The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  During her first stay in the city, Sydney had met the Fairfax sisters through a new friend, Lady Allyson Crossleigh, daughter of the Earl of Rutherford. One day the two young women had been out shopping with their maids in tow and a carriage driver and footman always near. As they strolled past the entrance to an alley, they heard a cry of pain and dull thumps and grunts. Both ladies instantly turned toward the sounds.

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Allyson’s maid cried in a knowing tone.

  “My lady, perhaps—” Maisie’s cautionary note died away.

  It was too late. Their mistresses had both rushed into the alley to behold a boy of seven or eight being set on by two boys of ten or twelve. The youngest one was curled into a fetal position as the older ones kicked at him.

  “Stop that! Stop it this instant!” Lady Allyson made a grab for one of the older boys.

  He slipped out of her grasp with a loud yelp. “Lawks! Jamie! Fergit ’im. Come on! We got ’is blunt.”

  The second attacker dashed past Sydney, who was already bending over the younger boy as he struggled to rise. Sydney helped him up and grabbed onto his shoulder when it was apparent that he, too, would try to flee.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Not so’s ya’d notice,” he said and tried to wrench away. “Ye can let go o’ me.”

  Sydney tightened her grip. “I think not.”

  Lady Allyson turned back in disgust. “The other two got away. I had the one and he just slipped out of my hand. Is this one hurt?”

  “I believe he is only bruised.” But when she ran a hand along his side, the boy gasped and flinched. “Perhaps not,” she added.

  “I’m that glad you got them two off’n me,” the boy said, “but I’m all right now so ye can let me go.” He seemed to be trying to act grown up, but Sydney detected little boy fear beneath the calm tone. She noted that his clothing was torn and dirty and that he was painfully thin. A street urchin, she decided.

  Both women ignored him.

  “You have no business being on the streets alone,” Lady Allyson said. “We shall take you to your parents. Where are they?”

  “Ain’t got none,” he muttered. “Now you just let me go.” Again he tried futilely to wrench himself from Sydney’s grasp.

  She shook him by his shoulder. “What do you mean you have no parents?”

  “I ain’t got none,” he repeated. “I get by on my own. Don’t need any.”

  At this moment, Lady Allyson’s footman dashed into the alley. “My lady, are you all right? Molly said—”

  “I am quite all right, Nathan. Now if you will just take this lad in hand—”

  “No!” the boy yelled and kicked and then cried out in pain as the footman picked him up.

  “Careful,” Sydney cautioned. “I think he may have a bruised or broken rib.”

  “All right, boy. Just calm down now,” the footman said and held him more gently. It was clear the child was going nowhere.

  The group made their way to Lady Allyson’s unmarked carriage. The coachman and footman had been slowly following the ladies as they darted from shop to shop earlier.

  “Fairfax House,” Lady Allyson told the coachman. “Nathan, you ride inside with us to hold the boy.” She and Allyson handed the coachman the packages they had retrieved as they exited the alley. Along with the two maids, they squeezed into the now crowded carriage.

  “His lordship won’t like your going to Spitalfields, my lady,” the footman said.

  Sydney thought this rather a bold comment from a footman.

  “He need not know of it unless you feel compelled to tell him,” Lady Allyson replied. She then explained to Sydney. “Papa has this bee in his bonnet that I need some sort of protection—from heaven knows what.”

  “What she needs is a keeper,” the saucy footman muttered barely audibly, as he sat with the protesting child in his lap.

  “This here’s kidnappin’! Ye can bloody well hang fer that!”

  “Here! You watch your language around ladies.” The footman shook him, bringing forth an exaggerated yelp of pain. “Who’d want to kidnap the likes of you?”

  The boy was clearly afraid, but he kept a sulky silence until they reached Fairfax House.

  Permanent members of Fairfax House included Miss Penelope Fairfax, her sister Miss Priscilla, and three servants who, Sydney discovered later, were more like family members. Samuel Boskins, butler, footman, handyman, was an ex-soldier who had lost his right arm in a battle on the Peninsula; his wife was the cook-housekeeper; and there was a maid named Betty Lou. All had been rescue projects of the Fairfax sisters: the homeless Boskins couple from the streets and Betty Lou from a local brothel.

  On this day, Sydney and Lady Allyson were ushered into the Fairfax drawing room and Mrs. Boskins presently appeared with some tea and biscuits. She reported that “the boy is settling down quite nice like—but he’ll bear watchin’.”

  “Well, if we have learned nothing else in the last ten years and more,” the angular, gray-haired, and usually austere Miss Penelope Fairfax said, “we have learned that if people—even young ones—do not want our help, it is wise not to press it upon them.”

  “But we do try harder with the young ones,” Miss Priscilla said. Priscilla Fairfax was also gray-haired like her sister, more open in her demeanor, more ready to laugh.

  In the course of this conversation and the one later in the carriage ride home, Sydney learned the scope of the sisters’ work with the poor of Spitalfields. They not only provided “in house” care, but they also distributed donations to needy folk in the neighborhood.

  “I do as much as I can,” Lady Allyson said. “I pester people shamelessly.”

  “I shall be glad to join you,” Sydney replied, delighted to have found a kindred spirit.

  A few weeks later Sydney had been equally glad to learn that the boy—his name was Walter, but everyone in Fairfax House called him Wally—had, indeed, settled in nicely.

  “I do not know how we ever got on without him,” Miss Fairfax said. “He is very adept at running errands for us. And he is learning to read,” she added proudly.

  Now, on her return to London, Sydney was happy to lend the Fairfax sisters her support, moral and financial. It had, in fact, been Sydney’s idea to expand the facility by purchasing the property next door. With proper renovations and additional staff, it would allow the Fairfax sisters to serve more people. Sydney was quite sure she could bury the expense among Paxton accounts.

  She regularly turned down invitations to balls and musical soirees in her efforts to abide by society’s unwritten but rock hard rules for grieving widows. She felt she owed Henry that degree of respect. However, she did make and receive morning calls. Among the regular callers at Paxton House now was Lieutenant Trevor Harrelson, late of His Majesty’s forces in the Peninsula. He had made a call on Miss Carstairs his most urgent social obligation on his return to England. Sydney tried to listen only casually, even indifferently, whenever Lieutenant Harrelson mentioned his erstwhile commander, but she could not stop the little flip of her heart at any mention of the man—nor the shiver of apprehension at the control he might now hold over her entire life.

  She learned some fascinating details of Zachary Quintin’s exploits as a soldier and as an exploring officer, though she had to smile at the discretion the lieutenant employed in telling the tales in a London drawing room.

  “But why did Captain—I mean Major—Quintin not return to England with you?” Celia asked the question Sydney was dying to ask herself.

  She thought Lieutenant Harrelson seemed uncomfortable as he answered. “He—uh—he had to return to Spain for one last mission. Didn’t need all of us. Tie up loose ends, so to speak.”

  “Oh,” Celia said. “I do hope he will return in time for the grand celebrations of the state visits.”

  Sydney also refused to forego her interest in the theatre. It was one of the few interests she had shared with her husband. One night in late June s
he dressed carefully in a silvery gray silk gown trimmed in black to attend a performance of the famous Edmund Kean as Richard III. The theatre party, which had been planned for some time, included Sydney’s friend Lady Allyson and her new husband, Lord Nathan Thornton, for the erstwhile saucy footman had turned out to be the younger son of a duke. Others were Aunt Harriet, Celia, and Lieutenant Harrelson. As the elegant Countess of Paxton entered her own box, she chanced to look across at persons just entering another box and found herself gazing directly into the dark eyes of Major Zachary Quintin.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sydney had braced herself for this moment. She was sure she had her emotions under control.

  Lieutenant Harrelson had called two days ago. Seated in the family drawing room, he had delivered to Celia and Sydney the news that Major Quintin had not only returned to England, but he had not come alone.

  “What do you mean he is not alone?” Celia instantly demanded.

  “Brought his son with him,” Lieutenant Harrelson said, then paused dramatically.

  “His son?” Sydney and Celia spoke at once in surprised tones.

  Harrelson nodded. “His son. The major married a Spanish lady in early ’thirteen.”

  “And you are just now telling us?” Celia accused.

  Sydney was stunned. Zachary married? Somehow she had never imagined him with another woman in his arms. And they had had a child? Why not? she admonished herself. He had a right to a life of his own. Still, this news came as a profound shock.

  Harrelson was answering Celia. “Couldn’t tell you earlier. Had to be a secret. Army rules against it, you know. Also, they wanted to avoid the scandal broth likely when her father found out. High in the Spanish government, he is.”

  “So Major Quintin brought his wife to England?” Celia clapped her hands. “Oh, this is such a romantic story. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

  Still reeling inwardly, Sydney was glad to leave the conversation to the other two. Sunlight streamed through the windows and there was the occasional rumble of a carriage on the street below, but none of this registered with her.

  “Hadn’t thought of it like that,” Harrelson said, “but you’re right. Real tragedy here, too.”

  Celia frowned. “Tragedy?”

  “The major’s wife died. In childbirth.”

  “Oh, how sad,” Celia said.

  “When?” Sydney asked.

  “Hmm. Seven or eight months ago, I think, but the major did not know until recently. He went back to Spain after Toulouse. Found out then.”

  It occurred to Sydney that Zachary had lost his wife within weeks of her losing Henry. She managed to make it through the rest of Harrelson’s visit with an occasional murmur here and there, but her mind was in a whirl. Zachary was back. Zachary, who had so charmed a much younger Sydney. Zachary, whose kiss had been so mesmerizing. Zachary, who had been a party to Henry’s duplicity. Zachary, who might now wield a frightening degree of power over the Countess of Paxton—and over her son.

  When Celia and the lieutenant departed for a drive in the park, Sydney sought the privacy of her own bedchamber, where she spent a good deal of time pacing and considering dozens of “what ifs”—some wildly unreasonable, some within the realm of the possible, if not always the probable.

  Finally, the ever practical Lady Paxton gave herself a mental shake. She would have to wait and see, then consider her options. But she deeply resented having to wait—being forced to react to someone else’s position instead of acting on her own. With this rebellious thought, she reasserted control over her emotions.

  Or thought she had.

  Until her gaze locked with his in a crowded theatre. The fact that he was dressed in his army uniform, looking very much as he had when she had last seen him, on her wedding day, added to her confusion, though she knew all Wellington’s officers were encouraged to appear in public in uniform during these days of celebration.

  Now her careful control had deserted her. She felt a tightness in her chest and her knees suddenly seemed weak. She managed a slight nod in Zachary’s direction and quickly averted her eyes as she took her seat in the front of the box, between Allyson and Aunt Harriet. She wished she had insisted on one of the rear chairs. She wished she had stayed home.

  She tried unsuccessfully to keep her gaze from straying to that other box. So far it contained only two people, Zachary and a comely young woman. Less than a week in town and he already finds solace in female companionship? She immediately chastised herself for the pettiness of this thought. When she glanced again and saw an older couple enter that other box, she was more than a little vexed with herself, for she recognized Lady Leanora and her husband, Mr. Horatio Quintin, Zachary’s parents. She had met them only briefly on a previous sojourn in the city.

  Drury Lane had been one of the first of London’s theatres to install the modern gaslights. Now as the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose, Sydney turned her attention resolutely to the stage. However, she actually absorbed very little of the inimitable Mr. Kean’s performance. During the interval, she noticed that two other gentlemen had joined the party in the Quintins’ box, one in civilian attire, the other in uniform.

  Celia leaned closer to whisper to Sydney, “Did you see Major Quintin?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Sydney merely nodded.

  Lady Allyson looked in the direction Celia indicated. “Lady Leanora is one of my mother’s dearest friends. Come, Nathan, we must pay our respects,” she urged her husband.

  Celia, Lieutenant Harrelson, and Aunt Harriet all decided to “take a stroll” before the second half of the play. Sydney welcomed a moment alone. She noticed that there were now several people crowded into the Quintin box, but Zachary was no longer one of them.

  A tap at the door to her own box heralded the arrival of a visitor. And there he was: the Zachary she had known in Bath, though his complexion was darker, the scar on his face faded now, and the lines around his eyes more distinct.

  “Lady Paxton.” He glanced around and seemed surprised to find her alone. “I hope I am not intruding.”

  “Major Quintin. No, of course not. Please. Have a seat.” She was as nervous and unsure of herself as a green girl at her first grown-up affair.

  He held her gaze for a long moment, then glanced away. He took the seat Lady Allyson had vacated. As he sat, he bent forward and she caught a faint familiar whiff of his shaving soap—which did nothing to help quell the riot in her innards. She tried to calm herself by inhaling deeply. They both started to speak at once.

  “I think—”

  “I have only—”

  He smiled and gestured for her to continue.

  “I heard only yesterday of your loss,” she said. “Please allow me to express my condolences.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

  An awkward silence ensued. He broke it by saying, “I wonder if I might call on you next week to discuss the—uh—duties with which Cousin Henry charged me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, adopting the same businesslike tone he used.

  “Will Tuesday next give you sufficient time to have the accounts and ledgers ready?”

  “Yes. They are kept up to date. I think you will find all in order.” She paused and again held his gaze for a moment. She hated this stiff formality between them. How did one bridge the changes wrought by time and events in lives lived in wholly separate worlds? She longed for the easy camaraderie of those days in Bath. But that had been a charade, hadn’t it? “Would you like me to ask Mr. Stevenson to join us for this meeting?”

  “No. That should not be necessary yet.”

  Just then Allyson and her husband returned, and Zachary stood.

  “Zachary! I missed you,” Allyson said with bubbly gaiety; she kissed him on the cheek. “I dragged Nathan to your parents’ box specifically to make him known to you and your family. I want him to know all my childhood friends.”

  Zachary grinned at her. “It’s nice to know that some p
eople have remained the same in my absence. But Nathan and I are way ahead of you, Allie. We were at Sandhurst together. How are you, Nathan?” Zachary extended his hand, which the other man took warmly. “Congratulations on snagging one of England’s most elusive beauties.”

  “Thank you. I must admit it took some doing.” Nathan smiled indulgently at his wife.

  “Zachary, you must come to dinner! I’ll send round a card,” Allyson said as the lights blinked to urge audience members to return to their seats.

  Sydney wondered if Zachary’s comment about some people remaining the same had been meant for her. After all, she knew him to be a master of double entendre; she still recalled vividly his toast at her wedding. She tried to shrug it off as the others returned and the play resumed.

  The Countess of Paxton gleaned as little from the second half of the play as she had the first.

  As he returned to the Quintin box, Zachary was mentally kicking himself: You handled that like an infatuated schoolboy. Sydney. What was it with her? That cool, formal politeness seemed out of character for the woman who had once argued so engagingly for the rights of women. She seemed apprehensive. Afraid. Of him? Tuesday could not come too soon.

  Between now and then, however, there were other matters dealing with Henry’s will that begged looking into. To this end, the next afternoon he climbed the steps of an elegant townhouse in the Mayfair district.

  “Major Quintin to see Lady Ryesdale,” he announced as he handed his card to the footman answering the door. He waited in a marble-floored foyer cluttered with a few too many pieces of marble statuary.

  Presently, an older man, obviously a butler, came to say, “Her ladyship will see you, sir. This way, please.” He was shown into a drawing room that might have been elegantly comfortable except that it, too, boasted a plethora of marble sculptures staring sightlessly at visitors. There were two women in the room.

  “Lady Ryesdale?”

  The younger woman stood and offered him her gloved hand. Slender with deep blue eyes and dark auburn hair, she was fashionably dressed in a lavender day dress. It crossed Zachary’s mind that Henry had had an eye for pretty women. But this one had something of a haunted look about her.