Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  Helena. He’d never forgive his mother for that. How he could ever have let his mother and Fairfax push him into offering for the creature was beyond belief. They’d all cheated him; aside from the girl’s beauty, there’d been nothing. Absolutely nothing. And when he’d found her boring beyond bearing, she’d committed the greatest perfidy of all, saddling him with another man’s brat before she died.

  That was another score he wanted to settle with his mother. She had no right to blame him for Helena’s indiscretion. He’d never failed to pay the simpleton’s bills, nor had he denied her anything beyond himself.

  He smelled food, and the growl in his stomach reminded him he was hungry. Even as he thought it, Charlotte rapped lightly on his door, then stepped inside, carrying a steaming bowl with a towel. As she crossed the room, he tried to guess her age. She was perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, but her figure had remained trim, her dark eyes bright within an oval face, her step purposeful. And while she was far beyond that first bloom of youth, she was possessed of a dignity that Helena had never had, making him ashamed of his earlier outburst of temper.

  “Your breakfast, my lord,” she said stiffly.

  He caught the bedstead and pulled himself up. “What is it?”

  “As it is rather hot, I shall set the towel beneath it,” she said matter-of-factly. After lowering both to rest on his lap, she started back toward the door. “Call me when you are done.”

  “Wait.” He looked down and saw what appeared to be exceedingly thin oatmeal. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “Dr. Alstead said you were to have gruel today, food tomorrow.”

  He dipped the spoon, then let the stuff spill back into the bowl. “Look, I did not mean to rip up at you. My anger is with her, not you.”

  She favored him with a disbelieving look. “Lord Rexford, I can recognize a wheedle when I hear it. Whether you are sorry or not, ’tis still gruel. For your own good, of course,” she added sweetly.

  “Heartless jade,” he muttered.

  “If you don’t eat it now, I will save it for supper.”

  “You could at least stay.”

  “As I am not a wealthy nobleman, I’m afraid I have not the time.”

  With that, she was gone, leaving him to wonder. Sighing, he dipped the spoon again and carried it to his lips for a taste. He’d been right—it was thin oatmeal mixed with something else.

  “What the devil is this?” he called out.

  She came back to the door. “I told you, ’tis gruel.”

  “I would not feed this to a dog. You cannot have tasted it.”

  “Well, as I am never ill, I’ve not actually made any before,” she admitted, suppressing a smile. “But it ought to be sustaining. ’Tis barley water, oatmeal, and pork jelly. Perhaps I forgot to add the salt. If so—”

  “It needs considerably more than salt,” he muttered. “And what, pray, did you eat?”

  “I had a coddled egg and toast.”

  “Then I shall have the same.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” he howled incredulously. “No, by God, today!”

  “Are you always so obstreperous, my lord?” she inquired mildly.

  “Come take this pigwash before I toss it!”

  She shook her head. “I suspect if I got close enough, you might box my ears,” she answered.

  “No, my dear,” he said tightly, “I should be more like to strangle you.”

  “Yes, well, I do not mean to put it to the touch. I believe I shall wait until you have eaten.”

  “I need coffee. I cannot eat until I have had my coffee.”

  “I should like to oblige, but I have none.” Seeing that his face had darkened ominously, she offered, “But there is tea, should your lordship wish it.”

  “No chocolate?” he gibed sarcastically. “I thought all females doted on the stuff.”

  “Alas, no, it is rather dear.” Stooping down, she picked up a huge orange cat. “Come on, Rex, I daresay he does not like animals today either.”

  He’d tried to apologize, he decided resentfully. But as he looked down on the gruel she’d made him, he felt distinctly out of sorts with the world. Of all the things he would be disinclined to taste, pork jelly must surely rank first. Nonetheless, to appease her, he had to attempt eating it.

  In the outer room, she unfurled her poster and fastened it deftly to her easel. Stepping back, she viewed it critically, deciding she’d been right last night—the green definitely needed to be brighter. As for Rexford, she was severely disappointed. For whatever reason, the dashing gentleman of her youth no longer existed. This earl was far too bitter.

  “Come take it!” he shouted. “I’m done!”

  She went back to the bedchamber door. “You ate all of it? Or did you pour it into the chamberpot?”

  “If you must know, I held my nose and drank it.”

  She collected the empty bowl and spoon, then put the towel over her arm. As she started to the door again, she could feel his eyes on her. “Is something else the matter?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Were you always like this? I seem to recall you had a better temper when you were younger.”

  She eyed him oddly for a moment, her expression fixed, then she recovered. “Well, perhaps memories play tricks on the both of us, for I seem to remember you were quite gallant.”

  “Touché. How old are you now, anyway?”

  “How old are you?” she countered.

  “Nine and thirty. And you?”

  “You don’t have a very precise memory, do you?” Relenting, she admitted, “I don’t suppose it matters anymore, but I am three and thirty—four and thirty in June.”

  His gaze rested momentarily on her worn smock and the mobcap on her head. He supposed she wore the latter for dignity, but he didn’t like it.

  “You ought to get rid of that, you know.”

  “Of what?”

  “That ridiculous thing on your head.”

  She reached up to touch it, then smiled. “Oh, but I shall not, for it signifies that I have reached an age where I need not be governed by silly proprieties. Think on it. If I were to dress like a simpering miss, there is no telling what sort of gossip might go around, is there?”

  “It marks you for a spinster.”

  “I cannot think what else I could be considered. And with you here, there might be some to call me fast.”

  “Put it on when company comes,” he suggested.

  “And what if I should forget it?”

  “Baggage.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at that. “I think I prefer heartless jade, my lord.” She reached for the door. “You may have to call rather loudly, for when I work, I tend to become rather absorbed.”

  “You aren’t going to stay and visit?”

  “No. Alas, but Mr. Burleigh awaits.”

  “Is that what you call that poor cat?”

  “The cat is Rex.”

  “At least spare me five minutes.”

  “As long as I don’t mention your mother?”

  “As long as you don’t mention her.”

  “All right.” She hesitated. “I suppose I ought to offer my condolences for the loss of your wife. I read of it in the papers, you know. I understand you have a daughter.” It was as though his face closed for a moment. “Forgive me, it was impertinent of me to pry. I should not have asked about your private life.”

  It was a question he had to steel himself to answer. “There is a girl,” he said finally.

  To her, it was an odd way to put it. “How old is she? Your daughter, I mean.”

  Again there was that rebellion within his breast. “Sophia is nine, I think—yes, nine,” he said more definitely.

  The moment was awkward, for clearly he had little wish to speak of the child. “I really must get busy, my lord,” she said quickly.

  “And you—how is it that you never wed?” he asked her, trying to keep her there a bit longer.

  “I
had no dowry,” she said simply.

  “And you never had a tendre for anyone, I suppose?”

  Her chin came up. “Yes, there was someone,” she admitted, “but he never came up to scratch, I’m afraid.”

  “You ought to have gotten yourself a husband and children.”

  “Really? How very odd of you to say it, particularly when you seem to have so little regard for the notion yourself.”

  “Deceit makes for a damnable husband, Miss Winslow. A woman cannot trap a man into marriage and expect him to love her for it.”

  “If I were younger, I should try to remember that, but as a confirmed spinster, I am resigned to leading apes in hell with the rest of my unmarried sisters.”

  He watched her leave, thinking she moved with a great deal of grace. Thirty-three. It didn’t seem possible. He closed his eyes and remembered how close he’d come to pursuing her. She’d been pretty then, but it was more than that. She’d had a good mind and such an engaging smile that he’d begun to enjoy her company, to look forward to seeing her at all those interminable routs and balls a fashionable fellow had to endure. It was all coming back to him. He could even remember the gown she’d worn to the Conniston ball. It was white, with a rose satin sash, and as she’d danced with him, the scent of roses had wafted from her hair.

  His leg throbbed, bringing him back to the present, but he was determined to take no more laudanum, not after the night he’d had. And now he had to get up either to use the damned chamberpot or to hobble to the privy. He swung his leg over the side of the bed, catching the splints on the bedcovers. For a moment, he thought he would faint, but the intense pain finally subsided. Somehow he managed to stand on his good leg, steadying himself as the room spun around him. Holding on to the bed, he reached for the crutches, retrieving one, knocking the other to the floor.

  She came running at the thudding sound and saw him standing there. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

  He hated being an invalid. To cover his embarrassment, he snapped back, “It ought to be obvious, Miss Winslow.”

  She stared at him, thinking he looked rather ridiculous in Dr. Alstead’s voluminous nightshirt, his bare legs showing beneath it. To relieve her own tension, she giggled.

  “What, pray tell, is so damned amusing?”

  “Nothing,” she managed, sobering. Keeping her eyes averted, she walked to the table and picked up the chamberpot. “Here.”

  “You were right—you aren’t the least bit missish,” he gritted out.

  She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Actually, I suppose I am in some things, but I shall no doubt overcome it. Uh…if you will but call, I’ll come back.”

  “You ought to smile more often, you know. I seem to remember it became you.”

  “Another wheedle, my lord?”

  “No.” He waited until she had her hand on the doorknob. “Your nose is green, Miss Winslow.”

  “Is it?” She rubbed at it with a finger. “Yes, I daresay it is,” she admitted. “Now, if you will pardon me, my lord, I should like to finish my project.”

  It had taken her half a day before she was satisfied with her work. She made the last few strokes quickly, enriching Rondelli’s gown, then stood back to admire it. After putting her brush in the water and wiping her hands on her smock, she took out her writing supplies and smoothed a piece of paper. Should she perhaps reduce her bill because the picture had been finished late? Casting a look across the room to it, she decided against that. Very carefully, she made her distinctive letterhead, then wrote out her invoice beneath it.

  “Lud,” she heard him groan.

  Startled, she looked up, nearly oversetting the inkpot. Rexford was bracing his body between a crutch and the door facing, leaning his head against the jamb, grimacing from obvious pain. Afraid he was going to lose his balance, she hastened to help him.

  “What on earth are you trying to do now?” she demanded, exasperated.

  “Too damned weak,” he muttered.

  “Of course you are. Of all the idiotish—”

  “Got to sit. Sorry for the nightshirt, but—”

  “Lie down, you mean,” she said. Thrusting her shoulder beneath his arm, she tried to steady him. He weaved slightly as she slipped her arm about his waist. “Come on, you are going back to bed.”

  “I’m not an infant, Miss Winslow,” he managed through clenched teeth. “I want to sit up, by the fire.”

  It was cold in the bedchamber. It always was when the wind blew, she had to admit that. “I don’t know if I could get you up from the chair,” she ventured slowly. “All right,” she decided.

  She walked him slowly, steadying him as he struggled between her and the crutch. By the time he sank to the chair, beads of perspiration shone on his forehead.

  “I thought I could do without it, but…”

  Knowing that he meant the laudanum, she hurried to get it. When she returned he had his head turned toward Mr. Burleigh’s poster.

  “You did this?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes. I hope it looks like Madame Rondelli,” she murmured, measuring the opiate into a cup.

  “My compliments. It’s a very good likeness.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, trying to soften the throbbing in his shin. “So you are an artist.”

  “Actually, it is Mister Winslow who draws.” Walking away from him, she explained, “Charles Winslow had to paint it. Otherwise, Mr. Burleigh should never have engaged me, and I should have starved.” She dipped water into the cup as she talked. “Charles is rather prolific actually, for he not only does the pictures for playbills but he also draws fashion plates and illustrates an occasional book.”

  “But there isn’t a Charles Winslow.”

  “I am sure there must be one somewhere, but I’m afraid I don’t know him,” she admitted. “When I first conceived the notion of doing this, I sent my drawings around to publishers, theaters, and opera houses. And of course they were scarce opened ere they were discarded. So after I came here, the deception was born, and Charles manages to keep the roof over my head.” She smiled rather impishly, adding, “And given my distance from London, none is any the wiser. I merely ask to be paid in tender rather than by draft, which they quite count as my artistic eccentricity.”

  “My compliments.”

  She’d half expected him to disapprove, but he was looking at the poster again, nodding. “I know it must seem rather odd to you, but—”

  He shook his head. “Actually, I was thinking you have more talent than half those who—” He stopped, his eyes fixed on the window. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Double damn and wish for hell.”

  “What?”

  “My mother,” he said tersely.

  “Lud.”

  “Precisely.” He tried to rise without putting weight on his splinted leg and couldn’t. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Already someone was knocking. She quickly stirred the mixture with her finger, then handed it to him. Smoothing her smock over her faded dress, she considered snatching off the mobcap, then decided against it.

  “Yes?” she said, opening the door.

  Beggs stood there, his hand raised to knock again, and behind him, Tittle was securing the reins. Charlotte tried to smile at the woman before her.

  “You must be Lady Rexford,” she murmured politely.

  The dowager surveyed the room with marked disdain before turning her attention to Charlotte. “I am, and I am come to take my son home,” she announced coldly.

  “But he cannot be moved,” Charlotte protested. “Indeed but he cannot walk unaided, and Dr. Alstead says—”

  The countess’s lips thinned, her disapproval obvious. “We shall see about that, shan’t we? I should never trust a country bonesetter.”

  “Dr. Alstead was once an army surgeon,” Charlotte managed stiffly.

  The older woman fixed her with sharp blue eyes. “Yes, and I
am sure we know what they are—Mrs. Winston, is it?” she asked, her brow lifting. Her gaze dropped to the spattered smock and the worn gown beneath. “Dear me.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t know what they are,” Charlotte responded evenly. “And it is Miss Winslow, my lady.”

  “They are drunks and sots, the lot of them. Ask Rexford, for they very nearly let him bleed to death in Spain. Though why he went there in the first place, I am sure I don’t know.” Swishing past Charlotte, she spied him. “Well, Richard,” she declared acidly, “’tis a fine pond where you have brought your ducks to swim this time.”

  “Mother,” he acknowledged grimly.

  “The Sedgelys were most distraught, Richard, particularly dearest Meg. She’s such a lovely girl, truly she is. But I assured her I should have you safely home ere the morrow.”

  “Did you now?” he murmured wryly. “How unfortunate I am unable to travel.”

  “Well, you certainly cannot stay here. The place is drafty as a stable,” she sniffed.

  “I have no complaints.”

  “Indeed? And who, pray tell, will play propriety?” Lady Rexford snapped. “But of course I am sure Miss Winston must count your accident a gift of divine Providence,” she added knowingly.

  Charlotte bristled. “The name is Miss Winslow, Lady Rexford, and I assure you—”

  “No, Miss Winslow, ’tis I who will assure you,” the dowager retorted. “For all that he is possessed of wealth and title, Rexford is far too cognizant of what he owes his name to be embroiled in a mésalliance or a scandal.”

  “Cut line, Mother! You’ve said more than enough!”

  “Nonsense, Richard. I want her to know that I shall not stand idly by and watch her ingratiate herself above her station. Are we quite understood, Miss Winslow?”

  Two red spots rose in Charlotte’s cheeks. “Really, madam, there is no need for this,” she managed evenly.

  “You will apologize on the instant!” Rexford shouted at the dowager. “Miss Winslow has saved my leg!”

  “Of course you may expect reasonable compensation,” Lady Rexford continued smoothly. “Shall we agree upon twenty pounds? Obviously that is quite a sum to you.”

  Furious, the earl lunged to his feet. As searing pain shot up his splinted leg, he staggered, catching at the chair for balance. Charlotte reached out to him, but she was too late. The chair toppled over, and he crashed to the floor, sending the startled cat scrambling for cover.