Annette Blair

by Holy Scoundrel

  Surely the Deity would not play such a jest as this on one of his faithful servants. Then again, a few weeks ago, he’d panicked after a day of Bridget’s dark, brooding silences and offered God a bargain. He’d promised to build a school for the crofters’ children—in other words, he’d promised the impossible—if Bridget could only be happy again.

  While he was more than grateful for Cricket’s animation this morning, he’d wanted, selfishly, to be the one to breathe life into her once more.He’d wanted to be his daughter’s hero. How foolish was that?

  Bridget had sometimes seemed as if she’d given up on the world that disappointed her. He’d been worried sick about that, so worried, his own needs became dust in the face of hers. If Lacey was important to Bridget, then Lace was welcome here. Welcome hereforever popped into Gabe’s mind and he shot from his chair to escape it.

  Everyone looked at him, even Bridget for an instant.

  With little choice but to make an exit, Gabe bent on his haunches to place a kiss on his daughter’s head. “Have a nice day, Cricket.” He rose. “Ivy, you want to come with me on parish visits later and meet your audience?”

  “I’d like that; we can talk about when and where to have the first puppet show.”

  “See you at the stable around eleven, then. MacKenzie, I’ll be back at teatime. Lace, walk me outside, will you?”

  Lacey’s brows furrowed, but she rose graciously. When Bridget hesitated to relinquish her hand, she assured his daughter she’d be right back.

  That, more than anything, disturbed Gabe as Lacey walked beside him through the house and out the door.

  On the front walk, she turned to him. “Gabriel, I assure you, I had no opportunity to say anything to make her—”

  “I am aware of that. Besides, I saw your face.”

  “And I saw yours.”

  Gabe ignored the concern in her gaze and shrugged. “She’s . . . fragile, our Bridget. I think, Lace, that she needs you.” Gabe took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know your intent as far as staying, but I’d—” He cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate it if you did stay for a while if you could. Bridget’s better already, and frankly, I’d do anything, anything, to see her happy again.”

  “Even keep me around?” She turned away quickly and made for the house, but he’d caught the flash of pain in her expression.

  “I didn’t say that,” he called, but she shut the door on his words. He’d thought it, but he hadn’t said it.

  Gabe fisted his hands and marched off, but he stopped short of going through the kissing gate and dropped to the garden bench, instead. “Blast him for a fool!”

  Only one other individual had ever provoked him as much as Lacey—Nicholas Daventry, the accursed father of Lacey’s child. After nearly five years, just remembering made Gabe want to howl with rage and strike something, or someone, preferably Nick himself.

  He smacked the granite bench with both hands and welcomed the sting.

  Yes, he had good reason to despise Lacey’s association with Daventry, but none at all to despise her love for Clara’s daughter.

  Nevertheless, this jealousy tasted the same—vile. He’d best shake it, else he’d wallow in it, and end up as bitter as the malady itself. He would not act the hind end of a horse every time Lacey did something like show Cricket a pup.

  He raised his head. Botheration! He’d meant to show her the lamb. The opportunity to do so, coupled with the chance to make up to Lacey, cheered Gabe somewhat as he returned to the house. But back in the kitchen, he found Lace feeding the lamb, Bridget in her lap.

  A trickle of blood marred Bridget’s tiny foot, the injury piercing him. “Bridget, your feet are bare! MacKenzie, put her slippers on before she hurts herself again! Blasted slate tiles.”

  Quick as a poacher with a fat rabbit, Mac whisked Bridget upstairs.

  Lace rose and shook out her skirts with more vehemence than necessary.As if MacKenzie would allow even one dust mote to settle in her domain.

  Invisible grime dispatched, Lace regarded the stairs pensively, until they heard a door close upstairs, then she rounded on him. “You shouldn’t have snapped at them like that.”

  “I don’t snap!” Gabriel snapped, and winced.

  “Lord, it’s grand being together again.” Ivy grinned and raised his teacup. “To old ghosts, and new.”

  Later that day, on a jaunt of Lacey’s choice, Bridget pulled her up short. “I don’t like the attic. It smells fusty.”

  Lacey urged her along. “You mean musty?”

  “That, too.” Bridget plopped down with a heavy sigh to sit in the middle of the stairs. “My legs hurt.”

  Lacey smiled and tugged her up. “You make me think of two little girls I once knew, me and your mother.”

  “Did you grumble a lot?”

  “Only when we didn’t want to do something we didn’t like.”

  “I don’t like the attic. I don’t want to go there.”

  Lacey grinned. “I know, but we’re going anyway. Did I forget to tell you that complaining doesn’t work?”

  “Oh.” Bridget gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we gotta go there?”

  “Why do wehave to go there?”

  “That’s whatI want to know!”

  “I want to look through your mother’s things. I don’t have anything to remember her by.”And I want you to understand that she and I are two “different” people. “I didn’t see much of your mama’s downstairs.”

  “I have her special book.” Bridget pulled Lacey in the opposite direction. “C’mon, it’s in my room. You can have that.”

  “Not so fast, my little beguiler. We’ll go to the attic now and later I’ll read your mama’s book to you. How’s that?”

  “It’s notthat kind of book.” Bridget started dragging her feet, catching the toes of her shoes on the steps, in turn, and slowing them down.

  Lacey swallowed her laughter. For all Bridget’s dawdling tactics, Lace hadn’t had this much fun in an age. “Your papa and I used to play here when we were young.”

  “I never saw my Papa. What did he look like?”

  That stopped Lacey. “I meant your stepfather. What do you call him?”

  Bridget shrugged.

  No wonder Gabe was hurt; Bridget barely looked at him, and she musn’t address him directly, either, Lacey thought as they continued their climb in silence.

  The cozy attic appeared nothing so much as a jaunty jumble of junk. Lit by windows round and tall, it spoke of bygone days and forgotten secrets. Judging by Bridget’s face, it must simply seem to her a gloomy place.

  “Did you ever look out over the village from here? I vow you can see all the way to Scotland.” Lace stood her on an old trunk to look out the large round window. “See those turrets over there. That’s Ashcroft Towers, where your mama and I grew up. Did you know that?”

  Bridget nodded, not the least impressed.

  “Oh, and there’s your stepfather’s carriage tottering down Parson’s Hill; guess they never replaced those missing cobbles.” Inspired, Lace turned Bridget to face her. “Why don’t you call him PapaGabe. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He loves you, you know.”

  “I know.” Bridget began to undo Lacey’s buttons. “He calls me Cricket.”

  “That’s how you know he loves you?”

  She nodded and touched Lacey’s hair.

  “Not by his hugs and kisses or his keeping your blankets tucked to your chin so you stay warm at night?”

  Bridget shrugged again and began to finger-comb Lacey’s hair with great concentration, until she ended up pulling her chignon off-side. When a hank broke free and covered half of Lacey’s face, Bridget’s eyes actually twinkled with mischief, reminding Lacey so much of the happy, carefree little girl who must be hiding inside, that emotion welled up in her and she pulled Bridget close. Then she planted smacking kisses on Bridget’s cheeks, forehead, and nose, and lifted her off the trunk to twirl her in circles. “I love you, I love you, I lo
ve you!” Lace shouted.

  Bridget’s sob made her stop. Small arms came hard around her and that small, perfect face pressed into her neck.

  Lacey wasn’t certain if going in circles had frightened her or if emotion had overwhelmed her. Either way, she wasn’t letting her go. Lowering the two of them to a trunk, she began to sing.

  “Oh dear, what can the matter be?

  Dear, dear, what can the matter be?

  Oh dear, what can the matter be?

  Papa’s so long at the fair.

  He promised he’d bring thee a basket of posies,

  A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,

  A little straw hat, to show the blue ribbons

  That tie up thy bonny brown hair.”

  Bridget listened and watched transfixed, until Lacey finished and kissed her nose again.

  “Mama used to sing to me sometimes,” she said, then, quick as a curious kitten, she scrambled from Lacey’s lap and headed for a small trunk beneath a shaft of dust-filled sunlight. “This is mine.” Bridget ran her small hands over the leather top. “My baby clothes are inside. Do you want to see how little I was?”

  Lacey thought of the dress she’d sewn in anticipation of her own babe’s birth and bit back the cry in her heart.

  Looking at baby things would not be easy, but Lacey went to kneel beside the child whose wide, innocent eyes begged a response that could not be denied.

  The trunk’s lid was ceremoniously lifted, and the topmost item, a soft, shell-pink bonnet, made Bridget squeal with delight. “I used to bethis tiny!” She tried it on, but it sat like a cone on her head and she couldn’t make the ribbons meet beneath her chin, so she tossed it in Lacey’s lap. “Wait till you see my favorite. It has yellow roses and—”

  “What’s this, lovey, making a mess for me, are you?” Mac bustled Bridget aside to repack the baby things.

  “I thought you were looking for Clara’s trunk,” she said. Mac gave Lacey a piercing look, claimed the small trunk, and made for the stairs, taking something without name that Lacey wanted without reason.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mac muttered her way down the attic stairs. Lacey didn’t know why she was disappointed; she hadn’t wanted to look at baby clothes. Dismissing her chagrin as nonsense, she sat forward, and one of Bridget’s baby bonnets fell from her lap. Almost expecting Nanny to snatch it up, Lace slipped it into her pocket.

  On bended knee, Bridget stared into Clara’s open trunk as if it held a nest of vipers. Lacey knelt beside her and slipped an arm around her shoulder to pull her close. “Show me your favorite of Mama’s dresses.”

  Bridget shook her head, swallowed, and sniffed.

  “Oh, darling, don’t cry.”

  “What’s this?” came a strange, squeaky voice. “Did I hear someone crying?” A hand puppet peeked around the doorjamb, from nowhere, appearing both clandestine and curious.

  Bridget gasped and approached it in awe, stopping a distance away to shake her head. “I’m not crying. The smell inside my Mama’s trunk itches my nose and makes my eyes . . . wet.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “See? All better. What’syour name?”

  “I’m Hector the Hungry Hedgehog and I’m lonesome. Will you talk with me?”

  Bridget nodded, making Lacey wonder if Ivy could see around corners.

  “What’s your name?” Hector asked.

  “Bridget. My papa, but not, he calls me Cricket.”

  “You have a papa, but not?”

  Bridget nodded again. “PapaGabe.”

  With a frisson of elated apprehension, Lacey wondered what Gabe wouldreally think of the name.

  “Ah, I see.That papa. Well, then, Cricket, do you think perhaps you might be just a little bit sad today?”

  “I am not sad.”

  “Worried then?”

  Bridget pondered the possibility and finally nodded.

  “Can you tell me what’s bothering you? Perhaps I can help.”

  Bridget sighed, raised her arms and dropped them in defeat. “I want to keep MyLacey and I’m afraid my . . . PapaGabe won’t let me,” she ended on a rush.

  “And who is MyLacey? Is she a kitten or a puppy?”

  Bridget took Lacey’s hand and dragged her before Hedgehog. “She’s my mama’s cousin and I want her to stay. Can you talk to my . . . to PapaGabe for me?”

  Lacey had come home, expecting the freedom to leave at anytime, but now she knew for certain that she could not. Nor would she want it any other way.

  “MyLacey is your cousin, then?”

  Bridget looked up at her, wide-eyed and expectant. “Are you?”

  Lace knelt down, tweaked Bridget’s nose, and nodded because the lump in her throat made it impossible to speak.

  “Sheis my cousin. She is!” The discovery clearly pleased Bridget. However, smiling did not come easily or naturally to the child, a sad truth that Lacey planned to correct.

  Hedgehog bowed gallantly. “Hello, Cousin Lacey.”

  “Nooo, it’s MyLacey. NannyMac said so.”

  “Oops, sorry. Hmm. Well, do you smell that?” Hedgehog’s nose crinkled with enthusiastic sniffs. “I think dinner’s about ready. Mmm. Before I go, Cricket, promise me you’ll tell your PapaGabe how you feel about MyLacey. I’m sure he’ll listen. He cares very much about you, and about MyLacey, too, and he wouldn’t want either of you to worry. All right?”

  Bridget’s sigh was audible. “All right.” Her answer, however, was barely and reluctantly given.

  “Good. Can I visit you again? I like talking with you.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “G’bye, Cricket. Bye, MyLacey.”

  Bridget stepped into Lacey’s embrace after Hector left, and they stayed that way, until Bridget spoke softly near her ear. “Do wegotta go through Mama’s trunk?”

  Joy infused Lacey. Bridget clearly knew the difference between her and Clara, and she loved her anyway. “No, Baby, we don’t. Let’s go downstairs. You can brush my hair so I can put it up again.”

  “Will you brush mine?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Gabe was so busy with vicariate work, he came late for Ivy—at one o’clock, not eleven—and MacKenzie poured Gabe’s cold pot of coffee down the drain because the two men never did make it back by teatime.

  Lacey toured Rectory Farm, Bridget’s hand in hers, while Bridget talked nonstop, from buttery to bower, dovecote to stable, as if Lacey had never seen any of it before, when, in fact, this was all part of her childhood.

  Gabriel, like his father and grandfather before him, had expected to owe his rectory living to her estranged family. Right now, however, her distant cousin, Victor Daventry, held the title: Eleventh Duke of Ashcroft. She didn’t know Victor well as an adult, but what she did know, she didn’t much like. He’d been degrading and insulting after she’d named his younger brother, Nick, as the father of her child. Though Nick had offered himself up for the position, a bold lie, because he’d been bound for America the following week, anyway, which would put him beyond the long arm of her mother’s fury. A dear friend and distant cousin, Nick had practically saved her life and definitely Gabriel’s living. Because if the truth came out, Gabriel could never have been a vicar.

  On the other hand, when she told Gabe that Nick fathered her babe, after she told her mother the lie, she expected from Gabe . . . trust, faith, and an unwavering love that denied the possibility of betrayal. She’d wanted to hear, “Nick, by all that’s holy, is not your babe’s father! I am!” Gabriel should have believed as much to the roots of his being. Those wordsshould have slipped off his tongue. Later, they could have told her mother that Gabe would save her by marrying her and raising Nick’s babe as his own.

  Her mother would have rewarded and adored her hero for turning her from an unwed mother into a respectable vicar’s wife. Gabriel Kendrick would have become a well-paid vicar and a pampered son-in-law.

  At the worst, if he believed her lie, she’d still expected him to offer his name
in marriage. But he did not offer. He paled, turned, and left Ashcroft Towers.

  She had not expected to be exiled, to return a pariah, or to find the vicar at a distinct disadvantage in his livelihood.

  Prout held Gabriel’s reigns, and a scarier life she could not imagine. It had always been whispered that Lady Prout got her way or someone would pay.

  So long as Bridget was not made to do so.

  At an ancient, gnarled beech, Lacey boosted her up. And when they perched together in the lowest, widest fork, Lace took from her pocket a beloved storybook, adapted and hand-printed by Clara’s mother, calledGrimm for Girls,in which she’d left out the gruesome parts. Lacey readSnow White—until Gabriel’s “Good God,” made them look down.

  Hands on his hips, he stared up at them, close enough for Lacey to— She tapped his shoulder with her slippered foot. “Join us. It’s cozy up here.”

  To Bridget’s wide-eyed shock, he did, which made her scoot into Lacey’s lap, which put a broody storm in Gabriel’s eyes.

  The tempest cleared quickly enough, however, when Bridget told him that MyLacey planned to readRapunzel next.

  “Proceed,” he said. “I shall remain quiet as a church mouse so, Cricket, you can hear every delectable word.”

  She hid her face against Lacey’s breast.

  But quiet as mouse bait, he remained for a good hour—except for several speaking glances her way. During that time, Lacey became alive to details: her raspy voice and dry lips, his attention to the tongue with which she moistened those lips. The trembling hand she hid beneath her skirt but had to reveal or lose her single-handed death-grip on the book. She became more acutely aware of Gabriel’s thigh pressed along her own, of his stroking the hair on Cricket’s sleepy head pressed wondrously to her breast. She felt for all the world as if they were a family. Impossible with him grieving for Clara and mistrusting her.

  When she read the last page, she hated for the peaceful interlude to end, however much of an anomaly she found it.

  At dinner, Ivy regaled them with a story about a brawny farmer with the toothache who’d monopolized Gabriel’s afternoon, the man moaning and groaning about dying and getting it over with.