The Frenchman's Widow

by Eliza Lloyd

  “And you are married, my lord,” he finished.

  Seeing her had caused something to ignite in Jack’s chest, a slow burn, a desire—he had to see her to resolve the lingering attachment. That day when he had left for his wedding, he had believed she would be waiting for him when he returned. If for no other reason than to tell him to go to hell.

  What had tortured him was his rejection of a woman who had loved him. He had shared a bed with Imogene, left that bed and walked down the aisle with an aristocratic woman who despised him.

  “Then I need you to tell Imogene I wish to see her. It’s important.”

  “You’ve been very generous with me, with all the Farrells, Lord Prescott. I cannot repay you. I also cannot betray Imogene’s trust. She has her reasons.”

  “Then you will also keep my words to you in confidence?” He had confessed a few things in passing, in moments of weakness. Not just about his marriage, but a few admissions about his feelings toward Imogene.

  “None of us are without sin. Perhaps a confession to your creator would be more beneficial.”

  “Someday, Charlie, you are going to be in love and we will see what kind of mistakes you make as a result.”

  Charlie laughed at the idea. “So you loved my sister?”

  “You know I did.” He used the past tense of his feeling, knowing to admit to such a thing now, years into his marriage, was a foolish thing.

  Jack turned and walked. Charlie fell in beside him again. The college was situated along the banks of the Thames and the grounds were groomed with walkways and shaded by aged trees. Jack supposed Charlie had plenty of places for reflection. It was strange that Jack and the other Farrells had all placed their trust and faith in Charlie’s prayers.

  “Hindsight allows us to see those things we might have done differently. And along with it the sure knowledge we’d have made the same mistakes all over, if it could be done again. My mistake with Imogene would have been the same; however, I might still achieve a star in my crown for what I’ve done for you and Danny.”

  “And Frank.”

  “I wouldn’t change it, Charlie. I am sorry for it, but I wouldn’t change it.”

  “May I say something, Lord Prescott?”

  “Certainly.”

  “There is an adage about leaving sleeping dogs lie.”

  “What? No Bible verses?”

  “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,” Charlie said as if he had been waiting to say just that thing.

  “I haven’t seen her in five years. I think I get the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Imogene is my sister, but that does not mean I cannot see her effect on men.”

  “She will be at your ordination?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Then please tell her I wish five minutes of her time. I am certain I can control myself for such a short time and in such a public place.”

  “I will tell her, my lord.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Also, about the curate position in Deal—”

  “Yes. I’ve already written to the vicar. He expects you next month.”

  “Again, your kindness is appreciated—and I am grateful. However, the college has offered me an endowment. It will allow me two more years to study Latin and Greek.”

  “An endowment? I am most impressed.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Charlie, I only want what makes you happy. I am proud of you.” And two more years? Jack didn’t want to think of losing this young man’s particular friendship.

  “Thank you.” Charlie pulled out his pocket watch. “Oh, the time. Pardon me, Lord Prescott, but I am sitting for another exam at one.”

  “Go then. I will see you Friday.” Jack slapped Charlie’s shoulder to send him off. Such a fine young man. Imogene and her brothers had spared Charlie much hardship.

  No. He could not lose Charlie. He was the lifeline that kept Imogene alive in Jack’s heart.

  * * * * *

  Imogene knocked at Lord Bancroft’s front door, the house where Mary FitzPatrick worked and lived, and was greeted by the majordomo, who took note of Imogene’s attire and lady-like demeanor before he ushered her into one of Lord Bancroft’s back sitting rooms, one with moderate furnishing, suitable for a house servant and an untitled widow to meet on equal terms.

  The house hadn’t changed. Imo ran her finger along a hall table, thinking of the many times she’d polished the maple and dusted the trio of vases.

  Once inside the room, she didn’t bother to sit, but walked to the window and looked upon Fitzroy Square. It seemed only yesterday she and Charlie had hidden in the mews after the frightful night when things started to go wrong for the Farrells. Seeing Charlie again would be wonderful. Their correspondence had brought immense joy and comfort to Imogene. It was as if each letter she opened spilled out blessings and happiness and meaning. He was kind enough to avoid mention of Jack. Or maybe it was wisdom, that strange trait Charlie had since he was a little boy.

  Mrs. Fitz had been a surrogate mother, of sorts. She’d let them mature on their own but helped whenever there was a desperate need.

  Mary hurried into the room, her apron already clutched in her hands, and then dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “My dear Imogene. You are home at last.”

  “Mrs. FitzPatrick,” she said. Imogene felt small and protected in Mrs. FitzPatrick’s strong familiar arms. A welling of emotion clogged Imogene’s chest. Letters weren’t the same as chatting over tea and biscuits. And words were never a match for a living, breathing friend.

  The years melted away as if she hadn’t had to hide in Paris. As if she were the beloved daughter, returning to the bosom of her family.

  “Look at you,” she said, gripping Imogene by the shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “A true lady.”

  Imogene pressed her cheek to Mary’s and whispered, “Bullocks. I’m still the same old Imogene.”

  Mary laughed and Imogene felt a weight lift. She feared things would not only be different, they would be unrecognizable.

  “I wouldn’t say that. It is you, shined and polished and perfect. And this dress? How did your husband ever convince you to wear something so beautiful?”

  “Feel it, Mary. It’s the finest material.” She whispered again, “And my undergarments are silky enough to tempt the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “Don’t let Charlie hear you mention such a sacrilege. Oh, it is so good to see you. Come. Sit. Tell me your plans. Are you coming home to stay?” Mary rang for a servant and requested tea.

  Imogene would not return to London after this visit. As long as Jack was here, she had to stay away. She’d convinced herself she’d overcome her feelings. But seeing him again reminded her of the hole she had in her heart.

  “I am resettling in Brighton. I always wanted a house near the sea. Paris has outlived my infatuation with it. Especially since Pierre is gone.”

  “Oh, my dearest.”

  A light tap sounded at the door and one of the house servants came in carrying a silver tray with tea and tuck. Once they were served, Imogene picked up her cup with perfect delicacy. Pierre had helped her and she had copied every one of his mannerisms until she was unrecognizable, at least to herself.

  “Then you are not staying long?”

  “I can’t.” Mary did not know all of the reasons she couldn’t and Imogene had promised herself no one would ever know. “I need to get established. Pierre left me a nice settlement, much to the objection of his sons. He wanted me to be happy.”

  “When you do, I will visit.”

  “Perhaps you can bring Charlie along. He needs a break from university and I could use a few of his prayers now that Pierre is gone. I’ll mention it to him.”

  Imogene leaned back, less than ladylike, and sipped at her tea. “Now, tell me all the news from downstairs.”

  She listened, not half-heartedly, but distractedly. What was the probability of meeting Jack on the day she returned to London?

  Comme
il faut. As it should be. A Frenchman understood such a sentiment. Was it more than lucky serendipity? Or just a circle closing?

  “And Lord Bancroft?” Imogene asked.

  “He’s been staying in Bath. He has a new mistress. We haven’t met her yet, but from what we’ve heard she doesn’t enjoy London any longer. The air, the disease. And Lord Bancroft has been more than happy to see to her every whim.”

  “I can understand such sympathies.”

  “It is too bad Danny couldn’t have traveled from Deal. It would have been nice to have most of the Farrells together again.”

  “Yes,” Imogene said before sipping slowly.

  “And you’ve never heard from Frank?”

  “No. I still send letters once a month.” She looked up at Mary FitzPatrick. “I would know in my heart if he was dead, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she answered, glancing into her teacup as if the leaves would reveal a secret.

  Imogene’s life had been an open book when she was an orphan, practically living on the streets. She’d had to get respectable to have secrets.

  Charlie would have understood had she declined to attend his ordination, but she had wanted to leave Paris since Pierre passed away. His death had been the catalyst for her decision but Charlie’s graduation and ordination made the transition that much easier. A new start.

  She kissed Mary upon the cheek when it was time to leave. “We are feasting at Wiltons after the ordination. Charlie and I want you to be there.”

  “Ah! To be sure. I’ll arrange for the time off.”

  Imogene had to keep busy until she returned to Brighton in six days. She was weak concerning Jack, more susceptible to him than she would have believed. And knowing Jack wanted to see her made it all the more difficult not to indulge her strongest desire.

  A hackney took her to the Bank of England branch where she had made an appointment by letter. Once she was announced, there was a moment or two of concern that she was not with her husband or guardian—someone who ought to be making decisions for her.

  “My husband is deceased,” she said sharply. She rapped her folded parasol against the floor once to get the man’s attention. “I am perfectly capable of attending to my own affairs.”

  She was then seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair, provided tea and small almond biscuits until it was her turn to be led into a paneled office. She’d watched the clock as forty-five minutes ticked away before Mr. William Chester received her.

  “Your communication said you wished to close your account.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Might I advise you to reconsider?”

  “Do you have my money? Six hundred and nineteen pounds by my calculation.” She hadn’t touched a farthing of the money—blood money, the price of her virginity. And her heart.

  The fund had quietly grown, with only a few bumps in 1838. Pierre had advised her rightly, reminding her that someday she would need the money—after he was gone. She didn’t exactly need it now, but the account was a token of the past and she was ready to shed the associated memories.

  “Well, yes. May I ask where you will be keeping the money? Rates in consols are paying near four percent. Perhaps you would reconsider the withdrawal and allow the Bank of England to continue management of your finances?”

  “You want me to invest in consols? The railroad, perhaps?”

  “Why, yes! Some of the rail bonds are paying nearly ten percent.”

  “My dear Pierre, bless his soul, said only a fool would be involved in the railroads. I prefer gold and silver, thank you.”

  Mr. Chester jumped to his feet. “Ah, here is Lord Prescott now.”

  “Lord Prescott?” Imogene clenched her jaw and glanced over her shoulder. Jack had removed his hat and had the sense to look repentant.

  “My lord, please have a seat.” Mr. Chester deferred.

  “Why is he here?” she demanded of Mr. Chester. Jack settled beside her.

  “The note. There were instructions to notify Jack Davenport should money be withdrawn from the account.”

  “What note? It is my money.”

  “Imogene. Lady LeClerc. Please let me explain,” Jack said.

  “In front of others?” she hissed. “What is it you wish to announce to the world?”

  “It’s not like that.” He turned to the bank officer. “Would you give us a moment?” Jack waited until he left.

  The old Imogene bristled, ready to shred Jack with a proper tongue-lashing. Instead she sat upright, refusing to look at him.

  “Honestly, I had forgotten,” he said.

  “My lord, you are married. Do you think Mr. Chester so noble he wouldn’t utter a word to his friends over a pint? I may not be known, but you are.”

  “It was a rash decision, made years ago,” he whispered. “When I returned and you were gone... I just wanted to see you again. We never said a proper goodbye. And Charlie and Danny would never tell me anything. You can’t blame me. You know I was infatuated with you.”

  She didn’t know where to start.

  He’d kept in touch with Charlie and Danny? They’d never said.

  Infatuated? He’d never said that either. Bloody hell.

  “And you didn’t return. And you didn’t return. I forgot about the money. I’d assumed you’d taken it. Closed the account. I am sorry, Imogene. I would not have us meet under these circumstances. I certainly had no intention to tarnish your name.”

  His hand gripped the armrest and he leaned toward her.

  Imo touched his gloved hand with her fingers. “All of it is in the past, Jack. I have a name now. I am somebody’s wife. Every time I see you I am reminded of the awful creature I was. And I don’t want to remember her.”

  At least not all of her. Imogene was still too determined and still too boyish, but she had learned to be respectful and proper when necessary. She had become someone.

  He turned his hand palm up. “And I will never forget her.” He squeezed once. “I’ll wait outside for you. Please don’t sneak out the back door.”

  She smiled.

  And his return expression nearly melted her heart. His face was still strong-jawed. His hair still a bit unruly. But there were now fine lines around his dark eyes and stern mouth. There was a time when she could reach out and touch him as she wanted. It took a great amount of strength not to do so now.

  When Mr. Chester saw Lord Prescott stand, he hurried up to confer about Imogene’s plan to close her account.

  Jack shrugged. “It is Madame LeClerc’s money.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  After Jack left, it took Mr. Chester several minutes to finish the paperwork and obtain Imogene’s signature before he placed in front of her the gold coins she’d requested and the bank cheque for the balance. The weighty assurance brought a smile to her face. There was also immense satisfaction knowing she didn’t really need the money. Pierre was generous in all he did.

  “Might I arrange a hackney, Madame LeClerc?”

  “Certainly.”

  She followed the banker only to find Jack Davenport waiting, hat in hand, not with a Prescott marked carriage but a smaller equipage, a cabriolet and one horse. She could at least pretend to be shocked, but she knew he had more to say.

  “That will be all, Mr. Chester.” Once they were alone, she asked, “Are you here to rob me, sir?”

  “I once robbed a woman of her virtue.”

  “You should have taken her coin instead. You both would have been better off.”

  “She was poorer than dirt.”

  “You never did see her real value.”

  “I stand admonished.” He reached for her, attempting to help. She ignored him, reached for a grip and hoisted herself into the conveyance.

  Once Jack was settled, he asked, “Did Mr. Chester do as you asked? I was about to return and find out the delay.” He slapped the reins lightly against the horse’s flanks and the transport jerked into motion. The light clopping of horse hooves
echoed about them.

  “Close my account? Yes. I should have taken care of it ages ago.”

  He reached for her reticule, the gold clanking as he hefted the bag. “You are carrying it with you?” he asked. One brow quirked in curiosity.

  “Not all of it.”

  “Imogene, sometimes you don’t have a lick of sense.”

  “Are you saying you can’t defend me if we are set upon by brigands?”

  “I’m saying you take unnecessary risks.”

  “Such as traveling with you?”

  “If the cap fits...”

  She smiled then. “How have you been, Jack?”

  “Prosperous, virile and searching for the meaning of life. You?”

  “I can hardly complain about my circumstances.”

  “Are you in London to stay?”

  “No. It’s not my home anymore.”

  “Paris?”

  So he did know that much. What else had her brothers revealed at Jack’s insistence?

  “You know why I can’t stay in London.”

  Let him think he was the only reason. Shiffington was one. Jack’s marriage another. She could count them on all of her fingers. And the most important reason, of course.

  “I don’t understand you. You didn’t take your dresses. You could have lived in relative comfort with no demands from me. You could have said a proper goodbye and let me know you were safe.”

  “Our business had concluded.”

  “That did not mean I wasn’t concerned. And I had good reason to worry—you know I did.”

  Murder. Arson. Tiny Etherton and her whorehouse. The Scot. And that bastard Shiffington. Yes, there were many, many reasons he had to worry even though he wasn’t obligated to her.

  “Well, as you can see, I am fine.”

  “Imogene,” he said, his voice cracking. When she glanced up at him, she saw all she wanted to see. He had not forgotten her. Sensual desire burned in his gaze.

  Many times while she was married, she’d had to fend off subtle and not-so-subtle advances from the men in Pierre’s world. His friends and colleagues. One of his sons.

  Pierre might have been the only person she’d never lied to—every time she had been approached, she told him about it. She’d gone so far as to refuse male callers when Pierre was out.