by Jaima Fixsen
Alistair didn’t notice. He looked almost sick, or maybe that was just an effect of the upholstery. “A widow, is she?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes. Our families are old friends. Thought she might do for my Tom, but that didn’t turn out so well.”
“What happened?” Alistair asked.
“He crossed paths again with your sister,” she said, nodding at Jasper. “I don’t think he really saw anyone else after meeting her. I wish he could have handled it better. I’m afraid Tom was a trifle thoughtless and Anna was hurt. I daren’t speak to her mother.”
“You’ve known them a long time then?” Jasper asked. It wasn’t nice to bait a defeated man, but he couldn’t resist. No real harm in it. He was the one who would have to nurse Alistair out of this sulk, after all. And he’d do it cheerfully, now he knew Sophy’s peace was assured.
“Ages, yes. Known the Fulhams forever and Anna herself since she was a wee thing.” Mrs. Bagshot smiled apologetically. “Never saw a child with such a nasty temper, so perhaps it’s just as well Tom never took to her.”
“She is widowed,” Alistair said again, gone deaf or stupid with surprise. “With a son?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bagshot patiently. “Terrible shame. Been a couple of years now. I never met her husband. Well, naturally that wouldn’t have happened. I gather the Morrises were none too pleased with her family.” She looked pointedly at Jasper. “It’s a bad business, you know, weighing down a man and wife with family censure.”
“I am all agreement. Sophy is pleased with Tom, and that is good enough for me,” Jasper hastened to assure her. He cast about for a new subject, since Alistair sat paralyzed on the couch. “What is that you are making?” His mother never did anything so common (or practical) as worsted work.
“You cannot tell?” Mrs. Bagshot leaned over to the basket at her feet and unfolded one of the little squares. “See, it’s a little jacket. I’ve made caps too, to go with them. And covers to go over the nappies.”
Mercy. That basket was huge, and suddenly full of dreadful significance. “You’ve made a good many of them,” Jasper said weakly.
“Only seven, so far. I’m only starting. Babies go through so many changes a day.”
Just one, or was she expecting a whole litter of them?
“Who are the Morrises? Where can I find them?” Alistair said, breaking Jasper’s stunned silence.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Bagshot said, smiling apologetically. “But Anna and her parents live in Hans Town. On Basil Street.”
“Do you know the Morrises?” Alistair asked, turning to Jasper.
He tore his gaze from the basket. “Well, there are the Warwickshire Morrises and some other ones, who claim a connection to Penderwick. Don’t know those ones. But the Warwickshire lot have a house on Mount Street.” These kind of details stuck in his head like barnacles. Pity his memory for Latin wasn’t nearly so good. He turned to Mrs. Bagshot. “Are they the right ones?”
Mrs. Bagshot shrugged.
“Anthony Morris died in a carriage accident, I think, but there’s a younger brother,” Jasper prompted, searching his memory for anything else that might cue her.
“Might be the ones,” Mrs. Bagshot said. “I heard Anna’s husband died in an accident, but I don’t know what kind.”
Alistair nodded once—a sharp movement of decision—and bounced up from the sofa as if his knees were springs. “Thank you, Madam, for sparing me your time,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Bagshot. In another instant he was nearly out the door. “Forgive me, Jasper. I’ve some business to attend to.”
Jasper settled back into the sofa. Might as well, since he was being abandoned. Besides, Mrs. Bagshot might take it as permission to let herself be comfortable. Jasper suddenly had a burning desire to find out everything she’d heard from Tom. He brought out his most engaging smile.
“Between you and me,” he said to Mrs. Bagshot, after the reverberations of the front door had stilled, “I think Sophy had a narrow escape.”
She smiled at him. “I can’t persuade you to take tea?”
Why not? Jasper accepted her invitation and set to work gently prying—few could do it better—while inwardly composing the letter he must dispatch to his sister. Hopefully it wouldn’t arrive too late. He might lack experience in the matter, but he’d absorbed enough to write a treatise on the subject. Vanquishing the urge to squirm—it was entirely wretched, having to mention these things to a sister—he accepted Mrs. Bagshot’s offered cup, refusing to look at that hideous basket. He must tell Sophy every thing he knew about preventing conception.
Chapter Five
Mortification is the Worst Medicine
Alistair rushed from the house, cursing himself for a complete dolt. How had he mistaken Mrs. Morris for a lightskirt? He thought he understood women.
Better hope she didn’t understand you.
But of course she had. Beneath the barbs, there had been that teasing pull of invisible spider threads between them, the way he had looked at her sideways and smiled suggestively, and—Heavens, what had he said? Not what one was supposed to say to a respectable woman, at any rate.
Alistair hailed a hackney, ordering it to set him down in Basil Street. He didn’t know the right house, but after being misdirected by a drippy-nosed kitchen maid, he was pointed to the right one by a baker’s boy.
“I’ve come to call on Mrs. Morris,” he said, handing his card to the shy housemaid who came to the door. She turned it round in her hand like she didn’t know what to do with it.
“She isn’t here,” the maid said.
“Please tell her I called,” Alistair said.
Alistair went home. His own pistol was clean, so he took care of his brother’s handsome dueling pistols, nestled inside their mahogany case. They hadn’t been cleaned (or touched) in an age. No doubt Cyril had purchased them because of their gleaming barrels and the way they balanced sweetly in the hand, tried them once or twice, discovered he wasn’t able to culp a wafer on the first go and decided to buy himself fishing tackle instead. Or a new horse. Either way, he seemed to have forgotten the pistols, which was fortunate, since the last thing the family needed was for Cyril to challenge someone while in his cups.
Tucking the pistols into the case with one last caress, Alistair restored them to the cupboard under the library window, pushing the case back into the shadows, wishing he hadn’t left his card with Anna Morris’s maid. Avoiding her for the rest of his life would be much easier than cobbling together an adequate apology, but it was too late to change his mind now. Consciences were tiresome things.
The next morning, there was a note waiting for him at the breakfast table. It wasn’t from Jasper. Inside the folded paper was his card.
You’ve made a mistake. I am certain we are not acquainted.
The blunt hostility took him by surprise, but he supposed there was something to be said for going straight to the point. He kept his reply similarly brief.
Perhaps not acquainted, but when you see me, I think you will know who I am. May I see you?
The answer came two days later, addressed forcefully in thick black ink, resting beneath another letter from his colonel. Alistair opened the colonel’s letter first—it was his marching orders. No surprise there. Anna’s reply, though, was unexpected. Her letter had only three sharp words, gouged into the paper:
No. Go away.
She’d probably ruined her pen. Alistair tapped his lip thoughtfully with the folded paper. He’d tried. Really, there was little point in forcing himself upon her notice, and every reason to forget the matter entirely. Except he could not. Why was she living in a shabby genteel part of town instead of with the Morrises? And why did she refuse to meet him?
“Who’s that letter from?’ Cyril asked from across the table.
“A lady.”
Cyril hooted softly, but Alistair didn’t notice. He read the three word message again and downed the last of his coffee. He’d tried conventional means
. It was time for something different. Forgetting his toast, Alistair plowed out of the dining room.
Cyril set down his fork, staring at the empty door long after his brother was gone. “Lucky sod,” he muttered.
*****
Hans Town was south of Mayfair, and it was a presumptuous kind of place. Nice enough, but it wasn’t the best, no matter how it tried. The house on Basil Street was a three story brick building, as like to its neighbors as a row of uniformed soldiers: warm brick, thick white trim, a bow window on the second floor. The only thing different about this one was that it had no topiary on the steps.
Alistair stationed himself across the street. A swirly iron railing belted the house beside him, like a bad waistcoat on a man carrying too much flesh. The railing had too many embellishments for his taste, but it looked clean, so he settled against it to wait. In the peninsula, one made up for the terrifying rush of thunder and blood with twenty times the waiting, so he was used to passing time. He took out his Horace.
He read without interruption for an hour or so, until a maid from one of the houses tried plying him with questions. He gave her a smile that made pink erupt in her cheeks. Losing courage, she scurried inside. Silly thing. She’d get into trouble if she wasn’t more careful.
His legs grew stiff and his shoulder complained, but he kept his post, one eye on his book and one on the door of the house where Mrs. Morris lived. Occasionally he noticed the passers-by: a nursemaid towing a trio of fair-haired boys, and a kite big enough to fly away with at least one of them, two ladies confiding in the shade beneath their parasols, a grocer’s man pushing a wheelbarrow with carrot tops sticking from beneath a ragged tarp. A natty looking tilbury rattled by, earning a longer look. If he could, he would buy one just that blue color.
Still no movement from the house. He shifted again, debating whether he ought to try knocking. Perhaps she didn’t intend to go out today, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why one would choose to stay penned inside on a warm day like this. Drawing his flask from his pocket, he took a long swallow. His hopes lifted when a shiny carriage drawn by a nondescript pair of black horses rolled up, but it stopped in front of the house next door, which opened to admit a portly man in a striped coat, his old fashioned wig dusting his shoulders with hair powder. Alistair started forward as the door to her house finally opened, but again was disappointed. The woman who issued forth wasn’t Mrs. Morris. She was a tall, bracket-faced woman buttoned into a sober pelisse and wearing dark gloves.
“Anna!” she called, and Alistair straightened from the railing.
Anna Morris stepped outside, almost a mirror image of the woman who must be her mother. Her gown was so plain she might have vanished into the brick work, her face hidden by a close fitting bonnet trimmed with a single wide ribbon in an uninspiring rust color. The low heeled boots she wore slapped against the steps as only sensible shoes can, nothing like the clipping of the pretty red heels she had worn the week before.
“Mrs. Morris,” he called, hastening across the street, dodging a dust-covered landau in need of a wash. If he didn’t move fast he would miss his chance. “Mrs. Morris!”
She heard him the second time and turned her head. Under the brim of her bonnet, that lovely mouth was almost invisible in her bleached face. Her eyes were twice the size he remembered. For a moment he thought she was about to faint. Her hand shot out to halt his approach, but then she seemed to recover, turning to her mother with a straightened spine.
“This is an old friend of Mr. Morris,” she lied without blinking. “Well, sir, what brings you this morning?” There was nothing welcoming in her face or words—unsurprising, given their previous meetings. He’d expected disdain, but this wasn’t that. It was fear.
“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked.
“You can see we are just going out,” she said, tugging on her gloves, which was hardly necessary. The York tan fit as closely as her own skin.
“May I bear you company a little while? I hoped to speak with you.” He turned his smile from Mrs. Morris to the mother. Her firm mouth softened and her eyes flicked anxiously to her daughter. Seeing his way now, Alistair addressed himself to the older woman. “I’ve been searching your daughter out for days.”
“I must arrive at the church early to mark the attendance,” the mother said, glancing from him to Anna. Alistair couldn’t tell if it was his attempts to charm or her daughter’s obstinate frown that swayed her, but he read in her eyes the instant she made her decision. “Anna, you can spare a moment. Why don’t you walk with—”
“My name is Beaumaris,” he said with a bow.
Anna Morris turned to her mother. “I thought you needed my help.”
“I’ll have it, if I need it,” her mother said. “You won’t be more than a few minutes behind me.” Despite her sugar-glazed smile, the message to her daughter was still a command. Anna Morris scowled, but she did not protest. Her mother gave a satisfied nod. Opening her sunshade with a snap, she marched down the steps and into the street. Anna watched her depart with flinty eyes.
“I’m sorry to displease you,” Alistair said, approaching and offering his arm. She ignored it, clasping her hands behind her back as she thumped reluctantly down the last two steps.
“If you were really sorry, you’d leave. I told you to stay away.”
“Why? You didn’t even know who I was. Whom were you expecting?”
Her eyes tightened. “I had no notion. At the masquerade you told me your name was Jasper Rushford. I didn’t recognize Beaumaris, which is the name on your card and your letters.”
Damn. He’d forgotten about that.
“Which one are you?” she asked. “Or have you a third name you keep for Sundays?”
“Beaumaris. But why should my letters scare you?” He hadn’t written them to sound threatening. Only someone with a dire secret would read a threat in a courteous letter from a stranger.
“You’re imagining,” she snapped.
He wasn’t, but he would leave it for now. Ahead, her mother’s dark blue umbrella wove left and right, moving forward at twice their pace. Soon they would be well behind. Alistair stepped over a dip in the pavement where a puddle congealed, dark as ink. His mouth was dry and he’d been standing too long in the sun. It made his fingers feel tight and swollen. He was getting soft. The sun today was mild compared to the blistering heat of Spain.
Explanations first. “We were at a masquerade,” Alistair said. “I didn’t think you were telling the truth.”
“No, I see honesty isn’t at all the thing,” she retorted.
“I’ve done badly,” he acknowledged with a nod. “I mistook you for something quite different. I came to apologize.”
She stopped and turned toward him, lifting her chin, ignoring the shop boy who skidded around them with a curse. “Whatever for? Apologies are unlikely to change my opinion of you, nor should you care whether I think ill of you or not. If you hadn’t intruded on me, I wouldn’t have thought of you at all. We are strangers.”
“Who share one thing, at least—a grievance with Tom Bagshot. You lost him, and he waltzed away with my intended.”
“Yes, I heard.” Her lips twitched. “I didn’t love him, so I have no reason to be grieved, merely offended that he preferred another. I admit I was upset that evening at the masquerade, but it wears off, I assure you.”
“Thank you for the advice,” he returned, just as sweetly.
“My pleasure. It’s always gratifying to see the mighty humbled.”
He grunted. They waited for a gap in the line of passing carriages and this time he took her arm instead of waiting for her to bestow it. Letting her step alone into a busy street would make him look bad, so she did not protest. Out loud anyway. Her hand was stiff.
“They don’t draw you very well in the newspapers,” she said. “I hadn’t realized it was supposed to be you.”
“I like to think I’m much better looking,” he said, trying to make light o
f it.
She turned her head to look at him better, and her eyes were not kind. She ought to be softening by now. “Why are you apologizing? I wouldn’t have known you’d lied about your name if you hadn’t come.”
His ankle teetered on the edge of a deep rut, reminding him of the need to mind his steps. Before he answered he looked at her. He’d been certain that night at the masquerade that she knew perfectly well the subtext of their conversation. Now that she’d been identified as a respectable, if déclassé widow, he wasn’t so sure. Was she naive enough to have missed his rather brutal innuendo? Or was she taking revenge by playing him now, making him come out and admit it?
“I insulted you and mistook your character,” he said, deciding to go with the truth.
“Oh? How, exactly?” she prompted.
She was baiting him, so there was no need to say it.
“Nothing complimentary,” he said, hedging.
“I understood that at the time. You thought I wanted Tom for a protector, didn’t you?”
Cornered, Alistair had to fight back a blush. It was uncomfortable, having their dance floor banter rehashed in a Hans Town street.
She laughed, but it was bitter. “You weren’t that far wrong. I thought he would make me a tolerable husband, chiefly because he’d be a good protector. The duties aren’t that dissimilar, you know.”
“True. But one is sanctioned and one is not. I misjudged you. I can only offer my profound apologies.”
“I’m afraid they are far from profound,” she said.
Alistair grinned. Her ready comprehension didn’t put him in any better light, but he was relieved all the same. “I’ll try to do better. Let me rephrase. Will you forgive me and endeavor to forget my gross errors if I plead guilty to being a scoundrel-dog?”
She looked at him, then away, fastening her eyes on something in the distance. “I can’t see that it matters. It is kind of you, I think, to offer me an apology. But I’m afraid I have little use for it.”
A dismissal, clearly. They walked in silence for some time, then Alistair asked, “Does your frown have to do with me, or your brother-in-law?” She didn’t seem to have been taken to the bosom of her husband’s family, and now that he was dead, Alistair imagined the situation was fraught with difficulty. A good reason to be on the lookout for a husband like Tom Bagshot.