by Jaima Fixsen
Yet another vanished illusion. It had been many years since she and her brother had skipped fearlessly in their father’s wake, through dockyards or across the decks of Henry Bagshot’s clippers. No matter how rough the sea or how primitive the port, their faith in their father had been unshakable. It wasn’t fair, really, to trust a mere man like that. Her father’s shoulders were stooped now, his brown eyes turning cloudy at the edges. Every year since they’d lost her brother, he seemed to shrink a little. Her mother, on the other hand, took on more and more—organizing flowers for the church, sewing shirts for the parish poor, chairing the Benevolent Society. Her virtue shone bright as the plaque beside their pew, in memory of Richard.
Anna poured herself another cup of coffee. She hadn’t slept and now her eyes felt gritty.
“Let’s hope Henry doesn’t take after the Morrises,” her father said, unfolding his newspaper and reaching for the last point of toast.
“Little danger of that, I think,” Anna said, setting down her cup. It didn’t even clink against the saucer. “He doesn’t look like his father.” Praise God for that.
*****
Alistair set out to call on his aunt the next day as early as he dared, mulling over Anna’s qualms, and wondering if his weary muscles of persuasion were strong enough to bring another person round. Convincing Anna again had been hard enough. She’d suffered a second attack of conscience after telling her parents last evening, which worsened when he explained that he felt it best if he broke the news to Lady Fairchild alone. “For I don’t doubt she’ll be surprised.”
Anna had cast him an anguished look. “Don’t try putting a pretty face on it. She’ll think you’ve lost your senses. She’ll never go along with it!”
It had taken him a good quarter hour of soothing words to get her to agree to the engagement all over again.
“Trust me. We’ll have Henry tomorrow,” he said. She’d quieted then, believing his promise. He wasn’t as sure of himself this morning.
Despite the relatively early hour, Alistair arrived at Rushford House and discovered he’d missed the chance to corner his aunt alone. She was already entertaining her country neighbors, the Misses Matcham. Alistair entered the room with a broad smile, concealing his inward groan. One Matcham was bad enough. When confronted with the pair, he generally opted for strategic retreat.
The eldest greeted him with something of a gloat. “So you are not to be married after all, Captain Beaumaris.”
“Not to Miss Prescott at any event,” he said, with awful heartiness. Miss Matcham’s answering smile was so predatory he had to fight the temptation to make his excuses and bolt. They can’t stay for more than a quarter of an hour.
Unfortunately, from this angle, he couldn’t read the clock.
“Have you heard from Sophy since her marriage?” the younger edition, Miss Eliza, asked Lady Fairchild.
“I have not,” his aunt said, in a voice that could have chipped ice. She looked to Alistair, closing that subject. “Has the news come, then? Are you for Spain once more? I hate to see you go.”
“You must not have read about our victory at Salamanca,” he said, her concern coaxing hints of a genuine smile from him. He’d heard rumors at his regiment’s headquarters yesterday while arranging his journey, but hadn’t gotten the full account until reading it in the papers this morning. “Marmont’s wounded, the French in retreat. By the time I arrive, Wellington will be across the border and into France.”
“Then you won’t be away for long,” Lady Fairchild said, a smile flooding her face.
“With any luck,” he said lightly, hiding how well he knew the changing fortunes of war. For every advance, there was a retreat.
“You must dine with us again before you go. This evening,” she said, then glanced apologetically to the Matchams. “You understand me well enough to forgive my rudeness for leaving you out of the invitation. An evening like this one can only be for family.”
“Leave takings are always rather dreadful,” said Miss Eliza. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Of course not,” said his aunt, her eyes sharp above her smile.
Silence fell. Lady Fairchild made no move to speak, drumming her fingers on the back of her other hand, until the Miss Matchams realized they’d been dismissed. At the same instant, they leapt from their seats and bundled themselves out of the room, a frothy, muslin-clad, chittering cloud, swept out by a chilly wind.
When the door clicked shut behind them, Lady Fairchild turned to Alistair and sighed. “I’m going to have to cut them, but I haven’t decided if it should be at Almacks or the park. I’m leaning towards Almacks. How dare they ask me about Sophy!” She sniffed. “I detest plain girls. They always think they can make up their deficiencies by being arch and sly.”
“Leave off the delicate shudders,” Alistair said. “I understand you perfectly.”
“And the way they looked at you! I don’t care that Miss Matcham’s father has settled a round sum on her—no one would take her, else—you are not to have anything to do with her.”
“Done.”
“I wish Jasper were half so biddable,” Lady Fairchild said, souring.
“It’s easy for me,” Alistair said. “You never ask me to do anything I don’t like.”
She lifted her eyes to his, but he didn’t let himself warm too long in her understanding glance. Too premature. “Are you well?” he asked, not quite ready to charge across the field.
“Of course I am. Just a surfeit of my own company and a revulsion for everyone else’s. Nerves. Maybe I’ll finally have to break down and try that Russian Vapor Bath they are always going on about.” She lowered her voice. “Though I can’t see that—that sweating—you will excuse the indelicacy—could be thought to have any benefit. It sounds most unpleasant.” Like so much else, his aunt considered perspiration an affliction to be suppressed and ignored. He’d never seen her with dew on her forehead or a shine on her nose. But he hadn’t come to swap tales about slimming regimes and unsavory Russian baths.
“I leave on Friday,” he said, knowing he might only have a few minutes before other callers intruded. “There is a matter for which I must beg your help.”
“Come here,” she said, motioning him to join her on the settee. “Of course I will help you. What is it?”
He grimaced as he sat himself down. “You won’t like it.”
“Then I am particularly well-suited for it. I excel at doing what I don’t like,” she said. Despite her smile, the grim certainty in her eyes made him lower his own to study the contours of his knees. Jasper often said his mother was a monster in female form, and every once in a while, Alistair half-believed him.
“I’m engaged to be married,” he said.
“No! Again?” she said, starting forward when he didn’t contradict her.
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Who?” she asked. “Not Miss Lucas. An act of desperation if there ever was one. You—you didn’t—” She narrowed her eyes, and he realized his life would be completely different if he’d gotten Lady Fairchild for a mother, instead of her feather-brained sister. That life would probably be better than the one he had now, but it would be much more uncomfortable.
His aunt drew herself up in her seat, her back a curve of steel rising from the cushions. “Who was the lady you were walking with?—I saw you with her one Sunday afternoon.”
“Mrs. Morris,” he said. “Now, happily, my fiancée.”
“No,” she said. “Leave it to me. I’ll get you out of it.”
He was quite sure she could. Best to make a clean breast of it. “Aunt Georgiana. I don’t need you to get me out of it. We aren’t really going to marry.”
“Of course you are. That sort of nonsense only happens on the stage. You’re engaged, aren’t you?”
“I was engaged to Sophy.”
She flinched, but said nothing.
“Both me and Mrs. Morris admit freely that a marriage between us would be an impracti
cal disaster—”
“So you haven’t completely lost your senses,” she said.
She was being generous. He suspected he had. “You know enough about her to know she’s been treated appallingly by the Morrises. They’ve taken her money and they won’t let her have her son. They claim she can’t raise him properly.”
“Well, of course she can’t. He’s to be a gentleman, isn’t he?”
Alistair paused, trying to construct the right words while his aunt looked blindly at the window. “She’s his mother. She wants him terribly.”
“So?” She spoke calmly, but she was twisting the ring on her littlest finger.
“It would be cruel not to help her when I can. I must do this.”
“Must! You need do nothing at all. And neither do I. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”
Alistair looked down guiltily. “Yes.”
“The world abounds with tragedy. Sometimes one just has to harden one’s heart.”
“I want to fix this.”
“Why? No, don’t tell me. Even under that rubbishy bonnet she wore on Sunday I could see she was appallingly pretty. But what’s the point? I’m not furthering your dalliance.”
“I’m not bedding her,” Alistair said, and his aunt’s face froze. “I wouldn’t ask you if this wasn’t respectable. I’m not doing this for—that,” he said, softening his language at the last minute. “This is to make her happy. Why shouldn’t she be? And I—I could be satisfied if I accomplished that.”
Lady Fairchild’s retort died on her lips. They were too much alike—not in looks, not in coloring—it was the desolate expression on her face that Alistair recognized, the one he tried to show only to his mirror. Yawning emptiness with no break in the horizon. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I can get her boy for her and wrest some money from Morris, more than the beggarly portion he currently gives her. But I can’t leave them at her family house in Hans Town.”
“Certainly not.” She mouthed the name of the district with a moue of distaste.
“It’s not so bad,” Alistair said.
“I wouldn’t know. I never go there.”
He decided not to argue. “Once I leave, there is no one to stop Morris from taking the boy back. But if I left her with you—”
“He wouldn’t dare try.” She said it simply, without pride. It was a fact, nothing more. “Your uncle would make sure she and the boy got the right settlements.”
“On her own, no one would trouble to look at her. With you—”
“If she weren’t with me, no one would believe this engagement story. I still don’t.”
He needed her help. He couldn’t think how to make it work, else. One more try. “Will you help me? Let her and the boy live here. Give her the standing she would have as my affianced wife. Introduce her to the right people, so that when she breaks our engagement, she can find herself a husband who will be kind to her.”
“That’s what you want?”
The clock chimed, but neither of them turned to look.
“Yes,” Alistair said.
“Even though you love her?” She forestalled his denials with a flicked finger. “Oh, I can rephrase if it makes you more comfortable. You certainly aren’t indifferent to her. I know what that looks like. You don’t even resemble it.”
He hadn’t the temerity to lie, so he dismissed her assertion with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if I do.” Admitting his irrational and unseemly interest only exposed him for the fool that he was. Nothing could come of it, save this small thing: an engagement of a few months or maybe a year, and restoring to her that which was her own. And that would be enough, if she were no longer snubbed, lonely, and pretending she wasn’t afraid. His feelings would eventually dilute to a comfortable fondness, until he’d be able to think of Anna Morris with the mild nostalgia one felt for any missed chance.
At twenty-eight, he had a collection of those already, and it didn’t scorch anymore, to visit his family home or ride over his father’s lands. It didn’t hurt to remember the first young lady who captured his heart, or the fact that she’d married a grey-haired baronet with somewhat circular geometry. The widow who consoled him afterward had taught him to love well but lightly.
“The Season is over,” Lady Fairchild frowned. “I can’t find her a husband if there’s no one here.”
There it was: a near-invisible fissure. Alistair pressed harder. “But you don’t intend to go back to Cordell. You’ll probably stay through the Little Season, then find your way to one of the spas. You needn’t find her a husband tomorrow.”
“The sooner I take care of that, the better I’ll feel,” she said, eyeing him carefully. “You can’t afford to be such a romantic.”
He glanced down at his fingernails, ignoring her reproving eyes. “So you’ll do Brighton. Perhaps autumn in town. It will be almost tiresome, on your own.”
“What if I don’t like her?”
“That would be complicated, but not exactly tiresome,” he said. If she hadn’t learned to relish domestic conflict, she should have by now. She was terribly good at it.
“Perhaps.” His aunt leaned her head, letting her fingers play with the pearl hanging from her ear. “She’s not a watering pot, is she?”
“She’s got good armor,” Alistair replied. He’d never have considered bringing her here, else.
“I’m in no humor to like anyone,” Lady Fairchild said. “I’ll probably dislike her from the start, simply because she isn’t Sophy. And it’s ridiculous, letting yourself be engaged to this girl. Suppose she doesn’t let you go?”
“I’m not worried,” he said.
“You should be. She wouldn’t be the first to lose her head over you.”
“I almost wish she would.” He hesitated a fraction of a second. “I thought Sophy was going to be my good luck charm. New wife, new life—all that. She really didn’t like me at all, did she?”
Lady Fairchild looked down at her hands. “She’s a fool,” she said.
“I’m not so sure,” Alistair said. “At any rate, she’s a happy one.” And I can’t say that for either of us.
He thought she might have sighed, but couldn’t be certain. It seemed as if a shadow passed over her, falling into the tired spaces in her face, around her mouth, beneath her eyes. It startled him. He was used to his aunt looking beautiful and bloodless, not wan, like a blown rose ready to fall.
“Does she know how to behave?” Lady Fairchild asked.
“Yes. You can polish away the last of the rough edges. Think you can manage it?” he asked. He’d planned this question to prod her into accepting Anna as a point of pride, but now he wondered if he’d asked for more than he ought.
His aunt raised her eyebrows, letting them voice her affront. Alistair backtracked into a conciliatory smile. He knew better than to doubt her ability. “Bring her along with you tonight,” she said. “But I don’t want to see the boy until tomorrow. And I won’t take him unless he comes with his nurse. I can put her in the way of the right people, but I won’t endure the headache of finding more domestics.”
Fair enough.
Chapter Eleven
Keep Your Nerve
Not for the first time, Anna wished she could get rid of the cat. He was fat, lazy, ready with his claws, and doted on by her mother. He’d stolen one of her handkerchiefs after luncheon, shredding it along with Anna’s nerves. Indifferent to Anna’s dark looks, Danny batted the torn linen and smoothed his whiskers. Still no word from Captain Beaumaris.
A polite knock sounded at the front door, a muffled lub-dupp she wouldn’t have heard if her ears weren’t alert for every sound. Flinching from the noise and from the sudden stab of her needle, Anna sprang to her feet, sucking her injured thumb.
“Get out!” she said, chasing the cat with flapping hands out the connecting door.
“Is that really necessary?” her mother asked.
“Yes.” Anna wasn’t going to have Captain Beaumaris
looking at damp, chewed up rags or her mother’s thick-legged pet, who was forever hissing at strangers. She gave the door a hard thump, silencing Danny’s yowling.
“I don’t like seeing you fretting about appearances again,” her mother said, looking at Anna over the shirt she was hemming, another project for the poor. A diligent seamstress, her mother did not consider Anna’s engagement sufficient reason to alter their schedule, even though Anna’s progress on the garment assigned to her was pitiful. It was so bad, she should probably just give it to Danny. He might smother himself as he clawed it apart.
“You are sufficient just as you are. This family has nothing to be ashamed of,” Mrs. Fulham said.
“I know,” Anna said, unable to help cataloguing her mother’s calloused hands, the books of sermons spread over the tables and—horror—one of her own garters, half concealed under the couch. She snatched it up and sat down, jamming it between her chair and the cushion. The ribbon, in her favorite shade of red, was ruined. “Why can’t that cat stay out of the laundry?”
“I’ll remind Hester to keep the door closed,” her mother said, unruffled. This was probably the twelfth time she’d made such a promise, but Danny’s thievery never stopped. There was no time to argue; Anna could hear Captain Beaumaris in the hall.
“Alistair,” her mother said, rising from her chair with a wide smile. Anna followed a second behind. Ignoring the anxious question in her eyes, Alistair addressed himself to her mother with his usual charm. He had her tamed like a puppy. All he needed was a bell. How he managed it, without ever turning weaselly . . . Anna stopped herself, shamed. She never used to be this spiteful. It shouldn’t bother her that people liked him. She should be grateful he was willing to exercise his talents on her behalf.
“What does your family say?” Anna interrupted at last, tired of the niceties batted back and forth between her sham-fiancé and her mother. Left to themselves, they’d never stop. If there was bad news to come, she wanted to hear it.
“Lady Fairchild is delighted. We’ll dine with them tonight and get you settled there in the morning. Why don’t you set your maid to packing your things while you and I fetch Henry?”
