by Emily Royal
“Shh, ma petite, Mama is here. You and your child will always have a home with us. Henry doesn’t deserve you.”
*
When Henry woke, his fever had eased. He rang for Sanderson who helped him to dress. The world shifted as he stood, the combined effect of the drugs and the infection. But now was not the time for male pride, and he let his manservant support his weight as he limped downstairs.
A large package dominated the center of the morning room.
“It arrived yesterday, sir. Your grandmother sent it.”
Henry sank into a chair. “Open it.”
Sanderson tore the paper from the package.
It was a portrait of a woman. She sat on a chaise lounge, hands folded demurely on her lap. Her eyes portrayed a sense of mischief as if she knew she didn’t fit into her surroundings but didn’t care. The background reflected accents of color from her gown, scandalously bright tones of red and green mirroring the green of her eyes.
Her character could have come across as arrogant, yet she looked as if she had no expectations from the world.
The woman was Jeanette. Not the disgraced creature he’d married out of pity, nor the commoner he resented, but the woman who had captured his heart, accepted his son as her own, and risked her life for him. The woman he loved exactly as she was.
“Bloody hell, sir.” Three words that conveyed the manservant’s opinion of Jeanette, and of himself.
“There’s a note.”
“Read it,” Henry commanded.
Henry closed his eyes, but the image of the portrait remained.
The paper crackled as Sanderson unfolded the note.
“My dear Henry. I trust this finds you well after your escapade, though if you died of a bullet wound, it might teach you a lesson. I have no idea when you’ll grace the shades of Ravenwell Hall again, and have therefore taken the liberty of sending this to you. At least the portrait—she’s underlined that word, sir—won’t reside in exile while you continue to enjoy London society. Rest assured, you’ve not shouldered any part of the cost. I paid for it myself. I trust you’ll take better care of the portrait than you ever did the subject.”
Grandmamma’s unique tone of disapproval shone through her words, even though they had been articulated in Sanderson’s rough accent. Henry’s gaze turned to the wall facing the door, the wooden panels against which he’d taken Jeanette’s virginity. The tryst had been the desperate act of a woman doomed to a life of condemnation, only asking that she be granted the brief moment of pleasure which society had assumed she’d already taken.
In offering Jeanette his hand, he had won himself a prize—the finest woman in all England. He’d be damned if he let her go. If he had to break down the door to her father’s townhouse to win her back, then so be it.
*
Wincing with pain, Henry rapped on the door to the Claybones’ townhouse. He’d ventured out against the doctor’s orders and his body suffered for it, having felt every bump on the ride over as if his driver had deliberately sought out every loose stone on the street.
The door opened and two pairs of feet appeared; one wearing the black shoes of a footman, buckles glinting in the sunlight, the other in feminine slippers. He straightened up and looked into the eyes of Mariette, Lady Claybone.
Rather than the deference he’d expected, she carried an air of dignified disapproval. Her eyes, which he’d once thought insipid, were the color of steel. His confidence wilted under her matriarchal gaze, and it became clear to Henry where Jeanette had inherited her backbone from.
He should have realized it from the brief interviews with Sir Robert when discussing his daughters’ dowries and, more recently, when he’d visited him at Stockton’s offices to discuss his business. Jeanette’s father lacked the instinct to prey on others, which explained why he’d been duped to the point where his business had lingered on the brink of ruination.
“What do you want?” Lady Claybone’s voice held the timbre born of hundreds of years of French aristocratic lineage.
Henry might have the superior standing in the eyes of London society, but the woman before him possessed true breeding. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?
“Lady Claybone, won’t you admit me?”
“What possible benefit could arise from it, Lord Ravenwell?”
“It’s my right to expect an audience with my wife.”
“Your right!” she muttered to herself before jabbing her finger at his chest. “You relinquished your rights to my daughter months ago.”
“In the eyes of the law…”
“The law of the land, perhaps, but what about laws of decency, of humanity? You ignored my daughter’s rights as your wife to be loved, honored, and cherished, and you expect me to throw her back into your lair?”
Anger bristled through him. “What of your behavior, madam? Didn’t you strive to seek rich husbands for your daughters with no thought for who those husbands might be?”
“What would you have me do? Let them starve?”
“What about love?”
“Love!” she scoffed. “As if you’d understand a fraction of that emotion! As if any man would, save my dearest Robert. The chances of my daughters finding men to love them as they deserve is nonexistent. I did the best I could to ensure they would at least be spared poverty.”
A shred of pain flicked across her eyes. She would have fled the Terrors in France with little more than the clothes she wore. What hardships would a young émigré have suffered in London, alone, with only her wits to live by? Had Sir Robert not married her, she might have met her end floating in the Serpentine or been sold into slavery; the very slavery Jeanette had risked her life to thwart.
“By your own argument, madam, you have declared my right to take my wife back, where she can enjoy the life of a marchioness.” Henry’s words sounded petulant, but he’d be damned if Lady Claybone bettered him in a battle of words with Jeanette as the prize.
Her eyes hardened. “Jeanette is not a commodity for you to claim, Lord Ravenwell. Her ordeal has confirmed how wrong I was in trying to secure a society marriage for her. I will no longer force my daughters into anything. They’re free to make their own choices.”
“Then isn’t it up to Jeanette whether or not she wishes to see me?”
“She doesn’t wish to see you.”
“You lie.”
“Don’t insult me!” She gestured to the footman. “Charles, make sure this gentleman leaves.”
She turned her back on Henry and disappeared into the house.
“Sir.” The footman drew close. Henry stood a good four inches higher and was very likely ten years younger. But the path to winning Jeanette back was not paved with force. He must utilize a different tactic, something which had never come naturally to him.
He would have to court her properly.
Holding his hands up in resignation, he retreated. As soon as his feet were off the threshold, the door closed.
A voice hailed from above. He looked up and saw a young woman leaning out from an upstairs window.
“I thought it was you! We all wondered when you’d show your face. Have you come to see Jeanie?”
“Is she here?”
“No, she’s with Uncle George. If you want an audience with her, you’ll have a fight on your hands.”
“As I’ve just experienced.”
The girl giggled. “Mama says you’re the embodiment of the devil.”
“And you?”
“I think we should draw our own conclusions rather than submit to persuasion.”
She leaned out further, the sunlight catching in her hair.
“Jeanie’s fond of walking, you know. She loves Hyde Park, the way the afternoon light catches the trees along the path where the rhododendrons are in bloom. I hear the light is just right around three o’clock.”
“Jane!” A voice called from within, and the girl disappeared.
So, Henry had an ally in Jeanette’s family. He had another
in his, someone who might help him. Edward missed her so much. Surely she wouldn’t refuse a plea from the boy if he begged her to see him?
You bloody coward. An accusing voice whispered in his ear at the notion an illegitimate child might have more success in securing an audience with Jeanette than Henry himself.
No, not illegitimate, but his son. A child to be loved and respected.
Christ, now his conscience had begun to echo Jeanette’s sentiments! What had she done, this woman he’d married with such reluctance and grown to love without knowing it?
He climbed into the carriage and rapped on the window. “Take me home.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“There’s a letter for you, ma’am.”
Jeanette’s maid held out a folded piece of paper.
“Why didn’t Charles deliver it?” Jeanette cared little for convention, but Mama insisted on it. Maids weren’t supposed to answer the front door.
“He came to the back entrance.”
“Who?”
“The child.”
Jeanette’s heartbeat quickened. “Thank you, Sarah. You may go.”
She waited until the door closed before unfolding the note.
Mama Jeanette. Can we meet this afternoon in Hyde Park?
I miss you
E.
The hand was a little more refined than when she’d last seen it. Edward must have been practicing his penmanship.
Unlike the prose of a prospective suitor out to impress, the honest simplicity of the note did more to melt her heart than the poems Oakville had once tried to woo her with.
Oakville. Though Jeanette had seen him only once at Uncle George’s offices, their conversation had been stilted and dull, restricted to remarks about the weather. Henry had been conspicuous by his absence, from both the room and the topic of conversation.
The caricature of the Holmestead Heifer had been resurrected to grace the broadsheets again, accompanied by an account of how a certain Lord R sought solace in the arms of another and a dissertation on the folly of marriages between the classes. Yesterday afternoon in the park she had experienced snubs, pointed glances, and exaggerated whispers. Perhaps if she jumped into the Serpentine again, they’d have something else to laugh at.
But she couldn’t. She placed a hand over her belly. If nothing else, marriage had taught her that the carefree existence of a girl ended the moment she became a woman.
She shook her head to dispel the memory of when he had made her a woman, and each time thereafter when her body had shattered with pleasure at his touch.
Don’t think about him, it’ll only break your heart.
But she couldn’t let Edward down. She had abandoned him, just like everyone else who’d been letting him down all his life. She owed it to him to honor his request.
And she missed him, the brave little soul who’d taken a piece of her heart.
She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf. Almost three o’clock; her usual time for walking. Was it a coincidence? Or had Edward, with all his wits borne out of a life on the streets, managed to observe her unseen while she had wandered through Hyde Park?
She concealed the note under her pillow and rang the bell for Sarah.
*
Not long after she entered the park, she saw him, standing in the center of the path where it forked. His companion, a thick-set manservant, stood a pace behind him, his left arm in a sling.
With a cry, the boy propelled himself toward Jeanette. The impact knocked her backward as he threw his arms around her waist, burying his head into her chest.
“Dear Edward!”
“Mama…”
She stroked his dark locks and breathed in the scent of his hair. What was blood compared to the love which grew from experience and mutual affection? The child in her arms was her son. He would always be her son, as much as the child she carried within her.
The manservant gave a stiff bow.
“Lady Ravenwell, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Sanderson.” She nodded toward his arm. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
His usually dour face crinkled into a smile. “It’s no more than I deserved. I must ask forgiveness for frightening you. I’m sorry you had reason to think I…” He shifted his weight as if in discomfort. “Or anyone else, meant you harm.”
“Be thankful I’m a rotten shot.”
“Your subsequent shot was aimed rather better.”
The memory of having taken a life resurfaced. She looked away, guilt consuming her.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Don’t think about it, your ladyship. You were instrumental in saving lives. Even if she had survived, she’d have hanged for her crimes.”
Edward wriggled free from her embrace. “Mama, will you walk with us? I want to show you something.”
He took her hand and pulled her toward the left fork in the path.
“Careful, little master,” Sanderson warned.
“I want to show her!” Edward cried, eagerness animating his voice.
Sanderson flashed Jeanette a knowing glance. “All in good time, lad. Your mama shouldn’t run in her condition.”
After a few minutes, their surroundings became more secluded. Tall, thick bushes graced the path from either side, adorned by purple flowers just coming into bloom. The sunlight struggled to penetrate the vegetation and the air grew cooler, a welcome respite from the afternoon heat. Such secluded corners, where nature had not been manicured out of existence, held no attraction for London society. It was, without doubt, Jeanette’s favorite part of the park.
The voice of nature ruled here, the rush of the wind in the bushes and the occasional burst of birdsong, the brighter melodies of a male perched high up in the sunshine, proudly calling prospective mates to his territory.
New voices joined the birdsong, growing louder with each step Jeanette took. They weren’t birds she recognized. Perhaps a bird of paradise had escaped from a nearby aviary.
No. Not birds of paradise but the rich melodic tones of a woman. Two women, their voices uniting in perfect harmony.
The song of the zephyr from the Marriage of Figaro.
The timeless melody drew her in, enveloping her heart. Though the women sang about infidelity, the opera was about love. A pure, unwavering love which could withstand the machinations of those who sought to destroy it. The women in the duet plotted to thwart a lecher so the heroine could marry Figaro, her true love.
The path opened into a clearing. The two singers stood in the center, surrounded by a handful of onlookers.
A man stood underneath a tree, his features concealed in the shadows. He moved into the light, and Jeanette’s heart tightened in her chest.
Henry had lost weight since she’d seen him last. His jacket, which his muscular frame had once filled to perfection, hung loose on his shoulders. But the chiseled jaw, determined mouth, and clear blue eyes were the same as she remembered.
He held out his hand. “Jeanette.”
She turned to Sanderson. “What’s this? Some sort of trick?”
Edward squeezed her hand. “Don’t leave, Mama. Please.”
The notes spiraled upward as the duet finished. A faint echo of the melody drifted into the air until it was replaced by an irregular spattering. A droplet of water splashed on Jeanette’s arm, followed by another.
A murmur rose from the onlookers, women muttering about the rain as they opened their parasols, the pastel shades offsetting the dark green surrounding them. One of the men removed his jacket and draped it around his companion’s shoulders.
Henry nodded to the singers. “You may leave us now. My man will see to your payment.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Your Grace?
The singers curtseyed, and Sanderson led them away.
“How romantic!” a voice spoke.
“I know,” said another. “Ravenwell’s the last man I’d have expected to do such a thing.”
Henry m
oved closer until Jeanette could almost feel his body heat. His eyes darkened with need, and he lifted his eyebrows in question, asking, as all suitors ask, not to be hurt.
“Henry, please,” she whispered, “this isn’t fair. Return to your mistress and let me go.”
He lowered himself onto one knee and took her hand.
A sigh rippled through the onlookers which morphed into gasps as she jerked her hand away.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” she said. “I can’t spend the rest of my life with a man who’d rather be in the arms of others.”
“You’re my wife, Jeanette, and you’re carrying my heir.”
“Is that why you lured me here? And why did those women address you as Your Grace?”
“My cousin died of consumption a few days ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I barely knew him.”
“I see,” she said. “Now you’re a duke and need to maintain appearances.”
“For the love of Christ, woman!” he cried. “Do you want me to beg?” He sighed and spoke more quietly, his voice filled with pain. “At least hear me out. Please, Jeanette.”
The rain grew heavier, but he remained kneeling before her as droplets splashed on his eyelids and small rivulets ran down his face. He coughed, and she took his hand.
“Henry, you’re not well, you must get out of the rain.”
“Not until you agree to come home with me.” His mouth curled into a smile. “Though I know you relish the prospect of dancing in a downpour.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips across the back of her hand. When he looked up at her, his eyes glistened with emotion.
“I think that was the moment I fell in love with you, when I spotted you dancing in the rain at the Holmestead estate. I wondered how someone could be so carefree, so totally at ease with their own company. You had no need of others to make you whole or to find fulfilment. How I envied you!”
Edward tugged at her other hand. “Please come home with us, Mama.”
Jeanette sighed. “Very well. I’ll come with you now, but you’re mistaken if you think you can persuade me to follow a course of action which will make me miserable.”