by Cheryl Holt
If Miss Henley took them, Camilla would never have to fuss with them again. She and Alex wouldn’t have to waste funds on governesses or debuts or dowries. His last tie to his ex-wife would be severed, and he’d finally be happy.
When Camilla had initially fled Wallace Downs, she’d been in a snit, terrified that he was about to set her aside. Now everything was perfect, and she knew her role. She went over to him and snuggled herself to his chest.
“You seem weary, darling,” she cooed. “Would you like me to relax you?”
He shook his head. “No. I have some pressing business.”
“What is it?”
“I have to find Price. Have you any idea of where he’s staying? Is he at his father’s?”
“I couldn’t guess if he’s there or not. I heard through the grapevine there’s some sort of betrothal ball planned. Has some poor ninny agreed to wed him?”
“Yes, but she’s not poor. She’s very, very rich.”
“Ah…that explains it.”
“Where is the ball being held?”
“I simply presumed it would be at his father’s town house. Why? Weren’t you invited?”
He scoffed. “No, I definitely wasn’t invited.”
“But…but…he’s your best friend.”
“Not anymore.”
“Does this mean he’ll never be a guest at the manor in the future?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what it means.”
She bit down a grin. Another enemy vanquished! With so little scheming on her part!
“What do you need from me?” she asked him. “I was about to have a glass of wine, then dress for the evening. I’m dining out for supper. Will you join me for the wine or the meal?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m attending the theater afterward. Will you come there?”
“I hate the theater, and I don’t like to socialize with your friends.”
She huffed with irritation. “You don’t have to be rude about it.”
“No, I don’t.” He started out.
“Where are you going?” she complained. “I haven’t seen you in a week.”
“I’m sure—in your view—that’s cause for celebration.”
“Must we quarrel? It’s all we do these days. Despite what you believe, I haven’t been celebrating. I’ve been worried sick.”
“Worried? About me? Don’t make me laugh, Camilla.”
“You’re extremely upset for some reason. I wish you’d allow me to soothe you. You’d feel better.”
“I’m an adult. I’m capable of soothing myself.”
“Fine. Be surly and grouchy, but don’t expect me to stand here and let you rage at me.”
“As the night progresses, I’m predicting my mood will improve. If I can locate Price. He and I have a few matters to discuss.”
She didn’t like how he pronounced the word matters, and a frisson of unease slid down her spine.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “What happened between you two?”
“Naught happened between us. Yet.” His eyes looked cold and dead. “If you arrive home and discover I’ve been arrested, I’d appreciate it if you’d post my bail.”
He whipped away and marched out. She was frozen in her spot, suddenly rippling with alarm. Was the bloody man intending to fight with Price Pendergast? Was he planning to…to…duel? The notion didn’t bear contemplating. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Lord Henley?
What was wrong with him? Obviously, he was in a temper, but why? And how could she stop him? He never listened to her on any topic.
“Alex!” she called. “What are you thinking? Don’t you dare leave this house!”
She raced down the stairs, hoping to delay and calm him, but he’d already exited out the front door and vanished onto the busy street.
* * * *
“There’s something I have to tell you.” Abigail smiled at the twins, praying she didn’t appear as miserable as she felt. “It’s important.”
They were in the dining room at the cottage, their school books open. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, the girls on either side of her. They gazed at her, so trusting and innocent that she couldn’t imagine sharing any horrid news.
She’d been pretending it was a normal day, but normality was impossible. After being up all night, she was incredibly exhausted. What woman in her situation wouldn’t be fatigued?
She’d been seduced and deflowered, then rebuffed and disavowed by the love of her life. She’d been fired from her job and ordered to pack her bags. Her heart was broken, her mental faculties confused and chaotic, and potent fury was boiling just below the surface.
In her dealings with Alex Wallace, she’d made many mistakes. First and foremost, the instant the debacle with Hayden had been mentioned, she should have announced her true identity and left.
But she hadn’t. She’d stayed and had been lulled into complacency by his handsome face and easy charm. She recognized that he loathed Hayden, but she’d convinced herself that his fondness would cancel out any hatred for her brother.
Well, she’d been put in her place, hadn’t she?
From the start, she’d thought his proposal of marriage was an insane idea, and she’d been proved correct. The quickness with which he’d decided to wed her was only matched by the quickness with which he’d realized his error.
A pox on his head! He was a capricious, impulsive, and erratic libertine. He was a convicted felon and a disgraced scapegrace. He was a cad who settled his quarrels in violent, illegal ways. How had she forgotten all those revolting traits? Why had she spent a single second assuming he might be a suitable husband?
It was time to regroup and muddle forward. The moment Alex had stormed out of the cottage she’d penned a letter to Mrs. Ford, apologizing for her having tarried and promising to return shortly.
The letter would likely soothe any ruffled feathers, but if she arrived in London and Mrs. Ford cut her loose, what would she do? If Mrs. Ford abandoned her because of Alex, Abigail was afraid she might buy a pistol, sneak to Wallace Downs, and shoot him right between the eyes.
“What is it, Miss Barrington?” Mary asked. “Will it make us happy?”
Abigail shrugged. “It will, and it won’t.”
Millie scowled. “Tell us what will make us happy first. Then tell us what will make us unhappy. I don’t like to be unhappy.”
“I’ll begin with the good news. I hope I can explain it so you’ll understand. You know who your father was, don’t you?” They silently debated what their reply should be, and Abigail said, “It’s not Mr. Wallace. You can admit it.”
“Yes,” they responded together, and Mary added, “Our father was Lord Henley, but he passed away so he couldn’t come for us.”
“We waited forever,” Millie said, “and we figured no one had told him where we were so he couldn’t find us. But then we heard the servants talking about him. He died in an accident.”
Gad, how long had they been waiting for Hayden? How long had they expected he’d bluster in and claim them? She sighed with resignation. How would she fix any of this? It seemed the sort of effort a god or a genius should undertake, but she had no magical powers.
“Yes, Lord Henley was your father, and he’s deceased now.”
“Do you suppose he loved our mother?” Mary asked.
The question flummoxed Abigail. “I have no idea, Mary.”
The twins stared at each other again, another visual message conveyed. Apparently, they’d frequently pondered the issue, and maybe in the future—when they were older—she’d have a frank discussion with them about their parents’ foibles and illicit conduct.
“I’m betting he loved her,” Millie firmly stated, and Mary nodded in agreement.
Abigail didn’t comment on the assertion. Instead, she said, “There’s a secret I’ve been keeping about Lord Henley and myself. I think it will surprise
you.”
“What is it?” Millie asked.
“He was my brother.”
“Lord Henley was?”
“Yes, and my real name isn’t Miss Barrington. It’s Miss Henley.”
“Why would you use a fake name? If I were Lord Henley’s sister, I would brag about it to everyone.”
“It’s a long story,” Abigail murmured, “but the main thing is—if Lord Henley was your father and my brother—then I am your aunt.”
“You’re our aunt?” Millie cautiously inquired.
“Yes.”
“So we’re related? We’re family with you?”
“Yes, we’re very closely related. And I have two sisters, Sarah and Catherine, who are also your aunts. They’re twins too.”
“We have three aunts?”
“Yes. Three aunts.”
They grinned, and Millie said, “That’s the grandest gift ever. May we call you Aunt Abigail rather than Miss Henley or Miss Barrington?”
“Yes, it would please me very much.”
“Can we always stay with you now? If we’re kin, we shouldn’t ever be separated.”
Abigail’s smile slipped. “Yes, we’ll try to be together. Whenever I can manage it, I’ll visit you. I’m planning for it to be quite often.”
“We’ll try to be together? You’ll visit? You won’t live at Wallace Downs? Aren’t you marrying Mr. Wallace? You could be our aunt and our mother.”
Abigail exhaled a heavy breath, feeling dreadful and not sufficient to the task of explaining. “I’m not marrying Mr. Wallace after all.”
The announcement wasn’t what they’d anticipated, and they both sagged a little, suddenly looking younger and smaller.
“We’ve been counting on it,” Millie said.
“I’m sorry that you were.”
“What will happen instead? If there’s not to be a wedding, can we continue on with you at the cottage?”
“No,” Abigail informed them. “I won’t be working here. I have to leave on Sunday.”
“But…where will you go? What will become of us?”
“You’ll be fine,” she hurried to insist. “Faith will be around to watch over you, and Mr. Wallace will be at the manor.”
“Will Miss Robertson hire a new governess to teach us?’ Mary asked.
Abigail would like to reassure them, but she wouldn’t provide false optimism. “I can’t guess how Mr. Wallace will handle this.”
“We don’t like Miss Robertson. She’s very cruel, and she wants to send us away to school. She claims we’re an incredible burden, and Mr. Wallace shouldn’t have to support us.”
“I didn’t realize that.” Was there a single adult who’d ever behaved decently toward them? “She shouldn’t be so awful to you. There’s no reason to be.”
“Could we speak to Mr. Wallace on your behalf?” Millie suggested. “Would that help? If we told him how good you are as a governess, would he let you remain?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, Millie. There’s no chance of it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not.”
They had another silent conversation, then they stared at Abigail, and Mary said, “When you depart, could we leave with you? No one would care. Miss Robertson always tells us that.”
Abigail would have liked to say yes, they absolutely could go with her, but she didn’t have the authority to take them. She would constantly pressure Alex to give her custody and rent a house for them in London, but she couldn’t raise their hopes.
His temper was raging so he’d be eager to punish Abigail for being who she was. The easiest way to accomplish it would be to separate her from the twins and never permit her to see them again.
“I can ask Mr. Wallace if you could live with me,” she glumly said, “but you shouldn’t expect he’ll allow it. I’m very poor, and I don’t have a home of my own or any money. He’d have to supply those things, but you already have them here. He might not be inclined to spend the extra funds it would cost for us to have a residence somewhere else.”
“But you’ll ask him? You promise?”
“Yes, I promise, but you shouldn’t imagine he’ll agree.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Millie said. “Are you two fighting? Is that it? Why are grownups always fighting? Why can’t everyone get along? Wouldn’t that be better?”
Out of the mouth of babes…
“We’re not fighting,” Abigail fibbed. “We simply decided I shouldn’t stay. I’m not the person he thought I was.”
“Is it because you’re Lord Henley’s sister? Mother told us that Mr. Wallace hated our father which is why he hates us.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s very fond of you, and I wish your mother wouldn’t upset you like that.”
From the look they cast each other, it was obvious they didn’t believe her about Alex, and she wasn’t completely certain herself of how he viewed them deep down. She’d observed him interacting with them, and he seemed to like them, but as she’d just learned his feelings were changeable and capricious. One minute, he could be kind and generous, and the next he could be cold and callous.
“We’re coming with you,” Mary declared, “and Mr. Wallace’s opinion about it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not up to you or me. He’s your guardian so he determines what’s best for you. If you left without permission, he’d simply chase after us and bring you back.”
“We’d hide so he couldn’t find us. We’re not afraid of him.”
“It’s not about being afraid. He has to choose what he thinks is proper for you, and I don’t have the means to provide for you.”
“Will he deliver us to Mother now?” Millie inquired. “Is it a possibility? Or if he won’t, might Miss Robertson send us there when he isn’t paying attention?”
“I’m not sure what’s approaching for you, Millie.”
“You don’t know what adults are like,” Mary said. “You don’t know the terrible things they can do to little girls.”
It was such a sad, despairing statement that Abigail didn’t respond.
Clearly, her answers weren’t comforting or encouraging. She wasn’t confident as to how their situation would play out, and she’d never been a good liar.
When she’d initially arrived at her post, their decrepit condition had been embarrassing. Miss Robertson was keen to be shed of them by shipping them off to boarding school. Might that be a viable ending? Abigail’s years at school had been marvelous. Perhaps they would have the same experience.
For if they had to remain at Wallace Downs, who was there to guarantee they were noticed and tended? Faith was too distracted and didn’t feel they were her problem. Miss Robertson was too spiteful and not concerned about their welfare. Alex was lazy and preoccupied and not interested in shouldering the burden he’d assumed when he’d been granted custody.
If he’d been in the room, she’d have grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and shaken him for being such an unreliable, negligent idiot.
“I have an idea.” She sounded incredibly morose. “Let’s close our books and walk on the beach instead. How would that be?”
“That would be perfect.”
They cleaned up while she loafed in her chair, too overwhelmed to pitch in. She was anxious to fill herself with the sight of them. How many more times would she be with them? Until Sunday for the moment but after that? Who could predict what Alex would decide?
They came over to her, and they leaned in. Their blue eyes were bright and pretty, and they smiled an identical, cheerful smile.
“Everything will be all right, Aunt Abigail,” Mary said. “Mr. Wallace doesn’t want you, but we do.”
“We’ll take care of you,” Millie said. “Don’t fret over it.”
“We’ll take care of each other,” Abigail vowed.
“We’re a family now,” Millie told her. “We’ll always be a family�
��with or without Mr. Wallace.”
* * * *
Faith sat in her ruined studio, studying the empty space. She felt hollowed out and a tad lost. An urge to create was niggling at her like a splinter in her thumb, but she was ignoring it.
There was no point to working. There was no point to pretending she was someone other than who she was: the bastard daughter of the master of the manor. She was the scandalous love child, the dirty little secret.
Her entire life, she’d battled against that stigma and had acted as if she could rise above it. She’d lived as she wished to live, had furiously resisted the strictures that would have bound her into being a normal female with a tedious existence. Why? Had she been hoping others would notice how different she was? Had she been hoping others would deem her more worthy than her birth status indicated?
Well, one person had noticed her. Lord Pendergast had noticed, and look where that had landed her.
It was time to lower her standards and accept the reality of who and what she was. She wasn’t special or unique. She could paint and what else? Absolutely nothing. For a woman, an ability to paint was no ability at all. Men were the masters in the field, and a female who tried to wedge a spot in that exalted group was deluding herself.
What now? What next? She couldn’t imagine.
She heard footsteps, and for a second her heart pattered as she wondered if it might be Lord Pendergast. That’s how stupid she was. She kept picturing him rushing in with promises and apologies, but it was madness to suppose he might.
She was a gullible fool and a dunce. She’d wallowed in a fantasy with Lord Pendergast, and Alex had had to remind her that aristocrats didn’t wed the illegitimate daughters of housemaids. It never transpired, and she had to forgive herself and move on. But to where?
She glanced over to the door, and Mary was standing there. Millie was nowhere to be found which was unusual. They were always together. She waved for the girl to enter.
“This room is sad,” Mary said.
“Yes, it is,” Faith agreed.
“I liked it much better when it was full of your paintings.”
