Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Mais non.” Bettina inhaled slowly. “Everett … he was not able to find her to ask for a divorce.”

  “This is incredible, my dear. Then the children…? Oh, merciful heaven.” Rose slumped in a chair, fanning herself with her hand. Her skin looked pale as pastry dough. “I can’t fathom it. It can’t be true.”

  “Should I ask Mr. Slate to come in and wave burnt feathers under your nose?” Bettina hid her impatience and concern.

  “No … no. Give me a moment. The darling children. How can this be?” Rose moaned and dragged herself upright.

  “I had to stop Dory’s stipend. I regret that. But I want to keep tutoring the little ones.” Bettina forced her mind to other things, miserable to have to negate her children’s legitimacy. “You will sell then?”

  “I suppose it is the wisest thing to do, if it will give us funds.” Rose’s bony hand trembled to hold the gown at her throat. “Did you know … my dear Sam started that business? Oh, how proud he was of it.”

  Bettina retired upstairs and kissed her son goodnight in the maid’s room off her own, where he slept on a truckle bed beside Oleba. This room stayed warmer in the winter, being behind the master chamber chimney. She climbed into the large four-poster, shivering in the frigid sheets. She pulled out the wool scarf where Everett’s scent still lingered and held it to her nose.

  * * * *

  Peder crumpled his hat in one hand. His hair flopped over his eyes as he scratched at his wrinkled shirt and shifted his dusty boots in the library doorway. “Mrs. Camborne, I ain’t glad to has to do this. Not so happy to go back down the mines.”

  Bettina closed the household accounts ledger. Peder behaved so unobtrusively, she’d almost forgotten he still lived there. “I understand. You need more money than I am able to pay you. And we no longer require your services. I wish you well.”

  The young man tugged his forelock and trailed dirt out the front door.

  The baby shifted and Bettina leaned back in the desk chair with a groan. She stood and walked to the library window. Outside, sea pinks and bluebells poked through the soil. Spring had come, but she felt no sense of renewal. A sharp pain shot up from her pelvis. She patted her abdomen. She couldn’t wait to give birth. She hadn’t spoken to Rose about it, but she planned to insist the woman sell the manor. Bronnmargh was too much house for them to maintain on meager funds. Only the guilt of betraying Everett with that action kept her silent. She also worried where Mr. Slate would go, as they’d no longer need a butler in a small cottage. The little money from a bank account wasn’t enough to pay a pension.

  She thought briefly of selling the necklace her father gave her, but she refused to use it to pay for the upkeep of the manor.

  Hobart had sent them an amount from the business sale that would tide them over for a while.

  The pain stabbed through her again. Then another. She waddled out into the hall. “Rose! I think it is time. Call Frederick, have him run down to the inn and bring Maddie here.”

  Rose helped her up the stairs to the bedchamber. By the time Maddie arrived with the old midwife, contractions ripped through Bettina’s body. Maddie and Rose gripped her hands as she undulated with pain. Unlike the first time, she screamed in agony, at moments thinking she might die, and sometimes not caring if she did.

  When Bettina stared up to see the doctor, she knew things were serious. She screamed again and the baby was expelled. Blood gushed warm and sticky between her legs. Her body felt jerked inside out.

  The doctor elevated her feet and stuffed wads of cloth between her thighs. The midwife wrapped a squalling bundle in a blanket. “It be a girl.”

  Maddie took the baby and held her close for Bettina to see. A wriggling red-faced girl, brought into the world on May 1, 1795. She looked furious at the entire venture.

  “I'm disturbed about the amount of blood,” the doctor whispered to Rose as he gathered his coat and hat. “Maybe you ought to start the baby on goat’s milk, just in case….”

  “Merde, I can hear you,” Bettina said with an angry rasp, sickened by the smell of her own blood and perspiration. She reached for and clung to her daughter. “And I will live. I am not done fighting yet.”

  “I’ll bring up my Lady’s Mantle tonic to slow the bleeding.” Maddie stroked Bettina’s head. “What are you naming her?”

  Bettina hadn’t thought of names, so intent on discussing it when Everett returned. She closed her eyes and moaned. “I will call her … Genevre Rose. My grandmother on my father’s side, and for you, Rose.”

  “That is sweet of you, dear.” Rose gave a tremulous smile, then she started to cry and swept from the room.

  “Poor woman, she needs some basil tea to make her merry.” Maddie kissed Bettina’s forehead. “I hasta get back to work. I’ll send a message to Kerra ’bout the baby.” Maddie bid her goodbye and left.

  “We will not cry, ma fille.” Bettina kissed her daughter’s soft cheek. The baby mewled like a contented kitten. Bettina collapsed back on the bed, her innards throbbing with pain. “I do not have the time. We must plan for the warmer weather, plant food, find a cottage … leave this house.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Several feet from the garden, Bettina sat and cradled Genevre in her lap. Her month-old daughter slept with her fist to her lips, the sun on her pink cheek. The sun’s rays warmed Bettina’s face and shoulders, sweeping back the cobwebs in her mind.

  Rose hovered nearby as Frederick weeded through the vegetable plants. Christian scampered about with a basket. He wiped dirty fingers on his face, squished weeds underfoot until his cheeks were brown and his ankles green.

  A horseman galloped up. Bettina straightened in the chair, always anxious for news that Everett was alive and coming home. Even when she saw it was John Trethewy, she still hoped.

  He reined in, dismounted and tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Mrs. Camborne. I never came by to offer you my condolences for Mr. Camborne.” His sharp eyes looked her over. She suspected he wondered why she didn’t wear black. “I see you have a new addition to the family.”

  “Thank you for your concern. I am not a widow … I still have optimism that my husband will return. If you have come for any papers, with all that has happened, there was no time.” She glared at him, daring him to challenge her.

  “I see.” He turned and rocked on his heels. “Did you hear about the invasion that left from Cornwall’s south coast?”

  “Of course. My nephew spoke of little else.” A small fleet of British ships had landed a group of French émigrés at Quiberon Bay in Brittany. The royalist factions already in France were expected to join forces with them and retake their country from the rabble.

  “Did you hear that it failed? The royalists were defeated and routed out by the Republican army led by a General Hoche. Do you know him?”

  “I do not know any republicans.” Bettina shifted her daughter to her shoulder. Had she wanted the royalists to win? If she desired to see France rescued from the rebels, she didn’t relish a return to the entitlement of the old ways.

  “England vows more aggression against France with a vengeance.” Trethewy turned to stare at her again. “You still claim you lost your passport?”

  “If you wish to arrest a woman with a missing husband and two small children, then I suppose I cannot stop you.”

  He stepped back at the anger in her words. Genevre stirred and whimpered.

  Rose walked over. She rarely helped with the gardening anymore, but stood like a wilted stem, watching the boys. “Are you admiring my granddaughter, John? Isn’t she pretty? Such blue eyes and her lovely light hair. She has the same coloring I had as a child … my precious Clare as well.”

  “I’ll be on my way now, Mrs. Camborne. And, Mrs. Camborne.” He touched his hat brim and returned to his horse. He mounted, glaring down. “But beware if the authorities come down on me for any French in the area, I’ll have no choice but to come back.”

  Bettina hugged her baby as the man rode aw
ay. “Rose, have you thought any more about what I proposed? To sell the manor and move.”

  Rose’s mien changed, her shoulders and face sagged. She transformed into the haggard woman who’d wept all winter. “Sam loved this place. His business is sold, now the possibility of his home….” Her voice quivered. “I realize we need to save money, but….”

  Frederick ran up with a basket of weeds in one hand and holding Christian’s grubby fist in the other. They both had dirt-smudged faces. “I can earn money. I’ll join the navy and go out on a ship. Mr. Hobart would help me find a good one. I can be a midshipman.”

  “That is out of the question. Sailors die every day in this war.” Bettina dashed aside the image of the merchant crew on a ship sunk by her own countrymen. “You think only of the glory and not the consequences.”

  “You always say that. Someday no one can stop me. You’ll need my help.” Frederick grimaced, his voice more adult than ever before. He whirled around and hurried off.

  “Children can be a trial.” Rose shook her head. She patted Genevre on the back. “What would we do without them? I’m sorry the doctor told you that you can’t have any more.”

  “I do not need any more. I may have lost the only man I will ever love. There will be no others.” Bettina struggled to stand. She walked with her baby toward the manor portico, mentally slicing another piece from her soul. “I have my son, my nephew, and now my daughter, there is nothing more to require.” She had to keep her family together and safe, for when Everett returned.

  * * * *

  Rose dropped the rose petals in a jar of bay salt and shook it. She placed it in the kitchen chimney. “This will make the rooms smell fresh,” she said in an overloud voice. “With all the windows open, the manor is—”

  “It is still musty. We must sell this house. There is a tenant cottage on the property. We can move in there. I looked at it, it is large enough.” Bettina removed the stew bowls from the table after Dory’s siblings had eaten. “If we sold some of the furniture—”

  “Please stop asking me. I believe that you’ve never liked it here, have you?” Rose’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes dulled with sadness. “If you want to save money, we need to stop giving away food to the villagers.”

  “But it is important to feed people. How can you compare it?” Bettina rinsed the bowls under the inside tap in the stone sink. “Bronnmargh holds only memories for you now. It is a huge, empty place with Everett … away, and your husband gone.”

  “I’m sorry you and my son were never able to marry. But please don’t take revenge on him by selling his heritage.” Rose’s face drooped, her hand trembled.

  “It is not revenge.” Bettina sucked in a deep breath. “The money will be invested for Frederick, he is the heir. But we should not waste any more funds to keep it up.”

  “Perhaps you and the children can move to the cottage. Frederick and I will stay here. I’ll have no more talk of selling.” Rose minced into the dining room.

  Bettina followed, struggling to keep her temper in check. Rose’s moods changed from one moment to the next. She did pity her, but her stubbornness concerning the manor was frustrating. “I have tried to balance the books. If we do not sell, we will freeze this next winter.”

  Lew walked in with a letter. He removed his hat. “Mrs. Camborne, this be from London. Just picked it up from Maddie.”

  Rose snatched it from his hands. “It’s from Mr. Hobart.” She stared at it, then looked at Bettina and handed the letter to her, head down. “Forgive me for being rude. I’m not myself.”

  “We are all under too much strain.” Bettina petted the woman’s bony shoulder, broke the letter’s seal and read. The words seemed to swim on the page. “Mr. Hobart says he has read accounts in the London papers of refugees still coming into British ports, fleeing the upheaval on the continent. The part he thinks interesting is that escaped prisoners of war are sometimes among them, Englishmen taken from English ships during battle.” She gasped. Her pulse galloped in her throat. “And perhaps we might want to come to Portsmouth to check if … if Everett could be one of them. He says, though it is a slim chance, the Admiralty might be mistaken in their report that everyone died.”

  “Oh, that’s exciting. My son could be alive?” Rose shed her dreary posture and straightened, eyes sparkling. “You’ve said all along that investigations aren’t foolproof.”

  “It is hopeful news.” Bettina swallowed hard. A laugh bubbled inside her. She wanted so much to believe Everett awaited her. “He might be ill and that is why he has not contacted us. Hobart has written letters of inquiry, but a visit in person might be best.”

  “You must go. You will, won’t you?” Tears sprang to Rose’s eyes.

  “Bien sûr. I will leave immediately.” Bettina had no qualms about traveling away from Bronnmargh. This fresh hope invigorated her and validated her beliefs. “I will take Frederick with me. He is restless here, and he is tall enough to look older than thirteen.” She picked up her skirt and hurried up the stairs.

  * * * *

  The stagecoach bowled into Portsmouth. The city, with its warehouses and severe stone bastions, glistened in the drizzle. Bettina alighted, stretched her sore back and hurried with Frederick to the docks. The cool wind off the water stank with the smell of fish.

  Wiping raindrops from her eyes, she checked the manifest of the large ship just docked that morning. But no Everett Camborne was listed, or anyone so ill he couldn’t provide correct identification. She checked the other ships. They inquired at the inns and hospital. With still no luck, Bettina steeled herself against the disillusion that gripped her.

  “We can return by Plymouth. Uncle might come in there.” Frederick pulled on her sleeve. He’d been as full of hope as she. “We can’t give up.”

  Bettina searched each face in the vicinity, praying it would be Everett’s. “Mais non, we will never give—”

  “Lisbette, Lisbette! Mon Dieu, I do not believe it!” someone shouted in French. A man in a long coat rushed toward her. “It is you, is it not? Could it be true?” He pounced on her, grasping her shoulders in his wide hands.

  “Etienne?” she asked, uncertain for a moment. The young man’s face had grown plump since she last saw him.

  “I thought it was you. First I said to myself, look, a pretty young woman. Then I realized who you were.”

  Bettina threw her arms around his damp shoulders. “I am so happy to see you. What a surprise for me. Frederick, this is my cousin Etienne. Frederick is my nephew by … marriage. It has been over five years! Are any of the rest of the family here … is Maman?”

  “Let us get out of this rain. English weather is dreary, even in July. There is a teashop right over here.” The trio ducked into a shop overflowing with customers and the smell of smoke and wet wool. “What a surprise, or more so, a tremendous shock to find you.” His kind brown eyes seemed to drink her in.

  “What do you mean, a tremendous shock?”

  “It is a shock because … Armand told your mother you were dead.”

  “Dead? Moi?” Bettina kept her voice even amid the chattering crowd. Bile rose in her throat at the mention of the duplicitous majordomo.

  “Who is Armand?” Frederick asked.

  “A servant I thought I knew.” Bettina then focused on her cousin. “I heard Armand was also dead?”

  They elbowed past numerous people, managing to snatch a table just as a group left it. “He is,” Etienne replied. “But such a miracle you are here, in the flesh. Aunt Volet was simply beside herself.”

  “Poor Maman. Do you know where she is? Did she leave France?” Bettina settled into the hard chair, hope once more lifting her spirits.

  “About three years ago, or maybe four, she went to America, to Louisiana. New Orleans, I believe. Well, what else is there in Louisiana?”

  “All the way to America? Oh, Maman—but she is safe. And Armand has once again fouled up my life.” Bettina shoved at the table edge.

&nbs
p; “Pardon?” Etienne looked at her oddly as he shot up his hand to signal the waiter.

  “It is not important. Tell me what you are doing here.”

  “I have been in England two weeks. Being that I am cut off from any monies I once had, I’ve accepted a lucrative job offer here. I’m not afraid to soil my hands. My wife had to wait for her papers to be cleared so she told me to go ahead. I was hoping she would be on one of these ships in port today.” Etienne now studied her, his expression thoughtful. “You are most fortunate to be out of France. The years after the Bastille incident were horrible to say the least.” He stared off, his gaze hard. “So many people murdered … guillotined, haphazardly. Most not even royalists, but commoners! Then the insane radicals eliminated each other. Many who fled were allowed to return, but did so at their own peril. France is still full of unrest. No real guidance, no leaders of distinction. The people in charge are as decadent as any king. We were lucky to escape.” Etienne looked at her again. “But why would Armand say you were dead?”

  “I have no idea—he was an addled old man. He was cruel to tell such lies to my mother.” Bettina ducked her head as a waiter rushed by with a tray. She didn’t want to reveal her father’s murder or anything related to it, especially not in front of Frederick. “Tell me more about her. How did Maman escape from France?”

  “After she thought you were gone, we took her north into Holland. But she did not care for the cold and damp. When the revolution spread in that direction, your mother told mine she was sailing to America.”

  “But Aunt Creissant did not go?”

  “No, she refused to live so far away from France. I accompanied her to Denmark, and that’s where we’ve been. My wife is Danish, a lovely girl. But your mother met other refugees traveling to Louisiana and decided to do the same.” Etienne snapped his fingers at the harried waiter. “You can never get good service in these English cafes.” He gazed at her again with concern. “Did Armand know you went to England?”