Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

“I couldn’t do it alone,” he said.

  So she came along, and he let himself fall into her dreamy world of story books with sticky pages, milk tea and jam sandwiches eaten under the sun on the lawn. He came up to the schoolroom to admire her watercolors and the progress of his children, to smile with her when Henrietta conjured sums quicker than Jasper, and to watch her accept with unfailing grace the gifts his son presented almost daily: pinecones she arranged on the mantle, a snake caught in a smelly lineament tin that miraculously escaped overnight, dead beetles with black backs that shone green in the right light, and a necklace of braided grass she wore for two days straight. She would smile over Jasper’s blond head, but she never teased him about the offerings or chuckled at the way his chest swelled when she praised him. Most every day Jasper summoned her down to the stables to watch him ride his pony. She was always properly awed. William came to watch too, stealing her hand when Jasper and the groom disappeared into the stables.

  “Oh. You shouldn’t.” Flustered and pink, Fanny retreated to the house, leaving William and Jasper to walk back alone.

  “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Miss Prescott,” Jasper confided. William laughed, distracted momentarily from his own shameful thoughts. It should have recalled him to his senses—Fanny deserved a husband, nothing else—but he wanted her, and felt that success was not far off. It wasn’t.

  “Your French is excellent. I wish you would help me—I’ve been reading some poems and I don’t quite understand.”

  Pretending an unconcern she didn’t feel, she followed him into the library at Cordell, starting just a little when he closed the door. “I have a headache,” he explained. The closed door muffled every outside sound. He handed over the book.

  Her blushes! Such a delicate stain tinting her cheek as she pointed out his error, such surprise in her eyes as she looked up to see him advance. Confusion, dismay—then bliss!—as she succumbed in his arms at last.

  And after, those giddy weeks—not many—of rambles in the gardens, kisses stolen behind corners, of indoor games when they could evade the children. He couldn’t remember what kind of weather they’d had, but in memory the days were all drenched with sunlight, the only shadow a little furrow between Fanny’s eyes that steadily grew darker and deeper. He chose not to notice. He had tears in his eyes when she told him she was pregnant, though enciente was the word she used. She had excellent French, and she wasn’t blushing anymore.

  He was selfishly happy. Another child—not another Julius, never that—but another little one to watch over, who would toddle and lisp, and climb into his lap and fall warmly asleep.

  “No,” Fanny said.

  He didn’t believe it when she said she wasn’t going to stay.

  “You already have a family. You already have a wife.”

  She was resolute, impatient with his excuses, defiant when he pressured her.

  “I’m going. If you love me, make certain we don’t starve.”

  Though angry and ashamed, he did as she asked. She wouldn’t let him do anything else. “I’m not making more mistakes,” she told him. “Don’t you make any either.”

  Oh, but he had. This watercolor painting she’d done of his gardens, her last, brought by ten-year-old Sophy when she came to Cordell, shouldn’t have gone up on his study wall. He should have mended things with Georgiana long ago—shouldn’t have soiled Fanny in the first place. And he should ask forgiveness from Sophy, the daughter Fanny had loved. He should have loved her better, and helped her when she wanted to make her own choice. William looked at the picture propped up on the floor, at the light, melting tints and the play of sunlight and shadow. He would wrap it up now. On his desk he had tissue and brown paper. Jenkins could do it, but he felt he owed it to Fanny to do it himself.

  Can’t say for certain, but I think Georgiana and I can be happy. I love her.

  He thought this was what Fanny had wanted—though not so many wasted years, he was certain. He could only blame his own self for that. Fanny, bless her, had known what was impossible and what was right and best.

  He carried it to the desk, laying it on the paper. He fumbled a bit over the corners, unable to make them neat—they stuck out like puppy ears. He was groping through the desk drawer, reaching for a knife to cut the twine when he heard noises in the hall.

  “You’re still awake?” It was Georgiana, pushing wide the library door.

  “Mhmm,” he said, unnecessarily.

  She glanced from the mess on his desk to the wall and the new picture there. Her cheeks turned faintly pink, though perhaps that was only because the room was warm and she’d been outside in the cold.

  “Turned out well, didn’t it?” he asked.

  “I told you he’d flatter me. I thought you wanted it for the gallery at Cordell.” It was where they usually hung portraits.

  “I like you a little nearer than that.” He smiled. “I think it’s a good likeness, though someone should have told him your true feelings about dogs.” It must be the fashion, because in life Georgiana would never rest her fingers affectionately on the head of a silky-eared spaniel.

  “The dog’s just a device,” she said, coming into the room and drawing off her gloves.

  He’d never been the type to fall into raptures over poetry or paintings. Some were good; some weren’t. Didn’t really matter why. “Oh? What’s a dog mean?”

  “It’s an emblem of fidelity,” she said, intent on smoothing the empty gloves. “I didn’t know he was going to paint it in. I didn’t ask him—”

  “Of course,” William said softly. “Yes, I’d say he captured you very well.” Like her, he kept his attention on the portrait. “But I meant this picture to be an emblem of mine. You have my fidelity, whether you want it or not.”

  She nodded, glancing at him fleetingly as she studied the portrait.

  “I’d given up hoping you’d return today. I’m surprised Tom Coachman agreed to drive in this dark,” William said.

  “He didn’t drive quickly,” she said, the usual lean towards displeasure in her voice. “I wanted to come home.”

  William wasn’t going to argue with that. “Come, you must be frozen,” he said, taking her hands and bringing her to the fire. “How’s your sister?” he asked, needing some diversion as he pulled her into his own chair instead of the one opposite, sweeping her in his lap. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, but came willingly enough.

  “It was a trying week. I’d rather not talk of it. I didn’t realize you meant to redecorate.”

  “No, just changing that picture.”

  “It never really suited the room,” she said.

  “No.”

  “You’ll send the old one to Sophy?” she asked.

  “If I can convince Jasper to take it. I’d rather he brought it to her. If she has any words for me in reply, better to have Jasper be messenger. Wouldn’t do to have a servant dressing me down.”

  “Yes, and Jasper will love the chance to singe your ears,” Georgiana said.

  “You aren’t going to?” he asked.

  She curled close, seeking warmth, making him flinch when she laid a cold hand on his cheek.

  “I like them the way they are,” she said, inspecting his nearest ear, running her finger, explorer-like, down the curved edge. “Besides, I’m anxious to hear from her. I thought—perhaps we can try to mend things in the new year.”

  “I’m going to try,” William said, finding her other hand and interlacing their fingers. “It would be nice if we could do it together.”

  Georgiana didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. He understood what she meant when she laid her head on his shoulder and tightened her hold on his fingers. Of course, he couldn’t deny himself a little folly. “I missed you, Penelope,” he whispered.

  “Gah—” was all she managed, before he captured her mouth in a kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Leg-shackled

  Of course the one time in Alistair’s life that he wanted t
o rush out and find a minister, he couldn’t. It was an ungodly hour of the night and he was missing a leg—hadn’t used his crutches for more than hobbling about his room yet.

  “Tomorrow’s just as good,” Anna promised. “Or even the next day.” She kissed him and left the room, carrying a heavy-eyed Henry.

  Alistair settled into the pillows. It would be tomorrow, even if he had to turn to the Catholics. Oh, he wasn’t in any state to inflict a wedding night on her—wished he was, but with his leg gone, the idea was frankly terrifying. His face burned at the very thought.

  Get used to it. Not going to happen any other way.

  It was a worry that would keep. There were others needing his attention. Anna might be careless of her reputation, but he couldn’t afford to be, not when she’d been passing herself off as his wife. And she would be, before the new day got old. Griggs and Jamieson could be witnesses. The cathedral wasn’t far if Griggs couldn’t roust out a chaplain. If people wanted to talk—he’d never known more inveterate gossips than the men of the army—they could talk about the indecent swiftness of his wedding or the secretive arrangements. Whatever they pleased, so long as they spoke nicely about his bride. With his leg gone and his career finished, he wasn’t going to be much of a husband. If he couldn’t keep Anna’s name clean so she could hold up her head, he may as well put himself to grass.

  He’d have to clean up so he wouldn’t shame her. Get Griggs to brush out his good coat. Get his hair trimmed. And a shave . . . .

  Alistair woke in the morning to find Anna sitting in the chair beside his bed. Henry was in her lap, squirming as she drew circles in his palm and whispered silliness in his ears.

  “Shh!” Anna said, when a squeal escaped Henry. She glanced up into Alistair’s open eyes. “Oh.”

  “He’s awake,” Henry whispered needlessly.

  “Where’s my breakfast?” Alistair said.

  Once Henry was dispatched for it, Alistair reached out for Anna’s hand. “You can’t change your mind, you know. You’ve got to be married to someone out here, and that sea captain of yours thinks it’s me.” Jamieson’s too young for you, and besides, he likes the high fliers. Simpson would make a perfect husband if I let him have you—but I won’t, cause I’m a selfish lout, and there it is . . . .

  “Mrs. Beaumaris sounds lovely to me,” she said.

  He looked her over. Plain green wool dress, clean lace collar—she must have been saving it—her hair simply drawn up. The color was high in her cheeks, but it was natural, he knew. She looked happy.

  “You’ll do,” he said.

  “You won’t. I’ll marry you in your nightshirt if I have to, but I insist you shave!”

  So he banished her, shouting for Griggs.

  Alistair was forced to ask Major Simpson to witness the ceremony since Jamieson was nowhere to be found.

  “All right! But I don’t like it!” Simpson said, when repeated warnings failed to change Alistair’s mind—he was injured, he hadn’t gotten his commander’s permission, and Spain was no place for ladies.

  “Have to get married. Only thing to do with her since she’s here,” Alistair said blithely, praying Simpson would lose the scowl before his own patience snapped. His leg was wrapped and bandaged, but he was worried all this moving around would make him bleed through his pinned up trousers. He looked gruesome enough as it was. Griggs had rounded up a Scottish chaplain, who was waiting with Anna downstairs in the landlady’s sitting room. They’d been waiting at least a quarter hour, while Simpson tried to talk him out of it.

  “You’ll have to help me with the stairs,” Alistair said, before Simpson could list his objections again. Simpson, nearly as broad as he was tiresome, let Alistair prop an arm around his shoulders. Alistair hopped down the steps, resolving that tomorrow they’d find new lodgings on the ground floor. He wasn’t going to have Anna doing this every time he had to venture out of his room.

  The sitting room wasn’t a church, though it was almost as cold and austere as one. The landlady, disapproving of English heresies, had dusted off a crucifix and placed it right in the middle of the table on top of a yellowing piece of lace.

  “Anna, this is Major Simpson.”

  She curtsied. Simpson nodded stiffly. She’d have softened anyone else with that demure dress and those downcast eyelashes, but Simpson was a stickler and this was highly irregular. Oh well. If it were Jamieson, he’d have taken one look at Anna and begun groveling like the puppy he was. Alistair didn’t care overmuch, so long as they got the thing done. And Anna kept smiling.

  “Mr. Fraser says he’ll marry us,” she said, her lips twitching.

  Once the chaplain started speaking, Alistair understood why. His Scots rumble was like a mouthful of gravel.

  “I’d have understood more Spanish,” Anna whispered, when Alistair moved to her side, leaning onto his crutches so he could take her hands in his own. They were rougher now. He was glad she wasn’t wearing gloves.

  He stood through the whole thing, stiffened by crutches and his own will, worried the distraction of keeping his balance and ignoring the pain in his missing leg would make him miss his cue. He didn’t, though. He might not have caught the exact words binding him to Anna Fulham Morris, but he got his affirmative in the right place, confidently, like a man with both feet on the ground. If he needed clarification later about the forsaking of others or remedies against sin and fornication, he’d ask another priest. Despite the Scot’s burr, Alistair caught the heart-stinging part about sickness and health, but it came as a balm to him, sunk as he was in Anna’s shining eyes.

  They kissed, chastely, because even he was cowed by those stern Scottish eyebrows. Then they accepted the congratulations of the chaplain and the skeptical well-wishes of Major Simpson. Alistair decided he’d been wrong—the man would make any woman a terrible husband. Before Alistair could send him to the devil, the Major made his bows and took himself out. The Divine waited a little longer, baffling Anna with conversation until her eyes grew round, while Alistair wished for Jamieson, or any of his other friends, who’d have sense enough to invite the man to join them for a drink.

  After Alistair thanked him for the fourth time, he made an exit. Alistair lowered himself gratefully into a hard chair—if he dropped himself into the sofa’s gaping mouth it would swallow him. Across the room, Henry sat in the matching chair, his feet dangling above the floor.

  “Well, Henry. I think when that priest gave me your mother he must have forgotten she was already yours. Do you think we can share?”

  Henry considered.

  “Maybe I could have her on Tuesdays,” Alistair suggested. “Or after eight o’ clock.”

  “What do you want her for?” Henry asked.

  Alistair laughed, watching Anna turn pink out of the corner of his eye. “I think everyone must want her,” Alistair said. “She’s wonderfully brave.”

  “She wasn’t afraid of the ship at all,” Henry conceded. “So are you my papa now?”

  “If you’ll have me. We said all the right words.”

  “Good. I couldn’t tell,” Anna interjected, dropping into the sofa and raising puffs of dust. She brushed once at her dress then settled back, filling up the space and motioning Henry over. He sped across the floor and into her lap.

  “Is that how you become a papa? Saying the right words?” Henry asked, incredulous.

  “For you and me, yes. You don’t mind?”

  “Not really, though I should have liked a sword.”

  He hadn’t won a French one, and there’d be no chance now. Griggs could find one, of course—he could source out astonishing things, when asked, but—

  Grimacing, Alistair twisted around his sword belt. Silly of him to wear it today, but it completed the uniform and he’d wanted to look dashing. Or approximate it, anyway. “You’re too young now, but would you like to have mine? I’m leaving the army.”

  Henry’s eager face was answer enough.

  “Come help me with the buckles. You c
an have a look at it.”

  Anna said nothing, perhaps not entirely pleased with the gift, though it brought Henry close to him, drawing their heads together.

  “You’ll need a trifle more height before you can try it,” Alistair said, but he slid the blade an inch or two out of the scabbard so Henry could see his face on the gleaming metal. Before Henry finished drawing in an ecstatic breath, Alistair slid it home again. “It’s a real sword, not for fooling,” he said, tickling Henry’s chin with the silk tassel.

  “And it belongs on the mantel,” Anna said, plucking it away from them.

  Henry leaned after it longingly, but Alistair tethered him by his hand. “We mustn’t argue with the commander-in-chief, you know.” He slid a hand into his pocket, pulling out a few coins. “Ask Griggs to help you buy your mama a wedding gift.”

  Henry scampered off.

  “What do you think he’ll find?” Anna asked, leaning back on the mantlepiece.

  Alistair wanted a lace mantilla, if one could be found, but it was possible the best that could be managed might be a pair of gloves—not such a bad thing, in winter. Dull though. Not the kind of thing a man wanted to give his bride. He didn’t even have a ring for her, so she was wearing his own, which had to be wrapped with string to stay on her finger. “Nothing as rare as you are,” he said, which was the simple truth. He meant only to look at her with warm eyes, but she came to his side, glowing like a candle, looking at him in a way he could scarce believe. It was enough to flummox a man, to make him a fool, but he’d lost his leg, not his wits. Incredulous stammering wasn’t the thing to do when presented with your heart’s desire. No. You took her—carefully, if you had to—and held her close, because all the world was now in your arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Affairs of Honor

  “It’s too far,” Anna said, but her pleading tone told Alistair he’d already won. The journey to headquarters in Freineda wouldn’t kill him, though he might be too white-lipped to speak. There was going to be a ball, and it was time he and Anna were seen.