by Shana Galen
“You seem to know quite a bit about how to dress a woman,” she remarked, settling across from him.
“I was married,” he said with a smile.
She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. She probably should have been mortified at what they had just done and the way he had just made her feel, but she wasn’t at all embarrassed. She liked when he touched her. She liked kissing him and being with him. She wished she didn’t like it quite so much because they would return to London tomorrow, after the fight, and that would be the end of everything. Rowden had made it clear he never wanted to marry again. Even though she knew he was as attracted to her as she to him, that didn’t mean he would ever want to risk his heart again.
Perhaps that was for the best. She did not know what her future held, but what kind of life would she have married to a prizefighter? She might have strayed from her strict upbringing, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend the majority of her time in taverns and at illegal bare-knuckle brawls.
The carriage finally slowed, and Modesty parted the curtains and looked out at the brown, barren fields. In the summer and fall, these fields would be full of wheat and barley. But now the fields lay dormant and waiting.
“There it is,” Rowden said, pointing. Modesty looked in that direction and spotted a small house with a thatched roof and smoke curling out of a chimney. It was built of stone and was surrounded by a dirt yard and a small shed where a cow chewed and watched their approach with interest. As the coach pulled closer, the wooden door opened and two children—a boy and a girl—stepped outside. Modesty judged the boy’s height and long limbs and put him at about fourteen. The girl was closer to twelve. Neither wore shoes, but both were dressed in sober black. And both had wide, hazel eyes. Eyes Modesty knew she had inherited from her father’s side of the family.
“You look white as a sheet,” Rowden said, taking her hand. “And your hands are like ice.”
“Did you see their eyes?” she asked.
He looked at her. “It’s an unusual color,” he said. “Quite striking.”
She nodded. “I didn’t want to believe the letters.” The coach slowed and stopped. She could hear the children’s voices now. They were high and excited, calling out that a grand carriage had arrived.
He squeezed her hand. “I hope you find answers.”
She could hear the coachman jump down. He would open the door any moment. She tugged at Rowden. “Come with me.”
He raised his brows. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“I don’t want to go alone. Please.”
“Of course.”
When the door opened, he went first and then handed her down. She tried to focus on his face, and it was a relief to see the strength and calm in his expression. He had always been there for her. She only need to ask.
The girl took one look at her and curtseyed, and the boy gave a stunned bow. Modesty realized she must look like a fine lady in her Renauld. “Good afternoon,” she said, her voice sounding strong and far more confident than she felt. “Is Mrs. Smithson at home?”
A woman appeared behind the children. She was only slightly taller than her son and plump with a pink face and curly blond hair under her cap. She too was dressed in black, but she had a white apron tied about her waist and her sleeves rolled up. “I am Mrs...Smithson.”
Modesty stared at the woman who had written those love letters to her father. She was not at all the villainess Modesty had imagined. She looked kind and jolly. She was nothing like Modesty’s mother, who had been tall and slim and regal—at least in Modesty’s memory—but she seemed to be the kind of person one might want as a mother. She was the kind of woman who would hug a child hard and wipe her tears away.
The woman’s expression changed, and she stepped forward. “Go inside,” she told the children.
“But—” the girl began.
“Go inside now.”
Heads hanging low, the children stepped back into the dark of the small house.
“You’re Modesty, aren’t you?” Mrs. Smithson said.
Modesty nodded. “And you are Fanny Smithson.”
She was untying her apron now and rolling down her sleeves, obviously attempting to look more presentable. “Then you received my letter.”
“Letter?” Modesty asked.
“I sent it a few days ago. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Modesty shook her head. “I never received it.”
“Then how did you—” She waved the thought away. “No matter. Come inside. Your father will want to see you.”
At the mention of her father, Modesty felt as though she might collapse, but Rowden was right behind her. He took her arm and held it firmly. She wanted to speak, but no words seemed to come from her mouth. Finally, Rowden spoke. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mrs. Smithson. I’m Rowden Payne, a friend of Miss Brown’s.”
She bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Payne. You’re one of the brawlers at the exhibition?” She glanced in the direction of the race course and the town.
“I am. Did you say that Mr. Brown is here?”
“I did, Mr. Payne. He’s inside.”
“Then perhaps he could come outside to speak with his daughter.”
Modesty looked at him, feeling a rush of gratitude. She did not want to enter the house. She couldn’t bear to see the life her father had created with this other woman.
“I would ask him,” Mrs. Smithson said, her gaze moving to Modesty as though she understood. “But his leg is broken, and the doctor says he can’t put any weight on it. It’s a bad break.”
“I see,” Modesty said, her voice sounding faint. Her father was alive. He was inside the house with a broken leg. Rowden leaned down, speaking in her ear.
“Do you want me to go in and speak with him?”
Yes, she did. She wanted to go hide in the carriage and pretend none of this ever happened. Instead, she squared her shoulders. “I think you’d better wait outside. It looks small for so many people.”
“I’ll be right here if you need me.”
She nodded and gathered her skirts, following Mrs. Smithson into the house. The interior was dark, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw the house was quite simple but comfortable. It looked far more comfortable than her house in London. She supposed the small touches Mrs. Smithson had added made it seem that way. Woven rugs lay on the floor and a knitted blanket had been thrown over one chair. That chair was beside another close to the hearth. And on the mantel above the hearth were pretty things like a glass vase and a watercolor painting of a house—this one, she realized—in the spring.
“He’s here,” Mrs. Smithson said, gesturing to an area in the back of the house that had been separated from the front with a blanket draped over a clothesline.
“Who is it?” the familiar voice of her father asked.
Modesty immediately wanted to cover her exposed neck and dip her head, hiding her red hair under an imaginary black hat. Instead, she cleared her throat. “It’s Modesty, Father.”
Mrs. Smithson pulled the blanket aside, and Modesty stared at her father, one leg supported by wood splints and wrapped in linen. The leg was propped on a pillow to elevate it. More pillows were behind his back on the bed, keeping him upright. Modesty stared at him, at the growth of his beard, at how informally he was dressed—in shirtsleeves. And then her gaze drifted to the empty pillow beside him. There was just enough space on the bed for another person. And Modesty had no doubt who that other person might be.
ROWDEN WASN’T COLD, even though the breeze had picked up. The sun was still warm and his exertions in the carriage had certainly warmed his blood. He rather welcomed the cool air to dampen his ardor. As much as he liked giving Modesty pleasure, it was never easy to deny oneself.
It might not be easy, but it was necessary. Her husband should take her virginity. Not he.
He shouldn’t even be kissing or touching her. He’d known this would happen if they traveled alone together. This
was why he’d wanted to end their association. The more he was with her, the closer they became and the more he wanted from her. The more he wanted her.
That was an easy fix. He’d met women he liked in the past, women he wanted a longer relationship with. He need only close his eyes and bring to mind the image of Mary, deathly pale, belly distended, a sheen of sweat over her sweet face. “Save the baby,” she had whispered to him before her hand went limp.
They’d tried, but in the end, his son had died as well.
The pain of that day and the months and years following it, was enough to dampen his ardor. It was enough to remind him that he wanted to be alone. He could never allow himself to feel pain like that again. He wouldn’t survive it the next time.
He tried to bring that pain back into focus now, to remind himself. It flickered to life and began to smolder, the pain still raw like a new burn. But his mind also conjured the image of Modesty. She straddled him, her glorious breasts upthrust as she threw her head back from pleasure. Her sex was warm and wet as his fingers probed it, and her body welcomed his touch. Her eyes met his, wanting more. She might not know precisely what she wanted, but he did.
Rowden paced away from the coach, swearing softly. It had been this way from the start. He couldn’t keep the pain centered with her. The pain of his loss faded, the pleasure of being with her blotting it out.
Rowden supposed that would last until he got her with child. An act of love might very well kill her. Even now Rowden imagined Ewan was home wondering if his own child would survive or if he might lose both his wife and child in pain and blood.
No, Lorrie was strong, and she was not as far along as Mary had been. She would survive, and if she and Ewan lost this child, they would try again. Rowden had lost everything, though, and he couldn’t face that pain a second time.
The sound of footsteps shook him from his memories, and he turned to see a young man approaching. He was of medium height and build, his hair light brown under his hat, a sack with tools slung over his back. He was dressed warmly with a scarf about his neck and the lower half of his face, but he pulled it down now as he approached the carriage and spotted Rowden.
Rowden recognized the pointed jaw, which could set so stubbornly on Modesty, and the shape of the man’s lips. They reminded him of Modesty as well. He didn’t have the hazel eyes his siblings—all three of them—shared, but the resemblance was clear enough.
“Good afternoon,” the man said cautiously.
Rowden reached for his hat then realized he’d left it in the coach. “Good afternoon.” He held out his hand as the man approached. “Rowden Payne.”
The man removed his work glove and shook Rowden’s hand, his own hand callused and weathered. “Samuel Brown. What brings you here?”
So her father had given his by-blows his surname. That, at least, was honorable. “I’m escorting a friend.” No point in keeping it a secret. “A Miss Modesty Brown, who was hoping to find her father.”
Samuel’s brown eyes widened then softened with understanding. He knew of his half-sister and had probably expected she would come one day. “She is inside with him?”
“She is. I would say she is relieved to see him as when he disappeared, she thought him dead. Of course, now she finds a very different reality.”
The man nodded. He was perhaps twenty, certainly no older. And yet he carried the weight of an older man on his shoulders. Perhaps because his father had been so often absent, and this Samuel Brown must have taken on the role of protector and provider at a young age.
“Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“His leg is badly broken. It was injured when he fell off the roof.”
Rowden glanced at the thatched roof speculatively.
“He shouldn’t have been up there, I know,” Samuel said. “But he’s a stubborn man, and he was angry that we’d kept the state of the cottage from him. We’re tenants of Lord Chesterton. He owns most of the land in this area. He’s not a bad landlord, and his land steward was only doing his job. The roof leaked and was in danger of caving in. I’d gone to Reading to find some work that would pay in coins so my mother could buy material to make my brother and sister new clothing. They’d grown out of almost everything, and the fall harvest barely paid the cost of buying seed for the spring planting. When I returned, the situation was dire. So I went to Town to ask for some coin and my father ended up coming himself. I was out in the fields that day, but when I came home for dinner, the doctor was leaving. He said my father couldn’t be moved for at least six weeks. He fitted him with a splint and medicine for the pain and took half my coin for the trouble. It wasn’t until a few days ago that he was lucid enough to ask about Miss Modesty and my mother wrote to her.”
Rowden shook his head. “She never received the letter.”
Samuel frowned. “Then how did she find him?”
“She discovered old love letters between your parents in your father’s room at—er, his London home.”
Samuel’s face went white. “I see.”
Rowden wasn’t quite sure he did see. Modesty’s life had obviously been very different from his. He was almost certainly a God-fearing man, but he didn’t quote scripture as Modesty had when Rowden had first met her. It appeared to Rowden that in the country, Mr. Brown had been a farmer, and in the city, a preacher, and now those two worlds were about to collide.
“MODESTY.” HER FATHER reached out a hand to her. Part of her wanted to take it. Part of her wanted to rush into his arms and hug him because he was alive, and she hadn’t lost him. But part of her did not know the man lying in the bed. The bed he shared with a woman who was not his wife and not her mother.
“You received my letter?” he asked.
She shook her head and pulled the packet of letters from the pocket where she’d stuffed them just before stepping out of the coach. Mrs. Smithson—or was it Brown?—made a soft sound from behind her, and Modesty knew she recognized them immediately. Her father held his hand out imperiously, took the letters, and frowned down at them. “I wish you hadn’t found these.”
“I wish you hadn’t disappeared without saying a word. I thought you were dead.”
“I thought I would only be gone for a day. I knew if I sent you on an errand, you would take hours. You always dawdle.”
Modesty straightened. She wanted to argue that she hadn’t dawdled that day, but she had.
“I left in a hurry and hoped to return as soon as the repairs here were finished. The roof was about to fall in on Mrs. Brown and the children.”
Modesty inhaled sharply at the name he’d given his mistress.
“I couldn’t allow that to happen,” he said, seeming not to notice. “I should have left you word.”
“Yes, you should have. You should have told me about”—she gestured at the room—”all of this.” She looked at her father’s mistress—wife. “About her.”
“Excuse me.” Mrs. Brown ducked around the blanket that hung as a barrier, leaving them alone. Although they weren’t really alone. A blanket would not even mute the sound of their voices. How strange to speak to her father like this now, when for so many years it had only been the two of them. And yet, they had never spoken freely. She understood that now. She had never even known him.
“I don’t even know who you are,” she said now, echoing her thoughts. “All my life you have been the man standing on the corner, admonishing men and women to repent of their sins. You chastised people doing nothing more than entering a tavern or watching a fight, and all along, you were...fornicating here with your mistress.”
“I’ll thank you not to refer to her in those terms.”
“How should I refer to her then?”
“She is my wife.”
Modesty reared back as though slapped. She’d known already, but hearing it from his mouth was still a shock.
Her father nodded. “I married her a few years ago. I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t tell the church. I didn’t wan
t to lose my position.”
“That’s what you cared about? Your position?” She turned to go. She had to go before the tears started streaming down her cheeks.
“Modesty,” her father said, and she stopped because she couldn’t not obey him. “I wanted to tell you as well, but I knew how you would react. I know how much you loved your mother.”
“More than you, as it turns out,” she said.
The silence that followed let her know her words had hit their mark.
“Your mother knew I was a flawed man. She forgave me.”
Modesty rounded on him. “And how did you repay her? By reforming? No, by continuing to do just as you had before. As I said, you are not the man I thought you were.”
“And what about you?” He pointed to her. “Where did that dress come from? And your hair is down in the style of a harlot. How did you manage to come here? I wonder if you are the young woman I thought you were.”
Modesty looked at him, lying on the bed with his immobilized leg. She felt sorry for his injury. She felt sorry for his wife and the children who had always lived in the shadow of his other life, in her shadow. The truth was revealed now, and she had always been taught that the truth would set them all free.
“I’m not the woman you thought I was,” she said finally. “And I’ll never be that woman again.” She reached for the blanket, which felt much heavier now when she pulled it back. Her father called her name again, but this time she didn’t obey. This time she walked through the house, dimly aware of the children that stared at her, and out the door.
Nineteen
Rowden stopped midsentence, forgetting his train of thought as soon as Modesty walked through the door. He could see by her stricken expression that the meeting with her father had not gone well. She walked briskly across the yard and when she reached him, she said, “I want to go.”