The Discarded Wife

by Camille Oster

  A disbelieving snort escaped her.

  “I do not wish you any harm, and I certainly don’t wish so for my son. He will be well cared for, educated to the highest standard.”

  “As you were, because you are such a warm, giving person.”

  “You will not find my hospitality lacking.”

  With a sharp exhale, she turned and left without saying goodbye. It was rude, but considering her circumstances, perhaps it was beyond her just at the moment. Hopefully not all manners were beyond her, or he might be responsible for educating two woefully inadequate individuals.

  These confrontations with Sophie had been so all-encompassing, it hadn't really occurred to him that he really was a father to this boy. It had been his own eyes he'd seen looking up at him. It was the first time he'd been so close to the boy. He was so small, his hand holding his mother’s. Six years old, apparently. Tristan couldn't even remember being six years old. There were no memories in his head. He must have been at Sommerfield Hall, the main estate house in Dorset, where he had spent the bulk of his formative years.

  Sophie had been right in that it had been a lonely prison, but he hadn't known that at the time. It was all he'd ever known, so he'd never questioned it. There had been servants and there had been his tutor. Even at such a young age, he'd been taught that the servants were to be ignored, which left the staid and dry tutor as his only companion.

  Perhaps he did understand some of Sophie's objection. She feared what such an upbringing would do to her child. She feared that her son would become like him. Rarely did he make himself agreeable, but he'd never experienced someone implying he was an undesirable outcome. They wouldn't dare, frankly. Besides, there was certainly nothing singular about how he’d been raised. His upbringing wasn't atypical—it was common children were stored away until the time they reached maturity and had some function in society.

  Rising from his chair, he walked out of his study. "Mr. Smyth?" he called.

  "My lord," he heard softly behind him.

  "We are to have guests." It was probably true that he needed to bring them here before taking them to Sommerfield. "Rooms are to be prepared."

  "How many guests will grace us?"

  "Two. A mother and a boy. Mrs. Duthie, actually."

  "She did not seem too pleased when she left."

  "I gather not, but we should expect them this evening."

  "Of course," Smyth said with his unshakable reverence. "I will ensure they have everything they need."

  "So you understand, their place in the house will be of a more permanent nature." As soon as the man saw the boy, he would likely understand the association. "I assume this house does have a nursery. Perhaps a nanny must be engaged. I will let the boy's mother determine the requirements, but make sure she has anything she needs."

  "As you say."

  "Where is the nursery?"

  "It is on the third floor, facing towards the garden on the right. It needs to be aired."

  It probably did. No one had been in there for over thirty years.

  Absently he nodded, assured Smyth would take care of everything. "That is all." With a bow, the man left.

  It would be strange having people in the house. There hadn't been anyone in the house since Sophie had lived here during their short and unhappy marriage. The idea of tolerating her again sat like dread in his stomach, but it was the burden he had to carry.

  Slowly, he wandered upstairs, continuing up to the third story, where he never went. In truth, he wasn't even sure what other rooms were up there. Guest rooms perhaps. Well, they had rarely had inhabitants either. An aunt had existed at one point, he vaguely recalled, but she had melted away from his consciousness. He supposed she had died. As a baby, his sister had been sent to be raised by the aunt, before being sent to the continent for her education.

  Finding the room on the right toward the garden, he opened the door. The room was pale blue and he remembered it now. A fine layer of dust covered every surface. It was tended and cleaned, but not regularly. A bed stood in the corner. He'd slept there. Old toys sat on low bookcases. They must have been his too. They vaguely seemed familiar. In fact, the boy who had once lived here only vaguely seemed familiar. His room in Sommerfield was much more so. It was rare that he'd come to town.

  As he'd grown, he'd had his own apartments, and that had suited him and his father well, but it hadn't lasted long as his father had died unexpectedly of a fever. The man he had never really known. Not until he’d died had Tristan realized that he'd missed the opportunity to. The delights of being a young man in the city had distracted him. Occasionally they had dined together, but they had very little to talk about other than estate management. They'd had no common friends and acquaintances. And they'd had little common concerns. His father hadn't been particularly interested in his antics with his friends, or even his studies at Oxford. Even an imbecile could produce the work required to pass, his father believed. Academics was not of particular interest to his father.

  Neither of them had known how to deal with Alicia when she'd returned from the continent. She had been put in the care of Countess Ogledal for her debut, which in hindsight had turned out to be a bad decision, but Tristan's father had never lived to see that. Tristan had been left to deal with her disgrace and the blackmail that came with it. Alicia, being an utter idiot, had fallen for Oliver Bancroft's charms, and the man having no honor, had used the fact to further his own position through his sister.

  It occurred to Tristan that he was now returning the favor, her brother’s stupid decisions were her downfall, when the man had caused all this in the first place. There was a sense of justice in that. Bad deeds always came home to roost. Unfortunately it was the people around Oliver Bancroft who tended to suffer, so maybe it wasn't justice exactly.

  Stepping back, he closed the door to the nursery, which left him wondering where to put Sophie. Smyth might be tempted to put her back in her old room on the second floor, the room for a wife. Perhaps it was more appropriate to place her on the third floor in one of the guest bedrooms. That way, she could be closer to her son, and there would be no confusion resulting from her being placed in the room of a wife.

  In the heat of the moment during their last argument, he had referred to her as his wife. Even to his own ears, it seemed outlandish and strange he should have said so, but he had. Perhaps he needed to make it very clear to her that she was a guest in his house, although he didn't think there was any great risk to her being confused on the topic. Being referred to as his wife had certainly shocked and dismayed her, to the point where she immediately denied it.

  Obviously, living in his house as an unmarried woman—a widow, technically—she could have no place in society. She would be a persona non-grata. Her reputation would be beyond repair. That would be a decision she would have to make. Having married a frail and failed musician, her reputation was nothing to speak of in the first place. Her other option was to leave the boy in his care, but that was obviously distasteful to her.

  Chapter 16

  AS EXPECTED, THE CARRIAGE arrived shortly after midday. Tristan stood at the window and watched as Smyth helped the boy and his former wife disembark. In a way, it felt pleasing that he'd finally gotten his way, but he was also nervous about having people in his house—having a child in his house.

  At some point, he would place them in Sommerfield, but not just yet. Out the window, Sophie did not look pleased, her mouth drawn tight as she took little Alfred's hand. Looking at the boy again, it struck him renewed how similar they were. It was almost as if looking at an image of his younger self.

  The sounds of them coming in the door filtered into the study and Tristan wandered out. Footmen were carrying in their trunks and Smyth was directing them.

  "Welcome," Tristan said and both mother and son turned to him. Alfred was looking at the surroundings with amazement, and it occurred to Tristan that the boy had never seen a house like this. "This is your new home—along with Sommerf
ield Hall, which is by far bigger."

  Alfred's eyes widened again, while his mother's mouth was just as tight as before.

  "We are here as requested," she finally said.

  "Yes, Mr. Smyth has prepared your rooms. I am sure you will find them adequate. A word, if you will. This will only take a moment. Some practicalities to take care of.”

  "Fine," she added and turned to Alfie, crouching down to his level. “Mr. Smyth here will show you your room. Do you wish to see it?” The boy nodded. “I’ll come along and find you in a minute. I am only going to have a quick discussion with Lord Aberley.”

  Tristan smiled as the boy looked up at him. “It won’t take long,” he reiterated.

  Alfred was shown up the stairs and they both watched him. It felt strange watching what was his son being in his house—a feeling he couldn’t quite reconcile. Tristan returned to his office, where he sat down behind his desk.

  Grudgingly, Sophie joined him, treading just as awkwardly as before, sitting down on the edge of the chair as if she was ready to bolt at any moment.

  Taking out the envelop that had come from the solicitor, he pushed the paper across the desk.

  “What is this?” she said, looking at him.

  “An affidavit that Alfred is my son.”

  A thought distracted him for a moment, there was now a son who would carry on after him with many of the decisions he made now. It urged him to do more, to build more. There was a renewed interest in the longevity of these investments he made.

  “Is this necessary?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. With this, he will be recognized as my son and heir.”

  Grabbing the pen off his desk, he held it out to her. For a moment, it seemed she wasn’t going to move, but eventually she grabbed the pen. It hovered for a moment above the paper and Tristan held his breath. Then she signed. It was done. Alfred was his son and heir. There was both victory and satisfaction—and not just from getting his way. He had a son, a child. It was a curious feeling. In that moment, he felt… perhaps affection.

  *

  Rising from his seat, he went to investigate the peel of laughter he heard. It was out of character for this house, and he found them in the garden at the back. Alfred was discovering the garden, which was a feature he certainly didn't have at home. It wasn't the most well-designed garden. Tristan didn't have the aptitude to deal with gardens—or the interest. Neither had his father, so the garden was left exclusively to be dealt with and maintained by the staff. Truthfully, they probably enjoyed it more than anyone as well.

  Stepping outside, he saw the weather was holding, but rain threatened. A stairway led down to the garden where a lawn was surrounded by shrubbery. There were some roses along the side of the house, and he had no idea who had planted those or when.

  Sophie stood and watched Alfred, who wandered around the garden. Her dress looked shabby and plain in these surroundings. The material was faded from use in places. The staff were better dressed. Technically, she was neither a member of staff or a member of the family, so it wasn't really his place to tell her how to dress, but she certainly didn't look like she belonged here.

  "You are welcome to make any changes you see fit to the garden," he said, directly opposing his previous thought stating she didn't belong with either staff or family by offering her the care of the garden.

  She turned to him, just realizing that he was there. "Thank you. I am not much of a gardener."

  Well, they had that in common. "I am sure the boy will get enjoyment from it."

  "Yes," she agreed.

  "Just so you know, I have asked my man of business to advertise for a suitable tutor for him. It will take a week or two. Unless good teachers are hard to come by. I'm afraid I have little experience with such things. No expense will be spared."

  "What about his school?"

  "His school? No, that is not necessary. He will have a private tutor."

  "But it is his school—where his friends are."

  "Obviously, the future Lord Aberley cannot be educated in a charity school."

  "It is not a charity school."

  "Neither is it an appropriate level of education. Oxford does not take children from… middling schools from Holborn. Surely you see that."

  Sophie's mouth drew tight again. The truth was that as soon as the court legitimized the boy as his son, she had no power over him. As his father, he made the important determinations for the boy's education.

  "Once everything is in place. You and the boy will reside in Sommerfield Hall."

  She stared at him blatantly. Her eyes were green. He hadn't noticed before. "We know nothing of Dorset.”

  You will like it. Wide open spaces, wonderful gardens—I’m assuming. Primarily, I’m not there. I’m sure you will appreciate that.”

  Sophie’s jaw tightened and she looked back at her son, her features softening as she did. She loved this boy, but he knew that already. "Your son is the future Lord Aberley. He will not want for anything."

  "And I was the Lady Aberley, but that didn't mean much in the end. I have found such things cannot be depended on."

  It was clear she didn't trust him, and from her perspective, good fortune was fleeting and she didn’t trust it—or perhaps it was him she didn’t trust. Both probably.

  Why was it always so prickly to deal with her? From the very moment he had met her, it had always been awkward and thorny.

  Discomfort crept over him. He didn’t know what to say to her, or to the boy. A child was completely alien to him. Suddenly, he felt inadequate. He couldn’t deal with the mother, and he couldn’t really deal with the child either. What role did her serve here other than provider? His father certainly hadn’t chosen any other role, but instinctively, he knew it was inadequate and now he feared he would be exactly the same.

  The boy was crouching down and looking at some insect, joy written all over his small face.

  Maybe Sophie’s fear for the boy was justified. Perhaps he didn’t have what it took to be a good father. But ever since he'd realized Alfred was his son, there had been no other acceptable course of action. He was not one to leave his son out there in the world at the mercy of the rough streets of London—even if his mother had blinded herself to the obvious dangers. That proved he was a good father, didn’t it? He’d fought for the boy, truly believing this was for the best. Sophie would come so see that eventually. Or not. Would it surprise him if she continued to be unreasonable?

  That wasn't perhaps fair. She saw danger in others having influence over the boy. On some level he understood, but she would never have been able to insulate the child from the harsh realities of living so close to poverty in Holborn. Her shop and her livelihood had simply slipped away from her and it had only been a matter of time. It was simply lucky he didn’t have to rescue the boy from the poorhouse.

  Chapter 17

  THE FIRST NIGHT, SOPHIE cried in a way she had never allowed herself. For two years prior to Doug’s death, she had mourned the upcoming tragedy, having known it was slowly and steadily coming down the road, but she hadn’t allowed herself to mourn. Doug had needed her to be strong, and then the awful day when Doug had passed, Alfie had needed her to be strong. She had never had the privacy to cry—to let out all the anguish she had felt for so very long.

  By morning, she felt utterly drained of everything. All the worry, the heartache had been shed with her tears, and she felt she had nothing left.

  Alfie was by far more resilient, so very excited at exploring this large and curious house. Every nook and cranny had some curiosity.

  On some level, he understood there was a tie between him and Lord Aberley, but Sophie didn’t know if he knew exactly what it meant. This house would be his one day. It had been a place of misery for her, but could it be that it was a place of joy for him? She’d like to think so.

  Doug returned to her mind. She needed to let him go now; she needed to learn to live again. Death had been walking at her side, stalking her fo
r so very long now. His death had been a mercy, in the end, a release from his suffering. It had felt that way and it was almost strange that they weren’t embroiled in that heaviness. Maybe it was beneficial that they were closing that chapter so completely. Doug was gone, the shop was gone, their rooms. Doug would be pleased. Fervently, he’d asked her to move on and to remember him fondly. He’d spoken about it so often it had annoyed and distressed her, even as she’d known he needed to.

  Death was a difficult and taxing process. Her father she had lost quickly—had been there one moment, then gone the next, all while she hadn’t really been able to wrap her mind around what had happened and where he’d gone. It had been very different with Doug.

  But she had survived it—survived them both. Now she had to live. Free to live again—she just had to learn how. Granted, it was hard to imagine a life as she was now effectively a prisoner to a man who hated her. As hard as she’d fought, it had been for nothing. Kind of like death, it couldn’t be fought.

  *

  Sophie hadn't expected to ever be back in the dining room at Lord Aberley's townhouse, but here she was, sitting patiently at the table, yet again finding herself in the position where she waited for Lord Aberley to arrive.

  The walls were covered in fine silk and the chandelier with candles hadn't changed at all. In fact, nothing about the house had changed since she'd left. Perhaps she would feel better about being here if it had changed substantially since that time, but nothing appeared to have—except she was not in the same bedroom as before, the one with a door between his and her room.

  How young she had been the last time she had been here, although she had by then understood that his lordship had not had a great deal of respect or even enthusiasm for her. There were few days when he dined at home with her, and she'd eaten in this room alone more times than she could recount. Married life had not turned out remotely close to how she had expected.