The Runaway Chaperone: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Alice Kirks

  Her father slept upstairs.

  “At least I hope he’s finally fallen asleep,” she murmured nervously.

  He had been awake all night, coughing and wheezing. She had done her best to nurse him, but she knew there was little to do. She had summoned the physician that morning, but he only said what he’d said when they’d last talked, not two days before: I can do nothing.

  That’s not possible! He will recover soon. I know he will.

  She had called for the physician the week before, and he’d said the same thing then. There was nothing he could do, and he had no idea what this illness that had afflicted him was.

  She couldn’t make a noise, but she wanted to break something, to cry out her frustration and anger. She felt helpless! Her father was going in and out of fever every day, and that terrible cough…she was worn out and distressed and she had no idea what to do. And nobody could help.

  And I can’t do this all by myself.

  She couldn’t spend the mornings trying to run the bakery when her father was upstairs, feverish and shaking. It was impossible to focus on her work when she kept on wondering if he was breathing, if he was hungry.

  “Clara? Clara!”

  She shut her eyes as she heard Henriette Glenfield, her neighbour, at the door. She was fond of Henriette, who was close to her in age, but she didn’t want to talk now.

  I don’t know what I’ll say.

  “Clara? Are you there? It’s Henriette.”

  Clara took a deep breath and stood, walking to the door. She checked her reflection in the window before she opened it – her long blonde hair had come loose around her, and her face was thin and pale.

  She looked drawn and exhausted, but there was no remedying it. She went to open the door.

  “Clara!” Henriette looked up, her heart-shaped face a picture of relief. “I saw the bakery was closed! I was so worried! Are you unwell?” She stepped up the stairs, coming to the door.

  “Come in, Henriette,” Clara said, feeling relief at seeing her. She had been alone with this for too long. “But please speak softly.”

  “Of course,” Henriette nodded. Very sparkling and funny; it was not her nature to be soft, but Clara was touched to see her instantly start whispering.

  “It’s my father,” Clara explained, walking to the kitchen. Her voice was weary and strained and she cleared her throat, coughing. She could make tea for them, at least – it was past midday, and she was hungry. “He’s ailing.”

  “Oh! Clara! I’m sorry,” Henriette said, dark eyes crinkled with frowning. “You should have told me. Has Mr. Efton seen him?”

  Mr. Efton was the physician. “Yes,” Clara said, face hard. “Several times…He said nothing.”

  “Oh, Clara! That is terrible,” Henriette said, scraping a strand of sandy-coloured hair out of one eye. “I’m so sorry. Is there aught I can do?”

  Clara took a breath. “No, Henriette. There’s nothing either of us can do.” She shut her eyes, trying not to think of how ill her father had looked. He was sweating and his face was badly flushed and she wasn’t sure he knew her, so high was his fever.

  “Oh, my dear Clara.” Henriette took her hand and squeezed it, her long, thin fingers surprisingly forceful. “You know we’d all pitch in for you.”

  “Oh, Henriette,” Clara said, and looked at the ceiling, trying to stop her tears from running down her face. She was so touched to think they would all help her. “But…but I’m afraid I’m going to have to close. I can’t do this.”

  “Oh, Clara!” Henriette took her hand again. “Is it the money?”

  Clara nodded. The only thing the physician could do, it seemed, was charge ludicrous sums for pronouncing his unhelpful opinion. And the one thing that did help her father – a chest-salve made by the apothecaries – was proving surprisingly expensive. Purchasing flour and yeast and the wherewithal to make bread was costing her more than it was making.

  “It’s not just that. It’s…I can’t work and nurse him at the same time. And the bakery is barely covering the expense…” she shut her eyes, feeling tears well up.

  “Oh, Clara,” Henriette said again. She rested a hand on her shoulder. “I have some little…”

  “No,” Clara interrupted quietly. She felt her heart swell with emotions. Henriette had barely enough for herself. She had lost both her parents years ago, and worked as a governess to the Emery family in the next village. She earned barely enough to feed herself, and wore nothing besides the three threadbare gowns she owned. “No. I can’t let you.”

  “I could try,” Henriette said with a grin.

  Clara smiled sadly. “No, Henriette. I can’t ask others to help. I just need more work.”

  “What will you do?”

  Clara let out a sigh. “I have no notion.” She felt her fingers twisting the fabric of her kerchief round and round. She made herself stop. It was her nerves – this was worrying her.

  What could she do? Aside from running the bakery, she had no skills. She could read and write, but she couldn’t teach, like Henriette, and that was the only other profession open to her, besides sewing or spinning.

  “Well, something will happen,” Henriette said, nodding slowly. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, you know.”

  Clara swallowed hard. She had to allow herself to hope, to think Henriette was right.

  “I believe so,” she said softly.

  Henriette nodded. “Now, we should have a look at those buns, eh? No use wasting them – not when we’re starving, eh?”

  Clara chuckled and nodded. The last of the stock was still on the table. She felt her stomach rumble – she had been so busy with her father’s care that she’d neglected herself.

  “I’ll butter those and we can have them with tea,” Henriette said. She walked to the counter and reached for the butter, ordering things with her businesslike hand.

  When she had gone, Clara felt a little better. She stood and went to the window, opening the curtains. The rain was lessening, and sunshine flowed in. She felt a little of the hope from earlier returning – at least she had told someone. That had to count for something! And Henriette was right – there was always hope.

  She turned away to clean the teacups. As she lifted the last one out of the big metal sink, she heard a knock at the door. She tensed.

  Please, if that’s one of the villagers, just go away!

  She didn’t want to have to face anyone. She felt strong, but not strong enough for that! And the explaining would still be hard.

  “Good morning?” a man’s voice called through the door. It was cold and stiff and nothing like anyone here, the accent wrong. Too polished and clipped. Too cultured.

  She tensed. It couldn’t be, could it?

  Then she remembered.

  It was the second Thursday of the month, and the day that Lady Dunham chose to make her pastoral rounds. As the leading family of the district, the earl’s family always checked on the parishioners once a month. That usually consisted of a talk with the local priest, not actually visiting them.

  Why are they here? And why him?

  She swallowed hard. If they were here, the earl and countess, it could only be because they’d heard about her father’s state. And the last thing she wanted was insincerity from the likes of those arrogant bounders.

  “No,” she whispered to herself.

  She would not let them in.

  Chapter 2

  Charles Blackstone, forth Earl of Dunham, blinked distractedly. He was standing on the doorstep of the village bakery, beside his mother the dowager countess, who was holding a basket. And, though they had plainly heard dishes being washed in the bakery interior, nobody answered.

  “This is ridiculous!”

  It was Lady Dunham who said it, but Charles had to agree that he thought so too. He took a breath.

  “Mr. Sedley?” he called loudly through the door. “You’re here?”

  No answer. Charles, feeling impatient, stepped to the window. He
distinctly heard some footsteps. They were going up the stairs. What was the fellow thinking?

  “Good morning?” he called through the window. He could hear the frustration in his voice, cold and hard. He took a breath.

  This is not how it is supposed to happen!

  He was here, he reminded himself forcefully, to do good. He was in the village with his mother, accompanying her on the rounds she insisted on making – though why she did it, when she so plainly hated this, he’d no notion – and their intent was kind. They were here to inquire about the baker, since they had been given news by Mrs. Hudson – who was somehow connected to the church, he’d no idea how – that he was ill.

  He took a deep breath. “Mr. Sedley?” he called again, trying to keep the irritation hidden. “If you are there, will you inform us as to your state of health?”

  “Charles…he’s the baker, not the dean! Why are you speaking that way?” Lady Dunham hissed. “Just ask him plainly if he’s well and we’ll be off. I have plenty of houses to visit, and these sheets to take to the infirmary…I cannot waste the time.”

  Charles took a deep breath. If there was something that made him upset, it was his mother’s insistence on finding fault in him. He could barely open his mouth, or even appear in a room, without her finding the need to castigate him. If he said nothing, he was over-silent. If he talked too much, he was loquacious. He couldn’t seem to manage to get anything right!

  “Yes, Mother,” he said. He was about to shout through the door again when he heard footsteps running from the back of the house. At almost the same time, the front door burst open.

  “Good morning?”

  Charles, leaning in through the door, stepped sharply back. He was sure he was gaping amazedly and he hastily shut his mouth, aware that his first impression was somewhat ridiculous. He stood up straight, hastily recovering his poise.

  “Good morning,” he said coldly.

  “Greetings.” The voice was stiff. The woman sounded as affronted as he felt.

  He looked at the newcomer. She was tall – almost his height, in fact – with long, pale hair that hung to her waist, left loose about her shoulders. Her face was a long oval, her mouth straight and firm, and her eyes were wide and hazel-green. He took a deep breath.

  She is quite lovely.

  He instantly pushed the thought aside. She had burst the door open, almost toppled him and made him wait on the steps for a full five minutes, caterwauling like the village scrap-collector. He found the anger and used it to push aside the feeling of attraction.

  “You were late,” he said.

  She raised a brow, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Charles felt a jolt of amusement. The retort was so quick, and he couldn’t help admiring it. He instantly schooled his face to neutral, hearing his mother gasp, horrified.

  “Maybe so,” he said swiftly. “But it was inconsiderate. And rude. We came to inquire about your father. We heard he is ailing?” he cringed at the sound of his own voice – it was arid and cool, as if he was reprimanding her.

  She did insult me. And I cannot allow that.

  “Yes,” the girl said. She didn’t embellish it with any address. Her hazel eyes held his.

  “Is he resting?” he asked, deciding to ignore the lack of address. He could see the bakery was closed, though it was an hour before luncheon. The baker must be resting, or it would be open. He almost felt foolish for asking.

  “He cannot leave his bed,” the girl said. She sounded angry.

  “I see,” he said. “And, of course, you cannot run the bakery.” He smiled, as that was surely self-evident.

  The girl looked at him. “I could,” she said lightly. “I just cannot afford to.”

  Charles looked at her in amazement. Could she truly? She was so young, and he simply could not imagine a young woman running a business.

  “Girl, are you aware who we are?” his mother asked. Charles cringed inwardly – he hated using his title like a weapon, but sometimes he had to agree that it was needed. The girl had unsettled him, with the way she talked to him like an equal.

  It unsettled and amazed him.

  “You’re the dowager countess, and the earl,” she said, as if that was perfectly obvious. “And I wonder why you are here, since the bakery is closed.” Her gaze was wide.

  “Girl! We did not come to make purchases!” the countess said, her voice angry. “We came to inquire about the state of health of your father.”

  “And I have told you he is ill,” the girl said softly. “And I must tend him. If you will excuse me?”

  “Yes,” Charles began to say, and then, without warning, the door closed gently and they were left staring at it, the faded gold writing on the window mocking them.

  His mother stared. “Charles!” she said. “Why…the upstart child! How dare she? Has she any idea who we are?” Her thin face was a picture of indignation.

  “Yes,” Charles said lightly. “I think she does know – you did ask her.”

  “Charles!” His mother rounded on him. “Was that supposed to amuse me? I don’t know what you thought you were doing! You’re the earl…you ought to have reprimanded her! You shouldn’t let people treat you like that! You never did learn to defend yourself!”

  Charles swallowed hard. I might have, he thought lightly, but you wouldn’t much care if I defended myself against you. And besides, that was a slip of a girl and she was more likely to need defending from you…from us.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said lightly, taking the basket and helping her down the steps. He ignored her tirade, as he always did, and walked on beside her.

  They returned to the coach, where they had left it on the hillside on the outskirts of the village. The coachman was there, the horses peaceably cropping the grass. Charles sat back and shut his eyes.

  He thought back to the girl at the bakery. He couldn’t help it. Something in her manner had caught his attention.

  Beautiful, she certainly was. But it wasn’t only that. Upstart..? To use his mother’s word. Yes, she was certainly that. He had never been spoken to like that by anyone before. Yet, all she had done was tell him the truth, like an equal.

  He pushed the thought away. It was confusing. The girl raised questions within him that he didn’t feel able to address.

  Charles didn’t like uncomfortable questions – he liked his world to be orderly and neat. It was one of the reasons he never argued with his mother, no matter how he might have liked to – it would have caused too much unrest.

  “Don’t bother helping me down,” his mother said haughtily as he offered her his hand. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Charles swallowed hard. He knew she was feeling betrayed because he hadn’t gone out of his way to reprimand the girl at the bakery. It was something he didn’t really understand – his inability to feel angry about it, that was. He tried to forget about her, but the harder he pushed the image of the girl aside, the more it clung.

  She’s so alone.