The Frenchman's Widow

by Eliza Lloyd

  Charlie spoke to the man. Shiffington! That prick. Would he forever be intruding in their lives?

  Rage like that of a wild animal consumed her and clawed at her guts. She fisted her hands into the blanket, determined to protect Lily at all costs but ready to kill him if necessary.

  Imogene refused to acknowledge him, but then he probably didn’t know she was twenty feet away. Maybe his recollection of a boyish hoyden had been erased by time and other pursuits.

  “I am enjoying holiday with my friends before the Michaelmas term begins,” Charlie said politely.

  Imogene didn’t hear much more than that. Mrs. Fitz began a tale about Lord Bancroft, her employer, which she listened to with half an ear.

  She had never been afraid of Shiffington, but her body quivered from toe to head. Even the blanket covering Lily fluttered as if the wind blew.

  He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a defiler of women. A deceiver.

  Imogene knew the short conversation ended only when Charlie sat down beside her. She glanced at him, his jaw clenched tight.

  Her eyes must have been as big as saucers because he said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Shiffington was well down the beach, traveling with another well-dressed man.

  Shortly it was decided they would return home. Charlie plucked Lily from Imogene’s grip, the only person she would allow to hold the child given Shiffington’s proximity.

  The young ones whined about leaving so soon. The Brewsters were a bit windblown but helped pack up and fold the blankets. Hands were clutched and they set off to Imogene’s home—the place that did not feel nearly so secure as it had when she woke up this morning.

  Charlie needed to pray for her soul because Imogene knew given the right circumstance she could kill Shiffington, and had thought of it often in those first months before Pierre. That circumstance was her daughter. Lily lay over Charlie’s shoulder, innocent as baby kitten. Imogene searched for recognition in her daughter’s face. She couldn’t see Jack and thanked God she couldn’t see Shiffington. Was Mrs. Fitz right? Was it because Lily took after Imogene?

  She shouldn’t be surprised that Shiffington, or maybe someday the Scot from her Twenty Acres dock days, would see her. People from London could travel to Brighton with ease since the train opened. His appearance was a harsh reminder she was still a woman alone. Her past was hidden behind her married name, but the deeds were not forgotten.

  Charlie slowed his pace until he was walking beside Imo, but well back from the others. She patted Lily’s back, wanting to take her daughter and hold her.

  “I had to talk to him,” Charlie said.

  “I know.”

  “He knows I’m your brother. God in heaven, how could he have spoken to me all these years, knowing what he did to you? Pretending nothing happened? If Frank were here, I swear, I would not stand in the way if he killed him.”

  “Is he still friends with Jack?”

  “No. They had a falling out several months ago.”

  “Over Catherine?”

  “Yes. I used to see them together once in a while. He was always friendly. The damn ferret.”

  “I should never have told you.”

  “The truth always comes out. Someday hell is going to rain down on him and I’ll be glad of it. God forgive me.”

  “Charlie, it’s best if you just don’t think about him. There’s no reason for us to worry a minute about what he’s doing or planning.” Guilt niggled in her gut. What if she had told Jack about what she had seen that night—Catherine and Shiffington cruelly betraying him? Could all of this have been prevented?

  “But he could be hurting someone else.”

  “Do what you are best at—pray he goes away and we never have to see him again.”

  “I’m glad Brewster is here. I would hate to leave you alone. All of you.”

  For the next three days, they ate and laughed and played cards. Only the Brewsters maintained a distance, thinking themselves servants instead of family.

  But all good things ended.

  Mrs. FitzPatrick left, hugging Imogene and Lily. She promised Birdie a place in Bancroft’s household next year if she learned her sums and paid attention to everything Mrs. Brewster taught. She clucked the chins of the younger ones and promised she’d visit again soon.

  It was a bittersweet parting as Charlie also decided to go back a few days early, accompanying Mrs. Fitz.

  A pain burned in her chest as she waved goodbye.

  The house seemed quiet that day and wherever Imogene went, Lily followed, carrying a Parisian doll that Pierre had gifted to her months ago.

  “Mama, when will Charlie come back?”

  “When he’s finished with school.”

  Imogene did not remember being a little child Lily's age; maybe that was why she thought Lily would not remember Pierre. Or Charlie. But she was sad and seemed a little frightened about people coming and going away again, so Imogene waited another week before she announced she was going to London.

  * * * * *

  Imogene had lied to herself over the past five years about her feelings for Jack. It was the only way to survive and devote wholehearted attention to her husband. She knew there was no possibility for her and Jack, but that didn’t stop dreams of a life together intruding upon her reality.

  She didn’t think about the air she breathed or the way her heart beat, but all of her memories lived on in the same way, blossoming because she watered them now and again. Not meaning to, not really.

  And she rationalized about why she left and who Lily’s father was. The real truth was simple. There was no place for her in London. Not as a whore, not as Jack’s mistress, not dodging Shiffington when Jack wasn’t looking. And such was her reasoning for leaving Paris. Once Pierre died, she’d seen the curious and knowing looks from his sons, and one annoying son in particular. Eventually one of them would make the same mistake as Shiffington. She kept a shuttered gaze when looking at them, not willing for them to imagine some encouragement from her.

  And so there was no place in Paris either.

  But her house of reason came tumbling down the moment she decided she must go to London to see Jack. She wasn’t really controlled by logic, not when it came to him.

  He was her air and her heartbeat. He always had been. Their marriages and the distance between them hadn’t made it easy, only less difficult.

  And now they were both free.

  How many times had she sworn she would not be his whore? She smiled, a bit one-sided. About as many times as she’d wished she could wake one more morning beside him.

  The last train would arrive in London after dark, just as she needed. A two-hour trip to London would close the yawning gap of their separation. She wondered if her expression revealed the light inside her. She might as well be glowing like a London streetlamp.

  Imogene was no longer ignorant about men. She could tell when a man wanted her. And Jack wanted her.

  More in love with him than ever, she daydreamed her way to London, only the occasional jerk of the train car brought her to back to the present. But the soothing clickety clack of the iron wheels against that track lulled her back to the past.

  Was she a little mad to show up on his stoop unannounced?

  Knocking at his door and presenting herself as Madame LeClerc was impossible. One didn’t establish a good reputation and then ruin it in one indiscreet action.

  She rolled her eyes. People did such things all the time.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only a blue and yellow arc to the west. The train slowed at the outer edge of London and a short time later pulled into Euston station, wheels grinding and a large, long horn tooting when the conductor announced the arrival. With a final jerk, the train heaved steam, billowing about the windows and platform before disappearing into the night.

  Imogene had worn a simple skirt, one she could slip out of easily since she already had her trousers and
boots on underneath. Once everyone in her car lined up to exit, Imogene opened her small valise and pulled out her worn jacket and cap. When the last person stepped from her car, she wiggled out of her skirt, stuffed her arms into her jacket and buttoned up. The cap was simple enough—she’d had her hair bound in a single braid and wrapped into a bun.

  She walked onto the train in Brighton as Madame LeClerc and stepped off the train as a child of the street—Imogene Farrell, to be precise. Only a close inspection would reveal the truth, and in the dusky haze of twilight, no one would be the wiser.

  Imo slung the bag over her shoulder, hunched a bit and shoved her other hand in her pocket. Truth be told, she was a little nervous. Did she remember all the tricks? Could she scamper through the streets unnoticed? Could she avoid trouble?

  Strange thing about London, everyone knew where the nobles lived. Though she’d never been to the home Jack had inherited as part of the earldom, she knew the exact location.

  No one paid attention to a ragamuffin boy, and she passed by the night watch with ease.

  Jack might be away from home. If so, she would wait. She skirted the house and glanced up the back of the building. A matching trellis climbed the wall but did not lead to a window or balcony. The Farrells had never been proper coves, sneaking into homes and nicking silver and snuff. Imo was relieved she wouldn’t have to climb, risking injury with a fall. She did have a daughter and family to think of now.

  Light from below stairs still shone, so she knocked on the servants’ door.

  A girl peeked through the crack. “Who are ya and what ya want?” she demanded.

  Imogene said, “I need to see Maxwell. Is he here?”

  “Strangers aren’t allowt in the house after dark.”

  “My name is Imogene. Tell Max I am here. He’ll see me. Hurry now.”

  The servant eased the door shut and the lock snapped into place.

  Several moments later, heavy footsteps sounded along the hallway. The door burst open and Maxwell stepped through, the light behind him. She couldn’t see his expression.

  He gripped the lapel of her jacket and nearly lifted her from her toes just to get a better look-see. “My god! It is you.”

  “Hallo, Max.” She wrapped her arms about his middle. “It’s good to see you.”

  Maxwell patted her back and let out a big sigh. “Miss Imogene.” He closed the door and then took her by the shoulders. “Lord Prescott said he’d seen you. I didn’t believe him.”

  “It’s me. In the flesh.”

  “I thought you were lost to us forever. I never told him.”

  Imogene stiffened beneath his hands. “Told him what?”

  “The real reason you left.”

  “Don’t say another word, Max. Not a word. You don’t know. Now, I need to see Jack. Is he home?”

  “You heard about Lady Prescott?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s visiting his mother but should be home soon. He missed you. After you left us.”

  “You just didn’t have anyone to play cards with anymore.”

  “After you left, I started winning again, that is certain. Though Cook refused to play barefoot. Thankfully.”

  Imo chuckled. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not such a shark as I used to be.”

  “Maybe I can win some of my money back, then.”

  Uncharacteristic of Maxwell, he drew her near and held her like a long-lost daughter. “It is good to see you. Very good.”

  “I’m not staying. I have responsibilities now, but I need to see Jack.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll stay the night.” Maxwell’s heavy hand weighed upon her shoulder and they walked toward the mews. When they secreted themselves at the corner of the building, he said. “I have to say it, Miss Imogene—”

  “It’s LeClerc. I married, Max. A good man, but he’s gone near four months now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What is it you want to say, Max?”

  “He came back after you were gone. That’s when I knew for certain.”

  “I hope you knocked his teeth out.”

  “Very nearly, but I doubt it would have done any good. I couldn’t accuse a gentleman without proof.”

  “Max, there was nothing anybody could do and it’s done with. Shiffington’s turn will come and he’ll get all that he’s earned.”

  “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  “Max! Stop thinking about what can’t be changed. He didn’t hurt me. His cock wasn’t big enough.”

  “You can’t be defeated, can you?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  They both glanced up then, seeing the light in an upstairs room.

  “I suppose I ought to see to the master,” Maxwell said.

  “You know why I’m here. I don’t think he’ll be needing his valet. Just his whore.”

  “If that were true, then what should lesser ladies of the ton be called? You are a fine woman, Miss Imogene. Lord Prescott saw something in you the rest of us failed to see until it was too late.”

  She glanced up again, wiping her hands over her pants. “I’m nervous.”

  No matter what she dreamt or how she prayed, she really hadn’t believed she would get to be with Jack again, even at seventy.

  “I’ll bring up a late breakfast,” he said.

  “Knock first. I’d hate to think what you might see otherwise.”

  “No matter. There won’t be a thing I haven’t seen before.”

  They had strolled back toward the door and he eased it open, glancing inside to see that the hallway was empty.

  “The second door on the left.”

  “Goodnight, Maxwell.” She pushed to her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, feeling closer to him now after all this time. Perhaps because he knew her secret. Perhaps because he knew she had truly loved Jack.

  Imogene tiptoed up the stairs, staying off the middle boards and clinging to the wall. There was a lone candle in the hallway.

  Peter, Paul and Mary! What am I doing?

  When she set her hand to the doorknob, she took a deep breath and then blew it out. The door creaked open.

  Jack was rifling through a bureau drawer. “Maxwell, have you seen...”

  He turned his head as she closed the door, dropping her valise at her feet. He was in his trousers, his linen shirt pulled from the waistband, and his feet were bare.

  His arm dropped to his side and he faced her, his expression inscrutable.

  Imogene didn’t know what to say or how to say it. “I love you” was on her lips, but those were the words she would never say to him again. Some truths, this truth, was better left unsaid. There was still a great divide between them that might never be crossed, except for a few sleepy thoughts at bedtime and the strong yearning for something when the seasons changed.

  They stared at each other. Maybe Jack thought she was an apparition. In a few silent steps, he was in front of her. He reached for her cap and threw it aside. Her lips were dry and breath came hard.

  When he reached for her, he cupped her bottom and lifted her. His hands slid to her thighs—holding her in place, wrapped around his waist—while she clutched her arms about his neck. Their mouths connected, heating her to her toes.

  Had she ever tasted anything so wonderful? Or smelled anything as earthy and pure as Jack? She gripped him tighter, wanting to devour him. He nudged her a bit, opening his mouth to hers. Their tongues touched and tangled. Imogene didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want this moment to end.

  Only when she needed breath did she finally pull away, gasping, still hungry for him. His gaze was fierce and terrible. He carried her to the bed and fell with her. One of his strong arms braced his body. His knees were between her legs.

  She wrenched at her jacket and wished she’d gone naked beneath it, but she’d worn her stays. Jack jerked at his shirt and tossed it aside, then reached for her foot, the oversized boot slipping off with ease. One by one the garments came off until she was naked
. Her chest heaved with each breath and still they only stared at one another.

  As if one word would break the magic of this solitary night.

  I love you. I love you. I love you.

  Surely he could hear her thoughts and feel that each beat of her heart was just for him.

  He fumbled at the fall of his trousers, not bothering to remove them. Then he was over her, not crushing her, but overwhelming her. His strength, his scent, his body. One of his large hands gripped her bare thigh and wrapped it around his waist. The hardness of his erection pressed into her belly.

  He covered her mouth again and devoured her. There was no other word for it. They were starved for each other. Two people wandering in the wilderness and stumbling upon a feast.

  His hand slid along her thigh, tender strokes that matched the gentle thrusting of his hips. She could only guess when he’d last been with a woman. It had been well over a year since she’d last been with her husband...

  Beneath her fingers, she enjoyed the feel of Jack’s body. The curve of muscles from his shoulder down. The bumps from the scar near his neck. Her fingers played him and she remembered every note.

  When she slid her fingers into his hair, Jack moved. Lifting. Impaling. Pushing deep. And letting out a desperate groan when he was fully inside. His cheek was to her cheek and his breath was hot against her neck.

  Imogene panted. He was hot and hard and slipped into her with ease. She had forgotten the sense of fullness, the throbbing need that came with impalement.

  She held onto his shoulders and lifted her hips against him, wanting to feel the buildup of arousal. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted him now.

  His hips jerked and jerked again. Jack was beyond control. The hard thrusting continued for a short time. Imogene slid her hands into his hair and held his face so she could kiss him and take in his pleasure.

  When he climaxed, she inhaled his moans and endured the pain of his fingers digging into her thigh and the heaviness of his body when he tensed and then relaxed over her.

  Jack buried his face next to hers, cheek to cheek. She brushed one hand up and down his back. This was how it was sometimes with men. Jack had not been with a woman in a while, she could tell. It would be more flattering to think he could not control himself because he was enjoying her body, but the truth was simpler and less complicated. He had needed a woman and she was the receptacle for that need.