Tender Fortune

by Judith E. French

  Tom Comegys was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square, rugged face. On his shoulders he carried a fat-cheeked toddler. The baby's cries of delight could be heard across the yard as she pulled at her father's thick dark hair.

  "Tom would have never considered me without Ralph's plantation," Jane said softly. "But once we were man and wife, he found I suited him well enough. Not that you'd have the same problem. But I wanted you to lose no sleep over gossip."

  Charity laughed. "You say what you think, Jane Comegys. That's rare enough in a man, let alone a woman. I think you and I could be good friends."

  "I think so too. When your baby is born, you must come to visit us at Sweetwater. If Lord Beauford will permit."

  "My lord is very kind. I'm sure he won't mind."

  Elizabeth came over with a small, fair woman in tow. "Lady Beauford, Mistress Comegys, I want you to meet Mistress Whiggsby."

  Charity murmured something polite. Major Whiggsby had wasted no time in finding a wife of his own, a Welsh widow someone said. The woman was in her late thirties, she would guess. Charity wished her well and offered a hasty thanks to Saint Anne that it was the Welshwoman and not she who was the major's wife.

  Charity rode home in the carriage with Harry, tired and content. The party had been fun, and she'd made a new friend in Jane Comegys. And most important, she'd only thought of Jamie a half dozen times all afternoon. Wasn't that proof she could learn to live without him?

  The days of June passed bright and fair, one after another in a golden chain. The child stirred within her, and Charity took joy in the new life to come. She allowed herself to be pampered and fussed over by her new lord and found peace in prayer and contemplation.

  The gardens of Avalon became her special place. She watched the green summer apples swell and took her afternoon naps under the grape arbor. She liked to sit beside the fish pond and throw bits of bread to the bright-colored carp that flashed in the sunlight. She transplanted pennyroyal and chervil from the herb gardens at Widow's Endeavor to the large one here, earning disapproval from the head gardener, who believed her ladyship's place was in the house and not in his domain, and certainly not in his domain with a trowel in her hand.

  The outside servants, the grooms and coachmen, the slaves and bondmen, were much more respectful of Lady Beauford than those who worked within Avalon's walls. But they still showed a thinly veiled insolence when Lord Beauford was not present. Charity's sharp eyes missed none of the slights, but she held her tongue. "Every dog has his day," as Mam said. She would not complain to Harry. What could she say? That the gardener had looked at her disrespectfully? That the butler had hesitated a fraction too long before answering a question? Harry would believe her puffed up with pride or unsure of her position as mistress of the household. So Charity covered her growing resentment with wide innocent eyes and a girlish laughter. Let them all believe her stupid; in time they would learn otherwise.

  In July, Charity grew more contented with her lot. She was growing larger by the day and her health was excellent. Sleep came easier at night, and she pushed Jamie to the farthest comer of her mind. Now that the month of their promised wedding was passed, she could admit to herself that she had watched for him, knowing that he would not come. Praying that he wouldn't. For if he had kept faith with her when she had failed him... what then?

  What then indeed? Charity lay on her side in the shade of a white poplar and tossed crumbs of cake to the fish. What if he came? She rolled over and covered her face with her hands. He didn't come. He betrayed me. Her innermost thoughts were merciless. "As I did him," she murmured only half aloud. She sighed. "But we are two of a kind." He warned me from the first.

  With the full heat of summer, Charity had given up riding, asking that a boy regularly exercise Duchess so she wouldn't become unmanageable. Now she was more confined to Avalon. She had only to demand that the cart or carriage be brought to the door, and she would be free to travel—but each instance resulted in confrontation, so it was easier to stay at home.

  "My lady." Nan came across the close-cropped grass. "Lord Beauford is asking for you."

  Charity reached for the wide-brimmed straw hat and put it on her head, adjusting the scarlet ribbons to fall down the back. "Where is he? I'll go at once," she answered, getting to her feet and brushing bits of grass from the lovely gown. "Does he have another headache?" Her husband liked to have her close when he was feeling poorly. He said he soothed his aches just by looking at her.

  "No, my lady." Nan smiled at her shyly. "I think he has a gift for you. One of his ships docked in Oxford this morning."

  "He spoils me," Charity confided "I hope it's not another gown. I've got more than I could possibly wear now." With a sigh she walked toward the house. Once she had owned only one dress, and that barely covered her backside. Now she was about to be buried in gowns. If only she could explain to Harry that it was not seemly to be dressed head and shoulders above every other woman on the Tidewater. It only caused jealousy and earned her no friends. "It will only be one more for you to care for, Nan."

  "I don't mind. You're the kindest mistress a girl ever had! I like to look after yer pretty things." She blushed. "You should take a whip to some of them others, my lady, them what shows you sass. It ain't right." She hurried to keep up with Charity. "A little strap would make 'em step faster."

  Charity pretended not to hear. As long as her husband was not hurt by the rudeness, or her child, she would bide her time. Now her energy must be directed to keeping Harry happy. It was a small price to pay for all he had given her.

  Chapter 20

  Charity dropped the small silk garment into the sewing basket as angry voices rose from the entrance hall. Motioning Nan to continue sewing, she went to the stair landing to find out what the problem was.

  "I'll see Lady Beauford! Stand aside before I wring your neck!"

  Stunned, Charity gripped the polished banister; there was no mistaking that enraged voice. Pain shot through her, pain so deep and sharp that her senses clouded and blackness threatened to overcome her.

  "No, my lord. I cannot allow you entrance to the house. Lord Beauford is—"

  "It's all right, John," Charity called. "I'll see Viscount Braemar." Her voice cracked and she descended the stairs deliberately, desperately trying to hide the agony that pierced her to the center of her being.

  "My lord would not wish..." the butler warned haughtily. "It is not seemly for—"

  "Is not seemly for what?" she lashed. She nodded to Jamie. "You are welcome, Viscount Braemar." Her green eyes were clouded with pain; she balled her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. "The small sitting room, I think, John."

  Jamie's hand closed on her arm. "What game are you playing?"

  Charity flinched as his fingers dug into her flesh. "Not here." She pulled away and stopped John with an imperious stare. "Lord Beauford would wish me to know what Viscount Braemar has come for—on such a day. I'll call you if I need anything." Back straight, she led the way to the privacy of the secluded room. She closed the door firmly behind them and whirled on Jamie. "What are you doing here?"

  Water dripped from his clothing to puddle on the floor. His linen shirt was plastered to his chest; the leather riding boots were soaked. The acrid smell of wet wool filled the room.

  Thunder rattled the windowpanes and a flash of lightning caused Charity to start. She crossed to the window and closed the inner shutters. "I'm sorry you were caught in the storm," she murmured, "but we need the rain."

  "Damn you! I come home to find you here, and you prattle on about rain! My God, Charity, is it true?" His eyes narrowed as he took in her altered shape. "You're with child, aren't you?" He pounced on her, seizing her wrists. "Aren't you?"

  He held her so close she could feel his breath on her face. The brown eyes were bits of granite. In vain she searched his features for some hint of the man who had vowed to love her and make her his wife. "You're hurting me," she whispered.

  The gri
p loosened. For a fleeting second she glimpsed the hurt behind the granite wall. Her vision misted as tears welled up in her eyes; she could meet his scrutiny no longer and she looked away.

  "Are you?" he demanded hoarsely.

  She nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat.

  He flung her wrists away and took a step back as though she were something unclean. "Whose is it? Whose heir do you carry?"

  Charity wiped at the hateful tears with the back of her hand. "Quiet, the servants will hear you." She fought the urge to throw herself into his arms and tell him the truth, tell him she carried his child. But the oath she had given was burned across the pages of her mind. I swore. On the soul of my child. I cannot break that vow, not if it means my life. But it did! Her life was standing there, staring at her as if she were an enemy—a traitor.

  "I don't care if they do hear!" Jamie lashed. "Answer me, damn it! Whose heir do you carry in your belly? Mine... or Beauford's? Or"—the cinnamon eyes were cruel in the ashen face—"or someone else's?"

  Charity's spine stiffened. God forgive me, she prayed silently. "It's Harry's," she said softly. "I carry Lord Beauford's lawful heir."

  Jamie's fist swept a table clean of candlestick and inkwell. "Damn you! Damn you to hell, Charity Brown! I crossed an ocean for you. I may well have thrown away my inheritance!" His face contorted with rage. "You're far enough along! Did you wait until my ship left Annapolis? Or did you crawl into Harry's bed as soon as I set sail?"

  "This is July, Jamie... near to August. You promised me you'd return for our wedding in June. What was I supposed to think?" She caught the back of a chair for support. "I had no word all that time."

  "Liar! I sent you two letters!" he shouted. "But by then you were already Lady Beauford, weren't you? Well, you should have waited a little longer. I could have given you a title. You're over your head, Charity! The game's gotten sticky. The little whore's wench from the streets of—"

  "She no longer exists!" The green eyes flamed. "She's dead! Don't you remember, Lord Braemar? You should! You buried her!" Fury covered the pain, and she welcomed it. "I am Lady Beauford, and this is my home." She went to the door and opened it, nearly knocking over the servant outside. "I trust you've heard what you were listening for?" she demanded.

  "Oh, no, my lady. I was just—" The woman backed away shaking her head. It was true, she'd hadn't heard anything, only the shouting and a crash. She'd never seen the new mistress in such a temper. "I'm no sneak, lady," she protested.

  "Just get in here and clean up the floor. Viscount Braemar's had a slight accident."

  Jamie mouthed an oath as the maid entered the room and turned his back to the two women.

  "Oh, the ink's on the carpet, lady. I'll have to get—"

  Charity waved a hand. "Do whatever it is you have to do and get out. Leave the door open." She shot a look in Jamie's direction. "It's close in here and Lord Braemar's distressed."

  He whirled on her. "There's nothing more we have to say to each other."

  Courageously she accepted the challenge. "No, Viscount Braemar. I don't believe there is. I'll have John show you out."

  He swore softly and pushed past her. "Best wishes on your coming heir," he flung back bitterly. "May you have much joy of it."

  "I'll tell Lord Beauford you said so."

  From the window she watched him ride off into the pouring rain. Her hands clutched the solid wood of the sill. It's done. He came and. I didn't wait. She took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. Her world had shattered. No. Not shattered. I took another path.

  The child kicked and she laid her hands on the rounding of her belly. "Little precious," she murmured. "I did it for you." She turned to face the two women scrubbing at the carpet. "I'll be back to inspect your work," she told them. "See that I am called at once when Lord Beauford returns." Gathering her skirts, she left the room haughtily. Let them think what they would, she would say nothing.

  Harry was furious. He'd come to her chambers unbidden, something he'd never done before.

  "I'll not have him on this plantation."

  "No, my lord."

  "I don't want you to see him or speak to him."

  "No, my lord." Charity rose and took his hand, leading him to a chair and motioning to Nan. "A brandy for Lord Beauford."

  "I'll be no laughingstock for my friends and neighbors," Harry sputtered. "I warned you I was no fool!"

  "No one could make you one," Charity said meekly. She knelt before him and tugged off his boots. "You should have stayed at home today, my lord. The weather is too bad for you to be about."

  "But not bad enough to keep Braemar within his own walls! I'll not have it, Caroline. I'll be master in my own house."

  Charity rose and shook the wrinkles from her jade-green gown. Harry's face was puffy and red. It worried her to see him in such a state. "No one doubts that you are master here, my lord. I did not invite Jamie here. I didn't even know he'd returned from England."

  "You're my wife," Harry insisted, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. "I'll have no shame cast on my wife or heir."

  Nan came with the brandy on a silver tray; She curtsied, and Charity took it and handed it to the old earl. He downed it in two gulps.

  "Your clothes are damp. Nan, bring my lord a fresh banyan." She began to ease off Harry's coat. "The ship's master could as well come to you."

  "I needed to see the cargo with my own eyes."

  "Surely there is someone responsible you could send. Your health is not to be taken lightly. To go out in a storm—"

  "I'm not an old woman, Caroline! I could have you locked up, watched."

  Charity stepped back and hung the coat over a chair. "But you won't," she said softly. "You won't because you trust me, and because you know that I'll keep my word." Green eyes met faded gray ones honestly. "If John told you of Braemar's visit, then he told you that we were not alone five minutes."

  "The child? What did he say of the child?"

  "He asked whose it was, and I told him yours." Charity took a small towel and began to dry the old man's hands gently. "He wishes you great joy of your heir."

  "And you give me your word you won't try to see him?"

  "I won't try to see him." She unbuttoned Harry's vest and removed his wig. "Are you hungry?"

  "I want another brandy."

  Nan came forward with the decanter.

  "You're my wife," he repeated.

  A smile spread from Charity's curved lips to her eyes and she laughed. "And you are my husband, my lord. My good husband, that I love and cherish." She bent and hugged him. It's true, she thought, I do love Harry. Not the way I love Jamie, but I love him nevertheless.

  "You're a good girl, Caroline," Harry admitted. "But you're only a woman. I was afraid your head would be turned by that rascal again." He coughed. "As long as Braemar doesn't set foot on Avalon, you and I will have no quarrel." His eyes narrowed. "See that you give me no cause to change my mind."

  "As you wish, my lord." She fluttered her lashes helplessly. "As you say, I am but a woman. I realize that you know what is best for me. I will follow your will in all things. Why shouldn't I? Viscount Braemar is nothing to me," she lied. And he must be nothing. "If he comes again, I'll turn him from the door."

  "Good enough." Harry smiled at her and patted her hand. "I should have held my temper until I talked with you. John has been with me so long he forgets his place."

  "As you say, my lord, you understand these matters much better than I. If the man John forgets his place, I'm certain you know how to deal with him."

  "And so I shall." He offered his cup. "Another brandy, girl."

  Charity took the cup from him. "Later, my dear lord. For if you have another before you eat, you will fall asleep again. And I will never learn the news from Oxford." She winked at him mischievously. "Until I can again travel abroad, you must tell us everything that's happening outside Avalon." She held the dressing gown for him, guiding his arms. "I wa
nt to hear everything. If it pleases you, we will have supper brought up here, and we shall share our meal in private."

  Mollified, Beauford settled back in the high-backed chair and began to relate the day's happenings in Oxford. It was very pleasant to be catered to by a beautiful young wife, very pleasant indeed.

  Charity urged him to talk, answering and making proper responses to his stories. The pain was beginning to ebb; her breathing was a little easier. She had done what she must.

  There was no turning back; anything she and Jamie might have had together was forever lost. The child was all that mattered.

  She had told Jamie she was Lady Beauford, and it was true. She owed her loyalty to the kind old man in the chair. She had made her choice, and she would stand by her decision no matter the cost!

  Am I damned already? Had she not betrayed the man she loved? She would never forgive herself for the hurt she had seen in Jamie's eyes. Lady Deale had said he would break her heart... and she had broken his. Did he lie about the letters? Did Harry keep them from me? It didn't matter. It had been too late when he'd written them.

  Harry patted her hand. "He should have known better than to try and slip by me. An old fox is still a fox," he boasted.

  Charity smiled up at him through the tears. "Indeed you are, my lord, the king of foxes!" The baby rolled and kicked against her hand. "Oh," she cried. "Your son, my lord. Feel how strong he is!" She laid his wrinkled hand against the tight waist of her gown. "He is eager to be born." Jamie's son. A ray of light pierced the darkness of her heart. I'll have his son, pray God. And no one will ever take him from me.