by Pendle, Eve
Markshall used the iron knocker and they waited.
“Why are you here?” A man in a dark jacket with black hair closed the door behind him and scowled at them.
“I understand a lady lives here, with a little girl,” Emily said. “Annie Taylor.”
The man’s brow darkened, and he didn’t move. “Yes.”
“And that the little girl is ill,” Emily prompted.
“Your sources are remarkably accurate.” The man did not look happy about this state of affairs.
“How is Annie faring?” Oscar made an instinctive step toward the door. He didn’t want to exchange glares with this man, whoever he was. He wanted to comfort his daughter. “Could I see her?”
“She’s recovering.” The man shifted to cover the door handle. “But you can’t see her.”
He hadn’t really expected to be welcomed with open arms, but this man’s attitude still abraded him. Annie might never see her father. “I’m not here to cause any trouble, I just want to see my–Annie.” He’d come this far. He would see it through.
“Lydia’s terrified, you know,” the man ground out, eyes flashing.
Emily gasped.
Oscar tensed like he’d been struck in the gut.
Terrified. Of him. This was what he’d done, who he was. He looked away, unable to meet either the man’s or Emily’s eyes. “I just wanted to see Annie,” he said quietly. “Nothing more.”
“And your selfish need to see a child is worth distressing the mother to the point she’s shaking?” The man bit out the words. “You arrive here in your expensive carriage, with your fancy clothes, and you think everyone will bow to your will. Well, I won’t.”
Truth into silence was a powerful thing. He’d felt it with Emily when they’d been alone in the hole. He’d felt it when Emily had finally told her story, in the mundane location of their breakfast room. Here it was again, a reality so abrupt and undeniable that it swept away all Oscar’s selfish ideas of what he coveted and merited.
“I understand.” Maybe, at last, he did comprehend the magnitude of what he’d renounced when he’d abandoned Lydia to have his child alone. He wasn’t Annie’s father; he was no more than her seed donor. “Could you tell Lydia...”
What should he ask him to tell her? How to express a decade of folly? How to explain that he couldn’t make anything right, but he wished his past self had been honorable. He should never have seduced Lydia. Having made that despicable choice, he shouldn’t have left her to be banished. “Tell her I’m sorry for the distress I’ve caused her. If she ever needs anything–”
“I will be providing whatever Lydia and Annie need,” the man said implacably.
Oscar wanted to help, and he could provide more than this modestly dressed, middle-class fellow. Emily’s hand tightened on his arm. A peculiar feeling settled onto Oscar’s shoulders and chest. It was tight, maybe too tight, pungent and bolstering like the taste of raw fennel. Shame, perhaps.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door move. A blond woman emerged. It had been ten years, but he knew it was Lydia. She’d changed in the way that a mother often did. A little softer around the torso, more creases around her mouth. Her curls were falling from a plain hairstyle. But under her eyes were dark half-moons from tiredness and her glance to either side was wary. And the man had been right. There was fear in the crease of her forehead and the curve of her shoulders.
“You’d better come inside,” Lydia’s hissed, “before you have the whole village speculating.”
Abashed, they followed her into the house. It was a modest place, with none of the clutter favored by social climbers. The furniture was worryingly sparse in the small front parlor, with only prints in cheap frames on the walls and threadbare cushioning on the chairs.
“Thank you,” Oscar began.
“I won’t let you take her,” Lydia said at the same time.
“Absolutely not, we’re only here to help,” Emily interjected. “A girl needs her mother more than anything. But as Oscar was such a great friend of your late husband, surely you can understand it would mean a lot to him to see Annie?”
The man exchanged a look with Lydia, who gave an infinitesimal nod. He held out a hand to Oscar. “I’m Alfred Lowe. Annie is one of my students.”
“Oscar Clawson.” He grasped Alfred’s hand and bit his lip to prevent himself from accidentally saying the rest of his names. He sensed the down-to-earth teacher wouldn’t be impressed. And who knows if he’d blow whatever story Lydia had told. “This is my wife, Emily.”
A myriad of expressions passed across Lydia’s face before settling on stoicism. With a nod for them to follow, she preceded them to a little bedroom upstairs where Annie lay in bed. The nurse sitting at Annie’s side stopped reading and closed the book as they entered.
Annie was just like her mother. The same oval face and unruly blond hair. Her eyes were paler blue than Lydia’s, though. His daughter had his eyes. She was obviously weak, propped up in bed with several pillows. But she was resolutely alive. Her cheeks were a healthy pink, and that sent shocks of relief through him.
Annie looked at them with confused interest. It was difficult to tell if she was naturally shy or exhausted from her illness, or both.
“These are some people acquaintances, from long ago,” Lydia introduced them to the nurse and Annie. “They were just passing and thought they’d come to visit.”
“What are you reading?” Emily smiled reassuringly at Annie and sat in the seat vacated by the nurse as she excused herself.
“Little Women.” Annie’s voice was tissue-paper thin. Emily had read the book and immediately she was carrying a conversation about favorite characters. He sank into a chair Lydia indicated, and watched. He couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to do this. His daughter was here, a pretty, sweet girl who nodded, wide eyed, as Emily extolled the merits of a girl called Jo. Annie’s throat sounded sore, and it wasn’t long before Emily picked up the book where the nurse had left off and read.
He didn’t know Annie and couldn’t connect with her, but he couldn’t take his gaze from her. She’d get well again, that was clear. Visions of his discovering what Annie liked and providing for her swam before his eyes. He could buy her toys, books, dresses, and hats. She’d come and visit him in London and they’d walk in the park. He’d make up for his absent years.
“Papa?” Annie looked over at him and his heart stopped. For a fraction of a second, she was looking at him and calling him father. Then her gaze slid past him to Mr. Lowe. “Please can we have sweets?”
Oscar’s fist clenched by his side. God, but he was a fool. There was nothing straightforward about this trip. A child was a complex entity conceived in a moment of simplicity. His reaction to seeing her wasn’t predictable and it caught him by the throat, pressing down into his chest. His daughter. He tried to focus on the bare floorboards. She would never acknowledge him, or he her. That was the correct way of the world, even more so now she had a real father figure in Mr. Lowe.
Beside him, Alfred was looking at Lydia and some interaction was happening. Annie had done without him for her whole life and he couldn’t expect anything now. He might have sired her, but he was not her father.
He raised his gaze to Emily. A steadfast presence when all was turbulent. Except, she wasn’t anymore. He knew now that she was just as volatile as him. She just hid it better and embraced false virtue rather than false vice.
“I brought some ginger snaps and rose biscuits,” Emily said, proffering a paper box. You’d never believe that her unwavering hand had once held a gun and shot a man. She looked like she’d never done anything worse than offer someone a biscuit flavor they didn’t like. “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but I do love to support the baker near the station. He’s such a nice man and makes the most divine little things.”
Trust Emily to have thought of that. He hadn’t realized when she’d suggested they bought the delicious treats that this was her intention.
He turned towards Lydia.
She seemed about to say no, but after a long look at Emily, she nodded. “I’ll get a plate and some tea.”
“I’ll help.” Oscar unfolded himself from the chair. He had delayed talking to Lydia for ten years. Now was past time. He still had responsibilities, the paper stiff in his pocket.
“I’m glad to see you settled,” Oscar said as soon as they were in the kitchen. He wanted to ask her about her straightened circumstances, but that seemed intrusive and a moot point.
“No thanks to you,” Lydia retorted, keeping her back to him as she put a kettle on the range.
“Yes. I know.” It was the least he could do to acknowledge his wrongdoing without resentment. He swallowed. “I hope Matilda sent the money for the nurse in time to be of use.”
She stilled. “I wondered how she’d found out. Now I wonder how you found out.” She continued around the room, collecting up cups and a teapot.
“What did the doctor say?” He ignored her question.
“Polio.”
A cold shudder went down his body. He could have been too late. Annie might still be terribly crippled, and he’d been unaware, distracted, and helpless. “What’s her prognosis?”
“We had some bad days.” Lydia’s knuckles were white as she gripped the teapot. “But the doctor is confident she’ll make a full recovery.”
He could have cheered or sang his thanks to a deity. Instead, he placed a banker’s draft and a thin hardcover book on the kitchen table, imbuing the objects with all his good intentions.
“This is for you.” It wasn’t enough, because money never could be. Fifty thousand was the least he owed her. “I’ve also taken the liberty of opening an account for Annie. It won’t be accessible until her eighteenth birthday, but then it should provide for her well enough.” Another fifty. “There’s no provision about marriage or dowry or anything like that. She’ll be independently wealthy.” He wasn’t going to hamstring his daughter with any stupid conditions that would lead her to make poor decisions, like marrying for money, or marrying if she didn’t want to. Those were easy enough mistakes to make as it was.
Lydia frowned at the check then flicked open the banking book. She couldn’t miss that it had been opened years ago. Just after he’d met Fanny. “The same year as the Elmswell Children’s Society formed. What a coincidence. Who has been your source?”
“Don’t blame him. He kept me informed about all the local children.” He hoped Sir Thomas would continue to do so since he’d continue to subsidize the Children’s Society. Though Sir Thomas had been a poor correspondent, and obviously needed to be a more diligent landowner, he was better than nothing. “He isn’t aware of any particular interest.”
She met his gaze searchingly. “Why now?”
“Surely the question is why not before?” Why hadn’t he come to directly check that she wasn’t living in a bare house? The answer was simple. A combination of cowardice and fear had kept him away. He’d believed that staying away was the better course and convinced himself it was the more selfless one. He still wasn’t sure this visit was right, but the money was correct. That much was clear in his mind.
“Because you’re an arse,” Lydia answered. “Because you weren’t supposed to know where we were.”
He wobbled his head from side to side and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “That about covers it.”
Lydia opened the package and started placing the biscuits in a neat circle on a plate.
“When Annie is of age, Lady Markshall has agreed to be her sponsor if she wants a season in London.” It would cause another scandal if it was discovered that Annie was his by-blow, but Emily had brushed off his concern like so much lint.
Lydia nodded grimly. “We’ll see.”
There was a silence, broken only by the tap of biscuits onto the plate. When she was finished, Lydia stood back and looked him up and down. Her face was expressionless like a doll, but with a thin glaze of contempt.
“I’m sorry.” He had to stop and swallow the emotion, hot and shameful in this throat. “Not for Annie, as she’s a delight. But for everything I should have done better.”
“It’s over now.” She picked up the plate and thrust it at him. “Take the biscuits.”
* * *
The carriage seemed inappropriately sumptuous after the modesty of Lydia Taylor’s house. Emily felt awkward looking at the neat white cotton anti-macassar protectors on red velvet seats and the highly polished wood frames of the windows.
“She’s going to live,” Markshall said as Elmswell faded into the distance, giving way to green fields with sheep and trees coming into leaf.
“Yes.” Unlike James, was the unsaid subtext. His daughter, Annie, was going to be fine, brought up by Lydia and her husband-to-be. They were good people who deserved to be happy. Unlike them.
She looked across at Oscar. In his face was the same elation and harrow that filled her. A tug of solidarity tried to pull her to him. She tried to deny it, as she had when Oscar had reached for her earlier. But this day was breaking all her ideas about what her life was. It was as if this morning’s dream had snapped a fraying string on her corset and her body had been spilling out, threatening to be chaotic. She’d shared her worst secret with Oscar and he’d tried to draw her closer. The ambiguity of him scared her.
“When we get to London, I need to go directly from the train to the House of Lords.” Oscar took out his pocket watch, popped open the cover and scowled at the face obscured by the rounded gold. “You take the carriage that brought us to the station. I’ll find a hackney at the station to take me to Westminster. The debate will still be happening when I arrive.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker for you to take the carriage?” He surely wouldn’t want to miss more of the debate than necessary.
“Yes, but it will be taking you home.”
Putting her first, as he always did. Her husband was a pitch-black marble that when cracked open revealed shining gold and red and blue amongst the darkness. She’d told herself she wasn’t like that herself. But if someone like Oscar could accept her exactly as she was, knowing about how she was imperfect and wrong, maybe she didn’t need to be so strict with herself.
“I’m coming with you.” Even faced with his illegitimate child, she wanted to help and support him.
He stared at her, incredulous.
This was how they were different. She’d made a mistake and was building up good acts. He was making recompense for his past sins.
“You probably ought not to come to the House of Lords.” Oscar grimaced. “I’ll probably have to vote against the CD Repeal. I don’t know how close it’s going to be. Either way, you don’t want to be there.”
Emily hesitated. This was his reminder to her that he still wasn’t what she wanted from him. He wasn’t reformed. And yet, her stupid heart clawed for more hope. “They’re still yet to have the debate, aren’t they?”
Oscar nodded an affirmative.
“There’s still a chance you could persuade enough Lords. You can give a speech.”
Oscar looked for a second like he might pull her into his arms. But he shook his head. “It won’t change anything.”
Emily waved this objection away. “You convinced a woman you ruined to allow you to support her and for the child to come to stay with your new wife. You can change their minds.”
He made an unconvinced sound in the back of his throat.
“You can.” She nodded decisively. And god help her. “I’m going to help you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Markshall didn’t usually speak in the House of Lords, except when he knew the bill was overwhelmingly going to go one way or another. In which case he gave some callous speech, so it couldn’t be said he was a lily-livered liberal. But on days such as these, when each and every vote mattered, he usually lolled around on the red back benches and watched from afar. His work was already done.
Except today it wasn’t.
“Vo
ting for this repeal is the only honorable thing to do.” Lord Lakenham spoke from across the aisle. “We cannot allow women, innocent women in many cases, to be subjected to degrading physical examinations.” Lord Lakenham sat to a chorus of ‘hear-hear’ and some thumping.
Beside him, Lord Florint rose. “While we consider the ‘sensibilities’ of these so-called-innocent women,” Lord Florint’s tone implied he thought it very unlikely any woman was not a prostitute, “we must also think of the health of our Navy. We expect them to sail around the world. Why can’t we expect the women of Plymouth to make some sacrifices? On this side, we know about such things. Unlike the cowards who ally themselves with the Whigs, we fought in wars and know about soldiers’ needs. What is a little embarrassment for these women, when the health of our lusty sailors is at risk?” Lord Florint gesticulated throughout his speech.
A lord on the opposite benches stood up. “My honorable Lord certainly knows about lusty.” He skewered Markshall with his gaze. “He is not concerned about sailors, health, or the national pride. He’s concerned about his own…” He paused for effect. “Pride.” He didn’t fully pronounce the ‘p’, so it sounded like ‘ride’.
There was a roar of laughter.
“One of the Lords opposite is well known to have a mistress down at Plymouth. He’s merely looking out for his own self-interest. As for the dignity of these women, there have long been rumors about his disrespect for women. He paddles in Plymouth.”
Guffaws came from either side of him. From opposite came hisses and boos. His eyes slid to Lord Lakenham, whose face was barely concealed fury.
He’d usually laugh this off. He might agree with them and say with a wink that said he was a scoundrel, and everyone would understand this was a good thing.
It wasn’t a good thing. He wasn’t a good person, but he wanted to be.
He glanced upwards to the ladies’ gallery. Emily’s was sitting ramrod straight, utterly still, eyes intent on him, chin high. From this angle, the light behind her, she was a shadowed angel, neither light nor dark.
