Lady and the Rake

by Anders, Annabelle

  It wasn’t really a question, so Margaret remained seated and nodded. “You have a lovely home,” she offered, uncertain of what else she might have to discuss with the sister of her former fiancé. The mother of her former lover.

  “My son spoke highly of you,” the duchess ventured.

  Margaret straightened in her chair. “He is a very special gentleman.” Sebastian had shown strong moral character in that he’d been honest with her and in his vision for his future. So much of her own outlook on society, on love, on life, had been altered merely by knowing him. He was a talented artist, well-read, and something of a philosopher. The thought gave her reason to smile.

  “I quite agree. I’d hoped initially that he would settle down and marry last spring, but he was determined to have that ship of his built. He insisted his father and I tour it the day before he set sail. I declined, of course. A mother is never happy to lay her eyes on a vessel intended to carry her child far from home. Standish was quite impressed though. And my other son sang his brother’s praises through the holiday.”

  “Andrew,” Margaret said without thinking, almost to herself.

  “Why, yes.” The duchess stared at her curiously.

  “Lord Rockingham spoke fondly of his younger brother.”

  “My sons are the pride of my heart but also the reason for these gray hairs. Do you have any children, Lady Asherton?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I do not.”

  “When they were young, I naively believed I would stop worrying about them once they reached their majority.” A footman entered, carrying a silver tea set and a plate laden with small sandwiches. He set it on a low table, and the duchess began to pour. “How do you take your tea? Milk? Sugar?”

  “Both please.” She accepted the teacup balanced on a delicate saucer. “I imagine a mother never stops worrying about her children.” Even after they were gone. She stared at the duchess and wished she could ask her a myriad of questions.

  Questions about Sebastian’s marriage and the loss of his daughter. What had they done to support him afterward? She wanted to ask what Sebastian had been like as a small boy. She wanted to ask if the duchess knew of his plans for the future. All subjects that were none of her business.

  “My son was not quite himself when he returned from your brother’s house party. He was somber, thoughtful. I think he was embarrassed by my brother’s behavior. The change in him was perhaps also due to his impending journey. Whatever the case may be, in the face of such resolve and determination, I could no longer be set against his travels. He is a complicated boy.”

  “A complicated man.” Again, Margaret didn’t squash her thought. But it was true.

  “Indeed, you are correct.”

  “Have you received word of when he intends to return?” Margaret couldn’t help herself. In all his letters, he’d not mentioned returning to England.

  She casually sipped her tea while carefully watching the duchess over the rim of the cup.

  “He wrote to Standish, his father. He is well. He is alive. It is all that I can hope for. I suppose I can also hope he does not return married to some American chit.” The duchess’ words stirred all sorts of disturbing emotions in Margaret. “He’s insisted he will never marry, that he does not want children… But he is young. And if he were to fall madly in love with a beautiful young American…”

  Something tight and cruel and cold squeezed Margaret’s heart at such a possibility.

  “He has admirable ideas.”

  The duchess tilted her head. “And a stubborn streak a mile wide. It sounds as though you became well acquainted with my son.”

  “He charmed all of us. And was quite helpful. We picnicked together one day. He was very excited to begin his explorations and spoke of them often—Always taking notes…” She remembered how she’d been so impressed that he was always contemplating solutions and complications that might arise. Or questions he wanted answered.

  Margaret’s words drew a sad smile from her hostess. “My charming, intelligent son. If only he wasn’t also so very stubborn. She sighed heavily. “Which gives me cause to doubt he’ll return any time soon. I imagine I ought to begin looking for a match for my other son if I’m ever to become a grandmother. You don’t know any eligible young ladies with half a brain, do you?”

  Margaret shook her head, almost mournfully.

  Even his mother was giving up.

  For the remainder of their visit, their conversation turned to other topics, and Margaret found it pushed away her melancholy when she learned that the duchess had interests more meaningful than society in general. She was actively involved with numerous charities, a few in particular that raised awareness and funds to improve living conditions for the poor and of some schools.

  Margaret was deep in thought as she entered her home and nearly missed the envelope resting in the salver.

  New York City, January 23rd, 1829

  Maggie,

  There is so much to learn here that I doubt I’ll travel to another city for some time. I think that in my mind, New York shall always epitomize America to me.

  First, let me tell you, this sick anyway seems to be made up of far more immigrants than actual Americans. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I doubt anyplace else exists on earth where there is a greater quest for wealth—nor is more productive. The poverty I’ve encountered, however, is equally astounding. I spend my days in offices and shops talking to merchants, businessmen, and bankers, and my evenings in pubs listening to the tales and woes of the working class. Whether they are speaking in Italian or Polish or German, the stories are often the same. They work so much that they hardly have a chance to do anything but sleep and eat and rather than go home, they sit drinking whiskey with strangers. So much whiskey, Maggie, you cannot imagine the amounts of whiskey consumed here.

  And always the children walking like shadows through the streets. Begging, some thieving, dirt on their faces and bugs in their hair. But it’s their eyes that give away their plights. Pleading eyes, hopeless eyes. On some nights, I want to run from their exhaustion and hardship and yet my soul won’t allow it.

  I have so much to tell you but I can hardly keep my eyes open.

  Yours,

  Sebastian

  28

  Margaret’s Path

  Kingdom Foundling Hospital in London, March 12th, 1829

  “If a child is accepted, he or she is renamed and baptized and then sent out to be cared for by nurses for the first five years of their lives,” Miss Mildred Clark explained in a clinical-sounding voice as she walked Margaret through one of the cold corridors of the Kingdom’s Foundling Hospital. “Unless they have particular medical needs, in which case we provide for their needs here.”

  Penelope had advised Margaret that this would be the first place she ought to visit in her quest to seek out a more meaningful life and only an hour into her visit, Margaret’s mind could hardly contain all that she’d learned.

  “Why would a child be turned away?” The notion itself was inconceivable.

  “For a number of reasons, My Lady.” Miss Clark, although kind, was very matter-of-fact in her dispassionate explanations. She walked stiffly, reminding Margaret of a soldier, and had her hair pinned back so tightly that it stretched the skin around her eyes. “A child will be rejected if he or she is diseased for obvious reasons. In the past, some foundling homes have been closed down due to the spread of syphilis from a single infant. A wet-nurse can easily contract it from one charge and then transmit it to another through her milk. We cannot be too careful, My Lady.”

  Margaret nodded and then stopped to study an exquisite painting on the wall. She’d known that fashionable and noble ladies patronized charities such as the home, but she’d been surprised to learn the history of the famous artists and musicians who’d heavily invested in the hospital’s funding.

  “What other requirements must a child meet?” She turned away to continue the tour.

  “They must
be illegitimate, of course, and they must be a mother’s first issue. This allows the woman an opportunity to make a fresh start without the burden of caring for a child. We are here to offer compassion and safety for children but in doing so we are also careful that we do not encourage wantonness and prostitution.”

  “Those ideals seem to contradict themselves,” Margaret observed. “What will happen to those children who are sent away?”

  The woman pinched her lips tightly together. “Some will end up in the workhouse or on the streets. These are the rules we’re given, Lady Asherton, and we must follow them. If we don’t, we could lose our funding. And then we would not exist to help even a single child.”

  Ah, the politics of charity. Margaret slowed to study another painting. She wondered if Miss Clark resented the time she was giving up showing her around. Naturally, Margaret had included a large donation along with the request, but she couldn’t help but feel resentment from the other woman.

  “How long have you worked for the hospital, Miss Clark?”

  “I came on initially as a teacher twenty years ago.”

  “In your estimation, where is the greatest need?” At Margaret’s question, the other woman showed her first hint of emotion.

  “I could tell you a number of things. Clothing, better nutrition, more teachers, more nurses. And of course, I’m always concerned that we aren’t providing timely enough inspections in the foster homes but such support will always be limited. In my estimation, the root of the problem needs addressing at the Parliament level. Labor laws need changed so that a family can afford to raise their children. Education needs more funding in general. If a woman is better able to find honest employment, she is far less likely to end up working on her back. If the common man can earn better wages, it’s more likely that he’ll provide properly for his family. The problem isn’t here, My lady.” Her eyes shifted toward the front entrance to the building. “It is out there.”

  Margaret nodded as she absorbed the director’s words. This was what Sebastian had been talking about all along. But it was not only in America. It was in England. “You have given me a great deal to think about, but I want you to know that I will do more than think.”

  The other woman jerked her chin but also showed a glimmer of appreciation. “Forgive my sermonizing.”

  “Not at all, Miss Clark. But until I can address all of that, what would you like for me to bring with me on my next visit?”

  “Children’s clothing and shoes,” the woman said without hesitation. “And toys. You’d be amazed how much comfort a cloth doll with only buttons for eyes brings a child.”

  Margaret rode back to her home deep in thought. In the attic of her townhouse, she’d packed all of the clothing she’d purchased for her own child in two large trunks. She would go through them that evening and have them sent over first thing tomorrow morning.

  But first, another letter sat in the salver.

  New York City, Jan 21, 1829

  Maggie,

  A woman was walking down the street today with hair the color of a raven and a figure somewhat reminiscent of a certain lady who’s taken permanent residence in my mind. She turned around, however, and I was greatly disappointed.

  Her eyes were not as warm and her smile not the smile I wanted to see.

  I miss you, Maggie.

  You are never far from my thoughts and a hundred times a day I find myself wanting to talk to you. A thousand times a day I find myself wanting to hold you. And every damn night I crave nothing more than to bury my cock deep inside of you.

  I miss England but I miss you so much more.

  I’ve had far too much to drink, and it’s doubtful I’ll send this to you. Do you think of me when you’re lying in bed at night? Do you long for me the same way that I long for you?

  I wish you were here, beside me.

  Yours,

  Sebastian

  She’d received over twenty letters since he’d sailed. In each of them, she’d heard excitement and fatigue, descriptions of various landmarks or some anecdote he’d thought she’d enjoy and sometimes she heard loneliness and homesickness.

  She’d read his letters over and over again. She’d lay in bed craving his touch, imagining him lying beside her. She ached for his embrace, his laughter, his voice.

  In the time she’d spent with him at Land’s End, she’d given him her body and then lost her heart in the bargain. And since then, reading his letters, she was losing her soul, as well.

  Her heart skipped a beat and then nearly exploded every time a new envelope with neatly formed letters spelling out her name and address arrived.

  But would he ever love her? Was he ever coming home?

  He had never declared his love for her. He’d made no mention of returning to London or changing his mind about having a family.

  Even his mother was turning to her second son for grandchildren.

  Margaret took a deep breath and closed her eyes. He’d written that he’d missed her, over and over again, but nothing had truly changed. She needed to let go. She needed to encourage him to move on without her. It was time to abandon her secret dreams, reclaim her heart, and envision her future without him.

  She lowered herself onto a chair at the desk in her chamber and withdrew some paper, a quill, and some ink. Only after she’d slipped the letter into an envelope did the first tear fall.

  Giving up on love was, in many ways, far more difficult than coping with death. Because in death, all hope was lost.

  But with unrequited love, hope clung tightly despite evidence pointing to the contrary.

  She’d begun to look for him on the street, even though she knew he was thousands of miles away. She imagined him coming back for her, showing up at her door.

  And every night she went to bed disappointed. If she didn’t let go of him, she would never know peace.

  It was time to let go.

  Forever, this time.

  29

  Your Good Friend

  London, March 12th, 1829

  Sebastian,

  I don’t know if this will reach you. I met with your mother a few weeks ago, I returned the ring. (Thank you for finding it, by the way.) She is worried about you but also very proud. I now see who you got your eyes from.

  I was surprised to receive your first letter—surprised, angry, confused! I know we’d discussed you sending them, but I thought we’d said goodbye. I thought we’d decided to end our affair attachment friendship at that time.

  But then your letters kept coming and now I am experiencing America through your eyes. I am learning more about you and, oddly enough, even though you are thousands of miles away, I feel that I am coming to be even closer to you.

  Your letters have also inspired me. Oh, Sebastian! All the troubles you speak of exist here in England as well. Perhaps they are not exactly the same, but they are here. I visited King’s Foundling Home and although I am impressed with what is being done, I am also appalled by what is not. After my visit, I asked my driver to take me to Cheapside. He walked with me through some of the streets there and I saw the shadows. Those eyes are the same here.

  I intend to research what has been done and what has worked in the past. Your mother directed me to some charities that I intend to support. But I cannot stop with that. Having had my eyes opened, I can no longer turn away.

  Your letters frighten me, Sebastian. They frighten me because I imagine you in my life. I hear your voice in my head. I long for you at night. I beg of you to stop sending them. My heart will never heal as long as it believes there is hope.

  I miss you, but I cannot go on like this.

  Your good friend,

  Margaret

  New York City, April 22nd, 1829

  Sebastian read through her letter three times. He’d given up hope that she’d write to him and when he’d discovered the envelope in his postal box, he was surprised by the excitement, the hope he’d felt.

  But read through it twice now, he woul
d have rather been punched in the gut.

  Feeling the cold in the room, he mindlessly lit the hearth in the corner. It always felt damp here, cold, merciless even, they’d had a taste of spring but then the temperature had dropped again.

  He’d never felt the bitter cold as harshly as he felt in that moment.

  She had received his letters. She’d read them. She’d returned to London. She’d met with his mother even. She was finding herself, putting purpose in her life.

  What had he hoped to accomplish by sending them? Although he’d fooled himself into thinking he was sending them for her, he’d written every last one of them so that he could be near her somehow. They’d been a sorry substitute for what he really wanted. He’d wanted her with him, and writing the words, although it had been a sorry substitute indeed, he could almost imagine that she was.

  “I beg of you to stop sending them.”

  His vision blurred and then seemed to darken around the edges as he contemplated reasons for her request. Had she met someone else? One of those upstanding gentlemen he’d decided could provide all those things that he couldn’t?

  That he wouldn’t?

  He pulled out the bottle of whiskey.

  It shouldn’t matter. It was only right for her to move on, to marry and begin making babies so that she could finally have the family she wanted so badly.

  He’d already drunk too much that evening at the nearby pub but that was not going to be nearly enough. He tipped the bottle and took one healthy swallow, and then another. Why couldn’t he marry her? Why couldn’t he be the one to make her dreams come true? Because he was a coward, that was why. He was afraid of going through the pain he’d suffered through with Bethany.

  What was this pain then? Was it any better?

  As the spicy liquid burned its way into his gut, he imagined her walking down the aisle at St. George’s on Hanover Square; a faceless bastard waiting for her at the altar.