Jeannette gave her a quick smile. “Call me Jeannette.”
With that the two girls walked out, not quite arm in arm but looking as if they might end the day that way. “Make her eat something,” Jeannette called over her shoulder as they shut the door behind them.
“I thought they’d be friends,” Henry said.
“I believe they will, as long as your sister can understand why Jeannette acts prickly sometimes.”
Henry nodded absently. “They’ll sort themselves out, I’m sure.” He crossed the room to kneel at her side. “Oh, God, Thérèse. I’m sorry to have brought you into this coil.” His eyes shone with unshed tears.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, feeling her own eyes start to brim.
“I don’t know—but don’t you cry. Gowling said you needed to rest.”
She wiped her eyes. “I can rest and cry at the same time.”
“No, you cannot. Grief is exhausting. And I know you can’t eat and cry at the same time. So tell me what you want, and I’ll fill your plate.”
She allowed him to offer her some grapes and a few Naples biscuits, which looked promisingly sweet and bland. He watched her until she obediently put a grape in her mouth, spitting out the seed with what delicacy she could muster, and nibbled at the biscuit, which had a faint flavor of rosewater and tasted well with the tea.
“There,” he said. “Good God, Thérèse, I know you need to rest more than anything, but—”
“I’m pregnant,” she told him. “Yes, that makes me tired, and I don’t think I could bear to eat meat at the moment. But I’m not made of porcelain, and I haven’t lost my senses. We must talk. I need your help to understand your family and what’s expected of me now that I’m...Lady Farlow.”
He took a deep breath. “You’re right. I—I’m still in shock. I miss Charles so much. The others have had time to mourn already, to grow accustomed. But if anyone died, it was supposed to be me. I’m the soldier. I can’t be as good a baron as he was.”
“You’ll do your best,” she said, squeezing his hands. “I think you’ll be better than you expect.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I’ll never be as good as he was.”
Always it came back to his struggles with literacy. “I’ll help you as much as I can,” she said. “I may not know England yet, but I can always read to you and write what you dictate. I’ll just seem an especially fond and helpful wife.”
He kissed her softly. “My wife indeed. Which reminds me—I mean to get a special license as soon as I can.”
“What’s a special license?”
He blinked, and Thérèse wondered how many other English phrases she’d be expected to know. “It’s a way to get married quickly, and discreetly, if you choose. That way we can finish our wedding before we leave for Farlow Hall.”
“But you said that didn’t matter.”
“That was when I was plain Mr. Farlow. If someday, somehow, the world were to find out our original wedding never finished, it would make our children illegitimate.”
“Wasn’t that already true?”
“Yes, but it didn’t matter so much before. Now—if anyone found out, our eldest son would lose the title and lands.”
“Why would anyone ever find out?”
“I don’t know! I don’t think they would, but stranger things have happened. I don’t want to risk our son’s inheritance by saying it’s impossible.”
Thérèse bit her lip. She was married. She was. She hadn’t been living in sin for six months. She didn’t need another wedding. “Won’t it cause a scandal?”
“Under the circumstances, I think not. We needn’t tell the entire story, but we can say we have doubts about the American wedding’s validity for whatever reason—we’re not sure the officiant was properly ordained, I was married under an assumed name, or somesuch—and now that there’s a title in question, we want to remove all doubt. Also, Town is thin of company at this time of year. If we marry quietly in this very parlor, with only my family and the vicar for witnesses, hardly anyone will notice.”
His argument sounded persuasive. And yet—if they weren’t married enough, couldn’t they stop to consider whether they should still be husband and wife, now that he was a peer? It was one thing for a younger son to marry a cuarterona, but for a baron? Would she ruin his life if she stayed? What if their child was born with African features? Would he be ostracized? Would he ever find a woman of appropriate rank willing to marry him?
She wouldn’t speak of it to Henry yet. She needed to give him time to get over the initial shock of discovering himself Lord Farlow. Maybe he’d even realize how bad she could be for him on his own. “Can’t we wait a little?” she asked. “The baby won’t be born tomorrow.”
“We need to do it before we leave London,” he said. “The licenses are only issued here, and I suppose in Canterbury. Besides, why would you want to delay? Don’t you care that our son gets his due?”
“Of course I do.” What kind of life would her son, her part-African, part-Choctaw son, have if she stayed? But, then what kind of life would he have if she left, and brought him up without a father? She wanted the best for her child, but she was no longer sure what that was. “But I’m so tired, and so confused. Must it be tomorrow? Couldn’t it be next week?”
He let out a slow breath. “If you insist. But this is important.”
“I know. But it’s so strange, Henry. When Doctor Gowling called me Lady Farlow, I didn’t know what to think. I don’t know how to do this. I didn’t want this. I wanted our house, our life in Canada. That was right. It was equally new for both of us. I’d miss New Orleans, you’d miss England and your mountains, but we’d build our own life together. Now I must live in your world. I wasn’t born for this.”
“Neither was I.”
“Yes, you were. You can’t tell me it’s rare for a second son to come into a title.”
He deflated a little. “No, it’s not. But I’m so unsuitable, and no one ever thought it would come to pass. Charles was healthy. He married young, and Dorothea had their first daughter not ten months after the wedding. Anyone would’ve expected him to have half a dozen sons.”
“Life isn’t always expected.”
“No.” He kissed her hand. “I’m sorry, Thérèse. I never meant to drag you into this life. I wish we could go back to Canada, too. But I can’t, and I need you with me.”
“Can’t you just give up the title and let Edward have it? It seems unfair to him, that he’s spent the last two months thinking himself a baron, only to lose it.”
“It is unfair, but, no, I can’t. Never while I live. No matter what, the elder son inherits. We could still go to Canada, but it would mean leaving my lands in someone else’s care, never sitting in Parliament. It wouldn’t seem right.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“My duty,” he said with a bleak sigh. “Somehow. Be a good steward of our lands and tenants. Take my part in the House of Lords and do what I can for the kingdom. Work for the entire abolition of slavery.”
She smoothed his hair. He was going to make such a fine baron. Maybe she should stay. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go ahead and get his special license, that she’d gladly marry him as soon as she’d had a good night’s sleep or two and a dress fit to wear. But what did his family think of her? “Did you tell your family about us, or was it all about your brother?”
“I told them the bare bones—how we met and how we came to travel to Canada.”
“Even about Bertrand?” Surely that wouldn’t be wise.
“Yes, though I swore them to secrecy. My return is going to be reported in the papers whether we like it or not—it’s too sensational a story to keep quiet. But we’ll need a more innocuous reason to explain why I was separated from my unit for so lo
ng.”
Thérèse pondered, distracted for the moment from her concerns about his family. “Could you have lost your memory? No, that wouldn’t work, because we would’ve known what you were by your uniform. I know—we’ll let it be thought that you were at death’s door for longer, until your army had already left.”
“Hmm. But why wouldn’t I have gone to the American authorities and asked for their aid getting home?”
She took another bite of Naples biscuit. “That is a problem. Maybe...just bend the truth a little. A slave saved your life and hid you, and you wanted to help her escape, but you knew if you went to the Americans, you couldn’t, and that if anyone ever found out the slave had hidden you, it would go badly for her.”
He smiled. “I like that. But then where do you come into the picture?”
“I found out about you, but was so charmed by you that I ran away with you instead of telling my papa.”
“Hmm...none of that will make us less notorious. We’ll have to hope your cousin Jean-Baptiste pays little heed to the London papers.”
“I’ll let you know if I have a better idea.” She sipped her tea. “What else did you tell your family about me?”
“I didn’t tell them our wedding wasn’t finished,” Henry said, “though we’ll be obliged to, once I get the special license.”
She met his steady, clear blue eyes, then stared at the busy gilt furnishings of the parlor. “What did they say when you told them of my ancestry?”
He coughed. “I didn’t. I thought it was yours to tell, in your way.”
Suddenly Thérèse found herself crying, her hands shaking so hard she could hardly hold her plate and teacup. Henry knelt by her side again and took them from her, setting them on a low table. “What—was I wrong?”
If she’d been all white, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell everything he knew of her background. “Did they ask about my family?”
He stared at the floor. “Mama did. Since you’re partly French, she was curious about them. I told her I didn’t know anything about what they’d been in France, and that surely they’d been in Louisiana for long enough that it didn’t matter.”
Thérèse suspected it was more than curiosity. Surely her mother-in-law hoped for some indication that Thérèse’s blood was aristocratic enough to make her a worthy match for a duc’s grandson. “Are you ashamed of me?” she asked, hating her voice for shaking.
“Ashamed? Good God, Thérèse. Never. I love you. I’m proud of you.”
“And yet you didn’t tell them who I really am.”
“Only because I wasn’t sure how you wanted it told! I never thought we’d keep it a secret. You always said you didn’t want to pass.”
“It’s different with the title, though, isn’t it?”
Now he looked up at her, and his eyes blazed with the same intensity as when he’d proposed they marry. “Everything is different. But we’re the same.”
“Are we?” Could they be?
“We must be. We’ll find a way.”
Chapter Nineteen
Thérèse never clearly remembered the rest of that day. Her mother-in-law soon came in and introduced the housekeeper, saying kindly that after Thérèse had a few days to rest would be soon enough to begin learning the ways of the house and its management. The dowager and the housekeeper led her to a finely appointed bedchamber, and Thérèse allowed herself to be handed into the keeping of the dowager’s own abigail, who bustled her into the last clean nightdress she had and saw her tucked into the great bed. Despite her turmoil, she soon slept.
She stirred but briefly when, well after darkness fell, Henry crept into bed beside her, and awoke for just a little longer the next morning when he, dressed in clothing borrowed from his brother, kissed her goodbye and told her he was going to Horse Guards to see about his status with the army, and he’d see her that evening. She knew she ought to say something more—he looked so grave and serious—but she was too muzzy-headed to do more than murmur farewell.
She didn’t wake again until she felt a pressing need for the chamber pot, but for the first time in weeks had no need to vomit into it. She was wondering how she might summon someone to help her dress when a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” she said hesitantly.
Felicity and Jeannette bounded inside like a pair of frisky young kittens, followed by a blank-faced, correct maid bearing a tray of food. “Here you are, my lady. If you wish anything else, you need only ask, but Miss Bondurant thought this might be suitable.”
Feeling awkward in her nightdress, Thérèse inspected the tray, which held tea, a pair of poached eggs in a little dish, toasted bread and honey. To her surprise, she wanted to eat it all. “Very suitable. Thank you.”
The servant curtsied and left the room. Thérèse stared at the closed door for a distracted moment. It still seemed odd to see work done by white servants instead of black slaves. She had no idea of how she was expected to comport herself around them, and she was their mistress now.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Jeannette said. “And you must eat. You can’t make a baby if you waste away.”
“You said the sickness was normal.”
“It is. It’s even good. My mother always said it’s the strong babies that make their mothers sick. But you still need to eat.”
“Well, I’m hungry today. I hope it will stay down.”
Jeannette was wearing a new dress, plain white muslin with a black sash at its high waist. It fit her well enough, though with a seamstress’s practiced eye Thérèse could tell that the hem had been hastily taken up and that the armholes were too tight for her broad shoulders. Glancing at her sister’s companion, Thérèse knew where it had come from. That was a good sign, at least.
“I’m glad you’re feeling more the thing,” Felicity said. “Mama and Dorothea would never tell me anything about what it’s like to be increasing, but Jeannette did.” Her blue eyes twinkled.
“Jeannette,” Thérèse chided. They couldn’t have Henry’s family thinking she wasn’t fit company for Felicity.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Felicity said. “I won’t tell Mama—and besides, why shouldn’t I know more about it? I’m to have my Season next year, and if I marry, I might have a baby of my own another year after that.”
Thérèse nodded, seeing the sense in this, even as Jeannette urged her to sit at a low table by the window. She took the chair and poured herself a cup of tea.
“In any case,” Felicity continued, “if you wish it, after you’ve eaten and refreshed yourself, Mama says she will take us to her modiste. She thinks Madame Sylvie will be able to have some things made up for you before we need to leave for Farlow Hall. For the rest, our village dressmaker is good for plain things, but I’m sure you’d like a few fashionable dresses. We’re in half mourning now, so it needn’t be all black.”
“I would indeed,” Thérèse said, though she vowed not to be too profligate. If she—if she chose to leave, she didn’t want to have spent too much of Henry’s money.
“Good, then. I’ll leave you two for the time being—I know Jeannette wants to talk to you.” She smiled and slipped out the door.
“You should sit down and eat something, too,” Thérèse said.
Jeannette took the chair opposite her but ignored the food. “I already ate.”
Thérèse dipped a bite of toast into the honey. It tasted heavenly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep so early yesterday evening.”
“Why? You were exhausted.”
“But I left you alone to face strangers.”
Jeannette rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t call Henry’s family strangers.”
“They certainly feel like strangers to me.” Thérèse took a cautious bite of egg, and when she found it didn’t raise her gorge, a second one.
Jeannette flipped he
r hand from palm up to palm down, allowing this. “Well, then, I wasn’t alone because Henry was there and Felicity was friendly.”
“And the others weren’t?” Thérèse asked, alert to any mistreatment on account of her sister’s color.
“Well, Lady Farlow is too glad to have her son back to notice anyone else—though I can see she’s as proud and high in the instep as ever walked. And as for Mr. Edward, I think he’s too busy trying to decide if he’s angry or glad to have Henry back to take any notice of me.”
Thérèse couldn’t help but laugh. “All that is reasonable, I suppose. But did they treat you well? Did you have dinner with the family? And where did you sleep?”
“Don’t worry, they didn’t treat me like a servant—do you think Henry would allow that? The food was delicious—the family keeps a French chef. Which reminds me—keep eating. The chef understands eggs.”
Thérèse bit down on a smile and took another bite of admittedly excellent eggs. Clearly he understood them, but since when did Jeannette?
“As for the rest, my room is across from Felicity’s and has the softest bed I’ve ever lain in. And Henry took me into the library and made me select a book apiece in English and French. He says I’m to have a governess as soon as we’re well settled.” She pulled a face.
“Don’t you want one?” Thérèse asked. “I thought you were starting to enjoy your lessons.”
“I am, but—you didn’t have a governess. You went to school and made friends there.”
“You’d like to meet girls your age,” Thérèse guessed.
“I still miss Lucie. Our father sold her even when I begged him not to.”
“I wish we could go back and buy her and free her.”
“I wish we could free everyone.”
They sighed together over the impossibility of changing the world. “Henry wants to work for abolition in Parliament,” Thérèse said after a moment.
“I wish there were more like him.”
Thérèse considered her sister. How would she fare at an English school? It would be very different from Thérèse’s convent school, where she’d been surrounded by other young femmes de couleur libres. A governess might be better, at least in the beginning, until Jeannette knew more of English ways. “I could ask about schools,” she said, leaving her thoughts unspoken, “but I don’t know if we’d be able to find a good one near Farlow Hall. It’s very remote, I think.”
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