by Pendle, Eve
“Mama?” Annie looked at her mother with concern.
“He’ll take her.” Lydia was gabbling. “He’ll reveal everything and ruin us. Or me or–”
He pulled her to the corridor, closing the door behind them.
“I knew he’d come one day. I knew he’d find me.” Her blue eyes were wide and panicky, showing too much of the whites, frozen in terror.
He gently pulled her into his embrace. “Lydia, I will never let anything happen to you.”
She was shaking.
“Shall we read, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud?” he heard Elizabeth say, but couldn’t make out Annie’s reply.
He’d keep them safe.
“What should we do?” Lydia’s torso heaved beneath his hands.
A loud knock sounded at the door.
“Don’t go. They’ll leave.” She gripped him urgently.
“We have to face this. What if they come back?” She would move house, live in fear and isolation. He might lose her, he certainly would lose her peace of mind. “Do you trust me?”
Her fingers bit into him. “Yes.”
He pulled back to look her in the eyes. “Then let me talk to him.”
There was a long pause, and even then, her nod was doubtful.
Before he could think better, Alfred squeezed and released her. “Go to Annie. Or go to the kitchen.”
He descended the stairs to the front door with more confidence than he felt. Opening it, he stepped outside, forcing the couple on the doorstep backward. “Why are you here?”
The man looked him up and down with unrestrained surprise.
The woman smiled sweetly. “I understand a lady lives here, with a little girl. Annie Taylor.”
A denial hovered in his throat, words that would send these people who scared Lydia on their way without a second word. “Yes.”
“And that the little girl is ill.”
“Your sources are remarkably accurate.” How had two city folk discovered Annie? A memory of a telegram flicked through his memory.
“How is Annie faring?” The man stepped forwards. “Could I see her?”
Alfred shifted to cover the door handle. “She’s recovering. But you can’t see her.”
Was this what it was like to fight? Alfred had never done it, but his blood was tingling, and his fingers wanted to ball into a fist to hurt this monster who’d scared Lydia so badly. Maybe this was how it felt to walk into a boxing ring.
The man’s face dropped with disappointment. “I’m not here to cause any trouble, I just want to see my–Annie.”
The urge to yell at this man that Annie didn’t belong to him was almost unassailable. But worse, how could anyone be so ignorant? To think this visit wouldn’t cause trouble. “Lydia’s terrified, you know.” He hoped she wasn’t watching this, or listening.
The woman’s intake of breath spoke volumes. The man looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
“I want to see Annie,” he said quietly. “Nothing more.”
“And your selfish need to see a child is worth distressing the mother to the point she’s shaking?” He couldn’t throw a punch, but being a teacher meant he could fight with words. “You arrive here in your expensive carriage, with your posh clothes, and you think everyone will bow to your will. Well, I won’t.”
There was shocked silence for a moment and Alfred wondered if he’d gone too far. This man was powerful. He could probably harm, maybe even extinguish, Alfred’s chances of getting a better job and therefore providing more for Lydia and Annie.
The man nodded slowly. “I understand. Could you tell Lydia...” He looked down at the gravelly mud underfoot, and when he looked back up and met Alfred’s gaze, his eyes were filled with regret. “Tell her I’m sorry for the distress I’ve caused her. If she ever needs anything–”
“I will be providing whatever Lydia and Annie need.” Whatever this man regretted, and if his suspicions about who it was were correct, he had a lot to regret, Alfred would not allow him to force his way into their lives.
The man seemed like he might object until the woman’s hand tightened on his arm and he gritted his teeth.
“You’d better come inside,” Lydia’s voice came from behind him, “before you have the whole village speculating.”
* * *
Lydia had thought many times about what she’d do if she saw her erstwhile lover again. Lord Markshall, who had broken her life. Never, in those many daydreams where she railed and yelled and plunged a dagger into his dark heart, did she invite him in to tea.
She had stopped shaking. Actually, she’d stopped shaking when she’d heard Alfred tear into Markshall. His fierce defense of her and Annie had strengthened each part of her, like molten metal poured through her bones and hardened to steel. Going to the door had been instinct and once she’d seen Markshall’s expression, she’d not been able to deny him the opportunity to see Annie.
“Thank you,” Oscar began.
“I won’t let you take her,” Lydia said at the same time. Better to get that clear.
“Absolutely not, we’re only here to help,” the woman interjected. “A girl needs her mother more than anything. But as Oscar was such a great friend of your late husband, surely you can understand it would mean a lot to him to see Annie?”
Lydia didn’t know whether this lady recognized that lie. But with Nurse Elizabeth, an outsider however welcome, in the house, Lydia wasn’t going to correct her. Moreover, Annie knew nothing about the circumstances of her birth. Ill and ten years old was hardly an opportune moment to inform her.
Alfred looked at Lydia, his expression clear that he would remove Oscar if she just said the word. Instead she gave an infinitesimal nod. He held out a hand to Oscar. “I’m Alfred Lowe. Annie is one of my students.”
“Oscar Clawson.” Lord Markshall introduced himself with his Christian name and surname rather than his title and shook Alfred’s hand, “This is my wife, Emily.”
His wife. The man who’d carelessly fathered her daughter had married. She considered shouting at him or hissing to this beautiful woman that she’d acquired damaged goods. But what would be the point? She could deny Markshall seeing Annie, but she was his daughter. She gave a terse nod and proceeded upstairs. Nurse Elizabeth was where she’d left her, sitting at Annie’s side, reading Little Women. The volume of Wordsworth was put aside.
Annie regarded the newcomers with confused attention. Lydia thought of what she could say. This is your father. He doesn’t deserve a daughter as perfect as you.
“These are some acquaintances, from long ago,” Lydia explained, telling Annie with her eyes that all was well. “They were just passing and thought they’d come to visit.”
Elizabeth excused herself and introductions were made.
Markshall’s Countess smiled reassuringly at Annie, sat in the seat vacated by the nurse and by some magic was immediately in a conversation with Annie about Little Women. Apparently, she was oblivious to the awkwardness that Lydia and her husband had once been lovers and Annie was their bastard child.
Lydia indicated a chair for Markshall, and he sank into it. Alfred took the seat next to him.
Annie’s gaze flicked over to Lydia every few minutes for her approval and Lydia smiled in response. Markshall watched Annie as if mesmerized.
As she watched Emily talk to Annie, Lydia examined her feelings. She checked for all the emotions she’d thought would accompany this meeting. Resentment? Yes, a little. Fear? That was gone. Anger? A thorn of anger remained; hardly surprising given all she had to be furious about. Love? This maybe had been her greatest concern. She’d thought if she saw Lord Markshall again it would revive her old feelings. The lust, the love, the intoxication with him. But there was none of that.
There was… For a moment she couldn’t identify it. It was foreign and surprising, like walking along the riverbank and finding a camel. Pity. She felt sorry for Markshall, so eager to see Annie and having missed out on her whole life.
Sh
e’d spent years in trepidation that Markshall would come and steal away her daughter or reveal her sin. But now it came to it, she could see that she had fought to keep herself and her daughter alive and well. She was strong. She’d built Markshall up in her mind into a monster, when he was merely a flawed man who didn’t have any relevance in her life anymore.
“Papa?” Annie looked over at Alfred, her gaze sliding past Markshall, who looked like he’d been struck by lightning. “Please can we have sweets?”
Alfred caught her eye. His expression was barely suppressed joy. Annie had wanted a Papa, and here he was. Mr. Alfred Lowe. A kind man who brought sweets and books, visited daily, and kissed Annie’s mother like she was precious. Annie’s father was irrelevant to the situation.
“I brought some ginger snaps and rose biscuits,” Emily said, proffering a paper box with a fancy printed burgundy design. “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but I do love to support the baker near the station. He’s such a nice man and makes the most divine little things.”
Markshall turned towards Lydia.
Lydia thought about refusing. But Emily’s gaze was genuine and without guile. It would be truculent to refuse London treats out of pride. Lydia nodded. “I’ll get a plate and some tea.”
“I’ll help,” Oscar said.
Alfred frowned with worried enquiry. She was resilient, but it was reassuring to have him there, arm outstretched and shoulder available, in case she wanted him.
She nodded and gave him a half-smile in response. Dealing with Markshall she could do alone. Alfred had shown her it was possible. Lydia didn’t acknowledge Markshall as she left the room.
“I’m glad to see you settled,” Markshall said when they were in the kitchen.
“No thanks to you,” Lydia retorted. He’d come here of his own volition, there was no need to sugar coat the situation. It wasn’t a biscuit. She kept her back to him as she put a kettle on the range. She didn’t want to regard his face more than strictly necessary.
“Yes. I know.” He sounded guilty. “I hope Matilda sent the money for the nurse in time to be of use.”
She stilled. “I wondered how she’d found out.” Her own sister was in league with this blond devil. “Now I wonder how you found out.” Lydia continued around the room, collecting the two cups and teapot. It seemed her life hadn’t been free of him after all. He’d been spying on her somehow.
“What did the doctor say?” Markshall asked, avoiding the implicit question.
“Polio,” she replied. She almost added that she hadn’t forgotten about his perfidy.
He failed to smother a gasp. But his query was calm when he asked, “What’s her prognosis?”
“We had some bad days.” Lydia gripped the teapot hard. “But the doctor is confident she’ll make a full recovery.” She didn’t dare believe it yet. All her hope was in that prediction. She continued busying herself with the tea.
“This is for you,” Markshall said and there was a soft noise of paper on the table. “I’ve also taken the liberty of opening an account for Annie. It won’t be accessible until her eighteenth birthday, but then it should provide for her well enough. There’s no provision about marriage or dowry or anything like that. She’ll be independently wealthy.”
Lydia turned to the table and frowned at the check. The name of Brown Shipley and Co. was at the top, and Markshall’s compact signature was at the bottom. Her name, Lydia Taylor, was in between. Somehow, he knew she had a bank account to put this into. But it was the amount that arrested her.
Fifty thousand pounds only. Her head spun. The last word seemed a little ironic. It was money beyond what even her young and avaricious mind had envisioned. That would be the end of worrying about rent or bills. If only it had come last month. She waited for the burst of wrath, but none came.
There must be a thousand sensible things to do with the money your old beau gave you. Buy a house. Scale up her chicken business. Hire a governess for Annie. But there was one thing in the world she wanted. It didn’t cost fifty thousand, but it had been out of her reach mere minutes ago.
She flicked open the banking book. The name was in the decorative formal handwriting of a clerk, but unmistakable. Miss Annabelle Taylor. The date was 1870. This wasn’t a recent whim. Markshall ought not to have known Annie’s name or where they were. Yet something else happened five years ago.
“The same year as the Elmswell Children’s Society formed.” The origin of Annie’s coats, dresses, and toys for years, but she didn’t allow herself to voice how essential that help had been to her. “What a coincidence. Who’s your source?”
“Don’t blame him.” Markshall gave her a charming smile, the sort that used to make her heart agitate and now left her wondering what she’d ever seen in him. “He kept me informed about all the local children. He isn’t aware of any particular interest.”
Whatever Markshall’s intention, the society was positive. But he must have known Annie’s whereabouts years. It didn’t make any sense.
“Why now?” She met his gaze but couldn’t find any answers in his expression. He was as stunning as ever, with his golden hair and angular jaw, seemingly having stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. He was a stranger. Unlike Alfred, who she could see easily and who understood her without words, like she was a set of narrative paintings. She and Markshall were so wrong for each other it seemed laughable now. Despite their similar coloring, blond hair and blue eyes, she and Markshall couldn’t be more different. After all, a married rake was still a rake.
“Surely the question is why not before?” There was a trace of shame in his expression.
It reminded Lydia that whatever he’d done for Elmswell, he’d deserted her when she’d been pregnant with Annie. He’d been the cause of her estrangement with her family. Because of this man she’d struggled without necessities and luxuries for years.
“Because you’re an ass.” That was the only answer. Still no sugar coating. She didn’t really care about why he hadn’t visited sooner, or why he was here now. “Because you weren’t supposed to know where we were.”
He wobbled his head from side to side and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “That about covers it.”
There was nothing else of importance to learn from him. Lydia opened the package and started placing the biscuits in a neat circle on a plate.
“When Annie is of age, Emily has agreed to be her sponsor if she wants a season in London.”
“We’ll see.” That seemed half a world away. Annie had almost died. A season sounded like a shortcut to scandal, but it would be Annie’s choice when she was old enough to make it.
There was a silence, broken only by the tap of biscuits onto the plate as she placed them. When she was finished, Lydia stood back and regarded Markshall. She couldn’t believe she’d once thought him the pinnacle of manhood. He might be rich, but Alfred Lowe, a schoolteacher and a gentleman, was in every way superior to Lord Markshall.
“I’m sorry,” Markshall looked as if he could hear her thoughts and agreed. “Not for Annie, as she’s a delight. But for everything I should have done better.”
His words drifted over her. Alfred was so much more than either her old dreams, or Markshall with this money and sudden concern. Now she had the means. In the drawer in front of her, nestled in a book about a brave, handsome, and purely fictional military man, was the method.
“It’s over now.” She picked up the plate and thrust it at him. “Take the biscuits.”
Chapter Fourteen
Alfred watched Lydia as she looked out of the window at the departing backs of the unexpected visitors. Her expression was conflicted and thoughtful. She’d bolted the door after them, as though superstitious that they’d return and sneak back in if she didn’t.
He was glad they had gone. For every moment he’d suppressed his primal impulse to chase this man away from Lydia and everything else he loved. Now they were alone again.
Annie headed for the stairs, then turned, h
er eyes apprehensive. “Will you stay for a while?”
“Yes.” He watched as relief seeped into her. “I’ll bring up some food in a moment.”
She nodded and their gazes tangled before she smiled and hurried upstairs, skirts swishing.
In the kitchen the bread, cheddar cheese, chutney, and a quarter of mint humbugs he’d brought were on the sideboard, along with the printed package Emily’s biscuits had been wrapped in. He picked it up and examined the ornate lettering. A pang went through him. Everything he brought was in plain paper or newspaper, not with elaborate covering that spoke of wealth. Even the chutney he’d brought, a delicious sweet and vinegary pickle with onion, apple, and cabbage, was marked only with a hand-written label stating ‘chutney’ and the previous year’s date when it had been made, 1874. It was provincial to the point of lower-class.
An earl, she’d said. She’d thought an earl would marry her. An aristocrat whose wife would buy a sweet treat of biscuits with their wrapping so pretty it was a present in itself for a child like Annie.
A rich blond man with the same pale blue eyes as Annie, who Lydia was afraid of. He didn’t let this thought come to its logical conclusion.
He pulled out the two little plates and made cheese and chutney sandwiches, two on one plate and one on the other. On the fire he warmed a little broth for Annie and put it in a cup. Then he carried the modest dinner upstairs, one plate balanced on his wrist.
“You should eat,” he said, encompassing both Elizabeth and Lydia. With a murmured thank you, Lydia accepted the first plate. He gave Elizabeth the other plate then sat on the edge of Annie’s bed to feed her the broth.
It was gratifying to provide for these women he cared for. Next to him, he felt Lydia’s gaze on him as she ate. Lydia and Elizabeth made some small talk about the excellence of the cheese and the variable weather. Lydia continued holding the plate in her hands after she’d finished, stroking her thumb over the smooth ceramic edge. She’d left the second sandwich uneaten, waiting for him. Annie was more reluctant, the excitement of the unexpected visitors having apparently tired her out beyond even finishing her broth.
