by Mary Brendan
Chapter Two
The following morning Dawn was up early to post a letter to her stepdaughter, belatedly accepting Eleanor’s invitation to visit. Her second child was soon due and Dawn guessed the expectant mother was becoming easily tired and would like some help looking after her boisterous little daughter.
The Reverend Peter Mansfield wasn’t a fellow given to lending a hand to his wife. In fact, Dawn had had to bite her tongue when she was there last time. The couple employed just two servants: a maid and an elderly cook. When the maid had been laid up with raging toothache the vicar had allowed Eleanor—in the early stages of her pregnancy—to sweep out the grate rather than do it himself. At the time Eleanor had said she didn’t mind, although Dawn had noticed a certain spark in her stepdaughter’s eye. Dawn had rolled up her own sleeves to take over the task, while hoping her stepson-in-law might feel shamed into acting. He had, dropping to his knees with a martyred look. Dawn imagined there had been other, unwitnessed, times when Eleanor had been treated less than considerately.
But Dawn did her best to be amenable to Peter for his wife’s sake. She had put off this visit by some weeks because she hadn’t relished having his company. She had—quite validly—blamed the delay on the vagaries of the March winds making travelling hazardous. She gazed up at the clear azure sky. There was no such excuse to be had now the weather had turned unseasonably fine. But before it returned to normal for this time of the year she must make that trip or she might be caught out. Besides, she genuinely loved seeing Eleanor and Lily, so enduring the vicar’s bombast was a price worth paying. And she’d only be out of town for a fortnight.
Dawn lived on the fringes of town in a modest town house on a leafy crescent. She walked on in the direction of Regent Street, intending to browse the shops for something nice to take with her to Essex for her little granddaughter.
* * *
Reaching her destination, she sought out a toy shop, browsing the counters and pondering on whether a spinning top would be too advanced for Lily and a rag doll too mundane. The girl was by no means a baby, but Dawn had little idea of the progress children made as they grew, having never been a mother herself. In the end she purchased just the doll, undecided about the top, and headed to the drapery to buy some pretty clothes. She was on the point of entering the premises when a sleek black curricle drew her attention as it pulled in to the kerb some distance away. Its arrival seemed to have caused a stir—she noticed that people had turned to observe the passengers. Idly, she tilted her head to get a better view of the driver.
Dawn stood quite still and, once she’d conquered her surprise, commenced wondering how she had recognised him. It had been years since she had seen or spoken to Jack Valance and he looked very different. His hair was no longer fair and cropped short, but a silvery tone and worn rather long. His face had lost its city pallor and was now bronzed by a foreign sun, but his height and breadth were familiar. As was the way he agilely leapt to the pavement to assist his companion to alight.
Dawn watched his strong dark hands; once she had felt those long fingers fastened on her, courteously helping her from a vehicle. There had been two occasions on which he’d invited her to take a drive with him. Before they’d parted for the final time he had crowded her behind an oak tree in Hyde Park to kiss her as soon as her chaperon’s back was turned. During that snatched, thrilling episode Jack Valance had broken her heart. He wasn’t in a position to court her, he’d told her. But he’d promised to come back as soon as he improved his prospects enough to take a wife. She’d not seen him again until this moment. Dawn focused on the young woman smiling coquettishly at him...to little response. He seemed more interested in ensuring the tiger had the reins of the fine pale-flanked Arabian in harness.
He hadn’t recognised her, Dawn realised—his gaze had roamed her way and then travelled on. Rather than feeling piqued at being overlooked by a gentleman who once had told her she was beautiful, she was rather glad to be able to discreetly observe the couple from her vantage point in the shop doorway. With an amount of wryness she realised that if that was his future wife, then Sarah Snow wasn’t the refined young lady she’d believed her to be! Neither was she a stunning redhead. But the blonde was pretty, if a touch gaudy in her fancy bonnet and diaphanous muslin gown of pale blue. Dawn imagined that Jack Valance was out shopping with a chère amie. And she wondered how his prospective betrothed might feel about that.
Hastily she entered the shop on realising the couple were heading towards her. She was sure they hadn’t noticed her vulgarly staring at them—even so, she felt annoyed at herself for having done so. She forced herself to put him from her mind and to inspect small ribbon-trimmed bonnets and a lemon-hued dress that the draper assured her were all perfectly sized for a growing toddler.
Having made her purchases, Dawn headed towards the exit, keen to get home and wrap her gifts in colourful paper.
‘Mrs Fenton?’
His voice hadn’t changed even if his appearance had...but she’d been Miss Dawn Sanders when last they had spoken. So he knew she’d been married... Perhaps Emma had spoken about mutual acquaintances yesterday evening when they’d dined together. These thoughts whizzed through Dawn’s mind as she slowly turned about with an admirable show of surprise at seeing him. In fact, she was a trifle alarmed as she’d not been conscious of him entering the shop, let alone approaching her.
‘Why...Mr Valance. How are you, sir? I had heard that you’d returned from overseas.’
‘I know. Your friend Emma said you were aware I was back. I have to say I’m disappointed that we didn’t see one another yesterday evening. You declined to dine with us, I was told.’ Jack’s eyes discreetly studied her. The dark bonnet brim was shielding her complexion, but he knew that beneath it was a face of rare beauty. On first glance Dawn’s features might appear rather severe, yet on finer appraisal were undoubtedly exquisite. Her green eyes were fringed by lengthy black lashes and topped by delicate brows that looked as soft as sable. Her nose was thin, her mouth asymmetrical with a lower lip that was fuller than the curving cupid’s bow on top. She was petite, her smooth peachy cheek barely reached his shoulder, but her figure was generously curvaceous in all the right places. He hadn’t forgotten a single thing about her in all those tormented years they’d been apart.
It might have been a long while since she had lain with her husband, or even been kissed, but Dawn could recognise the signs that a man found her attractive. She had seen the same smouldering intensity at the back of predatory gentlemen’s eyes when they propositioned her. But none of those fellows had managed to neutralise a tense situation, or his lust, as it seemed this man could.
‘You missed a fine dinner,’ Jack said, patting his stomach. ‘I’m still feeling the effect of too many courses.’
‘Emma is a wonderful hostess, but I’m afraid I was too busy to attend. I have a trip to Essex to prepare for to see my family. I’ve had a lot of packing and shopping to do and so on.’ Dawn indicated her parcels. Had she detected something in his tone? Subtle amusement because he believed she’d deliberately avoided him? She had, although she’d never admit to it.
‘Well, no matter, when I saw you walking on Regent Street I hoped I’d have a chance to say hello.’
So he had been aware of her presence all along. Dawn felt her complexion starting to glow as she realised he’d probably observed her spying on him.
‘You go to Essex bearing gifts.’ His slate-grey eyes dropped to the parcels in her arms.
‘Of course...but I have left choosing them to the last minute as usual.’ Her eyes discreetly flitted over his shoulder, seeking a sign of his companion. The young woman was at a counter with a pile of merchandise mounting beside her. He, too, had been buying gifts, she imagined, even if he didn’t get to choose them or decide what they cost. The blonde appeared to be too busy inspecting gloves to come and claim her beau.
But other people
...women...were watching them. Indeed, Dawn understood why. His travels and the acquirement of riches had transformed him from an attractive gentleman to a devilishly handsome one. But it was more than good looks and expensive tailoring setting him apart from his younger self: he had an air of sophistication and distinction. Jack Valance had gone away years ago with his pockets to let and come back with a rather startling self-assurance. Yet Dawn had liked him as he was...modest and familiar. On the few occasions they had met she had marvelled at how at ease she felt with him after so short an acquaintance. He had amused yet excited her and on the day they parted she had felt upset enough to cry in private. But months and months had passed and she’d received not a single letter from him. Her hope that he intended to renew their acquaintance had withered; she recalled feeling foolish for having almost begged him to keep in touch because she liked him very much. And then Thomas had asked her to be his wife and a dilemma had been forced upon her: wait longer for Jack, or marry Thomas. The right decision it had been, too, to accept his proposal. She might have been infatuated with Jack Valance for almost a year, loitering in the hallway with bated breath for the post every day, but to him she’d been just a passing fancy, soon forgotten.
‘I believed your father still resided in Marylebone,’ Jack remarked. ‘Where in Essex do your family live?’
‘My father and stepmother have now moved to Shropshire. I am going to visit my late husband’s family in Essex.’
‘I see. I was sorry to hear about your husband’s accident. Emma told me you’d been widowed.’
‘Yes...some time ago now.’ Dawn dipped her head and stepped away. For some reason she didn’t want his pity, or to speak about her short marriage to Thomas. ‘It is nice to see you, sir, but I must get on. I haven’t yet finished packing for my trip.’
‘Where does your stepfamily live in Essex? I might know of it as I have a house there.’
She turned back. The demand in his question had made her bristle and feel tempted to tell him it was none of his business, but she didn’t, although she was again reminded of how very different this gentleman was to the languid fellow she had known all those years ago. But she was determined not to appear flustered by his company. ‘My stepdaughter and her husband live in Wivenhoe,’ she said, then with a fleeting smile and a small bob she made for the exit, conscious of the weight of his hooded grey gaze on her back.
* * *
‘Do slide up a bit and give the lady some room.’ Mrs Broome’s country brogue broke the quiet as she directed an order at her daughter seated beside her. Both mother and daughter were broad of beam and had left Dawn very little room, squashed as she was into the corner of the mail coach. But she was grateful that at least she had some air and a mist of sleety rain blowing on to her face from the open window.
‘The weather’s been warm for early spring recently. I’m glad it’s back to normal now or we’d be sweating buckets,’ the older woman cheerily announced while fidgeting on the seat.
Dawn murmured an agreement, the only passenger to politely respond. Indeed, the vagaries of the March weather had caught her out. The prematurely mild air of last week had now acquired a feel of frost that stung the cheeks. The roads that had been dry and dusty had been churned to a bog in places by coach wheels.
The tweedy farmer opposite jiggled his brows, then closed his eyes, making clear he desired no conversation directed at him. The two thin young women seated either side of him turned their heads in opposite directions to gaze out of their respective windows into the gloomy afternoon. They looked to be servants, perhaps travelling from London to visit their families back home. Dawn used a hanky on her rain-spattered brow while hoping that the coaching inn would hove into view so they could all escape this cramped, musty environment. More than that, she wished she had the wherewithal to keep a small conveyance of her own so she wouldn’t need to travel in such discomfort when visiting her stepfamily. Even when Thomas had been alive, the most the Fentons had possessed in the way of transport had been an ancient carriage that he had inherited from his father. His trusty contraption as he had called it had been his downfall. He had known it needed repairs. But his insurance business had been floundering beneath heavy shipping claims and purchasing new springs and axles had been last on his list of expenses.
At their country cottage they had kept a pony and trap to get around. Thomas had taught her to drive it so she could be independent when he was in town on business. The cottage and the pony and trap were gone now...luxuries she could no longer afford on her widow’s pension.
The blast of a bugle curtailed Dawn’s reflectiveness and made her offer up a prayer of thanks that they were approaching a watering hole. All the passengers stirred into life as they anticipated stretching their legs and partaking of some refreshment.
‘I’ll have a beef pie if they’ve got such a thing. My stomach’s fair grumbling.’ Mrs Broome gave Dawn a nudge. ‘You’ll be glad to get down and tuck into something, won’t you, my dear?’
‘Indeed, I will.’ Dawn peered through the window as the coach passed beneath the swinging sign of the Cockerel Tavern into a busy courtyard. She’d no appetite for a pie; a snack would suffice. By nightfall she would reach her destination and hoped to have a good dinner waiting for her. Although the Reverend Peter Mansfield tended to parsimony, he usually provided a hearty evening meal as he always joined them at table then. Other than that, his work kept him abroad for most of the day...and that arrangement suited Dawn very well.
* * *
‘What can I get for you then, ma’am?’ The landlord hovered at Dawn’s elbow.
‘A pot of tea and a plate of buttered crumpets, thank you, sir.’ Having given her order, Dawn sat back in her chair and untied her bonnet strings while the fellow moved off to attend to other weary passengers. A log fire was blazing in the grate, spreading a cosy ambience throughout the low-beamed taproom. Dawn removed her hat and ran her fingers through a tumble of untidy chestnut curls in an attempt to neaten them.
Mrs Broome and her daughter joined Dawn, sitting down without a by your leave. Immediately the landlord reappeared with pencil and paper ready.
Having given her order for pies, Mrs Broome turned on her daughter an old-fashioned look. ‘You can stop giving him the eye, miss!’ She smacked the girl’s hand, idle on the table-top. ‘The sooner this one’s wed, the better it’ll be.’ Mrs Broome rolled her eyes.
Dawn gave the blushing girl a glimmer of a smile. She was a pretty brunette of about fifteen and had been sliding sly glances through the window at a strapping stable lad toiling in the courtyard.
‘So...I recall you said you’re visiting relations, Mrs Fenton.’ The older woman crossed her arms over her chest, hoping for a gossip.
‘I am...’ Dawn confirmed. ‘I’ll be glad to get to journey’s end and to my bed tonight. It’s been a long day.’
Mrs Broome jiggled her aching shoulders. ‘Indeed, it has. My bones are fair creaking. But I was determined to go to London to see my father laid to rest. So did his granddaughter, wanting to pay her last respects.’ She frowned at her daughter who was still batting her eyelashes.
‘Oh...I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’
‘As I am to know about yours,’ Mrs Broome said sympathetically. ‘How long are you widowed, my dear? La...and you so young and pretty, too.’
‘Oh...some years.’ Dawn’s lavender gown had given the game away that she was in the latter stage of mourning.
‘Who are you visiting?’ the girl piped up.
‘Betty Broome! Mind your manners,’ the girl’s mother scolded. ‘Inquisitive little thing,’ she half-apologised before taking up where her daughter had left off. ‘Local people, are they, these relations? Or are you travelling on further?’
‘I’m going on to Wivenhoe...’
The Broomes’ questions reminded Dawn of Jack Valance’s interest in her family’s whereabouts. N
ot that she needed much to prompt her to think of him. For the duration of the journey, with nothing to do for hours on end but gaze into drizzle, she had found it difficult to banish him from her thoughts. She had been going over their brief conversation in the drapery and rueing that she hadn’t looked at her best that afternoon. It was too late now to wish she had dressed with more care when sallying forth to do her shopping. And why should it matter? Jack Valance was getting married. But Dawn knew why it mattered. She had seen desire in his eyes; once he had thought her beautiful and she was woman enough to hope he still did, fiancée or no fiancée. More than that, now they had met again and exchanged a few words, perhaps, just perhaps, he might rue not having kept in touch with her. He hadn’t sought her out in the shop just to be polite. He wasn’t indifferent to her, of that she was sure. She’d seen a spark of some emotion at the backs of his eyes...
‘Do you know that vicar, my dear? The one who is staring at you?’ Mrs Broome nudged Dawn to gain her attention, then jerked a nod at somebody outside.
Dawn gave a soft gasp of surprise. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I am on my way to his house. It’s my stepdaughter’s husband.’ She glanced at her companions. ‘Please excuse me, I should go and speak to him.’ She got up with an inaudible sigh. She had certainly not been expecting to see the Reverend Peter Mansfield until she reached Wivenhoe. And from the expression she’d glimpsed on her stepson-in-law’s face she guessed he’d been equally taken aback to spot her. Donning her cloak, she hurried outside, tweaking forward her hood to protect her face from the sleet.
The fellow who had been talking to the vicar had disappeared and Peter had headed towards the tavern to meet her beneath the shelter of the porch. He was a dark-haired man of medium height and build who, despite being her stepson-in-law, was her senior by five years.
