Minor Indiscretions

by Barbara Metzger

  “But I didn’t do it, you goose. And how anyone could have thought I would is beyond me. Why, I’ve had more family skeletons locked away here than many a crypt, with nary a sound of rustling bones heard in the ton. I suppose that’s why Lady Pa—ah, Lady Smith cut me dead at the Arbuckles’ affair. After that a lot of my friends would not recognize me. I’ll just have to write to Lady, ah, Smith and tell her that her little secret, or secrets, are safe with me.”

  “So the twins are bastards, too?” Melody asked weakly.

  “Love children, dear, not that nasty term. And the twins were to be the tokens of affection presented to a very famous general by his fond, but childless, wife. Unfortunately, the twins’ conception did not quite correspond to the general’s leave time, and the lady feared he would not appreciate the effort made on his behalf. One child perhaps, but two…

  Melody fanned herself with an issue of La Belle Assemblée nearby. Much more of this and she would be helping herself to the cordials. “Mama, are none of the orphans, ah, orphans?”

  Lady Ashton stopped at her mirror to think, checking for new wrinkles. “We did have a boy once whose parents both died in an influenza epidemic. His grandfather didn’t want a child around. I suppose he was the only true orphan.”

  “Then all of the others are love children?”

  “Why, no. Ducky isn’t, for one. He’s a duke. Why do you think Nanny calls him Ducky?”

  “Mama, have you been at the decanters so early this morning?”

  “Well, he would have been. He could never have taken on the duties, however. Could you see Ducky in ermine at court? His parents had him declared incompetent and disinherited in favor of the younger son. All legal and all very quiet, and happy they were to get rid of him.

  “Pip has quite legitimate parents, also, although I cannot consider them natural parents. We are used to dear Pip by now, of course, but he really is disfigured, you know. His mother took one look at the infant and went into strong hysterics. She said it was a mark of the Devil and refused to keep him. How one can refuse one’s own flesh and blood is beyond belief. But she made her husband’s life so miserable, down on her knees night and day, that he finally brought the baby to Judith.”

  There was a catch in Melody’s voice as she asked, “Does Pip know?”

  “Yes, his father told him. The man used to come visit. He’d cry and carry on about wanting his son at home, and then cross himself. Judith told him to send the checks instead.”

  “Good for Aunt Judith! But Mama, Aunt Judith was always such a high-stickler, how could she have, you know, taken in the by-blows?”

  “Look at that, another gray hair. All this worrying is sending me to an early grave, Melody. What was that? Oh, the children. Well, Judith already had Felice, as a favor to the nabob. The mother left her on Barty’s doorstep before joining a traveling company. He couldn’t take a babe to India, naturally, and his family had just disowned him. As for the other children, it wasn’t their fault, you know, that they should suffer for their mamas’, um, minor indiscretions. Judith saw it as an act of philanthropy, as long as the children were handsomely provided for, of course. I mean, we could not afford to be that generous. The Dower House children were lucky in that their mothers chose to see them well cared for, if out of sight.”

  “Oh, so you and Aunt Judith were providing a public service?”

  “Sarcasm is not becoming, Melody. We did nothing to be ashamed of, and we did find as many real homes for them as we could. Do you think the children would have done better in foundling homes? Infants there rarely make their first birthday; if they do, they are turned into thieves and pickpockets. What of a child like Harry, who was the chance product of a thunderstorm and a handsome Irish groom? Would you see him sold to a sweep or apprenticed in a mine? Should Meggie have been given to gypsies just because she was born on the wrong side of the blanket? And even Ducky, with his parents married at St. George’s, in front of the entire beau monde, he would have ended up in Bedlam, or kept behind locked doors, if not for us.”

  “But couldn’t their mothers keep them? Some of them?”

  “Don’t be naive, Melody. We are talking about well-born ladies, not peasant girls whose fathers find them a husband with the aid of a pitchfork. Ladies don’t have a lot of options. Peers want their titles passed through their own bloodlines, not an Irish groom’s. And if an unmarried woman is considered even slightly fast, she will never get a respectable offer.”

  Melody understood that fact all too well, not that she would ever tell Mama about her very dishonorable offer. She would have spasms for sure. “It’s all so sad.”

  “Should the children never have been born, then? Or should moonlings like Ducky be put out for the wolves like the Romans did? Or was that the Greeks? I’ve never been sure, and I do not think there are any wolves in England anyway. No, high-bred ladies are permitted their genteel riding accidents, of course, but accidents cannot be counted on to cure all of these, ah, indispositions. The muslin company is luckier. They seem to have apothecaries and physicians who…” Lady Ashton finally realized she was talking to her own chaste young daughter who should know nothing of such matters. Of course, if other chaste young maidens knew a little more… “No matter. We were able to see to the ladies’ needs: give them a nice quiet spot where they could say they were visiting a sick relative, and then assure them that their infants and their guilty secrets were both safe. Until now.”

  Lady Ashton had found a wrinkle that needed attention; she sat at her dressing table trying to decide which lotion to apply. It was Melody’s turn to pace.

  “So who do you think is sending demand letters to the parents? For that matter, who else had the information?” Melody was positive she could not clear their name without finding the one responsible. She didn’t care if there was never another donation, and heaven knew they did not need any more “orphans.” But, and it was a very important but, she just had to prove a certain judgmental viscount wrong.

  According to Lady Ashton, Mr. Hadley held most of the legal documents, but he had been offering to lend money this age, rather than trying to collect his modest fees. Mama even suspected him of once having a secret tendre for her sister Judith. One could just as likely suspect Nanny or Mrs. Tolliver, which is to say, not at all. Both formidable women had been with the family forever, and both had pensions from Judith Morley put away for their old age, which was now. They chose to stay on out of love or duty, assuredly not for the profits. As for the orphans, and Melody refused to think of them any other way, they had the most to lose by such a scheme. Perhaps a maid had come upon Lady Ashton’s records while cleaning, Melody suggested, and thought to better her position in the world by bargaining with the information. But Lady Ashton rejected the idea: the maids were all local girls who could not read. Besides, there were no records as such; Lady Ashton kept most of it in her head, to Melody’s dismay. If Mama kept emptying wine bottles at such a rate, either the whole county and half of the next would be knowing her secrets, or they would be lost forever. Hopefully fuller documentation was kept with Mr. Hadley—and maybe some less scrupulous person in that office had access to them. Melody would have to check.

  “Someone like Edwin? Hadley’s been hiring Dower House boys since the start.

  “Don’t take on so, Melody. I’ll simply write to all of the sponsors. We’ll be merry as grigs in no time, and we can start planning your come out.”

  Somehow Melody did not think it would be quite that easy, not if any of the other patrons were anything like Viscount Coe. Which reminded her that she still had to deal with that implacable, infuriating gentleman.

  “Mama,” she asked, “who is legal guardian to the children? I’ll go speak to Mr. Hadley tomorrow—you said he had papers and things drawn up—but can the viscount take Meggie?”

  “Guardian? Let me see…Judith used to have the children named her wards, so I suppose I inherited them along with the Oaks and the dower house. Later I recall Hadley sugges
ting a man be appointed as trustee, so I believe we entered Bartleby’s name. I can’t be sure. You know I am not good on details. Quite frankly, the issue has never come up. No one ever wanted one of the brats back.”

  *

  Mama was fatigued after writing two letters. “Be a dear, Melody, and run these into the village. I want them to go out with the afternoon post. I shall complete more after my nap.”

  Melody wanted nothing more than to take a page from Lady Ashton’s book and lie down with a damp cloth over her eyes. If she couldn’t see the confusion around her, maybe it would go away. No such luck. Lady Ashton was suddenly concerned that the letters might go astray, that some miscreant would read the addresses. Previously she had entrusted the mail to the children, or Cook, or any passing carter making deliveries. No more.

  *

  So Melody trudged into town. The dog, Angie, followed behind her, still in disgrace. “No, you cannot come. Go home. Bad dog.”

  So the dog slunk along, further back, until she spotted a way to regain her favored post. What would appease Mistress more than supper, laid right at her feet? Unfortunately Angie’s choice of easy pickings had other ideas. The prey, Mrs. Donzell’s fat, furry, and much loved Persian cat, was sitting in the sun on the basket of folded laundry, while Mrs. Donzell hung a fresh batch.

  So Angie had a row of claw marks across her snout, Mrs. Donzell had to do the entire day’s washing over, and Melody had to promise one of the young porkers in recompense.

  Harry secreted the squealing piglet away in a sack while the twins were at lessons, but Pip had been too diligent in teaching them their numbers. Laura and Dora were all set to raise a search party to scour the woods for their missing charge; Melody considered letting them go, then decided she couldn’t be so craven. With great diplomacy and more trepidation, she explained about the cat, the wash, the damage. The dog and cat fight couldn’t come close in volume or intensity to the twin tantrums Miss Ashton was subjected to. She only wished Mrs. Donzell were here to toss dirty wash water over these two creatures. Finally she had the girls quiet enough to listen to her speech that the pigs were, after all, not pets but a commodity. Everyone at Dower House depended on them, Melody said, and Laura and Dora nodded calmly.

  Until Mrs. Tolliver announced ham sandwiches for lunch.

  *

  Like Chinese torture, the day kept dripping down more woes.

  “I have settled with Mrs. Donzell, Mr. Pike,” Melody told the constable when he caught up with her while she was checking on the hens, “so there was no reason for you to make the call.”

  The scurvy little man’s watery eyes lit up. “More trouble with the dog, eh? I’ll be having you up on charges of harboring a dangerous animal, I will.”

  Melody sighed wearily. “In faith, Mr. Pike, have you nothing better to do than harass honest citizens?”

  “Honest, is it?” he needled, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Honest folks don’t go around shooting peers of the realm.”

  “Did that dastard bring charges then? I’ll counter with trespassing, and—”

  “Not yet he didn’t, although there be a lot of talk Hazelton way.” Pike laid his hand on her arm. “I just thought I’d renew my offer, put in a good word with the magistrate for you, don’t you know.”

  Melody looked down at his hand, with its dirty, chewed fingernails and grime-encrusted knuckles. She spoke slowly: “Mr. Pike, if you and your filth are not out of here instantly, I shall go to the magistrate myself. I am sure Uncle Charles will be interested to learn how the county’s business is conducted.”

  “Uncle Charles, is it?” he groused, but the hand was removed before another foul breath passed his lips. “You think to impress me, miss? Well, you won’t get around old Frederick Pike so easy. I know what’s what, and I knows you ain’t above the law. Your fancy airs ain’t worth pig swill. What’d you think, your ma found you under a cabbage patch? You’re just another of the freaks and bastards she keeps around the place, and no better’n you should be.”

  If Melody had just slapped the makebate, she would have brushed through. Heaven knew the loose screw had been slapped many a time. What made it worse, and made Frederick Pike her enemy for life, was that she smacked him in full sight of Harry and Pip and Meggie. They could not hear the awful words, but they certainly had a good view of her hand flying forward, his head snapping back, and his rat-colored wig flying into the chicken coop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Long journeys could be conducive to deep thinking, especially if the carriage was well sprung and comfortable, the scenery was monotonous, and one’s traveling companion had all the conversation of a plaster saint. Viscount Coe’s man, Bates, wore the same long-suffering expression of many a martyr, but not a word of complaint would pass his lips. He would not mention two complete sets of fine clothing, ruined, nor the boots he’d labored so lovingly over, destroyed, nor all of the extra work involved for a loyal retainer just up from his sickbed. Bates would certainly not comment on his employer’s distressing habit of having his face rearranged, nor the viscount’s failure to discuss the circumstances of the past days with his devoted, faithful aide. There being nothing else on Bates’s mind, however, he sat like a carving.

  The viscount had a great deal on his mind, and except for an occasional sigh or sniffle from the wounded valet, he was free to let his thoughts wander. The coach headed toward London; Corey’s thoughts wended back to Copley-Whitmore.

  Melody. It did suit her. She was like a song that kept repeating in his head. He might not like the tune, nor admire its lyrics or tempo, but he could not forget it. The vision of an angel tenderly wiping his forehead fought with the picture of the fierce Miss Ashton nearly blowing his head off. She was magnificent in a rage, all fire and cutting ice, and she was adorable pretending to be a lady presiding at tea. A contrary animal, was his Miss Melody Ashton. Corey smiled, for there was no doubt about it, Miss Ashton was destined to be his. He could finally admit to the thoughts he’d held all along, from the first moment he had seen her at Barstow’s inn: the viscount wanted that young beauty the way he’d wanted his first pony, with every fiber of his being. And now she could be his.

  Lord Coe was not sure how he was to accomplish it, with so many guardians protecting the treasure. A man did not usually have to worry about seducing a woman with her mother nearby, much less a cook and a nanny, but he would do it. After all, Melody was not in any position to refuse. She had no name, no money, no future but hardship, and without his protection could be sent to gaol at any time.

  Corey was not quite as certain of Melody’s guilt as he had been. Oh, she had to be involved in the skullduggery to some extent, but she either had to be a consummate actress or the world’s most inept blackmailer, and Lord Coe had difficulty believing either. Miss Ashton had to have known he would come down hard for possession of the child, but she never even opened negotiations. And there was that crack-brained notion of hers that the chit was his by-blow. A lot of men left their butter stamp around the countryside—not that he was one of them—without society’s reproach and without their sisters paying leech fees on them, to Corey’s sure knowledge. Only a moralist or an innocent would have thought otherwise. Corey smiled again. Or a woman who had already been approached by a—what had she called him?—a vile seducer. He hadn’t disabused her of either opinion, his pursuit or his paternity. The first was obvious, and the second was insurance if by some improbable odds Miss Ashton really was unaware of Meggie’s parentage.

  No child of his would ever be called by such a common-sounding name. Meggie suited an upstairs maid. Margaret was more fitting for a nobleman’s daughter, and that’s what Lord Coe would call the lass when he went back to fetch her. But what in bloody hell did he know about children anyway, and sickly ones at that? Corey congratulated himself that he hadn’t done too shabbily with Ducky—talk about names for aristocratic offspring!—and he had actually enjoyed horse-mad Harry and serious Philip. Maybe children were
not such an affliction after all. Even the impish little twins were appealing, making him regret not having a glimpse of his new ward. Erica would have wanted to know, he convinced himself. Of course, he would never tell his sister the chit was frail. He’d say she was delicate and sweet and pretty, but lively, just the way he imagined a daughter should be, now that he was imagining. If a man were to have a daughter, of course. Getting Margaret to Cornwall was still no attractive prospect, but a son of his own mightn’t be such a bad idea, someday.

  The trip to Cornwall might not look inviting, but the return to Copley-Whitmore did. As usual these days, Corey’s mind quickly reverted to thoughts of Melody. As soon as he had papers in hand to guarantee Margaret’s future under his protection, he’d see about offering a different type of protection to Miss Ashton.

  Perhaps he should bring a gift when he returned, something unexceptional for the mother’s sake, to show that it was possible he had been overhasty in his judgments. It was premature for the emeralds those green, green eyes demanded. Lord Coe smiled on his side of the carriage, picturing Melody decked in emeralds and little else.

  There, look at him grin, Bates grumbled to himself, sitting stoically rigid on the other seat. He’s likely figuring a way to destroy more of his fine clothes.

  *

  Lord Coe’s solicitor was not encouraging about speeding up the wheels of justice.

  “No, a woman cannot adopt a child, or be named as trustee for a minor if property is involved. However, a man need only be named for the courts while the female is de facto guardian. Often the male dies, and no substitute is named. The courts are very overburdened with these matters, you must know. If there are no complaints, there is no inquiry.

  “However,” he went on, “in the hypothetical case you mentioned, there may or may not be accurate and complete filings whatsoever. Highly irregular situation from the start. I would have to direct a clerk to wade through court documents of the year and month in question. You don’t have those details, my lord, for the, ah, hypothetical infant? In that case, I would send a man to the county of residence to search parish records, barring, of course, the cooperation of the litage’s man-at-law. This could take time.”