Fairchild

by Jaima Fixsen

  “More laudanum, my Lady?” Mrs. Bagshot asked, advancing solicitously.

  “No, thank you,” Sophy managed. Chippenstone was the only house of consequence in the neighborhood where Lady Fairchild did not go. It had been bought years ago, by some wealthy tradesman.

  Of course none of the Rushfords came here, Sophy thought, seeing the room with new eyes. Mrs. Bagshot was exactly the sort of ridiculous person Lady Fairchild most detested.

  As she watched Mrs. Bagshot’s awkward bumbling, something took hold of Sophy: some imp of mischief or some half-formed wish. Without thinking, she donned her best Lady Fairchild manner and announced, “You are addressing me incorrectly, Mrs. Bagshot. My father is a viscount, not an earl, so I am a Miss, not a Lady. It would please me if you called me Sophy. It is what they call me at home.”

  This was perfectly true. It was not her fault if Mrs. Bagshot believed more than that.

  *****

  It took two minutes for Mrs. Bagshot to curtsey herself out of the room and for Sophy to lose her nerve. As soon as the door closed, she collapsed like an accordion and sank onto the bed. She was trembling. What had she done?

  She would be caught for sure. Lady Fairchild would skin her alive. She couldn’t guess what her father would do, but she was afraid. Playing at being Miss Rushford was like setting fire to her own boat. She should confess the truth at once.

  While she was rehearsing scenarios, the surgeon came. He pronounced that Sophy’s arm was where it ought to be, and that she must rest the arm in a sling. The pain would diminish in the coming days. Sophy declined another draught of laudanum. Sarah returned as the surgeon left, bringing Sophy breakfast and a pink morning dress, which had been hastily taken in and shortened.

  “Missus didn’t want you struggling into your habit today, since you insist on dressing,” she explained. Though the gown fit loosely and Sarah was a careful attendant, donning it was a teeth-clenching, eye-squeezing process. Sarah gasped at the ink black bruises marring her right hip and shoulder.

  “Are you certain you should dress, Miss?”

  “They look worse than they feel.” Thank goodness they wouldn’t show. Her hands and face were unmarked. When Sarah withdrew, Sophy sank into a chair, white faced and tight-lipped.

  She ate her breakfast one-handed, sitting by the window. A sprig of apple blossoms stood on her tray, and a slivered pineapple fanned across her gilt edged plate. She drank her chocolate, considering again how different things would be if her name was Rushford. How pleasant it would be to automatically be treated with such deference, to always be confident of your place. Her life would be vastly altered, if Lady Fairchild was really her mother.

  Traitor, she thought, recalling her mother’s smile with sudden clarity. Fanny Prescott had owned a wide mouth with teeth that overlapped at the corners. Sophy could no longer construct her face completely, except as she had died, grey and gasping. Shutting her eyes, Sophy swallowed her mouthful with difficulty, shoving away guilt.

  She hadn’t meant it to happen, and surely she had been punished enough.

  A lifetime of Sunday Sermons argued against her, telling her only eternal fires could atone. Sophy frowned, savagely chewing a bite of pineapple. Priestly blithering about heavenly rest and just rewards did not comfort her. Experience had taught her that justice was a word without application in life. Losing her mother was shattering enough. Need she suffer the stain of illegitimacy as well? She had done no wrong there; that had been her mother’s mistake.

  The chocolate in her cup had gone cold and bitter. It was no use, she knew, brooding about the same old things. Not when she had landed herself in such a scrape. Her energies were better spent finding a way out.

  Leaving on the sly would solve things nicely, she thought, setting down her spoon. Then she remembered someone would have to saddle Ajax and help her to mount. She doubted she was equal to the ride home, even if she was successful in talking her way around one of the Bagshots’ grooms. And surely the Bagshots would come to Cordell, looking for her. She could just imagine Mrs. Bagshot greeting her as Miss Rushford in front of Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper. It was only one short step from them to Lord Fairchild.

  Come clean, she told herself.

  And yet, the more she thought of it, the harder it seemed. Confessing didn’t actually offer a clear way out. For one thing, the truth would be very unkind. Mrs. Bagshot would know she had been making fun of her. Which was awful, seeing as Mrs. Bagshot had been entirely amiable: altering her clothes for Sophy to wear, giving her the best rooms, bringing the surgeon, not to mention taking her in from the cold and helping the young man to set her arm. He must be her son, Sophy decided.

  They would both be very angry with her, and would probably spread the tale to everyone in the neighborhood. Which left her one choice. Keep on as Sophy Rushford, conceal the truth, and never see them again.

  With luck, she might be able to manage it.

  Rising, Sophy smoothed the wrinkles from the borrowed pink dress and made her way to morning room.

  *****

  Mrs. Bagshot and her son were waiting for her. Both rose as she entered, but Mrs. Bagshot sprang forward, taking Sophy’s good arm and leading her to a divan in blue damask, prepared with pillows and a silk shawl.

  “We must take every precaution after yesterday’s misadventure,” she said, wrapping the shawl around Sophy’s shoulders.

  “You are excessively kind, Mrs. Bagshot,” Sophy said, flushing as she remembered her own churlishness and that further deception was necessary. “I must thank you for your hospitality. And for your assistance, sir, in putting back my arm.”

  “I was happy to be of use,” the son said, retaking his seat.

  Sophy plucked at the fringe of the shawl. “I shan’t continue to impose on you,” she assured them. “If I can borrow a servant to carry a message to Cordell Hall, they can send a carriage to collect me this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Bagshot vigorously shook her head. “Oh no, my dear! Even if the surgeon would allow it, it would be unwise to tax yourself so soon. You are very welcome here, and besides, there’s no one there to look after you!”

  Mrs. Bagshot met Sophy’s surprised glance and dissembled, nervously fluttering her fingers as she explained. “I stumbled across a letter in the pocket of your clothes last evening, after you were asleep, you see. Is it true, that your brother Jasper plans to collect you in a matter of days?”

  “He is to take me to London, ma’am, perhaps as early as tomorrow. My parents are there already,” Sophy said.

  “And there are none but a few servants at your house?”

  Sophy nodded, supposing it wouldn’t do to explain that she was well accustomed to spending this part of the year alone, save for Dessie and the other servants left behind. “Truly, I—”

  Mrs. Bagshot protested. “After such an injury, and getting so chilled! You still look very pale, and the surgeon says your arm must not be jostled. All the upheaval of traveling home, only to leave again? Tom, tell her she mustn’t!”

  Could she fool them for two days? Sophy calculated rapidly. It didn’t look like she had a choice. Even if she insisted on leaving, she didn’t think she could convince them to ignore the surgeon’s orders. Staying here presented all kinds of difficulties: her horse, her lack of clothes, Jasper . . .

  “I’m sorry for looking at your letter,” Mrs. Bagshot said, handing over the paper in question. It was dry now, but Sophy could see the ink had run in several places. “I took the merest glimpse only, hoping to learn who you might be. Happily, that was not hard to discover.”

  Sophy licked her lips, trying to recall if Jasper had written anything that would reveal the truth. “Have you sent word to Cordell?” she asked. If Mrs. Bagshot’s servants had already gone to Cordell with the news that a Miss Rushford was lying injured at Chippenstone, she was sunk.

  “I’m sending a man over this very minute,” Mrs. Bagshot beamed.

  “Can he wait?” Sophy asked quickly. “I
should like to inform them myself. If your servant could carry my letter—”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Bagshot rang the bell.

  “And could my horse be returned as well? John, my father’s head groom, will be anxious to look him over.” A gross understatement. John would inspect Ajax from ears to fetlocks, and if he had suffered as much as a bruise or a strained tendon, he would ban her from the stables. Staying at Chippenstone had some advantages, she decided, so long as she was not discovered. Dessie could send over her boxes and Jasper could collect her here as easily as Cordell.

  The son cleared his throat. “I looked over your horse myself, Miss Rushford—”

  “Please, do call me Sophy. I am not out of the schoolroom yet,” Sophy interrupted. Less chance of slip ups, if they used her given name.

  He inclined his head. “As I was saying, I looked over your horse this morning. He’s taken no hurt. I wish we could say the same for you. It’s lucky you didn’t break your neck. That horse is much too large for you.”

  Inclined to argue, Sophy reminded herself that he had been obliged to rescue her. “John will give me quite a scold, I promise you.”

  He snorted. “Yes, but will you listen?”

  She pretended to consider the matter. “Well, I might.” Before he could roll his eyes, she fixed him with her most engaging smile. “This whole business has been rather embarrassing. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Bagshot said, reaching over to pat her hand. “You may depend on Tom and me.”

  Sophy did not fear Mrs. Bagshot, who adapted instantly to her whim. It was the son, Tom, who she seemed unable to charm. She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have taken Ajax out. It was dreadfully foolish, but he’s such a beautiful horse. And I wanted to ride round the country here once more, in case I don’t return to Cordell.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Bagshot gave her a blank stare.

  “This season is to be my debut,” Sophy explained, forcing an attempt at the dazzling smile Lady Fairchild had taught her. It was as effective as a damp firecracker.

  “How exciting, to be sure,” Mrs. Bagshot said.

  “Qualms, Sophy? If you can take on a horse like Ajax, I’m sure your courage is up to the Marriage Mart.” Tom said dryly.

  Sophy’s lips twisted. “I was thrown, Mr. Bagshot. You are not very reassuring.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “But now you’ve learned not to choose a horse that can overmaster you.”

  Heat swept over her cheeks. She arched her eyebrows. “I am not generally considered an incompetent horsewoman, sir.”

  “Dear me, no,” he laughed.

  Lady Fairchild would say this conversation was in poor taste, but Sophy rather liked him this way, throwing her quips and slumping in his chair. Certainly it was an improvement on the stiff formality he had worn when she first entered the room. He had been like this last night, she remembered, making her easy as he set her shoulder. He looked almost dashing, which was a thought Lady Fairchild would not allow, if she could have known it. Sophy pinched her lips together, remembering that yesterday he had carried her up the stairs. And not, she thought, while wearing his coat.

  Yes, he had been without coat and waistcoat, in his dressing gown of all things. It had billowed behind him when he had come running down the stairs.

  He let out a sigh and heaved himself out of his armchair. “Pleasant as this is, I have business to attend to, and you have a letter to write.” Nodding to Sophy, he crossed the room and kissed his mother.

  She retained his hand. “You’ll join us for dinner?”

  This time, his smile was a polite grimace. “Of course.”

  He left. Mrs. Bagshot, about to fetch a lap desk herself, remembered in time to send a servant instead.

  Sophy knew she should be quick about her letters; the Bagshots’ servant was waiting, and everyone at Cordell would be searching for her. If she took too long, her letter would come after they sent word to her father that she was missing. Brushing her chin with the end of her quill, she wondered if the truth would slip out from Cordell’s servants. No, she decided instantly. The man from Chippenstone was just delivering her horse and her letter. Cordell’s servants would not talk to him. They would snub him as surely as Lady Fairchild would snub his mistress.

  She scrawled out a letter to Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper at Cordell, including a postscript apology to John. She enclosed a letter to be forwarded to Jasper, asking him to collect her from Chippenstone instead. Just in case, she put in a third letter for her father. She couldn’t ignore the possibility that Mrs. Lawson had already sent him word by messenger. If she was to carry off her deception, she needed to keep Lord Fairchild and, more likely, his servants, away from Chippenstone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Duty and Design

  Tom planned to see Miss Rushford as little as possible, but dinner was unavoidable. His mother expected him to dine with her and he tried to be a dutiful son.

  He arrived in the dining room, intentionally late. Miss Rushford and his mother were already seated. “How is your shoulder, Miss Sophy?” he asked, as one of the footmen in eye-blinding green livery pulled out his chair.

  “Better, thank-you.” Tonight she was demure, unrecognizable as the wild apparition on his doorstep yesterday. He suspected this observation might offend her. Concealing a smile, he looked down the table as the pair of footmen swept away the covers. He nearly groaned aloud.

  His mother had ordered an absurdly lavish meal. Frowning at his turtle soup, he wondered how long eating would take. He hadn’t lied about his pressing business: one of his ships with a load of timber was two weeks late, and he’d found a potential buyer for furs, if he could guarantee delivery of specific quantities. He ate his soup silently, his body mummifying while his mind leapt elsewhere.

  The second course was worse. There was asparagus in cream sauce, ham, roasted goose and poached fish with leeks, washed down with champagne. It was a colossal waste, when only three people were eating. He had lived on weevil infested rations in His Majesty’s navy and it bothered him that good and brave men ate so poorly, when his table was groaning under masses of china and plate and the carcasses of he knew not how many beasts. The servants would eat well tonight, but there was no way even they could eat this much food before it spoiled.

  His mother looked at him, imploring him to speak. They ought to be having conversation, he knew. Well, what did she expect him to say?

  “Did you have a pleasant afternoon, mother?”

  “Yes. Miss Sophy slept and I looked over some magazines.”

  “How nice.” He grinned and the conversation died.

  Miss Rushford leaned back into her chair as a footman cut up her meat. It did not please her, having to be tended like a child.

  “And how was your afternoon, Mr. Bagshot?” she asked.

  “Profitable.” He wasn’t going to pretend to be something he wasn’t. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to conclude all the matters demanding attention, but I made a good start.”

  “That must be satisfying,” she replied, unperturbed. “The sauce on this sole is excellent, Mrs. Bagshot. I must commend your cook.”

  But by the time the third course was brought in, she was drooping in her chair, shadows etched under her eyes.

  “Are you in pain? Would you like to retire now?” his mother asked. “We mustn’t fatigue you.”

  She rallied, though her answering smile was wan. “It’s not seven o’ clock yet. I ought to at least make it till nine.”

  “I’m an early sleeper, myself,” his mother confessed. “Come, let’s return to the drawing room. We’ll take tea, and we can fetch you a book.”

  Sophy agreed, and Tom stood, preparing to bow and watch them leave.

  “Give Sophy your arm, dear,” his mother said, ruining that plan. He walked her to the drawing room, seated her on the divan and fetched her shawl, but his mother wasn’t done yet.

  “Will you read to us, Tom?” she asked
. “I think that would be nicest. I’m a little tired, myself.” He couldn’t refuse. He nearly always passed his evenings at Chippenstone reading aloud until his mother fell asleep. She had always read with difficulty, having only a scanty education.

  “Of course,” he said, crossing the room to retrieve her book.

  “Oh no,” she stopped him, turning pink. “Why don’t you fetch something new from the library? Marmion, perhaps.”

  Sophy missed nothing. “What is it you’ve been reading?” she asked, and Tom saw his mother writhe under all her lace.

  “Just some novel,” she explained.

  “Which one?” Sophy asked.

  Tom lifted up the book, ignoring his mother’s unspoken protests. “It’s called The Wicked Duke.”

  “You wouldn’t like it,” his mother said.

  “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Sophy said. “And I cannot take you away from your own book, ma’am. There is nothing more exasperating.”

  Tom deposited himself in a chair, while his mother tried to assume a calm face.

  “Please begin,” Sophy said, waving a limpid hand. Lord, her airs were infuriating. And yet, he had seen his servants respond to her with palpable relief, looking sideways from her to his mother as if to say, See? This is how it should be done.

  Tom opened the cardboard cover, clearing his throat and removing the ribbon that marked his mother’s place. “Cassandra awoke in a cave, dark and damp. She couldn’t move, and her hands and feet were bound to a heavy chair, upholstered in velvet. There was a fluttering noise behind her. Bats, she decided.”

  “Really, Miss Sophy . . .” His mother was paralyzed, her mortification growing with every word. Tom cursed himself for giving her such an ill turn, for humiliating her in front of Miss Rushford. Making him do the pretty did not make it right for him to act like a bear.

  “Please stop, Mr. Bagshot,” Sophy said crisply. Tom glanced at her, surprised she would call halt, though his mother’s distress was plain. “I would enjoy this story much more if you read with feeling. You make it sound like Cassandra is trimming a hat.” She gave his mother a warm smile. “I don’t think your son has any sensibility ma’am. He had best give the book to me.” She stretched out an imperious hand.