by Carol Arens
He nodded, glancing up at her. The blue-green glint of his eyes seemed washed out. She noticed a bluish shadow on his cheek. “She’ll do, I suppose, but the child is weak and I’m not certain it will survive.”
“Do you mean the foal?”
“Is that not what I said? Filly?”
“I think you ought to skip Parliament today and go back to bed.”
“I’ve yet to get to bed.”
Good. It would work nicely in her favor to have him sleep the day away.
“About last night.” He drummed his fingers on the table, reached for hers. While she did let his hand rest atop her knuckles, she did not return his squeeze. “I regret the way I spoke to you.”
Blame it! Why did his fingers have to feel so—so right, stroking her skin?
“Think nothing of it. I’m sure I have quite forgotten the incident.” She had not. Not anymore than she would forget how she melted inside when he touched her just so.
Confound the man!
“I only want what is best for you.”
That was a very good thing since if he ever found out what she was about to do she could remind him he had said that.
As a dutiful wife, she ought to obey her husband’s whim, but how could she when children’s futures were at stake?
If no one stood up for them they had no hope of a prosperous future.
Well! She intended to be that one no matter how the Earl of Fencroft felt about it.
“Good morning,” Olivia announced, coming into the morning room. “You look horrid, Heath.”
“Where is Victor?” he asked.
“It’s his first morning with the new governess.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “I’m hoping not to find him hiding under furniture again. She seems a pleasant young woman, but I did have to promise you would read to him each afternoon, Clementine. I hope you do not mind.”
“That would be lovely. I’d enjoy it.”
“You see?” Heath said, smiling for the first time this morning. “It has all worked out.”
Let him think so. “Your sister is right, Heath. You ought to go to bed.”
He stood, snatching up the slice of buttered toast to take with him. “I wish I could.”
Olivia watched her brother turn to leave the room, then turned her gaze upon Clementine.
She appeared distressed about something.
“I know it is not my business, and I do love my brother. In so many ways he is a very good man, but still he is a man. And truly, Clementine, I care for you, so I must ask.” She hesitated, sighing and shaking her head. “What excuse did he give for being out all night?”
“It wasn’t an excuse.” Even as angry as she was with Heath, she did feel a need to defend him. “There was a mare in distress. He had to help with the foaling.”
“With my late husband it was that his ailing mother needed help at all hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear she was in ill health.”
“She would be, too, if she knew. Victor’s grandmother was, and is, the healthiest person I know.”
“Then why would he—?”
“So he could spend time with his mistress. Have a care, sister. I would not want to see you with a broken heart.”
“Heath told me he did not have a mistress.”
“I would like to think he is a better man than most. His story will be easy enough to prove, though. All you need do is go to the stable and see if there is a horse that gave birth last night.”
“I have no reason to distrust him.”
She was angry at his high-handedness, certainly—but the Earl of Fencroft was a decent man. She knew this in the bottom of her heart.
“I was you, once.” Olivia stirred her cocoa, looking into the brown, swirling liquid. “There was a time when I loved my husband as much as you love yours now.”
Perhaps she was beginning to, but to a depth that it was evident?
“And that’s why I feel a need to warn you. To trust a man who is supposed to be yours and then find out he is not? I tell you, the only thing that makes the pain worth it is children.”
Olivia set down her spoon with a clink on the saucer.
“I must confess, I did not know what to expect before you came. I believed what people said about American heiresses, that they were spendthrifts and gauche. But you are none of those things—you have become dear to me and so I don’t want to see you hurt. That is why I have told you what I have. I know you don’t believe it, but be careful, Clementine.”
They sipped their hot cocoa, each to her own thoughts.
“Do you know,” Olivia said, smiling over the rim of her cup, a bit of chocolate smudging her lip, “I never dreamed I would enjoy having a sister. And I do, quite.”
“So do I.”
And Clementine never thought she would enjoy a life Grandfather had foisted upon her—and yet she did—quite.
Even if her husband was behaving like a beast.
Chapter Eleven
Standing on the front porch of Slademore House, Clementine thought the building looked like a pearl nestled in a trash heap.
There was a decrepit building on the north side and an abandoned one on the south. Being abandoned did not mean uninhabited. Equally decrepit-looking men and women cast sly glances at her while they lounged on the front stairs, smoking and spitting.
It hardly seemed possible that this depressed neighborhood was only a carriage ride from the wealthy streets of Mayfair.
One could only wonder why the baron had founded his orphanage here. It was certainly not convenient for his benefactors to visit.
Indeed, she imagined many of them did not come at all.
The only reason she could think of for him to open a sanctuary in this spot was that this was where women in need tended to live. No doubt he had their needs in mind, rather than the needs of the rich.
It had taken a huge amount of money to convince the hackney cab to wait here an hour for her. She might have come in a Fencroft carriage but Heath would discover where she went.
She nearly sighed her relief aloud when a woman wearing a white apron and a cap over her graying hair opened the door.
“Good day, Countess,” she said with a curtsy, when Clementine came inside. “I’m Mrs. Hoper, the children’s nurse. It is good of you to come and read to them. We were not expecting you for another half hour, but I’m sure that’s all right.”
The parlor she was led into was bright and cheerful with white paint on the walls and blue damask curtains drawn back from tall windows.
It was hard to imagine what Heath could have against Slademore House. So far it seemed more than respectable. Any orphan would be lucky to live here.
“I’ll let the baron know you are here and then I’ll bring a spot of tea.”
“Please don’t bother. I’d like to meet the children.”
The nurse glanced at a closed door, her brows knitted in a slight frown.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Why, no! What could possibly be?” She smiled and, in a blink, looked like Mrs. Santa Claus, with her round figure and her rosy pink cheeks. Clementine half expected a plate of sugary treats to magically appear in her hand. “It’s just that you are early and I’m not sure the children are finished—”
The woman cracked open a door and peeked inside.
“Oh, there the lambs are, just come inside from playtime in the garden.” She swung the door open wide to reveal several children.
Seven girls wearing blue frocks the same shade as the curtains stood in a line with five little boys in white shirts and short pants.
Standing beside them, a young woman, but barely so, cradled an infant in her arms. She appeared pale, gaunt to the point of looking unhealthy. Clementine suspected the girl had borne the babe without a husband to protect them.
Bless Slademore House for taking them in.
“Children, this is Lady Fencroft. She has come to teach you to read.”
The young woman cast the matron a half-lidded glance. Unless Clementine was mistaken, the lowered lids hid a look of apprehension.
“Books,” Clementine said in the face of the children’s confusion.
Had the poor dears never heard of a book? This was inexcusable. They might live in a fine home now, but they could not stay here forever. If they did not want to take up residence in a building like the one next door, they would need to be able to read.
“Welcome, Lady Fencroft!” Clementine turned to see the baron stride through the doorway, a great big smile on his face. “The children have been eager for your visit all morning.”
Perhaps one or two of them had, but the rest just seemed perplexed.
One small girl looked at the baron and began to whimper. Two girls of about three years stepped closer to each other and clasped hands. A boy, no more than three feet tall, puffed up his skinny chest and glared at his benefactor.
“They’re not happy that I called them in early from playtime.” He shot the children a smile, which was not returned.
“May I give you a tour of the home before you begin? I find the children’s patrons like to see the good their money is doing.”
“Yes, if it’s no bother.” She was eager to see the rest of the home. Everything she’d seen so far made Slademore House a shining example of what a charity ought to be. “Do you live here with the children, Baron?”
“I have quarters here, of course. Sometimes the children need a father’s presence. But I do have a residence in Mayfair that I must keep up for the sake of the barony. But my heart is here, as well as the better part of my time.”
“Mrs. Hoper, will you give the children their tarts and milk while I show the countess about?”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered. “Come along to the dining room, my pets.”
The first room the baron showed her was his office. This had to be his way of asking for her donation. Given what a beautiful haven Slademore House was, next time she might give a larger sum.
Next he showed her four bedrooms that were as fine as the rest of the house, with big, stuffed mattresses on the beds and closets filled with frilly dresses and small suits. In the corner of each room was an open toy chest overflowing with dolls, balls and other treasures. These were not the cast-off playthings of more wealthy children. They appeared to be new, or very lightly used. Clearly, the home had generous donors.
Last of all he took her to the dining room, where the children sat at a long, highly polished table, gobbling up their pastries and gulping down milk.
Baron Slademore clapped his hands. The children set down what they were eating. “It is time for your lesson. I’m sure we do not wish to take up too much of Lady Fencroft’s time.”
“I have an abundance of time, my lord,” she answered, walking beside him while the children went ahead of them to the playroom.
They certainly were a quiet and well-behaved group.
“I’ll be on about my business, Lady Fencroft. And thank you for coming.” He gave her a brief nod, then turned to go. “Oh, if you would not mind sending word ahead of time when your next visit will be it would be most appreciated. Just to be sure the children are not at play when you come.”
“I’ll come every Monday and Wednesday at this same time. If I cannot make it then I will send word.”
“As you wish.”
He smiled in parting but she had the distinct impression the gesture was not sincere. She did have some experience at pasted-on smiles.
A chair had been set for her beside a large window with sunlight streaming through it. The children sat down on a rug in a semicircle in front of her. The young woman with the baby sat in a chair behind them.
Clementine withdrew a copy of Rip Van Winkle from the books in her satchel.
After reading a chapter she handed the book down for the children to pass about. Feeling and smelling a book was all a part of the pleasure of reading, and it made it easier for them to look at the pictures.
She watched them for a moment. One by one they were beginning to smile. Seeing the dawning of pleasure as the book went from hand to hand, she was reminded of the flame of one candle being passed and lighting many others. There had to be a poetic way to express that thought. Later it would come to her and she would write it in her journal.
While the children took their time, she gazed out of the window to the children’s play yard. It was a lovely green area with flowers and trees. The only trouble she saw with it was that it was adjacent to an alley at the back of the house. But the wall was tall and would keep the children safe while they played.
It was an odd thing, but the house looked longer outside than what it seemed inside.
While she was wondering about it, she heard a child crying. Were not all the children with her?
The sound seemed to be coming from near a great shade tree. A large woman wearing a gray gown emerged from the part of the house that seemed too long. She dashed across the yard and snatched a boy of about four years, with curly red hair, from behind the tree trunk.
The little fellow was dressed in rags. Perhaps he had wandered over from the building next door. The woman yanked his thin arm while she dragged him across the yard.
There was a gate in the tall wall. The woman and the child exited through it. When the woman returned, she was alone.
That answered the question of who he was, then. As she suspected he was from next door.
A little girl tugged her skirt and handed the book back. Clementine caught her tiny hand to give it a gentle squeeze in thanks. She’d expected it to be soft and baby-like the way Victor’s were, but they were calloused, red and chafed.
The poor child must have come from hard times. At least here at Slademore House she would be well cared for.
While Clementine continued to read she had a difficult time getting the image of the weeping boy out of her mind.
Without an education he would be lost and would have no hope of a better life. The very sad fact was, there was nothing she could do for him.
But she would do something for these gathered about her. No matter what, she would not let them down.
* * *
No doubt there were worse husbands in London, but in the moment Heath felt the lowest of them all.
Even though he’d announced that everything had worked out well for Clementine given that she had Victor to read to, he knew it was not true.
Had it been so he would have gone to her room last night and spent the night the way they normally did, in laughter and companionable conversation. And severe temptation, at least on his part.
Things were far from what they ought to be between them. Even looking out the conservatory window and seeing Clementine walking in the garden, he felt the aloofness of her attitude toward him.
She didn’t even know he was watching and he felt the chill. Not that she was intentionally doing it. She was unfailingly polite, answering with a smile when he spoke to her, but something was missing and he wanted it back.
A carriage ride in Hyde Park might help. The leaves were beginning to turn and today the air was crisp and fresh.
An outing might be the thing to restore her spirits. Autumn air and sunshine would be just the thing.
That was what he tried to believe, walking out of the conservatory toward the fountain, where she had just sat down on a bench. But he knew what would make her happy and it was not in his power to give it to her.
He sat down beside her and would have reached for her hand, but her fingers twined together in a determined knot on her lap.
“It’s a lovely afternoon,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” She smiled, but it was the same, half-stiff one she gave to stra
ngers.
“Let’s go for a carriage ride in the park.”
A flash of interest flared in her eyes.
She stood up, tweaked her bustle back into place and nodded. “It is a lovely day for it.”
He sat where he was for the simple pleasure of watching her walk away with her back straight, her hips subtly swaying. It was a sight all the more tantalizing for its modesty.
She spun about and caught him grinning.
“Bring the carriage about. I’ll meet you in half an hour.”
This time there was a hint of the smile he missed, although barely.
It was no more than he could expect. He had to seem an unreasonable lout in her eyes.
And yet she had consented to this outing, which gave him hope that they might get back to the easy friendship they had before.
Within thirty minutes they were in the park, slowly traveling under a bower of branches hinting at autumn’s rich shades of yellow and red. He’d requested the open-air carriage in order to take in the full beauty of the park.
Beside him Clementine leaned back into the cushions and looked up at the leafy canopy.
“Are you thinking of a verse for your journal?”
“Not one, but several.”
The park was not crowded this afternoon, for which he was glad. It would be difficult to focus his attention on Clementine while having to greet every passing peer.
“Tell me one.”
She turned her head on the cushion to look at him. “You tell me one.”
The very last thing he was, was poetic, but he did want to please her so... “Colorful leaves on a tree. Oh, happy me.”
She sat up straight, suppressing a laugh by pinching her lips together. “It does rhyme.”
“Now I want to hear yours.”
She tapped her lips in thought, a gesture he had to glance away from.
“Red and yellow treasure, drifting down, riches finer than gold.”
“That is beautiful, Clementine, truly.”
“It’s average, Heath. I’m the only one who gains pleasure in it.”