Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  Henry glared, leaning over his desk. “You’re well and truly finished, boy.”

  “Good.”

  “Just what do you plan to do now?”

  “I was doing well enough for myself.”

  “Working at a livery!” Henry snorted.

  “I enjoyed it. If you won’t let me work with you, I’ll find my own way.”

  “I meant you to have better than this.”

  “I don’t want it. You can’t make me.”

  His dream of his son being a gentleman was finished, impossible. Henry sighed. “You’re right I can’t. Sit down.”

  Surrendering to the inevitable, Henry gestured Tom to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He sat without a grimace, causing Henry to reflect that he really had done a poor job with the birching.

  “Well, Father?”

  Henry rubbed his thumb over his side whiskers. “I won’t have you worrying your mother again, hear?”

  Tom had the grace to look ashamed. “I am sorry for that.”

  “You should be. Since you’ve left me no other choice, I’ll give you a start. You can go with Fulham on the next ship. If you want to be in business, you’ll have to learn. I’ll expect you to work hard.”

  “Of course. I can earn my place.”

  Henry gave a loud humph. “You’d better. You’ll leave before the month’s out. In the meantime, you do what you can to make your mother happy.” Sally would not like seeing her son take to sea. But what else was there to do?

  Tom’s lips parted, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. Well, and if this was what the boy wanted, why shouldn’t he have it?

  Springing from his chair, Tom crossed the distance to his father, then hesitated, swinging his empty hands. His face was bright, flushed with pleasure. “I won’t disappoint you father,” he promised.

  Henry smiled, and took his son’s hand. “Of course not. You should tell your mother.”

  Long after Tom raced from the room Henry sat there. He had known for a long time that Tom would be good in the business. He’d also known that no matter how Tom succeeded in the world of commerce, he could not help but be disappointed. It was not the life he wanted for his only son.

  Chapter Seven

  Seasons

  Up in Cordell’s nursery, Sophy spent a sleepless night, agonizing over the loss of her mother’s sketches and the consequences of angering Lord Fairchild. She could not afford to offend her only protector. In the morning, she trembled as the new nursemaid conducted her to the library. Though Lord Fairchild accepted her wooden apology, she seemed to have killed any interest he had in her. She glimpsed him only once in the following fortnight.

  The nursery was lonely and dark at night; she often woke, cold and terrified, too afraid to leave her room and with no one to call. Awake or asleep, she dreaded being sent away from Cordell Hall.

  Escaping in her free hours to the park, it didn’t take Sophy long to find the ruin her mother had painted. How she longed for those pictures! Surely she would not be so troubled in that great empty nursery, if only she had them with her. After her angry outburst she was too afraid of Lord Fairchild to ask for the pictures back. The more time passed without speaking to him, the more timid she became. It hurt, knowing he had taken a share of her mother’s love, but she locked pain and resentment away.

  Lord Fairchild did not guess she was lonely, or he would have gone to her again. After her rebuff, he told himself he must wait until she was willing to know him. He watched carefully, but she never gave any sign. Always, she subdued herself in his presence, retreating as soon as possible. Only when he watched her unobserved did he see her come to life: running back to the house, red-cheeked, from the gardens; rollicking with Henrietta in an empty salon; flitting away from the kitchen with a ginger biscuit in her hand. He waited, increasingly impatient, but the sign never came.

  Despite his own repeated counsel—she was young, she knew nothing of him, she was grieving—he was wounded by her cool dislike. She lived in his house, yet he felt almost as removed from his love-begotten child as he had the past ten years.

  Sophy spent most of her time in the schoolroom with Henrietta and the adenoidal Miss Frensham. From the beginning, Henrietta had been eager to embrace her half-sister. Illicit novels were her lifeblood. She viewed Sophy as a tragic heroine, becoming quite disappointed when she learned Sophy had not been rescued from the workhouse. But she was an eager listener and Sophy’s stories turned out to be better than the one she had imagined. She liked few things better than hearing Sophy’s caricatures of Mr. Lynchem and the worthy ladies of Bottom End, or her retellings of Fanny Prescott’s fairy tales. Sunny natured, there were truthfully very few people Henrietta disliked; even dour Miss Frensham was not wholly despised.

  It didn’t take long before the girls began swapping schoolwork. Henrietta might have made a mathematical genius, had her mother allowed it, but she had almost no facility with French. Sophy spoke with a delightful accent, but needed help marshaling her thoughts when confronted with a row of numbers.

  Cordell was an unhappy house, Sophy realized, with Henrietta its one bright flame. Lord Fairchild indulged her, fond of his beautiful, high-spirited daughter. Lady Fairchild was proud of her and ambitious for her, already mapping out her marriage prospects and her brilliant social life. Even Jasper’s teasing was done with obvious affection. Henrietta was the pride of the all the servants, more so than Jasper, who could be churlish under his smooth veneer. Like everyone else, Sophy could not help loving her.

  Henrietta’s company was some solace, but still, Sophy was often alone.

  Vast and sprawling, the park at Cordell was moist with rotting leaves in the fall, rimmed with frost and blighted by wind in the winter. A hardy soul, Sophy ventured out in all weather, until the day that Jasper spied her sliding across the frozen lake. Hauled back to the house, she was lectured by Miss Frensham, by Dessie, the nursery maid, and most awfully, by her father, whom she still called Lord Fairchild. He sentenced her to a fortnight indoors, so Sophy took to exploring the house. Venturing undetected into rooms, eventually she mapped it all, from the fastness of Lord Fairchild’s library to the steaming laundry. She tiptoed through the airy prettiness of Lady Fairchild’s suite, wandered the staterooms and finally ingratiated her way into the cellars, the exclusive domain of Jenkins, the butler.

  “She’s an endearing mite,” Dessie admitted at table in the kitchen, "Even with that naughty streak. Lord, it's impossible to keep her in the nursery.” Just that day, Dessie had found Sophy in the gunroom and the dumb waiter.

  Liza sniffed, exchanging looks with Millie Dawson, Lady Fairchild’s maid. The two were united in their disapproval of Sophy’s presence in their Lady’s house, but otherwise the servants liked her.

  When Easter came, Lady Fairchild punished her husband by inviting her family for the holiday. Sophy spent her days hiding from the guests. Once she was summoned to the library to speak to her guardian; it was a difficult interview with long silences, but she hoped she had convinced him that she was doing her best as a scholar and endeavoring not to make trouble. He was still a stranger.

  At first, Jasper saw little of his half-sister, being away much of the year at school. Uninterested in young children, he had intended to ignore Sophy, but discarded this notion over the summer in favor of making a pet of her to annoy his mama. He spent most of his time at Cordell tramping through the fens with his dog and a fowling piece and one day he saw Sophy drifting away from the house as he made his own way through the gardens.

  “You may as well carry my bag,” he said, tossing it to her. “If you’re going to spend the day outside. Come on.”

  She was a game little thing, he learned, solid as a soldier, gladly following him under hot sun or chilling mizzle, begging for stories of his adventures at school. She was, as he suspected, a regular hoyden and knew how to climb trees and make a whistle from a blade of grass. He laughed, seeing how pleased she was when he showed her the best places
to find tadpoles, though he was past that kind of thing himself. Seeing her sitting like a sack as one of the grooms led her around on Henrietta’s old pony, he decided he ought to take an interest in her training, if only for the sake of the horse. After a particularly hard fall, he discovered Sophy’s collection of curses. Smirking, he gifted her a few jewels of his own, recognizing in the flash of her eyes a like-minded soul.

  It pleased Jasper to escape with Sophy and watch her thin face vivify in his company. Naturally, she was a trial at times, being eight years his junior, but he did not hesitate to dismiss her when he tired of her company. He found he seldom did. They passed much of their time together in companionable silence or with Jasper giving orders. Rarely, very rarely, they spoke about Fanny Prescott, whom Jasper had not forgotten.

  Sophy had tried to bury both guilt and grief, but sometimes she had to speak of her mother, though she was never certain if even the best memories would bring tears or laughter. Jasper listened avidly, imparting now and then a memory of his own. Sophy understood that he had been fond of her mother, and was comforted.

  The year Jasper finished his studies at Cambridge, Lord and Lady Fairchild took Henrietta to London for the Season, launching her with all the pomp and circumstance of a ship of the line. She was eighteen and a brilliant success, receiving a flattering number of offers. From the beaus vetted by her mama, Henrietta chose Lord Percy Arundel, surprising many. Two dashing eligibles had made Lady Fairchild's list, and still Henrietta chose Arundel. True, he was wealthy and an earl, but he was balding and fifteen years her senior. He had bookish habits and a tendency to talk over peoples’ heads, in no way resembling the heroes of the novels Henrietta had devoured for so many years. Lady Fairchild was puzzled by this choice, but Henrietta seemed pleased with the match and snagging Arundel was a coup of which any mother could be proud.

  Sophy, who received regular letters from Henrietta, had a better understanding of her reasons and was happy for her sister, though grieved to lose her companionship.

  “He adores me,” Henrietta wrote. “He will not wander, and he will love me when my beauty is gone. Mother thinks he is a staid fellow. He is, but that doesn’t stop me loving him. Just don’t tell anyone.”

  Henrietta married in the fall and Cordell was a quieter place without her. Jasper seldom visited, though he was often at Newmarket, a scant fifteen miles away. In command of his own money now, he tended to avoid his parents, running with a younger, faster set of sporting gentlemen.

  Her work completed with Henrietta, Lady Fairchild tried to turn her efforts to her son, but was speedily rebuffed. Her husband refused to lend his aid, and the truce that had held between them during Henrietta's season ended. Lady Fairchild resumed hostilities with a broadside of dinners and parties, and Lord Fairchild retreated to his stables.

  Over time, Lady Fairchild’s thoughts turned to Sophy. It surprised her that Sophy seldom rode with William, since under Jasper's tutelage she had become a daring rider. The girl would probably have moved into the stables, if they allowed it, so strong was her fascination with William's bloodstock. Yet she rode with her father only by accident, if they happened to choose the same time and direction. Once, Lady Fairchild had feared Sophy would eclipse her own children in their father's eyes. A misplaced worry, it had turned out.

  She was a surprisingly agreeable thing, always docile and polite. Neither Jasper nor Henrietta took pains to please her like Sophy did. Bored, and a little lonely, Lady Fairchild stopped ignoring the girl and began summoning her to the drawing room. Always she made some excuse to herself at first: Miss Frensham had a cold and was unable to pour the tea, or she wanted Sophy present to outshine Mrs. Matcham’s two boring daughters. Lady Fairchild found comfort in Sophy’s company, for since Henrietta’s marriage, her life seemed to have lost much of its purpose. So it was natural, almost unnoticeable, when she began taking Sophy about with her and coaching her in the social arts of which she was an acknowledged master.

  They spent many companionable hours together, shopping in the village and reading fashion magazines. Sophy’s looks could not be compared to Henrietta’s, but her taste was excellent. Within a year, Sophy accompanied Lady Fairchild most everywhere, assisted with her correspondence and wrote out the menus for her entertainments. Lady Fairchild began to depend on Sophy, to be just a little fond of her. In reflective moments, Lady Fairchild concluded there was a certain justice to it, since her own children preferred their father. She could not deny it was just a little satisfying, that she had succeeded where he could not. He tried to hide it, but she knew he envied her rapport with Sophy.

  She never varied her imperious manners, but she valued Sophy more than she admitted.

  Sophy was content. It was pleasant, being in Lady Fairchild’s good graces, and her latent fears of being thrown out receded until she almost forgot them. Though she missed Henrietta and Jasper, she had Lady Fairchild’s company, the horses and Cordell. She loved the wide expanse of the Suffolk countryside. Riding was her joy; racing her secret enthusiasm. Barred from the meetings in Newmarket, she extracted detailed accounts from John, the head groom, and was as proud as he each time Cordell fielded a winner. Her days were full, starting with early morning rides and ending with neighborhood parties; her thoughts never travelled beyond the next social engagement or the next race meeting. Her seventeenth birthday came and went without anyone seeming to notice. Lady Fairchild never spoke of the past, so it was easy to distance herself from her own memories. Sophy did not pause to consider the future.

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Fairchild Decides

  “Thank you, Mrs. Larkin. I shall call again next week to see how you are getting on.”

  Mrs. Larkin, now the mother of six, curtseyed as Lady Fairchild gathered her sables and swept out of the cottage.

  Tom Coachman helped her into the carriage. Females of Lady Fairchild’s generation did not drive their own vehicles and nothing could persuade her to learn, though she had ordered Jasper to teach Henrietta and then Sophy, once it became fashionable for young ladies to drive a smart vehicle with one or two horses.

  “Sophy?” she called. What was keeping her?

  “Coming, ma’am.” Sophy appeared at the carriage door, a large basket hung over her arm.

  “What’s that?” Lady Fairchild asked.

  Sophy’s face split in a wide grin. “One of Dash’s puppies. Peter Larkin gave her to me, but I will let Jasper have her. I have wanted to thank him for giving me such a handsome Christmas present, and I think he will die of envy if I do not.” Even Lady Fairchild knew that the Larkin dogs were famous.

  “Very kind of Mr. Larkin, I’m sure.” Lady Fairchild said, looking dubiously at the basket and stretching her feet to the hot brick in front of her. It was late afternoon, but the slanting winter sunlight was too weak to melt the frost from the trees. Taking a small notebook from her reticule, she drew a check mark beside the last name on her list with a silver pencil. “He kept you outside long enough.”

  “That was my fault, ma’am,” Sophy said. “It was so hard to choose just one.”

  “Drive on,” Lady Fairchild instructed, rapping on the window of the carriage. Tom Coachman gave the horses leave to start.

  Lady Fairchild was always diligent in visiting her husband’s tenants. She brought gifts of linen and tiny gowns after a birth, distributed hampers of food and shirts when there was illness or misfortune, and had personally vaccinated all the servants and laborers belonging to Cordell Hall. There were few roles she found as satisfying as that of Lady Bounty. Normally, she was gratified by the simple gifts she occasionally received in return: rose cuttings for her garden, a bottle of lineament she thrust onto her housekeeper, a clutch of chicks from one of the farmers’ prizewinning hens. This time she frowned at the basket, tapping her pencil against the list.

  “If you do not like her, I will keep her in the stables,” Sophy said, though it was plain the idea distressed her.

  Lady Fairchild waved
a hand. “My dear, I’m sure it’s no matter if you keep her in your rooms. Heaven knows one more dog will make no difference.”

  William knew she hated his dogs in the house, but the dogs came inside nevertheless. It was not the puppy that displeased her. No, this dog was just the latest instance of a growing problem. When she and Sophy conducted their errands of mercy or drove into Bury St. Edmonds to visit the shops, farmers’ sons increasingly found excuses to speak to Sophy. The shop boys were too attentive, following her with their eyes. Worse, Sophy was friendly in return, smiling as readily to Peter Larkin’s bashful greeting as she did to Jasper’s teasing.

  Until now, Lady Fairchild had always been glad Sophy never tried to increase her privileges or insinuate herself higher. She had liked her for being content with her place. It had never troubled her before when Sophy failed to discourage the familiarities of the local people, but Lady Fairchild saw where it was leading now. Letting Sophy marry a farmer or a tradesman would be intolerable. She could not invite those men to her home, or visit Sophy in theirs. Day by day, she was realizing that she did not want Sophy to pass out of her life after reaching adulthood.

  It was strange, Lady Fairchild thought, watching Sophy lift the lid of the basket and slip her hand inside to fondle the bundle of silky fur. She had never expected to like her.

  Though not a beauty, Sophy was undeniably pretty. It surprised her that William’s features had turned out so well on a female, but they had indeed. Sophy’s face was arresting, her dark, mobile brows and pale skin topped by the bright tangle of her hair. Of course the local boys noticed. Sophy’s self-deprecating manners only encouraged their presumption. These farmers’ sons would never have dared to throw a second glance Henrietta’s way.

  It was a problem, but it didn’t have to be. Finding an acceptable husband for Sophy would be difficult, but was by no means impossible. Examining the idea, Lady Fairchild’s pulse quickened. Sophy was illegitimate, but acknowledged, and with a good dowry. She had all the necessary accomplishments and an eye for color and design. If she brought Sophy out, Sophy would do very well. Leaning her head back into the velvet upholstery, Lady Fairchild let a dreamy half-smile creep across her face. There was nothing that gave spice to the London Season like arranging a marriage.