“Awwiks!” Harry’s delighted squeal assaulted them when they ducked beneath the entrance to the cozy parlor. “And Dewik, too.” The two-year-old boy dropped his wooden toy and waddled across to where they stood. When he arrived at their feet, he raised both arms to the sky and demanded, “Up!”
“Yes, sir. Up indeed.” Alex lifted the giggling child high into the air and pretended to drop him, only to catch him again at the last moment. Of course, this elicited another peal of mirth.
“If you do not greet him properly, Harry, I fear he might drop you on your head.” Priscilla sat on a window seat at the far wall, where she was at work sewing a garment that could be for none other than her son. Her brown curls fell into her eyes and she blew at them, only to have them fall immediately back into their previous position.
“Nooo, Awwiks not dwop me.”
At the challenge, he took the bait and lifted Harry ever higher and caught him just before his face brushed the floor. The boy’s laughter threatened to rob Alex of all his breath.
Priscilla looked up for just a moment before she busied herself in her work again. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company today? I didn’t expect you before the weekend.” Her face filled with inquisitiveness.
Alex placed the boy on the floor and gave him a wooden block to occupy his attention before he and Derek took seats at the neat writing table near where Pris worked. Everything here always seemed so dainty to him here, even with the toddler around to make messes.
He took a breath and looked Pris in the eye. “I have to leave you.”
“By Jove, man. What will you have her do?” Derek pushed back from his seat, his dark eyes flashing with fury.
Alex lifted his hands. “Easy, easy. You know me better than that. This is not permanent. Far from it.” He tugged at his cravat so he could breathe again. Blast the fussy things. “I am traveling to Somerton for awhile. Lord Rotheby sent for me. He wants me to visit him, and I want to get away from London for a time. Perfect situation, if you ask me.”
“Get away from London?” Derek asked, perplexed. “Why? Good God, there is nothing of interest to do in the country. And Rotheby’s a fussy old goat.”
“There is nothing of interest to do in town, either! Truth be told, it is more Mama that I want to get away from than London.”
Priscilla raised an eyebrow in an unasked question.
“Ah…well, she’s matchmaking again, you see. Peter believes she will start with me, even when he is the far worthier candidate.”
“Ha!” Derek’s burst of laughter filled the small room.
“You needn’t be so jolly about it.”
“But what could be better? You, Lord Alex Hardwicke, are running in fear from your mother. Why is that, I wonder? The only reasonable answer I can see is you fear she’ll be successful in her bid.”
Good Lord, why had he shared what he did about Mama? He would never hear the end of it from Derek. The dolt would probably go tell Sir Jonas and the rest of the crowd at White’s that evening, passing it all on like the latest on dit.
“I am most certainly not afraid of my mother, or that she could be successful. She can’t very well make an offer for me, can she?” She had better not get such an idea in her head. He shuddered and a pregnant pause filled the air, loud and unwieldy.
“How long will you be gone?” Trust Priscilla to get things back to the point at hand. She pulled her stitch tight and knotted it before she looked at Alex again, ever at work at something. Dear God, he wished he could change things for her, make things easier for her—something.
“I don’t know. For that matter, I’m unaware why Rotheby wants to see me. I only know I need to get away and he’s given me the perfect reason to do so without upsetting Mama.” Deuce take it, why did he have to bring Mama back into this conversation when he had just got her out of it?
“You’ve been unhappy here for a long time, Alex. This is a wonderful idea.” Priscilla smiled across at him with genuine warmth lighting her eyes. “Don’t fret about me and Harry. We’ll be just fine.”
“But I do worry about you. I will continue to worry about you. I made you a promise, Pris—”
“You made a very foolish promise a very long time ago.” She forcefully pushed her stitchery away and struggled to her feet, reaching for the cane resting next to the bay window. “You know what I think, Alex? I think it’s high time you found a wife, settled down, and stopped ambling through your life. Perhaps you ought to stay in London, after all, and allow your mother to do what she will.”
Derek earned a glare when he barely stifled a snicker. Priscilla ignored him. “Now why would marriage be so ghastly? You cannot go on like you are forever, you know.”
“But if I were to marry a lady from society, what would I do with you and Harry? How could I continue to care for you?”
“I told you long ago we do not need you.”
“That is bollocks, and you know it, Pris. What would you do for money? Harry will need to go to school someday. How would you pay for that? Christ, you cannot even walk without assistance, so what kind of work could you do?” He flinched at the sharp look she gave him, then rushed on. “I cannot sit by and allow you both to fall by the wayside. I will not.”
She frowned at him. “Alex—”
Why did the blasted woman even think he would consider it? “No, I told you before and I am telling you again, I will take care of you. Mama must accept the fact that I will not bow to her every whim.” Alex paced through the room, careful to step over Harry and his toys. “Derek, I need you to look after them while I am away.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I swore to you I would care for you, and I intend to do just that. Derek will help.” He hoped he was right.
“Of course I will. If you need anything before he returns, you need only send for me.” He leveled a glare at Alex. “I will ensure you keep your promise to Pris and Harry. They need you.”
“I realize that. And you know I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” He strode over to where she stood near the window and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. “I promise.” He took the cane from her hands and guided her back to her seat.
He would not leave them alone for long.
~ * ~
Grace waited until she was absolutely certain her father had passed out from his drink. She could not risk discovery. For once, she was glad he kept very few servants. It made her task this evening much easier.
She chose a small valise and packed her meager belongings into it. When all her clothes were inside and still she had more room, Grace chose a few books to take with her as well.
Reaching beneath her mattress, she retrieved a few bank notes. Not much, but it should cover coach fare, at the very least. After taking one more cursory glance around the chamber, the only thing left to pack was her battered doll. She placed it gingerly inside amongst the clothing and books. Her child might someday need a doll, and she might not be able to provide one, otherwise.
Before she closed the valise, she dashed off a brief note to her aunt and uncle.
Dear Sir Laurence and Lady Kensington,
I realize this is terribly short notice, but I have a need to visit you. Please accept my apologies, but I have no time for further explanation now. I shall strive to explain myself upon arrival in Somerton.
Your loving niece,
Grace
She stashed the note in her bag and climbed down the dark stairwell, careful to avoid the creaky steps and the missing planks, before she let herself out the oak front door. It thudded to a close behind her and she scurried down the path to the street with her satchel at her side.
Bustling along the dark streets, she prayed she was traveling in the right direction. Grace had spent far too many years cooped up inside her chamber at Chatham House. The time had come for change.
Finally, she spotted the posting inn where the coach was preparing to leave. She took a moment to deliver her note to the postmaster
and prayed the mail coach would arrive before the stagecoach. The Kensingtons needed at least some warning of her looming arrival, however little it may be.
The driver signaled to her time had arrived for their departure. He assisted her aboard and she settled in for the three day journey.
Grace hoped her travel would not be in vain.
Chapter Two
Grace stared steadily out the window of the coach in a studied effort to avoid looking at any of the other passengers. In short order, she’d learned that making eye contact signaled an open invitation for conversation.
Mrs. Laymore, the grey-haired, self-proclaimed mistress of entertainment of the coach, did not take the hint. “And my Poopsie, when he fell from the tree—which I don’t know how he got into the tree in the first place, since I thought dogs did not climb trees. Anyway, when he fell down from the tree, from way up high on that limb up higher even than the roof of the house, he broke both of his back legs, he did. Mr. Laymore had a doctor in town fashion a contraption to put on his hind end, so the bones could heal. But then we were forced to carry the poor pup around. It’s certainly a good thing Poopsie is a poodle and not a larger dog, because I don’t believe I could carry one much larger than him.”
Mr. Turner interjected, “A dog that climbs trees? Are you quite certain your poodle is not a cat, Mrs. Laymore? I have never heard of such a thing.” His attire appeared to be from a previous century, with everything down to the cod-piece in position, and his teeth had seemingly not been cleaned since the days when a cod-piece could be considered fashionable.
“No, he is as much a poodle as any poodle, Mr. Turner, albeit a rather odd, tree-climbing one.”
Grace closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but was jarred when Mr. Turner kicked her foot. Her eyes flashed open and she bit back a howl of pain.
“So sorry, Lady Grace,” Mr. Turner said with a look of abject horror on his face. “My gout is acting up again, it is, and I needed to move my foot to a new position. I never meant to kick you, ma’am. I promise it won’t happen again.”
His gout would be the death of Grace, if the man refused to stop talking about it. She had heard about gout ad nauseum today and learned more about it than she ever cared to know in her lifetime in the bargain. She was tired of discussing the various accidents of Mrs. Laymore’s precious Poopsie and the gout plaguing Mr. Turner. She just wanted to arrive in Somerton. That ought not to be too much to ask, after two full days stuffed into a coach with these insufferable strangers and another day to follow.
Grace shook her head. When had she become so intolerant? Obviously her concerns weighed so heavily on her mind that listening to the concerns of utter strangers was no longer as simple as it used to be—or even as simple as it should be, for that matter.
Being hungry didn’t help matters, either.
She had spent almost all the money she had procured before leaving London on the coach fare and on rooms at the posting inns where they stopped along the way. Food was a luxury she could scarcely afford, so she ate only a small bowl of thin soup each day of the journey, casting envious glances at the crusty breads and mutton pies her companions ate with robust vigor.
Grace fell asleep after staring through the dusty window, even though she had tried desperately to stay awake.
It was the same nightmare she had experienced for weeks now. His eyes, cold and black, stared into her tear-filled ones through his untidy mop of blackish-greyish hair. His rough hands tore at her clothes and body. She shuddered at the grim set of his jaw as he forced himself on her, above her, into her.
Grace jolted awake in a cold sweat as the coach launched itself into a colossal rut in the road. She glanced about to see if any of the other passengers were aware of her nightmare, but none of them were paying her any attention. She turned her focus to slowing her breath and calming her pulse, even through the hollow rumble from her stomach. Perhaps the Kensingtons would provide her with a meager tea upon her arrival. She didn’t want to raise her hopes, though.
She had neither seen nor heard from them since shortly after her mother’s death, so she had no reason to expect they would take her in. At best, she could hope they might allow her to stay for an evening, perhaps through the end of the week if they were feeling terribly generous. But once they learned of her true reason for the visit (if it could even be termed as such), Grace held every expectation they would turn her out. She ought not to expect the same amenities she was accustomed to receiving in her father’s home, however marginal they may have been.
She returned her gaze to the scene passing by outside the carriage window. After an interminable day of travel, houses and small shops started popping up along the roadway amongst the trees and wildflowers. What a relief. They must be approaching the posting inn where they would stop for the evening.
Within a few minutes, the coach pulled in front of the run-down building. The driver climbed down and handed them out. Grace rushed inside, hoping to get away from her irksome traveling companions and to the privacy of her own room. She needed a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep—preferably in that order.
~ * ~
When Grace boarded the coach the next morning, she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or upset. A young woman with two toddlers and an infant sat in the coach, but there was no sign of either Mrs. Laymore or Mr. Turner. Thank goodness.
At least the day would be a short one. They should arrive in Somerton by about midday. Thankfully, no other passengers boarded, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief.
The coach departed with a jolt. What would life would be like for her in Somerton, should she be allowed to stay? Grace had very little memory of Sir Laurence and his wife, and the bits she did remember were spotty, at best.
After her mother had died, her father had stopped allowing the Kensingtons to visit. Letters from Somerton had slowed to a trickle, and then came to a complete stop. They could be as horrid and heinous as Father, for all she knew. Oh, why had she thought this would be such a grand idea again? Her misgivings threatened to take over. Perhaps she could convince the driver to stop before Somerton, and she could get off there. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with such a dreary outlook. Of course, then she would never know the truth, too.
An argument between the children interrupted her thoughts.
“It is my dolly!” cried the female child. The little girl could be no more than three.
“No it’s not. Mama, I had it first.” An older boy pulled the doll from his younger sister’s grasp and she wailed in distress.
“Christopher, you promised to let Annabel play with the doll today, did you not?” The young woman gently pried her son’s fingers free of the toy and returned it to Annabel. The girl stopped weeping almost instantaneously and placed a thumb in her mouth while she held the doll.
“I do apologize, ma’am. Travel is difficult on children.” The woman’s face pinched when the infant began to cry. “Oh, lud. I hoped she’d sleep through this. I’m very sorry.”
The older children seemed to take the baby’s cries as an invitation to resume their argument. Christopher pulled the doll away from Annabel. She screamed out loud before she bit the boy’s arm. He retaliated by sitting on her.
The young mother seemed overwhelmed, sitting and watching it all happen with wide, fraught eyes. She made no move to intervene, so Grace took matters into her own hands.
She plucked young Annabel up from beneath her brother and sat her on the bench alongside herself. Grace pulled the young girl close and held on to her, soothing away the tears. “Christopher, sit next to your mother. You can keep that one.” She dug through her valise and found her old, beat-up doll. It was one of the few things her mother had given her that Father had not confiscated to sell. Grace handed the doll to Annabel. “Here you go sweetheart. You can play with this.”
Annabel’s eyes twinkled, and she took the doll from Grace and held it in a close embrace.
Their mother stared at Grace from across
the coach, her expression that of weary gratitude.
Grace gestured to the infant still crying in the woman’s arms. “Do you need help with her, too? I could hold her for a stretch.” The woman’s jaw dropped open in dismay. She must never receive any help with her children. It must be overwhelming at times.
The woman did not respond, but held the baby out to Grace. She placed the infant over her shoulders and rocked back and forth, cooing and whispering until the child slept once again.
“Thank you, ma’am.” A single tear slid down the mother’s haggard face. “You are most kind.”
Grace smiled at her. She didn’t want to let the baby go. There was something very comforting about the feel of a baby sleeping in her arms.
The two older children each played with their respective dolls and refrained from further arguments, the mother slept, and Grace fervently prayed she would someday be able to hold her own baby like she held this stranger’s baby.
When they neared Somerton, the woman awoke as the baby once again cried. “I believe she has a wet nappy, ma’am,” the young mother said. Grace passed the child back to her mother’s waiting arms, reluctant to let go. “Annabel, give the lady her doll back.”
Annabel’s eyes filled with tears as she lifted the toy up. Grace pushed the doll back into her grubby hands. “No, you may keep her, Annabel. I have no need of this doll anymore, but I can see you do.” It hurt Grace to let go of this piece of her mother, but not as much as seeing the little girl cry. She would somehow find a way to provide her own child with a doll, but this one must go with Annabel.
“Thank you again, ma’am. You’ve been most generous with us.” The mother worked to situate her children and all of their belongings, and Grace stared out the windows again.
As the coach pulled into town, the driver stopped in front of the Brookhurst Inn. Grace glanced about the street as the coach door opened and the driver set down the steps.
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