One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  “How nice of you to join me,” Fiona said. “I’ve been greatly looking forward to making your acquaintance. I would have met you sooner had I not gone and injured myself.”

  The little girl nodded. “Miss Beckham said you fell down the stairs and broke your leg.” Emmie was possessed of the sweetest, cultured voice.

  “I did, indeed. One must be careful to always hold the rail when using stairs.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “My leg?”

  Emmie nodded.

  “Yes, actually it does. I do not recommend broken bones.” Fiona reached for the tray of sweets and held it out the child. “You’re to select whatever you want. This is a very special occasion, and you’re to eat to your heart’s content.”

  The little girl’s eyes rounded, and a smile swept over her somber face as she contemplated the dazzling array. Among the offerings were candied fruits, rolled wafers, toad-in-the hole biscuits, cocoa nuts in sugar, and plum pudding. Before she made her selection, she peered up at her stepmother. “I’m really to have as much as I like?”

  Fiona smiled down benevolently and nodded. “One of each, if you like.”

  Emmie happily proceeded to pile her plate high with a sampling of all the offerings while Fiona filled the child’s demitasse cup with tea, to which she added a considerable amount of sugar and cream.

  Fiona watched indulgently as Emmie tried to eat with the table manners in which she had so obviously been instructed but which she was too young to have mastered. The result was that, while she kept her mouth sealed as she chewed, smudges of berries and chocolates and dribbles of cream ringed that pleasant little mouth as she chewed. And crumbs and globs found their way to the lap of her pristine white dress. Fiona fought back the desire to laugh.

  While nibbling on a square of plum pudding, Fiona watched the child eagerly sampling every item on her plate. “Which do think is your favorite?” Fiona asked.

  “The plum pudding.” With her tiny hands, she shoved the rest of the pudding into her mouth. When all of the plum pudding had been eaten, Emmie sank back into her seat and sighed.

  “Can’t finish?”

  The little girl shook her head woefully.

  Fiona ignored the urge to wipe Emmie’s smudged face and hands. She did not want to be perceived as being dictatorial. Let Miss Beckham play that role.

  Now that Emmie had eaten, they could talk. “Have you any questions you’d like to ask me, Emmie?” Fiona inquired.

  Emmie nodded. “What am I to call you? Miss Beckham says you’re not going to be my mother.”

  Did that mean Emmie had hoped for a mother? Poor thing. “I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Fiona admitted. “Most people have always called me ‘My Lady.’ Do you think you could call me that?”

  “If you’re a lady, does that make Papa a lord?” Emmie asked.

  Fiona laughed. “No. I’m a lady because my papa was a lord.”

  “Are all ladies pretty like you?”

  “I’m flattered that you find me pretty, and I’ll tell you a secret.”

  Emmie’s smile spread across her face as she eagerly bent closer to Fiona.

  “I think you’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “Really?” Emmie asked.

  “Really. And you’re very well mannered, too. I shall tell Miss Beckham how impressed I am.”

  That comment seemed to please the girl.

  “Miss Beckham tells me you’re especially fond of being outdoors,” Fiona said.

  A shadow of disappointment fell across Emmie’s face. “Nurse used to take me out whenever I wished, but Miss Beckham prefers being indoors.”

  “Do you miss your nurse? Winnie was her name, as I recall.”

  Emmie nodded with enthusiasm. “I used to pretend Winnie was my mother because I never had a real mother. When I told Winnie I had no mother, she told me everybody has a real mother.”

  Fiona stiffened. “Did she—or your father—tell you about your real mother?”

  “Papa will not speak of her, but Winnie said she’s dead.”

  The kindly nurse must have been trying to protect Emmie’s tender emotions. Better a dead mother than a mother who chose not to be with her own child.

  “You’re fortunate, then, to have such a fine man for your father.”

  Tears sprang to Emmie’s eyes, and she whirled her face away so Fiona wouldn’t see.

  “What’s the matter, love?” Fiona asked, her voice a melodious whisper. Good Lord, surely Nick had not abused the child in any way! But as quickly as the thought flickered, it died. Fiona knew he was incapable of slighting a loved one in any way.

  Emmie shook her little head.

  Fiona decided to give the child time to pull herself together, but as the seconds mounted, Emmie could no longer contain her pent-up woes and burst into long, wrenching sobs.

  Finally, Fiona could stand it no longer. She settled a gentle hand on Emmie’s heaving shoulder and said, “You must tell me why you’re so distressed, love.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I wish you would. Perhaps I can help.”

  Emmie’s head shook frantically. “No, you’ve already married him.”

  Fiona’s chest tightened. Did Emmie resent that Fiona had married her father? “Tell me, Emmie,” Fiona said in a semi-stern voice, “are you afraid that because your father’s married me he won’t have time for you anymore?”

  Her little head nodding, Emmie wailed.

  Stroking Emmie’s soft curls, Fiona spoke in a gentle voice. “You mustn’t worry. Your papa has the biggest heart, and in it there is a special chamber for each of his loved ones.”

  “But he s-s-said I was his favorite girl, and you’re s-s-so pretty—” She stopped to suck in a deep breath. “He won’t want to be with me anymore.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Fiona said sternly. “You’ll always be your papa’s favorite girl—just as I’ll be his favorite woman.” God willing.

  “But Miss Beckham said it likely you and Papa will have more little girls—”

  The very idea unfurled a deep warmth throughout Fiona. “And if we should, you will always be your papa’s first little girl—and you’ll always be the first in his heart.”

  Fiona gave Emmie her napkin to dry her tears, then Emmie looked up at her, her eyes red and swollen. She looked utterly forlorn, and it tore at Fiona’s heart. “Do you really think so?” Emmie asked.

  “Oh, I know so. You see, I’m coming to know your father quite well, and it’s perfectly clear to me how important you are to him. No other little girl would ever hold the place in his heart that you occupy.”

  A tap sounded at the door, and Biddles entered, his gaze darting from Fiona’s face to Emmie’s tear-stained one. Wretched bad luck, thought Fiona, that he had to enter the room just then. He was apt to think Fiona a wicked stepmother inducing an innocent child to tears.

  “Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame,” the butler said.

  “Show him into the drawing room,” Fiona instructed. “I shall join him there in a moment.”

  Once the door was closed, Fiona turned to Emmie. “Now I wish for you to go clean yourself up because you’re going on a special outing today.”

  “Where?”

  “Have you ever been to the zoological gardens?”

  Emmie shook her head, her sable curls bouncing. “Is that where they’ve got a real, live elephant?”

  “Indeed it is, and I’m going to instruct Miss Beckham to take you there this very afternoon.”

  A smile replaced the woeful expression on Emmie’s face as she bolted from the room, forgetting Fiona’s existence.

  Fiona wheeled herself into the drawing room. “And what have you brought me today, dearest Trevor?” she said as she entered the chamber.

  “Good news, my lady.”

  Fiona hiked a brow.

  “The blue saloon is finished, and it’s quite breathtaking! The game tables you selected are exquisite.” />
  Fiona’s lower lip worked into a pout. “Would that I could see it.”

  Trevor directed a kindly gaze at her. “You’ve got the rest of your life to spend there.” Then he pulled some squares of colored paper from his pocket. “I’ve found just the right shade of paint for the library.”

  “We’ll not change the library, Trev. Nick selected the asparagus color himself, and I believe it will look wonderful with the dark woods in there.”

  Trevor pulled a face. “Really! What has that man done to so thoroughly manipulate you?” Under his breath, he mumbled, “Besides giving you twenty-five thousand bloody guineas.”

  “May I remind you, it is his house,” Fiona said.

  Trevor regarded her through narrowed eyes. “By God, the man must be devilishly good in bed!”

  “Trevor! You’ve most certainly overstepped the bounds of propriety this time. You may be my oldest friend, but I cannot have you speaking of such deeply personal matters.”

  Laughing heartily, Trevor eyed her. “Because I’m your oldest friend, you can’t hide things from me, darling. You’re falling in love with the handsome Cit you’ve married!”

  She shrugged. “It most certainly is not your business whether I love my husband or not.” Of course, she wasn’t in love with Nick, though she was coming to love him. Being in love was for those whose lives had been intertwined since childhood. Like with her and Warwick. But she would never repeat such a belief to Trevor. She owed it to Nick to convince everyone that she was in love with her husband. After all, he had done so much for her.

  Her thoughts flitted to Randy, as they did every hour of the day. Tensing, she said a prayer for Randy’s safe return.

  “To return to the subject of your husband’s library, I agree the green is luscious with the dark woods, but don’t you think one room of dark wood’s incongruous when all the rest of the rooms are bright and trimmed with gleaming white millwork and cornices?”

  “To be an aesthetic purist, you are correct,” she said, “but this is not a monument to good taste. It’s a home. Nick wants the warmth of a library with dark woods, and I agree with him. All of our acquaintances who have the Palladian homes also manage to keep the traditional libraries.”

  Trevor gave a haughty harrumph. “And I thought Birmingham House was going to be revolutionary!”

  “That was never our intent. We—you and I and Nick—wished it to be beautiful. Nothing more. In fact, I don’t think Nick would be comfortable were the house to be too much a departure from the traditional. He’s quite stodgy, you know.”

  “I really know very little about him—though I must say he has fine taste in women. You and Diane Foley are both quite magnificent.”

  Fiona stiffened. “I beg that you not speak of that woman in this house.”

  Trevor broke out laughing. “I prove my point. You are in love with him.”

  “Really, Trevor,” she said with a stomp of her good foot, “I refuse to have this conversation with you.”

  At that moment the drawing room door came fully open, and Nick strode into the room. “Can’t have what conversation?” he asked, skewering Trevor with a menacing glare.

  “Trevor and I don’t see eye to eye on the coloration of the library at the new house, dearest.”

  Tall and exceedingly handsome in charcoal breeches and finely tailored black coat, Nick crossed the room and kissed Fiona’s cheek. “How is your leg, my dear?”

  “Tolerable,” she said with resignation.

  His brows furrowed, then he turned to Trevor. “What is the dispute over the library?”

  “The dispute, sir, has been settled. Lady Fiona is, as always, correct.” Flicking a glance to Fiona, Trevor said, “I must be on my way. I’ve still to order that royal blue fabric for Birmingham’s new bedchamber.” He turned and nodded at Nick. “Your servant, Birmingham.”

  When he was gone, Fiona asked, “Are you quite all right, dearest?”

  Nick flicked her an amused gaze. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s but half past two in the afternoon. You’re never home at this time.”

  “And you’re worried over my welfare?” he said with amusement. “One would think you a concerned wife.”

  “Were you infirm, I certainly would care. I’m your wife, after all.”

  He smiled and came to sit on the settee closest to her invalid’s chair. “As it happens, I was concerned about you. I know you’re beastly sick of these surroundings, and when I saw how brilliantly the sun shone today I decided I’d come take you on an excursion. Where, Mrs. Birmingham, would you like to go?”

  The prospect of an afternoon outing was as welcome as rain after a drought. “Oh, Nick, I’m so very eager for an outing. Could we go to our new house? Trevor said the blue saloon is complete, and I’m dying to see it.”

  “Then it’s to Piccadilly we go.” He summoned a footman to hoist her invalid’s chair on top of the carriage, then he swept Fiona up into his arms and carried her to the coach.

  On their way to the new house, she said, “I had a nice chat with Emmie today.”

  Nick tensed, and it was a moment before he spoke. “And how did you find the little scamp?”

  “Besides being exceedingly pretty, I found her manners to be all that could be desired.”

  Though she didn’t hear a sound, she could almost have sworn that Nick exhaled with relief. His whole countenance relaxed. Emmie must be very important to him.

  “I assure you I was perfectly kind to her, but I must tell you the poor dear broke into tears.”

  He whirled toward her, his face clouded with worry.

  “She confessed that she was afraid that since you’ve married me you will no longer find her your favorite girl.”

  Fiona had thought he might chuckle at his daughter’s feminine jealousy, but instead he looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Were you able to assuage her fears?”

  How had Nick known that is precisely what Fiona tried to do? That she would not look upon the child as her rival, as other stepmothers throughout history certainly had? “I told her she was your favorite girl, and that I am your favorite woman, and that your heart is very large and in it you’ve chambers for all those you love.”

  Nick took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for having a chamber in your heart just for your vexing wife!”

  His jet eyes whisked over her. “You’re not vexing.”

  “You must admit this wretched injury has been most vexing, and now you’re missing a session of the Exchange because of me.”

  “Because of you I’ve an excuse to enjoy this glorious day.”

  Glorious it was, despite the frigid air. As they pulled up to the new house, she was sorry that she hadn’t thought to let Emmie see it. Tomorrow she would instruct Miss Beckham to bring her here, and she would arrange for Trevor to conduct a tour for the sole benefit of the master’s daughter.

  “What shall you name the house?” Fiona asked.

  “We’ll name it together. Have you any ideas?”

  “Goodness, no. Do you know, Nick, it has never occurred to me that I would ever come into possession of a brand new house.”

  He nodded. “Because the houses in your family have been there for generations.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  He lifted her from the carriage and installed her in the invalid’s chair the coachman had taken down, then Nick wheeled her through the entry courtyard, tipped her weight to the back as he rolled her up the steps, and they came to pause in the opulent entry hall that centered the house.

  “Trevor commended you on your selection of chandeliers,” she said.

  His gaze swept over the ceilings. “They are rather sparkling.”

  She giggled.

  They went first to the China red dining room for which she and Trevor had selected a twenty-five-foot-long table and some two dozen matching chairs, all made of rich mahogany. The cabinetm
aker had made the suite for the Duke of Richmond’s country house, but owing to the delay in the duke’s remodeling agreed to allow the Birminghams to have it while he built another for the duke. Fiona’s gaze leaped from the table to the scarlet silken draperies, which went well with the heavy strokes of pure gold that brushed the room.

  Fiona’s glance flicked to Nick, whose eyes shimmered as he surveyed the room. “You, my dear wife, have exceeded my expectations. The room is lovely.” He frowned. “And I suppose your little friend is also to be congratulated. I must say he has extraordinary taste.” Nick walked to the gleaming table and ran a hand over its polished surface. “This is very fine wood, indeed.”

  “Trevor found the cabinetmaker. He apprenticed with Sheraton.”

  “Then I’m indebted to Trevor Simpson.”

  “We must go see the blue saloon. It’s the only other room that’s finished now.”

  Nick was appropriately complimentary over the saloon. Its walls had been covered with an embossed silk damask of a subtle floral pattern, a much lighter shade of blue than the rich royal blue of the silken draperies. The settees were upholstered in rich, royal blue silk that was speckled with brilliant gold stars. He walked straight to the matching pairs of game tables that flanked either side of the fireplace, and he touched the smooth surface of one. “The loveliest game tables I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s what Trevor said. I selected them,” she added smugly.

  He turned to gaze at her with a deep, pensive expression on his rugged face. “Have I told you,” he said in a low, mesmerizing voice, “that I’m very happy you picked me out?”

  Her heart fluttered in her breast. She thought it almost stopped beating as she bore his penetrating gaze. After several seconds, she gathered her composure and offered a flippant reply. “Must you always remind me that I picked you? That’s hardly gallant of you.”

  “I did have the good sense to return to you, drop to one knee, and beg you to marry me,” he said with equal flippance.

  Chapter 12

  The bloody waiting was what William hated most. He had arrived on the third and immediately spoken to the innkeeper, a mustachioed man named Gilberto who spoke heavily accented English. “My name is William . . . Hollingsworth,” he had said, “and I believe a letter will be delivered to me here in the next few days.” After removing a bag of gold coins from his pocket, he handed it to Gilberto. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for you—or one of your employees—to present my letter to the person who’s delivering the letter to me.” From his breast pocket, William withdrew his letter and handed it to the man. “There will be another pouch of coins when I have proof that you’ve followed my directions.”