The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “Acquainted is an understatement, my dear lady. Stanmore and I have been close…very close friends for a long, long time. In fact,” —she pouted at the direction of Lady Wentworth— “before you even think of any charity work, Millicent, you promised me a ball. One can see at a glance that everything is far too quiet here. We shall need to create an occasion where I can wear at least one of the dresses I have brought along.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned her attention to Rebecca.

  “Being in charge of his lordship’s son, it is too sad that you cannot attend a ball, Mrs. Ford. But then again, you are probably relieved of it. Dressing appropriately for such a fine occasion would be terrifying, don’t you think?”

  Without allowing anyone to put a word in edgewise, Lady Nisdale turned again to Lady Wentworth. “Now, Millicent, you know I would help you with the preparations if Stanmore would just spare me a moment, but knowing how demanding his lordship will be once he learns I am here…”

  The words hung in the air as a servant entered the room.

  “His lordship, the earl of Stanmore.”

  Rebecca’s eyes fixed on the tall dark figure filling the door. His demeanor was unreadable, and his gaze was fixed on Mrs. Trimble. She wondered, though, how much he had heard of Lady Nisdale’s words.

  Reverend Trimble immediately jumped to his feet in greeting as the peer crossed the floor to the rector and his wife. And as the two made a fuss over his arrival, Lady Nisdale sat in her chair, an impudent smile on her face. Disgusted, Rebecca stood and moved casually toward the window.

  Lady Wentworth immediately joined Rebecca by the open window. They both stared at the flowerbeds stretching in the yard. “My husband and his guest practice city hours, Mrs. Ford. I, however, am quite fond of morning rides. Would you care to ride with me…say, tomorrow morning?”

  Rebecca recalled that she had told Lord Stanmore that she would not be riding, but the situation demanded that she take up Millicent on her offer. She doubted very much that the earl’s grooms would deny her a horse if she were to request one.

  She met her old friend’s gaze. “I would very much enjoy a ride with you, m’lady. If it is not too inconvenient for you, though, could we make it very early?”

  “I am delighted. The earlier the better. I shall ride over to Solgrave stables shortly after dawn. My husband insists that I have my groom accompany me, but we shall have ample opportunity to talk and…get to know one another a little…as we ride.”

  “I shall be ready.”

  With a small nod, Lady Wentworth turned to the room and the company.

  An odd sense of relief flowed through Rebecca with the thought that not everything she recalled of her younger years had been false. Millicent was at least giving her a chance. Rebecca looked across the room in time to see Lord Stanmore excuse himself abruptly from the company of the Trimbles. As he crossed the room, his gaze held hers.

  “Mrs. Ford. I hope you forgive me for being late.”

  The intensely dark eyes searched and caressed every inch of her face, and Rebecca had difficulty keeping calm.

  “You are not late at all, m’lord,” she finally managed to whisper.

  “Lady Wentworth.” Stanmore bowed politely to Millicent.

  Out of curiosity more than jealousy, Rebecca cast a fleeting look at Lady Nisdale and found the woman’s pretty face showing signs of temper. The artificial smile she managed to maintain in light of still not being acknowledged by the earl appeared to be starting to slip, however.

  She wanted to admonish herself for her vanity in being approached by Lord Stanmore first, but the emotion she was feeling at the moment was far too satisfying to allow it. Later, she thought. I will chastise myself later.

  His eyes were fixed upon her face. “I have just explained to Mrs. Trimble that we cannot stay for the luncheon she has so graciously offered…as we have a previous engagement. I hope you haven’t already made a liar out of me.” He extended an arm to her. “So if you are ready, we shall be on our way.”

  She was more than ready, though still a little uncomfortable that a woman like Lady Nisdale could bring out such immediate aversion in her. As Rebecca accepted the proffered arm, she noted the surprised look on her hostess’s face. Mrs. Trimble, with a quick look at the aristocratic lady, clearly understood that the earl intended to leave without even acknowledging Lady Nisdale. Her husband, however, stepped forward.

  “I suppose there is no need to make an introduction, m’lord. Lady Nisdale has informed us of your…er, close and abiding friendship.”

  Rebecca could have sworn she detected a note of amusement—perhaps even satisfaction—in the rector’s tone. It appeared that she was not the only one to notice that—in spite of all her proud claims—Lady Nisdale was receiving nothing more than indifference from Lord Stanmore.

  “London may seem to be the center of the world, Reverend,” Stanmore announced coolly, “but it can also be a very small place. Lady Nisdale is, no doubt, acquainted with nearly all of the ton.”

  Without another word, the earl bowed to his hosts and calmly escorted Rebecca from the house.

  The sun seemed brighter outside, the spring air fresher, and the flowers far more beautiful than she remembered them being as she had entered the rectory. As they reached the end of the garden path, Rebecca was surprised to see a handsome new phaeton awaiting them with a groom wearing the Stanmore livery at the head of a fine-looking pair of bays.

  “But your horse, m’lord.”

  “Back at Solgrave.” He held her hand to assist her in climbing up onto the high seat of the carriage. As she seated herself, Rebecca looked intently at the horses, trying not to think of just how easily he had handed her up. He climbed into the carriage and took the reins in his hands. “I hope you don’t mind the imposition, but I have with me a basket luncheon that I simply cannot finish on my own. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind helping me with it.”

  Mind? By heaven, regardless of the fiery panic that ignited in her at the mere touch of his hand, she found herself more than desirous of his attention…his presence. But such an answer would never do, and Rebecca struggled to find a response.

  “But…but what of the previous engagement you mentioned to Mrs. Trimble?”

  “That was with you,” he said simply, giving her a devilish half-smile and flicking the reins. “So will you do me the honor of having luncheon with me, Mrs. Ford?”

  “The honor is mine, m’lord,” she answered quietly as the groom swung up behind them.

  As the carriage pulled away from the rectory, Rebecca looked up past the gardens and saw Lady Nisdale looking at the carriage through one of the large open windows of the parlor.

  Beautiful she was…and elegant…and angry enough to spit fire.

  ***

  The walls were lined with cream-colored silk spotted with age and mildew. The window seats were piled high with cushions of deeply faded velvet of a color that may once have been rose. The wool stuffing peeked out from more than a few edges. The carpet, worn and faded as well, sat askew on warped floorboards that had seen nothing other than neglect for many years.

  The visitor stood stiffly in the parlor, sniffing at the smell of stale flowers and dust and damp soot. Dressed in a fine suit newly delivered from Oxford Street, he could not bring himself to sit on anything in the room. He glanced once at the heavy drapery that effectively excluded any ray of sunlight, and idly wondered who had been sitting England’s throne when they had been bought and hung. The miser’s fire that struggled to stay lit in the old-fashioned fireplace flickered but cast little light and no warmth. Why bother, he thought with a surly twitch of his lips.

  He turned to the door as the sound of muttered words drifted into the room. A pregnant hush followed, like the moment before the curtain rises, and then in swept the rather unsteady figure of the once celebrated Jenny Greene.

  It had been nearly ten years since they had last met face to face, but the passage of time had etched
thrice the years on the woman’s face, obvious in spite of the paint and the rouge. He frowned at the consequences of the excessive amounts of gin and revelry that were so much part of the life of the aging actress.

  A cold look bordering on a snarl was all that the man received in return. But he’d expected no different a greeting.

  “I was certain my servant had misread the calling card!”

  He offered no explanations and remained silent until Jenny turned and sank heavily into one of the parlor chairs. The eyes that had once bewitched every man now were puffy and lined. Even the blue seemed to have lost its luster. The distrust in them, however, was readily apparent.

  “I assume this is not a social call,” she spat out.

  He consciously chose to ignore her abruptness and her vulgar refusal to address him with the respect that his title and position called for. He would not allow her to anger him at all, and even succeeded in coaxing his lips into a smile.

  “Or perhaps…this is a social call,” she said, misinterpreting his response. The fingers of her quavering hand traced a path over the curves of her ivory breasts above the neckline of the dress.

  It was difficult to not be distracted by the gesture. Fading though she might be, Jenny Greene still possessed much of the sexual allure that had made her one of most passionate actresses ever to grace the London stage. When she wished to use it, she still wield that power. He knew she was a woman who could make her body seethe with sensuality…when she wanted to. The voluptuous body, the stormy eyes, the red hair—now powdered, piled high, and wrapped in a turban—had once attracted the attention of every man in London, and the admiration of every woman.

  “Why, now that I think of it, this does have all the signs of a secret rendezvous! Arriving in a hired coach…no liveried footman or grooms…such an air of secrecy! It makes my heart flutter!”

  “I am here because of Rebecca.” He watched with satisfaction as his statement succeeded in draining the color out of the woman’s face. “I wish to know if she has been in touch with you?”

  The pale hand moved from her breast to a glass sitting on a small table beside the chair. The glass, however, was empty. She held it for a moment and then set it down again. Her face was tightly controlled in an attempt to show nothing of her thoughts. She was truly an actress, he thought.

  “The child has been dead for years. How could she possibly be in touch with me?”

  “Unless you know something that you never shared with us, madam, we have never assumed her to be dead…simply missing.”

  From her chair, she reached around for the bell pull, but could not find it immediately. “I need a drink.”

  He saw Jenny try to push herself up and turn in her chair, but a hand slipped and she sank back weakly. A trembling hand covered her eyes. It was barely noon, and she was already drunk. Or still drunk, he thought with disgust.

  “Mrs. Greene, does the name Ford mean anything to you?”

  She glanced at him without answering, and again tried to reach the bell pull, succeeding this time. She sat back in the pose of a queen on her throne, frowning, her hands curled over the ends of the armrests.

  “Why? What is the meaning of all these questions? What makes you think she is alive? And…and what is it to me if she is?”

  The visitor stared at her for a moment. It had been useless to come here. Jenny Greene was as callously indifferent as ever, and as self-absorbed.

  “I am having your house watched. If she comes to see you, madam, you will tell us.”

  A servant appeared at the door, and Jenny ordered the woman to bring a drink.

  He turned to leave.

  “She is nothing to me. Never has been.” Her words caused him to stop and turn. “But tell me what you know. I’ve helped you before. I’ll help you now.”

  “Very well. Someone has been making inquiries about a certain Rebecca Ford. My people have strong suspicions that the object of this search is no one but your long lost daughter, Rebecca Neville. We will not let her disappear again.” He paused and stared at the aging actress. “This time, I intend to find her.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The phaeton rolled along paths lined on either side with gray-trunked beeches, knobby oaks, and chestnuts. They moved comfortably through sun and shadow, and Stanmore showed Rebecca the farms beyond the village. As he pointed them out, she asked him about the crops and the workers, and he explained with pride the progress they’d made over the years. He told her what Solgrave itself meant to his people.

  He was to some extent surprised by her intelligence and interest, but he was genuinely impressed by her ability to keep their conversation on such neutral terms. There had been no personal questions. No mention of Louisa Nisdale’s name. No overt display of interest in finding out the truth behind whatever it was Louisa had been saying about their liaison.

  Unlike any other woman that Stanmore had spent time with in his life, Rebecca Ford appeared to have a nature that focused on affairs outside of her own desires. Indeed, she seemed to make every attempt to redirect attention—particularly his attention—away from herself.

  But this honest and refreshing attitude only made him respect her more, he thought, casting a quick glance at her bright, lively profile.

  He pulled off the lane and stopped his horses in a protected spot by a running stream where a patch of sunlight bathed the ground and the old beech leaves would lie warm and dry on the grass. Jumping down as his groom ran to the head of the team, Stanmore helped Rebecca out of the carriage before taking the basket down.

  “By the way, when I went back to Solgrave, I looked in on Mr. Clarke. So you needn’t worry about hurrying back.”

  “Lord Stanmore, you know I have promised not to worry about James.”

  “I thought your promise was not to show me that you worry about James?”

  “As you say, m’lord!” Her smile was prettier than sunshine as she took a blanket from beneath the seat of the carriage and stretched it on the grass.

  After instructing the groom to walk the carriage up the lane and into a field around the next bend in the river, he turned back to his companion.

  “Mr. Clarke is planning to spend a little extra time with James this afternoon,” he said. “And after the lad is done with his lessons, Daniel is going to have one of the grooms take him around to the stables, so he can choose a pony. He might even be given a first lesson today, if he so chooses.”

  The look she gave him was filled with tenderness, and Stanmore was once again touched by how much Rebecca’s emotions depended upon James’s well being. Another unconscious display of the selflessness so often lacking in the people of his set. Of a nobility that stems from the purity of one’s heart, rather than one’s station.

  “Jamey…James will be delighted with that, m’lord. He has always been fond of the horses, but living in Philadelphia he’s never had a chance to learn to ride.”

  As he placed the picnic basket on the blanket, she sat down beside it and lifted the cloth covering.

  “Have you always lived in Philadelphia?” He sat down on the blanket as well.

  “For the most part!” she murmured as her eyes searched the contents of the basket.

  “Where else have you lived?”

  “I stayed for some time in New York!”

  Stanmore knew he wasn’t offering Rebecca the same courtesy that she had shown to him in asking nothing of his past, but her evasiveness only served to stimulate his curiosity more.

  “Was your husband from Philadelphia?”

  “No!” Her answer, almost too quick, surprised him. He eyed the blush rising into her cheeks. She bent her head over the basket until the brim of her hat robbed him of the pleasure of watching the rose bloom in the ivory of her skin. All he could see were the full lips, the perfectly shaped chin.

  “Where was he from?”

  She took the napery, silverware, and the plates out, setting them aside. “John Ford was from England.”

  With an i
mpatient move, she undid the ribbons beneath her chin and laid the hat beside her on the blanket.

  “From England, did you say?”

  “You could never have known him, m’lord. He was a commoner. No position, no kin, nothing.” Her eyes were that stormy shade of dark blue when they met his. “That is quite often the case with people of my station, you know. Many have been forced to flee their homeland and go far away to make something of themselves in the world, to find what is precious within them.”

  She turned her face a little, but the sadness in Rebecca’s expression struck Stanmore deep in the chest. His hand reached out uncontrollably and cupped her chin.

  “Some people are precious wherever they are.” Stanmore leaned over the basket and brushed his lips over hers. At that moment, the power of the affection he felt toward her startled him.

  He sat back and released her.

  Rebecca averted her eyes, but sat for a long moment as if stunned, and then reached up with hesitant fingers and touched her lips. He wondered how long it had been since any other man had kissed those lips.

  “We’d better think about eating this food, or I shan’t be held responsible for my actions.” Stanmore tried to lighten the moment.

  Composing herself quickly, she smiled and reached inside the basket. Taking out pieces of roasted chicken and fruits and cakes and pies wrapped carefully in cloths, she laid them on the blanket.

  “I can see Harry’s influence,” she said. “There is enough food here to feed us for a week.”

  “And what a pleasant week that would be—just the two of us beside this brook.”

  She unwrapped a piece of chicken and took a bite. “Based on what I have heard Mrs. Trent and Daniel say of your lordship’s schedule, I have difficulty imagining you would be satisfied for so long a period of time with so little to do.”

  “I have been known to steal a little time for myself, here and there—like this fortnight that I plan to spend here at Solgrave.” He thought for a moment, adding as an afterthought, “True, there is less to do here than in London, but I am not speaking of social engagements, since I’ve never been fond of them.”