Love's Promise

by Cheryl Holt

  Morning would arrive, whether she wished it or no, and there would be plenty of opportunity to worry about the future.

  At present, she was content to drift and doze, with the promise that when she awakened, Phillip would be there with her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Are you sure this is the house?”

  “Yes, this is definitely the house.”

  Fanny flashed a wan smile at Thomas, then glanced out the window of the hackney they’d rented once they’d reached London.

  “Mother will be glad to see us, won’t she?”

  Fanny wished she was anywhere in the world but at Camilla’s home, and under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have trusted Camilla’s offer of shelter, but Fanny was pregnant and desperate and out of options. She muttered a prayer that Camilla had been sincere in asking them to come, that she would at least pretend—for Thomas’s sake—to be delighted.

  “Of course she’ll be glad. My friend, Lady Rebecca, said that Camilla couldn’t wait for us to arrive. You remember Lady Rebecca, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I remember her.”

  He frowned, knowing Fanny’s comments were a lie, knowing that a terrible event had occurred after Lady Rebecca’s visit, but he couldn’t quite identify what it was.

  “I don’t understand why we couldn’t have stayed in the country with Uncle Michael.”

  “I told you, Thomas. He had business to attend.”

  “He left on business before, but he always came back.”

  They’d been having the same conversation for days, and she could barely keep from snapping at him.

  “He planned to be gone a long time.”

  “I thought you were happy there.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I thought you and Uncle Michael might...might...”

  “Might...what?”

  “I thought you might get married. I thought we could be a family.”

  If Fanny’s heart hadn’t already been broken, it would have cracked into a thousand tiny pieces. She felt dead inside, and she was running on instinct, going through the motions, but not really cognizant of what she was saying or doing.

  How will I survive this? she asked herself. How will I?

  “We never would have wed, Thomas, and I wasn’t invited to remain in his home. As it was, I seriously imposed on his hospitality.”

  “That’s not true. He fancied you, and he was so...”

  “Thomas! He’s getting married in a few weeks—to someone else!”

  He gazed forlornly out the window at Camilla’s residence, and very quietly he said, “It was a pretty dream, Aunt Fanny.”

  “But that’s all it was, and I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

  The driver grabbed their two bags and dropped them on the ground. They landed with a muted thud, then he yanked open the door, impatient to be shed of them so he could move on to better fares.

  Thomas climbed out, then Fanny, and she peered up and down the street. They were in a wealthy neighborhood, and the buildings looked new, the sorts of places where rich merchants or successful lawyers might live.

  Camilla’s house was three stories high, constructed of red bricks. There was a tidy drive, wrought-iron fencing, tall windows, and window boxes that would brim with flowers in the summer, though it wasn’t summer now.

  The November afternoon was very short, the sun setting, the temperature plummeting. The sky was gray, icy rain likely, the atmosphere about as bleak as it could possibly be.

  The hackney pulled away, and at the prospect of seeing his mother, Thomas was distraught, but Fanny tamped down her guilt at having brought him with her.

  She should have left him at Henley Hall, where there’d been a cadre of servants to watch over him, but she’d been forced to say goodbye to Michael, in the most horrid and abrupt fashion imaginable, and she simply couldn’t say goodbye to Thomas, too.

  “I don’t want to stay here,” Thomas complained. “I don’t like it.”

  “We don’t have anywhere else to go, Thomas, and your mother is expecting us. It will be fine.”

  “We could have gone to Wainwright Manor. It belongs to me. Uncle Michael said so. You would have liked it there.”

  “I’ve explained this to you before: If you went back, I couldn’t have come with you. I would never be able to see you again.”

  He stared up at her, his blue eyes guileless and astute. “You keep telling me that, but Uncle Michael wouldn’t have treated me that way. He cares about me and you. He wouldn’t want us to be separated.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you just have to accept that he wouldn’t have let me accompany you. There was no use asking him.”

  He was a smart boy, and she could have revealed the truth—that the Wainwrights deemed her too inferior to have any continuing contact with him—but such an admission would only upset him.

  Her recent stresses were taking their toll. Tears flooded her eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice.

  “Don’t be sad, Aunt Fanny. Don’t cry.”

  “I didn’t know what to do, Thomas, but I couldn’t bear to leave you behind.”

  “I don’t understand grown-ups. I don’t understand why we couldn’t all be together, why we couldn’t all be happy.”

  “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

  He appeared ready to argue the point, but she was too miserable to bicker. She scooped up their bags, and she walked to the stoop.

  She knocked and was surprised to be greeted by a butler who provided ample evidence of how Camilla’s fortunes had risen on the Wainwright tide. He studied her intently, his attitude indicating that he didn’t believe she was Camilla’s sister, and he shut the door in her face, advising her to wait while he checked out her story.

  They loitered like a pair of beggars, and eventually, the man returned and ushered them into the foyer as Camilla was hurrying down the stairs.

  She was half-dressed, wearing naught but a corset and petticoat, a robe thrown over top, and the hem wafted out as she marched toward them. Her hair was more blond than it had been, her eyebrows neatly plucked, her cheeks painted with cosmetics.

  She looked like what the Wainwright money had allowed her to become: a rich, stylish, independent female who was preparing to go out for the evening.

  “Fanny!” she seethed. “What are you doing here?”

  Camilla never could conceal her emotions, and Fanny’s spirits flagged.

  Why was she such a gullible fool? Why had she listened to Lady Rebecca? Camilla had proved over and over that she couldn’t be trusted. Why had Fanny been so naively eager to suppose that Camilla had changed?

  Fanny had spent the cash Lady Rebecca gave her to purchase coach fare. There wasn’t a penny left. The only choice was to brazen it out.

  “Lady Rebecca said that you asked me to come.”

  “She said I asked you...here?”

  “Yes. She even paid for the trip.”

  “That stupid witch,” Camilla fumed. “I knew she’d cause trouble. I should have refused to let her in the house.”

  “She insisted that you’d invited us.”

  “Us!”

  Thomas had been hiding behind Fanny’s skirt, and when Camilla glanced down and saw him, she shrieked with temper.

  “Thomas! Why the devil are you here?”

  “Hello, Mother,” he said very solemnly.

  Fanny was desperate to deflect Camilla’s rage. “We’ve been visiting Lord Henley in the country, but we require new accommodations.”

  “You make it sound as if you were off on holiday.”

  “I had a much needed rest. He was kind to me.”

  “Was he?” Camilla snickered. “Believe me, Fanny, I’m fully aware of what your pathetic holiday entailed. Lady Rebecca was very descriptive. She’s a jealous little shrew, isn’t she?”

  Camilla was smug, being her usual spiteful self, and Fanny cringed with dismay. If Lady Rebecca had provided Camilla with the sordid details of
the affair, Fanny would never hear the end of it.

  “We need a place to sleep, Camilla. It’s growing dark, and we’ve been traveling forever.”

  “You poor things,” Camilla sarcastically jeered. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Please, Camilla,” Fanny pleaded, positive that Camilla would respond well to groveling.

  “All right,” Camilla ultimately grumbled. “But just for tonight. Tomorrow, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  Camilla frowned at the butler. “Show them up to the rear bedrooms. Have someone take up supper trays.”

  She leaned closer to him and whispered something Fanny couldn’t hear.

  “Of course Miss Camilla.” He glared at Thomas. “I’ll handle it as soon as I have them situated.” He walked to the stairs and gestured for Fanny and Thomas to follow him. “This way, Miss, if you would.”

  They trailed after him, when Camilla spoke from down below.

  “I have guests coming, Fanny. You will lock yourself in and keep quiet. I won’t have anyone knowing you two are here.”

  “As you wish, Camilla.”

  “If I so much as see your face, I’ll toss you out on the street and bar the door after you. I’m not joking.”

  At having the cruel words voiced in front of the butler, Fanny’s cheeks flushed with shame, but she didn’t reply. Let the man think what he would. Fanny had never understood Camilla’s hostility, and she wasn’t about to explain to a servant why her sister hated her.

  Fanny had never had any idea.

  Camilla entered Fanny’s bedchamber, and she paused, then smirked.

  Fanny was in the dressing room, retching, which could only indicate one thing: Lord Henley was a virile dog, and there was another Wainwright bastard on the way.

  With her party about to start, she was in no mood to parlay with self-righteous, prim Fanny, but the discussion had to be held.

  Camilla sat in a chair, waiting until Fanny trudged back in. She looked pale and drawn, her hair scraggly with snarls. She was clutching a wet cloth that was pressed to her lips, and she staggered over to the bed and fell onto the mattress.

  “Was it something you ate?” Camilla taunted.

  “It must have been,” Fanny lied, which surprised Camilla.

  Camilla didn’t remember Fanny ever having told a lie before. Then again, Fanny was so naïve, she probably didn’t have a clue as to what was wrong with her, and Camilla was too aggravated to play any games.

  “How far along are you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Fanny was very still, steadying her breathing, staring blankly out the window.

  “You might as well confess,” Camilla said. “It won’t go away like a bad case of the flu.”

  Fanny remained stoically silent, as Camilla assessed her stomach, her breasts.

  “I’m guessing three months. He took you to Henley Hall in August, so he must have knocked you up the first day.”

  “I wouldn’t know...” Fanny mumbled.

  “All right, Miss Perfect Fanny, here’s what we’ll do.”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t be snide and call me perfect as if you hate me for being who I am.”

  “Aren’t we putting on airs? You always badgered me about how to act, but in case you haven’t noticed, things have changed between us.”

  “Yes, they have.”

  ”So you listen to me and listen good: You’re in a peck of trouble, and there’s only so much assistance I’ll offer to get you out of it.”

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Camilla. I don’t care what happens to me anymore. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “You can stay here for a month.”

  “Fine.”

  “During which time, you will get up in the mornings and help with the housework. In the afternoons, I will expect you to search for a job so I can be shed of you.”

  “I’ve never been lazy. I’m happy to search for employment.”

  “And you have to rid yourself of the baby.”

  Fanny’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “I’m acquainted with a competent barber. He doesn’t guarantee his services, but he usually succeeds, and it doesn’t cost much.”

  “Are you saying I should...should...kill my baby?”

  “What other choice is there? This isn’t some fairytale. This is real life. This is London. How will you survive if you don’t? How will you support yourself, let alone a baby? If you think it’s possible, we’ll go for a carriage ride, and I’ll show you some of the street women who once believed the same. I’ll introduce you to the orphans of those who’ve perished from disease and starvation.”

  Fanny roused herself to a sitting position. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill my baby. It’s Lord Henley’s child.”

  “Lord Henley, bah!” Camilla scoffed. “He’s marrying in two weeks. Two weeks, Fanny! Your bastard brat is the last thing on his mind, and if you suppose any differently, you’re even dumber than I always imagined.”

  “If I harmed it, he’d be devastated.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from my situation? Where is your dear Lord Henley, Fanny? He’s John Wainwright’s brother. Where the hell is he? I’ll tell you: He’s abandoned you when you’re miserable and pregnant, and he’s about to wed another woman. Why is that?”

  “He has to marry her. It’s all arranged.”

  “Yes, it is, so you’re being absurd, and if you can’t grasp the facts of your predicament as they currently exist, there’s no hope for you.”

  “He cared about me,” she foolishly claimed.

  “He did not! His kind never cares about people like us. It’s not in their nature to lower themselves that much.”

  “You’re wrong about him.”

  “I’m not. You were his sexual toy, and now, he’s moved on. If he told you he wanted you for more than a few tumbles under the blankets, he was lying.”

  “He never told me anything.” She looked so wounded, so hurt. “He never made any promises.”

  “Then you’re doubly out of luck, aren’t you? You don’t even have the benefit of a fantasy to rely on.”

  “I wish I was dead.”

  “But you’re not, so haul yourself to Thomas’s room and eat a hearty supper. You need to increase your stamina for the ordeal at the barber’s. I’ll hire a hackney to take you there tomorrow.”

  Fanny appeared as if she might argue, or wax on about wonderful, loyal Lord Henley, but Camilla wouldn’t listen to any romantic drivel.

  Camilla understood how the world worked: It was hell being a woman, and there was no justice for men. Fanny would bear the entire brunt of Henley’s reckless behavior, and no one would be concerned over her plight.

  No one would save her. She had to save herself.

  Fanny walked into Thomas’s bedchamber, struggling to hide her discomfort. Her bout of nausea had passed, but she still felt awful. He was very astute. If he realized she’d just been ill, he’d want to know why, and she was too weary to make up the necessary lies.

  He was on the bed, devouring his meal, and she sat with him, pretending to eat, as she studied the furnishings.

  Everything was the height of fashion, the best that money could buy, and while Fanny comprehended that the Wainwright’s were giving Camilla an allowance, it had to be less than what she was spending.

  How did she keep on? How did she pay her bills? It was typical of Camilla to be extravagant, to saddle herself with debt, but Fanny wouldn’t worry about it.

  For the moment, she had a roof over her head and supper had been delivered. She had severed her relationship with Lord Henley, and had stolen away without being caught. Thomas was with her. Right that second, it was more than enough.

  The food was hot and delicious, and there was a pitcher of warm water for washing. They had just finished their ablutions, when heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.


  Camilla was out in the hall, saying, “He’s in here.”

  Fanny froze, stunned, as the door was flung open and four footmen entered, wearing the blue and gold livery of the Duke of Clarendon.

  “That’s him.” Camilla pointed at Thomas. “That’s the Duke’s grandson.”

  Fanny and Thomas rose, and Thomas slipped his hand into Fanny’s.

  “Camilla,” Fanny stammered, “what is it? What’s going on?”

  “He can’t remain here, Fanny,” Camilla scolded. “I can’t figure out why you brought him.”

  “There was nowhere else for him to go!”

  “You are being as ridiculous as ever. There are a dozen places he can go, but he shan’t stay here.” Camilla signaled to the men. “Take him and be quick about it. I can’t abide a big fuss.”

  “Aunt Fanny”—Thomas was terrified—“what’s happening?”

  Camilla answered for her. “You’re returning to your grandfather’s.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” Thomas said. “I don’t want to leave Aunt Fanny.”

  “Has anyone asked your opinion?” Camilla gestured again. “Take him.”

  The men hesitated, then one of them stepped forward. “Come then, Thomas. Your grandfather is expecting you.”

  “Do I have to go, Aunt Fanny? Do I?”

  Fanny tried to shield Thomas with her body. “Camilla, stop it!”

  “Fanny, I can’t have a young boy living here, and I won’t jeopardize my arrangement with the Wainwrights. He doesn’t belong to us anymore, and he has to go home.”

  The footman pushed Fanny aside, gently, but it was a push all the same. He grabbed Thomas by the arm.

  “Let’s be off, Thomas. There’s no need for a huge ruckus.”

  Thomas began to cry. “Aunt Fanny, don’t make me.”

  “Please!” Fanny implored to the footman, starting to cry, too. “He’s my nephew.”

  “That’s as may be, Miss,” he kindly but sternly replied, “but the Duke sent us to fetch him.”

  “He doesn’t belong to us, Fanny!” Camilla repeated. “When will you get it through your thick head?”

  The man was proceeding to the door, and Thomas was wrestling and dragging his feet.