Haven sympathized, but thought it was wisest to remain silent. However much he believed that Varens was an excellent match and that Rachel was a fool to let him slip away, he could not help but think that it was best for both, if there was no preference there on her side, that they should not see each other. His sisters had both been exposed to London society, but their Seasons had been spotty due to a couple of deaths in the family that forced them to withdraw for a period of official mourning. Rachel had only had enough exposure to London society to know that she wanted more, much more, and would settle for no beau who did not share her enthusiasm for the ballrooms and parlors of the elite.
Varens despised London, and his means were not such that he could afford to indulge a wife who wished to make her home there. If only he could see Pamela’s preference for him and fall in love with her. She relished the country and horses and loved Sir Colin’s estate, Corleigh, as a second home. She had made a friend out of Colin’s odd sister, Andromeda, and ran tame in their house when she visited. It would please Haven greatly to have his favorite sister and his best friend make a match of it. Unfortunately, Pamela seemed destined to forever remind Colin of a particularly pleasing puppy. He liked her, found her amusing, but did not think of her as a flesh-and-blood woman.
“Why are women so very impossible to understand?” Varens said finally, after a period of brooding silence.
Haven shrugged. “Not all women are like Rachel.” He thought of Mary, and her calm goodness, her sweet-tempered naturalness. Then he thought of all he had heard of Miss Dresden, her perfection of genteel manners, her rigid propriety. It would not do. He had been seriously considering the match, knowing the duty he owed to his title and his ancestry. The title had descended directly through seven generations, with no oblique movements to sully the line. He must marry and produce a son. But surely Miss Dresden was not his only choice? He had thought he was resigned to it, but now he did not know.
“If only we could marry wherever our hearts took us, Varens. If only.”
The other man gazed at him shrewdly, and said, “You’re thinking of Mary Cooper, are you not, my friend?”
Haven frowned and shook his head, confused, as always, as to what he felt for Mary. Sometimes he thought he loved her, but she had told him on more than one occasion that what he felt was friendship and familiarity, mixed with male need. He respected her opinion and thought that she was quite likely right. It had been a long time since he had made love to a woman, and Mary was very pretty in a country fashion, but if he was in love with her, he would be sure of it. In any case, she evidently felt nothing more for him than friendship, so the point was moot.
“We are an unprosperous pair of lovers, are we not, Haven?” Varens rose from his chair and stretched his lean body. “I must be on my way. I will see what I can find out about Miss Dresden’s disappearance. I’m appalled that a lady would suffer such a fate as abduction in our neighborhood.”
“I thank you for your aid, my friend.” The two men clasped hands warmly and Varens left, the smoky air swirling about him as he strode through the taproom. Haven was about to follow him out but noticed the landlord berating a young potboy in the entrance to the kitchen. The youngster had something in his hand, but the landlord snatched it from him and shook him by the shoulder, then pushed him off toward the kitchen.
“What goes on, Joseph?” Haven said, approaching the landlord. It was very late. A youngster that age should not still have been working.
“I caught the wee wretch sneakin’ back in from outside; escapin’ his dooties, he were! Should be in his bed under the kitchen work table, restin’ up for his work on the morrow instead of out in th’moonlight. Prob’ly poachin’ rabbits, the scalawag! Won’t stand fer that, I won’t. An’ then . . .” Barker looked down at his meaty fist and what was clutched within it. “Me lord, look at whut he had! Sed as how ’e found it under a cart in the stable yard.”
The landlord held out his hand and glowing in the dull light from a lantern in the hallway was a double string of perfect pearls. They spilled from his grasp and hit the floor with a clatter.
Chapter Four
Mary sat at her spinning wheel and paddled the foot treadle evenly. The comforting clunk-clunk and whir of the wheel was already a lullaby to her little baby. But as it happened, right that moment little Molly was not sleeping, she was laughing as Jenny tickled her under the chin. The girl had a natural hand with babies, though she claimed she had never even held one, much less taken care of one, before Molly. If that was true, then she must have a natural affinity for the wee ones. Molly, who sometimes fussed with strangers, had stared up into Jenny’s gray eyes that morning and cooed immediately, breaking into a delighted chuckle, something she only ever did for her mother and for Gerry.
But who was Jenny?
Throughout the day, with Jenny gaining strength, the color coming back into cheeks naturally rosy, they had spoken at length. Mary had finally asked, gently but without equivocation, who she was and how she came to be in the barn so late at night. She was not wholly nor even partially convinced that Jenny’s answer was truthful.
She claimed to be a lady’s maid trying to get home to Scotland. Nonsense. She was most definitely not Scottish, and Mary did not think she was a lady’s maid. The young woman explained that she had gone for a walk to stretch her legs while waiting for the stage to change horses, but got lost and wandered in the wrong direction. It did not sound likely or even possible, and yet, for all that it sounded like a lie, Mary was loathe to push her. There was a thread of weariness in the young woman and an undercurrent of desperation and confused misery that called out to Mary’s maternal instincts, even though Jenny was close to her own thirty years in age. And there was that torn dress. She gazed at her own neat stitches, so nearly invisible at the bosom of the dress. No, she would not push Jenny for an explanation just yet.
Mary removed a filled bobbin of fine wool from her spinning wheel and started a new one on the spindle. “Molly likes you,” she said quietly, watching the intimate scene.
“And I love her,” Jenny said, a trembling in her sweet-toned voice. She lifted Molly up and the baby flailed her feet in the rhythmic stamping motion babies do before they learn to stand and walk.
Mary pushed the treadle, starting the wheel and moving the basket of unspun wool closer to her feet. She paddled evenly, the steady speed keeping the thickness of the wool constant. How the work flew along when there was someone to converse with, and when Molly was being looked after! She watched the two on the hearth. Seeking more information about the mysterious young woman, she asked, “Would you like to have a babe of yer own?”
“I would.” Jenny bounced Molly up and down on her lap and the baby’s giggle rang out in cheerful peals, her dusky curls bouncing and jouncing in rhythm. “But one needs a husband first, and I’m not so sure I want one of those. They seem entirely more troublesome than babies.”
So not a runaway wife, which had been one of Mary’s conjectures about the young lady who sat in the stripped willow settle. The uncertainly in her voice had been too honest, Mary thought, and yet perhaps the girl was just a brilliant liar. How difficult it was to keep to her resolution not to pry just yet. She should be ashamed of her curiosity, she supposed, but she had so few visitors, and never one with a mystery accompanying her. “A husband is a change, to be sure. But where there be love, there be givin’ an’ takin’. My Jem had precious little notion how to go on with a woman in the house, at first. He had bin used for years to doin’ fer himself, and it took near a year after our weddin’ a’fore he would remember that I was there to make his tea and sew his buttons.”
“What was he like?” Jenny asked. She cradled the baby in her arms, her quick eyes having seen the little girl’s huge yawn and the fists that she rubbed in her eyes.
“Jem was the gentlest soul I hev met, save one more I could name. Some men be gentlemen in name only, and some are ‘gentle men’ down t’the soul. My Jem were one o’ th
ose, though he were only a farmer with no education to speak of. I wish he had lived to see Molly. What a pa he would ha’ made!”
Jenny’s expression, full of quiet empathy, made Mary realize how alone she had been for these past months since Molly’s birth. She had missed the company of other women, the instant bond of understanding. It was how she knew that whoever Jenny was—whether she was in trouble and fleeing, or just who she said she was, a lady’s maid out of work and on her way north—she was a good person, someone she could trust with Molly.
Conversation flowed on. Lord, she had not talked so much in a year, Mary thought. But with Jenny there was an easy exchange, a quick and happy chatter, the type of talk that soothes a woman’s soul. It was one thing Jem could never understand, why women liked to talk so much, and about trivialities sometimes, something as simple as the new waistline in dresses or the funny thing their child said that day. Never having been married before in his forty-four years, Jem was constantly puzzled by Mary’s need for conversation. Being with his wife was a complete change from the long, drawn-out silences between him and his cronies at the Tippling Swan, punctuated only by a dry observation of the weather, or a comment on how their stock went on.
But everything sped by so much quicker when there was conversation! Here she was with another full bobbin of wool spun already, and it was almost time to make lunch. A knock at the door made Jenny jump, and a worried look crossed her pretty face.
“Who could that be?” Mary said cheerily, though she had a hunch who it was. She didn’t have many visitors.
It was Haven, just as she had suspected, and he looked harried and tired. But Mary had seen the fear in Jenny’s eyes and thought it might be best for the time being to turn Gerry away. She glanced back over her shoulder and slipped out the door, placing one hand on Gerry’s chest and pushing him ahead of her.
“What is it, Mary?” he said, frowning. “Molly asleep? I’ll not bother her, you know that.”
“It’s not that,” she said. She crossed her arms over her bosom. The wind was chilly and the shade from the cottage, despite the brilliant sunshine that beamed down, was still wintry. March was often an unkind month on the moors, but thank the Lord, it was almost over. “I have company.”
His eyes widened, but then he shook his head, puzzled. “From almost any other widow in the world I would think that meant you had a gentleman caller, but I know you better than that, Mary.”
“Gerry,” she said severely. “I canna believe you even thought that fer one bare second, and do not say you didn’t, because you did!”
Shamefaced, he admitted it had crossed his mind despite his words to the contrary. “But it was just a fleeting thought and I didn’t entertain the notion for more than a few seconds, Mary, truly. Now, who is this company that I may not see?”
They had never had secrets from each other, and she knew that his persistence was just a failure to recognize his old friend’s right to a life that did not include him. It was frustrating at times and eventually, when and if she ever decided to seek a new husband, it would be awkward. But what was she going to do in this instance?
Mary took a deep breath and prepared to do something she had never done in her life, particularly not to Gerry, and that was lie. But what else could she do? It was not that she did not trust him with the truth; if the girl had been abused or was in physical danger from someone there was no one she would rather confide in than Gerry. But he was man, and if it was a case of not actual abuse but just a runaway bride, he might see things differently. There was something the girl was hiding, something that haunted her, but until Mary knew what it was— “It is my cousin Jenny.” It was the decision of an instant, to claim the girl as kin. And if she was ever going to back out of that falsehood, it had better be now. She dithered on the edge of saying she was just hoaxing him.
“Ah, you have spoken of your cousin before. Any cousin of yours is a cousin of mine, you know that, Mary,” Haven said, and pushed past her into the cottage.
She wanted to be angry at him, but she knew that he simply did not recognize that there would be any reason why his old friend would deny him the door. Mary followed him in, swallowing nervously. What had she done? Lying to her oldest friend in the world, and all for a girl she did not even know! Well, now it was done. In for a penny—
Haven was prepared to see a plain girl, for so Mary had always described her cousin Jenny, so when the girl at the fireside turned he was struck dumb, the breath sucked out of him as if he had been dealt a blow to the chest. She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen, plump and pretty, with glossy dark curls that cascaded down her back, restrained only by a bit of dark blue ribbon. Her lips were the color of cherry blossoms, a soft pink that stirred something deep within him, a dormant desire he had thought devoted only to his oldest friend in the world, Mary. And her eyes . . . he moved into the room as if on wooden legs, barely remembering at the last moment to yank off his cap.
The girl had looked away again, an indescribably enchanting expression of shyness and sweetness his last impression before she hid her face, holding the baby up and staring into the hearth.
“Even if I had not just been told,” he finally said, finding his voice, surprised at how it croaked, “I would know you for a relation of Mary’s.” He had the strangest impulse to fling himself at her feet, there and then. He swallowed hard, restraining his impetuous urge. “So you are her cousin Jenny. I have heard much about you, but nothing I have heard did you a bit of justice.”
The girl cast one wide-eyed look past Gerry to Mary, who stood still by the door, then glanced away again, speechless. Her sweet shyness entranced him and he moved closer to chuck the baby under her dimpled chin. “There, Molly, your old friend Gerry has come to visit. Gerry . . . uh, Gerry Neville at your service, Miss Jenny.”
Mary shut the door, closing off the cool breeze that eddied into the warm cottage, and she filled the kettle from a ewer of water on the table. “I’ll make tea,” she said, her voice tight and brittle with some kind of tension, “and some lunch. Can you . . . can you join us, Gerry?”
He breathed a sigh of relief and cast her a grateful glance. So Mary was not going to insist on any “my lording” or “Lord Haven-ing” right now. He had not expected such forbearance. But her cousin, a lady’s maid, he believed, from past conversations, would stiffen in the presence of a viscount and she was shy enough as it was. He tried to will her to look his way but all he could see was the rose blush of her smooth cheek. “I’d be glad to, if it won’t be putting you out.” This was what he needed after the turmoil of the past two days, he thought, sitting down on the hearth and gazing up at Jenny and Molly. He moved slightly and caught her eye.
Gray. Yes, her eyes were definitely gray, but never had he thought that color to be so soft and warm, like . . . like the breast of a mourning dove. And somehow familiar, as if he had seen them somewhere before, but not really—he shook his head. None of that made a bit of sense and he was not a fanciful man. She had turned back to him and his gaze fixed on her lips. Her voice now; would it be harsh and grating, or affected and nasally, or velvet-soft and sweet-toned? Her eyes were wide and curious. Conquering her shyness, she caught his gaze and held it, as if she were trying to read his soul.
“Have you ever been to Yorkshire, Miss Jenny?” His voice came out tight and still croaky. He cleared his throat.
“No, never.”
Soft. Toned like the highest bell in the church carillon, with a sweet note in it and yet clear. “I hope you like it here. Perhaps you would like to make it your home.”
“Oh, I . . .” She shook her head and her dusky curls tumbled over her shoulder. “I don’t think that will be possible.”
How did she get such a genteel speech, he wondered. His mother’s and sisters’ maids tried their best to emulate upper-class speech, but it was usually a poor copy at best. Jenny spoke like a . . . no, not like a duchess. The only duchess he had met talked like a stable boy. So, like Mary, wh
ose speaking was above her class somewhat. That well-bred speech must run in the family. And yet Mary still had the mannerisms of her youth, the Yorkshire inflections. Jenny’s was more refined. “Well, Miss Jenny, I’ll leave that up to Mary to try to convince you.”
How natural her childhood name sounded on his tongue, Jane thought, examining his face with growing interest. And how handsome he was! She had not expected a country gentleman to be so good-looking, in a bluff, brawny way. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-looking man, with thick, light brown hair that fell over his brilliant blue eyes. From his dress and manner she would guess him to be some sort of superior farmer; perhaps he had his own farm. Her customary shyness around gentlemen waned as they took turns holding Molly and playing with her, as Mary made lunch. She could see her new friend darting worried glances over at them and she knew what was bothering her. Mary must have told him that her unexpected guest and her cousin Jenny were one and the same person. She had felt from the start an empathy from Mary, a delicacy. She had not probed for her story and accepted without question what Jane had told her, which was just that she was a lady’s maid and was going north to find a new position near her cousin’s home.
That she did not fully believe her was clear and yet she had misled her friend, giving Jane time to take a breathing space. She was grateful. In time perhaps she could explain, but for now she was just grateful for this respite from her own world.
As time passed Gerry decided that Jenny’s resemblance to a lady of his own class was merely superficial. Her voice was lovely, her movements graceful, but her talk was more honest than the young ladies he had met in London, or even in his own district at local assemblies. She did not flirt, nor did she simper. She asked intelligent questions and listened to his answers, not flinching when the subject matter was not quite fit for a lady.
Lord Haven's Deception Page 5
