Lady Dearing's Masquerade (9 page)

“Jeremy! So where is the little girl?” asked Aunt Louisa, gazing up at him, eyes bright with affectionate worry.

“She was too frightened to come with me,” he said with forced calm. “I was obliged to leave her in Lady Dearing’s care.”

His aunt stared up at him for a moment. Then she pursed her lips and bounced up from her chair to hug him.

“You must be so disappointed, dearest,” she said, trying to pat his shoulders but only reaching the middle of his back.

“I am not unhopeful of a good outcome,” he said, gently disengaging from her embrace.

“Well, come sit down and tell us all about it. Dinner is not for another half hour.”

He took a seat next to his aunt.

“So what happened?” asked Tom. “You mentioned there was something amiss with the poor little girl.”

“Something
is
troubling her, but at present she clings to Lady Dearing. I thought it cruel to remove her.”

“Oh dear,” said his aunt. “One hates to think of a young girl under the influence of such a woman.”

He looked down, surprised by the strength of his urge to defend Lady Dearing. “I believe her ladyship is sincerely fond of the girl. She suggested, I believe quite sensibly, that I must become better acquainted with Mary. She has invited me to make several more visits to Rosemead and I have accepted.”

Tom and Charlotte shifted in their seats.

Aunt Louisa raised her eyebrows. “But is it wise for you to be seen on visiting terms with a—a vulgar widow?”

“I did not think her vulgar. She is . . .” He paused, struggling for words to describe Lady Dearing. Unconventional. Intriguing. “Unusual.”

“She must have a kind heart, to have taken those foundlings into her own home,” said Charlotte in her gentle way.

“Yes, as long as she takes her responsibilities seriously, and does not regard the children as puppies to be played with,” said Aunt Louisa sternly. “Bringing up children is no small task, as you both will learn soon enough!”

Tom and Charlotte tried to look cowed, but both exuded an air of suppressed excitement. Jeremy averted his eyes when he saw Tom stroke his wife’s burgeoning belly.

“That is another reason I shall continue my visits,” he said. “I must make sure everything
is
in order at Rosemead.”

“I only wish you may not allow yourself to be taken in by that woman,” his aunt warned him.

“Of course not.”

Conversation passed on to news of various acquaintances and the progress of Tom’s legal practice. Throughout dinner, Jeremy caught his aunt eying him with concern, so he was not surprised when she beckoned him to her side later that evening, when they’d gathered in the drawing room over tea.

“Dearest,” she began as soon as he’d settled into a chair beside hers. “I did not wish to argue with you in front of Tom and Charlotte, but I really wish you would reconsider this resolution to continue your visits to Rosemead Park.”

“I need to know those children are well there,” he said reasonably. “You yourself said Lady Dearing might be overindulging them.”

“Well then, perhaps I am wrong,” she said, vigorously stirring her tea. “Lady Dearing is certainly wealthy enough to provide everything those children could need. Perhaps the child is well enough where she is.”

“I must be certain of that before I make any decisions.”

“But dearest, what I really wish to say is how much I should prefer to see you with a child of your
own
.”

“That is
not
why I am interested in Mary.”

“Hmm . . . it has been over four years since Cecilia’s death. I loved her, too, but it is time enough for you to give up mourning her.”

“I am not still grieving.”

He looked down, guilt weighing on his chest. He could tell no one that relief had mingled with his sorrow over Cecilia’s death. But at least now he’d been offered the opportunity to assuage that guilt.

“Then why not look about you for a bride? I wish you would not set yourself against love. And desire.” Aunt Louisa winked at him.

“Aunt Louisa!”

“I am old enough, I hope, to speak my mind. It would do you good to allow your passions just a little rein.”

He looked down into his empty tea cup, embarrassed and appalled that his aunt might make such a suggestion.

Had she forgotten about his parents?

“I know why you made such a careful choice in Cecilia,” she continued, as if guessing his thoughts. “But I am certain you will find another amiable and virtuous lady to suit you, if you would only try.”

And because he did not try, Aunt Louisa and Lady Bromhurst had thrown enough amiable and virtuous young women his way to satisfy half a dozen inconsolable widowers. He was an ingrate, no doubt, but since that masquerade at the Pantheon no woman had been able to ignite more than a spark of desire.

Except now, Lady Dearing had done it.

Memories of the day tormented him. Her breathless voice, pleading with him on behalf of the children. Bluebells. Mud. Soft, bounteous breasts pressed against his arm as he’d held her to keep her from falling. His flaring reaction to her warmth, her scent.

Had he allowed it all to affect his judgment?

“Dearest Jeremy.” Aunt Louisa’s softened voice recalled his attention. “You must remember that when passion is allied with true affection, only happiness can result.”

She gazed toward the sofa, drawing his eyes to where his cousin sat with Charlotte. Both were touching her belly and exclaiming over the lusty kicks of their unborn child. Then Tom slid a hand up to cup Charlotte’s bosom. She started, blushed a little, then whispered in his ear.

Jeremy averted his gaze. This was going too far, even for an informal family gathering. Did they not have a bedchamber? But a minute later, they both arose and excused themselves.

As Jeremy joined his aunt in bidding them good night, an unexpected spurt of jealousy wracked him, as strong as he’d felt the first day he’d come to visit, a sullen five-year-old, and given Tom a violent thrashing for no reason he or Tom could fathom, at least at the time. But Tom had forgiven him, and so had his aunt and uncle. The happiest days of his life had been spent in this house, and he would never forget it.

He forced himself to return Aunt Louisa’s smile and thrust the ugly, twisted, unworthy feeling deep within himself, where it would hurt no one.

* * *

“So how did you fare with the Wicked Widow?”

A heavy rain pattered on the roof of the Foundling Hospital as Jeremy looked across the table toward Sir Digby Pettleworth, disgusted as always by the fop’s insinuating tone. But everyone else was curious as well.

“We had an interesting meeting,” he began cautiously.

“How are the children faring?” asked the Archbishop.

“They appear to be well.”

“You saw no evidence of lewd goings-on?” Sir Digby asked.

What an ass.
Jeremy suppressed the angry retort. “I did not,” he said shortly. “All seems to be in order. Lady Dearing has fitted up a schoolroom with everything one could desire, and engaged a governess who appears to have the requisite character and qualifications. The children are quite fond of her ladyship.”

He ignored a twinge of conscience for not revealing how the children had run away. But it was better to wait until he understood their reasons and could give a full report.

“You don’t seem certain of anything,” objected the Archbishop.

“I need more time there.”

“We are fortunate that you are so
thorough
,” Sir Digby murmured.

“I am sure there is no one here who does not trust Sir Jeremy to conduct himself with the utmost integrity,” said Bromhurst, frowning at Sir Digby.

Jeremy shot his friend a grateful look. “Thank you. It is my intent to go there for several days each week over the next month. That should be sufficient time for me to make a proper assessment.”

“But is this necessary? Do you really suspect anything is amiss?” asked Bromhurst.

Jeremy felt all eyes on him. “I cannot pass judgment until I am certain. I also hope that this course will help me gain the trust of Mary Simms. At present she is too much attached to Lady Dearing to be removed from her care.”

“Why not just let her stay with the woman, then?” asked someone farther down the table.

“I must be certain that it is best for Mary. It is what my wife would have wished.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

As before, when the meeting ended Bromhurst grasped Jeremy’s arm. “Let’s take a stroll to the Court room, shall we? Too wet to go outside today.”

Resigning himself to another lecture, Jeremy accompanied his friend out of the Committee Room. Once in the Court Room he gazed about, remembering, as he always would, the one admission day he’d attended. Despite its ornate decorations, including Hogarth’s portrait of Thomas Coram, the Hospital’s founder, the room echoed with anguished cries: those of mothers parting from their infants no more bitter than those of the desperate women whose children were turned away in accordance with the harsh justice of a lottery.

“What is it you wished to say to me?” he asked, after Bromhurst had stood frowning at Coram’s portrait a few minutes.

“You know I will not undermine your efforts at the meeting, Jeremy,” Bromhurst began. “But this schedule of visits to Rosemead Park is outside of enough! You are jeopardizing your reputation, all you have worked for.”

Jeremy kept his countenance serene. He’d expected another lecture. Perhaps he deserved it for the risk he was taking.

“Think of
his
vision,” said Bromhurst, gesturing toward the plump, benevolent figure of Coram.

Coram and his wife had been childless, too.

“Think of the branch hospital. Think of the infants we turn away now. Think of their fate.”

Workhouses. Poorhouses. The parks. The Thames.

“I have not forgotten them. And I promise you I’ll not allow my present course to affect the branch hospital project,” he said through his teeth.

“You cannot have thought how our patrons, people like Tobias Cranshaw, would regard any rumors linking your name with Lady Dearing’s. You must give up this obsession with Mary Simms.”

“Cranshaw will understand my determination to fulfill Cecilia’s last wishes.”

Yet another wealthy patron who was convinced that his marriage to Cecilia had been perfect. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. To find peace. To finally make things right.

“Mary is well enough in Lady Dearing’s care, I’m sure,” Bromhurst continued.

“How can I be sure all is well? Mary and the other children ran away the day I was supposed to meet them!”

“What of it? Children do such things. We have hundreds of foundlings to care for, Jeremy. Leave these four be. Lady Dearing dotes on them. Is that not enough for you?”

He faced his friend, Bromhurst’s advice drilling into his resolution. Was it wrong to persist? Yet it felt even more wrong
not
to do so.

“No. In my experience, love is
not
always enough. I must be sure.”

Bromhurst’s face twisted. He knew the old rumors. “Oh, very well, go if you must.”

“Thank you.”

Bromhurst nodded, but his brows were still creased with worry.

* * *

Stay here and ride your rocking horse, lambkin, Nurse had said, then she’d taken the breakfast tray away. Jeremy wished Nurse would remember he was five years old and too old to be called lambkin. And he was too big for his old rocking horse. He had a pony now.

Comet awaited him in the stables. The house was finally empty of all its guests, and he was going to ride out for a picnic with Mama and Papa. How could Nurse expect him to just play by himself? Maybe he should go wake Mama. Maybe she’d overslept or forgotten.

Jeremy got up from his chair and left the nursery, feeling very bold. He strode down the hall enjoying the clomping sound of his boots, until he stopped. He could hear Mama and Papa arguing again. Why did they have to do it this morning?

He would end it, he decided, marching on. They always stopped arguing when he was there. He’d make them stop now.

But even though he stomped his feet as hard as he could when he got near, they didn’t notice. Through the closed door he heard them say names he didn’t know, and words he didn’t understand. Bastard. Whore. Damnation. Christ. The last one he knew but it didn’t fit with what they were saying.

He was going to stop it.

He pounded on the door, feeling brave. He would make it right. They would be happier when they stopped arguing.

The shouting continued, so he pushed the door open and walked in. Papa was standing in the middle of the room, in riding clothes, Jeremy saw with relief. And Mama stood by the hearth, also in her riding habit.

They had not forgotten.

“Mama,” he called, but she didn’t notice him. His father was still shouting, using new words. Strumpet. Cuckold. It sounded like some sort of bird. Then his mother said something about geese and ganders he didn’t understand. But before he could puzzle out why they were talking about birds his father suddenly dodged to one side.

Jeremy barely had time to recognize the thing spinning through the air—one of the shiny candlesticks Mama kept on the mantle—then it struck him on the forehead. He howled with pain. Mama screamed. Papa cursed again.

He kept screaming because it hurt, and it scared him when blood trickled into his eye, and his legs went wobbly. Mama caught him in her arms and they dropped to the floor together and then she shouted to Papa to go fetch a surgeon.

And Jeremy screamed some more because he was so angry. He hadn’t stopped the fighting after all and maybe now they wouldn’t go for their ride.

Then Mama started weeping and calling him her baby, and he wondered why. He was not a baby anymore. He wanted to tell her but couldn’t stop crying. She began to rock him in her arms, and he was too old for that too. But he stopped howling. It felt so good, and he was tired.