by Anne Gracie
“They wouldn’t. Lady Beatrice adores you girls and Max adores Abby and Abby wouldn’t let him.”
“Yes, but let’s say, for the sake of argument, they did. Or what if they died? People do die, for all sorts of unexpected reasons.”
People did, Freddy knew that only too well. They walked on for a few moments in silence. What if she were left on her own? London streets were full of destitute people—it was one reason he insisted on escorting her. Without family, without a home or an income of some sort . . . Damaris living on the streets? It was unthinkable.
“It’s happened to me twice in my life—twice! And I won’t let it happen again. I have to have money of my own, that I’ve earned myself and owe to no one. I don’t expect you to understand—people like you grow up with an assumption that you’ll always have everything you need—not everything you want, but what you need to live—”
“I understand,” Freddy said. And he did. But he could see from her expression she didn’t believe him. He found himself wanting to share his own sorry tale with this quiet, intense girl as they walked through the fogbound, silent streets. But he restrained himself. He never talked about it with anyone. Especially not a woman.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “You won’t tell on me to Lady Beatrice or anyone?”
“No, but I think you should let her know what you’re doing.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. It would upset her too much. She’d be so hurt to discover I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t trust her?”
She bit her lip. “I know it looks that way, but it’s not like that. I do trust her. I know she won’t turn on me as I described, I truly know it, it’s just . . .” She sighed. “I can’t explain it.”
“You know your fear is both false and illogical, but you fear it anyway.”
She stopped dead and looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “You do understand,” she breathed, so softly it was almost lost in the fog.
“Our fears are not always reasonable,” he said quietly, glad of the gloom that hid his expression. They’d reached the laneway that led to the pottery yard. “And so we have reached your destination. Good day, Miss Chance.” He bowed and walked away into the swirling fog.
• • •
Duty was a bitch of a mistress, Freddy Monkton-Coombes reflected.
If he hadn’t made that blasted promise to Max, he’d keep himself as far away as possible from Damaris Chance. He wouldn’t have this . . . problem.
Instead, he was forced into her company, day after day. Morning after morning, coming straight from his bed to her company.
If only she were a widow.
He much preferred widows.
He particularly liked widows who had no plans to remarry, who had everything they wanted—security, comfort and the freedom to live their lives as they chose. Heady thing, freedom.
Every widow whom Freddy had enjoyed a discreet liaison with had wanted nothing from Freddy except himself—his body, his bed skills, a little of his company and nothing else. Perhaps a few gifts, but that was only natural.
He found it endlessly refreshing.
It was a little like that with Damaris. She wanted nothing from him—not his wealth, not his prospective title, not even his body, though he was sure he could change her mind about that.
But she was unmarried, and therefore out-of-bounds.
If Damaris were a widow . . . His mind skipped down a trail of endless possibilities, delightful possibilities. But no. He put a firm clamp on his imagination. She was forbidden fruit.
Forbidden fruit was always the tastiest.
No. He was honor bound to protect her innocence—from himself as much as any other villain.
Chapter Five
“She was stronger alone.”
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Damaris let herself into the pottery works and stripped off her cloak, hat and gloves. What on earth did Freddy Monkton-Coombes think he was doing, turning up before dawn to walk her to work? It was ridiculous, taking a promise to “keep an eye on them” rather too far. He was behaving more like a chaperon than a rake.
As for his questioning her about her reasons for working, and her intentions for the future, what business of his was it?
She jammed her cloak on the hook. Hypocrite, urging her to marriage when he had no such intention himself!
He’d surprised her with that last exchange, though, about fears. She hadn’t expected a man like him to be so perceptive.
She set out her materials absentmindedly. Why must everyone harp on so about marriage? Oh, they meant well, she knew that, but why couldn’t they just leave it alone, acknowledge that Damaris knew her own mind and the choices open to her.
Did they think she didn’t want to be loved, didn’t want to have someone whose business—no, whose pleasure it would be to take care of her, protect her? And who would let her take care of him and love him in return?
Did they think she didn’t watch Abby and Max together and ache for what they had, a love that was almost tangible?
She was as human as they; she ached for love, as any woman did. But she knew, knew with a certainty that reached back to her earliest memories, that it would not be like Abby and Max for her.
Abby had been an innocent.
Abby had been born into a loving marriage and, despite being left orphaned and in poverty at a young age, she still treasured her memories of her parents and their love for each other, and for her and Jane.
Abby had come through the hardships of her early upbringing unsullied, untainted.
Some people were lucky.
And some were not.
For the umpteenth time Damaris wondered about Mama and how she’d felt when she married Papa. Had she tried to love him? Had he ever tried to love her?
She had no memory of a single affectionate gesture between them.
Of course, you couldn’t tell what people felt by their behavior, and in the privacy of a bedchamber, anything could happen. That she knew only too well.
How long had it been before Papa moved into his spare, monklike bedchamber and Mama moved Damaris into her room? Damaris had no memory of it ever being different.
Had they quarreled? And if so, over what? Was it something Damaris had done? Was that why Papa blamed her? There were times when he seemed to despise them both, though it was hard to tell what he really thought because he was cold and harsh to most people.
All her life she’d striven to please him, but she’d rarely succeeded. Papa believed in duty and obedience, not love. And original sin.
“There’s bad blood in you, just like your mother.”
Damaris couldn’t see anything bad about Mama. But Mama hated China. She hadn’t wanted to leave England and had no interest in missionary work, so that would have angered Papa. Why had they married in the first place?
She missed her mother with a fierce longing. There were so many questions she had for her, questions about herself and her father, but also questions about life and choices and . . . men. Questions only a mother could answer.
When she’d died, and they laid her in the hard, cold Chinese earth, Damaris had wept and wept until her father had shaken her by the arm and said her grief was unseemly and an offense to the Lord. She’d choked back the tears and tried to hide the chasm of loneliness that Mama had left. As if the sun had disappeared, taking with it light and warmth and leaving no life, no joy. No love.
Only duty and obedience. And original sin.
She hadn’t wept since. Not even when the worst happened.
“Are you all right, Damaris?” Mrs. Jenkins stood, frowning. “Not feeling sick, are you?”
“No, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Daydreamin’ about that dratted rake, I’ll be bound.” She shook her head. “Young girls and their foolishness!
I’m tellin’ you, me girl, a man like that will only lead you down the Road to Roon.”
“Believe me, I’m not dreaming of him, or any other man,” Damaris said firmly.
“Good, then get on with your work, girl, and don’t waste time hopin’ for a knight in shining armor. They don’t exist.”
“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins.” Hoping for a knight in shining armor? Nothing was further from the truth. Damaris put her faith in work, not dreams.
• • •
“I thought you liked Mr. Monkton-Coombes,” Jane said. Damaris had just finished telling Jane and Daisy about her conversation with Freddy Monkton-Coombes on the way to work that morning.
It was late and the three girls were gathered in Jane’s room, toasting crumpets in front of the fire and spreading them with butter and honey. Lady Beatrice was always tired after literary society days and retired to bed early, while the girls enjoyed an informal supper.
Being together like this, their supper on a tray, with soup, boiled eggs, and toast or crumpets and honey, eaten in their bedclothes in front of the fire, evoked their earliest days together, before they’d even met Lady Beatrice, and reminded them all how lucky they were to have found each other.
Tonight three half-grown kittens watched the butter dish with proprietory interest.
“I do like him,” Damaris said. “It’s just that he seems to have taken it upon himself to—”
“No, I mean like. You know.”
“Oh. No, not in that way. He’s quite attractive, of course.” Damaris took a sip of her hot milk, aware her cheeks were warming.
Daisy snorted. “‘Quite attractive’? He’s bloody beautiful and you know it.”
Damaris smiled but didn’t respond. She envied the other girls’ ability to say such things aloud. The freedom to admit attraction . . . without shame.
“He watches you sometimes, when you’re not looking,” Daisy told Damaris as she buttered a toasted crumpet.
“He—no. You’re making it up.”
“She’s not,” Jane said. “I’ve noticed it too.”
“And you look at him in the same way, when he’s not looking—like he’s a sweetmeat on a stick and you’re starvin’ hungry.” Daisy said the last words with relish.
“I don’t!” Damaris’s hands flew up to cover her hot cheeks.
“You do. And with a bit of encouragement, I reckon he’d—”
“No! Stop it. You know he’s not looking for a wife, and anyway, you both know marriage is the last thing I want.”
Daisy shrugged and bit into a crumpet oozing with honey and melted butter. “Only sayin’ what I see.” The three kittens edged hopefully closer.
“Besides,” Damaris went on, attempting to recover her composure, “most women look at him like that. You’ve seen them in the park, buzzing around him like bees on borage.”
“Yeah, but he’s not lookin’ at them, he’s lookin’ at you, so with a bit of encouragement—oi, get your nose out of that, you little devil.” Daisy pushed Max, the most impudent kitten, away from the butter dish. Named after Lord Davenham before they’d even met him, Max was the most adventurous—and mischievous—of the kittens.
“No,” Damaris said, shaking her head. “Even if it were true, it’s out of the question. You know I have an abhorrence of marriage, and so, as it happens, does he.”
“Don’t have to be married to act on a fancy for a feller.”
“Daisy!” Jane exclaimed, laughing. “That’s shocking.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Then don’t, please.” Damaris’s cheeks flamed again and, half laughing, half serious, she said, “Spare my blushes, Daisy, I beg of you.”
“It’s just talk,” Jane said gently. “Just girls having fun in private. You mustn’t mind us.” She cut off a chunk of butter, broke it into three pieces and gave one to each of the kittens. The sound of purring filled the room.
Daisy sniffed. “For a girl what spent a few nights in a brothel, you blush easy, Damaris.”
“I know,” Damaris said. “It’s just that I’ve never talked like . . .”
“Like what?” Jane said, cutting her crumpet carefully in half. “Never talked about men and—and feelings and things?”
“No.” Damaris had never shared her innermost thoughts with anyone, and she still found it difficult. “My mother died when I was still a young girl.”
Daisy frowned. “Din’t you have no one else to talk to?”
“No, not really.”
“No other girls your age?” Jane asked. “At the Pillbury Home, I always had friends to talk to and share my secret thoughts with, even after Abby left.”
Damaris shook her head. She covered the butter dish and set it on a table out of reach of prowling kittens. “The girls at the mission were in my care, and much younger. It was I who listened to them.”
Jane licked honey off her fingers, then wiped them with a napkin. “What about your father? Couldn’t you talk to him?”
“No.” He would have been the last person in the world she’d share such thoughts with. In any case, Papa thought all her thoughts were shameful. “There was nobody.”
Daisy said, “What, not even the servants or nuffin’? The girls in the brothel used to tell me all sorts o’ personal stuff. I thought everyone talked to servants.”
Damaris shook her head. “We had no servants. On the mission I was everybody else’s servant.” She stacked the dirty dishes on the tray.
“Eh? But you’re a lady.”
Damaris smiled. “Lady or not, Papa said I was a servant of God and it was my privilege to take care of less-fortunate others for the sake of His Glory.” How many times had Papa reproved her with those words?
“Blimey, he sounds a right laugh and a half.”
Damaris gave a dry laugh. “He wasn’t. Still, I loved taking care of the little ones. They were so sweet and affectionate. . . .” Her voice cracked. There was a short silence.
“What ’appened to them?” Daisy didn’t miss much.
Damaris shook her head. It was too painful to talk about.
Jane picked up Snowflake, the fluffiest kitten, saying, “Aren’t the kittens growing fast?” in an attempt to change the subject. Snowflake purred loudly and snuggled against her.
Damaris flipped a feather toy around for Max and Marmalade to chase and pounce on.
“So Lady Bea was right, then,” Daisy said. “You got a lot of fun to make up!”
“Lady Bea is very kind, and so are you both.” Damaris leaned over and gave Daisy a one-armed hug and at the same time squeezed Jane’s hand affectionately. “You know, I used to think being sold into that brothel was one of the worst things that had ever happened to me, but now I’m glad of it, for otherwise I’d never have met you two and Abby and Lady Bea, and meeting you all has been the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
They watched the kittens cavorting for a few minutes, then Jane said, “You said the brothel was one of the worst things that had happened to you. Do you mean there was worse?”
“Oh, yes,” Damaris said softly, but when they pressed her further, she changed the subject.
• • •
Damaris lay in her bed that night, thinking over the conversation. Did Freddy Monkton-Coombes really watch her, as the girls had claimed?
It was true that she watched him sometimes. So mortifying to think others had noticed.
You look at him like he’s a sweetmeat on a stick and you’re starvin’ hungry.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to block out the image, but it was no good.
Because it was true; she had been sneaking looks at him: at his hands, so masculine and strong, at his long, hard legs encased in gleaming high boots. And worst of all, at his backside when he wore those tight-fitting buckskin breeches.
Papa’s voice whispere
d in the darkness, There’s bad blood in you, just like your mother. Original sin.
Chapter Six
“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“Forgive the interruption, sir, but there is a . . . a person wishing to speak with you.”
Freddy looked up from his breakfast and frowned at his manservant, Tibbins. “What kind of person?”
“An Irish person, sir, rather rough looking.”
Freddy swallowed a mouthful of ham. He didn’t know any Irishmen. And he didn’t want to be disturbed at his breakfast. Even if it was one in the afternoon.
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, sir. He wouldn’t say.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he give you a card?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send him away.”
“I tried, sir, but he, er, refused to go.”
“Then throw the impudent fellow out.”
“He tried,” said a deep Irish voice from the doorway, making the valet jump. “But he’s a puny wee laddie, and I’m a mite stubborn.”
Freddy glanced up from his breakfast. A tall, roughly bearded ruffian lounged in his doorway. He gave Freddy a half grin, insolent and knowing, as if daring Freddy to throw him out. A gold earring glinted in a tangle of overlong black hair.
Freddy eyed the man’s violently colored waistcoat and green coat thoughtfully. He drained his tankard of ale, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said in a dry voice, “Blackbeard the pirate, I presume. Max warned me to expect you.”
The grin widened. “Patrick Flynn, at your service. And you’ll be the Honorable Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, I take it.”
“Insolence!” Tibbins gasped and said to Freddy, “Shall I fetch help to eject him, sir?”
“No,” Freddy said with a faint smile and rose from the table. “Fetch another jug of this excellent ale and another tankard and plate. And scramble some more eggs. Mr. Flynn will be joining me for breakfast.”