarah plunged ahead, biting back her sympathy—sympathy no one seemed willing to extend to her. “Did you really think I had stolen the sapphires?”
“That old necklace? Of course not.” Papa sounded astonished. “Who could think such a thing? But it seemed quite likely that you had been duped by the one who did steal it.”
Mama nodded gravely. “The situation with the officer had a very bad look to it. Anyone might be forgiven for thinking that you—that you and he—had . . .” She blushed and looked away.
“How could you believe it of me?” Sarah whispered. Neither one answered. “Well, I had not,” she asserted, on her dignity. “But it was perfectly clear to me that everyone believed I had. So I left.”
Sarah waited. Surely there were more words to be said after so many years. But for a long, painfully silent interval, none seemed to come. At last Mama rose and wandered around the room, studying its features. “All that is in the past,” she said at last with what could only be described as a sense of relief, as if some long-disrupted order had finally been restored. “You’ve returned now, Sarah. You are where I always imagined you would be—the mistress of a nobleman’s estate. The Viscountess Fairfax.”
“Yes, my dream come true,” she agreed, fighting to keep the sardonic edge from her voice. “After a fashion.”
“What do you mean, ‘after a fashion’?” Papa demanded.
“Lord Fairfax intends shortly to return to London to live. Alone.”
Mama recoiled. Papa frowned. “Nonsense.”
“I assure you, he does.”
“Having seen the state of things here, my dear, I daresay he has discovered he cannot afford to.”
Sarah had no notion how much it would cost to maintain their separate households. “Surely the family will not have run through the whole of my dowry,” she reminded them.
“Your dowry?” Papa’s lips twitched in a half smile.
“Yes. Thirty thousand pounds ought to—”
“Why, yes, I daresay it would,” he interrupted. “If, that is, Lord Fairfax had much more than the promise of those thirty thousand pounds.”
“What do you mean, Papa?” Her pulse leapt. “Did not my husband receive my dowry when we wed?”
“He might have, if not for your mama’s stroke of cleverness just as my solicitors were drafting the settlements.”
Mama, who had strolled across the room to examine some piece of bric-a-brac on a corner shelf, smiled without looking up.
How many times had she begged her mother to intercede when her father had grown stubborn about his plan to secure a title for his daughter? Now it seemed that she’d been in favor of marrying Sarah off all along. “What did you do, Mama?”
Mama replaced the china objet and made her way back to Sarah. “I knew you were apprehensive about this marriage, my dear. So I did what I could to encourage the growth of your husband’s affections—to ensure that you would not be shunted aside.” Sarah frowned her incomprehension. “I simply suggested that the money might be given out over a number of years, rather than all at once—with the proviso that the payments continued only as long as you and your husband lived under the same roof.”
No. Sarah mouthed the word, but no sound came from her lips.
“I ought to have been more specific, I suppose.” Mama gestured toward the windows and the rural landscape beyond. “I certainly did not mean for you to be shut up in the middle of nowhere.”
“Lord Fairfax knew of this . . . stipulation?” Sarah forced the words past suddenly dry lips. That would certainly explain why he had found it prudent to keep her from falling to her death.
Papa shrugged. “I cannot say what he knew when you married. He seemed in rather a hurry to sign. But Lord Estley assured me in his letter that his son would be made to understand the implications of the arrangement.”
“I’m sure he realizes he cannot afford to separate from you now, dear, despite any—lapses in judgment on your part,” her mother reassured her.
Until that moment, Sarah had not realized a part of her, deep inside, had still been dreaming—dreaming of a fairy-tale resolution to the dilemma she faced, one in which her husband recognized her worth and reaffirmed their bond.
Until that moment, she had not fully understood why wiser heads frequently counseled, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Would the handful of days she had now spent with her husband count for anything, or must they first make up for the thousand or so spent apart? She had no notion of the formula to be used for such calculations.
Thankfully, a tap at the door prevented Sarah from having to form a response. “Come in,” she called, wondering how much of her reunion with her parents had been heard through the door—and by whom.
Emily Dawlish entered the room and looked around uncertainly before locating Sarah on the sofa and offering a belated curtsy. “Mr. Jarrell come and said there were guests who’d be wantin’ to see ’Rissa.” Emily reached a hand behind her skirts and drew the girl forward.
Clarissa clutched Emily with one hand and twisted the other in her pinafore. “Mama?”
Sarah dropped to her knees and held open her arms. “I’m right here, dear one.” Clarissa ran to her with a gleeful giggle. “And here are some people you don’t know yet. This,” she said, freeing one arm from Clarissa’s embrace to gesture behind her, “is your grandmama. And this gentleman is your grandpapa.”
She felt Clarissa’s head tilt where it rested on her shoulder. Gathering her daughter in her arms, Sarah rose to her feet and turned back to face her parents. “Meet Lady Clarissa Sutliffe.”
Clarissa twisted so that she could study the unfamiliar faces.
Mama reached out with trembling fingers to brush away a lock of Clarissa’s golden-brown hair. “Oh, Sarah,” she whispered.
“Well.” Papa’s chest swelled, his eyes only for his granddaughter. “Well,” he said again.
Clarissa seemed to see an opportunity in his open admiration. “Bring present?” she asked, turning her wide violet eyes on him.
Sarah started to shake her head in admonishment, but Papa only chuckled. “What’s that? A present for you, little one? I regret to say I did not think to—but that oversight shall be rectified first thing in the morning!”
A shy smile curled Clarissa’s lips.
“I’ll take her back to the nursery, shall I, mum?” Emily asked, stepping forward.
“Yes, please, Emily,” Sarah agreed. “I’ll be up as soon as we’re finished here.”
Papa’s doting gaze followed Clarissa out the door. “A pity, though, that she was not a boy,” he sighed when the door had latched behind them.
“Not at all,” Mama insisted. “A girl is a blessing.”
Sarah turned, something in her mother’s tone rendering those words suspicious. “I do not disagree, Mama, but is there some reason in particular—?”
Her parents exchanged a glance. “I promised Estley another ten thousand on the birth of a son,” her father explained, looking somewhat chagrined by his own conniving.
Sarah sagged onto the sofa, and her mother took up the spot beside her once again.
“Yes,” Mama agreed, “and if Clarissa had been a boy, there might have been . . . questions. Now you’ve been given another chance, Sarah. He will want an heir.” She leaned forward to brush her daughter’s cheek with a cool, dry kiss and whispered, “Just take care not to conceive quite so quickly this time. Remember, dear, a gentleman never expects a lady to be eager for the marital bed. The longer he must wait for his son, the more time you have to secure him.”
Sarah drew back from the unwelcome advice and began to pleat her skirts, trying to distract herself from the memory of St. John’s touch. The heat of his body as it met hers.
The chill of the bed when he left it—left her—the moment the deed was done.
Recalling their exchange at the cliff’s edge, she understood at last what he had been trying to tell her with those cutti
ng words about bedding an heiress. Awakened to a sense of his obligations by his experiences in the West Indies, he had decided to return to Lynscombe, despite the pain returning obviously caused him. For the sake of his home and the people there, he would make the necessary sacrifices.
Starting with her.
A love match? She had indulged in a foolish fantasy years ago. She had been a child.
Now she had a child.
If she were free to act only for herself, as she had been three years ago, she could refuse to be his sacrificial lamb. But for Clarissa’s sake, she would have to accept this marriage. And everything that came with it.
“Really, Sarah,” her mother sighed with an affectionately disparaging shake of her head, reaching out to stay Sarah’s nervous fingers. “Black does not suit you at all. When you send Fairfax the next payment, Richard, include a bit extra for your daughter’s clothes. One hopes the village has a tolerable seamstress. But the fabrics must come from town, I think . . .”
What would Mama say if she knew what had become of the last set of fine gowns her father’s money had purchased?
Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but her mother merely gripped her hands more firmly.
“Don’t say no, dear. You’ve earned it.”
Forcing her parted lips into something she hoped would pass for a smile, she bit back her reply.
Not yet. But I’m about to.
Chapter 20
Although Eliza had warned him of his stepmother’s plan for an evening with the neighboring gentry, St. John had found it impossible to believe such an event would actually transpire until confronted by a roomful of guests.
When he entered the winter parlor—so called after a series of seasonal landscapes that filled the four walls, the largest of which depicted Lynscombe Manor at the bleakest time of year—his eyes quickly scanned the room, searching for familiar faces. His father and Lord Harrington made up half of one foursome. Eliza and his stepmother were cozied up together on the far side of the room, apart from the card players.
On the sofa against the wall, Sarah sat between her parents, the three of them forming a sturdier fortification against intruders than St. John had ever managed to construct. He wanted to go to her, but before he could persuade his feet to move in her direction, another face—this one framed by a tightly curled gray wig—inserted itself into his field of vision. “There you are, lad,” the elderly man said. “How wonderful to see you home again.”
“Dr. Quiller?” he said, summoning the name of the village rector from some far corner of his memory. “I did not think a soul would recognize me after so long away. How glad I am to find you still here.”
Dr. Quiller laughed. “Still here? Where else would I go?” Abashed, St. John opened his mouth to attempt an explanation, but the older man shook his head. “Think nothing of it, my boy. But I was not so old when you first knew me as I must have seemed to you then. You remember Mrs. Quiller, I hope,” he said, turning back to the table.
“Lord Fairfax,” the rector’s wife said with a warm smile.
“Squire Abernathy,” Dr. Quiller said, gesturing to a portly gentleman who bowed his head. St. John recognized the name of the prosperous farmer who owned a rather desirable tract of land that divided Wyldewood from Lynscombe. “And my curate, Charles Pickard,” he added, motioning toward the fourth seat. But it was empty, its occupant having seized the interruption as an opportunity to make his escape across the room.
St. John asked, “Will you meet my wife, sir?” Perhaps the presence of the clergyman would smooth his way.
“Your esteemed father was kind enough to make the introduction, lad. But I shall—”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Quiller asked, cupping her ear.
“Lady Fairfax,” explained the rector, more loudly.
“Oh, yes.” She nodded eagerly. “Charming girl. We did not even realize you had taken a bride, Lord Fairfax,” she exclaimed. “And some time ago, from the sound of it.”
“One might have thought your marriage would be an occasion for the family to pay a visit to the village, my lord,” opined Mr. Abernathy with a frown.
“I—” St. John began, searching for an excuse.
But Dr. Quiller saved him. “Allow me to walk with you and introduce my curate. If I did not know better, I would suspect Charley of trying to sweep your lovely bride off her feet,” he teased, jostling St. John with his elbow.
He looked in the direction the rector had indicated with a wink and a nod. Mr. Pevensey had risen and given his place to the curate, who was speaking animatedly to Sarah. She was smiling and nodding eagerly at what he said, while her mother sat, ramrod-straight, disapproval in every line of her features.
“But Arthur, your hand?” his wife reminded, gesturing toward the abandoned card game.
He laughed good-naturedly. “I won’t be a minute.”
St. John nodded his head to the others at the table and gestured for Dr. Quiller to lead the way.
“Very glad we are to have the family here again. So much time, so much—but all that will change, now,” Dr. Quiller said as they walked, brimming with confidence. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It has pained your father, I know, to come back over the years and see how things go on.”
St. John nearly stumbled. “My father has been here? Not recently?”
“Oh, not so recently, I suppose.” The rector looked thoughtful. “Call it six months, perhaps. He doesn’t come often, nor stay too long. That’s how I know the sight of the place gives him pain. But now all that will change,” he repeated. “Eh, lad?”
They had reached the place where Sarah, Mrs. Pevensey, and the curate sat, sparing St. John from having to give an answer.
“Mr. Charles Pickard, my lord.”
The dark-haired young man had risen as they approached and now bowed. “Lord Fairfax. A pleasure.”
“Pickard. Mrs. Pevensey.” St. John returned the bow and then offered another to his mother-in-law, who stood and curtsied without relaxing her posture one bit. “You have met Dr. Quiller, I understand,” he said to Sarah, who had also got to her feet. “I suppose he told you he was once my tutor?” He did not know why he felt constantly compelled to revisit these childhood memories of Lynscombe in her presence.
“He did. What a pleasure it must be to see a former pupil all grown up,” she said, smiling gently at the older man. “I recall my own teachers with such fondness, but I think they must often wonder if I ever managed to master the things they were so eager to teach.”
“Such is the lot of a teacher, Lady Fairfax,” Dr. Quiller replied with a knowing laugh. “But we have at least the consolation of knowing that there will ever be a next generation of pupils to care for.”
“Speaking of . . .” Mr. Pickard began.
“Now, lad,” Dr. Quiller admonished his curate, “there will be time enough for that later.”
“Mr. Pickard was just telling me of his hope to establish a school in the village,” Sarah explained.
“Nothing elaborate, my lord,” Pickard assured him. “I do not cherish some foolish hope of making the sons and daughters of fishermen into scholars. Just reading and writing, arithmetic, some basic principles of domestic economy, perhaps.”
“I suppose that sounds quite radical?” said Sarah, cutting St. John an uncertain glance.
Radical? Certainly many would call it so. But seeing the spark of enthusiasm in Sarah’s eyes, he pushed his hesitation aside. “It seems to me quite a sensible plan, the sort responsible landowners might put into action in a great many villages throughout England.”
“It would go better under the guiding hand of a lady,” Pickard hinted.
“And sadly, Mrs. Quiller does not enjoy the health to undertake it,” added the reverend.
St. John nodded his understanding. “Perhaps you can persuade Lady Fairfax to give her time to your cause.”
“I would be honored to help, Mr. Pickard,” she said with a sidelong glance of suspicion
toward St. John.
Although it scarcely seemed possible, Mrs. Pevensey stiffened further at her daughter’s words and declared, “Lord Estley is unlikely to approve.”
“I will speak with him,” St. John said.
Immediately, he wished he could take the words back. How much ought he to offer, when he was not yet sure what Sarah would accept?
Satisfied, the curate allowed Dr. Quiller to usher him back to the card game, although St. John could have sworn the younger man muttered something under his breath about Mrs. Quiller being a sharp. Mrs. Pevensey unbent enough to join her husband in contemplating the springtime view of Lynscombe Manor on the nearest wall.
Left alone in the company of his wife, St. John was not certain what his next move ought to be. Jarrell had informed him that the Pevenseys had spent the better part of the day closeted with their daughter. No doubt Pevensey had told her, or reminded her, about the terms of her marriage settlement. If St. John said now that he meant to stay with her, she would assume he was doing it for the money. For the sake of Lynscombe. And she would not be entirely wrong.
Nor entirely right.
So instead he said nothing at all. Offering her his arm, they walked in silence together to greet the other guests and his father.
He could hardly believe what Dr. Quiller had said about the man’s regular visits to Lynscombe. Before yesterday, he would have been more tempted to imagine the clergyman had lied than to believe his father capable of showing such attachment to the place.
But perhaps he had merely been guilty of attributing his own failings to another.
When they arrived at the second card table, the gentlemen stood for another round of introductions. “Mrs. Abernathy,” said Lord Harrington, “and her eldest son, Philip.” The young man blushed and made an awkward bow.
“Fairfax has been in the West Indies for quite some time, I understand,” Mrs. Abernathy said as she gathered the cards to herself. “I did not know your family had dealings there. Did you travel with him, Lady Fairfax?”
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