by Liz Carlyle
Frederica could think of nothing to say. Bentley’s sister looked at her in exasperation. “Sometimes,” she pronounced darkly, “I should like to throttle my brother. He told you none of this, did he?”
Frederica’s eyes flew open wide. “Oh, yes, a bit.”
The viscountess looked a little mollified. “Well, at least he did not leave it to me to do all the telling,” she muttered, jerking to her feet. “Really, the details are quite sad. She was, of course, his…well, his mistress. That’s as good a word as one can put to it, I daresay. And, unbeknownst to him, she bore him a child while he was away in India, but she gave the child up. To a charity school in London’s docklands.”
“Oh!” said Frederica, hastening after her. “Not…like an orphanage?”
Catherine pursed her lips for a moment. “Just like an orphanage.” Her voice was bitter. “And of course, the child died, as do most who are left in such appalling circumstances. I still cannot think why she did not come to us or to one of Bentley’s friends. But we shall never know why, for Mary died not long after. Both were buried in London, in paupers’ graves, more or less. And when Bentley learned of the child, he…well, he just—” Catherine made an eloquent gesture in the direction of the graves.
“My God, he had them moved here?” Almost unconsciously, Frederica laid her hand over her belly.
The viscountess was quiet for a time. “It’s quite odd, is it not?” she finally blurted. “I mean that Bentley, of all people, would be so obsessed by such a thing? And he was. But Basil, oh! He was none too pleased with the notion of burying Catholics at St. Michael’s. But Bentley wouldn’t be gainsaid, and Cam, who holds the living here, finally agreed because Bentley was so…so distraught. My God, I’ve never seen a man so angry at the world. Not Cam. Not even my husband—and he has a temper like the devil himself.”
“He just wanted them to be remembered,” mused Frederica. “And safe, in a manner of speaking. I think that speaks well of him.” In fact, she found Catherine’s story somewhat reassuring, for it went a long way toward explaining Bentley’s almost irrational fear of being cut out of his unborn child’s life.
Bentley’s sister looked at her curiously for a long moment. “You are a most unusual girl, my dear.” Catherine resumed her sedate pace, her expression thoughtful. Frederica picked up her flowers and fell into step beside her, for it seemed to be what the viscountess expected.
She touched Catherine lightly on the elbow, and the viscountess stopped. “Did you know that I was orphaned as a child?” Frederica asked. “In Portugal, during the war. I was fortunate that my English cousins were willing to take me in. Perhaps that is why I appreciate Bentley’s distress.”
Catherine slipped her arm through Frederica’s. “I think my brother most fortunate in his choice of a bride,” she said quietly. “I confess, I had very much feared he’d got himself into trouble again, when, in fact, it appears that he might have done quite the opposite.”
Frederica flushed with pleasure. “Thank you.”
Catherine bent down to swipe the dead leaves from the base of one stone. “It would be dreadful to be buried where no one would mourn your loss, would it not?” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t wish it,” Frederica agreed.
Catherine stood up abruptly, the moment of intimacy gone. “Those are unusual bouquets,” she said. “Did you bring them for anyone in particular?”
“I cannot claim such thoughtfulness,” Frederica admitted. “Gervais and Madeline gave them to me. I think I shall leave them here on their grandmother’s grave. Today, that somehow seems fitting.”
Catherine smiled, and Frederica realized how much she liked Bentley’s sister. “Well, Frederica,” she said briskly. “May I take you up the hill? Cam is expecting me. My curricle is just outside the gate.”
Frederica could not hide her surprise. “Did you drive yourself all this way?”
“I always do,” she said on a laugh. “I’m frightfully outré, you know. And today I’ve a pair under the pole, matched grays bought just last week at Tattersall’s. But I promise I shan’t overturn us!”
But Frederica wished to linger. “Thank you, but I believe I’ll go into St. Michael’s for a bit,” she said. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Catherine kissed her lightly on the cheek, then pulled her hood over her hair and set a brisk pace toward the gate. Frederica laid her flowers next to Catherine’s and went down the green slope toward the church.
St. Michael’s was a fine old building, parts of it quite obviously Saxon. The door, perhaps, was amongst them, for it looked a bit rotted and was stuck half open, its lower edge caught on the flagstones, swollen from last night’s damp. The heels of her half-boots clicked faintly on the flagstones as she went up the aisle. The church was dark and peaceful at this hour, the sun not yet having touched the stained-glass windows. She did not go to the family pew at the front but instead hung back, sliding into a seat near one of the huge Norman arches. She had scarcely adjusted her skirts before she heard voices echoing from above.
Curious, Frederica craned her neck, looking all about the vaulted ceiling. Nothing. But the voices came again. The soft echo of a woman speaking, then the quiet rumble of a man’s response. They were coming, it seemed, from the belfry. Frederica strained her ears and caught the soft scuffle of footsteps coming down the twisting stone steps.
Frederica relaxed into her seat. It was just Joan and Basil, most likely. Peeping around the stone column, she caught the flash of a woman’s dark brown skirts. But as the man came fully into view, Frederica realized it was not the rector. It was her husband. His broad shoulders filled the doorway which gave onto the chancel. Around one shoulder he carried a coil of rope, tattered and filthy. At the bottom, he turned and lifted up his empty hand to assist the woman down the last of the steps.
Joan and Bentley? They lingered for a moment in the doorway, their gazes locked. Frederica knew she should announce her presence, but instead, she watched as Joan lifted one hand and laid it lightly over Bentley’s heart. It was an intimate act, a gesture between close friends. Between cousins. That was all.
“Bentley, you are sure?” Joan’s whisper carried through the chancel.
“I am sure,” he said swiftly. “Do it as soon as possible, and do not let Frederica catch wind of it.”
“I think you should tell her, Bentley,” she said quietly. “Do what’s best for your marriage, not what’s best for me.”
“Ah, Joan, must we speak of it any further?” His voice was suddenly edged with grief. “I cannot imagine our being separated like this. It did not quite hit me, I think, until today.”
“Already I miss you,” she replied. “More than I expected.”
Bentley carried her hand to his lips. “We have shared so much,” he said. “Some of it inappropriate for a gently reared girl’s ears, I’m sure.”
“Dear God, was it any more appropriate for you?” Joan whispered. “Why must you always act as though you need forgiveness?”
“I have much to be forgiven for.” he said, striding toward the door. “I always knew what I was doing, Joan.”
“Did you?” He stopped in his tracks at her strained voice. “There were occasions, I’ll warrant, when you did not. As for Frederica, however it has come about, she is your wife now. You are bound to her in the eyes of God, and it cannot be undone. If you need forgiveness, ask her for it.”
Bentley spun about. Joan still lingered in the doorway, the gray stone steps twisting up into the shadows behind her. “There are some things worse than honesty, Joan,” he rasped. “And few things more malignant than the unvarnished truth. I think truth is a comfort I can ill afford.” And then he turned, the rope still slung over his shoulder, and strode across the floor.
Joan started from the stairwell. “I am sorry, Bentley,” she said. “You were good to climb up and replace that bell rope. Thank you.”
He stopped then and bowed his head without looking back. “It was no great
task to swap out a bloody rope, Joan,” he answered gruffly. “I’ll send some men down in a day or two to take this door off. I’ll plane it down so that we can get the deuced thing shut when it rains.”
Joan stood with her hands folded. “I’d appreciate that.”
Without another word, Bentley slipped through the door. Then Joan turned and went through the heavy draperies and into the vestry.
Chapter Sixteen
In which Signora Castelli lays her Cards on the Table.
That evening, the family traveled to Catherine’s home, Aldhampton Manor, for dinner. Catherine had insisted that everyone should come, including the children, who were to dine in the nursery with Armand and Anaïs. Frederica was to travel in the first carriage with her husband. In Chalcote’s courtyard, however, little Madeline threw her arms around Bentley’s knee and could not be pried loose until Bentley, laughing, leaned down and caught her up in his arms. At the same time, Gervais had begun to clamber inside to join Frederica. And so it was that the four of them set off together, with the rest bringing up the rear.
Gervais had brought a traveling game board, which he quickly unlatched to reveal a tiny set of dominoes. It soon became obvious he was intent upon playing a match with his uncle. Madeline, who had crawled onto Bentley’s lap, thrust out her lower lip. “I want to play, too,” she said, reaching across the aisle to grab a fistful of the ivory rectangles.
With all the arrogance of an elder brother, Gervais jerked back the board. “You don’t even know numbers yet, you silly!” he insisted. “You must know numbers to play.”
In the shadows of the carriage, Madeline turned her face into Bentley’s shirtfront, one small hand fisting angrily in the folds of his neckcloth. “I’m n-not silly!” she snuffled. “I’m not!”
“No, sweetie, not a bit of it.” Bentley kissed her softly on the temple, oblivious that Madeline was ruining what had been, for once, a beautifully tied cravat. Against the broad width of his chest, Madeline’s fist looked no larger than Bentley’s thumb.
“Uncle Bentley, make him let me play!” she begged.
Gervais made a stubborn face. “She don’t know how!” he protested. “She’ll just ruin it.”
“It is a difficult game,” Frederica agreed, tucking an arm around the boy. “But we have a long drive ahead. Perhaps, Gervais, you could teach Madeline?”
Bentley nodded. “Devilish hard,” he agreed with mock gravity. “But I daresay Madeline could outplay me. After all, I once mistook a two for a three in a perilous match down at the Fiddling Dog. I’d wagered my horse and my boots and had to walk home in my stockings!”
A gurgle of laughter erupted from his cravat. “Dogs don’t fiddle,” said Madeline, finally lifting her head to look up at him.
Bentley raised both brows. “That’s just what I thought!” he admitted, smiling down at her. “But I lost a wager on that one as well—not a whole horse, mind, just two guineas—because the Fiddling Dog in London has one!”
His eyes round, Gervais scooted halfway off the bench. “A real one? A live one?”
“Ah, well, not anymore.” Bentley pulled a long face. “The poor mite got clipped by a mail coach flying down High Holborn Road. But the tapster stuffed him and mounted him on his hind legs in the middle of a trestle table. And he’s playing a little fiddle about this long—” Here, Bentley unwrapped his arm from Madeline’s waist and marked off approximately twelve inches. “And he has it tucked up under his chin just so. Looked to me, Ger, as though that dog knew his business.”
“I want to see him,” demanded Gervais, his tiff with his sister forgotten. “Uncle Bentley, I want you take me to London and show me the fiddling dog.”
At once, Madeline fell in with his wheedling. “Me! Me! I want to go!”
Bentley began to look a little uncomfortable. “Well, it mightn’t be the sort of place your mama would let you visit.”
“Why?” Gervais looked intently up at him. “Is it a low public house?”
Bentley drew back with mock indignation. “A what?”
Freddie leaned forward. “I believe he said a low public house,” she repeated, carefully enunciating each word. “But surely you’d know nothing of such places, my dear?”
“Oh, no, he knows all about ’em,” corrected Gervais innocently. “Papa says that’s where Uncle Bentley can always be found. With some barmaid wiggling round on his knee, I heard him tell Mama.”
“What, just one?” Freddie grinned. “My dear, you can scarcely live up to your black reputation like that. Not when you have two knees!”
Bentley gave Gervais a dark look. “Do you want to play dominoes, Ger, or do you want to flap your jaws all the way to Aunt Cat’s?” he challenged. “Frankly, I think you’re trying to avoid a thrashing.”
“Play! Play!” Madeline began to bounce in Bentley’s lap. Another tussle ensued over possession of the board, but Bentley interceded, peeling Madeline’s plump little fingers from the handle.
“I know what we’ll do,” said Frederica, catching Madeline’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We shall have a team competition.”
Gervais looked skeptical. “What’s that?”
Bentley shrugged innocently. “Oh, team dominoes is a bruising sport,” he said in a grave voice. “Played by only the most hardened of gamesters, in the darkest and lowest of public houses. We shall choose up teams and go in turns drawing and playing. Ger, I’d suggest you grab Aunt Freddie there for your team. She’s a wicked good player.”
“Oh, indeed!” murmured Frederica dryly. “I frequented many a low public house in my salad days.”
Gervais looked up at Frederica with new admiration. Madeline began to clap her hands. “And you be on my team!” she said, wiggling around to look at her uncle. “Be on mine!”
Bentley dipped his head and gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. “Absolutely!” he said. “As Ger pointed out, a hardened gamester never plays without a pretty girl on his knee for good luck.”
Frederica shot him a strange look, and Bentley hastened on. “Now, Gervais, old man, if you will lay out the dominoes facedown, we shall let Aunt Freddie take the first draw.”
And for the next half-hour, they played in companionable good spirits, with Bentley dandling Madeline on his knee and gently guiding her hand each time it was her turn to place a domino. He really was quite good with the children. His nieces and nephews adored him, and these weeks at Chalcote had shown Frederica that his patience with them was immeasurable. It was a little hard to believe she’d once assumed he would make a terrible father.
She wished she were as confident in his ability to be a good husband. Despite a quiet, pleasant afternoon, Frederica had not been able to get past the discussion she’d overheard in St. Michael’s this morning. What had it meant?
Do what is best for your marriage, Joan had said.
I cannot imagine our being separated like this, he had answered.
It had sounded almost like a lovers’ parting. Yet she was certain that was not the case. Bentley was, or certainly had been, a womanizer. But even his own sister did not believe him to have been in love with Joan. In the lamplight, she lifted her eyes and looked again at her husband.
Madeline sat in his lap, her mop of honey-brown curls tucked beneath his chin, one shoe bouncing against his shin in one of those timeless rhythms which only children can hear. If it hurt, one certainly could not discern it, for Bentley uttered not a word of complaint. Instead, he had one arm wrapped about the toddler’s waist, and together they were counting aloud the dimples on a playing piece. Yes, he would indeed be a good father. And on that simple acknowledgment, it felt as if God had reached down and lifted at least one of her burdens from her heart.
Frederica smiled and ruffled a hand through Gervais’s soft hair. “I think,” she said, tapping lightly on one of their dominoes, “that we can give them a proper thrashing if we play this one right about now.”
Upon reaching Aldhampton, Bentley was immed
iately intercepted by another set of toddlers. Lord and Lady de Vendenheim had twins, perhaps a year younger than Madeline, and they, too, clearly adored their uncle. Anaïs and Armand were lively children with soft black hair, dark eyes, and skin as olive as Frederica’s. Just looking at them made her feel more at home.
Frederica was surprised to learn that Lord de Vendenheim’s grandmother and cousin were visiting. While wine was passed around the drawing room, introductions were made. Then, hastily excusing himself, Bentley went off to wrestle on the carpet with Madeline and the twins. No one in the family seemed to mind the shrieks and giggles or the loud thumping noises which ensued when Bentley galloped on hands and knees across the room. Catherine got up once or twice to move a vase or a fragile ornament from the path of the storm but otherwise seemed nonchalant.
Gervais, being above such juvenile antics, went at once to his father to regale him with tales of the domino match. Soon the adult conversation turned to food and wine. It was then that Frederica realized they were in for a treat. Max’s grandmother and cousin had brought their chef from London. The two ladies were from the north of Italy and very particular about their meals.
It did not take long for Frederica to see that the elderly Signora Castelli was a tiny, silver-haired tyrant, while her cousin and companion, Mrs. Vittorio, was younger, plumper, and full of good humor. As the signora eyed Frederica up and down, her gold-knobbed walking stick clutched in her frail fingers, Mrs. Vittorio described the culinary masterpieces which she had planned for dinner. Catherine, her enigmatic smile firmly in place, seemed perfectly willing to have her position in the household usurped by the pair.
Soon Bentley’s knees gave out, and all the children save Ariane dashed off to the nursery, amidst a great uproar over a matched pair of rocking horses which the signora had brought from London. The bell for dinner sounded, and, as he usually did at Chalcote, Lord Treyhern escorted Frederica in to dinner. She was secretly a little disappointed, for she had half wished to be seated next to Lord de Vendenheim, a man who looked utterly fascinating.
