Saints and Sinners

by Karen V. Wasylowski

  Bridget wanted for nothing, physically or emotionally, better yet found no burden in being extremely wealthy for once in her life. With tenant farms in the north, breweries in the south, their numerous textile mills around Glasgow, and a large estate near Edinburgh, the family traveled often, with every other year including a tour of the continent, visits to Italy, France and Germany.

  In the end, the Darcy’s nursery maid had emerged like a swan into Lady Bridget Catriona Durand – privileged, well-heeled and titled. She had forgotten completely about Matthew Fitzwilliam, could not recall the last time she’d even thought of him or the little love nest they’d shared in London.

  Or so she’d told herself time and again over the years.

  Then why had she eagerly returned to this place now, if she was so happy in Scotland? Certainly her only motivation had been to support Alex as he awaited word of his brother, to comfort him as he had comforted her – saved her, really – so many years before. All had been going according to plan until that meeting at the Darcy’s home.

  Matthew.

  Seeing him – well, it was like being awakened from a deep sleep. All the feelings rushed back to her, all the emotions. The world was shimmering with tension, excitement, passion again. It vibrated.

  She felt so ashamed.

  Turning from the window, Bridget pressed cool hands to her warm face. Why was she having these thoughts? He was her past, never her present, and certainly not her future; and, she had no intention of rekindling their love affair – that thought never crossed her mind when she’d agreed to come to London.

  Possibly.

  Probably.

  Alone with her feelings she began to pace the room. Ewan and Alex had left to visit Tattersalls and survey the stock there, then planned on visiting the Crystal Palace and Regent’s Park. A pity she’d dreaded joining them; but what if someone had recognized her? What if someone knew of her past? Would that cause problems for Ewan? For Alex? She had worked as a servant in two families before the Darcy’s, would Ewan be ashamed of his mother if he saw people whisper as she passed, or smirk and laugh behind her back? She shivered and pulled her shawl closer. Ewan and I must return to Scotland as soon as possible, she decided. Best that we both forget this place.

  Yet, tears filled her eyes at the thought. Heaven help her, she really did want to see Matthew once more before she left. No, that wasn’t true. Was it? Perhaps just for a moment? Was that asking too much from God? She needed to busy herself, stop these ruminations. Picking up a basket of mending she vowed to forget his coldness toward her at the Darcy’s, his sarcasm with Alex. He’d soften only when he would look at Ewan and Bridget cherished that memory. How many thousands of times had she’d imagined their first meeting?

  Of course, he’d known immediately it was his son, but had not become cruel with the child as she feared he might. In fact, he’d spoken kindly with the boy, like a favored uncle. It was all that she had ever hoped for… so, why was there a sense of foreboding in her heart?

  Much too quiet in these rooms, that was the problem; it was much too quiet. She was edgy, nervous. The man she had known was unpredictable, his moods mercurial at times. He would never do anything to harm his child, would he? He might have revenge on her and Alex, but not at the expense of the child. She returned to her mending, sorry now that she’d not gone with her husband and boy.

  This waiting was driving her mad.

  At the soft rap on the door Bridget started then laughed at herself for being such a fool. “Come in.”

  A female member of the hotel staff peeked inside. “Madam?” It was one of the maids who daily cleaned their rooms, brought them meals, changed their sheets.

  “Yes, Dora. May I help you?”

  “Madam, you have a visitor downstairs. A gentleman what says ‘e ‘as news for you and Sir Alex.”

  Bridget tensed immediately. “A visitor? At this early hour?” Who would be calling at ten o’clock in the morning? She wasn’t expecting anyone, wasn’t dressed to receive guests; besides, she and Alex had become acquainted with very few people in London. Then it struck her – Could this be news of Jamie and Anne Marie? Mr. Darcy told Alex he would have someone from Whitehall call on us before any information was made public.

  “Does the gentleman appear to be a government official?”

  “I dunno, Madame.” The young woman glanced over her shoulder before continuing in a whisper, “’e refused to give Mrs. Tenny ‘is name; but ‘e do look very grand, I must say. Could be Lord of the Admiralty for all and that, ‘e certainly acts like it.”

  Finally! And Alex not at home! Dear Lord, she prayed it was good news for her husband’s peace of mind; and, selfishly, for her own so she might leave here quickly and return home. She would send for Alex, now, right away – wait! Unless it was bad news. She prayed it wasn’t bad news! Well, they’d deal with that if, and when, the time came.

  “My husband is not present, it would be improper for me to welcome the gentleman here. Is there a parlor downstairs available for me to speak with him?”

  “No Madame, and ‘e insisted that ‘e be allowed to deliver ‘is news to you straight away. ‘e said it was a matter of grave importance – what you might call National Security – and, be quick about it so’s ‘e could deliver ‘is next message.”

  “He actually said all that?”

  “No. But that’s what we all thinks. ‘e does look like ‘e’s in a big ‘urry. Very somber like.”

  “Good heavens. It’s bad news then, I fear. Very bad.”

  “That’s what Mr. Chappie, thought as well, so ‘e sent me up to warn you that gentleman was already comin’ up. I am that sorry, madam; but none of us ‘ad the nerve to say no. I know it weren’t proper and all to bring ‘im ‘ere to your rooms, what with Sir Alex away; but… well, it do seem very serious, and Mr. Claridge isn’t about for any of us to ask what ‘e thinks best. ‘onestly, ma’am, I’m certain ‘e won’t mind.” Many of the hotel staff knew the Scottish couple were awaiting news from the War Office, as were so many others.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Her heart pounded. “Could you please see him in then and remain? I’ll be just a moment – I shall need to put on my shoes and change my cap. Oh, and could someone take a message to my husband immediately? I believe he and our son can be found at the Crystal Palace, or at Regent’s Park.”

  “I’m sure we can find a lad outside to take it for you, ma’am.”

  “Yes. Yes, that would be very kind of you. Here I’ll write it down…” Hastily she scribbled out a note and handed it to the servant.

  Matthew gazed about the elegant hotel room, the parlor of a large suite that encompassed a good deal of the top floor. Durand was certainly doing things up grand for his woman – all this must be costing him a pretty penny. Pity she was of a lower class, though, unable to appreciate the finer things. A good tumble in the sheets had made up for her lack of connections, he supposed. And, Bridget certainly had been damn good in the sheets. That thought brought on a hot flash of anger he could not hold back a moment longer, and Matthew kicked a nearby chair cracking the leg. Damnation, get hold of yourself, man. He must remain calm, he cautioned himself, his objective paramount. He wanted his son.

  Spying a small daguerreotype by the window he walked over, snatched it from the table and pulled back the curtain for better light. Just as he thought. It was her. The Bitch. Sitting with his infant son in her arms, her idiot husband behind them looking as smug as if it was his son in her lap, his seed that had taken root in her belly. Damn cripple should go to hell. Again, a rage flashed through him. How could she not have told him about this? She would suffer – they’d both suffer – suffer as I have been suffering without her, every second, every day, every month, every year...

  “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, sir. I am – Matthew!”

  Emotions surged through him when he heard her speak his name, heated memories, long suppressed images. Every loving moment between them, every fight, every
morning waking with her sleeping in his arms, laughing with her, shouting with her. Pain and ecstasy, both at once. He replaced the picture before he turned and bowed. “Lady Durand.”

  “Why on earth are you here? Where is the gentleman from the Admiralty?”

  “How should I know? Probably at the Admiralty.”

  “I don’t understand. The maid informed me someone from there was wanting to speak with me about my brother-in-law.”

  “Nothing to do with me. Perhaps she misunderstood, possibly I did mention something along that line. Oh, stop staring at me that way. I could hardly offer her my true identity, could I? Gossip charges through London society like a flaming carriage. Besides, why run the risk of your refusing to see me.”

  Considering how hard she was trembling he had probably been right. “I don’t know what to say to you.” Although nine years had passed he still was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, the bits of grey at his temples very striking. How dreadful must she look to him. It was an unfair fact that years wore harder on a woman than a man. Was her figure a bit thicker, her hair dull and lifeless? She suddenly felt matronly and dowdy, foolishly shaking like the last leaf of autumn.

  “Instead of looking at me as if I had four heads you could ask after my health. That’s a common courtesy – even in Scotland – and, one you neglected to extend at the Darcy’s.”

  “Sorry.” She was certain she’d vomit at any moment. “How have you been, Matthew?”

  “None of your business. And, I should prefer you address me as Lord Fitzwilliam if you please.” There, that told her plainly enough he wanted to conduct this in a calm, detached, sensible manner. Odd then how he was grasping his hands behind his back to avoid reaching for her. He thought he was done with her, yet she still could arouse him, the years detracting nothing from a face and figure that remained those of a Siren. He was gratified when annoyance flashed across her face. He wanted her annoyed.

  “Well, Lord Fitzwilliam, you should have warned us of your arrival. My husband is not at home to receive you.”

  “That works out well since I have no desire to be received by him.”

  His narrowed gaze on her was so intent she imagined rivulets of perspiration streaming down her forehead. “I see.” She looked about. “Where is the maid I asked to remain?”

  “Said she’d be gone only a moment, that she was going to find someone to send a message for you. I told her to do it herself and not return.”

  “Oh. Then I must insist you leave. It is improper for us to remain alone here.”

  “Improper? Damn me if you haven’t got the cheek. Lady Durand, you forget I’ve seen you naked. If I recall correctly, we even danced a waltz completely bare-arsed once. Do you still have that curious mole on the inside of your thigh? And now see how she blushes, pats the moisture from her upper lip with her handkerchief. Must mean you do.”

  “Matthew! How dare you!”

  She looked humiliated – perversely exciting to him. He sat down, crossed his legs and tossed his hat on the table, reached into his pocket for a cigar. “Feel free to make yourself at home, Bridge; take a seat.” He clipped the end of his cigar. “Here’s the thing. I shall be staying as long as I wish, with or without your consent, unless you desire an anonymous complaint be entered with the authorities against Mr. and Mrs. Claridge.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, for accommodating shocking and unsuitable behavior involving the wife of a new member of the House of Commons seen entertaining a gentleman who is not her husband, while alone with him in their rooms.

  “Believe me, a few words whispered in the right ears and the scandal to the owners, not to mention your husband, would be devastating.” He leaned over to light his cigar with the table lantern, took several puffs then rolled it back and forth in his fingers. “These really are delicious. Would you like to try one? Do you remember, years ago, when we were taking a bath together, you insisted I allow you to take a puff on my cigar for the first time, and you began to cough? How we laughed. Later you went on to take another large object into your mouth for the first time as well.”

  Bridget tried not to show her horror at his words, or her shame. Most importantly she tried not to throw something at his head. Oh, she knew this man – he would be increasingly crude and provoking if he saw it upset her, but she wouldn’t break, she would need to take care. “Please, may I at least open the door?”

  “No.” Glancing about the room, Matthew puffed away. “I must say, well done, you. You’ve made this drab room look almost homey. Such a perfect little wife.” On the mantel he saw another daguerreotype, this one of Bridget staring adoringly at Alex, immediately setting his blood to boil. He wanted to hit something, put his cigar out on that likeness. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Sir Alex appears very laird of the manor in that one. I notice he’s seated while you stand, though. Tell me,” he tapped his ashes onto the floor. “Are all the activities of a healthy, vigorous man difficult for him?”

  Her humiliation was beginning to give way to rage – but, she bit her tongue. She needed to steel herself against lashing back, keep in mind that Matthew came from a large and powerful family that could easily destroy her little one. “May I ask after your wife, Lady Fitzwilliam?”

  “Clarissa? Completely unhinged, a lunatic. Or a changed woman, reborn. Take your pick. Most of the time the old tart is holier than the Archbishop of Canterbury – who is her actual godfather, by the way. Fortunately for me that particular metamorphosis occurred after our daughter’s birth, and not before. Poor thing had a rather bad time of it, apparently, clamped her legs shut, and willed her ‘Virgin’s Flower’ to mend. Probably succeeded, too.”

  “Get out! I refuse to listen to you any longer. You are being deliberately vulgar and disgusting.”

  “My, how delicate you’ve become. Seems my wife isn’t the only sinner turned saint.” It was satisfying to see Bridget’s temper enflamed, even though Matthew knew in hurting her he would be hurting himself much worse, they were still one after all. Ah well, that would come later when he was alone – it was the present that concerned him. He stood and began to stroll about the room before turning to face her. “Shall I tell you a very funny story?”

  “Yes. Please. Especially if that will speed your departure.”

  “How rude.” He almost laughed. “You do realize you said that out loud, don’t you?”

  “Did I? Imagine my embarrassment. Excuse my bad manners.” What time was it? Her husband said their excursion would take at least an hour then they would visit a shop for sweets. She glanced at the clock, suddenly remembering the note sending for him. Could this morning become worse? Evidently, yes.

  “Where have they gone, by the way?”

  “Who?”

  “Queen Victoria and her dogs. Whom do you think – the boy and your husband, of course.”

  “Not that it is any of your concern, but they have gone to Tattersalls, and to the park.”

  “Tattersalls and a walk in the park? Good God, whatever is Durand trying to prove? That he is normal, that he can function as well as any man? The fact that you haven’t a house filled with children already tells me he is incapable of fu–”

  Bridget jumped to her feet. “How dare you!”

  “Temper, temper, Lady Durand. By the way, I should be quiet if I were you – hotels are notorious for employing servants with large ears.” He grinned in satisfaction when her mouth clamped shut. “Finally, something to silence you. After all, how often did you regale me with tales of my cousin Anne Marie and her then suitor, James Durand, when you were employed at the Darcy home, trusted by them?”

  Perhaps if she fainted, he would leave. Doubtful. She would probably awaken covered in cigar ash. Hopefully her husband would not receive her note and Ewan would find something interesting to occupy them a while longer. One thing was certain, Matthew was in a vicious mood; she really needed to end this before they returned. “Tell me what you have to say and be done
with it.”

  “All in good time, all in good time. First, I must tell you my humorous story.”

  “I am in no mood for a story.”

  “You believe I care – how quaint. Well, this story concerns something that happened to a married friend of mine many years ago. Poor fellow thought he was madly in love with an unsuitable young woman. Lived for her. Trusted her. Nothing would have come of it, obviously; she was a common thing, socially far beneath him. Truth be told she wasn’t much better than a tart. Oh, I see I’m upsetting you. Again, pity. To continue, one day my friend finally left his wife, told her he was going to divorce her, even though doing so would bring scandal upon both their families. He then hurried out into the night to be with his great love; and, do you know what he found?”

  Her head ached, her eyes burned with tears – please God, help me to not cry, not in front of this man.

  “Have you no curiosity? No? Well, I shall tell you anyway. She’d run off with another. He wasn’t even a whole man – rather more half man, half invalid. And, if that wasn’t insult enough, she chose the one fellow he despised. They even sold the house my friend had settled upon her. Made a decent profit from it too.”

  “Matthew.” Bridget rasped, unable to speak another word for several moments. “Matthew, please leave this place. I beg you.”

  “Go on, you say? Yes, happy to oblige.” Taking a seat again he pretended to ponder. “Where was I? Oh yes… Well, what was my friend to do? Intellectually he knew that one woman is much like another in the dark, so he returned home, and in a brief, drunken union with the missus, he created a child. A gift from God that saved his sanity, not to mention his life. So, you see, the moral of the story is this – if you’ve been cuckolded by a heartless little bitch, do not fret; in the end it may actually turn out to have been a blessing.”