The Unflappable Miss Fairchild

by Regina Scott

  “Everything will be better with time, Mother, you’ll see. You’re obviously tired, and you need to sleep. Let me call Mrs. Mead to can get you into bed.”

  “Mrs. Mead’s dead too.” She shivered even as Chas started. “She died before we left for London. Malcolm said it was her heart. That’s why he had to take me with him. He couldn’t leave me here alone.” She looked up at Chas sadly. “Malcolm told me to tell you. I must have forgotten, or perhaps I just didn’t want to think about it.”

  Suddenly Chas thought he understood. Malcolm’s face flashed to mind in the library, gaunt, pale. He had been ill. Perhaps he’d planned to come to London to see a specialist. Mrs. Mead passing had been unfortunately timed indeed.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” he told her again, wearily getting to his feet. “I’ll help you to bed.”

  “No!” By shear strength of will, she seemed to pull herself together. She straightened in the chair, and, for the first time he remembered, the eyes that looked back at him were those of a woman in command of herself. He could well imagine an earl being willing to make her his countess if she had looked this way when she was younger.

  She took a deep breath. “Chas, we must talk. I’m sorry you came in to find me so . . . distraught. You can’t imagine what it was like, waiting for your footfall, knowing how much he wanted to tell you himself, knowing every second that it was probably already too late. And then it was too late. He should have told you he was sick. I . . . I guess I was too wrapped up in myself to notice.”

  “Please, Mother, you mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “You said everything will be all right,” she protested. “I do believe that. Malcolm always promised that everything would come right in the end. But you must understand. At the beginning, we were so much in love.”

  Her voice trailed off, her eyes gazing off into the distance. He wondered again, as he had often done, what she had looked like twenty-six years ago. Her delicate features, silky auburn hair, emerald eyes, and tiny frame must have made her seem almost ethereal.

  “Malcolm was a bit wild in those days,” she was continuing. “Yes, you may well look surprised. The old earl spoiled him so. He was very used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. It made him seem much younger than he was. But he was a dashing sort. I believe it was love at first sight.”

  “Mother, . . .” Chas began to correct her, but she continued as if she hadn’t heard.

  “We used to meet in the woods, halfway between the Park and the Langeley’s estate. I was a governess there--you knew that. I would take the children for walks, or have one of the maids watch them play. Sometimes I’d slip out while they napped. It all seemed so romantic. Malcolm was so strong, so smart. I knew he could find a way. He was determined to marry me, you see, even before I knew you were on the way. But the old earl would have none of it. When Malcolm threw your impending birth in his face, he went into a rage. Later, he sought me out himself.”

  Chas could not have stopped her now if he had wanted to.

  “I was such a fool, Chas. I was frightened, for Malcolm, for myself, and most of all for you. I knew the Langeleys would never keep me on once they knew. The earl convinced me that marrying Malcolm would ruin him. Malcolm would be a social outcast. On the other hand, if I married the old earl, who promised he was too old to care for social standing, you’d have your rightful name, I’d have a place to raise you, and Malcolm could marry a girl of his own station with no blemish on his reputation. We were married three days later in Gretna.”

  “I’ll never forget the look on Malcolm’s face the day we returned. Like stone--so cold, so hard. He kissed my cheek and wished me well. Then he just turned and walked away.” A tear slid down her cheek. “And the earl took me to London to live.”

  “When the earl died, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stay in London alone. Then, Malcolm presented the proposal that I come to live here at the Park. I thought at first that we would at last go back to the way we were, but he set me up in the carriage house and never came near me. All those years, just down the drive. We could be companions, even helpmates, but nothing more. There were times when I wished he’d break that iron reserve and forgive me. But he was changed. He was always distant, polite, sincere, but not there. Like the heart had been taken out of him. He always promised me he’d do right by you, even if he couldn’t acknowledge you as his son. He never married, so that eventually, you would inherit everything. And you never knew.”

  “No, I never knew.” Chas stared into the fire, wondering about the man he had called brother. Funny how he had always thought he and Malcolm shared nothing but the name of Prestwick. The story his mother had told could well have been told of him, except for Anne.

  Malcolm had sacrificed his own happiness so that Chas could have what fate had denied him. Malcolm must have blamed his own wild youth for the burdens he had to bear. It was small wonder he worried so over all the wild scrapes Chas had gotten into. Instead of seeing them as a way for Chas to mature, he had seen them as a means to Chas’ own unhappiness. But, thanks to Anne, Chas was not about to make the same mistakes.

  I promise you, Malcolm, he thought fiercely, you won’t be disappointed again. Together, Anne and I will raise the future generations of Prestwicks in a way that would have made you proud.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Anne winced as Bess daubed astringent on her cheeks. Even after a week of care, some of the scratches still stung. Thank goodness they were unnoticeable to a casual observer. Although, she reflected wryly, it did her little good to hide them.

  By now, everyone in Bath knew she’d spent most of a night alone with Chas Prestwick. She’d found it untenable to remain under the same roof as Elizabeth Scanton and had been trying to think of a way to leave when she’d learned that Leslie and his father, the Marquis of Hastings, were more than eager to escort her and Bess safely to Bath. She had been spared the necessity of even greeting the woman by simply leaving that very afternoon.

  Lord Hazeltine and the other guests were quite effusive in their praises of her bravery in adverse conditions and her willingness to travel so soon afterward. The marquis, a dapper gentleman with grey hair, a walrus mustache, and Leslie’s deep brown eyes, must have said, “Pluck to the backbone, that’s our Miss Fairchild,” at least a dozen times. Really, it should have been very supportive, yet all she wanted was to curl up in a ball somewhere alone and cry.

  She managed to keep up her brave front for the few hours it took to reach Bath, and then a while longer as Lord Petersborough ordered several of his staff to attend her until Agatha and Millicent arrived a few days later. The servants had made short work of readying the small house that had belonged to Millicent’s family.

  Even returning to the house should have been a comfort, for she’d spent part of every summer there all her life. Situated as it was on a quiet street of older houses set well back in their own small gardens, it spoke of rest and warmth. The cozy sitting room, dining room, and kitchen on the main floor and the three small bedrooms upstairs were just the right size for their family. The only reminder of their current situation was the empty coach house across the back yard, where once Millicent had kept a barouche and its horses. Yes, it was all very much like coming home. Only after Bess had tucked her into her own four-poster bed in the familiar yellow bedchamber did she allow herself the luxury of turning her face to the pillow and sobbing.

  After a time, she pulled herself together enough to wonder what on earth was making her so miserable. What had she to cry about anyway? She sat up, pushed the sodden pillow off the bed, and put another behind her. Agatha and Millicent would be disappointed she hadn’t caught their earl, but she would be married. Surely they could find a way to continue without the added expense of keeping her. She felt a pang again that perhaps Chas would not be marrying for love, but felt sure she could make him happy. Even her injuries were not unduly painful. Why was she so unaccountably depressed?

  She thought ag
ain of the scene in the corridor of Hazeltine Hall. Was it jealousy? That somehow didn’t ring true. Chas had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with that Scanton woman. Besides, from the first she had been jealous of the way Elizabeth Scanton behaved, not so much her relationship with Chas.

  Anne sat bolt upright as the realization struck.

  It was her ability to act on her impulses she envied!

  Rapidly, she reviewed her life of late and found that the theory held. Since moving in with Lady Crawford, she’d been allowing others to make her decisions for her. She’d let Agatha bully her into playing the debutante to catch a wealthy husband when all she really wanted was to be valued for herself. She’d let Elizabeth Scanton goad her into acting like a wanton in front of Chas when she really craved his love and respect. And now she was willing to let society dictate her marriage to Chas, who had yet to declare that he loved her, when marrying for love was the only reason. She, who was always encouraging others to reach for their dreams, had thrown hers in the dirt.

  It was lowering to see how spineless she’d been, but closer evaluation showed her that she had, upon occasion, shown sufficient spunk to change. The day she had insisted that Bert help Chas with Meadows was a good example. She hadn’t let anyone deter her from what she knew to be right. She promised herself to work on comporting herself as a proper young lady of breeding and intelligence and take whatever consequences befell her with grace and dignity. And she would not accept Chas’ offer of marriage, much as it might pain her to refuse, until she was certain he loved her in return.

  It was easy to think such lofty thoughts with the Petersborough servants bustling about, devoted to her every whim. She knew it would be another thing to face Agatha and Millicent when they arrived. She was determined to tell them exactly what had happened that night in the lodge, including her decision to refuse Chas’ offer. Unfortunately, someone had stopped her aunts’ carriage on the way into town to commiserate on Anne’s ruin. No sooner had Agatha arrived but she sent Lord Petersborough’s servants packing with a curt word of thanks. She then took to her bed for two days and refused to see anyone. Anne tried to explain to Millicent, but the poor woman was so flustered that she merely shook her head, rose, and left the room. Therefore, Anne’s resolve was left untested.

  To Anne’s surprise, when Agatha reappeared downstairs, she also refused to say anything about the episode. She went about her days as if nothing untoward had happened, journeying to the famous Pump Room each morning to take the waters, visiting friends in the afternoons, and going to dinner or a concert in the evenings. At first she was invited everywhere, for the sole purpose, Millicent confided in Anne, of being plied with questions about the fateful event. When she steadfastly refused to comment, the pile of invitations decreased dramatically. Still, she and Millicent had enough old friends that they had plenty to keep them entertained.

  Neither pressed Anne to exert herself. It worried Anne sometimes that they had given up so easily, especially since neither had listened to her explanation. However, truth be told, she couldn’t have played the debutante if she’d tried. Despite ointments, wrappings, and judicious amounts of exercise, the swelling on her knee had taken days to subside, and the leg was only just beginning to reliably bear weight. Her bruises and scratches were healing satisfactorily, one of the local Bath physicians assured her, still they left her uncomfortable and sore. She was glad her infirmities gave her the excuse to stay indoors.

  She was quite surprised on the fifth day of her self-imposed confinement to have a string of visitors. The first was Bert Gresham, who arrived in a rather plain black wool suit and grey-striped waistcoat with a simple cream cravat, turning his curly brimmed beaver awkwardly in his hands.

  “My goodness, Bert, has someone died?” she couldn’t help asking after the initial greetings.

  Bert hung his head. “Thought you’d notice. That is . . . I thought you’d be one of the few to notice the change. The fact is, Anne, you inspired it.”

  “I did?” Anne looked up at him in surprise.

  He offered her a grin. “You needn’t act so astonished. I’ve noticed for years how you have that affect on people. You believe in them, and gradually they come to believe in themselves. For me, it was the day of the duel. You were willing to go in there to help a friend, despite the fact that Meadows was crazed and armed with a gun. You assumed I would also be willing. I assure you, I was entirely too craven.”

  “But Bert,” she protested, “you did go in.”

  “Only after you reminded me of my obligation. It made me think. I realized the clothes and the country talk were just ways to feed the cowardice, to hide my real self from the world. I won’t do that again.”

  Anne returned his smile. “I’m very glad, Bert. If you’re happy?”

  He laughed. “Surprisingly so. I intend to head home to Dorset when I’m done here to show my parents the new me. Then I thought perhaps I’d look into the new farming methods. This business of enclosures is most intriguing.”

  He spent the next half hour explaining various farming approaches to her in such a fascinating way that she hardly realized the time had passed until the mantel clock struck two. Bert flushed guiltily and rose.

  “I shouldn’t stay any longer if I’m to be on my way today.” He started twisting his beaver again, apparently realized he was doing so, and thrust it behind him. “We’ve known each other for years, Anne, but I wanted to say . . .that is I heard about Prestwick . . . rather I . . .”. He shook himself, and Anne wasn’t sure if she should be amused or annoyed. He sighed. “I’m sure Prestwick will do the right thing, but if he doesn’t come up to scratch, I hope you know that I shall always hold you in the highest esteem.”

  Anne felt tears coming and blinked them away. “Thank you, Bert. I’ll always remember you were my friend when I needed one most.”

  He smiled, sketched a bow, clapped his beaver on his head, and strolled out, whistling.

  Before she could recover from Bert’s remarkable visit, Bess announced the arrival of Mortimer Dent. He practically tumbled into the room, his great coat flapping, his boots splashed with mud, a saddlebag thrown over one shoulder.

  “I rode from London as soon as I heard,” he said, collapsing on the beige-striped sofa near her own matching arm chair. “Are you all right?”

  “Aside from an injury to my knee, which the doctors tell me will heal, I’m fine,” she assured him, trying to hide her astonishment at his disheveled state. “Are you all right?”

  “Me?” He flushed. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged, not sure what was making her uneasy. He had always been somewhat emotional, so his present state should not unduly surprise her, yet she sensed something different about him. “No particular reason. It was very kind of you to come all this way to check on me.”

  “About time I did you a service,” he mumbled. Then he raised his wide blue eyes to hers. “I know you were the only one to stand by me all those months while I wrote that ridiculous poetry.”

  “Oh, Mortimer,” she protested loyally, “not ridiculous!”

  “Yes, ridiculous!” he repeated heatedly. “I saw it all the night of the Badgerly party. Lord Petersborough was right--my drawing was by far my best talent, but it was always rather personal, you see. It was easier to write wretched poetry and let everyone malign it than to draw my best and risk the same results. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He flopped open the saddlebag on the sofa, sending up a spray of dust that threatened to eclipse the oil painting of a hunt above him, and dug through the bag to pull out with a flourish a piece of vellum. He hesitated only slightly before handing it to her. He refused to meet her eyes.

  Anne gazed down at the paper in her hand in surprise. Drawn in charcoal was her own likeness, and more. The woman in the picture looked serene, strong, confident. She looked out on the world with a gentle smile of welcome. She was someone to whom you’d be drawn to tell your most secret dreams, someone you could
count on to stand by you no matter what. She was someone worthy of respect and love. The tear that had threatened during Bert’s call spilled over, and she handed the paper back to Mortimer before she could wet it.

  “Oh, Mortimer, it’s lovely,” she said with a sniff, fishing a handkerchief from the sleeve of her plum kerseymere gown. “You’ve no idea what you’ve given me by drawing me that way.”

  He flushed with pleasure. “I’m very glad you like it. I’d like to have it framed, as my wedding present to you and Mr. Prestwick.”

  She was forced to look away. “I do not know if I’m to be married, Mr. Dent.”

  “But I thought . . . they said . . . hang it all, he has to marry you!”

  “No, he doesn’t!” Anne rounded on him. “I will only accept his offer if he loves me. I deserve that much out of this mess, don’t I?”

  Mortimer stared at her, a frown on his round face. “But of course he loves you. Who wouldn’t love you?” He realized what he’d said and busied himself hurriedly tucking the drawing back into the saddlebag. Rising to go, he paused. “I hope you know, Miss Fairchild, that if you should choose not to accept Mr. Prestwick’s suit, I would be honored, that is I would be the luckiest of men if you would . . .”. He trailed off, staring at the floor. “No wonder I’m such a dismal poet. I can’t even propose properly.”

  “I think you proposed beautifully,” Anne told him with heartfelt gratitude. His head came up, and she smiled at him. “I will remember what you said, if the time should come.”

  He nodded, bowed, and clumped out of the room. The saddlebag, swinging from his arm, narrowly missed upsetting Agatha’s prize Chinese vase on its pedestal near the sitting room door.