A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  “I have words. Plenty of them. Just none of the right ones, apparently.”

  “Have I shocked you?”

  “You have, rather.”

  He fell silent a moment before asking, “Was it the confession about Mrs. Culpepper? Or was it the fact that I don’t keep a mistress?”

  Her cheeks burned. “They’re neither of them fit subjects to discuss with a lady.”

  “No, they most certainly aren’t.” He paused. “I beg your pardon for having offended you.”

  “You haven’t offended me.” It was the truth, much to her dismay. He’d surprised her. Shocked her, even. But she wasn’t offended. Rather the opposite. She felt honored that he’d confided in her. A little greedy, as well. She wanted more of his secrets. More of him. “You may tell me anything you like.”

  “Because you’re a jaded spinster who’s seen and heard every manner of thing.”

  “No,” she said. “Because I’m your friend.”

  A spasm of emotion crossed over Mr. Finchley’s face. For the barest instant he looked young. Almost vulnerable. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  Guilt gnawed at Jenny’s conscience. She hadn’t realized that it mattered so much to him. After all, he’d only been using her last October, hadn’t he? Her opinion of him—for good or ill—surely didn’t make one bit of difference. That’s what she’d believed, anyway.

  But the expression in his eyes told another story.

  Those dratted blue eyes of his, so careworn and weary behind his spectacles.

  Her heart softened toward him in spite of herself. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  The parlor in Half Moon Street was one of the coziest rooms Tom had ever encountered. It was furnished with a plump chintz sofa and chairs, a tufted ottoman with tassel-trim, and an abundance of dried flowers and stuffed birds displayed under glass domes.

  In the far corner sat the little pianoforte on which Lady Helena had played the night he and Miss Holloway first danced together.

  “So many memories,” he said.

  Miss Holloway took a seat on the sofa. The tea tray was arrayed before her on a low walnut table with delicately carved legs. “There are,” she agreed as she poured out their tea. “Not all of them good.”

  Tom sat down beside her. The sofa cushions dipped under his weight.

  Miss Holloway’s hands stilled briefly on the handle of the teapot.

  The tension between them was palpable. Electric. It crackled in the air all about them.

  He was sitting too close to her, that was the problem. He should have taken the chair or—even better—remained standing. It would have been easier to effect an exit. To make his excuses and leave before he said or did something stupid.

  As if he hadn’t been stupid enough already.

  But there seemed to be no end to his idiocy where Miss Holloway was concerned, especially on a day like today.

  First had been that despicable business with the Earl of Warren. And then Myra Culpepper had arrived unannounced. By the time she’d stormed from his office, Tom was in no frame of mind to be dealing with anyone—least of all Jenny Holloway.

  And yet, here he was. Not only calling on her after dark and without the presence of a chaperone, but sitting beside her on the sofa, so close that her skirts pressed against his leg.

  It wasn’t very polite. Indeed, it was rather presumptuous of him.

  But she was his friend, she’d said.

  She was also beautiful and vibrant and unlike any female he’d ever known.

  They had only this one night together. Tomorrow she’d be gone, both from England and from his life. Perhaps that was why he felt such an uncommon urge to confide in her. To share something of himself that he’d never yet shared with anyone. “I give her an allowance,” he said abruptly.

  Miss Holloway’s eyes met his as she handed him his tea. “Mrs. Culpepper?”

  He balanced the porcelain cup and saucer on his knee. “It’s more in the way of a quarterly bribe.”

  “What in heaven for?”

  “Initially? It was because I wanted to see her. To know her.”

  “And she wouldn’t allow that unless you paid her? How very mercenary.”

  “Can you blame her? She has no education. No breeding. No opportunity for ready coin in her pocket. Her life has been nothing but hardship.”

  “She looked quite well when I saw her.”

  “Yes, well…since I entered her life, she’s developed a taste for fine things.” To put it mildly. Myra Culpepper ran through her quarterly allowance like water. Whether she spent any of it on her husband and children, Tom had no notion. All he knew was that her demands for money were increasing of late—as was her vitriol when he refused them.

  “How did you find out she was your mother?” Miss Holloway asked.

  Tom raised his cup to his lips. The tea within was piping hot and brewed just as he preferred it. Was it happenstance? Or did Miss Holloway remember?

  He certainly hadn’t forgotten the afternoons she’d had him to tea while in residence at Half Moon Street last October. Their visits hadn’t been particularly intimate. They’d talked mostly of Justin and Lady Helena. But Tom had looked forward to them. He’d dressed for them, too, making certain that his suits were pressed and his hair combed into meticulous order.

  It was the closest he’d ever come to properly courting a girl.

  Except that he and Miss Holloway weren’t courting. And she was—by her own admission—many years past girlhood.

  “There was an office in the orphanage,” he said. “The fellow who ran the place—a creature by the name of Cheevers—had a sort of filing system there. The door was always locked, but I was a small lad. The smallest among us. One afternoon, Thornhill boosted me in through a crack in the window so that I could rifle through the orphanage records.”

  “Your mother was listed there?”

  “The admittance records weren’t very meticulous, but yes. Her name was there. Thornhill’s mother as well. They were scullery maids up at the Abbey, back when it was owned by Sir Oswald Bannister.” He hesitated. “Are you familiar with the local history?”

  “Only what Helena’s told me.”

  Tom wondered how candid Lady Helena had been with her former companion. Had she told Miss Holloway that the late baronet regularly debauched his female servants? That the orphanage had not only been under his patronage but populated with several of his bastards?

  “Was Sir Oswald your father, too?” she asked.

  Ah. So she did know something of Sir Oswald’s relationship with the orphanage. “No. He’s Thornhill’s father but not mine.”

  “Thank goodness for that. I should hate to think—” She broke off. “That is to say, with her being only thirteen.”

  “Quite.” Tom refrained from pointing out that such concerns had never stopped Sir Oswald before. “Though I can’t say I’d have minded having Thornhill for a brother.”

  “He thinks of you as a brother, regardless.”

  “And I him.”

  “He never said anything about you having found your mother. Nor Helena. At least, not in my hearing.”

  “They don’t know about her. No one does except for me. And now you, of course.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “It’s been one of mine for a long while.” He didn’t think she would press him on it, but he nevertheless felt obliged to try and explain. “In the orphanage, I learned rather quickly that there was strength in knowledge. The whole place was built on shameful secrets. The more of them I knew, the more power I had. I developed the habit of keeping things to myself. Of sharing as little as possible. Sometimes there was reason. Other times, not. It’s been a difficult habit to break.”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “Do you know the identity of your father?”<
br />
  He rubbed the side of his face. The rasp of his whiskers abraded his palm. There’d been no time to shave after leaving Fothergill’s house. No time for anything, really, save a hasty trip to the East End. Good lord, but he must look an absolute disgrace.

  “Do you?” she prompted.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Mrs. Culpepper believes my father to have been either one of the footmen or one of the stable lads. She’s not entirely certain.”

  Miss Holloway’s eyes went wide.

  “She’s a survivor. She’s always done what she needed to do to get by. In that time and in that place, life was easier with the protection of a man. I don’t judge her for it.”

  “You don’t seem to judge her for much of anything.”

  “She was an ignorant girl of thirteen. Younger than thirteen when she started her employment. I won’t condemn her for the choices she was obliged to make.”

  “Not for her actions as a girl, no. But what about how she’s behaved as an adult? The way she treated you at your office today. I thought her ungrateful before I knew she was your mother. But now—”

  “I’m the least of Myra Culpepper’s concerns. She has a life of her own. A family of her own. Not only a husband, but two daughters as well.”

  “And a son.”

  “Ah, but she doesn’t consider me her son. Her family doesn’t even know I exist.”

  “You’ve never met them?” She sounded astonished.

  “I wanted to, in the beginning,” he admitted. “I was just a lad. It seemed a fine thing to have a family out there somewhere. Foolish of me, really. They’re not my family. Not in any sense of the word. She made that clear from the beginning.”

  Miss Holloway’s face tightened with something very like anger. “She doesn’t deserve you.”

  Tom’s chest constricted. He tried to smile but found he could not.

  “You know that, don’t you?” She reached out to him, covering his hand with hers. “You’re a good man, Mr. Finchley. One of the very best, if my opinion counts for anything.”

  His gaze fell to her hand. Her skin was silky soft, her fingers closing over his in a grasp that was both strong and tender. He swallowed hard. “It does. More than you know.”

  She gave him a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Not all women are cut out to be mothers. They haven’t the sensibility for it.”

  He flexed his hand. It tingled with an indelible warmth. As if she’d branded his skin with hers. Was she even aware of how she affected him? The way her slightest touch—her slightest look—altered the rhythm of his heart and breath? He doubted it. She sounded as crisp and no nonsense as she always did, her apple-tart voice tripping along.

  “My own mother was such a creature,” she said. “She should never have had children. Though one can hardly blame her. Women haven’t many choices, have they? We must all either marry and consent to being perpetually confined to childbed or end our days as a spinster, despised by all.” An unreadable emotion briefly clouded her brow. “That’s no excuse for Mrs. Culpepper, of course.”

  “Of course, but…” He tried to wrap his mind around what she was saying. “Surely life holds more choices for females than spinster or broodmare.”

  Miss Holloway’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

  Tom inwardly groaned. Hellfire and damnation. Had he truly just referred to married women as broodmares? And in the company of an unmarried lady? “Miss Holloway, I—”

  But she answered before he could make his apologies, responding—despite her blushes—as if he’d said nothing untoward at all. “For poor women, perhaps. But not for ladies of good breeding. For us, our very gentility acts as our prison.”

  He blinked. “Good lord. You sound like a reformer.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” A wry smile edged her mouth. “I’m not quite ready to exchange my petticoats for bloomers.”

  He nearly choked on his tea. “Thank God for that.”

  “You disapprove of reform dress?”

  “Only insofar as the women wearing it look deranged.”

  She flicked a glance at her skirts. “It’s far more functional than all of these petticoats and crinoline wires.”

  “You seem to function well enough.”

  She shrugged, smiling. “Needs must.”

  He found himself smiling, too. It was short-lived. Their discussion didn’t lend itself much to humor. “Is your mother still living?”

  Miss Holloway’s own smile faded. “She’s been dead these many years.” She sipped her tea. “My father is still alive.”

  “Does he live near to town?”

  “No. My father resides in Dorset. He has the distinction of being the longest-serving vicar in Chipping St. Mary—and the one most likely to deliver a sermon while under the influence of elderberry wine. He’s a drunkard, bless him, and a sad trial on my two older brothers. I count myself lucky to have escaped before he made me his drudge.”

  “A drunken vicar?” Tom emitted a short laugh. He didn’t know whether he should be amused or appalled. “I didn’t realize.”

  “How could you? It isn’t something I shout from the rooftops.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

  “You needn’t apologize. I make light of it myself on occasion. One must, you know. Without humor, one could easily fall into a black melancholy.”

  “Well, at least you can console yourself with the fact that you’re not alone. There are many among us who originate from unhappy families—or no families at all.”

  “A sad fact.” She took another sip of her tea, her expression pensive. “In truth, I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a happy family. I’ve encountered only two in my lifetime. And for all I know, their happiness was merely a façade to fool their neighbors.”

  “You’re a pessimist.”

  “Not a pessimist. A realist. In my experience, human beings are inherently disappointing. It only follows that marriage and family would be as well.”

  “Perhaps you merely haven’t met the right human beings. That is to say, the right gentleman.”

  She gave him a speaking glance.

  Tom’s lips quirked. “Come. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve never dreamed of marrying and having a family.”

  “And giving up all of my rights? Not only over my money and property, but over my body? No thank you.” She lowered her teacup. “That’s not to say that I haven’t had the odd longing.”

  “For marriage?”

  “Marriage. Romance. Whatever you wish to call it.” Her voice dropped. “It comes on as a pang in my chest.”

  Tom’s expression sobered. His own voice lowered to match hers. “I’ve felt it on occasion myself.”

  Her brows lifted. “Have you?”

  “I expect it’s natural in unmarried people of a certain age.”

  “I blame society. The pressure put to bear on ladies to marry is unrelenting.”

  “On gentlemen as well.”

  “It’s not the same, though, is it? A gentleman has all the power.”

  “In theory.”

  “In reality, sir. You must admit.”

  Tom privately agreed with her. Even so, her insistence on the rightness of her position left him feeling oddly frustrated. Defensive, even. Could she not admit that there was some benefit to the marital state? “Thornhill and Lady Helena seem happy enough.”

  “Ah, but their marriage is a rarity. For every relationship such as theirs, there are hundreds—nay, thousands—of couples in misery. And it’s worse for the women. Exponentially worse. The sober fellow who courts a girl may well end his days as a violent brute or a drunkard. And what is a married lady with a half dozen children to do then? She’s trapped. Her future beyond all hope.”

  His brow furrowed. “You disapprove of men who drin
k.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “Was your father violent toward you when he was drinking?” The very thought made Tom’s muscles tense with outrage. “Did he ever—”

  “No, he wasn’t violent. He was unreliable.” She briefly fingered the fine gold chain she wore round her neck. It was her only piece of jewelry. A simple necklace, absent the adornment of a locket, pendant, or charm. “He spent the housekeeping money and left the tradesman’s accounts unpaid. He was careless and sloppy and said things that he shouldn’t. Had I remained there, I’d have been forever making excuses for him. Forever cleaning up his messes. I can think of nothing more repugnant.”

  “Is that why you were so distressed at the idea of my having been out drinking?”

  “I wasn’t distressed. I was…disappointed. I never took you for a gentleman who was a slave to his vices.”

  “I’m not, generally.”

  She regarded him over the edge of her teacup, her blue-green eyes sharply assessing. “No. I don’t believe you are. Indeed, I don’t believe you permit anything—or anyone—to gain mastery over you.”

  “And you do?”

  “I haven’t had much choice, have I? I was first my father’s daughter, and then Lady Helena’s companion. But you’re right, Mr. Finchley. Now I’m at last myself, a whole person responsible to no one, I shan’t let anyone gain mastery over me ever again.”

  There was a thread of steel in her voice.

  “We’re all beholden to someone, Miss Holloway,” he said quietly. “Like it or not.”

  She placed her teacup and saucer down on the tea tray. Her posture was stiff. Formal. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was on the verge of saying something sharp to him. Something that would dispel the fabric of intimacy they’d woven around each other with their shared confidences.

  It wasn’t an ideal time to press such intimacy further. But Tom had learned to always keep his adversaries off balance. It was a useful tactic in law. One that came as naturally to him as breathing.

  “Mr. Finchley,” she began. “You—”

  “May I call you Jenny?” he asked.

  Miss Holloway stared at him, lips half parted. “I beg your pardon?”