Freedom to Love

by Susanna Fraser

  Henry bit his lip. How was Mama going to react when she found out that Thérèse wasn’t entirely white? “I beg of you, do not treat Jeannette—Miss Bondurant—as anything other than my sister-in-law,” he said. The rest could wait, but he needed to have that established from the beginning. “She was born a slave, but she is free now.”

  “Naturally,” Mama said. “There are no slaves here. Yet it’s a rare family that receives its bastards into the family home.”

  Henry winced. Had he been too optimistic about his old family’s reception of his new family? “Jeannette and Thérèse have no relations but each other left,” Henry continued, “and we consider her our ward. I mean to see that she’s given a good education and the provision of a gentlewoman when she comes of age, as I would for any young lady of my wife’s family.”

  “You are Lord Farlow now,” Mama reminded him. “How you provide for her is your choice—though I do beg you will carefully consider what a girl like her would do with such an education and provision. But, all that can wait. Tell us what happened. If they had no family in their army, why were they there?”

  “They weren’t with the army,” he said. “I’d wandered farther than I’d realized.” Quickly he told the bare bones of how he’d met Thérèse and Jeannette. He emphasized that they, especially Jeannette, had saved his life by offering him a refuge and treating his wound with skill when it became infected.

  What should he tell them of Bertrand Bondurant? If anything absolved him of desertion, it was the fact that he’d had to flee a potential murder charge and to protect Thérèse and Jeannette from the same consequences. But he had a feeling his reappearance just in time to assume a title would make a sensational story, one that might well cross the Atlantic and make it into American papers. The fewer people who knew why he’d fled cross-country with an American woman and girl, the better.

  He’d already told Captain Hart back in Canada, but he could send a letter begging him to be discreet. And he’d need to tell Colonel Dryhurst, he decided, to be able to sell his commission with honor. As for his family...perhaps they could help him determine a plausible tale for society’s consumption. But it must go no further than that.

  “What I tell you now must be held in strictest confidence,” he said, “and, indeed, I beg your aid in determining what we should tell the world instead.” Off their raised eyebrows and promises, he quickly told the story of Bertrand’s death and its consequences.

  “Hmm,” Mama said. “We’ll give the matter consideration, and come up with something believable before we introduce your bride into any society. But what happened after you got away? How did you come to marry?”

  Leaving out the more harrowing aspects, Henry described their journey north and how they’d married during a brief stay with a friend met on the trail. He did not reveal how the ceremony had ended, but he realized he would need to speak to Thérèse about it as soon as he could. Now that he was inheriting a title, it mattered far more that their marriage be unassailable. Thérèse’s unborn child, if a boy, would be Lord Farlow himself in turn—but not if it ever got out that their marriage ceremony had only been half-completed. He looked at Edward again. He trusted his brother, even if they had quarreled their way through boyhood, but could he trust some unknown, as-yet-unborn nephew who might wish to claim his son’s inheritance? No, they must be married by special license before they departed for Farlow Hall. It might raise a scandal of its own, but no one would ever be able to question their children’s legitimacy.

  Once he’d finished telling how they obtained passage from Canada to England, intending for him to join the fight against Bonaparte, he tried to turn the subject to the emperor’s defeat, of which he’d heard nothing beyond the bald fact of its occurrence. But his mother waved off the attempt impatiently. “Your colonel is in town—paid us a most kind call just last week—and I’m sure he and some of his officer friends can tell you all the tiresome details of charges and counter-charges and artillery duels. But you haven’t yet spoken of your wife’s family, beyond that her father was clearly irresponsible in his provision for her. Ah, well. I cannot complain about that, after what happened to my family’s fortunes.”

  “None of that was your father’s fault, Mama,” Edward put in.

  “No, but many of the best families have lost fortunes or made a muddle of their wills.”

  Of course Mama would want to see him married to someone from one of the best families. She’d been a little disappointed that Charles had only allied himself with the daughter of a northern baronet. Though she had married for love herself, she never tired of reminding her family that they sprang from the noblest blood in France. He sighed. It was one thing to assure Thérèse his family would accept her when he was the younger son, and planning to live abroad. It was another to ask his mother to accept the granddaughter of a slave as Lady Farlow of Farlow Hall.

  Thérèse didn’t want to keep her ancestry a secret. And yet—it was her tale to tell. He would leave it for her to determine how best to make the revelation. “Her father owned a plantation,” he said. “I believe the family are men of property and standing.”

  “Among the Creoles,” Mama said with an air of dismissal. “Bondurant...I’ve never heard that name. Do you know where they originated in France, or their rank there?”

  “No, and I’m not sure Thérèse does either,” Henry said. “The family has been in America for several generations. She’s actually more Spanish than French.”

  “Hmm!” Mama said. “Were they Spanish grandees?”

  “I don’t know.” Henry allowed his voice to become testy. “Neither did I know I was selecting the next Lady Farlow—and even if I had, I would’ve cared more for her courage and kindness and affection for me than her pedigree!”

  “Don’t bristle so, dear. I’m only thinking of how this will sound to society. If she’d had a duke or a count for a grandfather it would’ve been better, but we can make something of a planter’s daughter. What of her mother? The same sort of people as her father, I suppose?”

  “Her mother’s name was Teresa Molina.” He hated that this conversation was happening without Thérèse in the room. “I’m sure she could tell of her family far better than I can,” he said firmly. “We’ve had other things to think of and talk of than who her grandparents might have been.”

  “Of course,” Mama said smoothly. “I look forward to talking with her when she is feeling more the thing.”

  As if by arrangement, a soft knock sounded at the door and Ostell stepped in. “Doctor Gowling has seen the new Lady Farlow, and he wishes to speak with Lord Farlow.”

  That meant Henry. It still didn’t seem real. He scrambled to his feet and hurried out to where the doctor, a stout, respectable-looking man of middle years, stood waiting in the entry hall. Henry tried to judge Thérèse’s condition by his expression, but he kept his face calm and bland.

  “Good day, Lord Farlow,” he said.

  “Doctor Gowling. How is she?”

  Now the physician cracked a slight smile. “Oh, she will do very well. She’s young and strong, only overcome by fatigue, the natural illness that attends the early weeks of a woman’s pregnancy and the great shock I understand you both received upon arrival here.”

  “It was...unexpected, to say the least.”

  “My lord, her ladyship is healthy, and I see no cause to fear for her or her child—as long as she is able to rest. I understand she has been traveling for the better part of a year?”

  “Yes.” Henry forbore to point out that it wasn’t as if she’d been pregnant the entire time.

  “I know you must be anxious to depart for your estate.”

  His estate. Good God. “I’d rather make the journey in September than November, certainly.”

  “For your lady’s sake I beg that you delay at least a fortnight.”

  By th
en it would be October. “We will follow your advice, of course. I wouldn’t wish to delay much beyond that, however.” The later they waited, the shorter the days would grow, and the more likely their journey would be hampered by cold, soaking rains or even snow.

  “Then I will examine Lady Farlow in ten days’ time, and beg that you will be guided by me. I’m sure that you wish to see your lands and tenants and introduce your bride to your home, but surely it would be better to have your heir born in London than hazard either mother or child.”

  “That is beyond question.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Mama, evidently hearing the front door close behind Doctor Gowling as he stepped out, peered out from the drawing room door. “Good news, I hope?”

  “Yes, though he asks that we wait two weeks before we depart for Farlow Hall.”

  “I’ll instruct Ostell and Mrs. Corbett accordingly.”

  “Thank you. And now—I would like a little time alone with my wife.”

  “Of course. We dine at five. I suppose you’ll want the girl, her sister, to dine with us, too?”

  Mama raised her eyebrows as if hoping the answer would be no, but Henry nodded firmly. “Yes. It isn’t as though she’d have any company in the nursery, and she will not eat in the servants’ hall.”

  Mama shrugged. “You are Lord Farlow now.”

  Henry felt his face twist in a sour smile. He’d already learned his mother’s new way of saying, I think you’re making a dreadful mistake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thérèse had assured Henry she didn’t mind him leaving with the rest of the family—indeed, there had been too many people in the room hovering around her. But now she felt awkward, left here with her sister and Henry’s staring at each other with wary curiosity.

  “Drink your tea,” Jeannette commanded.

  “Let me sit up first,” she said. “It’s difficult to drink lying down, unless you intend to spoon it into my mouth.”

  Felicity giggled. “I wish I had a sister.”

  “To order you to drink your tea?” Thérèse asked as she levered herself up to a sitting position.

  “To quarrel with. It’s dull, having only brothers, and the youngest of them six years older than me.”

  “Well, Jeannette and I only met—” Thérèse frowned, calculating the time, “—not quite a year ago. Though we’ve been making up for lost time, quarreling and otherwise.”

  “Not quite a year?” Jeannette shook her head. “It seems longer.”

  Felicity grinned, and Thérèse wondered at seeing Henry’s smile on such a feminine face. “Because of the quarrels?”

  “No,” Jeannette said, suddenly serious. “I never could’ve imagined my life so changed in less than a year. To come to England, to be free.”

  “Was it dreadful, being a slave?” Felicity asked, eyes round with curiosity and concern.

  Thérèse shot Jeannette a warning look, pleading that her sister would not antagonize Henry’s family with the set-down such a question probably deserved, but Jeannette shook her head with a wry smile. “I was better treated than most, since I was the master’s daughter,” she said with simple honesty. “But after he died, I still didn’t belong to myself. Now I do.”

  Felicity nodded thoughtfully.

  “Drink your tea, Thérèse,” Jeannette repeated, and she dutifully complied. It had grown cool enough to sip comfortably, and its mild taste soothed her stomach. “You should eat something, too.”

  “Give me a moment,” Thérèse said firmly. “Then, perhaps, something mild.”

  “Let me know if nothing here is suitable.” Felicity waved her hand toward the table where fruit and cakes waited. “I could send for plain bread and butter, or perhaps beef tea?”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Thérèse stared at the parlor. The walls were covered in pink paper with hand-painted flowers and vines, and all the furnishings were in the chinoiserie fashion, black or red, adorned with brightly painted and gilt designs. Any one piece would’ve been beautiful, but together they made her dizzy.

  Such a strange place, this England. That must now be her home, since Henry had inherited his brother’s title. She should’ve given more thought to the possibility when she’d agreed to marry him. But she’d been so caught in the vision of building their own lives together in Canada. They’d spent the voyage here talking with men who’d settled in Canada, calculating how far his saved officer’s pay, her jewels and the proceeds he’d get from selling his captain’s commission would go toward setting them up, and dreaming of their own home. She’d imagined something like the Cutlers’ cabin, at least in size and comfort, and all hers. Now she was mistress of...this. “It’s all so strange,” she said.

  “This room?” Felicity grinned mischievously. “Never tell Dorothea I told you this, but Mama will be so grateful if you give immediate orders to have this room redecorated. She never liked any room Charles and Dorothea had furnished.”

  Thérèse tucked that nugget away as a way to gain favor with her mother-in-law while simultaneously pleasing herself. “That isn’t quite what I meant,” she said. “Though I’d choose something less busy. It’s only strange to think of myself as mistress here.”

  “Oh, I see,” Felicity said, her eyes sparkling with warmth. They were a little darker than Henry’s, more lake blue than sky. “Don’t worry, no one will expect you to know everything about how to go on all at once. I know Mama will want to help you—probably more than you’d wish.”

  “I’ll certainly look to your mother,” she said slowly, “but...we’d made our plans, you see. We were going to spend a year or two in England, to see Henry’s family and get his affairs in order, but then we meant to return to Canada. Henry liked the idea of a frontier life. We meant to have a farm and raise horses. I would’ve made a fine farmer’s wife. I’m not a suitable baroness.”

  Felicity gently pressed her hand, then quickly released it. “You’re married to a baron now. That makes you a baroness whether you’re suitable or not. If a duke married his scullery maid, she’d be as much a duchess as any other duke’s bride.”

  Jeannette sniffed her disdain for this idealism before Thérèse could respond. “But you can’t tell me the other duchesses would accept her as one of their own.”

  Felicity blinked at the younger girl in surprise, then grinned a comrade’s grin. “No. But she’d be a duchess, and her son would be a duke someday. I daresay by the time he had a son, no one would care what his mother had been. A duke is a duke. And, besides—” she turned back to Thérèse, “—you’re clearly no scullery maid.”

  “No,” Thérèse agreed. But she had a feeling her slave grandmother would be as great a blight in society’s eyes. She’d meant to be so honest about who and what she was. She’d never wanted to pass. But now—did she have a choice? Would she ruin Henry’s position in society if she admitted that she was a woman of color? She closed her eyes and fought tears. She didn’t want any of this.

  “Please don’t worry,” Felicity said. “It will all come right, you’ll see. You’re so pretty, and it’s clear you’re a lady. Everyone will think it so romantic—the missing heir turning up with a beautiful Creole bride.”

  Jeannette sniffed. “You’ll be notorious.”

  Thérèse closed her eyes again. She could picture it. She didn’t know London yet, but people were people, weren’t they? It would be just like having a lost heir turn up in New Orleans, only more so, because a noble title was involved. “I never wanted that,” she said. “All we wanted was a quiet, happy life. In Canada.”

  “If you want, you can lead a quiet, happy life at Farlow Hall,” Felicity said. “It’s very far north, and quite isolated. It’s beautiful, don’t misunderstand me, but it’s so dreadfully dull and removed from everything.”

  “But
surely we’ll need to come here, too, or you wouldn’t have this house.”

  “Henry will be expected to take part in Parliament, but not all lords do. And you wouldn’t have to accompany him if you didn’t wish it.”

  “I wouldn’t wish to be parted from him for half the year!”

  Felicity smiled her brightest yet. “Oh, good. You love him.”

  “I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t.”

  “You see, it’s all so romantic. You won’t be notorious, you’ll be famous.”

  “I don’t want that, either.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t last forever, not in London. You’ll only be famous until the next shock or scandal or great event comes along. I doubt you’ll be the talk of the town for more than a month or two.”

  Thérèse chuckled. “I suppose I can endure that.” She could live with gossip, as long as it didn’t land her and Henry in the papers in enough detail that Jean-Baptiste Bondurant would recognize them if the London news made it across the ocean—which, of course, it did. She could remember her father chuckling over months-old news from Paris. Surely London papers made the same journey. She bit her lip. She must talk to Henry soon.

  But before she could say more, the butler came in, announcing the doctor. Thérèse answered his questions on her symptoms and the previous regularity of her monthly courses, all while boggling at the sheer oddness of being addressed, with great respect, as Lady Farlow. He concluded by telling her what she already knew—that she was pregnant, and likely to deliver in late spring—and that after her long journey it would be well for her to rest.

  “He didn’t say anything I hadn’t already told you,” Jeannette muttered as soon as he bowed himself out.

  A few minutes later a knock sounded softly at the door, and Henry stepped inside. “Jeannette, Felicity, if I might have some time alone with my wife?”

  Felicity sprang to her feet, and Jeannette stood, too, more warily. “Of course,” Felicity said. “Come with me, Miss Bondurant. I’ll show you around the house.”