The Coachman's Daughter (2 page)

“Do you think she discovered
your—er—adventures in London?”

Lisette sat up and pursed her lips, then
shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. It was harmless fun. She herself
attended the masque balls and everyone in our crowd is considered
fast. Though I daresay, they are not the debauched group those
prigs like Marston makes them out to be. Anyone would go daft if
all they could attend were stuffy teas and the balls; everything
you do is under someone’s eye. I do not understand why she would
include him.”

“Perhaps he spoke to her?”

Lisette’s eyes grew round. “Oh, No. Never say
so.”

Laughing, Haven offered, “I’ve no clue. Just
ask her.”

Curling her lip, Lisette muttered, “I wish
Juliette would hurry up with her honeymoon. I could flee there, to
Wolford. At least she would be here. I do not want to do the pretty
for any man, let alone Marston! I am exactly as I wished to
be.”

“The Duchess loves you, Lisette. Talk to her.
“

Lisette got to her feet, and when Haven did
too, she said, “Yes she loves me. But let us be honest, My Mama is
eccentric. She gets things in her head, and though she and papa
have given us everything, every freedom, and she has no great envy
of the sticklers in London, she can be stubborn if she thinks one
of her “ideas” is brilliant. Besides that, she is all sad and weepy
that James and Aiden are going off. I wish she would focus on Deme;
he is the heir after all. And as papa oft says, there needs to be a
succession.”

“I don’t have an answer there either.”

Walking a bit on the lawn, they headed round
to the gardens that were fading in the fall but smelled earthy,
bearing a fall show of orange and yellow flowers and quaint
vines.

Plucking a dry leaf off one, Lisette turned
to regard her when Haven sat on a bench, knowing her friend well
enough to know that she would fret endlessly over this Viscount
Marston, and whatever her mother planned.

No, it was not like the Duchess. She was a
modern woman, a force all her own, no matter how petite or titled,
she never had given in to dictates. However, Haven had no clue what
she was thinking.

“What was your mother like?”

“Mine?” Haven sat up, but cast her eyes
toward a bush, birds were picking berries from.

“Yes. You have never spoken of her. We never
have, not even when you told me stories those long winter nights I
was confined to bed.”

Haven tried to sound casual, “I don’t know
much about her. Mrs. Mafy would not talk of her, and father gets
such a look on his face, I just stopped asking.”

“But surely, you are curious?”

“I was.” Haven nodded and watched those birds
still though she felt Lisette looking at her. There were few
secrets between them, but there were some things Haven found
difficult to share. What she did murmur was, “The six years I was
with the Mafy’s, I learned not to ask. Everyone would get
uncomfortable. You sense things. And with Papa, it’s such a look, I
can’t describe it.”

She turned her head and met Lisette’s curious
gaze. “I wasn’t very happy with the Mafey’s. He was a vicar. They
were very dour and strict people. Coming here was a dream. I have
been given more than I had a right to expect. Schooled, taught the
arts, dancing, and manners, everything your family and all of you,
so graciously afforded me. Mostly, being with Papa, I felt the love
he has for me. I just stopped—asking.”

“I understand.” Lisette held her gaze a
moment. “Mother thinks of you as one of her own. We all feel close
to you.”

“As I do, all of you. We’re friends, Lisette,
but I’m still the coachman’s daughter.”

Dryly Lisette offered, “So what? Do you think
Mama cares, or the Duke? Even my brothers—well, except for Deme—who
cares for no one, not even his self. Everyone loves you.”

Haven was warmed by that. She murmured
something, more for Lisette’s benefit. Wed to a lofty male or no,
Lady Lisette would eventually be in a position where their
friendship would be an inconvenience, and frowned upon.

“I must find a way to avoid Marston.”

Haven laughed. “I’m sure you’ll think of
something.”

“I shall. I’m very good at slipping off when
determined.”

Haven looked toward the stables. “It’s almost
dinner time.” She stood. “I’ll let you know if I overhear anything.
But I still say, talk to the Duchess.”

They parted. Haven headed for the apartments
to see to dinner for herself and Patrick. She had much on her
mind.

* * * *

Patrick Mulhern was a fit and handsome man.
He was weathered in the way a man who spent his years out of doors
would be, and stood over six feet tall and careful in his dress.
When he was not wearing his black coachman’s coat and trousers,
white shirt and cravat—usually a caped coat and the top hat,
pristine white silk scarf—he was in well-made dun trousers,
polished knee boots and crisp shirt, and tweed jacket. Haven had
discovered his love of books, chess, and his passion for coaching,
when she had come to live with him. It was not just his employment
with the Duke of Wimberly that made him a coveted coachman; it was
an expertise and skill, something he excelled at. He had been sent
to one of the best driving schools at a young age. His trophies and
prizes graced the apartment sitting room, six engraved gold plates
rested on the mantle. There was even a painting done of him at some
lofty pavilion, sitting on his perch, handling the ribbons to a
team of six matching grays. But—he seldom talked of his younger
years.

She entered the apartments via stairs inside
the coaching house, pushing open the door and arriving into the
main parlor. It was a warm room, lots of shelves and books, the
fireplace, his chess set on a table before it, and a bay window—her
favorite spot. It smelled of leather and comfort. It felt like
home.

“Am I late?” She saw him in the small
kitchens, already setting their table.

“No. I decided to make stew. Master Jude
brought us a brace of hare he had snared.” He smiled at her.

She returned his smile and crossed to the two
rooms off the parlor, one was hers. She entered, going past
wardrobe, bed, and her vanity, to a small bathing chamber. There
she stripped, refreshed, and padded back into the bedchamber,
plucking a clean shirt and pulling it on, before the trousers. The
wardrobe was full of fashionable clothing, some she purchased for
herself, many her father bought her, with all the trappings. On her
vanity were perfumes, jewel boxes and hairpins.

There was everything in the chamber for a
Lady of quality, along with unique gifts her father had given her
every year, six she had brought with her from the Mafey’s—which
were in those days, the only tangible evidence of a father who
really existed. He sent money there but the Mafey has made her wear
the most plain and well-worn clothing and cover her hair... be
silent and invisible…

In her bare feet, her damp hair behind her
ears, Haven went out and into the kitchens. “Thank you.” She took
the chair he held and sat, watching Patrick sit across from her.
Beside her stew was bread and fresh milk.

She closed her eyes while he said grace, and
then they were eating. In the Mafy household, prayers were a
constant thing and eating was quiet and quickly done. She and her
father, most of the time, used their meals to converse, share a
laugh, go over their day.

Haven looked at him on and off, seeing
herself perhaps in the hue of his dark red hair now threaded with
silver, though his eyes were a dark sapphire blue. There was not a
lot there that she could draw herself from, but it was more the
enigma of his past, of hers, that always made her search.

He caught her looking and said, “Any trouble
last night?”

“With the Marquis, you mean?” She smiled
dryly and took a sip of milk before shaking her head. “No, other
than getting him into the coach.”

His eyes went over her face. “You’re twenty
and two, Haven.”

“I am aware of that.”

“You should be getting on with your own
life.”

They had discussed this before.

“I will,” she said, while scooping up another
spoonful, eating, swallowing.

He sat back. His own hands fell idle by his
plate. “You can’t save him.”

“I’ve done so, more than once.”

“You know what I mean.”

“The Duke and Duchess depend upon me.” She
set her spoon down and wiped her mouth, looking at him and finding
his brooding gaze discomforting.

“The graces—are an unconventional pair. We
have reason to be grateful for the things they have provided you.
However, you are not employed by them, daughter. You can have a
life, a future, of your own.”

She fiddled with the napkin and dropped her
eyes from his, watching her fingers folding the edge of the cloth.
“I like it here. I mean, I like living with you, with them.”

“We all feel the same. Nonetheless, you spend
your time babysitting the Marquis, driving him, rescuing him. It is
not the life I planned for you. If you had an interest in one of
the young men who have shown an interest in you….”

He meant the tutor who came in the off-season
and tutored Jude, Nigel—who had shown an interest in her. Or, Mr.
Bentley who was the vicar. Nigel was nice enough, but he was a soft
man, gentle and though his intelligence was attractive, she felt
“stronger” than him in the way that prevented an attraction. The
Vicar… she had no quarrel with Mr. Bentley; it was the profession
she could not overcome. Having grown up in a dreary cottage with
joyless, pious people, she could never go back to that. She had
certainly lied to Deme about her suitors. Nigel may not mind her
trousers, but Mr. Bentley certainly disapproved.

Haven met his gaze again. “Can you see me
with either of them?”

“No. I can see you leaving here, traveling,
and having a life that is more fulfilling. Using some of those
advantages. You have plenty of money to do so.”

She finished her milk and stood, taking her
bowl to the wash pan. Lingering a moment by the kitchen window
while Patrick got up from the table too. Haven felt him behind her.
She felt his hand affectionately on her arm.

He said above her, “I’m proud of you, no
matter what you do.”

Her heart filled. She reached to cover his
hand, her mind going to her conversation with Lisette. “Would she
be?”

“Who?”

“My mother?”

His hand slipped from her. It did not
surprise Haven. She sensed he was walking into the parlor, likely
to fetch his pipe from the mantle.

“Yes. I think so.”

Turning, she went into the parlor too, but
sat in the window seat of the bay, while he packed the pipe and lit
it, remaining by the mantle. His profile to her was remote. It got
that way, when she mentioned her mother. She thought it somehow
tugged him back in time. It certainly made him distant.

“Was she a bad person, father?”

“No.”

“Then why won’t you speak of her. Why
wouldn’t the Mafy’s speak of her?”

He puffed a plume of smoke, went to the wing
back chair, and sat. “It’s a—painful subject for me.”

She could hear the sounds from below, one of
the stable lads running to fetch something, and the Duke’s mastiff
barking, which meant his grace was likely coming to play chess with
her father.

Haven got up and went to fetch her boots. She
pulled them on, and then sat there a moment, her eyes holding her
fathers. “Do I look like her?”

“Very much, so.” He swallowed. His eyes were
filled with emotion.

She always felt she was on the brink of
discovering everything, of being able to ask questions and get
answers. Nevertheless, when he looked like that, so in pain, so
torn inside, she could never probe the wound further.

Hearing a sound below, and the Duke’s deep
voice, she got up and went to kiss Patrick’s forehead.

“If you go out tonight, with the Marquis.
Take your derrick.” Patrick uttered gruffly, “Make sure those
pistols are primed.”

“I always do.”

On the stairs, she met the Duke, robust,
tall, his black hair now snow white. He wore his mane long and tied
back, and he was dressed more the country squire than Duke, in
buckskin jacket, linen shirt and well-worn trousers and boots. He
was a strong and robust man, but a real softie with his
children.

She pat the Mastiff’s shaggy head after
greeting the Duke.

“You keep Deme in line, my girl.” he gave her
an affectionate hug. “You are the only one of us not swayed by his
charm.”

“He hasn’t any charm.”

His grace guffawed at that and nodded, his
green eyes twinkling,

Haven grinned, then said before passing him,
“You should have warmed his bottom more often as a boy, your
Grace.”

“True. However, Deme was a good lad,
spirited, but good hearted, a joy. His charm and wit were entirely
different before…”

At the bottom of the stair, she looked back
to see him merely standing there, looking down at her.

“I know, your Grace.” she did know, at least
what started him down the road he was on. Though Haven did not
think it was the catalyst anymore. Deme had entangled himself with
married lover who tricked and lied to him. He had called her
husband out for supposedly abusing her. He’d shot and killed him.
How he discovered her truth, no one knew, but he’d holed up in his
hunting box for six months, and was never again the same. His
friend, Montgomery, the Marquis, had been in Egypt already. There
was no one who could reach him. That—was eight years ago.

Haven said, “He’ll come round, your
Grace.”

He nodded, and smiled slightly, giving her a
wink before knocking on the door, which Patrick answered.

Haven stood there a bit after it closed. She
and the Duchess had talked of it, though the Duchess had her own
way of coping with Deme’s habits. She pretended it was temporary.
All these years, she would put on a brave face, for the Duke
perhaps, or for herself. She had spoken of it with Lisette, who
handled it with humor. Haven did battle with him. She provoked him.
She was blunt with him.