Lord Freddie's First Love

by Patricia Bray

  “Will you be making your home here?”

  Anne’s chin came up, and there was a flash of her old fire in her green eyes.

  “You may tell your mother not to fret. I will stay only long enough to wind up my father’s affairs, and then I will return to my home.”

  He sensed that she was braced for condemnation, and he was angry that she thought so little of him.

  “I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped you had returned to stay,” Freddie said. “But I understand that you must have ties in Canada as well now.”

  He would miss her if she left, yet he did not blame her for not wanting to remain. He suspected more than a few self-righteous souls had gone out of their way to make sure Anne knew how little they welcomed her presence. And he knew nothing of her life in Canada. Perhaps there was someone there she held in affection.

  “You must be the only person in New Biddeford who does not wish me gone posthaste.”

  He could hear the bitterness in her voice. He wanted to cheer her up. To wipe away the sadness and wariness that seemed so much a part of this new Anne. He wanted to hold her, to assure her that he would make everything better. But this was not a mere scraped knee or a broken doll. To all evidence, Anne had committed the most grievous sin that a young woman could commit. As a gentleman, it should be beneath him to acknowledge the sin, let alone the sinner. Unless she asked for his help, there was very little he could do. The chains of custom and propriety had never before weighed as heavily as they did now.

  He did the only thing he could.

  “Remember you can count on my friendship,” he said. “While you are here, let us not be strangers. Do not hesitate to call on me, should you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “I will remember.”

  And with that promise, he had to be content.

  A polite cough indicated the presence of a maid, hovering in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, Miss Anne, but Mrs. Perry needs to speak with you.”

  “I must go,” Anne said, rising from her chair.

  “And I as well.” Freddie rose from his seat and followed Anne to the door. “I hope I may call on you again.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  Freddie took his hat and gloves from the table in the entranceway. “Please give my respects to Master Ian, and tell him how much I enjoyed making his acquaintance.”

  The look on her face was priceless. He could tell she was shocked by his casual mention of Ian, when they had spent the last half-hour carefully dancing around any mention of the boy or the scandalous rumors attached to his presence. Yet he wanted Anne to know that he had met Ian and that he was making no judgments.

  She had forgotten his kindness. She had remembered his appearance, his smile and even his fondness for lemonade and Cook’s freshly baked biscuits. But she had forgotten the kindness that was such an essential part of Freddie’s nature.

  Or was it that she had not dared hope he would show her his kindness? Throughout their visit she had been unable to relax, certain that at any moment he would reveal the true purpose of his visit. A polite, yet firm request that she remove her scandalous presence from the neighborhood. Or, worse yet, that he would ask her questions she dare not answer.

  Yet he had said nothing, giving every appearance that he was genuinely glad to see her and to renew their friendship. It might have been any social call, the undercurrent of awkwardness explainable by the long years they had been apart.

  So she had reasoned, and she had allowed herself the selfish pleasure of enjoying the visit for its own sake. Freddie was the first caller who had not greeted her with scorn. She would let herself enjoy the moment, knowing that all too soon his attitude would change.

  His promise of friendship, despite anything, had reminded her that he had heard the gossip. And then he had shocked her with the news that he had already encountered Ian. Surely having seen Ian, Freddie would have leapt to the same conclusions that everyone else had. Even those servants who had been loyal to her in the old days had taken one look at Ian and concluded that this was her child.

  To be fair, it was not strictly the servants’ fault. From what she could gather, in his last days her father had raged on about his ungrateful daughter and the bastard son she had borne. Her and Ian’s arrival had seemed proof of his ravings. And such gossip was too good to be kept to themselves. Within hours of Anne’s arrival, the news had spread throughout the neighborhood. By now, the gossip would have reached London. Not that anyone there would care about the doings of Miss Anne Webster, spinster daughter of obscure country gentry.

  She could have put a halt to the gossip by showing her marriage lines. But she could not, for there were none. And so, condemned by her father in his death as she had been during his lifetime, Anne planned to leave New Biddeford as soon as possible.

  Consequently, she had gritted her teeth and endured the condolence call from the vicar’s wife. Mrs. Poundstone, however, had proven more interested in lecturing Anne on the state of her soul than on consoling her in her supposed grief.

  Mrs. Poundstone had been a model of propriety when compared to the Misses Hamiltons. Middle-aged spinsters, the two ladies had welcomed Anne back to the neighborhood with insincere warmth, then had proceeded to ask the most impertinent questions regarding Ian’s exact age and the circumstances of his birth. This Anne had refused to endure, and she had unceremoniously ejected the women from the house.

  It was no wonder then that she had expected Freddie to treat her coldly. Surely his mother had seen fit to apprise him of the gossip that was circulating concerning Anne and her supposed son. Yet in spite of what he had heard, and what he had seen with his own eyes, if Freddie had drawn any conclusions he had kept them to himself. He had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome and to assure her of his continued friendship.

  In her mind, such kindness and loyalty were the mark of a true gentleman. Although she doubted that the Dowager Lady Frederick would agree. And if there was anyone with whom she felt inclined to share her burden, it would have been her old friend. But the secret of Ian’s birth was not hers alone to keep, and so she kept silent.

  She wondered if Freddie would call again. Her heart hoped so, and yet she knew it was foolish of her. She would be gone in a few weeks, this time never to return. But while she was here, it was good to know she had at least one true friend.

  Four

  Freddie’s visit stood out as the one bright spot in a week of misery. Anne had half-expected to see him again, and had scolded herself for being disappointed that he made no further effort to seek her out. No doubt his mother, the dowager Lady Frederick, had used her influence to make her son think better of encouraging the connection.

  The days passed slowly. By her own choice she would have left as soon as she learned of her father’s death, but her time was not her own. Her father’s solicitor had left a letter requesting that she notify him upon her arrival so that he could wait upon her. She had written to him at once, but she had waited nearly two weeks before Mr. Creighton condescended to let her know that he would be calling on her the next day.

  For the hundredth time, she wondered why the solicitor wished to see her. Was it simply to inform her that she had no legal right to stay at the residence? Her father had disowned her years before, so there was no hope of an inheritance. The most she could hope for was that her father had relented sufficiently to allow her the portrait of her mother or some other items of sentimental value. Knowing her father’s character, it was more likely that he had dictated one final diatribe and now expected his solicitor to deliver the message for him.

  Still, there was no use fretting. She owed her father this one final duty, and then she and Ian would leave. She had already booked their passage on a ship that would sail for Lower Canada within the fortnight.

  Looking out the window of the drawing room, Anne saw a hired carriage coming up the drive. A glance at the clock confirmed that it lacked but a few minutes until noon, the hour Mr. C
reighton had appointed for his call.

  Swiftly she moved to a chair and picked up the book of poetry she had discarded earlier. She did not want Mr. Creighton to see how nervous she was.

  The door opened, without so much as a knock, and a housemaid announced, “Mr. Creighton to see you, miss.” There was a studied insolence in the maid’s tone. Although a few of the servants were loyal to her, most had followed the lead of the butler, Mr. Boswell. He would never have permitted her to stay on that first day, had the solicitor not left instructions that he expected to call on her at her father’s house. As it was, the servants, unsure if she was their new mistress or merely an interloper, treated her with scant courtesy or respect.

  The gentleman who entered the room was not the formidable friend of her father, but rather a much younger man.

  “Adam Creighton at your service, Miss Webster,” he said with a bow.

  She guessed at once that this was Mr. Creighton, the younger, who must have joined his father’s firm. There was a distinct family resemblance in his features and in the unfortunate way that his ears stood out from his head.

  “Mr. Creighton, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Anne said, laying down the book she had just picked up. “Pray be seated.”

  The solicitor glanced around, then chose a seat on the sofa, placing his satchel on the table before him. Uncertain of his purpose, she did not offer refreshments, not wishing to prolong his visit any longer than necessary. It was discourteous, but he did not seem to notice the slight.

  Mr. Creighton reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles which he then perched on the bridge of his nose. The spectacles made him look even younger than before, as if he were a boy playing at his father’s profession. Then he opened the satchel and withdrew a sheaf of papers tied with a crimson ribbon.

  “My condolences to you on your loss. It must have come as a great shock,” he said diffidently.

  “You are too kind,” she said, then could not resist adding, “But I had expected you somewhat earlier.”

  “I regret having made you wait, but there was another client of mine who required my services most urgently. It seemed there was no harm in the delay.”

  “And your father did not wish to perform the errand himself.”

  “Er…” Mr. Creighton’s face flushed with embarrassment. With one hand he tugged a neckcloth that had suddenly grown too tight. “Well, you see, that is, upon all due consideration, and er, considering the, ahem, the circumstances, as it were…” His eyes darted around the room as if he were seeking escape.

  Anne felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man. Whatever message her father had left, it must be worse than she had feared.

  “Mr. Creighton, you can be certain that whatever my father had to say, it is nothing that he has not written or said to me before. Simply give me his message, and then we will be done with it.”

  Mr. Creighton took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. Then he untied the scarlet ribbon and rifled through the sheaf till he found the piece of paper he was looking for.

  “As you know, your late father was a man of considerable property. Not wealthy, mind you, but I venture to say that he had more than sufficient means to live comfortably, as befitted a gentleman.”

  Comfortably. Anne suppressed a bitter laugh. She and Ian had subsisted all these years on a tiny fraction of what her father’s properties brought in during a year.

  The solicitor continued. “As your father’s estate was not entailed, its disposition was left to his discretion. With no male heirs, originally the property was to be divided between you and your sister. Then, in his final years, your father amended the will. First, when your mother passed on, and later, upon the death of your sister. This last year he made one final alteration.”

  Would he never come to the point? “You do not need to tell me any more. I know that my father had written me out of his will. It was the last I heard from him, until he sent for me this spring.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Well, as you say, there was no provision made for you,” he said, appearing grateful that she was not the type to make an unpleasant scene. “But as guardian, you will, of course, have access to the funds from the estate until the boy reaches his majority. To enable you to pay for his upkeep and schooling and the like.”

  Guardian? Surely she had misheard. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “Of course, you are not the sole guardian. I am named as well, as a trustee. But your father’s will made it quite clear that the principal responsibility rests with you.” Here the solicitor paused, frowning. “I am not certain that it is wise to put such responsibility into the hands of a woman, but it was what your father wanted.”

  An idea occurred that was at once preposterous, and yet at the same time…“I still do not understand. I am to be a guardian, for whom?”

  “For the child, of course.” The lawyer adjusted his spectacles and began to read from the document he held. “I leave my estate to the child known as Ian Webster, who resides in the care of my daughter Anne, and whom I now acknowledge as my grandson.”

  For a moment it seemed as if her heart would stop. Never had she expected this. “Ian? Ian is to inherit all this?” she asked with a wave of her hand meant to encompass the house and estate.

  “Yes. I thought you understood that.” Mr. Creighton peered over the document at her. “The estate is his. To be held in trust until he reaches his majority.”

  She could not understand why her father had done such a thing. “And what of Ian’s parentage? Did he say anything more?” She had to know.

  Mr. Creighton flushed. Even as she awaited his answer, a part of her mind observed that his fair skin must be a severe trial in his chosen profession.

  “There is nothing more written, save what you have already heard.” His voice stressed the word written.

  “Nothing more written. But what else did he say?” Surely he would not acknowledge Ian without also acknowledging Anne’s innocence.

  “I regret that I can not break any confidences that he may have shared with me. What is important is that he recognized the boy as his grandson and made more than generous provision for him, considering the, er, the irregularities of his birth.”

  She swallowed against the lump that rose in her throat. Even to the last, her father had refused to forgive her. Somehow, he had blamed her for what had happened. True, Ian would never want for anything again, but she bitterly resented that her father had not seen fit to include her in his belated attempts to set things right.

  Would it have made any difference if she had arrived before his death? Or would he have continued to condemn her, reserving his care for Ian, the one true innocent in all that had happened?

  She gradually became aware that Mr. Creighton was still droning on.

  “Now, there are several decisions that need to be made,” he said. “You may draw upon the accounts to pay the expenses of the household, the servants’ wages and such, but you will need to decide if you are to reside here or if you wish to rent the estate. Of course, you could sell the estate, but there is no need for such a hasty decision. Prudence and caution will serve you well—”

  “Enough,” Anne said sharply. She felt torn between hysterical laughter and tears of outrage. Her father had written a will that provided for her and Ian to live comfortably all their lives, yet at the same time had ensured she would never be able to overcome her tarnished reputation. It was an act of unspeakable cruelty. For her pride’s sake, she wished she could refuse the inheritance, but she could not sacrifice Ian’s future for the sake of her wounded feelings.

  “I appreciate your concern, but you must realize this news comes as quite a surprise. I need time to ponder my choices. Perhaps you would be so kind as to return another day, when we can discuss these affairs at leisure.” So saying, Anne rose, and out of courtesy Mr. Creighton rose as well.

  “I have a very busy schedule,” he objected. “But if you insist—”

  “I
do.” Far better that she send Mr. Creighton away. In her current mood, she did not trust herself to discuss her father or his affairs and keep a civil tongue in her head. She needed time alone, to come to terms with what her father had done.

  At least one of the servants must have been listening at the door during her conversation with Mr. Creighton. Or perhaps not one, but all of them. Anne was hard put to blame them for their curiosity. After all, the contents of her father’s will would determine their fate as well. If the manor was to be closed up or sold off, they would lose their positions. And in these hard times, positions were difficult to come by.

  However they knew, the change in their attitude toward her was both swift and profound. That day, when Mr. Creighton went to leave, it was a footman and not a mere maid who brought the solicitor his hat and gloves. And in the days that had passed, Anne’s tea arrived while it was still hot, housemaids answered her summons rather than requiring Anne to seek them out and Cook outdid herself preparing Anne’s favorite meals. Anne might be branded a sinner, but as long as she continued to pay their wages, the servants seemed prepared to forgive any past indiscretions. And through their efforts, they seemed determined to convince her to stay.

  Only the butler, Mr. Boswell, had persisted in his scorn for her. His service was perfectly correct, but she fancied she could see the contempt for her that hid behind his eyes. Not to mention his loathsome habit of referring to her as “Miss Anne” at every opportunity, stressing the title of Miss as a constant reminder of the shame of her unwedded state. Anne determined that she would pension him off at the earliest opportunity.

  She wondered if the newfound tolerance extended past the manor gates. Unlike the servants, the villagers had no reason to be grateful to her. And she had no doubt that her father’s will and its implications were being hotly debated in the drawing rooms and taprooms of New Biddeford. She wondered what they were saying about her. Was it too much to hope that this would be a nine days’ wonder, and some new scandal would arise to distract them all?