Fairchild

by Jaima Fixsen

  “You like this kind of story?” his mother asked faintly.

  “Absolutely,” she said, and his mother relaxed in her chair.

  Stunned and not a little grateful, Tom handed Sophy the volume and returned to his chair. She could not possibly—and yet there was a gleam of genuine enjoyment in her eyes, a spark he hadn’t seen before.

  “Marvelous,” Sophy said, scanning the lurid page. Then she began.

  “From the velvet blackness came the sound of footsteps, booted heels crunching the gravel like a giant grinding bones. In vain, Cassandra tugged at her bonds. Helpless, she stared in horrified fascination after the sound, listening to the sinister footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.

  Her plea for help died in her throat as Roberto stepped into the guttering candlelight.

  “Have mercy!” she gasped.

  A cruel smile crossed his face. His eyes glistened like polished stones, barely visible under the wide brim of his hat.

  “So! You are caught at last!” Sophy jumped to her feet, throwing herself into her role, tottering as she nearly stumbled over the hearth rug.

  “Careful,” Tom said, starting forward in his chair. With her injured arm bound in the sling, she would have trouble catching her balance.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “At last my Italian lessons will be useful.” Adopting a gruesome accent, perfect for the villainous Roberto, she resumed reading, pacing across the drawing room, making wide theatrical gestures with her good arm. She was a rather astonishing actress, and his mother settled in to enjoy the performance.

  “I have you in my power,” Sophy said, gloating and waggling her eyebrows, still playing the part of Roberto.

  Mrs. Bagshot choked on a laugh.

  “What? You mock me, Madame?” Sophy stiffened and threw Mrs. Bagshot a look of disdain. “I shall force —” she glanced down at the page “— thees Cassandra to wed me tonight, or I will drown her in the river! And her brodder too!”

  “Not her brother,” Tom interjected. “Her true love.”

  “You interrupt! But you are correct,” she said, checking the book again. “Eet eez ze lover I will drown. I do not permit you to distract me again.”

  Meekly, Tom promised not to interrupt.

  “With mincing steps he crossed the cave,” she read, suiting action to words and approaching Tom’s chair, “surveying his fainting prisoner from all sides. ‘You shall never escape. No one shall hear your screams. You are mine.’”

  Standing right over him, she thrust the book under his nose.

  “It is your line, sir,” she whispered.

  His raised eyebrow didn’t deter her. Grimacing, he cleared his throat. “Never!” he squeaked in falsetto. “You dastardly coward! I’d fight you, if I was a man!”

  A curious sound, like a strangled sneeze, escaped Sophy’s lips, and she smoothed her face, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Much better,” she whispered.

  His mother chortled, swiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m like to split my seams, if you two keep this up. But don’t stop,” she added, seeing Sophy hesitate.

  Perching herself on the arm of his chair, she held the book between them. “You can see?”

  He nodded. Her arm was close to him, her veins a faint blue line running up her arm from her wrist to the hollow of her elbow. Her hair was as bright and alive as the fire crackling beside them. She was quite beautiful, he realized with a pang, and averted his eyes. He shouldn’t stare at her, though her performance was captivating.

  “Let me hold the book,” he said, lifting it from her hand without touching her fingers. She only had the use of one arm after all, and would soon tire, though the volume was not heavy. And it was easier for him, without her arm intruding in his space.

  They kept reading, and Cassandra escaped her bonds, burning through the rope with the candle Roberto unwisely left behind, escaping into the forest. Wading through dense plotting and gothic prose, Tom looked up and saw that his mother’s head had fallen back against her chair. She was asleep. Stopping mid-sentence, he blushed like a boy.

  “My mother tires early,” he offered apologetically. “She falls asleep most evenings while I read, but since tonight’s reading is more lively than she’s used to, I didn’t expect—”

  “I’ve been watching sleep steal over her for the last two pages,” Sophy said, but without mockery. “You didn’t notice?”

  Tom grinned. “I didn’t dare give this performance less than my best.” Setting the book aside, he watched his mother, lost in sleep. “Do you wish to retire now?” he asked Sophy.

  She straightened away from the wing of his chair, where she had been leaning, and frowned, moving her left shoulder in little circles. “After they bring the tea tray. I would like a cup before bed.”

  He felt his ears grow hot. “Of course. I’m afraid mother forgot to ring for it.”

  Striding across the room, his hand hovered over the bell beside his mother’s chair. No, better not to wake her. She would be embarrassed enough as it was. “I think I’ll let her sleep,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

  He found Sarah in the hall and asked her to bring up tea. When he returned, Sophy was back on the divan, watching the fire.

  “I’m afraid my mother’s never gotten used to late evenings,” Tom said. “Much of her life was spent rising early and working hard.”

  “What was her work?” Sophy asked.

  Since she seemed disinterested, as if it hardly mattered, he decided to tell her. “Her father was an innkeeper.”

  She was watching the fire, not him. “I’ve stayed at inns twice. Both were busy places.”

  “You travel so little?” he asked.

  “I don’t travel at all,” she said. “I haven’t left Cordell Hall in seven years.” Seeing his stare of disbelief, she added, “I dine within the neighborhood, of course. And go to Bury St. Edmonds and Newmarket for the shops.”

  He looked up as Sarah entered the room with the tea tray.

  “Don’t wake my mother,” he commanded. “Set the tray by Miss Rushford. Do you think you are able to pour?” he asked as Sarah withdrew.

  “I believe I am up to the task, sir.”

  “I can do it if your arm pains you,” he said, realizing it would be an awkward task for her, one-handed.

  “I shall be fine.” She lifted the teapot with care, keeping her face and movements smooth. He watched her make up the tea, but she showed no difficulty or discomfort. She was different from the girl who had played Roberto twenty minutes past. She looked very much a lady.

  “Do you take sugar?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She brought him a cup, her feet silent on the carpet. “You read very well,” she said. “Once you have been properly encouraged. What do you like to read?”

  “This and that,” he shrugged. “You?”

  “My lessons. The books Hen—Henrietta sends me. My older sister.” She glanced at the mantel, where he had carelessly left a book. “You are reading Thaddeus of Warsaw?”

  “Re-reading it,” he admitted. “It’s a favorite.”

  She sipped her tea, inquiring further by lifting her eyebrows.

  “I first read it on HMS Leander, in the North Atlantic,” he said, remembering.

  “You’re in the navy?” she frowned. “I thought your family was in trade.”

  He gave a precise nod. “I am. But I spent a year in the navy. When I was fifteen I sailed with one of my father’s partners to Lower Canada. On the voyage home, a party from the Leander boarded and eleven of us were pressed. Ships carrying mast timber, like ours, are supposed to be protected from having their sailors pressed,” he explained. “But in practice, the regulations don’t stop His Majesty’s Navy from taking who they want. The October I was on the Leander there was rioting in Halifax over the press gangs the navy sent into town.”

  She frowned thoughtfully, setting aside her spoon. “And you are no longer with the navy?”


  “No. My father got me out, but it took a year. During that time, the Leander was based out of Halifax. We captured four ships—American merchantmen, carrying goods to France.”

  “What was it like?” She seemed rather startled.

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. “You can see worse in London’s slums. The navy might ignore everyone else’s laws, but they keep their own. Still, it’s the only time in my life I’ve had to fight to survive.” Which was not quite true. There had been those dreadful years at school.

  “In the actions against other ships?”

  Tom barked a laugh. “That too. No, I was thinking more of crewing the Leander. It’s hard work, and the lash rules. Seeing the skin stripped of a man’s back isn’t a pretty sight. Life on the Leander was very different from my father’s ship.”

  Remembering the tea in his hand, Tom took a sip.

  “But you were released?”

  “Yes. My father’s partner lodged a complaint in Halifax and my father took action on the London end. I was home the following spring. I can’t say I regret the experience. Captain Talbot was a fierce man, but a good captain. He forced discipline on me that I had resented from my father. And there’s no place like the sea to contemplate God, for there you truly depend upon providence.”

  At sea, his bitterness had blown away. He had been content with who he was then, an able seaman and part of a hardworking crew. His mates had respected him, not caring who he was. Matters were not so simple off the Leander.

  She set down her cup. “What are the colonies like?”

  “I didn’t spend much time on shore, but I’ve never forgotten what I saw. You can’t imagine so much wild land, such dense and sprawling forests. The St Lawrence River is like its’ own sea. I’ve been back to Lower Canada twice since then. The last time was four years ago, before my father sold out of the shipping business.” After his death, Tom had bought back in.

  He told her about the cliffs Wolff’s army had scaled to surprise Montcalm and the grey stone farms and churches in Quebec. He told her about the fur traders, who paddled tiny boats of birch bark for thousands of miles. He told her about Atlantic storms, and sleeping in a hammock on a crowded ship. When the clock on the mantle chimed, he saw that the candles had burned low and blinked, collecting himself.

  “I should have let you go to bed ages ago.” His mother would not thank him for tiring Sophy. He had rambled too long under her watchful eyes.

  “No, I enjoyed listening. I told you that I’ve never been anywhere remotely exciting.”

  “Not for long. Isn’t your brother taking you to the metropolis?”

  Again at the mention of London, the animation left her face. She dropped her eyes to her lap. “Yes. For the Season, you know.”

  “I do.” Well, not by experience, but he knew something of the path before her. It would take her far away from him. Pushing to his feet, he crossed the room and offered his hand. She rose from the divan and he handed her a candle, resisting the compulsion to let his fingers brush hers. “Goodnight, Miss Rushford.”

  Her eyes flew to her face. “So formal? I have given you leave to call me Sophy.”

  He hid a grimace. He wanted to put distance between them. No, to remind himself of the distance already there. “Since you wish it,” he said. “You may as well call me Tom, then.” She left him with a cryptic smile. Rousing his mother, he summoned Sarah to attend her to bed.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep in front of Miss Rushford!” she fretted.

  “Miss Sophy,” he corrected. “You were tired, and Miss Sophy understands. Besides, you needn’t care what she thinks. It has no relevance to us.”

  Heaving out of her chair, her joints creaking, she took Tom’s arm, patting it affectionately. “I dare say she thinks I’m a silly old woman. She’s probably right. But how can anyone not think well of you?”

  “You’ll give me a swollen head, mother.” Damn. She liked Sophy Rushford then, and was plotting for all she was worth.

  Tom left his mother at the door of her chambers, with a kiss pressed on her cheek. Then, holding his candle aloft, he made his way downstairs to the library.

  He hated this house, so full of sham and pretense. The shelves around him overflowed with handsome volumes in Greek or Latin that he couldn’t read. Useless stuff. His years at school had cured him of any desire for a gentrified life. It wasn’t real. Pouring himself a brandy, he downed it like cheap gin and slumped in front of the fire, which burned low behind a monstrosity of a screen. He peered at the fire through his empty glass. It looked distorted and strange.

  Her injury should have warned him of her dangerous high-spirits, her infectious humor. But he didn’t see how he could have foreseen how her face changed when she listened. Mesmerized by her candid grey stare, she had pulled words from him, more words than he had unburdened himself of in a long time. Foolish, when she would be gone from his house tomorrow, or the next day.

  He was infatuated with her, but it would pass. He had experienced this fleeting effect before, had seen friends make cakes of themselves before coming to their senses. He knew that if he distanced himself the effect would pass. The important thing was to let the swift fever work its course and not to do anything buffle-headed. Miss Rushford could not be allowed to suspect how she was afflicting him. He would prefer to keep his folly from his mother, but knew she was already speculating on what he and Sophy must have said to each other. They’d been essentially alone for over an hour.

  Well, it hardly mattered. Sophy would marry some peer before the Season was out and that was that. He would probably never see her again. It was ridiculous, pathetic even, that he had shared more of his hoarded memories with her than with anyone else.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Guilt

  When one was Miss Rushford, one could lay abed as late as one pleased. Sophy didn’t. Sleep eluded her, bothered as she was by a guilty conscience.

  Unimpressed by the daughter of a viscount, Tom Bagshot seemed to like her person well enough. He had a kind of unflappable charm; whether he was setting her arm or being dragooned into the navy, he faced the world with a smile. A handsome one, if truth be told. He would attract attention, she knew, despite his plain clothes and straightforward manners. And he would lose any respect he had for her, if he discovered the truth.

  Kicking aside the twisted sheets, Sophy slid out of her giant bed. She made use of the pot and splashed water on her hands and face. The cold water stung, but it was better than waiting until Sarah carried up a can of hot water.

  All night she had lain awake, trying to think how to hide the truth. Jasper would likely arrive today and managing him would be a delicate business. She had to think, and to do that, she needed to move. She was tired of the painted shepherdess on the wall smirking knowingly at her, making her twitchy and cross. Tentatively circling her arm, she decided she would leave off the sling. Though her muscles protested with every inch, the joint worked fine and having just one arm was getting irritating. She tidied her hair and scrubbed her teeth with the toothbrush and soda her hosts had provided, then left to prowl around the house.

  Eye-popping, that was the word for it. She had never seen its like. There was an Egyptian salon in black and gold and a ballroom of mirrors and blue silk swathed under dust covers. The long gallery was covered in pictures, all wedged together, with the ceiling a masterwork of plaster and paint. Craning her neck, Sophy counted fourteen cherubs in a single section.

  “Up all ready?”

  Sophy spun around. It was Tom, his approaching footsteps muffled by the carpet running the length of the gallery. He was dressed the same as yesterday, in a blue coat and brown trousers, carrying a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “If you need anything, you must not hesitate to ring,” he said. “Were you searching for anything particular?”

  “No.” Sophy smiled. “I couldn’t rest and decided to look around.”

  “You do
not take breakfast in your room today?” he asked.

  “I’ve no appetite this morning. Perhaps later.” If her stomach stopped churning, that was.

  “I’m afraid my mother has not risen yet,” he said. He was edging around her in a wide circle, not quite meeting her eyes, hiding behind his solicitous manners again.

  “I am amiably occupied. You have so many remarkable pictures.”

  Politeness demanded that he offer to show her around. Sophy waited expectantly.

  “May I show you the house?” he asked. “Or would you like to see the gardens?” His words were correct, but he thinned his lips as he spoke and glanced impatiently at the papers under his arm. Of course he must make things difficult. He’d liked her last evening. Why did she have to begin all over again today?

  “I should like so much to see both,” she said. He blenched and she lowered her eyelashes, hiding her satisfaction at scoring a point. Tom acquiesced with a bow and disappeared to dispose of his papers. Returning, he held out his arm. Letting the hand of her injured arm rest on his forearm, she allowed him to lead her to the next sizable painting, a magnificent portrait. The subject was male, with the mustaches, lace, and curling hair of the seventeenth century.

  “This is a picture of—the Marquis of Blaise—by Anthony van Dyck,” he said, squinting at the label.

  Yesterday he had confided in her. It annoyed her that today he plainly preferred his own company. “It is a handsome portrait,” she said, and they walked on. Miss Frensham was a great admirer of Mr. van Dyck and Sophy had seen etchings of his famous works, besides the portrait he had made of two long-ago Rushford brothers hanging in the long gallery at Cordell Hall.

  If she had wanted to discomfit Tom, here was revenge indeed, for he stumbled over the subjects of the pictures and could only give the artist if the name was tacked to the frame. Sophy doubted he had ever looked at them before. His color rose as his ignorance grew more apparent, until he was as red as a sunburned farm hand. After traversing half the gallery, Sophy took pity.