Lucas inhaled his first easy breath in days. Raising her fingers to his mouth, he kissed each digit in turn. “I will never give you reason to doubt.”
Epilogue
“If all good things must come to an end, then so must all the bad ones. But just because the past year has seen the abolition of slavery in all British territories and regulations preventing the employment of child laborers under nine years of age—two patent evils—this is no time to rest. Until all bondage, all cruelty, all oppression, all injustice everywhere is eradicated, there remains work to do.” – Lucas and Honora Delgado
December 18, 1833
Honora tied off the package that contained the pages of the next chapter of The Perils of Henrietta Hunter, Headmistress—the serial she and Lucas had begun writing after they’d finally run out of story lines for Persephone White and Gabriel Jones the previous year—and handed it to the waiting hall boy. “And buy me a copy of The Monthly Magazine while you are out,” she added, holding out a shilling. “I’ve heard there is a wonderful story in it by an anonymous author, and I wish to read it.”
Stuart nodded his curly golden head assiduously. “Yes, my lady. Of course, my lady,” he said before dashing from the study to attend to the errand.
Smiling wryly, she watched the energetic youth depart. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t been able to break him of the habit of referring to her as “my lady.” To be fair, it had not been easy to convince the rest of the staff that, while her father was an earl and she could therefore continue to use her courtesy title, she preferred plain Mrs. Delgado to the more obsequious forms of address.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Harry, had been the most frequent offender until Lucas had brought the young Stuart, a street urchin who’d attempted to pick his pocket, home last summer. It had been a gamble, of course, to offer the boy a position in service—not to mention an extravagance, for their modestly sized household had no need of a hall boy—but there’d been something guileless and charming about the gangly adolescent that had convinced them to give him a chance. Thus far, he’d more than proved himself worthy, demonstrating both cleverness and dependability in every task.
If only she could get him to stop m’ladying her…
She was about to turn back to the desk to sort through the last of the day’s correspondence when Lucas appeared in the doorway, toting their five-month-old daughter in what Honora could only describe as a sort of portable hammock. The ingenious device had been a gift from her mother-in-law and could be worn in a number of different configurations to allow an adult to securely carry an infant while keeping both hands free for other tasks.
This afternoon, Lucas had slung the continuous loop of fabric over one shoulder and settled Ixchel—properly named Isabella after Lucas’s mother but nicknamed after the Mayan goddess of rain on account of having been born on a fiercely stormy day—on the opposite hip so she could peer out at her surroundings. Honora’s heart did slow somersault at the sight of the pair. Was there anything more attractive than a handsome man carrying a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked baby as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a father to do? And Lucas was looking particularly fine in his austere blue waistcoat and crisp, expertly tied cravat.
Ixchel, with her dark hair and equally dark eyes, was very much her husband’s daughter, although Honora suspected the cherubic chubbiness of her face would melt away to reveal the square, stubborn Pearce chin. She certainly had a mind of her own and a will to match, as evidenced by her preference for her papa’s company over her nursemaid’s and, occasionally, even her mother’s. Honora could hardly blame her daughter, however, for she shared the predilection.
A tendril of desire tightened in her belly as she imagined him removing those starchy, reserved items of clothing to reveal the taut, chiseled body beneath. To think she had once believed herself incapable of such emotions and sensations! How mistaken she had been. And how fortunate that she had made the superficially foolish decision to rush into Rickert & Sons ahead of the police on that fateful afternoon. Otherwise, she might have spent the rest of her life without ever meeting the two most important people in the world to her.
“Please tell me you are nearly done,” her husband said, interrupting her train of thought. “Your daughter is looking for her next meal, and I haven’t got the proper equipment.”
At this reminder, Honora realized her breasts had become rather heavy. She’d quite lost track of the time.
Ixchel, having laid eyes upon her mother, jutted out her lower lip and stretched out her arms, her smooth brow furrowing with impending displeasure. Lucas jostled her up and down to forestall any crying.
“The rest can wait for tomorrow morning’s post,” Honora agreed.
But as they headed toward the staircase that led to the third floor and the nursery, the footman, Peters, exited the parlor, closed the door, and started down the corridor in their direction so abruptly that they nearly collided.
“I beg your pardon, sir, mil—madam,” the servant exclaimed, breathless and slightly red-faced. Peters possessed neither the exceptional good looks nor the prodigious stature demanded of footmen in fashionable households, but he was reliable, scrupulously well-groomed, and generally unflappable in his demeanor, and those qualities were more than sufficient for Lucas and Honora’s needs. But those virtues made his current perturbation all the more alarming.
“I say, whatever is the matter?” Lucas asked, clapping a steadying hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Have you shown a fire-breathing dragon into the parlor?”
“Worse. It is Mr. Noel Langston, sir.”
For heaven’s sake, Honora thought irritably, why should Peters be in a tizzy over a visit from her cousin? Noel lived just two doors down the street in a townhouse nearly identical to their own. The entire block of modest terraces belonged to her parents—all except their own, of course, which had been a wedding gift—and her father rented the rest to MPs from far-flung boroughs for whom finding affordable accommodations in London was often a challenge. When her cousin had won the seat for his hometown in Cumbria in the first election after passage of the Reform Act, it had been natural that one of the vacant houses would go to him. And it had been just as natural that Noel would call upon her and Lucas with great frequency, especially since the three of them often discussed pending legislation and political strategy.
Yet here was Peters, behaving as though her cousin were some notorious ne’er-do-well whose call was both unexpected and unwelcome.
“Noel,” her husband repeated, obviously as perplexed as she was. “Is something the matter with him?”
The footman swallowed hard, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “No, sir, he seems well enough. It is just that he has a—” With a cough, Peters glanced furtively over his shoulder before finishing, “A lady with him.” His cheeks flushed, and he practically whispered the final words, “And she is with child.”
So that was it. Peters’ delicate sensibilities had been set off by the sight of a pregnant woman. Perhaps he had jumped to some interesting and unquestionably inaccurate conclusions because the lady was in her cousin’s company. Knowing Noel as she did, however, Honora was quite certain that whatever his reasons might be, they were neither prurient nor disreputable.
She exchanged a look with Lucas, who read her expression and nodded. He said, “I’ll take Ixchel to the nursery while you see to your cousin. I’m sure I can put her off for another ten or fifteen minutes.”
Once her husband had mounted the stairs with their daughter, Honora turned to the footman. “I have everything well in hand, Peters.”
The young man’s features smoothed with obvious relief, and he bowed from the neck before heading back down to his usual station on the ground floor.
Entering the parlor, Honora said, “Well, Noel, you’ve thoroughly scandalized my poor footman,” and then broke off, drawing up short. Perhaps the servant’s reaction hadn’t been quite as wrong-headed or melodramatic as she had
first thought.
Her cousin stood beside one of the two chairs that flanked the fireplace hearth, stationed like a guard between whoever might come through the door and the chair’s occupant. But it was that occupant who took Honora’s breath away.
“Stunning” was the only proper word for the young woman perched there. Her face could have been molded by Pygmalion in the pursuit of perfection. The bright, cerulean color of her irises were probably her most arresting facial feature, but singling them out for attention gave short shrift to their setting, for her heart-shaped face with its dimpled chin and prominent cheekbones would have been exquisite on their own. Even her nose—seldom the best element of anyone’s features—was delicate and lovely, with a pretty Grecian slope and button tip. Only the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks might reasonably be called a flaw, and these merely served to highlight the velvety smoothness of her complexion.
And then there was her hair. Though she wore a plain day cap that had likely once been white but had since turned to ecru with age and use, a few red-gold curls escaped near her temples and cheeks, as vivid and showy as a sunset after a summer thunderstorm.
She sat with the straight, graceful posture of someone who had been raised to be a lady, but nothing else about her appearance suggested any such thing. Her dress was made of plain brown worsted wool and showed signs of wear in the form of fraying fabric and pulled seams. If she had worn a wrap—and on a day as chilly as this, she would have needed one to be comfortable—it must have been left in the entry hall. The boots that peeked from beneath the tattered hem of her skirt had once been black but were scuffed and worn to an iron-gray hue. She also wore no gloves, but folded her bare hands genteelly in her lap, just beneath the enormous bulge of her belly.
And the bulge truly was enormous. No wonder Peters had been shaken. Women at so advanced a stage of pregnancy generally did not leave their homes for fear of going into labor at an inopportune moment. By Honora’s reckoning, this lady—and she would consider this woman a lady and not, as she suspected her servant had done, a doxy who had somehow cozened her way into Noel’s good graces, at least until proved otherwise—was due to give birth any time between today and the next several weeks.
What in the name of perdition was going on here?
Fortunately, she did not have to ask the question, for almost before she’d had time to make all of these observations, her cousin said, “I apologize for the intrusion, cuz, but I could not think who else to go to on such short notice.” Stepping slightly aside to provide Honora with a clearer sight line to the lady in the chair, he said with a flourish, “Lady Honora Delgado, please allow me to present to you Miss Catriona Fergusson.”
There was that blasted lady again.
She did not scold, however, because Miss Fergusson made to get to her feet to complete the introduction.
“Oh, goodness, Miss Fergusson,” Honora said hastily, “please, stay where you are. I remember how difficult it was to get up and down at that stage.”
Noel flashed a knowing look at Miss Fergusson. “You see?” Turning back to Honora, he continued, “I am hoping you might be able to lend Miss Fergusson a few items of clothing that will fit her in her current condition. I’m afraid this is the only dress she presently possesses that she can wear.”
This revelation should not have come as any surprise to Honora. After all, if Miss Ferguson had another dress, she would be wearing that one unless, of course, it was in an even more deplorable state. Her heart clutched at the thought of a young woman, late in her pregnancy, having nothing to wear but one ragged dress.
And so near to Christmas, too! It was like having Mary and Joseph show up on her doorstep on the way to Bethlehem to ask her help. She did not see how she refuse, even if she wanted to, which she did not. Allowing Miss Ferguson the use of a few of the gowns she’d worn late in her own pregnancy was hardly any sort of hardship.
But even as she made up her mind that she would help in any way she could, Honora burned with curiosity. Who was Miss Ferguson to her cousin, the man who had told her he would never take a woman to his bed outside the bonds of marriage, lest he inadvertently father a child? Honora knew Noel too well to believe he would have reneged upon his vow, and yet, why would he bring Miss Fergusson here if he did not have some intimate connection with her? The Miss—notably not Mrs.—told a story in and of itself; the lady was both with child and unwed. Noel had always been a champion of reforms that would improve the lot of women, including and perhaps most especially the “fallen” ones, and children; it had been one of his promises when he’d run for office. Nevertheless, that advocacy had never strayed into the realm of offering such personal assistance to perfect strangers. On the other hand, she could not credit that they were lovers or that the child Miss Ferguson carried was her cousin’s.
Her mind whirled, but she managed to respond to her cousin’s request without blurting out any of the questions that hovered on the tip of her tongue. “Of course, I would be happy to do that. Although,” she added apologetically as she glanced out the front window at the gray drizzle that would likely turn to sleet or even snow by nightfall, “I’m afraid most of the items that are likely to fit will have been made for much warmer weather than we’re having now, so we shall have to find a few wraps that will suit to keep you warm.”
“That is very kind of you,” Miss Fergusson murmured. God, even her voice was lovely, clear and musical as bells but without a hint of shrillness. Under other circumstances, Honora might have been inclined to envy the other woman.
“It is no trouble at all,” Honora assured her visitor. To Noel, she said, “I’ll have to ask Nicks to find them in the back of the clothes press. How soon do you need them?”
Her cousin swallowed and his cheeks turned pink. “Well, the truth is, I was hoping we might leave with them within the hour,” he admitted, his tone sheepish. With a diffident glance at his companion that spoke volumes as to the shallowness of their acquaintance, he cleared his throat and continued, “You see, Miss Fergusson and I must be on our way to Scotland this afternoon.”
Scotland?
Honora inhaled sharply. There was only one reason for a man and a woman to travel together on short notice to Scotland.
Her cousin planned to marry Miss Fergusson.
The End…or is it?
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading A Bit of Rough. As you’ve probably already guessed, the next book in The House of Uncommons series will be Noel Langston and Catriona Fergusson’s story. First Comes Marriage is available for preorder now on all vendors except Amazon with a tentative release date of November 9, 2021. On Amazon, the release date is showing as June 22, 2022, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be that long. You can click here to preorder from any vendor where it’s currently available.
I have to confess that A Bit of Rough is a book I didn’t plan to write. Originally, First Comes Marriage was meant to be the first book in The House of Uncommons, but when I started writing it, I arrived at a point in the story where I needed to find Catriona something to wear on the trip to Scotland other than the one dress she possessed. I decided Noel’s cousin, Honora, would be the source of that gown. But as soon as I had that idea, I realized I wanted to know how she had come to be married and a mother.
I’d also known for quite some time that I wanted to feature a character of native Mexican ancestry in a historical. My husband is of Mexican descent and in recent years, we’ve developed close ties with a family in Merida through their son, who lived with us while attending high school and then college from 2018 through 2020. (He just returned this month after more than a year and will be with us for another two years.)
We had visited the Yucatan peninsula once before in 2012 and instantly fell in love with the warm climate, the amazing cuisine, and the kindness of the people, but it was our visit in June of 2019 to watch our “volunteer son” play water polo in Mexico’s version of Junior Olympics that made us decide we wanted
to put down roots in Merida. We made an offer on a house the following January and finally closed this past February.
None of this makes me even close to an expert in either Mexican culture or history, but I have learned a great deal that I didn’t know before. One of the most intriguing (to me) is the fact that the Mexican War of Independence was kicked off by Napoleon Bonaparte’s invasion of Spain in 1808. Many of the people in what was then New Spain were none too pleased about the idea of a French viceroy and fought back. That fact made me think about the intersections between British and Mexican interests and how a family fleeing Mexico during the Regency could very well wind up taking refuge in England. And thus, Lucas’s backstory was born.
I don’t want to bore you with a lot of details, but I do want to mention that Gonzalo Guerrero, Miguel Hidalgo y Castillo, Vicente Guerrero, and Anastasio Bustamante were all real people, and it’s worth reading their Wikipedia pages (which I’ve linked you to) because each of them played a significant role—for better and, in at least one case, worse—in the development of the “other” united states in North America.
The idea for this series first came to me when I was writing My True Love Gave to Me in August or September of 2020. I’d been planning a “duke” series next—complete with very punny titles—but in the midst of the pandemic and with the prospect of another four years of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in the Oval Office looming over us, I just wasn’t feeling it anymore. I decided I wanted to write about characters who don’t just give lip service to progressive ideals and liberal values, but who put their money where their mouths are. A spinoff from The Lords of Lancashire series was an obvious vehicle, because the children of its protagonists would be reaching adulthood at exactly the right time to have a hand in the social upheaval and political reforms of the early 1830s.
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