Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Like the villain in the traveling farce last year?”

  Sophy scowled, realizing the resemblance. “Mr. Lynchem says I must be good and quiet. On the journey and after, too.”

  “Hmmph.” Fred’s frown told her he doubted she was capable of this feat.

  “He gave me this to read on the journey,” Sophy said, drawing a thin booklet from the drawstring bag beside her. She passed the flimsy sheets to Fred, who flipped through them.

  “Matilda Ann,” he read. “The tale of a wicked girl cursed with the sin of ingratitude who became a match seller.” He erupted into laughter. “Think you’ll end up a match girl?”

  Occasionally, in Sophy’s dire imaginings, she ended up a starving figure huddled in a ditch, prompting brief storms of weeping over her own fate. A match girl sounded much worse. Sophy had heard some talk of cities; rife with disease, they were filled with thieves and disreputables who preyed on the unwary and weak.

  Seeing the fear in Sophy’s face, Fred tried to reassure her by punching her in the arm. “Come on. Da says you’ll be looked after proper. Lord Fairchild’s sending his own carriage for you. Why would he go to such expense just to throw you out on your ear?”

  Sophy swallowed. This circumstance had given her some confidence, but still . . .

  “There you are,” Bertha said, bustling down the walk with ferocious brightness. Mrs. Wilkes walked beside her. “Mrs. Wilkes has brung a hamper for you, love.” Sophy stood and curtsied her thanks.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Wilkes asked, plucking the booklet from Fred’s hands. She turned it over and read the title, annoyance flashing across her face. “Take this instead,” she said, handing Sophy a green cloth-covered book from the basket on her arm. “You’ll like it better.”

  ‘Nursery Tales’ was printed across the front in black letters.

  “Thank-you, Ma’am,” Sophy curtseyed again. She had seen this book at the shop in the village; it was a handsome present, and one which Fred watched her tuck into the basket with reluctance.

  Blinking and turning red around the eyes, Bertha launched into a list of instructions: Sophy was not to speak to strange persons at wayside inns or pester the maid and coachman who were escorting her with questions. She must always wear her flannel petticoat and keep a clean handkerchief about her. “I’ve tucked two spare ones in the top of your basket, dear.”

  Four heads swiveled at the sound of wheels jolting down the rough road. Waiting with stopped breath, they saw a handsome, if dusty, carriage appear beneath the trees.

  “They’ve come,” Bertha breathed, her sigh of relief a strange contrast to her paling face. Fastening her eyes on Sophy and lifting her face in her hands, she instructed: “You write to me, Miss Sophy. Master Fred will read to me. I’ll expect to hear from you regular.” Voice a-tremble, she swept Sophy into a bone-cracking embrace.

  “How I’ll miss you, child,” she whispered, low enough for Sophy’s ears alone.

  “Good-bye Berfa,” returned Sophy, reverting to her baby’s lisp and blinking furiously.

  With unaccustomed brusqueness, Bertha set Sophy aside, questioning the coachman as he fastened Sophy’s trunk to the back of the coach. Fred gave Sophy another punch to boost her confidence, and Sophy returned the gesture with a hug that made him color and shuffle his feet. Then the coachman handed Sophy into the carriage.

  Sophy froze, surprised. Surely the elegant woman seated inside wasn’t a maid.

  The coach lurched forward and Sophy returned to immediate concerns, tugging down the window and leaning her head outside, blowing desperate kisses to Fred and Bertha, who were running behind the coach. Bertha’s trot was heavy, her arms and bosom jiggling as she ran. The sight of her waving and running, cap askew, was too much and Sophy burst into tears.

  “Goodbye!” she called, and ducked into the coach.

  *****

  Silently, the haughty woman handed Sophy a handkerchief, her face marred with a frown of distaste. Sophy lapsed into cowed silence.

  “Finished, miss?”

  She was the maid then, despite her fine wool dress and her bonnet with a single purple plume. Her raised eyebrow and belated ‘miss’ told Sophy that though she was a servant, she was a superior one and not pleased with her current assignment.

  “My name is Liza Pritchard,” she said. “I’m to escort you to Cordell Hall. And you are Miss Prescott.”

  “My mother called me Sophy.”

  “I dare say she did,” Liza smiled. “But I’m certain Lady Fairchild won’t countenance that. You’ll be Miss Prescott to the servants, and if the family calls you by your given name, I expect they’ll prefer Sophia. It sounds better.”

  Flushing, Sophy turned her face aside, finding oblivion in the changing leaves of the trees as they swept past the window. The coach seemed luxurious to her, with its soft brown velvet squabs and glass windows that could slide open and shut. She had even glimpsed a crest on the door before being helped inside. She was not to know that this was the oldest of Lord Fairchild’s traveling coaches.

  When the passing scenery lost its charm, Sophy brought out Mrs. Wilkes’s book. She shut it in disgust after the first tale. ‘The Princess and the Pea’ was not a real fairy story. It had no magic, only a nameless girl whose quality was evident in her easy bruises. Offended by the absurdity of the Queen’s test, Sophy slammed the book shut and sank into memories of her mother’s stories: corsairs and sorcerers and houses of gingerbread. Her mysterious father had figured in many of these, always a hero, taken from his family by duty or tragic death.

  Sophy glared out the window, her throat tight. Her mother’s stories were rubbish, all of them. Her father was a lecher, not a valiant, who had sent her mother away and never troubled to find her.

  It was a bewildering journey, the anticipated three days lasting an age. Sophy asked no questions, merely watching the succession of villages, rivers, fields, and towns. Tom Coachman, despite his friendly smile, gave Liza a wide berth whenever they stopped, and so hardly exchanged a word with Sophy. The inns where they rested were noisy and frightening, and Sophy derived no comfort from Liza, sleeping noisily on the nearby trundle bed. Though she denied herself the refuge of remembering her mother’s stories, each night Sophy fell into dreams of dark forests, lumbering bears, and twinkling fairy lights.

  At last the land stretched out broad and flat. Sophy had counted seventeen windmills when Liza announced they were only two miles from Cordell Hall.

  They stopped a short time later. “Is this it?” Sophy asked, scowling to hide her fear. She could only see one small house through the window. It didn’t look anything like the hall she had imagined.

  Liza’s lip curled. “This is the lodge.”

  The keeper stepped outside, swinging aside a wide iron gate and waving them on their way. Driving down an avenue lined with giant trees, Sophy saw a lake and spreading lawns. The park, she thought. The carriage swung around sharply, and Sophy saw the house.

  She had never seen such a large edifice. Two wings of warm, weathered brick receded on either side, each boasting a tower that stretched above the chimneys standing like soldiers along the steeply slanted roof. Though it was too late to hide her amazement, Sophy snapped her mouth shut.

  The carriage stopped. Quaking, Sophy leaned back into the velvet cushions as the crunch of feet on gravel drew near. The door opened and a white-gloved hand materialized in front of her.

  “Go on,” Liza said.

  Taking the hand, Sophy stumbled down the coach steps, which today seemed absurdly high above the ground. She had removed her bonnet in the carriage; now, she squinted in the bright sunlight. Glancing up from the gloved hand in her own, she saw the man’s face was expressionless as a carving of a saint. He wore a pristine powdered wig and a long blue coat trimmed with gold. Could this be him?

  Spinning smartly on his heel, he marched up the steps into the house.

  “Why are you waiting?” Liza hissed. “Go!”

  Chapter Four<
br />
  Mind Your Manners

  The hall inside was dim and bigger than the chapel back in Bottom End. Sophy’s footsteps echoed on the shining tiles. Another man, dressed identically to the first, silently closed the door. They were alike as a pair of bookends. Clearly neither was Lord Fairchild. She followed the first up a wide stairway and along a gallery lined with looming paintings and towering doors. The man opened one and led Sophy into the room, halting four paces inside.

  “Miss Prescott,” he announced and withdrew.

  Eyes fastened on the carpet, Sophy sagged into a curtsy, willing her legs to straighten again instead of crumpling under her as they seemed likely to do. She succeeded and rose. Fighting the urge to flee, she glanced up.

  A man, long and thin, his shock of red hair tamed with moderate success, sat in a huge armchair, his fingers steepled before him. His shirt and cravat were brilliant white and starched as stiff as pasteboard. A lady sat across from him, holding an embroidery frame. She was fair, her silvery blond hair coiled round her head with a few ringlets falling down her neck, smooth as tapered candles. His wife, surmised Sophy, her stomach lurching. The lady set her embroidery aside, her gown rustling as she moved—the sound of a serpent gliding over dry leaves. Sophy glimpsed the stitchery forming a fantastical bird in jewel bright silks with cruel eyes. She couldn’t look away.

  A stifled laugh made her turn. Leaning against the wall stood a young man, perhaps sixteen or so, negligently dressed compared to his parents, but sharing his mother’s silver blond coloring.

  “Don’t laugh at Miss Prescott, Jasper,” chided Lady Fairchild.

  “Forgive me mama,” he replied. “It amuses me that she looks more like father than either of us.”

  Lady Fairchild pursed her lips as Lord Fairchild cast a quelling look at his son. There was another person—a girl—sitting in the far corner of the room, but Sophy had no time to study her, as her attention was immediately reclaimed by Lord Fairchild, who beckoned her forward.

  “Come here.”

  Feet dragging in the heavy pile of the carpet, Sophy stepped closer. She did look like Lord Fairchild. She had his sharp nose, his dark pointed brows, his bright red hair. Taking her hand, he pulled her alongside the arm of his chair and lifted her chin with his free hand. His skin was too soft, Sophy decided, bridling at his touch. He smiled ruefully, turning her chin to the side and back again.

  “Jasper’s right. I’m sorry Georgiana.”

  Lady Fairchild sniffed. “It can’t be helped. Certainly now, I agree she must stay. Impossible to pass her off as a distant relation.” Lifting one finger, she beckoned her children.

  “Jasper, Henrietta, come meet Miss Prescott.”

  They both stepped forward, bowing and curtsying in turn.

  “M. Lynch a écrit que tu parles français?” Lady Fairchild inquired, arching her brows at Sophy.

  “Oui, madame.”

  The questions continued, in French, but Sophy held her ground. Yes, she knew her sums and her psalms, and had been taught to draw. She did not admit that she only memorized psalms because Bertha rewarded her with gingersnaps, or that her sketches had long been a source of amusement and despair to her mother.

  “Henrietta’s governess will teach Sophy,” Lord Fairchild interrupted. “It’s obvious her task is well under way.”

  Lady Fairchild fell silent with an acknowledging nod.

  Sophy waited, feeling unspoken conversation pass between them, while Jasper watched his parents with a malicious grin. Though her gaze was friendly, Henrietta’s open scrutiny brought a stain to Sophy’s cheeks. Setting her teeth, she focused on the wall. Her mother had always told her staring was rude. At last Lady Fairchild commanded Jasper and Henrietta to show Sophy to the nursery.

  “You will have it to yourself,” Lady Fairchild said. “Jasper and Henrietta left it long ago.” Sophy’s breath loosened.

  “Someone will bring you supper,” Lady Fairchild finished. Sophy filed after Jasper and Henrietta in an orderly procession until they passed into the gallery. Jasper closed the door, then he and Henrietta flanked Sophy on either side. Shoulders twitching, she was conscious of their advantage in height, in years, in everything. She did not like climbing up the narrow stairway with them so close beside her, unable to trust them.

  Halfway up the stairs, Henrietta caught Sophy’s eye and smiled, stunning her with pink and blue and gold prettiness. It was a disarming smile. “We never knew we had a bastard sister,” Henrietta said, eyes twinkling. “How exciting!”

  *****

  As the door shut behind Sophy, William pushed to his feet and crossed the study to pour himself a brandy. Lady Fairchild watched him, but his hands were steady.

  “Can I offer you anything, my dear?”

  She declined with a shake of her head. When her husband was again seated, she picked up her embroidery. She wouldn’t work on it here long—she found the chairs in this room uncomfortable—but she felt the need of a prop. Though William appeared calm, surely he was as surprised as she. The girl’s resemblance to William was striking. It was an unexpected blow. Lady Fairchild had imagined her as a miniature Fanny, but only her diminutive size tied her to her mother.

  The child would become her husband’s ward, and while no person of breeding would think to say more—at least in her presence—Lady Fairchild did not like it. But she could not prevent William from keeping the girl here, since it was his whim to do so. Her best defense was to accept the situation with equanimity. She was not the only lady in her acquaintance called on to tolerate her husband’s by-blows, and complaining about the child would only stir up more talk. There were some things, though, that she would not accept.

  Rolling her needle between her fingers she looked up at William, who was watching her carefully over the rim of his glass. “You’ll expect me to look after her, I suppose?” She failed to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “I must count myself grateful she’s the only one.”

  William smiled tersely at his drink, denying her the satisfaction of confirming her last statement. “I don’t expect you to concern yourself with Sophy, or do anything that displeases you. You haven’t with my other children. I said we’d keep Henrietta’s governess and get a new nursery maid.”

  Henrietta was fifteen; they had planned to dispense with the governess in two or three years.

  “Miss Frensham may object,” Lady Fairchild said, ignoring his complaint and piercing the silk in her frame with delicacy and precision. “I chose her for her impeccable morals.”

  “Not her hatchet face? It’s no matter.” Lord Fairchild brushed a non-existent speck from his sleeve. “For thirty pounds a year she can keep her objections to herself.”

  “Sophy seemed well brought up,” she conceded. “And I detected no fault in her education.”

  “You did hire her mother to educate your children,” William said laconically.

  Lady Fairchild did not rise to the bait, placidly re-threading her needle with a skein of emerald silk. “I would not prevent you from doing your duty to your child,” she said, making a neat stitch. “But I will not let you make her Henrietta’s equal.”

  “Such was never my intention,” he said.

  “Thank you.” As she relaxed, he spoke again.

  “I do intend to settle an independence on her. If something were to happen to me, I must see she is provided for.”

  Lady Fairchild felt her hackles rise, but she didn’t allow her needle to falter. She had years of practice at containing fury. William wouldn’t take anything from Jasper. “Her independence is to come from Henrietta’s portion, then?”

  William rose again and walked to the window, apparently in deep study. Out of his sight, she let her mouth twist.

  “Henrietta’s portion is sufficiently large you will have a hard time fending off the fortune hunters. And she has your looks. She will not be lacking suitors,” he said. His accusation was unspoken; he did not trust her with the girl.

  “Very well,” sh
e said. A few thousands would not make a difference in Henrietta’s prospects. Still, she would not give up Henrietta’s money cheaply.

  Watching her husband silhouetted against the window, she stitched with martial calm, letting her displeasure fill the room like smoke. Breaking the silence, he returned to her, bowing and bringing her hand to his lips.

  “You are very good to me, Madam. I know this is an imposition. Thank you.”

  Lady Fairchild packed up her embroidery frame once he left. She might have to take in the brat, but she had driven William from his library, letting him know he would pay for her compliance.

  *****

  Normally Lord Fairchild did not trouble himself to walk softly, but he did now, climbing the nursery stairs. He was not accustomed to feeling nervous.

  Sophy had hardly dared to look at him the whole interview. He knew nothing about her, but the arch of her neck and her frail shoulders, bravely squared, reminded him of Fanny and brought an ache to his throat. For one instant, he had been tempted to seize Sophy, as if only clutching her could assure him she was real. He had let the impulse pass without betraying himself; it would have frightened her and infuriated Georgiana.

  Heart thumping, he paused outside the door. Jasper and Henrietta were still with her, the murmur of their voices seeping into the hall. Henrietta laughed. What did they make of her? Georgiana’s icy distemper he had anticipated, but he had given no thought to how his other children would react. They sounded friendly enough.

  Henrietta burbled on, punctuated by breezy asides from Jasper, who’d acted the bored sophisticate since he was eight. Sophy’s own words were rare and scarcely audible. He would have to wait. He couldn’t ask her about Fanny in front of Henrietta and Jasper.

  Georgiana had staked her pickets in his library, so he went outside. A ride would take too long, so he paced between the parterres in the garden for three quarters of an hour, questions tumbling through his mind.