Gaia climbed the steps of Chevron Manor. She should be cold, but her cheeks still held a flush. The audacity of the man! How dare he try to make her laugh! He didn't know her pain.
Yet something in his sea-blue gaze said he did. The way his eyes trailed to the right, as if latching onto a memory, the lines of his lean face hardening, even as he offered humor. Something brewed beneath the surface of his handsome exterior.
Hopefully, the stranger would never see her again. Lord, let his lips stay quiet on the matter.
Her face fevered again. Why was she thinking of his mouth, or any part of him?
With a light push, she opened the door. The soft whine shouldn't have alerted anyone in the chaotic Telfair house. Her younger sisters would be in dance practice. Fa… Mr. Telfair probably sat in his study, counting his pence, Sarah making a hat with dear Timothy's assistance. If Gaia snuck up the stairs, she could finish crying her eyes out in her bedchamber.
Upon closing the main door, she spun and bumped into her stepmother.
The woman held her fast, pushing Gaia deep within her ample bosom. "I was so worried. Please don't run off like that again; we should be able to converse about anything."
Sarah sniffled. Teardrops fell upon Gaia's temple. The embrace was real, filled with a heart Gaia believed cold.
"Come with me." She grabbed Gaia's wrist and tugged her into the parlor. Kicking the door closed, Sarah didn't release her, maintaining a tight grip. Did she think Gaia would escape?
Well, one look at Gaia's dirt-stained slippers said she might.
"I love all my children; Julia, Lydia, Helena, Timothy, and my Gaia. You made me the villain for marrying your father, but I'm no villain. Yes, our first years had difficulties. I was a new wife, and suddenly a mother to you and Julia. I was only a few years older than your grown-up brother, God rest his soul."
Gaia widened her swollen eyes and stared at this red-haired woman. The years had taken her thin frame and put some meat on it, but maybe Sarah had grown in wisdom, too.
Injustice twisted in Gaia's spirit. No, she couldn't be pacified. "The man you married is not my father, is he? What am I to you? What am I to do?"
"Mr. Telfair claimed you. You were born during his marriage. You are a Telfair, legitimate to the world."
Illegitimate. A by-blow, if not for the legality of a broken marriage. Lifting her lenses, Gaia cleaned her spectacles and peered down. "A Telfair doomed to be a servant. All my hopes are gone."
"Gaia, what were your hopes?"
"I wanted a future. To be loved. To be a gentleman's wife. Who would have me now? What will Elliot think?"
Sniffling more, Sarah released Gaia then leaned against the piano. "True love sees beyond circumstances, but if Mr. Whimple can't see your worth, is there another you want? I've watched you hover around him like a lost pup. When I tried to dissuade you, and show you the admirable qualities of others, you grew angry and fled… just like today."
It had been easier to dislike this lady than to see the good in her heart. Maybe she'd tried to spare Gaia pain. "Did you try to turn me against Elliot because you knew? How long have you known?"
Sarah stood up and inched closer, almost on tip-toes. "Only a few days; not until the Duke of Cheshire sent a note, asking your father for one his girls to attend his daughter. It was highhanded and sent Mr. Telfair into a tirade. That's when he told me, and of his own plans for you."
She put a hand to Gaia's shoulder. "No one knows. We can go on as before. You are one of the beloved daughters of Henry Telfair."
The desire to be loved, to believe she was as good as everyone else, gripped Gaia's insides, cutting away at the numbness consuming her. But this hope wasn't enough, and she swiped her black fingers against her light bodice. "These hands aren't beloved. They don't possess Telfair blood."
Sarah took her palms within hers. "These hands pass for white. Mr. Telfair claimed you. You are his daughter."
She pulled Gaia into another full embrace. They held each other until they were both soaked in tears. "The love you show for your sisters and your brother, and your father, the man who raised you, makes you every inch a Telfair. That goes beyond skin."
If Father had said the same, maybe it would sink in and warm Gaia's broken heart. No, she was to become Timothy's companion. Gaia pushed free and stepped back. "How am I to believe this? Maybe he wanted me to be Julie's handmaiden, and if I'd been a boy, I'd be tossed to the streets."
"You can't blame him for being hurt at your mother's dealings, but he didn't give you away. He bore the secret. Be fair."
Was it fair to live a lie? Was it fair to always feel inferior and not know why, to reach for a father's love and be rebuffed? "Well, a Telfair has the chance to be loved. Give me one chance to show Elliot that I am his other half." She rent her gown wide. The faded frock blended into the grey tint of the lime-washed parlor walls. "But I can't do that in rags or with Father, Mr. Telfair, attempting to banish me to the netherworld. Convince him."
"It's Father, keep saying it. I've never disobeyed him, but it would hurt nothing if you had a new dress." Sarah walked to the corner closet and drew out a bolt of rose-print fabric. "Sew your dress, but keep it out of sight."
Sarah pulled the end of the silk and brushed Gaia's cheek. "This color will make your sweet eyes glow."
Gaia fingered the smooth damask material. She'd never seen anything so fine. "Sweet? My eyes are a dull."
"Not to a mother." She handed the bolt to Gaia. "Maybe I should have been more willing to tempt your father's displeasure to make you more secure of my love."
Gaia adjusted her spectacles, again trying to see this woman in a new light. Her heart felt a little lighter. "I don't know what to say."
"Give it your best go. If Mr. Whimple is the one, he'll make sure we are not ruined. You will make sure of that, too."
Clutching the fabric, Gaia headed to her room. Elliott had to be the answer. If she could become Mrs. Elliott Whimple, she'd have a name. She'd know, without a doubt, who she was and the feel of true love. But would Elliott want a black wife?
William paced the length of the drawing room as his tall footman, Albert, marched inside. The grimace on his dark face loomed, as did his jittering fingers.
"Be at ease, my temper is no more; it's buried in Cheshire."
Surely, an easier breath pushed out of Albert as his chest puffed beneath his blue mantle. "I'm sorry my news isn't better. Mr. Telfair seemed quite disturbed." His man bowed and closed the doors as he left.
William counted aloud, thought of a Psalm; all the rituals he went through to keep his fury at bay. No help would come from the Telfairs. Mouse-poor family or not, the man wouldn't lend one his daughters in service. He must think there was still a chance of them marrying. None of them must not be on the shelf, as the housekeeper had implied.
He brushed his ever-creasing brow. With the war over, maybe he could find Mary a tutor on the Continent, but that would take time.
Would humbling himself and going in person make a difference?
The smell of the afternoon pastries had waned as he wore a path in the rug. Mrs. Wingate left a tempting silver tray on the table, clustered close to the grand two-story mantel. Scones were meant to be enjoyed hot, fresh from the oven, but who could eat with his stomach knotted?
Pacing the edge of the gold tapestry, he rubbed the stiff muscles of his neck then parked in front of the mirror above the sideboard. He fluffed the knot of his cravat and gazed at his pained reflection. Where did the carefree soldier go, the one with a pretty wife and new babe waiting for his return home?
He pivoted from the butter-colored paper treatment slathering the walls closest to the entry then checked his gilded timepiece. There wasn't enough time for a social visit before Stelford's arrival. After digesting his friend's intelligence, he'd sleep on it and seek an audience with Telfair in the morn.
Ripping open the brass buttons of his deep blue tailcoat, he grabbed Stelford's stationery from an inner pock
et then stalked across the room, passed the small writing desk, his uncle's writing desk, to the grand piano by the bay window. The harp-like curve of the instrument glistened with wood polish. Citrus and oil scented this section of the grand room. Light filtering through the gauzy curtains illuminated the blue paper.
Before he could stuff the note back into his pocket, Stelford, all one hundred and eighty pounds of him, blasted into the center, crossing the beige tapestries flowing around the perimeter. "I have arrived."
Mrs. Wingate was fast on his coat-tails. Her fingers gripped a pristine white apron as her expression mirrored her austere grey gown. "Your Grace, the new footman didn't catch him. I tried to stop him, to announce him properly."
"Be at ease." William gripped his friend's hand. "He's an old friend. We don't stand on ceremony. But inform the footman to be more careful."
The housekeeper nodded, though her gaze could bore holes through Stelford's back.
"You can leave us, Mrs. Wingate. See to it we are not disturbed."
"Yes, Your Grace." She curtsied, gave a frown, and then backed from the room.
Stelford stalked about the place, fingering the wall treatment, the Roman suit of armor in the corner. "This room suits you."
"Only if it had a few more weapons of war, a flintlock or two." He lifted his arms, as if he held a gun, and fired it Stelford's way.
His friend made an audible swallow then stopped next to the sideboard. Stelford popped his shaking fingers into the looping fretwork trimming the furnishing, then to the barrel of the aged firearm mounted on the wall.
"The flintlock was the last Duke of Cheshire's prize possession. I think he shot a bear with it in Scotland. That is how the tale is told."
"I see his favorite marble-top desk by the window. Nothing of your father's? No Bibles to thump?" Stelford chuckled and picked up the decanter and pried at its top. "Should a weapon be so near the liquor?"
With a shake of his head, William ignored the dig at his father. His friend knew the turbulence of that relationship. "You know he only begrudgingly came to this place, as if he tried to hide its existence from us. But do help yourself. I've given up that vice."
Struggling to open the bottle, Stelford's unsteady hands nearly dropped the glass. The man looked particularly horrid; unshaven face, pallid complexion. Was the news that bad?
"No more drink?" Stelford made a 'tsk' sound with his mouth as the stopper released. "The good Reverend St. Landon would be proud."
His honorable father wouldn't be. He disapproved of nearly everything since his only son did, since William decided against studying divinity to go to war… another check mark on his list of guilt. He stepped closer and steadied the bottle. "Drink makes my temper rage."
With a gulp, Stelford downed the liquor. "Then happy abstinence."
Moving the alcohol away got his friend's attention, eyes widening, following the bottle. "Out with it, then you can drain this."
"I've found out nothing new. No new demands from the blackmailers."
Of their own volition, William's fingers tightened about the dimpled glass. He'd throw it and break it against the wall, if not for the mess and the explanation he'd owe Mrs. Wingate. Not to mention backsliding to his old ways of dealing with anger. He eased the bottle back to its position on the Wedgewood tray and backed away from the breakables.
"I'm sorry. I tried as discreetly as I could to determine who was making the threats. A disgruntled footman, one of the maids let go, the cooking staff the late duchess needled.... Nothing. The blackmailer covered his tracks well." His green eyes darted back and forth like a metronome, waiting to meter out more bad news.
William stalked to the emerald sofa and thrust his back deep into the cushions. The tufted fabric swallowed him whole for a moment, but he fought his way back to a seated position. "Just say what you know. I'm in control of myself."
Plodding from the sideboard all the way to the window, Stelford dragged his short heels across the tapestry. His footsteps seemed mired in as much depression as William held guilt.
"I know I was quite upset the last time we met, but if someone tried to malign your late wife's memory, you'd break a few things as a substitute for necks."
Stelford stopped mid-step and pivoted to face William. "Your temper is legendary. That time Elizabeth had you fuming and you threw... What was it? A trunk?"
William's stomach turned. He'd been a fool, a young husband who couldn't understand his wife's changing emotions. "It was a chair. And the hole in the wall was very small."
Chuckles fell out of Stelford's mouth. "Not for Albert. It took him days to patch and paint it."
"I stopped all that and became quite domestic." It still wasn't enough to return Elizabeth's heart to William. But did she seek comfort from calmer waters? Was she unfaithful, like the blackmail notes claimed?
Stelford walked until he reached the window. "I, too, can understand, my dear duke. Lizzy, I mean, the duchess, was a wonderful woman. No one should defame her."
"I know you and my Elizabeth were childhood friends, Benjamin. This must be hard for you too."
The grimace on Stelford's face was comical. He took a long sip. "’Benjamin’ is for my doxies and easy conquests. My friends, the ones I care for, call me Stelford. I liked the way your duchess said it."
William punched at a pillow. "You knew her well. Do you think there's any truth? Could she have been unfaith... I can't even say it."
Stelford swiped the sweating glass along his forehead. "I know she was very unhappy. She did not like the separation."
"I was at war." William climbed out of the sofa and stomped to the piano. Plopping onto the bench, he plunked at a few keys. "I thought she understood."
Stelford shrugged, but then his lips parted into his typical grin. "Your cousin is desperate to know your location."
Banging his head against the keys, William grimaced. Nothing but confusion surrounded Deborah Smythen; that and her begging him to marry her. William might be lonely, but he wasn't that lonely. "Please tell me you held your peace."
"She knows nothing. Tried to cajole me with a bribe, but I stayed strong."
"That woman is up to no good. Elizabeth was barely six months gone and my cousin began pestering me about marriage; that she'd make things easier for Mary." He popped a key. The high note drowned all his thoughts, much like Deborah's voice.
"Miss Smythen might be able to make social connections for Mary."
"My cousin can't stand noise. She definitely couldn't handle my daughter."
A shudder went up his spine, envisioning his obnoxious cousin flying through the doors. "The longer she doesn't know my location, the better."
"Hiding doesn't become you." Swiveling, Stelford approached the back of the huge instrument and ran his hand over the slick polish of the chestnut wood. "Let's go be free. Why not ride to that quaint little village? The fresh air could do us both good. A tavern would do me quite fine."
William waved a hand in the air to stop his eager friend. "Tomorrow we'll head there, but we'll need to stop at Chevron Manor. I must smooth some ruffled feathers to ply Mr. Telfair for one of his daughters."
"What? Now that's what I'm talking about. Why wait for tomorrow, when we can get into mischief today? Forging ahead—"
"I'm seeking a governess, or just advice. I think my overtures have put a burr in the man's saddle. I need to convince Mr. Telfair to lend his daughter gifted with helping children speak. Mary needs her."
Stelford finished his drink. "Mary's not the only one who needs something."
William fumed, but he'd ignore the foolish talk. "Go upstairs. There's a bed waiting for you."
His friend nodded, but took his glass and the bottle of brandy and pounded out of the room.
This Chevron business was about getting his daughter help, but what if smoothing Telfair's ego proved useless? What could be done for Mary then?
CHAPTER FOUR
A Ride to Chevron Manor
TUGGING HI
S HAT down again, William pushed Magnus into a quicker trot. They leapt a stream and flew down the worn path, past a bank of pines. The crisp morning air greeted his lungs, leaving a tingle on his face. He felt a liveliness that he hadn't known since the Peninsula. This was Devonshire, the place of his birth, the only respite he'd known. And Mary, she must feel it, too. His babe had a good night last night. "Keep up, Stelford."
Farther down the trail, billowing grey smoke popped from the chimneys of the homes and shops of the village coming into view. The streaks tarnished the perfect sky, soiling a hazel-blue canvas. Since his last encounter with the saucy sprite in the heather, William had come to love the color. In the late hours, his undisciplined mind had recalled the turn of her countenance, the shimmer of sunlight on her crinkled curls, the lilt in her voice as she prayed for wretchedness, the tears staining her light eyes. Should've gotten a name. He might be able to inquire on her well-being.
Though a single man should be careful, this woman was smitten over another. Surely, it was safe to think of her. He filled his lungs with the hint of burnt hickory. "I wonder if the old boulangerie is still in business. We'll stop on our return."
Stelford huffed and puffed as he caught up. "You're in the mood for bread?"
"I'm in the mood to remember the innocence of my youth; the good parts." Cutting through town, they edged down the forked lane to Chevron Manor.
"A great honor you offer the Telfairs, my dear Duke, and for such a celibate, paternal cause."
"For my daughter, I'll do nearly anything." He slowed Magnus and leapt down, trudging the path to the modest house with a wide park backing into the woods. Ivy climbed the mottled beige-and-grey undressed limestone forming the facade.
When no groom came to meet them, Stelford grunted then tied the horses to a fence tie. "Are we still in England?"
William dismounted and gave Magnus a pat. "There are no horse thieves about. We should be safe."
Unmasked Heart: A Regency Romance (Regency Romance: Challenge of the Soul Book 1) Page 4