Settled before the parlor fire several minutes later, Bettina took tiny sips of more tea. She nibbled the biscuit Oleba gave her. Her stomach continued to gurgle.
The door opened and Oleba entered with Everett. “What is it?” he asked as the maid walked up the narrow stairs to her attic room. “Are you ill, darling?”
“Please sit, I have something important to tell you.”
He sat beside her, his face already tense. “You look pale as a ghost. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
She took his hand and wriggled close to him. His distracted look unsettled her more.
“I seem to be … a little bit … enceinte. With child.” She managed a timorous smile.
Everett’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze now intent. “Bettina … are you sure?”
“I know it is not the best of times….”
He squeezed her to his chest, kissing the top of her head. “Darling, I … I’m overwhelmed. This is wonderful.” He then held her at arm’s length. “Aren’t you happy? I realize you wanted to be married.”
“I did hope to be married, of course. Are you certain it is all right? I am happy, if you are.” She laughed at his questioning expression, but a strange pain seemed to cloud his eyes.
“I cherish you so.” He buried his face in her hair, his hands massaging along her back. “I thought I’d never find this depth of love. I’d given up trying. And there you were right under my nose. My stubborn little French tutor. And now our own baby.”
Bettina sighed and kissed him. “I thought it was Frederick I tutored.”
“But you ended up teaching me far more.” Now he looked anxious again, lines appearing around his eyes, as he ran a finger across her cheek and nose. “I can’t help thinking … it’s all going to be snatched away from me.”
“Everett, do not even talk like that. I see something else is the matter. What is it?”
“You know that Hollis has refused to admit a thing about Miriam. Without a confession, or a body, I can’t prove a murder. And—”
“Then we will never be able to marry?” She rubbed a hand over her abdomen as if trying to protect the tiny being that grew there.
“No, there is still a way. English law states that a person is usually able to remarry if their spouse has been missing for seven years. The spouse is then presumed dead. Miriam left Cornwall in 1787, five years ago. We have two years left.” He caressed her shoulders. “I realize it won’t help us with our current situation. But it’s better than nothing.”
“If you had not insisted on having your way with me, Monsieur Camborne.” Bettina teased to smooth over her distress. Two more years? She snuggled her head on his shoulder, pondering the ramifications of having a child out of wedlock. He promised he’d always be with her. She had to believe in that.
“I have something important to tell you as well.” Everett stroked her hair, but it felt deliberate rather than affectionate. “This is the worst possible news. But when I was just down in the offices, one of Pete’s men came to tell me that Hollis has escaped from Newgate.”
She reared back and stared at him. “This is a nightmare. That beast out of his cage again. Frederick just went back to school. Will he be safe?” She touched her abdomen and worried about her safety and that of her unborn baby.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The coach rattled the familiar roads through Cornwall. Bettina sat on the edge of her seat, grinning at each landmark—the rocky windswept fields, tors and medieval villages, the sky clear of coal smoke. She was coming home and enjoyed that soothing emotion so long absent. London had been a hazardous disappointment. No trace of her mother, and Hollis roamed the city once more like a ravenous wolf.
Oleba sat next to her. Frederick squirmed in the seat opposite, beside Everett. After someone tried to break into the boy’s dormitory, she and Everett decided to remove him from school. The villain got away, but they were taking no chances that it might have been Hollis and he’d attempt it again.
“Here is Sidwell. It is quite small,” she said to Oleba as they stared out the window. “But I like it and have dear friends here.” Bettina grinned wider when they passed the inn. The coach rocked as the horses pulled it up the hill on the south side.
“We’re home!” Frederick cried. “I hope Lew took good care of my pony.”
But Bronnmargh’s chilly façade dampened Bettina’s elation. The bare trees stretched their branches like skeletal fingers before it. She huddled into the warmth of her cloak.
“It’s a huge place,” Oleba murmured as they alighted. “A country castle.”
Mr. Slate met them at the door. “We have aired out the house, sir. At your request.” He took Everett’s hat and coat. He nodded to Bettina, much to her surprise. His gray eyes widened when Oleba stepped onto the porch. His expression was the closest to disconcerted that Bettina had ever seen it, and she stifled a smile.
Lew walked up to the coach and started to unload their trunks. Mrs. Pollard hurried out, clasped Frederick’s face and kissed him on the forehead. The boy’s cheeks flushed crimson.
Frederick scurried inside past the butler and housekeeper. Bettina followed, thinking the place still smelled musty. But maybe it always had.
Everett put his hand on her shoulder and they walked to the dining room. “We’ll need to stoke up the fires.”
“I am happy to be here with you. You are my warmth.” Bettina caressed his fingers, then stretched her back and neck after the long coach ride.
Frederick tromped up the stairs. Then he ran back down. “May I go to the stables, Uncle?”
“This is a strange house, Mr. Camborne. The main staircase is in here?” Oleba stared about, pulling her cloak close around her.
“My ancestor was somewhat eccentric,” Everett replied. He looked over at his nephew. “Let’s get settled first, Frederick.”
“Am I to congratulate you, sir, on your … recent nuptials?” Slate did a slight raise of an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious.
“We are that happy, sir. And to have you home again. I’ll prepare tea.” Mrs. Pollard smiled and bustled into the kitchen in a flap of apron and mobcap.
“Why didn’t you invite me to the wedding?” Frederick whirled about the room, then stopped to stare at them. Bettina looked away.
“Thank you for your congratulations.” Everett’s hand tightened on Bettina’s shoulder. He smiled at his nephew. “It was a quickly arranged affair, young man.”
She and Everett had agreed on this lie, to shelter her from shame at her soon to be interesting condition.
“I will show Oleba upstairs.” Bettina took the maid’s arm and hurried her up the red-carpeted steps. “I wish that dining room had a fireplace, I am freezing.” She forced a laugh. “I suppose the ancestor was too eccentric for that, too. I will admit to you … I have never felt comfortable here.”
* * * *
“I’m that glad you’re back, Mamsell. Nay, I can’t call you that no more.” Kerra hugged Bettina in Bronnmargh’s front parlor the next day. She smelled like ale and turf fire from the inn. “The whole village be a jawin’ ’bout you and Mr. Camborne getting married. I’m a bit huffed that you didn’t send no word back here. You know Maddie can read.” She swished around her skirt and plopped on the brocade settee. “So he had a divorce in the courts already?”
Bettina turned from her friend’s earnest expression and busied herself putting out biscuits and tea. “Everett has had a divorce pending all this time, but he kept silent about it. When we arrived in London, his solicitor told us it was granted. So we … married.” The teacup and saucer jiggled when she handed them to Kerra. “I am so relieved to be home and to see you. I will come down soon to visit Maddie.”
“Hope you stay now. I do like this fancy room.” Kerra dropped several lumps of sugar into her tea. “Maddie won’t buy sugar no more. It’s too dear these days.” She took a sip and scrunched up her triangular face. “Now ’bout this other person you brought with you. Old Milt saw your maid in th
e village this morning, buying food with Mrs. Pollard, an’ told the whole taproom that you’d taken on a blackamoor slave from Africa to tend you, like you was real quality.”
“Oleba is not a slave. She is as free as you or I, and has never been to Africa.” Bettina laughed as she poked coal around in the grate. Her heart lifted just being near Kerra and her exuberance. “She was born in Virginia, in America. Old Milt, he needs to mind his own business.”
“Fie, not much chance o’ that.” Kerra winked. “Ain't no one ever seen a woman o’ that color round here afore, the village be gawking for certain. Leave it to Mr. Camborne to cause another scandal hereabouts. Oh, did you never find out nothin’ ’bout your mother?”
“It seems she never came to England.” Bettina bit into a biscuit, the sweetness tasting almost tart, like her disappointment. “And now Everett will return to London soon. I wish he would not, even though Lew will stay in the servant’s quarters while he is gone.”
Kerra slipped two biscuits into her coat pocket. “You afraid that fat man comin’ back to bother you?”
Bettina knew Gaspar couldn’t bother anyone anymore. But Everett was worried about Hollis. She fretted that Everett wouldn’t fare so well this time if he found the blackguard. She tapped the rim of her teacup. “No. Just for my convenience when he travels. How are you and Charlie together?”
Kerra slurped her tea. “Fancy cups you has, thin as paper. Charlie? He best marry me soon. A girl can’t wait around forever.”
“That is true.” Bettina swallowed a groan at that ironic notion.
* * * *
The bell clanged again, and Bettina wondered why Mr. Slate didn’t answer the door. Everett had been two weeks in London. Oleba was at the green grocers, a task she seemed not to mind. Bettina walked down the front hall, thought about calling Lew, then decided a villain wouldn’t ring the bell. She opened the heavy door to a tall, thin, gray-haired woman.
“Oh, you’re new. Well, of course, after all this time. Is Everett Camborne at home?” The caller’s smile was tentative. She had intelligent, faded blue eyes in a lined face that had weathered at least sixty years.
“He has traveled to London. May I help you?” Bettina smiled, shivering in the cold air.
“I see. Still hard at his business. Where is Mr. Slate? Is he still alive?” The woman spoke in an airy voice, as if on the verge of a sigh.
“He is in his quarters. If I may be of assistance?”
“You must be a new housekeeper.” The visitor walked into the hall dragging a small trunk. She wore a well-made traveling cloak and fine leather boots. “Could someone carry my things upstairs? There's another trunk on the step. I suppose I'll take the second bedroom on the left, it was usually the most popular guestroom.”
“Please, what is your name, Madame?” Bettina tried to keep the annoyance from her voice at this woman’s intrusion. She closed the door against the February damp.
“I'm Rose Camborne, Mr. Camborne's mother.” She pulled off a pair of black cloth gloves, and looked about her as if unsure if she should be here. “Of course, no one knew I was coming. When will Mr. Camborne be back?” She continued to gaze around the hall, flapping her gloves against one palm.
“Everett’s mother? Oui? This is a surprise.” Bettina wasn’t sure if this development was good or bad. “He should be back in a week or so.”
“You refer to your employer by his first name?” She stared at Bettina, a quick assessment, brows knitted. “Very friendly indeed.”
“But I am not an employee. I am … Everett’s wife. Bettina Camborne.” Bettina hated to lie to Everett’s mother. She still felt strange tacking Camborne onto her name when it didn’t belong. “I will have Lew take your trunks upstairs.”
“His wife?” The woman backed up a step and blinked. The small mouth in her angular face frowned at first, then turned up into a smile. “My heavens, nobody wrote me. Oh, dear, give us a hug. I’m speechless.” Mrs. Camborne swept her arms around her.
Bettina stiffened at being hugged under false pretenses.
While Mrs. Camborne went upstairs with Lew, Bettina rushed to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. Setting up the tea service, Bettina was surprised when Mrs. Camborne entered the kitchen twenty minutes later smelling like lavender.
“I’m as refreshed as I can hope to be at my age.” She patted down the white scarf around her neck. “So Everett remarried, that is splendid. Divorced Miriam, not very surprising.” Her voice lost its vigor for a moment. “How long since you married? You’re foreign … French, I think. Why didn’t he write? You must tell me all about it.”
“We have not been married long.” Bettina wanted to duck under the barrage of questions. “Please sit here at the table near the fire. I will set out the tea.”
“No, no, let me help. I detest being useless. Let’s sit in the dining room.” Mrs. Camborne evidently knew where everything was in the pantry. Everett’s staff must have never bothered to rearrange anything in the nine years of her absence. “Ah, my Caughley and Worcester tea set, a gift from Sam.” The woman ran her fingers over the glazed white pot with blue butterflies and flowers. She gazed around the kitchen. “Do you know this kitchen was down in the cellar when I first lived here? Most inconvenient, if you ask me. But people liked to hide the unpleasantness of cooking odors. I insisted they move it. Too damp in the cellar, Cook had rheumatism. Sam thought I’d lost my mind.”
Mrs. Camborne picked up the tray with pot and tea bowls and carried it into the dining room. Bettina placed the matching jug brimming with cream, and sugar basin on the long table.
“You really need a housekeeper. You can’t do it all alone.” Mrs. Camborne placed the sugar tongs in the basin. “What happened to Mrs. Pollard?”
“This is her day off. But I enjoy cooking when she is not here. I have a lady’s maid who likes to tidy and shop. Once a week a village girl comes up to do the heavy cleaning and laundry. Everett wanted to hire another maid, but we manage very well.” Bettina brought out rolls left over from yesterday. She touched one, hoping they weren’t too hard.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Camborne?” Oleba walked through with several sacks bundled in her arms.
“We are fine.” Bettina and Everett’s mother both glanced up at the title. “This is Mrs. Camborne, Mr. Camborne’s mother.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Oleba nodded to the older woman and headed for the kitchen.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Camborne followed her with a curious gaze. “You don’t see that often. And shouldn’t servants come through the kitchen door?”
“We are more casual here. She is my maid. Her name is Oleba.” Bettina sliced a rare lemon, the aroma bittersweet in the musty chamber.
“I bought cabbage, chardbeets, celery and onions, marjoram and parsley.” Oleba came back out. “That should go well with the eels, Mrs. Camborne.”
Frederick trampled down the stairs. “Aunt Bettina … oh.” He stared at the older woman. “Good afternoon.”
Mrs. Camborne stood and tears moistened her eyes. “So much like … am I to assume this is my grandson Frederick, grown so tall?”
Bettina realized that the child and grandmother had only seen one another at Clare's funeral. Mrs. Camborne had fled the area when he was a baby.
“Yes, I’m the one.” The boy jabbed a thumb at his chest. Bettina almost perceived Hollis in that gesture, and winced.
“This is your grandmother, Frederick.” Bettina watched the boy shuffle his feet.
Mrs. Camborne bent over and touched his cheek. “So much like Clare … but also….”
Frederick backed up a step and dipped his head. “How do you do, Grandmother.”
Mrs. Camborne smiled. “We’ll have time to get to know one another, dear.”
“May I go out and play with Cadan?” Frederick looked to Bettina, eyes wide.
“Yes, but bundle up warm.” She didn’t want to force the boy to kiss a woman he didn’t remember. He nodded to them both and sc
ampered off.
“He’s grown into a fine boy, despite his father. But we won’t speak of him.” Mrs. Camborne came back to the table and poured the tea. “I’ve missed out on so much that has happened. I've lived on St. Agnes since my husband died. I ran out on everybody, I'm afraid.” She blinked, her smile tremulous. “I wish … my son and I had stayed close. I haven’t been a very good mother, you could say. I sent him a gold pocket watch for Christmas a couple of years ago. I don’t even know if he received it.”
Bettina remembered that watch, lying on Everett’s mantle piece in his bedroom, the day she snooped through his things. She had thought it from a paramour. She filled with sympathy for this woman. “I am certain Everett will be pleased you have come to visit.”
“Visit? No, dear, I’m here to stay.” Mrs. Camborne’s smile grew warmer.
Slate walked into the room just then. “Mrs. Camborne, how well you look.” He bowed politely, as usual registering little emotion. He continued into the kitchen.
“That grim old soul, he’ll outlive us all,” Mrs. Camborne whispered. “Never could understand why Sam kept him on.”
Oleba entered and set out some sliced bon-chretien pears that she’d sprinkled with brandy. Bettina excused the maid to tend to some mending upstairs. She listened to the manor creak in the wind and pondered Mrs. Camborne’s statement about staying.
“Where did you and my son meet, Bettina?”
“I was Frederick’s French tutor. I adore the child.”
“Ah, and you decided to adore Everett as well?” She clinked her spoon in her cup.
“Not at first. He was so very remote for a time.” Bettina tasted a pear, sweet and pungent with the alcohol. “He has had a lot of … unhappiness in his life.”
“Now there's a tender subject. I have so much regret over pushing him into that marriage with Miriam. I had no idea the kind of person she was. Her mother was the dearest of women. Then Sam died … and I left, trying to hide from my memories. I wasn’t myself for many years. But we all make mistakes.” Mrs. Camborne had a faraway mist in her eyes. Then she fixed them on Bettina, alert once more. “Miriam ran off somewhere and never returned, isn’t that true?”
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 29
