“How old were you when you married Anthony Morris?” he asked. A beauty with a handsome fortune should have done better than Anthony Morris, no matter how plebeian her birth. “Why did you choose him? You must have had other proposals.”
She shook her head. “I was eighteen and just out of mourning for my brother. A lawyer friend of my father’s invited us for dinner practically the first evening we put off our blacks. Anthony was there. He must have arranged it all with my father’s friend, because he never ate at that house again once we were married. I think the lawyer worked for his family.”
Huh. Plucked her before she had bloomed even. Selfish bastard.
They stepped out of the dappled light of the park, back into the dusty glare of the street, Alistair moving to shield her as a coal wagon trundled by. Even the air around her was potent, making it nearly impossible for him to pretend to be unaffected when their shoulders brushed together. Yet it didn’t sound for a minute that Morris had lost his heart to her. “Was he dreadful?” he asked.
She mirrored his easy tone, slipping him a sideways smile. “Oh, quite. You can be sure I repaid him in kind.”
Before he could inquire, she went on. “If this were a real offer, I’d advise you to reconsider. You should, you know. What if I changed my mind and decided to keep you?”
Once they were engaged, he wouldn’t be able to call it off. Only ladies had the privilege of changing their minds. It was a tempting thought, but marrying Anna was no way to provide for his future. Their children would be practically paupers. And unless Anna turned shrewish and lost her looks—God forbid—they’d probably have about a dozen. Completely impractical.
His silence chased the humor from her face. “I wouldn’t repay you with such an ill-turn, you know,” she said, softly.
“Of course not,” Alistair said. “I’d make a bad bargain, you know, if you were stuck with me.”
She laughed at that, but he hardly heard. If Anthony Morris had never found her . . . if he’d come to her first, when she still had her fortune, it could have been different.
There was no point in thinking of it. A man could waste his life, lost in the world of might-have been. He couldn’t afford to be a dreamer.
“We are agreed then?” he asked.
“Yes.” She glanced at him, more tentatively than she had before. “Thank-you.”
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning when Anna sat down to breakfast, her father took the unprecedented step of folding his newspaper and setting it aside. He didn’t even notice the daily puzzle soaking up butter from his toast.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” she said. It was the same answer she’d given when she’d come running home without Henry, certain she’d soon have him back in her arms. It hadn’t been as simple as she’d expected. “Perfectly sure.”
She took a pear from the bowl on the table and sliced it in half with one clean stroke, laying it open and flicking away a stray seed with the point of her knife. It landed on the tablecloth, but she ignored it.
“It’s very sudden,” her father said.
She wished he’d pick up his fork, or find his way back to his coffee cup. Her engagement couldn’t stand this kind of scrutiny. The hopes that had prompted her acceptance last night seemed foolish this morning, but the fact was that most of her dreams evaporated while she slept. Happily ever afters only seemed possible in evening—by candlelight, over the dessert course. That was when she’d fallen for Anthony. Even now, she could remember him, smiling at her across the table, playing with his fork. She should know better. Dreams were always lost at breakfast, evaporating as soon as your eyes fell on the toast rack. No wonder so many ladies thought coming down to eat the meal was insupportable. You could cling to fiction in bed, with a cup of chocolate in your hand.
“He’s a handsome dog,” her father said.
She agreed silently. Captain Beaumaris was far too handsome for his own good, or hers. But—“That’s not why,” she said.
“It isn’t? You fell head over ears for Morris.” He didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew how that had turned out.
“This is different,” Anna said. “He cares about me, not the money.”
“He better. Won’t get more than a pittance from you, will he?”
She lifted a slice of pear to her mouth and chewed slowly. Alistair was getting nothing at all, except trouble. Hers. Of course, there was the possibility that he might still be hoping for—intimacies, she thought, quashing the sudden skip of her pulse. Last night he’d claimed he could be satisfied with smiles and perhaps a few kisses, but Captain Beaumaris was a man of the world, and she was a widow. He might expect more from her in exchange for the help he was offering than he would from a lady who’d never married. Well, if he did, he’d be disappointed. As far as he was concerned, she was as respectable as she ought to be. She wasn’t, of course, but she could kiss and be careful.
“He seems right enough. Of course, so did Morris,” her father said.
“I’m not rushing into marriage this time,” she reminded him. “There’s plenty of time for us both to consider the matter. He thinks he can help me with Henry.”
Her father fiddled with his knife. “That so? I hope he may. Frederick Morris is a slippery fellow.”
“We are going to speak to him today,” she said, looking down at her plate so she needn’t see her father blush. He wasn’t to blame for her current situation—she had her own foolishness to thank for that—but she felt an ache every time he retreated behind a shamed face. He had tried to help her, but he was too kindly a soul to trump the Morrises. He was a retiring sort of man, a persistent organizer who managed small details, not the god of her childhood.
Yet another vanished illusion. It had been many years since she and her brother had skipped fearlessly in their father’s wake, through dockyards or across the decks of Henry Bagshot’s clippers. No matter how rough the sea or how primitive the port, their faith in their father had been unshakable. It wasn’t fair, really, to trust a mere man like that. Her father’s shoulders were stooped now, his brown eyes turning cloudy at the edges. Every year since they’d lost her brother, he seemed to shrink a little. Her mother, on the other hand, took on more and more—organizing flowers for the church, sewing shirts for the parish poor, chairing the Benevolent Society. Her virtue shone bright as the plaque beside their pew, in memory of Richard.
Anna poured herself another cup of coffee. She hadn’t slept and now her eyes felt gritty.
“Let’s hope Henry doesn’t take after the Morrises,” her father said, unfolding his newspaper and reaching for the last point of toast.
“Little danger of that, I think,” Anna said, setting down her cup. It didn’t even clink against the saucer. “He doesn’t look like his father.” Praise God for that.
*****
Alistair set out to call on his aunt the next day as early as he dared, mulling over Anna’s qualms, and wondering if his weary muscles of persuasion were strong enough to bring another person round. Convincing Anna again had been hard enough. She’d suffered a second attack of conscience after telling her parents last evening, which worsened when he explained that he felt it best if he broke the news to Lady Fairchild alone. “For I don’t doubt she’ll be surprised.”
Anna had cast him an anguished look. “Don’t try putting a pretty face on it. She’ll think you’ve lost your senses. She’ll never go along with it!”
It had taken him a good quarter hour of soothing words to get her to agree to the engagement all over again.
“Trust me. We’ll have Henry tomorrow,” he said. She’d quieted then, believing his promise. He wasn’t as sure of himself this morning.
Despite the relatively early hour, Alistair arrived at Rushford House and discovered he’d missed the chance to corner his aunt alone. She was already entertaining her country neighbors, the Misses Matcham. Alistair entered the room with a broad smile, concealing his
inward groan. One Matcham was bad enough. When confronted with the pair, he generally opted for strategic retreat.
The eldest greeted him with something of a gloat. “So you are not to be married after all, Captain Beaumaris.”
“Not to Miss Prescott at any event,” he said, with awful heartiness. Miss Matcham’s answering smile was so predatory he had to fight the temptation to make his excuses and bolt. They can’t stay for more than a quarter of an hour.
Unfortunately, from this angle, he couldn’t read the clock.
“Have you heard from Sophy since her marriage?” the younger edition, Miss Eliza, asked Lady Fairchild.
“I have not,” his aunt said, in a voice that could have chipped ice. She looked to Alistair, closing that subject. “Has the news come, then? Are you for Spain once more? I hate to see you go.”
“You must not have read about our victory at Salamanca,” he said, her concern coaxing hints of a genuine smile from him. He’d heard rumors at his regiment’s headquarters yesterday while arranging his journey, but hadn’t gotten the full account until reading it in the papers this morning. “Marmont’s wounded, the French in retreat. By the time I arrive, Wellington will be across the border and into France.”
“Then you won’t be away for long,” Lady Fairchild said, a smile flooding her face.
“With any luck,” he said lightly, hiding how well he knew the changing fortunes of war. For every advance, there was a retreat.
“You must dine with us again before you go. This evening,” she said, then glanced apologetically to the Matchams. “You understand me well enough to forgive my rudeness for leaving you out of the invitation. An evening like this one can only be for family.”
“Leave takings are always rather dreadful,” said Miss Eliza. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Of course not,” said his aunt, her eyes sharp above her smile.
Silence fell. Lady Fairchild made no move to speak, drumming her fingers on the back of her other hand, until the Miss Matchams realized they’d been dismissed. At the same instant, they leapt from their seats and bundled themselves out of the room, a frothy, muslin-clad, chittering cloud, swept out by a chilly wind.
When the door clicked shut behind them, Lady Fairchild turned to Alistair and sighed. “I’m going to have to cut them, but I haven’t decided if it should be at Almacks or the park. I’m leaning towards Almacks. How dare they ask me about Sophy!” She sniffed. “I detest plain girls. They always think they can make up their deficiencies by being arch and sly.”
“Leave off the delicate shudders,” Alistair said. “I understand you perfectly.”
“And the way they looked at you! I don’t care that Miss Matcham’s father has settled a round sum on her—no one would take her, else—you are not to have anything to do with her.”
“Done.”
“I wish Jasper were half so biddable,” Lady Fairchild said, souring.
“It’s easy for me,” Alistair said. “You never ask me to do anything I don’t like.”
She lifted her eyes to his, but he didn’t let himself warm too long in her understanding glance. Too premature. “Are you well?” he asked, not quite ready to charge across the field.
“Of course I am. Just a surfeit of my own company and a revulsion for everyone else’s. Nerves. Maybe I’ll finally have to break down and try that Russian Vapor Bath they are always going on about.” She lowered her voice. “Though I can’t see that—that sweating—you will excuse the indelicacy—could be thought to have any benefit. It sounds most unpleasant.” Like so much else, his aunt considered perspiration an affliction to be suppressed and ignored. He’d never seen her with dew on her forehead or a shine on her nose. But he hadn’t come to swap tales about slimming regimes and unsavory Russian baths.
“I leave on Friday,” he said, knowing he might only have a few minutes before other callers intruded. “There is a matter for which I must beg your help.”
“Come here,” she said, motioning him to join her on the settee. “Of course I will help you. What is it?”
He grimaced as he sat himself down. “You won’t like it.”
“Then I am particularly well-suited for it. I excel at doing what I don’t like,” she said. Despite her smile, the grim certainty in her eyes made him lower his own to study the contours of his knees. Jasper often said his mother was a monster in female form, and every once in a while, Alistair half-believed him.
“I’m engaged to be married,” he said.
“No! Again?” she said, starting forward when he didn’t contradict her.
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Who?” she asked. “Not Miss Lucas. An act of desperation if there ever was one. You—you didn’t—” She narrowed her eyes, and he realized his life would be completely different if he’d gotten Lady Fairchild for a mother, instead of her feather-brained sister. That life would probably be better than the one he had now, but it would be much more uncomfortable.
His aunt drew herself up in her seat, her back a curve of steel rising from the cushions. “Who was the lady you were walking with?—I saw you with her one Sunday afternoon.”
“Mrs. Morris,” he said. “Now, happily, my fiancée.”
“No,” she said. “Leave it to me. I’ll get you out of it.”
He was quite sure she could. Best to make a clean breast of it. “Aunt Georgiana. I don’t need you to get me out of it. We aren’t really going to marry.”
“Of course you are. That sort of nonsense only happens on the stage. You’re engaged, aren’t you?”
“I was engaged to Sophy.”
She flinched, but said nothing.
“Both me and Mrs. Morris admit freely that a marriage between us would be an impractical disaster—”
“So you haven’t completely lost your senses,” she said.
She was being generous. He suspected he had. “You know enough about her to know she’s been treated appallingly by the Morrises. They’ve taken her money and they won’t let her have her son. They claim she can’t raise him properly.”
“Well, of course she can’t. He’s to be a gentleman, isn’t he?”
Alistair paused, trying to construct the right words while his aunt looked blindly at the window. “She’s his mother. She wants him terribly.”
“So?” She spoke calmly, but she was twisting the ring on her littlest finger.
“It would be cruel not to help her when I can. I must do this.”
“Must! You need do nothing at all. And neither do I. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”
Alistair looked down guiltily. “Yes.”
“The world abounds with tragedy. Sometimes one just has to harden one’s heart.”
“I want to fix this.”
“Why? No, don’t tell me. Even under that rubbishy bonnet she wore on Sunday I could see she was appallingly pretty. But what’s the point? I’m not furthering your dalliance.”
“I’m not bedding her,” Alistair said, and his aunt’s face froze. “I wouldn’t ask you if this wasn’t respectable. I’m not doing this for—that,” he said, softening his language at the last minute. “This is to make her happy. Why shouldn’t she be? And I—I could be satisfied if I accomplished that.”
Lady Fairchild’s retort died on her lips. They were too much alike—not in looks, not in coloring—it was the desolate expression on her face that Alistair recognized, the one he tried to show only to his mirror. Yawning emptiness with no break in the horizon. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I can get her boy for her and wrest some money from Morris, more than the beggarly portion he currently gives her. But I can’t leave them at her family house in Hans Town.”
“Certainly not.” She mouthed the name of the district with a moue of distaste.
“It’s not so bad,” Alistair said.
“I wouldn’t know. I never go there.”
He decided not to argue. “Once I leave, there is no one to stop Morris
from taking the boy back. But if I left her with you—”
“He wouldn’t dare try.” She said it simply, without pride. It was a fact, nothing more. “Your uncle would make sure she and the boy got the right settlements.”
“On her own, no one would trouble to look at her. With you—”
“If she weren’t with me, no one would believe this engagement story. I still don’t.”
He needed her help. He couldn’t think how to make it work, else. One more try. “Will you help me? Let her and the boy live here. Give her the standing she would have as my affianced wife. Introduce her to the right people, so that when she breaks our engagement, she can find herself a husband who will be kind to her.”
“That’s what you want?”
The clock chimed, but neither of them turned to look.
“Yes,” Alistair said.
“Even though you love her?” She forestalled his denials with a flicked finger. “Oh, I can rephrase if it makes you more comfortable. You certainly aren’t indifferent to her. I know what that looks like. You don’t even resemble it.”
He hadn’t the temerity to lie, so he dismissed her assertion with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if I do.” Admitting his irrational and unseemly interest only exposed him for the fool that he was. Nothing could come of it, save this small thing: an engagement of a few months or maybe a year, and restoring to her that which was her own. And that would be enough, if she were no longer snubbed, lonely, and pretending she wasn’t afraid. His feelings would eventually dilute to a comfortable fondness, until he’d be able to think of Anna Morris with the mild nostalgia one felt for any missed chance.
At twenty-eight, he had a collection of those already, and it didn’t scorch anymore, to visit his family home or ride over his father’s lands. It didn’t hurt to remember the first young lady who captured his heart, or the fact that she’d married a grey-haired baronet with somewhat circular geometry. The widow who consoled him afterward had taught him to love well but lightly.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 11