Peter put out a comforting hand. “Don’t worry, old man. No one will believe it.”
“Perhaps not,” Andrew said. “But they will still talk—and talk. I tell you, Peter, this is driving me mad. If Bridget doesn’t stop, I’ll end up in Bedlam.”
Peter chuckled. “You sound like a Cheltenham tragedy of the worst kind. The ton always talks: it has no other such enduring pastimes.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You never let it bother you before. Why now?”
Andrew contemplated his wineglass. “I’m not sure. Before Tom’s death, when I wasn’t the marquess, I didn’t give a damn what they said about me. But now, somehow, it’s different. Since my mother’s gone—and I have Bridget—I don’t want Bridget to be talked about, to suffer from all this gossip.”
Peter traced a wine stain on the tablecloth with his fingertip. “I still think you’re refining too much on the subject. You love Bridget. Don’t be embarrassed. Yes, I know you love her.” He laughed. “Everyone knows that.”
Andrew straightened. “I’m certainly not embarrassed by loving her. Nor by Bridget’s parentage.” He frowned. “It’s just that she doesn’t behave properly and—”
Peter shrugged. “Properly? Who’s to say what’s proper?”
Andrew didn’t smile. “You know very well that the ton says. So Peter, what do you suggest?”
“Well, if you must do something, do this. First, put Aunt Sophie to work whispering about Bridget’s altruistic leanings—the true story might help there. Second, you might accompany your wife whenever she rides, and smile and look proud when she talks horses.”
Andrew sighed. “I suppose I can do that. With some effort.”
“And,” Peter said, looking him straight in the eye, “when she races, you can be there to cheer her on.”
Andrew groaned. “You expect me to cheer her on when she races in those godawful breeches?”
“Yes,” Peter said with infuriating cheerfulness. “I do. What Bridget does isn’t so unusual. The ton’s had its female Jehus before, you know. We survived. So did they.”
“Yes,” Andrew said dryly. “Well, thank you for your advice.”
Peter chuckled. “Advice you don’t mean to follow.”
* * * *
Several afternoons later Bridget sat at her stitching. Aunt Sophie had gone calling—a tiresome task Bridget had gladly evaded. The fire screen she was needlepointing was beginning to look almost presentable. She was holding it off, admiring it, when Aunt Sophie came in.
“I am absolutely exhausted.” Aunt Sophie sank into a chair, fanning herself with a limp hand. “This afternoon I have made some two dozen calls.”
Bridget looked up from her yam. “Two dozen? Aunt Sophie! Whatever are you making so many calls for?”
Aunt Sophie twisted her wedding ring and said nothing.
“Aunt Sophie?”
Aunt Sophie frowned. “Well, he didn’t actually say not to tell you.”
Bridget frowned, too, her stitching forgotten. “Who? Who is this he?”
“Andrew, of course. He sent me out to make these calls.”
It all seemed very strange. “Whatever for?”
Aunt Sophie sighed. “Because the ton is talking about Elsie.”
“Elsie? Why should they talk about her?”
Aunt Sophie avoided her gaze. “Actually, they’re saying that she’s yours.”
“Mine?” Bridget repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re whispering about that you are Elsie’s mother.”
Bridget gasped. “Who started such a monstrous lie? And why didn’t Andrew tell me?”
“I suppose,” Aunt Sophie said, answering the last question first, “he didn’t tell you because he knew you’d be upset.”
Bridget swallowed. “He didn’t—he didn’t believe it, did he?”
“Of course not. That’s why he sent me out to spread the true story about town.”
Bridget stared. He couldn’t have said—”You mean the whole story, that Andrew couldn’t ride the horse? That he was thrown?”
“Yes,” Aunt Sophie said, “the whole story. He felt that only the truth would quell the rumors.”
“But Aunt Sophie, they will laugh at him. They’ll laugh at Andrew.”
Aunt Sophie shrugged. “I guess he didn’t care about that. At least not as much as preserving your good reputation.”
Bridget shuddered. “This is horrible. He’s such a proud man. This will be degrading to him.”
She leaped to her feet and began pacing the carpet. Suddenly she stopped and whirled. “Tell me, who was it? Who started this filthy rumor?”
Aunt Sophie patted her forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. “We cannot be sure, of course. But the Lindens seem to be spreading it. And Wichersham.”
Bridget cursed. “That bastard! He’s always lying about me. Just because I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t let him—”
“Enough,” Aunt Sophie said. “Every age has men like that.” She straightened, arranging her skirt. “We can do little except evade them.”
Bridget swore again. “If I were a man, I’d kill him. Or at least beat him to a bloody pulp!”
Aunt Sophie smiled complacently. “If he keeps this up, Andrew is apt to do that very thing.”
* * * *
The next morning Bridget awoke to find Andrew still beside her. He turned to her. “Shall we ride together today?”
“Yes,” she said, smothering a little smile. She’d been hoping for this—hoping and praying.
The ride was uneventful, but as they turned back through the city, Bridget’s heart rose up in her throat. “Andrew,” she said, “there’s something I’d like to show you.”
“Very well.”
He guided Sable after the stallion, stopping as she did in front of Molly. “I buy my nosegays from her now,” she said.
Andrew nodded, reaching in his pocket for coins.
She forced herself to go on. “Andrew, this—this is Molly, Elsie’s sister.”
Andrew’s eyebrows came together in a huge frown. “Bridget!”
“Flowers, milord?” Molly asked, her voice trembling. “Thank ‘e, milord, fer helping me sister.”
“You’re welcome,” Andrew said, obviously surprised. “Do you always work here?”
“Aye, milord. I sells me flowers. Every day ‘ere, on me corner.”
Bridget swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Please, Andrew. She’s so little. And all alone.”
“Bridget.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. He was very angry, but she had to go on. There were bruises on Molly’s thin arms, bruises like those Mrs. Purvey had reported finding on Elsie’s skinny body. She couldn’t leave the child to be beaten. She just couldn’t.
“Andrew, please, let me take her home. To her sister.”
He scowled at her in utter disgust. “Bridget, be sensible. This city is full of orphans. You cannot possibly take them all in.”
“I know, Andrew, I know. But Elsie has been very good. And Mrs. Purvey says it’s all right.” She swallowed. “If you let me take her, I will do whatever you say, promise whatever you ask.”
He paused. “Whatever?”
She swallowed again. “Yes. If you wish, I won’t ride in the mornings or—”
“No,” Andrew said, “not that. You may ride.” His face grew even more serious. “But if I let you take her, will you give up racing?”
Bridget looked down at the child whose great dark eyes were fastened on her in an agony of hope. It was a hard thing Andrew was asking her, to give up the excitement of the race. But she would have to do it. She couldn’t leave Molly here.
Bridget looked into Andrew’s eyes. “I’ll give up racing,” she said. “And I’ll go further. If ever I race in public again, I—” She had to swallow over the hard words. “If ever I break my word and race again, I’ll get out of your life forever. I promise.”
“Agreed,” Andrew said, extending his hand as he would to a man.
She shook it. Then she dismounted and drew near the child. “Molly, do you want to come home with me?”
The child nodded, tears trembling on her lashes. “Yes, milady, I does.”
“Good.” Bridget looked around. “Now, is there someone you can give your flowers to? You won’t need them anymore.”
Molly gulped. “Over there—the old woman. She be nice to me.” She looked down at her bare feet. “Sometimes I shares my meat with ‘er.”
Bridget lifted the basket and, with Molly close beside her, carried it to the black-shawled old woman crouching in the corner of a doorway.
“Here,” she said. “Molly’s leaving these with you. She won’t need them anymore.”
The old woman raised her head, peering from watery eyes. “Yer the one, the one what took Elsie.”
“Yes.”
“And now yer taking ‘er sister?”
“Yes.”
“Praise the Lord! God bless, lady. God bless.”
Bridget pressed a coin into her shaking hand and turned to the waiting child. “Come, Molly. We’re going home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Several weeks passed uneventfully. Bridget, engrossed in the little girls, spent most of her time helping Mrs. Purvey teach them. The girls, still incredulous about their good fortune, crept about the house like two clean and quiet little mice.
One afternoon Aunt Sophie came upon them while Bridget was industriously helping the girls practice their stitches. Hearing Aunt Sophie’s chuckle, Bridget looked up.
“It’s just that you present an amusing picture,” Aunt Sophie said. “Short weeks ago you couldn’t do a decent stitch. And now look at you!”
Bridget grinned. “Yes, I know. Look, I’ve fitted them each out with a basket, complete with design, needle, and yarn. They’re learning fast, too.” She chuckled. “I thought being a lady was dreadfully dull, but now that I have the girls I’m almost beginning to like it.”
Aunt Sophie smiled. “You’re an unusual lady, Bridget. Many ladies have little regard for those less fortunate than themselves. Would we had more who cared like you do.”
Elsie raised her head, her face alight, her eyes shining. The needle poised in one tiny hand, she said, “She’s an angel, our lady. A real angel.”
Molly nodded, her little face screwed up intently. “She’s good, she is. She give up racing ‘er—her horse.”
“Now, Molly,” Bridget interrupted. She certainly didn’t want that promise bruited about. The ton had enough to gossip about as it was. “That’s—”
“But lady,” the child hurried on and Bridget hadn’t the heart to stop her. “You did promise.” She looked toward her sister for confirmation and Elsie nodded. “I heard you, I did,” Molly insisted. “You told ‘im—him—that if you was bad and raced again you’d git outta his life.”
Aunt Sophie sat down with a thud, her face turning white. “My word, Bridget! You actually promised Andrew that?”
Seeing the children staring at each other in fright, Bridget said softly, “Yes, I promised. But it wasn’t that much, really it wasn’t—I’m tired of racing anyhow.” That wasn’t true, of course, but she didn’t want the girls to be upset by this talk. Their safety meant more than racing, even racing Waterloo.
She stopped Aunt Sophie’s reply by turning immediately to the girls. “You’ve stitched enough for now. Run off to the kitchen and tell Cook to give you milk and cookies. And be sure to remember your manners.”
Carefully the girls replaced their sewing in their individual baskets. Then they got to their feet and, hand in hand, decorously left for the kitchen.
Bridget felt her heart swelling with pride. “Aren’t they just wonderful? They’re learning so fast. You know, Aunt Sophie, I like taking care of them. I think I’m going to be a good mother.”
Aunt Sophie came erect, putting a hand to her startled mouth. “Bridget! You’re not already—”
Bridget laughed. “No, no, Aunt Sophie. Of course not.” She smiled happily. “But when I am, I shall not mind it. Not in the least.”
Aunt Sophie settled back in her chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re not enceinte now. I simply couldn’t cope with that at present.” She twisted her wedding ring. “You know, Bridget dear, I’ve been meaning to tell you. You’re doing very well in learning the ways of the ton. Why, last week when Lady Jersey came to call, you were the pattern card of perfection. You never mentioned horses to her at all.”
“I’m trying hard,” Bridget said. And she was. But from the look on Aunt Sophie’s face, maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough. Why did the ton have to be so particular about things? She sighed. “All right, you might as well tell me. I can see it from your expression that I’m still doing something wrong.”
Aunt Sophie sighed, twisting the ring some more. “It’s not exactly wrong, dear,” she said rather sadly. “It’s just— well—the way you’re raising the girls.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m raising the girls?” Bridget asked. If she was doing something wrong, she wanted to know. She wouldn’t for the world hurt those precious little girls.
“You’re raising them like ladies,” Aunt Sophie said. “And they are not.”
“I’m helping them improve themselves,” Bridget said. “Surely no harm can come of that.”
Aunt Sophie sighed deeply. “But it can. Think, my dear. You’re giving them false expectations. They cannot hope to marry well.” She frowned. “They have no dowries. And so unless they’re great beauties, they will be passed over in the marriage mart. If that happens, they’ll be fortunate to snag a tradesman. And if they’re not successful there, they’ll marry a poor man—or end up back on the streets.”
“Never!” Bridget cried. “I won’t let that happen to them.” The thought of either of them having to sell flowers again put a cold chill through her. And Aunt Sophie wasn’t just talking about selling flowers. She was talking about something far worse, something Bridget couldn’t even bear to consider.
“You won’t be able to prevent it,” Aunt Sophie pointed out unhappily. “You have no power, no funds. Too bad your father couldn’t settle a dowry on you. Something of your own.”
“But he did,” Bridget replied. “He gave me Waterloo.”
“Hardly a proper dowry,” Aunt Sophie said with a sad little smile. “But never mind. Perhaps I’m refining over much on the subject. They are both safe for now. That should be enough.”
They went back to their stitching then, letting the subject drop, but Bridget’s mind would give her no rest, presenting her with one horrifying picture after another—the girls hungry and cold, huddled in a doorway, beaten by angry men, trampled by carriage horses. A hundred horrible possibilities followed one another through her mind in terrifying progression.
Her fingers went on steadily stitching, but her heart was cold. Something had to be done. And it had to be done right away. She would not be able to sleep until she was assured of the girls’ safety.
The Lindens’ carriage pulled up at the house at the same time as Andrew’s. Too late he recognized it—too late to keep on, too late to run away, too late to do anything but pin a false smile on his face and try to look pleased to see the last people on the earth he wanted to see. He knew his smile would not convince anyone who knew him, but he did his best, determined not to give these prattling talebearers any more ammunition in their war against Bridget.
“Lord Haverly,” Lady Linden gushed, swinging around to face him and almost decapitating her daughter with her huge hat in the process. “How wonderful to see you! I was hoping you’d be at home.”
At least she didn’t know what he was thinking—that he wished he were not at home, wished it devoutly.
He sighed. Today she was wearing a greenish-yellow monstrosity, in a particularly bilious shade that reminded him a great deal of pond slime. Obviously the woman needed a new dressmaker, someone with some sense of style and color.
“Good day,” he sa
id. Good breeding insisted that he work hard at being pleasant. “Come to visit Bridget, have you?”
“Oh yes, Lord Haverly.” This time it was the daughter who was gushing. Did these two never say anything in a normal tone of voice?
“Come in,” he said, the lie sticking between his teeth. “Bridget will be glad to see you.”
Inside, he waited while Purvey took their bonnets. Then he led their guests into the sitting room.
Bridget looked up from the little girls, a smile on her face when she spied him, the smile fading when she glimpsed their visitors behind him.
“Look who’s here,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “The Lindens have come to call on us.”
Bridget remained silent, reaching out to draw the little girls protectively close. He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
The girls, in turn, stood timidly staring at the monstrous bulk in front of them, their faces wreathed in amazement at such a sight.
“Good day, Lady Linden. Martine.” Aunt Sophie rose from a chair near the hearth and graciously approached the visitors. “Sorry we haven’t returned your call yet. We’ve been rather busy with Bridget’s newest altruistic endeavor. Such sweet little girls.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lady Linden’s eyes gleamed with avid curiosity. She fastened her gaze on the little girls, who shrank back against Bridget. “Blond, the both of them,” Lady Linden said, shifting her gaze pointedly to Bridget’s auburn curls.
When Bridget didn’t answer but drew the girls closer still, Aunt Sophie spoke again. “They’re very good girls. Bridget has done wonders with them.”
“Like a regular little mother,” Lady Linden observed, in a tone that conveyed much more than the words.
Andrew restrained himself, but he wanted to shove his fist down the prattler’s throat, to hit her over the head with a blunt object. Anything to shut her big red mouth and wipe that look of growing aversion off his wife’s pale face.
Aunt Sophie sent him a calming look; probably she could tell how close he was to erupting in outraged anger. “Yes,” she said calmly, soothingly. “Bridget will make an excellent mother—when she is ready to begin her family.”
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