by Eliza Lloyd
The roulette wheel kindly handed him a few more wins. By the time he departed the table, he was up a neat fifty pounds.
He collected his hat and gloves, the porter held open the door and Geoff Shiffington stepped to the entrance.
“Prescott,” he said with a nod.
Jack brushed passed him. Jack and Catherine might have had a chance if Shiffington had stayed away. Why had he done it? Why had he proclaimed to be Jack’s friend when all the while he’d alienated the newly married couple, destroying any hope for happiness between them?
Invariably thoughts about Jack’s failed marriage reminded him of Imogene. What an idyllic, simple life they’d had. He’d performed his duty as the heir to the earldom during the day but would go home to find his impish, fairy mistress running around the house barefoot or just stepping from another bath or playing cards.
Hell, it took very little to remind him of Imogene—a swear word, a trip to the docks, her deck of cards, which he kept in his bed stand.
And the way she looked at him. Adoration and love.
Had they been born in a different time, a different place, maybe they could have been together.
Imogene LeClerc had been more guarded, though he could see his Imogene beneath the paced vocabulary and the uncomfortable garments at which she tugged unconsciously.
The garments he wanted to remove just one more time.
Once the carriage dropped him in front of the house, he hurried up the stairs. Maxwell was there to greet him.
“How is everything?” Jack asked.
“As one might expect, Lord Prescott. There is little to be done but wait.”
“And the doctor?” Jack asked.
“The midwife says he is not needed yet, but he has been informed of the impending birth. I gather she believes a doctor would only make Lady Prescott more anxious.”
“She had midwives for her other births. I don’t know why she thought a doctor necessary this time.”
“Confidence, perhaps? Should I have a bath prepared, my lord? The water is heating in the kitchen.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Jack made his way into Catherine’s room. The servants all bobbed a curtsey. “How are you, Lady Prescott?” he asked. Catherine was beautiful—fragile, pale and dazzling when she wanted to be, for the right man. Even on the verge of delivering her third child, she was poised and confident.
She was propped up with pillows, but looked fit and well cared for. “Hot and bored. And to think this will go on all night.”
“But you are comfortable?”
“There is nothing you can do.” She was firm in her dismissal. “But... I appreciate your concern.”
“I will be in my room, if you need me.” Jack bowed to his wife and exited through the hallway. He knew the door between their rooms would remain locked for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. He couldn’t see their circumstance changing, even though he had the occasional glimmer of hope he could have a real marriage.
After he bathed, he sat in front of a low fire, a book open and spread over his thigh.
He might have found great joy in the birth of another child, but the hovering doubt about the babe’s paternity suffocated much of his enthusiasm.
A sound from Catherine’s room woke him—a short scream followed by a groan.
He glanced at the clock to see it was nearing five in the morning. Nearly eight hours. With hours to go.
Jack tightened his robe and stuffed his feet into slippers.
When he stepped into the hallway, Maxwell and another of the downstairs servants were coming up the stairs.
“The doctor has been called, my lord.”
“And my wife?”
“In pain.”
“Go on, then. I’ll dress myself.”
After the baby was born, maybe...
No. After the baby was born there would be no reconciliation. Catherine was going to Uxbridge. Far enough away to keep them from quarrelling; close enough to make sure his sons spent time with her.
Maxwell had already laid out clothes. Jack stepped into his trousers and shoved his arms in the sleeves of his linen shirt. He fell into the chair again, worked at his stockings and boots.
When he should have been thinking of his wife’s comfort, he thought of Imogene.
He’d spent the past month obsessively thinking of her. She’d been a midnight dream before. A what if. An it will never happen.
He could not be her hero. He could not be the man she relied upon for protection.
He could not be the man who loved her.
There were many men in London who could disregard their marital vows with impunity. Jack wasn’t one of them, but he also knew he had a severe weakness when it came to Imogene. If Imogene ever returned to London, maybe he would give into the hoydenish temptation. Lord, how I want her.
He thought Imogene might have had the same flaw—only she had the good sense to recognize it.
But she’d said no. Firmly. With assurance. Maybe she had moved passed her feelings for him.
After tying his cravat, he shrugged into his jacket, glanced in the mirror and walked toward Catherine’s room.
No one noticed him.
Catherine moaned, in the midst of a hard contraction. The midwife, wearing a white cap and white apron, directed Catherine’s lady’s maid and two house servants.
Birth and death. Life.
One of the servants hurried past him but offered nothing. When Catherine’s pain eased and she leaned back on the pillows, tension left Jack’s body at the same time. Childbirth was not meant for men to observe.
Jack requested his horse from the mews and rode to Hyde Park. The day was typically English, overcast with the threat of rain. His horse had a smooth gait and happily headed toward Rotten Row, bridle jangling and hooves clacking along the cobblestones.
Charlie had ridden with him several times since he started at King’s College. He wouldn’t have minded the company today. Anything to distract him—not from Catherine’s plight but from the other woman.
Did Jack do it on purpose? Find ways to steer his thoughts back to Imogene?
The earldom was prosperous and the title an easy fit for Jack, but power and money would not permit him his heart’s desire.
He tapped the horse’s hindquarters and took the stallion through his paces. Up Rotten Row, back down. A loop around the park and then jumping a few of the fences. By the time he headed back to the house, his thighs were burning.
But his mind was temporarily free of Imogene.
He took breakfast in the library and waited for news. At noon, he rang for a servant. Catherine’s first delivery had lasted about twelve hours and everyone had applauded her for the efficiency.
“There is no news yet, Lord Prescott,” one of the servants said.
Jack addressed correspondence, caught up householder ledgers and general fretted. By eight o’clock in the evening, he paced in front of Catherine’s door. The atmosphere had grown brittle with worry.
At midnight, the doctor confirmed everyone’s worst fears. Labor was killing Catherine.
Jack sent for her sister, Margo, Lady Stiles.
He sat next to Catherine, her fingers held firmly in his hand. A servant blotted a cool, wet towel against her forehead.
He bent to whisper in her ear so that only she would hear. “Do you wish me to send for Geoff?”
Her eyes popped open and he saw the fear. “No. God is punishing me.”
Jack was not a praying man, but he knew one who was. Charlie’s presence calmed everyone around him. But he knew Charlie was in Brighton and would be for the next several weeks.
Charlie would have the words Catherine needed to hear. Jack would do the best thing he could—make no accusations.
“He is not punishing you. Be strong, Catherine.”
“I’m dying,” she said, in a breathy, fearful statement. She reached for his scarred hand and gripped hard. “Jack? Jack, please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You are going to be fine.” A lie, according to the doctor.
“Geoff said we would be together. He promised. I fell in love with him. He made me fall in love with him. I’m sorry, Jack.”
He bent toward her and kissed her sweaty forehead. “I forgive you. Rest, Catherine.” Shiffington had a lot to answer for and Jack doubted he would ever forgive the man.
The doctor forced a spoonful of laudanum down Catherine’s throat to ease some of her pain. Lady Stiles arrived a few minutes later and Jack left them alone.
Within the hour, his wife was dead, along with the child she carried.
In life, guilt dogged Jack because he had never given all of himself to Catherine or their marriage. How could he, when his wife was devoted to another? And how did he answer to Catherine for loving another woman?
The next morning, the caravan of carriages left for Deal where Catherine would be buried at the Davenport family plot near Whitecliff.
Catherine’s death made one thing clear—he had not been fair with his wife or with Imogene.
* * * * *
Imogene sighed from sheer joy. Mary FitzPatrick would arrive soon for a four-day, well-deserved holiday that would include taking in the famed Brighton waters. Mrs. Fitz was the nearest thing the Farrells had to a mother and Imogene planned to treat her like the Queen.
In the past six weeks, the house had been cleaned and cleaned again. The floors shone with fresh polish and smelled of beeswax. All of the rooms had been painted. Ynez had sewn thick new curtains for the main rooms, all in some shade of blue. The Mitchells had their own room with five new beds and a small cupboard for their secondhand set of clothes: one set for Sunday and another for everyday. The hair ribbons were a special gift and the three youngest girls squealed and wanted their hair braided and tied. Every day. Birdie had held hers in her fist, contemplating what such a gift meant.
The exterior of the house still looked ragged. Danny had completed the most pressing repairs. The rest would have to wait until next spring.
Lily took to the Mitchells as if they were her own personal, living toys. The day after their arrival, Imogene had woken to hear happy chatter coming from their room. Lily, still in her nightclothes and hugging her doll, had crawled under their covers with them. She promptly wanted to know their names and if they would play with her and did they know any songs.
Charlie had helped Imogene find a god-fearing couple who were not offended about the personage of Imogene’s household. Mr. Brewster acted as the butler and man of affairs, even helping Imogene with house ledgers and escorting her about town.
Mrs. Brewster took charge of Inez, Madelina, Laraine and Birdie. After breakfast and the day’s cleaning, Mrs. Brewster took the time to teach them baking, home remedies and a bit of drawing. Ynez took charge when she held the needle.
Imogene’s current debate was whether to hire a governess for the children.
“Madame LeClerc?”
“Oh, hallo, Todd. I thought you and Charlie had gone fishing.”
“Not yet. He had lettews to post.”
“Come. Sit him me.” She patted the couch.
He hitched one leg up and leaned against the cushion. Surprisingly, he had taken to being clean and polite, asking for help to tie a small knot about his throat and wearing his new jacket with pride.
“How have you been feeling?” she asked.
“Fine.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose.
“You can tell me if you need anything.”
“Bwdie said not to bothew you.”
“How is your arm?”
“Ah, it don’t huwt none.”
“I suspect it does. The doctor said not to let it chafe.”
“He said ifn’ it gets wet, take off my jacket and woll up my sleeve.”
“That sounds like sound advice but hopefully you won’t get your clothes wet. Are you happy with us, Todd?”
He shrugged. “Don’t have no place else to go.”
“What I meant to say is that I am very happy you are with us and I want you to stay.” She repeatedly told Birdie the same thing, but she kept a stoic mien and Imogene wasn’t sure Birdie wouldn’t bolt under the right circumstances. Whether she took her siblings with her was anyone’s guess.
“Alice says yew ouw mam now, but Bwdie says someday you’ll go away. Just like evewybody else.”
Imogene had been very careful about showing affection to the Mitchells. Until she was convinced they wanted love and a permanent home, she would wait. She slid her hand across his shoulder and he turned to her, allowing the short hug.
Todd ran to the door when he heard Charlie return.
“Wait for me outside. I need to speak with Madame LeClerc.” Charlie tousled Todd’s already messed hair and earned a jubilant smile in return before he hurried out the door. Charlie leaned against the jamb.
“What is it?” Imogene asked.
“There’s a letter from Danny. I picked it up at the post. You need to read it. Jack is in Deal.”
“Jack?”
Charlie approached her and handed over the letter.
Brow furrowed, she peeled back the flaps of the missive. She didn’t start at Danny’s greeting, instead her gaze found the word she was looking for. Jack.
The rest of the letter she read with painstaking slowness.
I don’t know if you heard. Jack is in Deal to bury Lady Prescott. She passed during childbirth as did the babe. Imo, think carefully before you act. We owe Jack everything and you have a respectable life now.
“Should I be offended Danny has so little faith in me?”
Danny’s warning was well meant. Frank and Danny had both known how she felt about Jack. Imo thought Charlie was too young to understand things, but maybe not. And who knew what he picked up in the past five years.
Now Catherine was dead. Should Imogene feel sorrow? She closed her eyes and tried to comprehend the emotion coursing through her.
Jack did not deserve the discontent he had with Catherine.
Nor did Catherine deserve to have her life cut short; she did not deserve to die unhappy.
“Such a tragedy,” she said softly.
“I should have been there,” Charlie said. “I consider Lord Prescott my friend. More than my friend,” he added his voice cracking with emotion.
“I know.”
Imo folded the letter. She ignored the chant sounding in her head. The happy chorus of Jack’s name, the hopeful refrain of what if. “Todd is waiting for you. He seemed anxious to dip his toes in the water.”
“We can talk about this more when I get back.”
“Charlie? I am going to see him. I don’t know when, but it seems the right thing to do. I know it’s hard to accept, but you know what Jack means to me.”
“I can’t keep you from it and I won’t say no, but this can only end one way. Please reconsider. You have accomplished so much. Everyone in this house relies on your respectability. And I don’t want either of you to bear disappointed hopes.”
She laughed, but understood his concern. “I’m not going to be his whore again, if that’s what you are worried about. Those days are behind me,” she said.
“You don’t know men at all, do you?”
* * * * *
The renaissance of Imogene Farrell had come about with the uncompromising yet thoughtful guidance of Pierre LeClerc. He’d encouraged her education, extolled her beauty and championed her need to be something. Find purpose, he’d stressed.
That something was to help women escape the tragedy of impoverishment, of an unfortunate life, but to do that, one needed respectability and, of course, money.
Would seeing Jack jeopardize her heart or her vocation?
And which was more important?
She’d taken it upon herself to help young girls like Ynez, Madelina and Laraine—all who’d been trapped into whoring but had flourished the moment they’d had a bit of protection and hope.
But they weren’t
as important as the Mitchells, still so innocent and with so much promise. And in so much more danger. Children!
She clutched Danny’s letter, feeling sick at heart for Jack. Their marriage might not have been perfect but Catherine was the mother of his children.
There was a time when she would have given Jack anything. Even now she was tempted.
But there was an expansive gap between whore and wife. She wouldn’t be his whore, but he’d never want her for a wife. Lud, how foolish I was, she thought. Did I really believe he would marry me?
Her taste of marriage had been good. Pierre had been the perfect husband, but finding a second man who might accept her past would be impossible. The reality was there were very few men who might want to marry her. She couldn’t hide the truth of her past and she couldn’t hide the truth of her household.
At some point Imogene had realized Jack’s marriage to Catherine kept Imogene’s boat on an even keel. Her one-sided love could be contained knowing it wasn’t returned, couldn’t be returned. But without Catherine, who knew how either of them would react? Such perils of the heart!
Seeing him in his distress would be much like trying to dock a boat when the sea raged. Yes, of course, she must see him. They were friends. But she must not see him until her hopeful emotions had calmed and his certain grief was less acute.
Instead she wrote him a note which she left for Charlie to post, thinking he might want to add a few words. Instead of with love, she wrote warm regards.
With love. With all my undying, unending love.
She set the quill aside and dusted the letter just in time to hear the racket of children and her daughter’s laughter.
“Lily?”
The sudden silence caused Imogene to hurry from the room to the kitchen, only to find some very dirty children and one mischievous imp, holding an equally dirty dog. “Look, Mama. Can we keep the puppy?”
Lud! That girl! Sometimes Imogene could look at her daughter and marvel. Imogene could feel her heart near bursting with something greater than love, even when Lily was misbehaving. Only mothers would understand the deep sentiment, she was sure.
