For several long moments, none of them spoke, locked in a tight, tearful embrace. Thérèse surreptitiously leaned against the doorway for support—they’d traveled all day with hardly a halt, and she was so very weary—and studied her new mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Felicity Farlow was a feminine version of her brother, pretty and golden-haired with elegant features. And from what Thérèse could see, both had inherited their good looks from their mother, whose graying hair still held hints of a bright golden brown.
Jeannette peered at her in concern. “Are you all right? I don’t think they’d notice if we slipped away and found the parlor,” she murmured.
“Let’s wait,” Thérèse whispered back. “I’ll let you know if I’m about to faint.” She edged away from the doorway as a pair of footmen came in, bearing all their scant baggage between them.
At last the family embrace broke apart, though Henry kept his mother’s and sister’s hands. “You’re alive,” Felicity said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I wanted to write,” Henry said, “but at first it wasn’t safe, and then everything happened so quickly.”
“I knew you lived,” his mother said in a voice of calm triumph—and in French. “They never found a body—and I didn’t dream about you the night of the battle.”
Henry nodded as if this made perfect sense.
“But what happened?” Felicity asked. “Where were you all this time?”
Henry laughed. “I’ll gladly tell you, but not here in the hall.”
“And who are these?” Lady Farlow asked, appearing to notice Thérèse and Jeannette for the first time.
Thérèse swallowed a wave of nausea and stood straighter. Shabby or not, dark or not, she was Henry’s wife.
“Family, too, whom I ask you to welcome for my sake,” Henry said. “This is my wife, Thérèse, and her sister, Jeannette Bondurant. They saved my life after the battle. Thérèse, Jeannette, my mother and sister.”
Thérèse mechanically inclined her head and dipped in a slight curtsy, but Lady Farlow crossed to take her by the hands and gaze searchingly into her face. “Your wife! This is a surprise—but a welcome one,” she hastened to add. She spoke French-accented English, but she smiled and said, “But I think you will understand my French, with those names.”
“Oui, madame,” Thérèse replied.
“We certainly cannot leave you standing here,” she said, reverting to French. “Come to the parlor. I’ll ring for tea and coffee, and Mrs. Corbett will have rooms prepared for you before you know it.”
“Oh, thank you, madame.” Maybe all would be well. Maybe Henry was right that his mother’s gratitude to have him alive, and to learn that she and Jeannette had been his saviors, would be enough to overcome any dismay at her son’s dark, unknown foreign bride.
Henry smiled reassurance and offered her his arm, but before they could move more than a few steps from the doorway, another figure appeared at the top of the stairs—a very young man who strongly resembled Henry and Felicity, though he was stockier and more squarely built. The gentleman—the younger brother? a cousin?—gasped. “Henry. Good God. You’re alive.”
“Edward!” Henry said with his most open, welcoming smile. Thérèse couldn’t help but notice his brother hadn’t sounded equally happy. Unlike his mother and sister, he seemed stunned rather than overjoyed to find his brother alive. Thérèse dug her fingers into Henry’s elbow and reached for Jeannette’s hand with her free hand.
“Are Charles and Dorothea here, too?” Henry asked. “I’m eager to meet my nieces—and do I have a nephew yet?”
At that his mother burst into tears. “Oh, my dear boy...Charles died at the end of July. You are Lord Farlow now.”
Henry shook his head. “No. Oh, no.”
Lady Farlow wiped her eyes and took a shuddering breath, fighting for control. “Yes. The baby was another girl.”
“It can’t be. Not Charles.”
“I assure you it is,” Edward said with an unhappy grimace.
He began to make his way down the stairs. Thérèse watched him through blurred eyes. If Henry was Lord Farlow, that made her—her, Thérèse Bondurant, femme de couleur libre of New Orleans—Lady Farlow.
The last thing she heard before slipping into darkness was her sister’s sharp voice crying, “Henry!”
* * *
Jeannette’s cry broke through Henry’s paralysis, and he caught Thérèse before she fell to the floor and cradled her in his arms. She looked so pale beneath the tan she’d acquired on their journey, black circles etched beneath her eyes. “Thérèse,” he said urgently.
“Carry her to the parlor,” Mama said. “Felicity, run for my smelling salts. They should be in my dressing room.”
“Yes, Mama.” Felicity darted up the stairs, pushing past Edward.
“Who is...?” Edward began, then shook his head, evidently realizing it wasn’t the best time to question.
“My wife and her sister,” Henry said shortly as he turned and began carrying Thérèse toward the parlor, Jeannette by his side and his family trailing behind them.
Lord Farlow. Him. It couldn’t be. He was so unsuited. All he and Thérèse had dreamed of building together in Canada...he shook his head. There would be time enough to think of that later. Thérèse had to be all right. She’d been so ill for the past fortnight. Despite all his and Jeannette’s combined fussing over her, she was barely eating and merely sipping at the tea and wine Jeannette kept pressing upon her.
A footman Henry didn’t recognize opened the parlor door for him and looked ready to carry Thérèse, but Henry was more than equal to his wife’s all-too-light weight. He took her to the nearest sofa, laid her there and knelt at her side. Jeannette joined him, checking her sister’s pulse and breathing with an expert air while Mama and Edward looked on in bewilderment.
“I think she’ll be fine when she wakes up,” Jeannette pronounced, “as long as she’ll eat something.”
“I hope so,” Henry said, “but I’d still like to send for a physician, since we can, now.”
“Is she given to fainting?” Mama asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
Henry blinked to clear his dazed, circling mind, but Jeannette was quicker to answer. “No, ma’am,” she said, politely but confidently. “I’ve never seen her faint before, but this—this is a shock to us all, and she hasn’t been eating well, these past two weeks.”
Henry nodded confirmation. “We’re all amazed, but—the first thing is to be sure she’s well.” Thérèse’s eyes fluttered, but then fell shut again.
“Of course it is,” Mama said. “Did she suffer from seasickness? But, no, of course the voyage would’ve taken more than a fortnight. Is it, perhaps...?” Her voice trailed off, and she waved her hand over her abdomen in a delicate suggestion of pregnancy.
“We think so,” Henry said.
“Then by all means we must send for Doctor Gowling.” She looked over her shoulder, saw that the footman had left the family alone, and seized upon her youngest son instead. “Edward, go to Ostell and tell him to summon the doctor immediately.”
“Yes, Mama.” He jerked a nod and hurried out, passing Felicity in the doorway.
Jeannette held up a hand for the vial of smelling salts. Felicity passed it to her wordlessly, and Jeannette pulled open its stopper and waved it beneath Thérèse’s nose. She blinked hard, then coughed and tried to sit up, dismay in her dark, expressive eyes. Henry kept her still on the sofa with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Just rest, my dear. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard today.”
“No, you needed to get home,” she said in a weak, but steady voice. “I’m—I’m so dreadfully sorry. I’ve never fainted before.”
“Pregnant women should rest,” Jeannette pronounced.
“I thought Sophia Wilson died from resting too muc
h,” Thérèse said.
“Too much,” Jeannette said. “Not resting enough is just as bad or worse.”
“Where did you learn all this...Miss Bondurant?” Mama asked. From the quirk of her eyebrows, Henry judged she was just as surprised by Jeannette’s medical acumen as he’d been the day he met her.
“From my mother, ma’am.”
Mama blinked. “I see. Well, she was right. I was always most tired in the beginning, with my children.” She leaned over Jeannette’s shoulder and smiled at Thérèse. “And now that you’re home, you may rest as much as you need.”
“Home...” Thérèse said. “Then I didn’t mishear. Henry is...Lord Farlow.”
“Yes,” Mama said. “Which means that you, my dear, are Lady Farlow now.”
Thérèse closed her eyes and sagged back against the sofa. Henry lifted her limp hand to his lips. “Please don’t faint again. We’ll meet this together.”
She opened her eyes and managed to give his hand a light squeeze. “I didn’t expect this. You said...”
“I’ve never been more sorry to be wrong.”
A pair of housemaids arrived, bearing tea, fruit and cakes. Henry recognized neither of them, but evidently all in the servants’ hall knew that he had returned and was now Lord Farlow, for they gazed at him with smiling interest even as they set the tea things down on a nearby table.
“You must eat something,” Henry insisted.
“I’ll try.”
“And it would no doubt be easier without a collection of strangers leaning over you, even if we are family now,” Mama said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jeannette said fervently. “I wanted to say that she needed quiet to rest, but...” Her voice trailed off and she looked uncharacteristically uncertain. But she was just thirteen, Henry interpreted, and a black girl suddenly thrown among strange, aristocratic whites.
“Then we shall leave her until she is rested—in your care?” Mama raised inquiring eyebrows.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did your mother teach you so much at such a young age?”
“She wanted to make me a healer like her. She taught me from the time I was old enough to listen.”
“I see. Do send word if you need help. Henry, are you willing to leave your wife in her, er, sister’s hands for a little while? I understand you are worried for her, but I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
“Go.” Thérèse gave him a decisive nod. “Jeannette and I will do very well.”
Henry hesitated. It didn’t seem right to leave them alone here, so soon after they arrived. But Felicity smiled and said, “I’ll wait with you, since I know the house and can summon help, if you’d like.”
Henry looked a question at Thérèse and Jeannette. Thérèse assayed a weak smile. “By all means. Thank you—Miss Farlow.”
“Do call me Felicity—both of you.” She darted a shy, welcoming smile at Jeannette. “It will be confusing enough with two Lady Farlows in the house.”
“Only two?” Henry asked. “What about Dorothea?”
Mama pursed her lips, then sighed. “She took the girls and went to her parents. She said everything here reminded her too much of Charles. I miss them, especially little Harriet—the new baby—but I understand. I do hope the pair of you will have more luck with getting sons.”
“I will be satisfied with a healthy baby and mother,” Henry said.
“Of course, but someday there must be an heir.”
If only Charles had had one. If only he were still here. How had he died? He’d always been so strong. Henry sighed. Thérèse lay wide-eyed and daunted, her hand resting protectively on her abdomen. He wished he could snap his fingers and take them all back to Canada. What were they to do? How was he to live this life? Surely a more unsuitable lord had never drawn breath.
“But we should leave you in peace,” Mama said. “Come, Henry. We’ll go to the drawing room.”
He pressed a kiss on his wife’s forehead and reluctantly followed Mama from the parlor, leaving Thérèse in the care of his sister and hers. At least Jeannette and Felicity had met and seemed in a fair way of striking up a friendship.
In the entry hall they met Edward. “Ostell sent Thomas for Doctor Gowling,” he announced.
“Good,” Mama said. “Come with us. We’re leaving the new Lady Farlow with Felicity and, er, Miss Bondurant to rest until he arrives.”
Henry bit his lip. It shouldn’t be so difficult to call Jeannette by the proper address, not in a family like theirs. Yet his own prejudices had come out in ways he hadn’t expected when he’d first met Thérèse and Jeannette.
Mama led them into the drawing room, a larger, lighter and grander apartment than the parlor. Though it was perfectly clean, it had a musty, shuttered quality, and Henry doubted it had been much used since Charles’s death. “What happened?” he asked as soon as they were all seated before the window looking out on the cheerful, sunny street. “Charles was always so healthy.”
Mama swallowed hard. “He caught a flux. It was so sudden.”
“Half the household had it,” Edward added. “Mama and Felicity were both ill, and several of the servants. That’s why we haven’t returned to Farlow Hall yet—we wanted to be sure they were quite strong for the journey.”
“Of course,” Henry murmured. He still couldn’t believe it. Charles gone. The perfect Baron Farlow, taken away, leaving only him with all his failings to fill his place.
“Charles was working too hard.” Mama’s voice was choked, fighting for steadiness. “All this trouble over the new Corn Laws, and he was trying to found an anti-slavery society. Dorothea and I both told him he should rest, but he said there would be time enough for that when we went home. Home.” Again, tears leaked from her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “Dorothea and the girls—my nieces—are they provided for?”
“Well enough,” Mama said. “I think she’ll be happier with her family, though she’s promised to visit often. I hope she keeps her word. They’ve only been gone a fortnight, but the house is too quiet without the girls. In any case, she has enough to live on, and the girls will have dowries.”
Henry nodded. “And Edward...” He looked to his brother. “If I’m Lord Farlow now, then you haven’t assumed the title yet.” If Edward had been officially accredited as baron, then the title couldn’t have been taken away, and Henry and Thérèse could’ve gone back to Canada after all.
Edward let out a slow breath. What a coil this was, Henry reflected. His younger brother for the past two months had been assuming himself the next baron, doubtless addressed as “Lord Farlow” by every servant and acquaintance and relieved of his duties as vicar of Saint Mungo’s. Surely his happiness to see his brother again was mixed at best.
“I begged him to wait until Parliament opens again,” Mama said. “I knew you weren’t dead, even if no one else would believe me. I didn’t dream it. I never believed that nonsense about some plunderer stripping your corpse and the Americans burying you in an anonymous grave.”
“But such things often happen after battles,” Henry said.
“Perhaps, but I knew it hadn’t happened to you.”
They all sat in silence for a moment. Mama rarely spoke of her dreams, though Henry remembered his father telling of the nights during the Terror when she’d woken up screaming, sure she’d seen one of her family being led to the guillotine. He’d tried to reassure her—everyone knew about the atrocities, so it was hardly surprising she’d had nightmares about them. But later they’d learned that her older brother had died the day before she’d dreamed of it. She’d had milder, more peaceful dreams after other close relations met quieter deaths. The night Father had died after a dreadfully long battle with a wasting illness, she had awoken after a fitful
sleep with a wistful smile. “I saw him,” she’d said. “He’s resting now. He’ll wait for us.”
Henry wondered what she’d dreamed about Charles, but he didn’t want to ask.
He met Edward’s eyes and shrugged self-deprecation. “Sorry to have, er...ruined your expectations.”
Edward turned red. “It’s not as if I wished you to be dead. I’m—I’m dashed glad to see you.”
Henry smiled. “But it’s awkward, I’m sure.” He hoped awkward was all it was. Lord Farlow might not be the wealthiest man in the House of Lords, but he was better off than a mere vicar. Henry hoped Edward hadn’t been spending upon his expectation of the title, but if he had, he vowed to quietly pay his debts. It wasn’t Edward’s fault he’d returned so unexpectedly from the dead.
“Edward will do very well,” Mama said firmly, and Henry bit back a rueful smile. She’d always believed that by stating a thing, she could make it so. “And now you must tell us what happened to you. How did you come to be separated from your regiment? What sort of lady is your bride? She is pretty, but she doesn’t quite look French. Who are her people?”
Henry smoothed out a wrinkle in the knee of his trousers. He’d hoped to have this conversation with Thérèse in the room. How much should he reveal of her secrets? Surely it was best to keep to the minimum that would satisfy his family’s immediate curiosity. She had a right to tell her own story her own way. “I was wounded in the battle and knocked senseless,” he began. “When I came to myself, the fighting was over and I was surrounded by dead men. I got up and walked a little away, into a swampy forest—Louisiana abounds in such places—and I got lost. When I tried to follow a stream back to the river, I came upon Thérèse and Jeannette, and they took care of me.”
“What were they doing on the battlefield?” Mama asked. “Did they, perhaps, have family on the American side? And, er, the younger one is your wife’s half sister, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Good. I couldn’t believe that full sisters could be so...differently complexioned.”
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