Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (51 page)

“Pardon?” Etienne looked at her oddly as he shot up his hand to signal the waiter.

“It is not important. Tell me what you are doing here.”

“I have been in England two weeks. Being that I am cut off from any monies I once had, I’ve accepted a lucrative job offer here. I’m not afraid to soil my hands. My wife had to wait for her papers to be cleared so she told me to go ahead. I was hoping she would be on one of these ships in port today.” Etienne now studied her, his expression thoughtful. “You are most fortunate to be out of France. The years after the Bastille incident were horrible to say the least.” He stared off, his gaze hard. “So many people murdered
… guillotined, haphazardly. Most not even royalists, but commoners! Then the insane radicals eliminated each other. Many who fled were allowed to return, but did so at their own peril. France is still full of unrest. No real guidance, no leaders of distinction. The people in charge are as decadent as any king. We were lucky to escape.” Etienne looked at her again. “But why would Armand say you were dead?”

“I have no ide
a—he was an addled old man. He was cruel to tell such lies to my mother.” Bettina ducked her head as a waiter rushed by with a tray. She didn’t want to reveal her father’s murder or anything related to it, especially not in front of Frederick. “Tell me more about her. How did Maman escape from France?”

“After she thought you were gone, we took her north into Holland. But she did not care for the cold and damp. When the revolution spread in that direction, your mother told mine she was sailing to America.”

“But Aunt Creissant did not go?”

“No, she refused to live so far away from France. I accompanied her to Denmark, and that’s where we’ve been. My wife is Danish, a lovely girl. But your mother met other refugees traveling to Louisiana and decided to do the same.” Etienne snapped his fingers at the harried waiter. “You can never get good service in these English cafes.” He gazed at her again with concern. “Did Armand know you went to England?”

“Yes. He said he would tell Maman I was here. I have tried to find her through refugee organizations, hoping she might be in England looking for me.” Bettina raked her hands through her hair. “This is why I could not.”

“I cannot picture Aunt Volet in New Orleans. I have heard it is a ribald, primitive frontier town.” Etienne chuckled. “You know how straitlaced your mother is.”

“The revolution has changed us all. I hope she enjoys it there.” Bettina was envious and annoyed by her mother’s jaunt off to a new life, away from her, when all this time she’d worried about her. “Your father, Uncle Marcel, what became of him?”

“He is the entire problem, according to my Maman. If she hadn't fallen for that suave scoundrel, Monsieur le Duc, she might have been ignored by the rabble. But she never blamed Aunt Volet for introducing them. One sister marries into nobility, why not the other, eh? It was not Aunt Volet's fault the rascal womanized his way across France. I have no idea where he is. We lost touch long ago. He could very well be minus his head by now.”

“Did you actually see anyone guillotined?” Frederick asked, his face alight with interest.

“No, nor would I care to.”

“Neither would you.” Bettina rebuked the boy with her glance. “What about your sisters and brother, Etienne? Are they safe? Did anyone … become a victim?” She quivered with emotion over this unexpected reunion.

“As far as I’m aware, our side of the family was left unscathed. I do not know about your father’s relatives. You had an aunt on that side, did you not?”

“Yes, my Aunt Melisande. But she married a poor man far from Paris, so is probably safe. It is frustrating not knowing.” Bettina tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, how I would love to see them all again. Our family did not deserve persecution. We always behaved in a responsible manner.” Her eyes moistened. “And Maman is in America….”

Etienne put a hand on Frederick's shoulder. “Why don’t you run over there, young man, and drag that insolent dog of a waiter over to us.”

Frederick hopped up. “I’ll grab the dog for you.”

“Etienne, when you reunite with your wife, please come to visit me in Cornwall.” Bettina dug around in her reticule. “I will borrow pen and ink and write down the directions.” Her heavy sadness at failing to find Everett lifted an inch at the news of her family.

* * * *

Genevre gave a rare smile when Bettina picked her up in her bedchamber. She was relieved to be home, even if it was the hated manor. The sweet scent of her daughter helped to soften her upset and frustration after a futile search of Plymouth on their return trip. She turned to Rose, who stood in the doorway. “I wasted money on coach fare. But at least now I know where my mother is.”

Tears glistened in Rose’s eyes. “Mr. Hobart should never have given us false hope.” The older woman stumbled from the chamber, head quivering. She seemed no more than a wraith.

“I wish so much I had found your father.” Bettina rocked her daughter. Would Everett have the chance to be charmed by his little girl’s smile? The baby pulled at her breast. “I am sorry,
ma fille
, to have left you like that.”

“Miss Genevre has taken well to the goat’s milk, Mrs. Camborne.” Oleba had waited quietly in the shadows. Bettina suspected the maid knew the truth about her marriage, but always gave her the courtesy of the title. “The baby thrives. I wish I could say the same about your mother-in-law. Mrs. Camborne hardly eats anything.”

“She does look awful. But I do not know what I would do without you.” Bettina smiled at her maid. “You could return to London and find a better position.”

“No. I love the children, and want to stay with you. I’ll even forego my wages until matters improve. Consider my meals my pay.”

“You are too generous. I hope it does not come to that.” Bettina grinned when her son scampered in. “Have you been good, too, my big boy?”

“Yes, Maman.” The boy hopped on his toes. “Did you find Papa?”

Oleba stepped forward and took the baby.

“No, not yet.” Bettina stooped and kissed his cheek.

“Did your mother-in-law tell you that Mr. Lew had to leave for Liskeard?” Oleba asked. “He intends to help his widowed mother at her farm. He was sorry to have to go when you weren’t here. I have the impression he won’t be back.”

“I do not blame him. If I could convince Mrs. Camborne we should sell this manor, things might improve for all of us. Perhaps she will let me sell some of the horses. It is not right that I have no legal authority.”

In bed that night, she dreamt that Everett came to her, and told her he had to go away for a long time. She reached for his hand, yearning for the touch of his skin, but he dissolved and slipped back into the dark corners of the chamber. Bettina bolted upright, scanned the empty room, and clutched her pillow. For the first time in weeks, the case wasn’t moist with tears.

“I said no more crying,” she whispered to her dream Everett. “If I do not find you yet, mon amour, perhaps I will need to travel farther away.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

After finalizing the sale of the coach horses and coach, Bettina walked from the stables. She couldn’t bring herself to sell Everett’s beautiful black horse, Onyx. She also promised Frederick he could keep his pony, for now.

The tree leaves turned russet and gold with autumn, the sun rising later, and she dreaded the idea of spending another damp winter in Bronnmargh. She entered the kitchen door and shut it against the sound of the coach and team driven from the yard by strangers. “Where is Mrs. Camborne?” she asked Oleba, who stood before the fire, cooking.

“She’s still in bed. She says she isn’t feeling well.” The maid ladled hot porridge into a bowl for Christian. “Miss Genevre is still asleep.”

Bettina’s three-year-old son sat in a chair, tapping his spoon on the table.

“I worry about Rose. Every moment she seems more melancholy. Nothing interests her and she refuses to see the doctor.” Bettina suffered too, forcing herself through each hour, through another day. Her children’s well-being and managing the household gave her the reason to crawl from bed each morning. After a brief visit by her cousin and his wife the month before, filling her with more tales of her mother, she burned with a desire for change.

Bettina kissed her son on top of his head. “I will buy flour and meat with this money I have collected. Onyx and Shevall can pull the curricle if we need to travel from the village to Port Isaac. Now I will go upstairs and check on Mrs. Camborne.”

In the guest room, Mrs. Camborne lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were dull and her face shriveled, like a dried apple.

“May I bring you a cup of basil tea, Rose?”

The old woman struggled to prop herself up. “No, dear, don’t bother. Please sit down.”

Bettina perched on the mattress edge. “What is it? I wish you would allow the physician to examine you.”

“It’s too late for that.” Rose sighed. “Bettina, I realize you and Everett were never married. But I know how happy he was with you. Even if a priest didn’t sanctify your union
… and the children are….” She let the words trail off. The nightgown billowed around her emaciated frame when her shoulders and arms quivered.

“You do not have to say anymore.” Bettina forced a smile and stroked the woman’s arm. She ached with sorrow to see Everett’s mother wither away. “I understand.”

“I’ve drawn up a will. I don’t have much. I’ve given you and Mr. Hobart authorization to act on Frederick’s behalf, until he reaches his majority.” She hiccupped a sob and stared off. “I wanted many children, you know. Everett had been the first, such a fine, healthy boy.”

Bettina bit at her lower lip, unsure if she wanted to speak of these things. She pictured Everett as a child. He couldn’t be drowned, gone. “You should rest now.”

“There was another boy after Everett. He only lived two years. Then Clare, my beautiful girl. I had three miscarriages after Clare, then no more children.” Rose’s fingers clawed at her counterpane. “A mother shouldn’t outlive her children, it’s unnatural.” She covered her face with her hands and wept.

Bettina put her arms around the frail woman, who smelled of lavender and despair. Why wasn’t Everett here to comfort his mother? To comfort her? She clenched her muscles and
refused to unleash her own emotions, petrified of not having the strength to recapture them again.

* * * *

A November flaw blew wet and blustery against the window panes. Bettina closed the door to Rose’s room. The older woman declined to rise or speak, her health deteriorating. The physician had left a few minutes before. His diagnosis was old age, but Bettina understood her devastation. Exhausted by life’s blows, Rose had given up the will to live.

Bettina entered her chamber and picked up her daughter from her crib. “This awful house does not help,” she said, staring into Genevre’s attentive blue eyes as she rocked her. The six-month-old squirmed in her arms, as if she longed to jump down and walk on her own. An independent nature already loomed. “The place is cursed. I have always hated it. But I have other plans, my love. Would you like to see New Orleans?”

She carried her daughter down the faded red-carpeted stairs where shadows crept up the walls. Bronnmargh glowered around them—cold, damp, the majority of rooms closed off and neglected. With not enough servants to light fires or clean, and no money to spare, the house reeked of mildew.

Bettina entered the kitchen, where Frederick sat at the table thumbing through a textbook. “Grandmother still won’t leave her bed. Is she going to die?”

“We must be prepared, your grandmother is very ill,” she whispered.

Christian knelt near the kitchen hearth building a tower of wooden blocks.

Frederick snaked his foot across and tipped it over. The blocks tumbled across the flagstones.

Her son laughed and clapped his hands. He restacked them. “Don’t do it again, Fwedwick.”

“You are not really studying.” Bettina sat across from Frederick, Genevre in her lap.

“I can’t concentrate.” He flapped the pages of the book back and forth. “I’m only recently getting to know Grandmother, and now … everyone’s dying.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. We must face many truths.” She still couldn’t talk about—refused to admit—her fears that Everett might be gone. Bettina shifted her daughter in her lap. “I do need to discuss something important with you. I think we should sell Bronnmargh. Your grandmother is against it, but it is the only sensible solution.”

“Where will we live?” He leaned back in the chair, his curls framed by the firelight behind him.

“This place is falling apart, and has been for years. We cannot afford the upkeep. Your share in the shipping business is sold, and it does not do well because of the war with France.”

“My share?” He sat up and rapped a knuckle on the book’s leather cover. “I could still join the navy.”

Genevre slapped her hand on the table, matching his rhythm.

“Ever since I learned my mother was in Louisiana, I cannot stop thinking about her. I would like to travel there to find her. But if I do sell, I will need your permission.”