by Cach, Lisa
“Who’s that?” she said, taking them away from her face.
William’s howls stopped. Sara covered her eyes again.
“Who’s that? Is that Willie?” she asked, revealing herself again.
“‘S Sara,” he said.
Vivian watched wide-eyed as Mr. Brent picked William up from the floor, holding him against his side, over his hip, with the ease of long practice. William flopped against his father with his arms straight at his sides, his still-red face looking down at his sister with an unreadable expression.
“You’re overtired, the both of you,” Mr. Brent said, then kissed William on the temple and handed him to one of the nursemaids. Sara had her arms raised and waiting, and he picked her up and carried her after the retreating maid. “You cannot simply grab things from people, Sara,” he said gently as he went out the door.
Vivian barely noticed as Lady Sudley said good night to the two remaining children, bundling them off with their nursemaid. She was too caught in the utter shock of what she had just learned.
Mr. Brent had children! Was that why Penelope thought him willing to take anyone for a wife, that and his rather questionable social graces? And what of Mrs. Brent; what had happened to her? Was she dead?
Or perhaps—the most shocking possibility of all—the two had divorced. That would explain Penelope’s attitude better than anything. She wondered what terrible deeds could have made them choose such a course, if that was in truth what had happened.
The future she had been planning in her mind without knowing, a future where she and Mr. Brent were married and started their own family, fell to pieces. He had already had a family, and would not be looking with any great eagerness to starting yet another. If they had a child, it would be the third for him, and no astounding miracle.
He had a whole history of which she was unaware, a whole life that had been lived before she met him. There had been a woman he had loved and lost, who had borne him children, and who might very well still be heavy in his thoughts.
She was a fool. Of course he had a previous life. Did she think the world had stood still for everyone as she had tended to Miss Marbury all those years?
Mr. Brent was a father. Although she did not guess their difference in ages to be much, the difference in their experiences was. Her naive plans to entice him into marriage now seemed childish and silly. The man had children! He had had a wife once already! And what was Vivian, but awkward and dowdy in her borrowed finery, playing at being fast for his momentary entertainment, making herself an amusement of no value? He must think her a fool.
And even if he did have an interest in her—even if so!— she did not know if she had the strength to be anyone’s stepmother.
The captain and Sir John had rejoined them, and by the time Mr. Brent returned from tucking his children into bed she had managed, she hoped, to hide her distress. She volunteered to play when a game of piquet was called for, and smiled blankly at Mr. Brent when he sat across from her.
After the game was finished she found a plate of small lemon tarts on a side table, and ate them, every one.
*
They had returned to Copley Grange, everyone yawning and speaking of bed, but Vivian followed Penelope into her dressing room nonetheless and badgered her young cousin as she began to undress.
“Why did you not tell me he had children?”
“Oh, la!” Penelope said, waving her hand as if it were nothing. “Two tiny children; they were not worth mentioning. You would not be the first woman to become a stepmother.”
“You could have prepared me!”
“I thought it would make a pleasant surprise.”
“Pleasant? How could you think so?”
“Dear Vivian, you did say that you wanted to have children, a family of your own. Now here is one ready-made! You needn’t ruin your figure in the bearing of them, and they are old enough to speak, which you must admit makes them much more interesting. Think what a lot of fuss and bother you have been saved!”
“But they aren’t mine.”
“They might as well be. There is no one else being a mother to them.”
“What happened to Mrs. Brent?”
Penelope turned away and put her ear bobs in her jewelry box, remaining with her back to Vivian. “I really couldn’t say anything about their mother.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“I am not certain of the entire tale.”
“Is she dead? You can surely tell me that much.”
“Really, Vivian. You must stop pestering me with such questions. What does any of that matter? It is Mr. Brent who interests you, not a woman from his past. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, stifling a false yawn, “I really must get to bed.”
It was plain she would get no more information from Penelope. She tried for several more minutes anyway, then gave up and went to her room, undressing by the light of a single candle and slipping into the cool sheets of her bed.
She could not sleep. In addition to the lemon tarts, she had drunk four or five cups of coffee—she’d lost count—and in consequence was left with her mind running like a wind-up toy, clickety-clack, around and around and around again.
Little Sara and William. Could she be a mother to two such children? They were as rosy-faced and plump as any others of their ages, as noisy, as troublesome, as sweet, as innocent. There was no reason she should not grow to love them, and young as they were they would call her Mama, having known no other.
It would not be like caring for Miss Marbury had been, that dark and thankless task. Sara and William might love her back, which would be infinite reward for her caretaking.
Still, it was overwhelming to think of becoming a mother of two upon an instant. When she had imagined marriage, she had never imagined that children would already be present, with their demands upon their father’s attention. She could never begrudge a child time with its father—not after having been so unhappily without one herself.
Yet she knew it was possible she might be jealous of the time he gave to them. She was ashamed to admit to such a selfish thought, but she would have to overcome it if she were to seriously consider wedding Mr. Brent. Sara and William were not going away, and if she were to be a stepmother she would rather be a loving one than an evil one.
And if she were to bear Mr. Brent children herself, would they be as dear to him as those from his first wife? Or would they be merely number three and number four?
There was so much to consider. Sara and William had shattered her girlish fantasies, and she was faced with the challenges of what a true marriage might entail. Mr. Brent did not smell like moldy potatoes, and had more wit than the usual rabbit, but choosing a life with him would not be easy.
There was one bright spot, though.
Whatever dark stains might be attached to Mr. Brent’s name—for surely there were stains, if Penelope yet insisted on remaining silent on the question of his past marriage—the stains could not extend to his true character. For all her shock at seeing that he was a father, she had also seen that he loved his children dearly, and they him. He was gentle where another might have been harsh, and his tenderness toward Sara and William touched her heart deeply.
It was that tenderness—toward children she did not know if she had the courage herself to mother—that eased her mind and allowed her to drift into sleep.
Chapter Four
December 26, Boxing Day
The Feast of Saint Stephen the Martyr
“Look, Vivian, it is Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent. What good fortune!” Penelope crowed.
Vivian’s fingers tightened on the strings of the boxes she carried. It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, and she, Penelope, and Mrs. Twitchen had descended upon the tradespeople in the village of Corfe Castle to dispense small gifts of money and mincemeat pies, which would be eaten over the remaining days of Christmas. It should be no surprise to find Lady Sudley out with boxes of her own.
Vivian felt the sudden urg
e to tear open one of the boxes she carried and consume its contents.
Their small group approached Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent, meeting up in the narrow cobbled street in front of the draper’s shop. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley talking of who they had already been to see.
Vivian met Mr. Brent’s eyes. There was a question in his expression, buried but readable to one who was accustomed to observation. She smiled tentatively, and was rewarded by his own smile and a wink, which made her blush and look down.
“Have you been to see the ruins, Mr. Brent?” Penelope asked in a lull between Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley. It was a rather ingenuous question, Vivian thought. The ruins were in plain sight of the village, and no one who had spent time in Corfe Castle could possibly have missed exploring them. “Vivian has not. It would be a pity for her to leave the district without having once set foot in them.”
“You should take the young ladies,” Lady Sudley said to her brother. “It is a fine day for it. Don’t you think it a grand idea, Mrs. Twitchen?”
Penelope’s mother made a faint sound of dismay, while smiling in apparently cheerful agreement.
“Then let us take advantage of the weather,” Mr. Brent said. “After luncheon?” he proposed to Vivian and Penelope.
“Oh, yes,” Penelope answered.
“Miss Ambrose?”
“Certainly,” she said, knowing that her face must show her trace of uncertainty at the prospect. Penelope was going to be worthless as a chaperone, that much she knew, and was probably going to try to persuade her to some indiscretion.
They made their good-byes and continued with the distribution of boxes.
“Miss Ambrose—Vivian, dear,” Mrs. Twitchen said, as they left the butcher’s shop some minutes later. “I do think I ought to warn you—I was remiss in not saying something sooner—only he is brother-in-law to a baronet and the grandson of an earl—but Mr. Brent is not entirely a gentleman, and you should not entertain thoughts—”
“Mama, don’t you think we should have a box for Mr. Simms, who ordered that sheet music for me last month?” Penelope interrupted.
“We do have a box for him, darling.”
“Do we? No, I don’t think we do. I’ve counted, and we haven’t enough.”
“Nonsense. Let me check the carriage,” Mrs. Twitchen said, leading them back to the vehicle.
“I knew there was something more wrong with him,” Vivian whispered to her cousin.
“Don’t let Mama fill your head with tales. You seem to like him well enough. Why not judge him by that, rather than stories?”
“They must be terrible stories if your mama wants to warn me away from him.”
“She’d be happy enough to have another of the baronet’s family as a relation.”
“It doesn’t sound that way,” Vivian said.
“Never mind what she may think. The point is to have you married. You might as well marry Mr. Brent as anyone you would meet in London. I doubt you’ll find a richer husband, not without fortune or rank of your own, or a prettier face.”
“One would think he would have his choice of young ladies, if he is wealthy,” Vivian said, trying to ignore the hurtful comment. While no longer hostile, as she had been upon the day of Vivian’s arrival, Penelope still punctuated her kindnesses with instants of thoughtless cruelty.
“Ah, but you are the only choice here. Take advantage of that while you may. I would.”
“Yet you do not.”
“He’s too old for me, and I have to have my season. I wouldn’t give that up even for the eldest son of a duke.”
She probably wouldn’t, either. There were moments Vivian thought nothing mattered to her cousin more than appearing at balls and assemblies in solitary, expensively garbed glory— no matter what it cost, in money or hurt feelings.
*
“King Edward was murdered here by his stepmother Elfrida in 978,” Penelope said as they passed through the arch in the crumbling curtain wall and beheld the hill upon which the ruins of the castle stood. “It was probably just a hunting lodge here at the time. But it was a castle when King John starved twenty-two French nobles to death in the dungeons. It’s haunted, you know, by a headless woman in white who floats down the hill and then disappears.”
“Who is the ghost?” Vivian asked.
Richard grinned at Penelope’s dramatics, and at Vivian’s eager interest in spirits. He’d spent little time in Penelope’s company in the past, and had assumed her to be a spoiled child with thoughts only for herself. It was surprising that she seemed to have become so quickly attached to her new cousin.
“Some say it is Lady Bankes. She valiantly defended the castle during the civil war, but a member of the garrison betrayed her and let in the parliamentarians. It was they who tore the walls of the castle down, out of pure spite.”
“That doesn’t account for her losing her head,” Richard said. “And I don’t know what good it would do to float down the hillside every now and then. Seems a waste of effort, for a ghost.”
“Maybe it is Elfrida, then, doomed to roam the scene of her greatest sin,” Penelope amended.
“Or maybe it is fog of an evening and a drunken fool. That seems the better explanation, albeit less thrilling.”
“Ow!” Penelope exclaimed, stumbling.
Vivian caught at her cousin, helping her keep her balance. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“My ankle. I’ve twisted it. Help me to that stone over there,” the girl said, pointing to a convenient resting place not three steps away.
“Does it hurt? Can you stand?” Vivian asked as she lowered Penelope to the stone.
“It’s minor. Just a momentary twist. If I rest here for a spell I should be fine.”
“We should take you back to the grange.”
“No, no. You and Mr. Brent go up to the ruins. When you return, I promise I shall be quite restored.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Go!”
Vivian frowned at her cousin, then turned to him. She raised her brows in question, and he smiled and shrugged, offering his arm. Penelope’s acting would never win her a place on the stage, and it was not difficult to see through her little ploy.
Vivian took his arm, and they started up the narrow, muddy track through the grass. The sky was heavy with clouds, the sun occasionally breaking through in pale yellow, and there was a damp breeze from off the sea a few miles distant. The few remaining segments of castle wall stood like towers against the turbulent skies, and bore the pockmarks of the parliamentarians’ destructive forces.
“It’s a pity they destroyed it,” Vivian said, after they had left Penelope out of earshot on her rock. “It must have been lovely.”
“They probably had fun doing it. Boys and men, they both are forever looking for something they can blow up.”
“You, too?”
“When I was a boy. My friends and I made a cannon out of an old oak water pipe, and set it off in a field, using a sapling to brace and aim it, and hiding behind a small wall of earth. We were lucky we weren’t killed.”
“What happened?”
“Damn thing exploded,” he said, remembering with a laugh. “The whole cannon: shards of wood everywhere. You’d think we’d been in a sea battle and the deck had been hit—three separate villages heard the blast, and thought Boney had landed and was marching into the countryside. We wouldn’t have admitted it was us, only one of my friends got a wedge of oak in his thigh. A hairsbreadth to one side, and he would have cut the artery and bled to death.”
“Good heavens!”
He shrugged. “Typical for boys. Just as my sister and your cousin are being typical for women, with their matchmaking,” he said, taking a risk and wanting to see her reaction.
She gaped up at him.
“Come now, Miss Ambrose. You cannot be unaware of their machinations.”
“No,” she admitted.
“Did you encourage M
iss Twitchen, or was it her own idea?” he asked, breaking all the rules of romantic fencing, and knowing it was unfair of him to do so. He should not ask such a thing without stating his own wishes first. She would be within her rights to abandon him here and go back to rejoin her cousin. Still, he was interested to see if she were as daring as he hoped. He waited to see what she would do.
“What a question!” she said, looking away from him, her bonnet blocking her face from his view.
“Even on such brief acquaintance as we have, you must know that I am not one for veiling the truth. Will you answer?” he asked, pushing her.
“And leave you with no mystery to solve?” she asked.
“I don’t play games,” he said, knowing it for a lie, for what was he doing now, if not trying to trick a confession from her?
“I do not think it is a game for a woman to protect the secrets of her heart,” she said.
“So you have secrets?” he asked, not believing it, and yet hoping it was true.
“As do you, apparently.”
“You think so?” he asked, suddenly feeling exposed. If he said he wanted to know much more about her, if he said he was attracted to her and enjoyed her company, if he was as forthright in matters of the heart as he made such an issue of being in other aspects of his life, would she run or would she stay? “I may have a secret or two,” he admitted.
“I have heard hints.”
“You have?”
“Of your former wife…”
“Wife? I have had no wife,” he said, taken aback.
She stopped and looked to him, confusion in her expression and her tone. “But Sara and William? They are yours, are they not?”
“They are, but I have had no wife.” He sighed, feeling his hopes once again draining away. It should get easier to accept rejection over time, and yet it never did. He had attempted to court a handful of women over the past few years, and when they heard what he was about to tell Vivian, they had all turned from him and made it clear that pursuance of his suit would not be welcome. “I thought someone would have told you—last night, surely, if not before.”
“You are worrying me, Mr. Brent.”
