Liberty for Paul

by Rose Gordon

  That night as she dressed for bed she had only one regret about the day: she hadn’t been able to ask Elizabeth’s advice regarding Paul’s reputation. Reminding herself that Gateway was going to London and wouldn’t likely be there in two days, she decided she’d ask Elizabeth then.

  She crawled into bed, pulled up the covers and felt satisfied that at least one of her two goals was as good as accomplished.

  Chapter 20

  Liberty wanted to pull her hair out when she was awakened by sun streaming through the window, signaling the start of a new day. It wasn’t that she had a desire to sleep the day away, or anything. It was that she dreaded the miserable Mrs. Whitaker and her dratted gossip circle. And just her luck, today the circle was meeting at her house, which meant she couldn’t beg off like she wanted to. The sewing itself didn’t bother her one bit, she actually liked that part, it was the company that was miserable.

  Gritting her teeth, she got up and bathed. She dressed in a pink day dress and went down to breakfast. Paul was already waiting for her. They exchanged pleasantries and ate while she prattled on about slipper heel repairs. Ever since she’d taken—or stolen, if one wanted to be blunt—his watch, she’d been nervous around him and she’d begun to incessantly talk so he couldn’t ask her questions. So far it had been working; she just hoped Gateway could get her the watch back soon.

  In between inane comments, she inhaled her food in the most unladylike fashion and excused herself to go wait in her room until it was time for the ladies to arrive to sew.

  Bored, she started to read one of the books Elizabeth had loaned her. Stretching out on her bed, she read and read until she was startled out of her reading trance by the distant sound of a horse whinny. She glanced at the clock on her credenza and sprang to her feet when she saw she was twenty minutes late for hosting the sewing circle. Why hadn’t Mrs. Siddons alerted her?

  Dismissing the thought, she flew down the stairs and dashed in the direction of the drawing room. Slowing her steps as she got closer so not to appear discomposed, she heard the waspish voice of Mrs. Whitaker, “Perhaps she’s fled now that she knows about his scandalous past.”

  “His scandalous past?” Mrs. Vase said dubiously. “She’s no angel, either. Didn’t you read the article in Daily News about her trying to seduce him?”

  Liberty’s heart started to pound. These women had known about that this whole time?

  “Seems to me she doesn’t have what it takes to carry it off,” a young woman who was falsely named Miss Prudence Sweet piped in. “So many other women have been successful.”

  “Surely you don’t wonder why she was unsuccessful?” Mrs. Whitaker asked. “It’s because she doesn’t have what it takes to get a man interested. She’s as plain as the side of a stable. Any man would struggle having to bed her.”

  Willing herself to stay calm because it would only make matters worse if she didn’t, Liberty reasoned it was best to confront the group straight on rather than run back upstairs like she wanted to. She took the final steps that brought her into the room. She quickly noticed Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t present—which accounted for the reason gossip was flying so rapidly. That was no matter though, she was not going to take this, and in her own home, no less. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to talk about your hostess behind her back?” she asked as evenly as she could. “Furthermore,” she said, ignoring their shocked gasps. “My private life with Mr. Grimes isn’t any of your business.” She sent each of them an accusing look.

  “Perhaps then you should tell your husband not to make a private thing so public,” Mrs. Whitaker said sharply.

  Stung, Liberty turned her gaze to the older woman and said, “I was not aware my husband spoke of our private life to you. Are you two great friends, then?”

  Mrs. Whitaker snorted. “Not hardly. And no, your husband doesn’t speak about his private life with you. He doesn’t have to. It seems he has had a ‘private life’ with plenty of women ‘round here.”

  “You better check your facts, madam,” Liberty snapped coldly, surprising herself she’d spoken out that way.

  “And you better get checked for the pox,” Mrs. Whitaker snapped back. “That husband of yours has more bastards than any man I’ve ever heard of. At least a dozen that I know of, and who knows how many he has stashed somewhere we don’t know about.”

  A dozen? Did she really just say a dozen? “That’s not true,” Liberty protested hotly, shooting her a cold stare. Inside she felt her world crumbling around her ears. Was it possible there were so many? Lucy had said Sam was the father of Seth, but what of the others? Could Sam had fathered that many? Or had a few of them been Paul’s? He’s a vicar, she reminded herself. He didn’t have any by-blows. He couldn’t. Could he?

  “I assure you it’s true,” Mrs. Vase said, breaking into Liberty’s thoughts. “That man might hide behind the cloth, but we’re all sinners. And that man’s sins litter the countryside.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Liberty said defensively, crossing her arms.

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Whitaker said, clucking her tongue. “No woman wants to believe her husband has an addiction to fleshy pleasures.”

  “Nor does any woman want to acknowledge she can’t keep her husband satisfied,” Mrs. Vase added smugly.

  Not for the first time in her life Liberty wished she could hold her breath, make a wish and magically be transported just about anywhere else. “I’d like you all to leave now,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “With pleasure,” Mrs. Whitaker said as she sprang off the settee.

  Liberty cast her an icy glare, not wanting to respond to her comment.

  “You, madam, are very naïve,” Mrs. Lewis said, entering the conversation for the first time.

  “She’s right. Perhaps when you see poor Mrs. Whitaker’s niece, Lucy, in town, you should ask her about her son,” Miss Sweet said before casting ‘poor Mrs. Whitaker’ an apologetic glance.

  “Paul isn’t Seth’s father, Sam is,” Liberty burst out before she knew what she was saying.

  “You two talked?” Mrs. Whitaker asked sharply. “It’s not every woman who talks to her husband’s mistresses, you know. But then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

  “She had to inspect the competition,” Mrs. Vase taunted cruelly.

  “I was not ‘inspecting the competition’ as you suggest. She approached me and explained the situation,” Liberty said coolly.

  “Did she now?” Mrs. Whitaker asked acidly.

  “Yes, she did. She said Sam was the father and that you’re the one who insists otherwise. However, I’m inclined to believe her over you since she was present at the conception, not you.”

  Mrs. Whitaker harrumphed and said, “Of course she told you that, he paid her to.”

  “Excuse me?” Liberty squeaked.

  “Once we’re gone, perhaps you should go check your husband’s ledger and see just how many he’s supporting,” Mrs. Vase said with a cackle.

  “Be sure to look for Clare Goode, Sarah Forrest and Diane Rivers,” Mrs. Lewis said haughtily, standing up with Mrs. Whitaker.

  “And don’t forget Mary Osborn, Michelle Thomas and Glenda Smythe,” added Mrs. Whitaker airily.

  “We could be here all day naming names, ladies. Just let her figure it out on her own,” Mrs. Vase said, gathering her sewing materials.

  Liberty stepped back against the wall next to the doorjamb and waited for the women to leave. There was nothing else she wanted to say. She may not have always thought great things about Paul, but she’d been wrong. He was a good man and he deserved better than to be talked about this way. Unfortunately, when she’d tried to intervene she only made it worse. The best she could do now was to wait quietly until they left.

  Once all the gossipmongers were gone, Liberty went to Paul’s study. Angry tears that had formed at their words were now streaming down her face. How could anyone be so heartless as to insult a woman’s husband in her presence? She s
niffled and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. She’d thought it was bad when Lucy mentioned everyone believed Seth to be Paul’s son; but to know some people thought he had a dozen by-blows was horrible. How had she been living with him in this village so long and never heard a word of it before, she wondered. She rolled her eyes when the obvious answer popped into her head. Besides the sewing circle, she wasn’t involved with a bunch of gossips.

  At church no one dared to gossip to her. Elizabeth, for all her sharp remarks and crude language, refused to speak about anything she didn’t know to be fact. The old and sick people she brought meals to likely hadn’t heard of it before, and if they had, they wouldn’t want to tell Liberty for fear of her not visiting them again. As for the illegitimate illiterates, well, once again, they probably feared she’d stop helping.

  She sighed. Mrs. Vase suggested she could check Paul’s ledger and see records of him paying these women. Her confidence high, she bounded off her seat and went to the shelf where she knew Paul kept his ledgers.

  Liberty knew Mrs. Vase was right about one thing: if Paul had fathered any children, he’d pay to support them. She also knew Mrs. Vase wrong and these dozen illegitimate children she spoke of didn’t exist. She had to be wrong, Liberty convinced herself, strengthening her resolve as she reached the self with the ledgers. His ledger would be the greatest piece of evidence she’d have in proving Paul hadn’t fathered any illegitimate children. And when she found there were no entries showing money being paid to women, she’d shove it in Mrs. Vase’s face and make her apologize. Surely all those women would acknowledge the truth after Liberty presented it to them.

  Plucking down the ledger furthest to the right, Liberty hugged it close and headed to his desk. She opened the book and realized it started in 1812, last year. No matter. If Mrs. Vase were to be believed, he’d have been supporting those women at the time anyway.

  She ran her fingers down the entries, scanning over different household expenditures. Her eyes flew to the right out of curiosity when she saw the words “salary” on one line and “deposit” on the next. Ever since they’d married she’d been curious as to how much he earned. It obviously couldn’t be that high if he still hadn’t felt the need to give her an allowance. She scowled when she ran her finger along the line for his salary and saw there was a relatively impressive number. She hadn’t realized that vicars made two hundred fifty pounds a month. Not that it was a fortune, but it was enough that he could have spared a bit for her allowance, she thought with a hint of annoyance.

  Moving to the next line, her breath caught when she read the amount on the line for his mysterious deposit. “A thousand pounds,” she squeaked, shaking her head. “You’d think what that kind of money he could afford to give me some.” Perhaps it was a one-time thing she told herself. But when she quickly flipped the page, and the next and the next, she realized it was not a one-time thing, but a monthly thing. “What a beast!” she exclaimed, exacerbated.

  Deciding she’d definitely confront him about this later, she went back to the business of checking his account books for illegitimate children. Her fingers skimmed down page as her eyes quickly read the words. She nearly reached the bottom of the page when her heart sank.

  On the third to the last entry was a series of initials: LW, MO, CG, MT, RT, LC…her eyes looked away. She couldn't force herself to keep reading. She recognized some of those initials from what the sewing ladies had told her. Fighting a new wave of angry tears, she forced her eyes to look back at the list. Making her watering eyes to focus, and her trembling finger to meet the page, she slowly counted the pairs of initials. Each time, touching them to make sure they were real, and counted. “One, two, three,” she said softly under her breath. When she reached the end, she sighed, “Fourteen.”

  He had fourteen illegitimate children! She could hardly believe her eyes. Slamming the book shut, she haphazardly replaced it and fled to the comfort of her room where her roiling stomach gave over to nausea and she sat sick and trembling on the edge of her bed.

  Chapter 21

  Paul swung down off Stallion, his stallion, as he approached the stable. Holding onto the bridle, he led Stallion into his stall for the night. After a quick brush down, he grabbed the contents from inside his saddlebag that was hanging on a post before heading to the house.

  Liberty had been avoiding him ever since she’d met Sam two days ago. He was sure of it. Since that night she’d dominated the conversation every time they'd spoken. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t a bad thing, but the things she had chosen to talk about were things he was absolutely certain she didn’t have any more interest in than he did. Perhaps he should try talking to her again. A slow smile spread across his lips. The last time they’d talked about her conversation with Sam, he’d almost kissed her again.

  Her face had looked so beautiful as she looked up at him after he’d grasped her hands. He’d even taken delight in the shiver he felt run through her hands when he started to stroke her knuckles. Then, emboldened by her reaction, he’d opened his mouth and ruined it all by asking if she wanted an explanation. She hadn’t pulled her hands away immediately, so he kept stroking them while he talked, but he knew she’d never let him kiss her after what he’d said. Ever since then, she’d been colder and more elusive than before.

  With a sigh, he reached his hand in his pocket for the umpteenth time in the past two days only to feel lint. That was another thing he’d lost that day, his watch. He thought he’d put it on his vanity when he’d changed after fishing, but it was nowhere to be found. To no avail, he’d spent the better part of yesterday searching the creek bank for it. He knew it had to turn up eventually; nobody around here would have any use for a broken watch. Even he’d found less sentimental value in it now that it was broken. But that had more to do with who had broken it, and why, not necessarily the watch itself.

  Thoughts of his watch gave way to worry when he saw Mrs. Siddons come outside to greet him. “Mr. Grimes, Mr. Grimes,” she shouted running in his direction.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked her calmly.

  “It’s Mrs. Grimes. She’s sick something awful, sir,” she exclaimed as she impatiently tried to hurry Paul into the house.

  “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously. She’d been fine just last night. What happened?

  “She has some sort of stomach ailment, sir,” the housekeeper said with conviction. “She’s been shooting the cat all day.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. No matter that he’d never heard Mrs. Siddons talk this way before, he was more worried about what it meant. How had Liberty suddenly gotten so violently ill that she was casting up her accounts? “Is she in her room?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Siddons said, moving out of the way so he could go up the stairs.

  Outside her room, he knocked on the door and when he didn’t hear a reply, he slowly opened it.

  Liberty was asleep in her bed. Her flowing hair was tossed over her pillows and she still wore her day dress. Her skin was whiter than his whitest handkerchief and the skin around her eyes looked puffy and slightly red. He walked up to her bed and slowly sank down onto the mattress. When she stirred, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Her eyelids snapped open, revealing two bloodshot hazel eyes. “Go away, please,” she said at last. Her eyes closed tightly and her hands clenched into fists. A moment later he saw a fat tear squeeze through her eyelids.

  Using the pad of his index finger, Paul wiped the tear away. What would make her cry? Was she embarrassed that he was seeing her when she was sick and vulnerable? He got up as gently as he could so not to shake the bed and walked down to the end of the bed where her covers were pooled by her bare feet. He gingerly grabbed one of her ankles and lifted it off the covers. While his hands still held her foot, he gently massaged it. He pressed his thumbs into the bottom of her foot and moved them in a rhythmical, circular pattern moving from heel to her arch to her toes and then back again. When he was finished wi
th her first foot, he put it back down and tucked it under the covers before grabbing the other and doing the same.

  When he was done rubbing her feet, and had tucked them both under the counterpane, he grabbed the counterpane and dragged it up to her chin. Settling it around her neck, he reached up and swept back the unruly hank of hair that had fallen in Liberty’s face before leaning down and brushing a kiss on her cheek and whispering, “I hope you feel better soon.”

  ***

  His kiss was her undoing. As soon as Paul left the room, the tears started all over again. How could he be so kind and compassionate to her and yet be such a scoundrel at the same time?

  When she’d finally cried what she hoped was her last tear, it was well after midnight and she was well and truly sick. She’d never been given to tears as much as she had since marrying him. It seemed he was able to stir emotions in her easier than a cook stirring a pot of soup. What gave him this power, she wondered. How was it that he could control her emotions so thoroughly?

  She fell asleep pondering the reasons and when she woke up the following day she was no closer to her answer than she was the day before.

  Today was Friday, her day with Elizabeth. There was no way she could go spend the day with Andrew's mother in her current state. She rolled over and resettled herself in the pillows. She’d just wait for Mrs. Siddons to come up and ask her to send Elizabeth a note making her excuses.

  The following week passed quicker than any week in her life. She stayed abed for seven days straight. And then on the eighth, she got an annoyed visitor.

  “Liberty Grimes,” Elizabeth said, bursting past a startled Mrs. Siddons. “If you have no intention of acting as my companion anymore, I would at least appreciate the courtesy of you telling me to my face.”

  Liberty shook her head. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I’ve been sick. Truly, I have.”

  Elizabeth eyed her askance. “Fatigue?”