Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “News, Gwendolyn?” Burscough asked, as he wiped his fingers on his napkin. It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing for him to stop using the hem of the tablecloth.

  “My…” Her throat closed up. She had never directly lied to Burscough and she couldn’t now.

  He glanced at the front of the letter. “Your sister? That writing of hers is distinctive.”

  Jenny turned the letter over, to look at Sharla’s scrawled hand. “It is,” she agreed.

  Burscough pulled the teapot closer and poured himself a cup, his curiosity satisfied.

  Jenny turned back to the letter.

  Jenny:

  First you must forgive Sharla for the deception she has played. If you will not open my letters, and I can only presume you have not, for you have responded to none of them, then I must try one last time to reach you. Sharla has agreed to this because she is as concerned about you as I—as are we all, including Father, who will never admit it.

  I have said everything I will about the child. I haven’t the heart to go over it again, especially when I know that there is little chance you will ever read this. I will contain myself to the single question: Do you and the babe fare well? There was no announcement in the newspapers about the birth, which leaves me to worry that something went wrong.

  Jenny drew in a breath and glanced at Burscough. He was not used to the ways of society, of the recording of births and deaths and the traditions surrounding them. It had not occurred to Burscough that he should announce Jackson’s birth in the papers, especially the Times. Jenny had said nothing because the money needed to pay for the announcements had not been available.

  She turned back to the letter.

  That is all I ask of you now. I must know that you are well, that he is not mistreating you. Silence is not an answer, Jenny. Silence only drives me to more worry.

  I understand, now, why you left London early last season and why you did not attend this one. I understand, and I will leave you be, once you have assured me that you are quite alright.

  Yours, forever.

  J.

  Jenny folded the letter, her heart thudding with sick intensity and tried to eat her oatmeal as if all was as usual, while her mind whirled and worry built.

  She knew Jack. He meant every word and would abide by them. If she gave him silence as an answer, he would pursue the matter. Pursue her. He would arrive in Burscough, looking for her and for answers. The arrival of a high ranking peer and stranger in the tiny village would cause an uproar of which Burscough would be forced to take notice.

  The wisest course of action would be to write a short letter, a note, that she and Jackson fared well.

  Then Jack would go away as he had promised.

  Only, she didn’t think she could write the note, for she was not fine. Not at all.

  Jenny glanced around the plain room with the faded walls and lack of furniture. The scratched tabletop and the stained linens.

  Every day drew out like a long, sad note on a viola, full of worry for her son and struggles to meet simple needs she had once taken for granted. If Jackson developed a fever, she had no recourse but to nurse him herself, with her ignorance her only guide.

  If the merchants in the village ever banded together to confront them about the growing sums of money Burscough owed them, Jenny didn’t know what they would do. Only the villagers’ respect for their lord made them tolerate the debts. Jenny hated visiting the village shops, now. She had not moved out of the house for weeks.

  Even so, she was busier than the most popular debutante could ever hope to be. There were not enough hours in the day to do all she must to keep them going. She would fall into bed late in the evening, exhausted, yet unable to sleep for worry. Then she would rise in the morning to face the same challenges all over again.

  Her body ached. There was not one source for the ache—it spread through her bones and made her limbs feel like lead. Her clothes no longer fitted her properly. The waists were too large and the sleeves sunk in about her shoulders. Yet she felt heavier than ever and dragged herself through her days.

  How could she tell Jack she was fine? There were enough lies in her life. She couldn’t bear to tell another one, not to Jack.

  Jenny didn’t write the letter that day. She put it aside the next day, too, for the tomato seedlings had to be planted now the danger of frost had gone.

  Quickly, a week went by, with the letter unwritten. Jack’s letter sat on the top shelf of her secretary, accusing her every time she opened it. Letter writing was an infrequent pleasure these days, so the sting of guilt did not touch her as often as it might have.

  Another week slipped by. On Thursday, Jenny arranged for Cook to take care of Jackson for the day, as it had become imperative she acquire new thread for sewing and other small supplies she could not make for herself. She had a small purse of coins she had saved and squirreled away over the winter, which would pay for the essentials.

  It was the first market day in Chorley for the year. Whittle had the little gig hitched to the mare and Jenny drove herself to the market town. It was a warm day for March, with a thin, cloudless sky and no wind. The drive was pleasant, for the rattle of the wheels on the road and the clop of the horse’s hooves was soothing.

  At Chorley, Jenny struggled to put the nose bag on the mare’s head, the way Whittle had shown her. She managed it at last, picked up her straw basket and walked along the high street to where she could see the market stalls ahead.

  There was plenty of thread to be bought, most of it far more expensive than she had hoped. Jenny fingered the spools of gayly colored thread wistfully and hesitated over selecting the plain white and black spools she badly needed. Their purchase would deplete her purse of most of the coins, yet she wanted to buy Jackson a small gift, some frivolous toy for the baby to play with, for he had very few toys.

  Her heart thumped tiredly. Why must every decision be such a critical one? Why must she always have to choose between such unpleasant alternatives?

  “Let me buy those for you.”

  Jenny gasped and looked up. Jack stood next to her, digging in his pocket for coins. His jacket was new, neat broadcloth, with silk edges on his collar. His cravat was silk, his waistcoat a beautiful brocade. The gold watch would buy a year’s worth of bacon for the breakfast table.

  “Jack…” she breathed.

  He gave the stall owner the coins and picked up the spools. “Here,” he said, holding them out to her.

  Jenny’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Jack. That would complete her humiliation, for she was aware of how very ragged and worn her dress and appointments were. Her hair was pinned in the quickest and most convenient knot on the back of her head and all her jewelry had been sold long ago. The sprigged muslin was faded and hung almost shapelessly about her shoulders and waist. The shawl about her shoulders she had spun and knitted at night when she was too tired to sleep. The dun colored wool did not compliment the mauve flowers on her dress.

  Jack lifted her hand and put the spools on her palm, then curled her fingers over them. “Take them,” he said gently.

  He had kept his promise. He had sought her out, because she had given him silence.

  Jenny tried to control her chin and jaw and remain calm. She wanted to refuse the thread, yet she needed it and he was offering it as a gift. If she took them, then she could buy Jackson his toy.

  Jenny opened her reticule and dropped the spools into it. “Thank you,” she said, keeping her chin down. If she looked into his eyes for too long, she would be trapped there.

  “I’m glad we bumped into each other,” Jack said. “I had a commission that brought me to the area, and I was wondering if I should call upon you.”

  He was speaking for the benefit of the stall owner, who was studying him curiously.

  “We don’t have many visitors to the manor,” Jenny admitted. “Although I am sure my husband would be pleased to host any member
of my family.”

  The stall owner abruptly lost interest. There was no scandal here for him to report to his neighbors. The lady and the fine gentlemen were relatives.

  Jack glanced around the busy stalls. “Do you have much more to buy?”

  The list of things she should purchase was long indeed, although there was only one she could afford. “There were some toy soldiers, back there…” She nodded along the lane.

  “He’s a boy?” Jack breathed. For a moment, his urbane London gentleman façade slipped and raw pain showed in his eyes.

  Jenny drew a shuddering breath. She didn’t know if she could withstand this. The confrontation was overdue, yet she didn’t have the energy to keep Jack at bay.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. Then he gripped her arm and turned her about, with a gentle force. “Show me the stall,” he said quietly.

  “Jack…”

  “Then, I am going to buy a large picnic basket and fill it with food, and I am going to watch you eat all of it. Then I will fill it again, and send you home with it.”

  “Jack, no,” Jenny said desperately. “You’ve caught me while I’m not at my best. That does not mean I am in need of charity.”

  He pushed her along the lane, steering her around people. “You are thin to the point of transparency, Jenny. There are marks under your eyes that tell me you don’t sleep. I watched you weigh up the cost of two measly spools of thread and despair over it. This is no passing moment.”

  “It’s not Burscough’s fault,” Jenny said quickly.

  “No, it’s mine,” Jack said. “I did this to his family. And now you must pay for it. Well, not today.”

  Jenny didn’t have the strength to argue. Jack’s anger and his determination made it easier to let him have his way. It was so nice to not have to think about anything, to let someone else worry.

  Jack walked around the market, selecting bread and cheese and preserves from last year’s harvest. There were even some early hot house strawberries. Two bottles of homemade lemonade, and slices of cured mutton, crusty with salt. And finally, the stand with the carpenter and his array of toy soldiers and horses. Jenny would not let Jack pay for the soldier and horse she purchased.

  Jack said nothing while the purchases were made. He took the basket from Jenny’s arm and carried it as it grew heavier, while Jenny simply followed him, too tired to protest anymore.

  In truth, her mouth watered with each item he bought.

  Then Jack hefted the loaded basket. “Where can one find a cab, here?”

  “Chorley doesn’t run to cabs—not hacks for rent, at least,” Jenny told him. She hesitated. “I have a gig…”

  He nodded. “Show me the way.”

  Jenny stayed still.

  Jack frowned. “What is it?”

  “It wouldn’t look right, Jack. A man in a gig with me? I am known here.”

  Jack turned to face her squarely. “I will not ask you to do anything that compromises you. I merely want to see you eat and that drawn look removed from your eyes. A picnic in an open field where the world can see us behaving ourselves. That is all. Then you can go home to your…” He cleared his throat. “Your family. You can go home refreshed and stronger.”

  Jenny still hesitated.

  Jack made an impatient gesture. “I cannot stand to see you this way,” he said. “Now I know why you did not answer any of my letters. You have been worked to the bone. I must do something about that—”

  “It’s not your place to do anything, Jack. I put myself in this position.”

  “Because of me,” he ground out.

  She glanced around for eavesdroppers. No one appeared to be paying any interest in them. They were simply two people talking in the middle of the busy market place.

  “We shouldn’t linger here,” she said.

  “Your gig, then?”

  She sighed and moved back down the lane to where her mare and gig were waiting. The mare was fresh and eager to move, now she’d had her oats. Jack removed the nose bag with considerably more grace than Jenny had managed when putting it on. His weight made the gig sag on one side, so she hitched her skirt close about her knees and shifted as far to the left as possible. Jack settled in the middle of the plain bench and took the reins. “There was a pretty little field I saw on the way in from Blackpool.”

  “You really are in Lancashire on business?” Jenny asked.

  “The coal mines north of Blackpool,” he said. “The business is real enough, although to get the work I had to take a rate so low I will lose money on the deal. Now I’ve seen you, though, I consider the money well spent.”

  Jenny didn’t respond. She wouldn’t encourage him to speak about matters they should leave well alone. If he really did not want to compromise her, he would not press the matter.

  She searched for safer topics. Asking about anyone in the family would bring them back to dangerous grounds. The weather was splendid and was in no need of comment.

  Jenny remained silent, instead. She spent the few minutes in the gig examining Jack from the corner of her eye.

  He looked just as solid and strong and dependable as ever, with his powerful neck and shoulders and thighs. There were fine lines about his eyes, though, that she did not remember being there before.

  Jack was in no hurry to speak, either. Jenny found she was relaxing inch by inch, as the pressure to guard herself against her own nature and Jack’s presence ebbed. He was being a gentleman, as promised.

  The field was as pretty as Jack had promised. There was a gnarled old oak tree in the middle of it, just coming into its summer leaves, which left a dappled shade beneath. A tiny stream, not much more than a rivulet in width, ran across the field, by-passing the oak.

  The mare snorted at the smell of water and pawed eagerly. Jack led her to the stream and patted her back, then removed his jacket and picked up the basket and the lap robe from the back of the gig and held his hand out to Jenny. “Come and eat, my lady.”

  The meal, simple though it was, tasted glorious. The fresh bread was finer than anything Cook managed, and the preserves made Jenny’s cheeks draw inward with their sweetness. Sugar had been absent in their household for weeks.

  The strawberries were the crowning touch, even though there was not a dollop of cream to go with them. They were warm from the sun, juicy and sweet.

  Jenny’s stomach hurt from the richness and size of the meal and she leaned back on the lap robe, her hand to her belly. “I can’t eat another crumb.”

  “You’ve barely eaten anything at all,” Jack protested. “Here, have the last strawberry.”

  “I’ll be sick if I do. No, Jack, you must eat it.”

  “Take it home for…your son. What is his name?”

  “Jackson Vaughn Ryder.”

  Jack grew still. His clear green eyes met hers.

  Jenny busied herself with wrapping the last of the bread and closing the jar of preserves.

  “Jenny.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t ask, Jack. Please don’t ask.” If he made her tell him Jackson was his son, then the pretense that they were innocent cousins would be shattered. She would be forced to leave and right at this moment, she wanted to stay on the warm rug and bathe in sunlight. She was warm and content after the first full meal she could remember for a long while.

  Jack didn’t speak.

  His silence made her look up.

  He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. “You look better, now,” he said softly.

  “I look terrible,” Jenny admitted, touching her hair self-consciously and smoothing the faded muslin.

  “It was never the gown that made you beautiful.”

  She gave him a small smile. “You, on the other hand, look simply splendid.” She made herself ask. “Have your parents renewed their insistence upon your marrying Lady Mary?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said blandly.

  “Why not?”

  “When one fails to write, it discourages return
letters.”

  “You aren’t writing to them, Jack? They will worry.”

  “I mean to write, but I never seem to find the time.” He shrugged.

  “There’s always something more pressing to do,” Jenny added, remembering how she had failed to write her letter to Jack.

  “Indeed.” He lay down along the long edge of the robe and put his hands under his head. “Tell me about Jackson. What is he like?”

  That was a safe enough conversation. Jenny talked about her baby, his dimples and his temper. “He is so stubborn, just like…” Jenny halted.

  Jack’s eyes had been closed. Now they opened by a sliver, letting her see the green in them. Then he deliberately closed them once more. “And Burscough?” he asked, his voice carrying an odd note. “He treats you well?”

  “Well enough, I suppose,” Jenny said. “He does not beat me, which makes me more fortunate than many wives. He is kind in his own way.”

  “Just not kind enough to make you happy,” Jack finished.

  “I did not marry him to be happy.”

  Jack sighed. He didn’t ask any more questions.

  With his eyes closed, Jenny was free to examine him without complications. She let her gaze rove over his long figure, hungrily absorbing details. The size of him, which always came as a surprise to her whenever she saw him after any absence. The thickness of his dark hair and the power of his neck and shoulders.

  The flat-fronted trousers that male fashion favored these days rested across his hips, demonstrating there was no excess fat on his frame. Jenny let her gaze linger on the buttons. She knew what lay beneath. She was intimately familiar with every inch of him.

  Now that her hunger had been appeased, other needs asserted themselves. Jenny could feel her senses stirring. Deep in her belly, carnal urges woke. She swallowed.

  “Jenny.”

  She pulled her gaze to Jack’s face. He was watching her again and although he hadn’t moved an inch, she could see his whole body had grown taut with tension. He shook his head. “That is not why I brought you here.”

  “Yet you did bring me here.” She pushed aside the parcels of food and moved across the rug, glad of the worn muslin. She could crush it with impunity. “I cannot look at you and not touch you, Jack. It is asking too much of me. I am weak and flawed.” She bent and kissed him. At the touch of his lips, she groaned and pressed her upper body against him. Oh, how she had missed the touch of him against her!