The Discarded Wife

by Camille Oster

  Chapter 7

  THE KNOWLEDGE THAT Lord Aberley was aware of Alfie was uncomfortable. A pervasive nervousness had set in that shattered the peace she finally felt after the fretting and worrying that had been part of her life for so long. Now this. Mere weeks of peace had been allowed her.

  Sometimes Sophie wondered if the world hated her. And the idea that he would put an offer to her to relinquish her son to him. It was preposterous, but that about summed up the man.

  Although distressing at the time, the divorce had been the greatest favor he'd ever done her. Why couldn't he simply stay out of her life?

  Shifting the pot from the fire, she ladled the rich stew into their two bowls on the table. The bread was newly bought and was soft to the touch. It was a lovely meal and Alfie was drawing on the chalk tablet he'd been lent at his new school.

  "And what is the teacher like?" she asked as she sat down. She'd met Mr. Proctor when she had admitted Alfie to the school. He wasn't a man that smiled much, but he had a good reputation for educating young boys.

  "Strict."

  "In that case, you better do as he says." The strict educator was something she had personal experience of. The Sandra Lawry's School for Young Girls had had a mistress that reprimanded harshly for the smallest infraction. It had been a good school for girls from respectable backgrounds. With her father's death, though, her place there had quickly been rescinded. The day her place had been withdrawn had been the only day Mistress Sandra Lawry had been kind to her. Sophie still appreciated the tact the woman had shown. It had been a small kindness during a truly awful period.

  So little of wealth was kept because the person had done anything particular to deserve it. It was luck most of the time—what family you were born into, and the fact that the provider kept living. Losing one's fortune was also down to luck more often than not. That wasn't always true, but in Sophie's experience, wealth was rarely a reflection of the person.

  But not everyone thought so. Looking at her son, she reached out and stroked his dark hair along his forehead. He did look so much like his father, but she wasn't going to let this sweet boy become cold and indifferent like him. It was too much to ask. Lord Aberley would have to look elsewhere for his heir.

  Although it did surprise her that he hadn't married. Once rid of her, with her unacceptable background, why had he not found a suitable woman of his own station in life? He was a handsome and wealthy man, and there would likely be many who would overlook his coldness for the privileges he offered. Or rather, there would be numerous mothers who would see him as a suitable match for their daughters. Yet somehow, he had remained unmarried.

  It could be theorized that he hadn't been ready to be a husband when he'd married her, for whatever reason her brother had used to force him into it. Similarly, he wasn't ready to marry now as he was seeking out Alfie as an heir instead of producing his own children with a wife—which seemed like a much more reasonable solution.

  "Time for bed," she said as they had finished eating. The stiff seat on the daybed in the corner of the kitchen lifted away to reveal a soft mattress underneath and Alfie pulled on his pajamas to crawl into the bed with his chalk and tablet. The fire kept him warm throughout the night and the glow gently bathed the room in mellow light until well after he fell asleep.

  "Good night, my little man," she said and kissed him on the forehead. "Do not scribble away on that now. If I so much as hear scribbling, I will take it away."

  Alfie placed it down on the small table next to the daybed, but she suspected he would pick it up again the moment she walked into the other room.

  Giving him a last warning look, she left the kitchen and walked into her room, where her bed stood along one side. This room had no fireplace so it was cold in comparison. She didn't bother lighting a candle, instead made do with the moonlight as she undressed and slipped into a cold bed. With a sigh, she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. How she missed Doug being there. It was only her now and the bed never seemed to get warm enough.

  *

  The day started badly. Alfie was grumpy and tired, and Sophie realized leaving him with the tablet had been a mistake. There was a determinedness with learning his letters that wouldn't allow him to stop. That trait hadn't come from her, that strict determination to achieve a task as soon as he set his mind to it. And now he was suffering for that determination that had kept him up and trying for much longer than he should have.

  "Don't be troublesome or you will run the risk of being introduced to Mr. Proctor's cane."

  "Yes, mama." Even with just that, she could tell his temper was short. For a moment, she wondered if she should take him home, but determined that he had to understand the consequence of his actions. "You are tired and therefore your temper is short. You have to watch your temper today, or you will get in trouble. This is why you shouldn't stay up too late. This is the consequence and now you have to manage yourself and your tiredness."

  Alfie nodded and ran in through the school gate. So eager to learn and to master what he needed to. With a smile, Sophie stepped away and walked to her shop. It was only a distance of five minutes walk. A cart splashed mud on her skirt and Sophie silently cursed it. The main task of the morning would be to clean that mud off her skirt.

  The shop was still and silent, the dark weather of the morning suggesting another quiet day. With the windows it wasn't dark enough to need lighting, but it made for a gloomy shop all the same.

  Drizzle startled falling outside, turning the streets even muddier. Merchants huddled under awnings and the customers scurried away into their homes. Sophie took herself out the back to wipe the worst of the mud off her, being interrupted by the bell above her door. A customer had entered the store.

  Putting the rag to side, Sophie returned to the front to see a dark shadow of a man standing in the middle of the shop. Even before seeing him, she knew it was him—Lord Aberley. Was it the scent that secretly told her he was there, or was it the mere coldness emanating from him?

  For some reason, he had traveled all the way here from Belgravia first thing in the morning, and there could only be one reason. He did not accept her rejection of his proposal.

  Stopping where she was, she wondered if she could simply slip out the back, but he knew she was there. Had he always been so large? He seemed to take up most of the space in the shop? A dark cloak over his shoulders made him seem larger and more forbidding.

  "Lord Aberley," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It is a surprise to see you. I assume you are not here because you are musically minded," which he was not. Music was inconsequential for him—it neither moved nor inspired him from what she had seen.

  "I think you know why I am here," he said, his voice deep and considered, having that cultured accent she had listened to when she'd first met him on her wedding day.

  "Did Mr. Lawrence not inform you that my answer was no?"

  "It seems you are as illogical a creature now as you were then."

  "Yes, well, it's been lovely to see you. The streets are turning muddy. You should return to Belgravia at the earliest opportunity."

  "He is my son."

  Sophie didn't say anything, feeling as if Mr. Lawrence should have briefed her better in case this would happen. Would in any way indicating that Alfie was his son weaken her position? Was it something Lord Aberley could use against her? Lord Aberley was clever and could never be underestimated. She knew that much if she knew anything. "My son," she said finally.

  "I offer him a grand home, the best education and prospects you couldn't possibly emulate."

  "I have lived in your home and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, let alone a child."

  "Do you not even have the means to light candles?" he said with a huff.

  "I like the dark," she said with her back straight and her head held high. "But for your information, I have the means for everything we need."

  Stepping forward, his footsteps reverberated through the space. "This s
hop," he said dismissively. "Business seems brisk."

  "Musicians tend not to be out and about this early." She didn't like that he was moving closer. It wasn't as if she was afraid of him—he had never been violent to her—but she well remembered the piercing disapproval he emanated.

  But he didn't move toward her, instead walked around the shop, looking at her wares. "You don't want to get in my way," he finally said. Even during their marriage, she'd never known him well, but knew he was ruthless to the core. But it was her son this was referring to and she would face down a bear if she had to.

  Chapter 8

  SHE WORE THE SAME DRESS Tristan had seen her in when he'd first come to the shop. Simple cotton in some color between blue and lilac.

  "Where is the child?" he asked.

  "The child has a name and he is not here. The name is Duthie, by the way, after his father."

  Tristan twisted his head to the side and considered her. Mr. Lawrence had likely informed her what her legal position was.

  "What future are you going to provide for the boy?"

  "A happy one," she stated firmly. She looked fragile in a way, but her back was ramrod straight. The determination was clear on her face, like a lioness defending her cub—to the very last. He hadn't anticipated she would be such a problem. Perhaps he should have. It could be said that mothers were not creatures he was overly familiar with.

  "As the future purveyor of a music shop?"

  "It is a perfectly honorable profession."

  "Are you insane? I offer him an income in the thousands every year, not some meager future where he is barely scraping by."

  "Let's make this clear," she said, stepping closer. "All the finery you surround yourself with, the pettiness of the society you surround yourself with, I would much rather Alfie be his own man with a comfortable life rather than the falsities that you represent."

  "Falsities? I have no idea what you refer to."

  "Alright. How about love? Let's talk about love."

  "You're raving like a lunatic."

  "Friendship. Let's discuss your deep and varied friendships." The friendship he did have with Lady Woolwich came to mind, but it was one she didn't know about. Otherwise, it would be a stretch to say he had friends. There were useful people and enemies, and nothing of note in between.

  "And you think a music shop offers this to him? You're mad. Don't you understand how precarious your situation is? You are but one step from the workhouse. It is irresponsible for you to deny him the future I offer."

  "It is irresponsible of me to put him in your care. You are barely alive as a human being. You are certainly not fit to raise a child. We might not have any niceties, but we are perfectly fine as we are. There is nothing here for you. Alfie will not be your heir. There is no amount of money in the world that will get me to change my mind. Find some poor creature to marry—ideally some creature who values the things you offer—and produce your own child. You are not taking mine."

  "Or perhaps I simply wait for a while for you to learn how cruel the world is to widows."

  "Not as cruel as it is to divorcees."

  Tristan pursed his mouth. As an enemy, she was adamant on thinking she was in the right, returning his sensible argument with insensible notions. Given time, she would see how insane her stance was. Or was it still bitterness at the loss of position when he divorced her? That would make sense. Some are insensibly obtuse because they lost in the first place, and her son was the one who suffered because of her spite.

  There had to be some way of removing her from the boy. The difference in their position had to mean he had leverage over her. Unfortunately, the fact that this man, Douglas Duthie, was on the child's birth certificate was a problem. Perhaps that could be fixed.

  No, unfortunately, too many people know of the state of affairs to pull such a switch. Mr. Lawrence would be primary, and he would not be amenable to seeing things his way. Changing the birth certificate was likely out, but there had to be other ways he could remove the former Lady Aberley from his son's life. "Perhaps I will just have to let you discover how hard the world really is."

  She had been coddled by this man who had married her—some weakling with tuberculosis. Which made her a mother who kept this child in the house of a man with a fatal and contagious illness. Perhaps there was something there he could use to pursue his objectives.

  Money was obviously not going to achieve it—or so she implied. Wealth and the pursuit of wealth were why she and her brother had come knocking. Maybe the brother would be more amenable to see reason.

  Without another word, he turned and left the oppressive atmosphere of this paltry shop, in case he rip into her about what he really felt about her character. After what she'd done, it was ludicrous for her to turn her nose up at wealth and privilege for some harebrained notion that she was protecting her son. People like her, and her brother, would literally sell their own mothers for money.

  Her brother was her partner in crime and maybe he needed to focus his attention there.

  His carriage waited outside. This time, he'd felt it was appropriate taking his own. Setting out, he had even expected there was a chance he would be returning home with the child, but his former wife was set on being troublesome.

  Her objection seemed genuine or else she was a superb actress. Either way, her brother would make her see reason. After all, he owed it to his son to fight for his best interest—especially as the poor boy was burdened with such an unreasonable mother.

  "I believe we will detour to Lady Woolwich." It was a bit early to call, but she wouldn't mind under the circumstances. Lady Woolwich was always a useful advisor when he was a little uncertain about how to handle a problem—and he was definitely facing a hurdle with the contained figure that stood with her arms crossed tightly around her in her dark and customer-free music shop.

  With fingers laced together, he sat and waited for the driver to convey him. In all his life, he wasn't sure he'd met as problematic a person as Sophie Duthie. Granted, she'd been quite demure when they'd married, when she had been trying to ingratiate herself, but that had clearly been an act because she was downright prickly now.

  Finally they arrived and he announced himself to Lady Woolwich's butler, who showed him to the lady's morning room, that faced the manicured gardens in the back.

  "Tristan, my darling," she said, as she floated in, dressed in yellow with hair tied back in a more simple style than he was used to seeing her. "What has you out and about this early?"

  "I went to see her."

  "Who?" Lady Woolwich asked as she sat down and arranged her skirts.

  "The former Lady Aberley."

  "Oh, I see." Minette was clearly more interested now.

  "She will not hand over the boy, she says. But I will address her brother. The man is more likely to see sense. Nothing speaks to his heart more than money."

  "But not the mother."

  "Says she would do her child a disservice putting him in my care, or something ridiculous such."

  The butler brought in tea on a silver service and Minette took her time pouring. "She is a widow now," she finally said.

  "How does that make a difference?"

  "Well, widows do tend to see themselves as somewhat… at liberty."

  "What are you saying?" he asked, turning back to his friend who was holding a teacup on a saucer out for him.

  "A widow is less beholden to anyone, particularly if she sees herself as independent." Which unfortunately Sophie did with that ludicrous little shop. "She may not do as her brother wishes if she sees it as against her child's best interest."

  "She is the one acting against the child's best interest, condemning him to poverty for the rest of his life. What kind of mother would do such a thing?"

  "I suspect this woman has a poor impression of you."

  Yes, well, that might be, although he didn't see how. "I never abused her, even as her own behavior was despicable. Granted, she was thrown out on her ear once
their leverage on me dissipated." A spear of discomfort pierced through him at the whole affair. It had been sordid and unseemly, and only sorted by tragedy. "She is still spiteful."

  Taking a sip of her tea, Minette performed that slow rise of her chin when she disagreed with something. It had taken him a while to understand the meaning of the gesture, but she clearly disagreed. "She may well believe that you are not sufficiently nurturing."

  "Nurturing? Don't be silly. I will provide him with both a maid and a governess of sufficient caliber to provide him with whatever he needs."

  "A governess or a nursemaid cannot replace a mother."

  "So it is perhaps the separation that grates her. I don't want that woman in my house."

  "Then you will be in discord," Minette stated, picking a biscuit off the tray. Was that truly what the woman was objecting too? Perhaps as a mother, she did not wish to let go of the child's care. Unfortunately, Minette spoke with finality. Could it be that Sophie would fight anything that separated her from her child? That was a problem.

  Chapter 9

  SOPHIE HAD TAKEN TO standing by the window, keeping watch in case Lord Aberley sought to drop in again. She couldn't help it. Try as she might to focus on other things, there was a need in her to see him coming. In their short time together, she hadn't gotten to know him well, but enough to know he was persistent in the things he wanted.

  Her mind turned the issue over and over again. Legally, he had no claim. Why couldn't the infernal man simply marry? From her experience, he wasn't one of those eternal bachelors that some referred to as temperamental, but perhaps he was, as it seemed an act he preferred to engage in with a certain degree of alcohol in his system. Who knew what he did when he left the house?