“An infant as young as Noel would be sent to live with a wet nurse for several years before being returned to the orphanage. Which is why I am very glad that Mrs. Shaw mentioned that there is one in Meathop, for I had no reason to be aware of its existence.”
Artemisia cast a sidelong glance at her husband. “I am almost afraid to ask why you are pleased to learn of the existence of such a place.”
Shifting the reins into one fist, he reached across the seat and patted her gloved hand. “Don’t be. It is just that, if Noel doesn’t have a mother who wants him back, he will need a wet nurse, and the orphanage should know of women in the area whom we may be able to hire. Hopefully, at least one of them will be willing and able to live at the vicarage with us until he is old enough to be weaned.”
It took a great deal of willpower for her not to fling her arms around her husband’s neck and shower him with kisses. But since she feared such an action might cause him to lose control of the buggy and run them off the road, she leaned her head against his biceps instead and…realized where they were going.
She straightened abruptly. “Why are we headed to Moorcross Abbey?”
“You know why.” Color rose in his cheeks, and Artemisia realized that he was no more sanguine than she at the prospect. “But if you would prefer not to accompany me, I will take you home. There’s no need for you to—”
“Of course, there is need,” she interrupted, keeping her tone calm despite the roiling anxiety in her gut. “I should have realized that we would have to do this. And they are the ones who should be ashamed.”
He flashed her a grin. “Yes, they should.”
Moorcross Abbey, the Earl of Sandhurst’s country seat, was a massive mansion in the Jacobean style. Built of brick, the main wing of the house was a full three stories in height and punctuated with a large, square tower at one end and a smaller, round tower at the other. Both towers were roofed in copper that had aged to mottled green. To reach the house, one had to travel nearly half a mile up a long gravel lane through the surrounding park, the better to appreciate the sheer grandiosity of the imposing structure at its center and, thereby, to tremble at the majesty of those who owned it.
As the son of a viscount who had grown up on an estate only slightly less extravagant, her husband was largely immune to such displays, but Artemisia was the daughter of a simple country gentleman and the message worked quite well on her. The years she had spent on the periphery of aristocratic society in London’s demimonde only served to reinforce the point—we have the money and the power to destroy you.
Except it hadn’t worked out that way, had it? Oh, it had seemed to at first, but then Walter had come along and turned all that wealth and privilege on its head. As a result, the Beaumonts were now personae non gratae in Grange-Over-Sands. So much so that neither they nor any of their household staff dared show their faces at St. Mary’s. Which was why this visit was necessary in the first place.
But knowing all of this somehow did nothing to subdue her jitters at the prospect of facing the people who had tried—though more through selfishness than malice—to ruin her life.
“Hey,” her husband said, breaking into her fretful musings.
Glancing over at him, she saw that he was smiling at her in that conspiratorial way of his. It was the smile that made her feel like they were the only two people in the world who understood some precious secret and together, they could take on anything.
“They are the ones who should be ashamed,” he continued, repeating her words back to her. “And we are not here for a polite social call. We are here to find out if they have even more to be ashamed of than they did before.”
That observation did the trick. She did not really believe that Robert Beaumont was responsible for Noel’s appearance in the stable, but if he was, he needed to be held accountable for his actions. Her spine suitably straightened, she stepped smartly from the buggy when Walter held out his hand and climbed the steps to the front stoop without the slightest hesitation.
If Robert had done this, she would roast him.
The stately arched door of the house opened, and a footman in olive green and gold livery peered out at them suspiciously. “The earl and his family are not receiving visitors today. Good day to you, sir and madam,” he said, and made to shut the door in their faces.
Artemisia’s eyebrows rose. The footman’s behavior was shockingly rude, for he could have no idea who they were, which meant he would have tried to shut the door on any callers without so much as taking a card.
Of course, he failed at shutting the door because Walter anticipated the action and insinuated himself between the door and the jamb before the servant could complete the action. “This isn’t a social call.”
“Sir, you cannot—” the footman protested, paling visibly.
Paying him no mind, Walter pushed both the door and the unfortunate servant back into the entry hall. This was quite an impressive feat, for the combined weight of the thick wooden portal and the man—who, like any fashionable footman, was both tall and well-muscled—must have exceeded her husband’s by several stone. The servant’s boots squeaked as they skidded across the black-and-white marble floor, and Artemisia winced. She hoped those black heels would not leave marks on the white tiles that some poor housemaid would be obliged to scrub.
“We must speak to the earl on an urgent matter,” her husband said, his tone friendly but firm. “While I wish we could plan our visit to his convenience, that is not possible. We will, however, endeavor not to take too much of his time.”
The footman, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed, sputtered, “Um… Er… That is, hi-his lordship is not at home.”
Despite lacking her husband’s exceptionally well-honed skills at reading people, Artemisia knew the servant was lying. The Earl of Sandhurst was unquestionably in residence.
Motioning Artemisia to follow him into the entry hall, Walter shook his head and clucked his tongue. “You ought to know better than to lie to a man of the cloth.” As he was not wearing his clerical collar, this was a somewhat unfair charge, but the widening of the footman’s eyes was rather gratifying nonetheless. “Now, please show us in to his lordship. You may announce us as Mr. and Mrs. Walter Langston of St. Mary’s church.”
The poor man was, by this time, so dumbfounded that he simply did what Walter told him to, leading them through the grand entry hall, past the front parlor and dining hall, and up to a pair of doors that, when flung open, revealed an atrium with a stunning view over the formal garden at the back of the house. Of course, at this time of year, that garden was mostly dormant, but evergreen trees and bushes dotted the landscape in sufficient profusion to give the appearance of lushness despite the season.
The Earl of Sandhurst sat in an armchair near the fireplace grate that overlooked this vista, his steel gray hair brushed back to conceal the bald spot at the crown of his head. His son, Robert, occupied the opposite armchair, while the countess—who was not Robert’s mother—lounged negligently on a fainting couch, a book in one hand and a glass that certainly did not contain anything as innocuous as tea or coffee in the other. All three Beaumonts started noticeably when the doors opened.
The footman announced Walter and Artemisia to his astonished employers and beat a hasty retreat, pulling the doors closed behind him.
It was Robert, rather than his father, who spoke first. “How dare you?” His gaze was fixed not on Artemisia, but her husband, and his fists clenched. “Especially now…”
Sandhurst held up a quelling hand. It trembled. “Stop.” The imperiousness of his tone was undercut by the halting quality of his voice.
The earl, Artemisia realized with a strange sense of both pity and relief, was not well. The result of an apoplexy, most likely. She recognized the signs: the flaccidity of one side of his face, the lifelessness of the limbs on that same side, and, most of all, the stop-start hesitation in his speech.
“Come to gloat?” The earl ground out even these
few words with difficulty, but he managed a credible glare at her. “Got my comeuppance, eh?”
5
In the Bleak Midwinter
Well, hell.
Walter wasn’t taking back anything he’d said. The Beaumonts had been in the wrong in their treatment of his wife, and they definitely should be ashamed of their behavior. But he had not even considered the possibility that Sandhurst was not receiving visitors because he was ailing. Walter had just assumed it was because the man was an arrogant, disagreeable arse-hole. By now, he really ought to know better.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Before he could formulate a suitable explanation and apology, however, his wife—who would be entirely justified, in his opinion, to gloat at the earl’s infirmity—beat him to it.
She rushed to Sandhurst’s chair and knelt beside the ailing gentleman, assessing his condition with a critical and experienced eye as she spoke. “I assure you, Lord Sandhurst, we had no idea you were unwell. We came on an entirely different matter, but even had I known, I would never have rejoiced to see you in this condition.” Reaching for the hand that rested limply on his right leg, Artemisia slid her palm into the earl’s. “As I am sure you know, my father suffered similar symptoms several years ago, so I am familiar with the course of this disease.” Her fingers flexed around the old man’s. “Can you squeeze me back?”
The earl, who had been gaping at her in open-mouthed astonishment, grimaced and answered. “Only…this much.”
Walter could not see that the man’s hand had moved at all, but Artemisia nodded as if she had received some crucial piece on information from the invisible interaction. Looking over her shoulder at Robert Beaumont, she asked, “How long has it been since this started?”
Beaumont, whose fair-haired handsomeness was dimming as he entered his thirties, blinked at her as if she’d arrived in his home by way of a dragon-drawn chariot. She continued to peer at him with patient but unwavering expectancy, and finally he cleared his throat and answered. “The attack occurred on November nineteenth.”
“And what was his condition then compared to now? Has he improved much since then, or very little?”
“I’m right. Here. Gel.” Sandhurst got out the words in staccato bursts.
Turning back, she smiled beatifically at him, and damned if Walter didn’t see the old earl’s attitude toward the woman he’d once allowed his son to dishonor make a sudden and gravitational shift. Not that Walter could blame the old coot. When Artemisia looked at him that way, he wanted to move mountains for her. And felt as if perhaps he could.
“I know, my lord, but I believe your son can answer my questions with less difficulty than you can. And also, your perception of your progress may be considerably more pessimistic than that of those who know and love you. My father was always certain he was not getting any better, even when he obviously was.” Glancing at Beaumont again, she prompted, “Has he gotten better?”
“Yes, a bit. Right after it happened, he could barely speak at all and the whole right side of his body was almost completely immobilized. But the most noticeable improvements came quickly, in the first week or ten days. Since then, there has not been much change.”
She frowned at this. “And what does his doctor say about treatment?”
“He says either my father will get better on his own or he will not.” Beaumont shrugged. “There is nothing to be done but wait.”
With a disgusted shake of her head, Artemisia rose to her feet. “Rubbish.” Rounding on Beaumont, she said, “If your father does nothing but sit in a chair all day, he most assuredly won’t get any better and will, in fact, get worse. His mind and body must be stimulated, or he will wither away.” She transferred her gaze from Sandhurst’s son to his much younger wife—so much younger, in fact, that Walter suspected the countess might be several years Artemisia’s junior. “But perhaps that is what you want.”
“I say!” Beaumont exclaimed, jumping from his seat. “What are you implying by that?”
“I am not implying anything at all. I am asking, quite directly, whether you and your stepmother are content with allowing your father to waste away or whether you’d like to help him make a fuller recovery.”
“Don’t,” Sandhurst broke in, his face reddening with effort, “I get…a say in this?”
“Of course you do, my dear,” said the countess in soothing tones, setting down her book and her glass. “But you know what the doctor said about putting a strain on yourself. It could bring on another attack.”
Artemisia snorted. “That is not what Doctor Jessup told my father. Based on his own observations, sitting in one position for hours at a time increases the likelihood of another apoplexy and activity reduces it. My father’s attack was more than five years ago now, and while he still has a slight hitch in his speech and limps a bit, he is nearly back to his old self.”
“What did…your father do?” Sandhurst asked.
“At Doctor Jessup’s recommendation, we hired a manservant who helped my father to walk and do other day-to-day tasks. Over time, my father was able to accomplish more and more with less and less help until finally, he was almost fully recovered. We also made sure to have long, daily conversations with him and encouraged him to write brief notes and then longer letters to friends as his strength and dexterity returned. It was slow and frustrating at first, and he was often angry in the early days because he thought it wasn’t doing any good, but the results are difficult to argue with.”
“How long?” the earl asked.
She pursed her lips, obviously giving the answer some thought. “Three or four months until we began to see noticeable improvement. And to get to where he is now took perhaps eighteen months.”
“It sounds dangerous to me,” the countess said, her tone shrill. “Trying to walk in his condition? He could fall and break a bone or worse.”
“That is what the manservant is there to prevent,” Artemisia explained patiently. “If you would like,” she continued, addressing the earl instead of either his wife or his son, “I could ask if Gresham, who is still in my father’s employ but is truly not needed in that capacity anymore, would be willing to come work with you, my lord.”
There was a long silence as the three members of the Beaumont family seemed to size each other up. Walter was good enough at reading people to parse the undercurrents.
The countess, who was young and pretty but old enough to realize that neither condition was permanent, viewed her husband’s infirmity as a blessing of sorts. Perhaps she was not so cold-blooded as to wish him dead, but his continuing debility would grant her a measure of freedom she would not otherwise have. If he were to recover by any significant degree, she would lose her opportunity to enjoy that freedom while she could make the most of it.
Robert Beaumont, by contrast, wanted nothing more than to escape the whole mess. His father’s illness discomfited and frightened him. As Sandhurst’s heir and only child, Beaumont would inherit the title and the estate, and he was conflicted about that role. Oh, he wanted the power and the wealth. But perhaps as a result of what Walter had done by revealing the truth of Beaumont’s lies and cruelty, he was no longer confident in wielding them.
And finally, the earl himself was angry and afraid and suspicious. He wasn’t certain he should trust the help and kindness Artemisia was offering—especially given what he knew full well he had allowed to happen to her—but he wanted to.
To Walter’s surprise, it was Beaumont, finally, who made the decision. “We would appreciate that, Mrs. Langston. You are too kind.”
She is, Walter thought. But it only made him love her more.
6
Children Go Where I Send Thee
The Beaumonts denied any knowledge of the baby’s origins, and Walter was inclined to believe them. Part of him—an ugly, twisted part of him—had expected it to be Robert because Robert was the one person in whom Walter had never been able to see any good.
Nonetheless, they plant
ed the rumor that the baby was unwell before they took their leave, knowing that the story would filter down to the servants. Robert Beaumont might be innocent, but that did not mean that no one on Moorcross Abbey’s staff knew who Noel’s mother was.
“You were exceptionally generous in there,” Walter remarked once they had tucked the blanket in and had started back down the long drive to the main road. “No one would have faulted you if you had gloated at the earl’s misfortune.”
She turned a knowing grin on him. “You mean you would not have faulted me.” Her expression sobered. “You know, I spent a very long time holding a grudge against Lord Sandhurst because he did not force his son to come up to scratch. But when I walked into that room…” Sighing, she shook her head sadly. “It dawned on me that if I had married Robert, I would have been in that wretched room with them instead of with you. Though I didn’t know it at the time, both of those men did me a favor. When I imagine that I might have had to spend the rest of my days with him.” A shudder ran through her body. “So, in any case, what I did was less an act of generosity than of repayment.” The smile returned. “Although my father will not thank me for finding Gresham another position. Not that he needs the help any more, but Gresham is the only person in the house he can play chess and backgammon with.”
“Perhaps Gresham won’t want to work for Sandhurst,” Walter pointed out. “He may be happy where he is.”
“I am sure he is not unhappy, but I suspect the Sandhursts will offer him a significantly higher wage than my father can afford to pay him. And he would be a fool not to take it, especially now that Papa is able to manage most tasks on his own and the few things he can’t, the other servants are perfectly capable of assisting him with.”
My True Love Gave to Me Page 3
