The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  It was as if he read her thoughts. “Do you think I don’t wish our marriage annulled to stop my son from being born a bastard? Don’t be daft.”

  A son. His assumption that the child would be a boy amused her bitterly. She squared her shoulders before replying. “I understand,” she declared over the lump in her throat. “I understand because I never had a mama and a papa. I had Mrs Dougherty, oh, and I had Gentry Ted,” she added, thinking of him and his never failing gift of an orange, “he looked out for me but it’s not the same as having a mama and a papa.”

  “Staying together is not because of the baby.” He leaned over and took her hands in his. “You make me want to be a better person. I don’t want our marriage annulled because I love you, Simone. It’s a simple as that.”

  Speechless, she looked at him. “You—you love me?”

  “Yes. Be prepared, for my purpose right now is to make you love me too, even if it takes me the rest of my life.

  “That battle is already won, Temple,” she whispered shyly, looking at him with adoring eyes. “I love you too. I’ve loved you since that morning we first saw North America. I realized then I wanted to be with you, no matter where your adventures took us.”

  “Simone, my life is different with you at my side. You’re jolly good company and fun to be with. You care nothing for the material trappings and you care nothing for my title. You are happy to be warm and clean and safe.”

  She held her silence and considered what he said. He thought her fun, enjoyed her company. And he loved her. How could that be, she of the workhouse upbringing? But he had declared himself so it must be so. The idea made her light headed with joy; a smile crept across her lips.

  “Anyway,” he continued without waiting for her response, “the doctor has suggested we retire to the country house away from London’s foul air.”

  “Yes, I should like that.” Still she smiled. She must look a fool, bemused by his admission as she was, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Incidentally, I have something for you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch. “I had it polished and a new chain put on.”

  Simone took the pouch and released the draw strings, tipping it over so its contents fell onto her lap. It was her medallion.

  “Where … how did you get this?” Startled, her grin dissipated; she turned her gaze to him. “I traded it away for the note.”

  “I happened to notice it around the neck of one of the guards. I passed him a few guineas and he was more than happy enough to part with it.” He snagged it from her lap and draped it around her neck. “I couldn’t leave it, it’s the only clue we have of your identity.”

  “You shall help me?”

  “Of course. Everyone deserves to know from whence they came.”

  She looked down at the medallion then raised her gaze to his. “What of Mortimer-Rae?” she blurted. “I hope you are not angry with me but I left the package behind in exchange for you. I know how important it was to you but I had hoped it would dissuade Mortimer-Rae from pursuing you further.”

  “It’s not important to me anymore.” He gave her a crooked smile. “That part of my life is over. As far as Mortimer-Rae, he may have retrieved it, I don’t know. However, it’s another good reason to leave London for a time. I have the constables looking for him and I provided the necessary information regarding his nefarious activities. It shall be he who spends his time in Newgate.”

  “Good.” She nodded her head. “It is what he deserves.”

  “On a better note, Joanna is here and anxious to see you. I told her she must curb her impatience until the morning,” he chuckled, “which made her rather cross with me. And,” he squeezed her hand, “I told Mother she would not be needed. She is away on an indefinite visit to her cousins in Northumbria.”

  Relief flashed through her. Facing Lady Frederica was not a task she wished to undertake just yet.

  A blaze of the setting sun pierced the gloom, shining bronze into the room, illuminating a glass bowl on the mantle.

  A bowl piled high with oranges.

  Surprised, her gaze darted about the room. There were oranges everywhere—baskets of them, on the floor, on the hearth, even oranges made into a bouquet on the side table.

  “Oy,” she managed to gasp before tears began to slide in earnest down her cheeks. “For me?”

  “Aye,” he nodded his head. “For you.” He reached down and plucked one from the basket by the side of the bed. “They are your lucky charm, are they not,” he said as he handed it to her.

  She took it, cupping it in both hands. A tremulous smile broke through the glistening tears. “You are my lucky charm now, Temple. I love you.”

  “And I you.” He leaned over to kiss her very, very thoroughly.

  As she flung her arms about Temple’s neck the orange dropped from Simone’s hands to land in her lap. It lay there nestled securely in the bed clothes, next to the life growing within her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Are we there?” Simone couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. At last, she would see Leavenby Manor, where Temple had spent his childhood. Dr Simon had not given his permission for her to travel until she was well into her fifth month of pregnancy; the wait had been unbearable. “Is it very grand?”

  “You shall see soon enough. I vow, you are like a child awaiting Father Christmas,” Temple chuckled. “Look, there are the gates, just ahead.”

  Simone poked her head out of the carriage. “I don’t see any gates,” she complained, settling back against the squabs. “You are teasing me, I know.”

  “You looked in the wrong direction.” He pointed out the other side. “See, there are the gates to Leavenby Manor now.”

  Simone half rose to poke her head out again. Temple resisted the urge to pinch her very attractive, very proximate, bottom. He opted instead to pull her onto his lap.

  “Scoundrel,” she pouted. “You could leave a girl alone.” She swatted him with her fan and wriggled off to sit beside him.

  “A girl, yes,” he agreed mildly. “But my girl? Never.”

  “Oy,” she said, fanning herself vigorously. “I saw the house. It is ever so large.”

  “A bit more comfortable than Stuart Lake Outpost,” he remarked. “Nonetheless, the lifestyle here is much more relaxed than the season in London.”

  But she wasn’t so sure about that when the carriage finally rocked to a stop on the gravelled drive in front. After Temple helped her from the carriage, she stood back to look, massaging her aching back as she did so.

  The house was every bit as grand as the town house, in fact much more so for it was at least double in size. Two mismatched wings, both of mellow red brick, spread out from the central block of light-coloured stone. Marble steps ran the entire front width, centred by panelled mahogany doors. By her estimation and judging by the array of mullioned windows, there must be dozens of rooms inside.

  The grandeur made idle words of Temple’s assertion that country life would be a lot simpler. She tapped his arm to catch his attention.

  “I thought Leavenby Manor was a country cottage. Not this—this—,” she swept both her arms wide while she searched for the proper word, “behemoth.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Of course I do but I fear I have been sadly misled.”

  “If a cottage is more to your liking, there are several about that may please you.”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “Not in the slightest. If the manor house is not of your taste, we’ll reside elsewhere on the property. But first do let us go inside to greet the staff. They are doubtless dying of curiosity to meet the new countess.”

  She nodded and picked up her skirts, girding herself for her first test here as countess. The doors swung open as they mounted the stairs to reveal a double line of servants standing at attention within the entrance hall.

  Temple and Simone crossed the threshold to move into the marble-floored hall. The
doors snicked shut behind them and a rotund, bald pated man dressed in butler’s clothes scuttled over.

  “Rathwell.” Temple nodded pleasantly to the butler.

  “My lord, it is an honour to have you and my lady here at Leavenby Manor.”

  “The honour is mine. The season is tiring and one is best well away from it.” He pulled forward a very reluctant Simone, tucking her hand through his elbow for encouragement. “I should like to present your new mistress, Lady Simone.”

  “Welcome, my lady,” the butler bowed so low Simone imagined he would tumble over. “May I introduce you to the staff?” He began to rattle off names so quickly that Simone could not keep track.

  “Enough, enough,” she gasped at length. “My head is full of names.” She smiled and inclined her head to Rathwell. “I shall remember them all, I promise you.”

  “Come.” Temple gripped her hand. “To the sitting room. And refreshments if you please, Rathwell.”

  As Temple pulled her along, Simone peered every which way. Here the dining room, there a library, here the hall stretching both ways to the wings, and at the back of the manor house looking into a walled garden, the sitting room.

  “I’ll never find my way about,” she blurted as she lowered herself carefully into a forest green and cream brocade chair by the mullioned windows of the sitting room.

  She gazed into the garden, rich with spring bulbs, rubbing her swollen abdomen. New life grew in the garden, like the new life growing within her.

  “Not to worry, only one wing is open. The other is used for hunting parties and the like.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the butler’s wife, who served as housekeeper. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” twittered Mrs Rathwell as she bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord,” she put down her tray to pluck a creamy envelope from her apron pocket, “this came just this morning.” She handed it to him.

  “Thank you. That will be all.”

  The house keeper curtsied again and left.

  Temple pried the seal on the flap and pulled forth a card. “Lord and Lady Pendleton wish to ride over tomorrow with a gift for us,” he said after scanning it. “Do you feel up to it? I must confess, darling, I wrote them several days ago to inform them of our arrival. Lady Pendleton is French and I thought to show her your medallion.”

  Simone held her tongue.

  He correctly interpreted her silence. “No whiff of scandal has followed you here. They don’t know who, or what you were. They’re a lovely, well respected family. Shall we agree, then?”

  She nodded and forced a smile to quivering lips.

  Temple brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “If tomorrow still finds you fatigued, we’ll postpone the Pendletons’ visit. Agreed?”

  A grateful Simone nodded. “Thank you, Temple. Please forgive my silliness.”

  Was the fluttering in her stomach from the baby moving within her womb? Or was it nervous anticipation over perhaps at last solving the mystery of her medallion?

  * * *

  “You’ll find Lord and Lady Pendleton an interesting couple,” Temple remarked the next morning. “The first Lady Pendleton died and his lordship married her sister. Quite the talk at the time but they truly are fond of each other. And fond of their dogs. They breed pointer spaniels and the dogs are well known within hunting circles.”

  Sure enough, when Lord and Lady Pendleton rode up the drive later that day on matched bay hunters, they were accompanied by two dogs, both with silky white hair and brown patches over their eyes.

  Lord Pendleton helped his wife off her mount and grabbed the saddle bags from the back of his horse before the two turned to a waiting Temple and Simone. Arm in arm, they climbed the marble stairs.

  Lady Pendleton, a tall, slender, silver haired woman, spoke first. “Good day, Lord Wellington,” she said in an accented voice, holding out her hand to Temple for him to kiss. She turned to Simone. “You must be the new countess of Leavenby, Lady Simone Wellington. I am Lady Isabella Pendleton.”

  Only with her accent, it came out more like Ladeee Eeesabella.

  The other woman presented the picture of elegance in a gold riding habit and feather plumed top hat, leaving Simone feeling gauche and insecure. Even far from the confines of London, she felt a social outcast.

  Oy, she sighed to herself, will this never get easier? Unsure of what to do, she curtsied.

  “Oh non, ma chère, I can see right away you are enceinte. Please, let us go inside so you can sit.”

  Their dogs made as if to follow but with a stern “non” and firm hand signal, the two immediately sank to their haunches. “They are my children, please excuse them.”

  “Worse than children,” growled her husband, a tall, white-haired gentleman with snowy moustache. However, the adoring glance he bestowed on his wife more than belied his gruff words.

  “Lord Randolph Pendleton,” Temple said, extending his hand. “Welcome.”

  The two shook hands. “Good to see you again, Wellington,” he harrumphed then turned to look at Simone. “This is your lovely wife, I presume?”

  At Temple’s nod, he moved closer. He stopped stock still at seeing her.

  “Simone,” he gasped. His face blanched and he swayed slightly, mopping his suddenly perspiring face with a very crumpled handkerchief.

  “How do you know my name?” Puzzled, Simone turned to look for Temple. “Did you tell him?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Lord Pendleton continued to stare at her at length before he spoke. “Forgive me,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You greatly resemble my late daughter-in-law, Simone de Bergeron.”

  “Your daughter-in-law?” Temple’s voice was incredulous.

  “Yes, she drowned in an unfortunate boating mishap.” He closed his eyes.

  “So terribly sad,” whispered Lady Pendleton to no one in particular, “Not only did he lose his son and daughter-in-law but he lost a granddaughter as well.” She clucked sympathetically behind one gloved hand. “Only two bodies were ever recovered—that of his son and daughter in law. The body of the granddaughter, a little girl of three, was never found. It was assumed the river took her.”

  Lord Pendleton’s anguish made a palpable force. With a face devoid of colour, he continued to stare at Simone. The saddle bags slid from apparently nerveless fingers and piled on the marble landing beside him.

  Distraught, Simone pulled the medallion from within her bodice and began to fiddle with it.

  It caught Lord Pendleton’s attention. “Where did you get that?”

  “I have always had it,” she replied.

  “Yes,” interjected Temple. “Simone has had it since the day I met her. It’s the medallion I wished to show your wife.”

  “May I see it?” Lord Pendleton held out his hand.

  “Of course.” Simone handed it over, watching the man take it and look at it carefully through his quizzing glass. His face blanched again.

  “It’s hers,” he muttered. “It’s Simone’s coat of arms, of the de Bergeron family, of your family, my dear,” he said, turning to his wife. He handed her the medallion. Lady Isabella turned it over and over in her hands.

  “Mais oui,” she whispered. “It is ours.” She too, turned an anguished gaze toward their hosts.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Temple said.

  “The de Bergerons were French émigrés who fled France during the horror,” Lord Pendleton said. “This is their crest. Tell me, how did you get it?” He faced Simone and grabbed her shoulders with trembling hands as if to shake the very truth from her.

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to push his hands from her. She couldn’t be his granddaughter, she had grown up in a workhouse. Should she tell him the truth about her life? Temple had assured her no one here knew of her past but if she spoke of it, all would know. She looked to Temple for guidance.

  Temple’s eyes were narrowed, his stance aggressive. “Simone, you had the medallion with you the
day Gentry Ted brought you to Mrs Dougherty?” His voice was tight.

  Simone nodded.

  “You were three at the time? Did Ted ever mention where he found you?”

  “Close to the river Thames,” she said. “And that my clothing stank of river water. Oh my.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “You do not mean to tell me….” Her voice trailed away.

  “Your dreams, Simone. Your dreams of drowning. They weren’t dreams at all. They were memories of the day your parents drowned.”

  “Grand-père? Are you my grand-père?” Without realizing it, she spoke in French. She sagged against Temple.

  “May I suggest we move to the sitting room,” drawled Temple, “before I find my wife in a heap on the ground?” He picked up Simone and against her protestations, carried her inside. “Follow us.”

  * * *

  “I cannot believe this day,” Lord Pendleton professed. “Finding my granddaughter is a gift from the heavens.” He glanced skyward, tears glinting in his eyes.

  “Nor I,” echoed Lady Pendleton. “We had thought you dead and now….” A brilliant smile lit her face. “It is a miracle.”

  The two were on either side of Simone, Lady Isabella perched on the arm of the Simone’s chair, Lord Pendleton kneeling, each holding one of her hands.

  “Ma chère.” Lady Isabella suddenly pulled her hands free and clapped them over her mouth, looking in dismay at her husband. “Your saddle bag, where is it?” She sprang to her feet and dashed away.

  A bemused Simone, one hand tightly secured in her grandfather’s tight grasp, looked over at Temple. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged at her unspoken question.

  Lady Isabella burst into the sitting room and made a beeline for Simone. “In all the excitement, I forgot about our gift to you both.” She thrust a shivering white and brown bundle into Simone’s arms.

  “For you,” said Lady Isabella. “His name is Trumpet.”

  “A puppy, I’ve always wanted a puppy,” Simone breathed. “A puppy and a grandfather. What a wonderful day this has been.”

  A chorus of agreement echoed about the room. She looked at Temple. His gaze, so full of love, trapped hers, enveloping her in a warm cloud of wellbeing.