by Mary Balogh
She had been so stupid, so naive. So vulnerable.
She would try to see that no such tragedy befell Minna.
———
“Blast the woman, and double blast!” raged Colonel Fairburn, throwing his hat across the room.
His young nephew deftly caught it and grinned. “Any woman in particular, sir?”
“Get out of here, Percy, if you value your life,” Fairburn said with what was very like to a snarl.
Uncle John was never the most even-tempered sort, and today was only a particularly vivid illustration of that truth. Percy Fairburn left quickly but peeked his head of butter-colored curls back in at the door to say, with a proper meekness, “A book you asked for arrived while you were out.”
“Book? Oh, yes.” Fairburn’s scowl was eloquent. “I suppose I’d better see it.”
Within moments the colonel’s batman had delivered a mildewed copy of Shakespeare’s plays.
John looked through the book, which had several missing pages, until he encountered The Tragic History of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Then he began to examine each leaf more closely; he had never seen the play performed, barely remembered reading it, and he didn’t know where the speech in question occurred. His nephew stayed in the room, doing what he had been doing on John’s entrance: making serious inroads into his uncle’s stock of Madeira. Finally John came upon the song in question.
Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clo’es, And dupp’d the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.
Reading the words, he had to smile, a rueful smile. They fit so well. So that had been the eve of Saint Valentine’s Day, that night so long ago; if he had known the date at the time, it hadn’t stuck in his mind.
It had certainly stuck in Rosamund’s.
“I say, Uncle,” spoke up Percy. “Have you found what you wanted?”
“You’d better go,” the colonel responded. “I’m not fit company.”
“Well, who is, sir? It’s devilish hot today for January, and you aren’t used to the climate,” Percy said with the wisdom of one who had been several years resident in India.
John sighed. To read the Shakespeare he had flung himself into the nearest chair, and now he stretched out his long legs. Rattan creaked as he tipped the chair back.
Percy was perched on the handiest hard surface, an inlaid teakwood chest. “Perhaps if you told me what the trouble is? In the strictest confidence, of course. Women can drive one mad.”
“Let me have one thing understood,” Fairburn said, his dark brows forming a forbidding shelf. “There is no woman in particular. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, Uncle.”
“Good fellow. Well, given that circumstance, let me tell you a story.”
Percy kept quiet, but straightened his shoulders to an almost military erectness as an expression of his interest.
Fairburn took this as encouragement—not that he needed any. “Imagine yourself in this situation, my boy. As an idle youth, while making a forced visit to a pack of dull relations, you meet a girl.”
Since Percy was a youth, though not So idle as he had been before he shipped out to India, he had a ready answer. “I’d say I was a lucky devil. Relations, you know. Helps to have them off one’s mind, what?”
Fairburn’s frown deepened, and Percy made no further attempt at levity.
Looking away, Fairburn continued, “You meet a girl, and she’s the girl, Percy. You have only a few days together, a few precious days, for she’s about to depart for a distant place. Then, on the night before she goes, you—you confess your love and decide to marry.” Young Percy did not have to be told what would interest him most—that the girl had not only confessed her love but had insisted—pleaded—that the young man take her to his bed. She wanted to be his at once, she said, and he was not hard to convince. They were only anticipating marriage vows; they had already made those in spirit.
John had his youth to contend with as well as his passion and hers. In the event he hadn’t been able to play the gentleman and insist that she return to her room. He had taken her, knowing that in the morning they would announce their imminent marriage to the assembled company, a gathering that included the most stringently disapproving of his relations and her witch of a chaperon.
They were both underage. He was a second son and had no future laid out for him, no profession. He had been wavering between the church and the law, liking neither prospect. As for her, she was being shipped off to India precisely because she too was poor; orphaned besides. She was considered to be quite lucky that some friends of her late parents were buying her outfit and her passage for the great eastern marriage mart. They were depending on her to marry well. All this she had told him in confidence; to the others at the gathering she was simply Mrs. Fallow’s charge.
Later he was to wonder if her whole tale about India was a lie, told for some unknown reason.
Nobody would approve such a match, but in the morning it would be too late to forbid it. After ten years, Fairburn could still remember the serene sense of lightness that had accompanied their lovemaking. She had been innocent; she had been loveliness itself. A secret, quiet beauty all the more precious because it was known only to him, for nobody else considered her anything but a plain dab of a girl.
He awakened late in the morning; several times during the night he had reached out to pull her close. But when he reached out again, she was gone.
She would be gone, of course. He hadn’t worried. Naturally, since she had awakened before he had, she had returned to her own quarters to avoid an open scandal.
He hurried down to the breakfast room, but he had been a true slugabed, and breakfast was over. Not only that, she was gone, she and her hatchet-faced duenna, and nobody cared where.
Nobody but John Fairburn. He started on his fruitless search within a half hour of rising.
When he found the ship at Portsmouth, and no Miss Manton or Mrs. Fallow listed among the passengers, John had been forced to conclude that his love had sneaked away from him. He further concluded that she must have used him to satisfy her curiosity; that she hadn’t loved him at all, hadn’t meant to marry him. Not only that, she obviously wasn’t going to India; then where on earth was she?
He couldn’t find out. He forced himself not to care. And now, so many years later, she had the nerve, the absolute insolence, to chastise him for not finding her. Women!
Once all hope of finding her was gone John charged home, full of new determination to forget the fair sex. He begged his father to buy him a pair of colors. For once his eloquence overrode his sire’s objections to such a dangerous and precarious occupation, and John began, at last, on a career that demanded all his energies.
He had been careful to steer clear of females’ snares in the years since Elizabeth—since Rosamund. Women were nothing to him; they existed only to give momentary pleasure, and then they were most welcome to disappear.
Percy was clearing his throat in the uncomfortable silence, and his uncle realized that he had wandered off by himself into the past and forgotten such a person as his nephew existed.
“In the morning she was gone, lad,” Fairburn said softly. “Gone without a trace! Devil take her. Years later she met the man again and accused him of trifling with her. Accused him Unbelievable.”
“Maddening, sir,” offered Percy.
“Shall we go out?” John asked suddenly, rising to his feet. “Maybe I can walk it off.”
Not inquiring what “it” was, Percy declined the honor. “I never walk at this time of day. You’ll soon learn, Uncle John.”
“The hot season hasn’t started yet.”
“You’d do much better to stay and have a drink, sir.”
“That would be too easy. But feel free to help yourself,” John said, starting out the door.
P
ercy shook his head at his uncle’s stubbornness, then filled his glass complacently. Dashed comfortable to have a relation in this part of the world.
———
John set out for Maidan Park across from Government House, not because he had a wish to join in any fashionable promenade, but because he was new to the place and had no idea where else to walk. The gardens were quiet; the only Europeans Fairburn spied were nursemaids and their charges. He was quite at liberty to stalk about giving full play to thoughts both romantic and vindictive.
They had been victims, Rosamund and he, of circumstances. If he were to believe her version of events—and he did not see why he should not—and if she were to believe his in return, they must eventually arrive at the conclusion that neither had been at fault. She had not stayed by him, but he had not found her. The score was even in an odd, sad way.
She was an intelligent woman and must realize this; yet she had told him it was too late. She had warned him off.
As a confirmed bachelor, he ought to be relieved. He was not obliged to offer again for the girl he had ruined, in popular parlance, so long ago. They had evidently each been haunted by the episode. Now she was giving them both leave to put it behind them.
There was only one problem. When John had belatedly recognized his Elizabeth—no, he would always call her Rosamund now, a much better name for her—when he had recognized her it had simply not occurred to him that they would not pick up where they had left off. At the moment she had left him standing alone on her ballroom terrace, he had sworn to win her. A hasty oath, perhaps, formed by the magic of the soft tropical night and the lady’s intoxicating presence, but one that he still believed made perfect sense.
As he marched across a stretch of green, wondering what in God’s name he was to do next, a small child careened into his knees and fell backward onto the grass.
“Oh, Sammy!” A young lady came shrieking toward them; definitely not a servant, but she seemed too young to be the lad’s mother. She pulled the boy to his feet while Fairburn was still blinking from the sudden jolt back to reality. “Now bow to the gentleman, dear, and ask his pardon,” the girl addressed the child, giving his narrow shoulders a squeeze. She smiled nervously up at Fairburn.
He touched his hat to her. A pleasant-looking little thing, no more; a face just this side of plain, with brown curls peeping from the muslin bonnet and a passable form under the white muslin dress. He found himself smiling at the frightened look on the girl’s face. When he glanced at the boy, who was also staring at him with wide, scared eyes, he smiled wider.
“I hope you weren’t injured, my lad.”
“No, sir,” a little voice piped. The child executed an acceptable bow for one so young. He was a bit over waist-high measured against John, who had no idea what age such a stature would betoken. Clearing his throat, the child continued, “Your pardon, sir.”
“Thank you. I do not regard it in the least.”
“You won’t be demanding satisfaction, then?” the boy burst out.
“No,” Fairburn said in a serious tone, exchanging a merry glance with the lad’s keeper.
The boy sighed in evident relief. “I’ve heard that officers pick quarrels a lot, and as this was my fault, you’ve every right to ask me to name your friends, but—thank you, sir.”
Fairburn’s lips twitched. “I believe the expression you are looking for is slightly different. That is, I would ask you to name your friends. I could hardly expect you to know mine.”
The child nodded studiously and replied, “I did wonder how that worked. Thank you.” Holding out his small hand, he added, “I’m Samuel Ashburnham.”
So the brown eyes, first fear-struck, now trusting, were familiar indeed; John had not just imagined it. He saw the young lady and the boy looking at him curiously and realized that an ominous silence must have followed young Ashburnham’s words. Worse, John had not yet taken the offered hand.
Managing with great difficulty to keep his countenance, he shook the boy’s hand and replied, “John Fairburn. I’m delighted to meet you, Sir Samuel.”
“Not a ‘sir,’ “ the little lad admitted with a hint of regret. “Papa was only a knight, and Mama says I can’t be a ‘sir’ unless I earn it for myself. Like Papa,” he added, squaring his shoulders in obvious pride. He eyed Fairburn’s regimentals wistfully. “Are you a general?”
“Colonel.” John was absurdly gratified by the admiring glances sent his way by both child and young lady. He was still endeavoring to hide his shock. Of course Rosamund had a child. Married women were supposed to, weren’t they? And this boy was much too young to be the result of that one night… besides, he didn’t look in the least like a Fairburn. Dark as John himself, young Samuel was yet made in a different mold, reed-slender instead of sturdy, with a face that might well turn scholarly in a few years’ time.
He must look like the husband. Rage rose in John’s breast. Was there no end to the woman’s audacity? By her own admission she had loved her husband; John, for all his vagaries, had not loved again, and the notion that Rosamund had was bad enough. But now! She had shared a child with the late Sir Samuel, had she, and without a by-your-leave. This boy should have been a Fairburn.
John tore his mind from such idiotic wanderings and addressed the young female. “I apologize, ma’am, for any lack of formality in my manners. But might I beg an introduction from you, too? It seems odd, somehow, for you to remain incognita when your young man has betrayed his identity.” If this girl were a relation of Rosamund’s, or a friend, she might be useful to him in some way as yet unfathomed.
The young lady dimpled and curtsied. “Miss Peabody,” she said softly.
“Her name’s Minna,” put in young Samuel. “Fancy her forgetting to tell you that. She’s looking for a husband.”
“Sammy! I am not,” Miss Peabody protested with a weak smile in Fairburn’s direction. “That is precisely why I’m staying with your mama; because I’m not looking for a husband.”
“Oh.” Samuel frowned as he considered this explanation. “But all ladies are looking for husbands, Minna. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone in India, I make no doubt,” Miss Peabody returned with a sniff.
Fairburn scented some interesting mystery here. Had Rosamund gone into the business of sheltering runaways? Young Master Ashburnham had hit the mark with his ingenuous statement. All young ladies were indeed seeking husbands, especially in India. They were usually sent here for no other purpose. If Miss Peabody was not on the catch, she must have an independent fortune stowed away.
Yet she didn’t look rich by any means, an impression he got not from her wardrobe but from her manner. She looked capable and useful, if a bit officious. Not one’s image of an heiress.
All these thoughts went through John’s mind quickly, causing him to wonder in the next second why he was engaged in such speculations. He realized that he was matchmaking for his nephew, Percy. The lad’s only way out of India was to make his fortune or to marry it, and how much easier for him if he could do the latter.
John realized further that Miss Peabody’s existence would indeed be useful in the coming days. Rosamund had indicated she had no wish to see him. He could bring his nephew to meet her young guest, though. That was surely most proper. Whatever Miss Peabody’s personal feelings on the subject of matrimony, he was willing to wager that Rosamund would wish this young woman to meet all the personable young men Calcutta had to offer on the off-chance that true love might blossom. And Percy was well-looking and of good family.
As for a real attachment developing between the youngsters, John didn’t have any insight. The important thing was to use them as a blind for his own purposes. He must hope they would be able to stand the sight of each other.
“The day grows warm,” he said with his most charming bow. “May I see you home, ma’am?”
Miss Peabody eyed the ground. “Why, I suppose so, sir. Thank you.” She looked up.
John did not mis
s the flirtatious glance flashed to him from a pair of china-blue eyes. It rather shocked him. He would have to nip that notion in the bud. A dose of his stiff military manner would quash any symptoms of calf love.
Not looking for a husband indeed! He supposed he could acquit the demure Miss Peabody of looking for a lover. What, then, did she mean by such behavior? Rosamund ought to be warned of the girl’s boldness with strangers.
He smiled. He was becoming adept at turning everything that happened to him into another excuse to seek the company of Rosamund.
Sammy Ashburnham slipped a confiding little hand into John’s as the party set out. He would have to compliment Rosamund on her fine son. He had never had any use for children, but this little fellow was special. Was it only because one knew who his mother was? John wondered as he led his charges out of the Maidan and in the direction of the Chowringhee Road.
———
“Oh, my lady,” Minna said with a sigh of rapture, bursting into the library where her friend sat. “I’ve met him.”
“Have you indeed?” Rosamund looked up from the book she had been perusing; not that she had been seeing the words. Reading simply seemed the thing to do in a library, and Persian poetry, so difficult to decipher, a practical answer to the problem of wayward thoughts. Not to mention that the vaulted, book-filled room was the coolest spot in the house at this time of day. “I knew you would meet someone,” Rosamund said with a fond look at her young charge.
“There’s only one problem,” the girl continued. “I told him I wasn’t looking for a husband.”
“Heavens! If you’ve only just met the man, your friendship has certainly taken an intimate turn.”
With a giggle, Minna sat down next to Rosamund and explained. “I was with Sammy in the park. He bumped right into this gentleman, and in the bustle of bringing Sammy to rights—he has grass stains on his trouser knees, I fear—and having him apologize, the little dev—dear said I was looking for a husband. Naturally I had to contradict him.”