Fairchild

by Jaima Fixsen

  “What did she say?” Lady Fairchild asked.

  “Nothing that bears repeating.”

  “She’s rather good at the barbed comment, but you mustn’t mind her,” Lady Fairchild said. “In a way, it’s flattering that she singled you out instead of just ignoring you. She had a very successful Season last year, but everyone knows she’s hunting for a title.”

  “Will she get one?”

  “Oh, probably. She’s quite beautiful and has a fortune from her mother. But trying to embarrass you only reminds people of her sister. Lady Slade is notorious for the assortment of children she’s presented to her husband. Next time you see her, you might want to mention that.”

  Smiling, Lady Fairchild smoothed her gloves. “It will only get easier. Before you know it, you’ll be having the time of your life.”

  *****

  After three more evenings and seven more parties, Lady Fairchild declared that Sophy was looking too tired and that the morning rides must stop. “You’ll ruin her looks, dragging her out every day,” she said to her husband as they followed Sophy up the stairs. They were all on their way to bed. “Once or twice a week is plenty. You can still ride at the fashionable hour, of course.”

  “Stand still, rather,” Sophy muttered, as her father acquiesced. He was unusually agreeable with his wife lately. He’d even complimented her hair this evening. Of course, he must be greatly indebted to her. Shepherding Sophy through a season was not something he could have asked of her.

  Sophy paused at the top of the stairs, watching her father escort his wife to her door and then proceed to his own rooms at the end of the hall. His door closed, leaving her alone with her candle.

  She sighed. During the fashionable hour between five and six the park was so jammed with carriages and horses one could hardly move. The morning was less of a show. She suspected it was the parties themselves, not merely the late hours that were dragging her down.

  Her maid Betty was waiting for her, ready to unpin her hair and free her from her party dress. She could barely keep her eyes open as Betty unclipped her pearl ear bobs and brushed out her hair.

  Lady Fairchild was right, of course. The parties had gotten easier. Her free dances were promptly solicited and she had discovered two or three young ladies interested enough in Jasper and Mr. Beaumaris to pretend friendship with her. Both gentlemen made a point of singling her out in the park and the ballroom. Mr. Beaumaris’s attention would have done her more credit if he wasn’t simply obliging Lady Fairchild, but it was hard not to enjoy the envious stares of prettier girls, richer girls, and girls with impeccable lineage as he led her into the dance.

  “Just go to bed, Betty,” Sophy yawned. “I can manage my night dress.” Betty might not be so sour natured if she got a decent night’s sleep too, instead of waiting up for her every night. If Betty was rested, she might not be so fierce with the hairpins.

  Sophy didn’t hear her leave; she was feeling her way into the heavy cotton night dress and shuffling to the bed, waiting for her with the covers pulled back. Sliding between the sheets, she stretched her toes, letting herself sink into the mattress.

  Mr. Beaumaris’s attention might have turned her head, if she didn’t know it was all a ploy. He knew perfectly well how handsome he was. It wasn’t easy, watching him exercise his considerable charm. But it was only pretend, and ought not to unsettle her. Clammy hands, stuttering heart—she scolded herself for them often enough, but doubted any girl could be entirely immune to his caressing looks.

  Dismissing Mr. Beaumaris, Sophy turned her thoughts to Hirondelle instead, and fell asleep before she and her horse had galloped their first mile. But when she awoke, early in the morning, Mr. Beaumaris was back. Sophy rolled over, thumped her pillow, and screwed her eyes shut.

  Overall, she preferred it when he did not join their morning rides. He was not an easy companion. Besides, her father would speak to her when they rode, so long as there were no eligibles floating around. At first, they had talked only generally, of horses or the passers-by. He never probed and was always quick to retreat behind a bland remark. But soon they were talking about more particular matters: Henrietta and her sons, the books Sophy borrowed from the circulating library, and—in surprising detail—her father’s fears after the sudden assassination of Spencer Percival, the Prime Minister.

  She did not like missing these opportunities so she could traipse from house to house in the evenings. With the sun up now, and the servants creeping through the house, it was impossible to sleep anyway. Sophy climbed out of bed and took out yesterday’s riding habit.

  Betty heard her digging her boots out of the cupboard. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked, hurrying into the room.

  “You can help me put this on,” Sophy said, gesturing at her habit.

  “Not I. My Lady says you are to rest yourself this morning, so you make a good showing at the opera tonight,” Betty said, folding her arms below her ample bosom and setting her chin. “Get yourself back into bed.”

  Sophy gritted her teeth. Opera be damned. She was going riding. “If you don’t help me,” she said, slowly and evenly, “I shall have to just go out in what I am already wearing.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  Sophy sat down on the edge of the bed and drew on her stockings. She could feel Betty’s eyes, boring through the top of her head, but having her own way felt too good. She laced up her boots. Striding across the room, she laid her hand on the doorknob.

  “All right! But I shall tell Lady Fairchild what you’ve done as soon as she’s awake!”

  “Please do.” With any luck, she would be home before then.

  Betty’s fingers nipped her as she fastened hooks, ties and buttons, but Sophy didn’t care. “Thank-you, Betty,” she said, when she was done up at last.

  “Hmmph!”

  “What are you doing?” Lord Fairchild asked, when Sophy appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Aren’t you going to the Opera this evening?”

  “Aren’t you?” He was to accompany them tonight, which was unusual. Most evenings he spent at his club.

  He shrugged. “I don’t sleep much.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “A short ride,” he said. “You can rest after.” He sent for their horses.

  They were alone today under the lumpy slurry of a cloudy sky. It was a foul morning. Riding in silence, they traversed the park and climbed to the top of a hill, letting the wind tug at their clothes and their hair.

  “Will Lady Fairchild mind?” Sophy asked.

  “She might. Think you can bring her round?”

  “I’ll try. I didn’t want to miss our ride. I enjoy them.”

  He smiled. “So do I. We should have ridden together more often.”

  Sophy looked at him.

  “I mean it,” he said. “You’re good company.”

  “Now, maybe,” she conceded. “But I expect I’d have bored you at ten.”

  “No, I have never thought you boring,” he said. He waited, but she said nothing, so he turned his horse back down the hill.

  Sophy nudged Hirondelle after him. “What did you think?” she asked. He stopped his horse and turned around.

  “It’s hard to say,” he said at last. “For years I had wondered about you, what you were like. Then, to find you so like myself . . . I thought Georgiana was going to choke . . . And you so obviously missed your mother.”

  Sophy tucked back a strand of hair that whipped across her face. “Do you? Ever miss her?” she asked.

  He looked down. “I did. Very much.” Gathering his reins in one hand, he straightened the cuffs of his gloves. “I loved her, you know. I would have kept the two of you close by, but that was not what she wanted. I suppose it became too sordid for her, when she found she was with child.” He looked up and stopped. She swallowed, afraid of what he might see in her face.

  “It was not meant to be,” he said. “It was a dream, impossible to keep. It surprised me, you know, that s
he never married. She was so beautiful.” He smiled. “Intelligent too, with a strong will.”

  “And yet you are surprised?” Sophy said. “I think you have your answer right there.”

  “Perhaps. What I meant was that I hope she was not lonely.”

  “How could she be?” Sophy asked, with a shade of belligerence. “You just said I was good company.”

  “So I did.”

  They rode in silence. “Do you hate me for it?” he asked.

  “Not anymore,” she said. Her honesty surprised her and made her cheeks grow warm.

  His eyes flashed to her face. “You still miss her.”

  “Always.” Sophy managed a weak smile. Containing her emotions was never this hard when she talked of her mother with Jasper.

  Lord Fairchild sighed, turning his eyes away from her to the wet grass before them. “Yes. I’m afraid she is impossible to forget.”

  They did not speak again until they reached the house. “Don’t get me in trouble,” he said. “You promised, remember?”

  She gave a tiny smile, as tenuous as their new confidence. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Medicine

  Tom found a letter for his mother on the breakfast table. It was from Lord Fairchild. It had gone first to Chippenstone and been forwarded to London, where it arrived late, resting beside his mother’s plate. “Read it Tom,” she said, passing it eagerly across the table.

  He set down his newspaper reluctantly. He had a good idea what the letter would say and knew his mother would be disappointed. He hadn’t mentioned sighting Sophy in the park, or being ignored by her brother. He hadn’t gone back since. Seeing her hadn’t cured him. Besides, he had plenty of work to do and couldn’t spend his days idling around the park.

  The letter was brief. “Lord Fairchild sends his sincere thanks . . . and hopes to present them again, in person, once he has returned from town.” Tom set down the heavy gilt-edged paper and returned to his attention to the Times, avoiding his mother’s eyes.

  At least now she would stop expecting Miss Rushford to appear at the front door. Skipping past the advertisements, Tom turned to the second page for the foreign news.

  His mother gave up on her kippers and set her silverware down with a clang. “What I can’t understand—”

  “There’s nothing to understand, mother.”

  She only blinked at him.

  “Don’t look like that. This is exactly what I knew would happen.”

  “But if you tried—”

  “I’m not going to, mother.” Tom rose and tucked his newspaper under his arm. “I should be getting along if you don’t want me staying at the offices until late.”

  “But Tom—” she broke off as he bent low to kiss her cheek.

  “See you for supper,” he said.

  It was always busy in the city, the hum of commerce never ceasing. He worked with his door open to the roomful of busy, striving clerks, but again the noise and the bustle could not wholly distract him. His conscience pricked him for being short with his mother and he ended up coming home early for supper. His mother kissed him and tidied his hair, but didn’t mention Miss Rushford.

  She did mention both of them returning to Chippenstone. He flatly refused. Chippenstone was not the place to find himself again, not with her haunting the rooms.

  “If I go anywhere, it should be overseas,” he said. “You can’t imagine the difficulties I’m having.”

  His mother blanched. She had stalwartly waved him off before, but that had been when his father was still alive.

  “I dare say Stokes can manage it. I’ll send him,” Tom said, relenting. A sea cure wasn’t an option this time.

  Instead, he found refuge in the company of his old shipmates. They were good fellows who knew where to go when a man was spoiling for a fight. His evenings with them at riverfront taverns left him with grazed knuckles, a cut lip—and the satisfaction of giving better than he got. When he was squaring up against another man, Tom had no questions about his own worth.

  Unfortunately, his cut lip was impossible to hide. His mother accepted his explanation of a brief turn up, hardly worth talking about, with a smooth countenance, but the glove she was knitting ended up with a thumb so twisted there wasn’t a person alive who could wear it. The next evening she asked him to take her to the theatre and two evenings after that, she arranged a dinner party—no easy task with her limited acquaintance. Her motives were plain. If he could not have Miss Rushford, she would find him someone else before he did any more damage to his self or his soul. She had never liked boxing. Tom tried to be civil. He would have tried to like the young ladies she trotted out for him too, if they weren’t too tall, too shy, and too boring.

  “What was wrong with Miss Spencer?” his mother asked, after a rather dreadful evening.

  Tom sighed. His sullenness hadn’t helped matters. “I’m not fit for company these days.” Better if Miss Rushford had been blessed with the sense of a newborn babe and stayed off that cursed horse.

  “When will you be?”

  “Tomorrow,” he promised. “What would you like to do? I could take you to the show at Astley’s, we haven’t done that yet.”

  “I’d like that. Will you still have your good manners on Friday?”

  “Why?”

  She pulled a square of folded paper from her sleeve. “It’s from Jeremiah and Lottie Fulham.”

  “They’re still in London?” It had been years since Tom had left England to learn business under Jeremiah Fulham’s eye. They hadn’t been together long before Tom was pressed into the navy, but Jeremiah had fought hard for Tom’s release. His father had always counted him as a friend. They had been neighbors, as well as partners, when Tom had been a child in London. After Tom left the Navy, Jeremiah retired. There had been an occasional exchange of letters, but that had stopped when his father died.

  “This is a dinner invitation,” he said.

  His mother cleared her throat. “I’d like to go, but we won’t if you can’t—”

  He forestalled her with a raised hand. “I can be civil for Jeremiah and Lottie. It will be good to see them again.”

  “They have their daughter Anna with them. She’s been a widow these two years. There will be some other young people. Lottie suggested that after supper the young folk might go to a masquerade.”

  “In Covent Garden?” Covent Garden masquerades were not for people of character, but Tom knew some people liked to drop in for a lark. Watching for an hour or two was harmless.

  “Do you remember Anna?” she asked.

  He did. She had employed her two year advantage well when they were small, giving him more than a few bruising pinches. “Mother, if you’ve raised expectations—”

  “All I’ve done is accept their invitation. I know how you feel about meddling, but you can’t go on as you are.” She stopped folding pleats into her skirts and smoothed out the burgundy silk with her fingers, remembering her maid’s admonitions too late.

  Tom sighed. He knew what was coming. But perhaps his mother’s solution was best. It was time he acted like a man and not a sulky boy.

  “You’ve always insisted you want to marry your own kind. I understand that. But when will it be? I was old when you were born, Tom. I should like to see you married.”

  He softened, smiling gently. “All right. I agree to dinner, but I must at least see Anna before you make any more plans.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A Dreadful Squeeze

  They always called it Henrietta’s ball, which it technically was, since Henrietta and Percy were hosting it at their townhouse on Curzon Street. But since the event was orchestrated for one purpose only—Sophy’s come out—calling it Henrietta’s ball was a trifle disingenuous. It wasn’t as if Henrietta had made any of the decisions. Lady Fairchild had written the guest list, chosen the floral decorations and selected the music. When Henrietta irritably demanded why her mother didn’t just host Sophy’s debut herself,
Lady Fairchild had silenced her with a pointed look.

  It was exhausting, Sophy thought, treading this high wire—in the family, but not. Even after she married, there would always be awkwardness and uncertainty.

  This ball was grander than anything she had attended before. Nearly every moment of the evening was planned, from the precise moment she was to appear on her father’s arm to her first two dance partners. Sophy felt like a clockwork figure, waiting for the hour to strike. She was to enter with Lord Fairchild after the first hour, but before Henrietta and Percy stopped receiving. It was too much, of course, for Sophy to stand in the receiving line beside Henrietta. “Looks like we’re trying too hard, dear, and we don’t need to,” Lady Fairchild said. “You’ve made such a marvelous start.”

  Sophy didn’t feel marvelous, waiting alone in the library and listening to the party beyond the door. Her courage waned with each passing minute and she still had a quarter of an hour to wait. Sitting would crease her dress, so she walked to the window, parting the curtain with one finger. Because of the branch of candles on the desk behind her, she could see nothing but her own reflection in the windowpane. Letting the curtain fall, she turned back to face the room.

  She had no reason to be nervous. This wasn’t so different from the other balls.

  Her eyes fell on the whisky decanter resting on Percy’s desk. Liquid courage, her father called it. She could use some of that. Glancing at the door, she plucked out the stopper and righted one of the tumblers sitting upside down on the tray. The crystal decanter was heavier than she expected. Instead of pouring out a thimbleful, a glug of the golden liquid splashed into the tumbler, swirling around the sides of the glass. She took a long gulp. Halfway through her second swallow, she realized her mistake. It had to be poison. Eyes watering, Sophy rocked back against the desk, forcing empty swallows to rid herself of the stinging vapors curling in the back of her throat and burning through her nose. There was still a finger width of whisky at the bottom of the glass. Impossible to drink it. Could she open the window?