Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  What comes, comes.

  She was good at improvising.

  Once Laura was satisfied with her appearance she returned downstairs. Mr. Rushford took her arm and brought her outside as carefully as if she were a piece of blown glass—and dull-witted besides. Freeing her arm, Laura explained she had eyes and could see (and step!) around uneven ground and gluey puddles without help. He was scrupulously polite, inquiring about her brother and her opinion of the countryside. It was unexpected—and wildly irritating.

  “Have you always been devoted to the theatre?” she asked, trying to startle him back into the sly creature from before.

  He smirked. “Heavens, no. Only since I found a talent that caught my attention.”

  She accepted the tribute with a nod. They talked of plays then, and if he was too free with his quotes from the stage, at least it showed he paid attention. He had opinions about everything: the staging, the props, the kisses her fellow actors pressed upon her.

  “Do you like them?” he asked.

  “What a question!” She turned away to cover her blush.

  “Forgive me. I’m forgetting where we are. That’s not a proper question for a young lady on an innocent country walk.”

  Someone needed to stick a pin in his acrobatic eyebrows. The way he used them was not innocent at all.

  “What is that flower?” She pointed with her parasol—it was prettier, though less useful as a weapon than her umbrella.

  “Do I look like Watt’s Botanical?” he asked.

  “No. Is that a book?”

  “Yes, with two hundred color plates in it. The flower, if you must know, is meadow saffron.”

  “Oh.” The blooms were purple, not golden, but before she could puzzle over it he spoke.

  “Shall I be gallant, pluck you an armful, and swear that you put them to shame?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly wary. The exquisite politeness and theatre talk had relaxed her guard. She wasn’t ready for—or wanting—romantic importuning.

  “Good. They don’t keep. They’ll be wilted by the time we get to the church. I’d rather let them live.”

  He was teasing her, leading her on and then spinning her assumptions back at her—a good ploy and one she typically used without even thinking. Laura smiled. Perhaps she could learn a few things if she let someone else do the conjuring. Of course it wasn’t wise, but the game pulled, irresistibly. It reminded her of long ago when she crept up on her unsuspecting brother and startled him with a shout and a clap. Or the trick they’d dared each other to learn, swallowing the flame from a candle. She felt the same light tremor in her pulse every time before stepping on stage; prudence and fear never held her back.

  “I agree.” She summoned an absent expression and patted his arm. “Leave these beauties be. Interference only destroys them.”

  “An admirable philosophy,” Mr. Rushford said, leading her through the trees. Ahead, a stone wall appeared between the stout trunks supporting a tangle of brambles. “Do you extend it to other creatures?”

  Was he talking about her again? Laura frowned into the rustling canopy of branches, sunlight veining the quivering leaves. Her ears opened to a hundred busy sounds. “Your birds here couldn’t live in a desert. They ought to stay where they can thrive.”

  “My sister has a very pretty canary.”

  “Yes, and it lives in a cage and eats from her fingers,” Laura said. She’d seen the bird chirping in the morning room.

  “No hawk will kill its song.”

  “Pretty creatures tend to do well for themselves.” Laura smiled. “Look at you.” If one of them was a canary it was surely he. She was a jackdaw, a bold scavenger and not ashamed of any of it.

  Mr. Rushford bowed. “A double compliment.” He unlatched the iron gate in the wall, wincing as the hinges shrieked. “Efficient, this method of summoning the curate,” he murmured. They had not ventured far into the churchyard, their feet skimming through the long grass, before the man appeared, stooped and garbed in the black of his calling. He bowed low to her and Mr. Rushford and returned his attention to her for a second scrutiny when informed she might settle in the neighborhood.

  “Mr. Rushford will convince you of our district’s charms,” he said, still wheezing slightly from his swift walk to join them.

  “The decision rests with my brother,” Laura explained. Rushford again used that skeptical twitch of his brow. She ignored him and looked across the weathered gravestones to the uncompromising bulk of the church walls, the admonitory finger of the spire. It was exactly what a village church should be. “But I’m pleased with everything I see.” Jack would settle them here and she would meet with the village women and dress the church with flowers. He’d encourage her to busy herself with the parish school while he snuffled out friendships with the local gentlemen and turned up marriage prospects for her like truffles.

  “My people are Catholic,” Laura said, fighting reflexively.

  “Then you will belong to St. Jude’s. It’s a little farther, but not too out of the way,” the curate said, not unduly perturbed by this news. She’d sunk in his estimation, but not irredeemably.

  “Scots?” Mr. Rushford hazarded behind her.

  “French.” It came out crisply. There were all sorts of people in England with lingering French trappings—Huguenots, for example—who’d been around a long time. Then there were émigrés like herself, increasingly unpopular, stained by war and recent troubles. Neither gentleman asked what kind of French she was. Just as well.

  “May I see inside?” Laura asked. “Mr. Rushford promised me some fascinating history.”

  “Did he?” The curate looked alarmed and glanced wide-eyed at Mr. Rushford.

  “I was thinking of the troubles,” Rushford said without blinking. “And the story about the monks’ treasure.”

  “I don’t think—” the bewildered curate protested.

  “Leave it to me,” Mr. Rushford said with a smile, sweeping her through the arched door. It was cool as a cave inside but illuminated with grand, kaleidoscope windows. The history he gave of ravages and relics lost and rediscovered was fabrication from the first word to the last, but as good a tale as any dramatist could conceive. Long before they quit the church, thanked the curate, and returned to the house, Laura recognized him. He too was a performer, perhaps as skilled a one as she.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hazards

  Sophy watched Tom—dear Tom—pace across the drawing room.

  “What am I supposed to say to them?” he asked.

  Not what he wanted to, she was certain of that. Tom hadn’t forgiven Lord and Lady Fairchild. Yet.

  “You could talk about your education,” Sophy suggested. He’d hated his years at school and ended career there by tying up his chief tormentor, cutting off his hair, and running away. But it was a respectable institution and her father would appreciate learning he’d gone there. They needn’t disclose the entire story.

  “Should I mention I’m the one that gave Lord Harvey that kink in his nose?”

  Sophy tilted her head, inquiring, but he didn’t offer more. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

  “Yes. He fancied himself kissing my girl.” Tom threw himself onto the sofa before she could finish her aggrieved gasp. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, crossed his ankles, and thumped up the cushions. “She wasn’t really my girl, Soph. A friend. Had her eye on a farmer.”

  “Good,” Sophy finished darkly.

  “But you see the point? You are my girl, my very own. I’m to overlook what he’s done to you?”

  Sophy twisted, trying to ease the pain in her hips. These days she thought she was in danger of coming apart. “He didn’t stop our marriage.”

  “He would have if you hadn’t been such a fool and come chasing after me.” Tom intercepted her look and broke into a smile. “I’m glad you did, Sophy.” His arm tightened around her. “I’m glad you did.”

  She waited as he traced a finger over the back of he
r hand. It wouldn’t be easy but after her visit to Cordell yesterday she was sure their call today would go well. Almost sure.

  “I know it hurt you. And I know it was hard to lose them because of me,” Tom said.

  “Choosing you wasn’t hard. I’ve never regretted it.”

  “But you’ve missed them.”

  She wove her fingers into the spaces between his, tracing the callouses and the white scars. He still liked sparring with his fists, but only for sport—unless he and Jasper ever did lose it on each other. Tom had promised not to damage her brother’s face.

  “You’re the only one I don’t want to live without,” she said.

  “But you’d like to have them, too.”

  He knew—she’d told him—that didn’t mean she loved him less. “If I can. I think it’s possible. She wept on me, Tom.”

  “I know. And apologized.”

  Sophy’d never expected that. She wasn’t entirely sure the Lord and Lady Fairchild she’d met yesterday weren’t changelings or products of her hopeful imagination. Maybe they’d both gotten a hard knock on the head, most likely from butting against each other; if so, she wasn’t going to complain about it. “Maybe you can talk about the baby,” she suggested.

  “Think it’s safe?” he asked. “Lady Fairchild’s letters fret almost as much as I do.” He muttered something more under his breath.

  “Hmm?” Sophy asked.

  “I said she’s worse than the mate who crewed the Leander. Sure, she’d like us all jumping to the tune of her whistle. I won’t do it, Soph.” He didn’t say it aloud, but she knew he didn’t want to see her doing it either. She sighed. First Jasper, now Tom. She supposed there was a difference between forgiveness and appeasement, but she just wanted to be on good terms again. You could try, but you couldn’t truly leave your family. Their quirks came with you in blood and brain, speech and skin.

  She heard footsteps in the corridor. “Is it them?” she asked, trying to arrange herself more conventionally in her seat, but Tom kept his arm in its place around her shoulders.

  “Not like this,” Sophy hissed. “It’s indecorous!” To welcome them curled up in Tom’s lap on the sofa…

  He glanced down at her belly. “I’m reasonably sure they understand how you got this way.”

  Choking down a laugh, she tried again to move away, but soon gave up. If he needed a firm hold on her to keep him in the room, so be it.

  Lady Fairchild halted for a moment in the doorway, but didn’t say anything, perhaps reading the truth in Tom’s jutted chin and Sophy’s conciliatory smile.

  “How are you feeling today?” she asked as she stripped off her gloves.

  Sophy replied that she was doing well, while Tom and her father sized each other up like wary cats.

  “Bagshot. Thank you for receiving me,” Lord Fairchild said.

  “Sophy insisted.”

  At least Tom accompanied the words with a smile.

  Lady Fairchild crossed the floor, picked up Sophy’s outstretched hands and kissed her cheek.

  “Forgive me for not getting up,” Sophy said, motioning Lady Fairchild to the nearest seat. She sank into it without compromising her exquisite posture. Lord Fairchild positioned himself behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Lady Fairchild didn’t flinch, but the sight of them touching still unnerved Sophy.

  “I’ve been meaning—we’ve been meaning,” Lord Fairchild corrected at a glance from his wife, “to express our apologies. Bagshot, I should have heard you out.” He coughed. “You seem a good husband to Sophy.”

  Something quivered over Tom’s skin. Sophy increased the pressure of her hand.

  “You’d have trusted me more if you liked my lineage I suppose,” he said evenly.

  “Perhaps. But I’m learning. I had little opportunity to discern your qualities before the wedding.”

  “You could have if you’d wanted the chance.”

  “Yes, well, it was a mistake to dismiss you out of hand. Especially after I learned you were her choice.” He looked hard at Sophy. “I’m pleased she made it.”

  Tom hesitated, then gave in. “As it happens so am I.” He smiled, a real one this time. “Come on. You might as well sit down. Sophy? Shall I ring for tea?

  “Yes,” she said, glad for the excuse to busy themselves over cups and spoons and sugar. It would help except that she must have sweat through her gown by now. It was impossible to pour without moving your arms.

  “I could use something stronger myself.” Tom rose and crossed to the sideboard. “And you, sir?”

  Lord Fairchild paused before reaching the chair, giving Tom a slight bow. “A brandy would be most welcome.”

  They both tossed them back rather quickly—a small thing, but something Sophy hoped might bring them closer to mutual understanding. They understood each other’s discomfort at least.

  The visit wasn’t a resounding success, but it was a step forward Sophy decided, helping herself to another slice of pineapple for dessert that evening. Tom’s father had built the succession houses and planted the fruits. She’d grown appallingly fond of them. Down the table Tom laughed with his mother, his tension gone. His fork spun in the air, stabbing again into his slice of cake. It must be good because even Miss Edwards ate with relish.

  She seemed comfortable now and it did wonders for her. Sophy couldn’t believe how pretty Miss Edwards was, now she’d relaxed. Faces always did look better with smiles on them and Miss Edwards wore plenty this evening. Jasper was telling her about the London theatre—she said she’d never been and he did have a way of bringing it to life with his critiques. Yes, Miss Edwards, listening with bright eyes, was in much better spirits, but the doctor…

  “You don’t care for it?” Sophy asked, with a glance at Dr. Edwards’ untouched cake.

  “A little too rich,” he said.

  “I often think so. Maybe some fruit?” Sophy suggested and earned a wan smile in response. “I’m pleased your sister is happy with us. It isn’t easy being thrust into a houseful of strangers. I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of her myself yet, but—”

  “She seems on excellent terms with your brother,” Dr. Edwards put in.

  “Ye-ess,” Sophy said. There was no way to pretend Dr. Edwards was at all pleased with this. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He’s a rattle I know, but perfectly harmless. And she seems much happier than before, now he’s put her at ease.”

  “I’ll be sure to thank him for taking an interest.”

  Sophy glanced down the table. All was sparkling, not just the silver. She caught her brother’s eye as Miss Edwards let out an effortless laugh, beautiful as an aria from a singer. Sophy bit her lip, then let it go before her frown was seen. Next to Tom she trusted Jasper best, but even when you knew the way to his heart he could be devious. She couldn’t discern if there was more in his face than warmth from the candles. Perhaps the situation bore watching.

  Sophy found she had little time for it though, with Dr. Edwards always measuring her ankles and feeling her pulse. She and Tom’s mother had to finish fitting up things for the baby—she was supposed to direct things from her chair, but it was faster changing the nursery curtains herself than waiting for the footman.

  Unfortunately this explanation failed to satisfy Dr. Edwards or Tom. They ordered her to rest and Tom enforced the command by supervising from the bedside chair. More tedious still was the fact she was expected to lie down each subsequent afternoon.

  Her father and Lady Fairchild visited again and though Sophy wasn’t used to calling Lady Fairchild Georgiana in her thoughts, she managed it most of the time when speaking. She couldn’t see any warmth developing between her father and stepmother and Tom, but for her sake they were getting used to sitting in the same room. Sophy told herself to be patient. More would come with time.

  “How does Miss Edwards pass her days?” Sophy asked Tom, recalling her resolution one afternoon. Really, to be expected to sleep on a day like today. It was too hot to be confined
indoors, even with Tom waving a fan at her.

  “Drives out with Jasper I think.” Tom lowered the fan to turn a page of his book.

  Sophy considered that. “Oh, don’t bother.” She snatched the fan and snapped it shut. “Doesn’t do any good. Can’t we walk outside?”

  “In an hour,” Tom said, unrelenting.

  “Do they drive every day?” she asked.

  “Most of ’em. But it’s not your concern,” Tom warned. “Let him take care of himself.”

  “I was thinking of Miss Edwards,” Sophy said, indignant.

  “She can handle him. And if not, there’s Jack.”

  That was what worried her.

  “You’re very friendly with Miss Edwards,” Sophy said, finally cornering Jasper on the walk back from the stables.

  He stopped whistling. “Why not? Capital girl!”

  “What if she falls in love with you?”

  Jasper hooted, laughing so hard he had to brace his hands on his knees. Recovering, he poked her in the cheek. “If I could do that! Just think of all the fellows who’d call me out. If I didn’t end up with bullets in my liver and spleen, I’d fill my whole appointment book with duels before I got done.” He wiped a watering eye.

  “Jasper.” Sophy planted her hands where her hips used to be.

  “Stop scowling. What a goose you are! I promise, there’s no need to worry about Miss Edwards and me, but it is adorable of you to come give me a lecture.”

  He kissed her and was gone. Restricted to a waddle, Sophy knew there was no catching him. Maybe he was immune to Miss Edwards, but there had been all those widows: dashing Mrs. Forsythe, Lady Foote-Harding, and more recently that predatory Dowager Countess. Jasper might be entangled with her still, which would make Miss Edwards safe, though it was hardly fair. Jasper shouldn’t flirt with her like this.

  Next morning Sophy made a point of sitting down with Miss Edwards. “I’ve been so remiss in my attentions to you,” Sophy said, pouring out tea.