Fairchild (11 page)

His mother frowned. “If it’s too difficult, we can cut them off. See if Sarah’s bringing laudanum, like I asked. And don’t forget to put on dry clothes yourself. I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything.”

“Rheum, more like,” he said, winking as he closed the door. “I’m likely to cause you the most amount of trouble.”
 

In the drafty hallway, away from the fire, cold pierced him again. He’d forgotten how chilled he was. Nights like this, no one should be out, certainly not lone girls. Jack had told him how terrifying a dislocated shoulder was and both times he’d seen him treat one, the patients had panicked.
 

He wouldn’t soon forget her woebegone, desperate figure standing in his doorway and shrinking in pain on his sofa. He wondered how she had come to be riding in such weather, alone. Her speech, her horse and her clothing indicated she was too well bred to be allowed out without an escort.
 

Remembering his bath, and that the water would soon cool, he loped up the stairs. She would explain soon enough.
 

*****

Swathed in a new dressing gown and with a warm drink in his hand, Tom sat in the plain nook of a room he had claimed for himself. The master suite here was too big and ornate for him. He kept his chair pulled close to the fire and his feet propped on the fender. If there hadn’t been such strange happenings, he was quite sure he would be asleep by know. Lord knew he ought to be tired.
 

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Still awake?” his mother asked.

“As you see.” He signed for her to join him in the opposite chair. “How is she?”
 

“Asleep,” was all she said.

Close to the light of the fire, he saw that his mother carried the girl’s clothes. Briskly, she shook them out and hung them over the screen to dry. Even after decades of wealth, his mother hadn’t forgotten how to do menial work. Her fingers were thick and efficient, with sagging skin around the knuckles and liver spots showing through her lace mittens.
 

“You could have let Sarah take those away,” he said.

She sniffed. “I’m trying to find out who she is.”

“She couldn’t tell you?”
 

“By the time we got her into bed, she couldn’t put three words together, not so they made any sense. Didn’t want to take the laudanum, either. Shouldn’t wonder if she’s brewing a fever, the way she raved. I thought I’d have to hold her nose, but she took it in the end, poor girl.”
 

“So you have no idea where she is from?”

She hesitated before giving an answer. “No. I don’t like the idea of her family not knowing where she is. They must be frantic.”
 

“You forget that I know you of old, Mother.” Tom said. “You suspect something, don’t you?” She was wearing the same look as when she’d discovered the coal merchant inflating his accounts.
 

“She has red hair,” his mother said.
 

“She does?” Tom hadn’t noticed anything beyond that it was wet. “I don’t see how that helps.”

His mother pressed her lips together, but her pink cheeks betrayed her excitement. “Lord Fairchild has red hair. I’ve seen him from a distance, in Bury St. Edmonds. Red hair is unusual here.” Her words picked up speed. “I think she’s his daughter. She said she was riding home, and Lord Fairchild’s house isn’t that far.”

“Seems slender evidence to me,” Tom said. “He might not have any daughters.”

“I pick up bits here and there,” she said. “I’m fairly sure there’s at least one.”

He firmed his mouth against the chafing of old wounds, still angry that she had lived here nine years—nine years!—and couldn’t say for certain. This was not the way things should be. He drew a long breath and stared into the flames.
 

“Ah,” his mother said, drawing a sodden scrap of paper from a jacket pocket. “This might tell us something.”
 

Carefully, she unfolded the paper, fragile as tissue from the damp, and laid it out on the table. The ink had bled in many places, but some of the writing remained.
 

“She might dislike you reading her letters,” Tom commented, reaching for his brandy.
 

“What else are we to do, pray?”
 

He shrugged. “She is out of harm’s way. Her family will rest easier, knowing she is safe, but it makes no real difference if they find out now, or tomorrow, or the next day.” He would not turn away anyone in need. But taking extra pains for one of them . . . that was another matter.
 

“Tell me again, when you have children of your own,” she said, dismissing him with a sniff.
 

He watched her scan the paper, her lips moving as she read, and he felt guilty that she was so alone. If she had been able to have other children, his father might not have been so bent on elevating him against his will. He could have avoided Rugby altogether, and his mother would have more than his occasional visits to keep her company.
 

His mother gave an excited squeak, lifting her hand to her cheek.
 

“Well?” Tom asked.
 

“I’m right,” she announced. “Look here.”
 

Reluctantly, Tom left his chair and moved to stand beside her.
 

“He signs his letter ‘Jasper’, which I’m told is the name of Fairchild’s heir, the Honorable Jasper Rushford.”
 

She pronounced the name as if it was sacred, like Shakespeare, or Nelson.

“Look here,” she pointed. “There’s something about their father, and taking her to London.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock. “Tom, we’ve got Lord and Lady Fairchild’s daughter here!”

Wonderful.

His mother leaned back in her chair, fluttering her hands over her chest, as Tom returned to his, full of misgivings. Her unfocused gaze bespoke her agitation and rapid internal calculations.
 

Tom was annoyed. Fairchild’s daughter had no business showing up on his doorstep and knocking his mother out of orbit. He would have to get rid of her as soon as decently possible. As long as she was here, his mother would scheme. He had no interest in cultivating a relationship with any of his toplofty neighbors, and he was reasonably sure they would not welcome acquaintance with him either.
 

It didn’t help that the girl was young. His mother wouldn’t be able to stop herself from matchmaking. Seeing him wed was becoming a mania with her. He wished she would understand that people like the Fairchilds would never permit their daughter to marry a Cit like him. Once, his father had tried brokering a marriage for him, but Tom had flown into such a temper he had never done it again. He regretted lashing out at his father for that, but it enraged him, being sneered at by financially embarrassed gentry who were reduced to selling their daughters. Brought him back to his schoolboy years at Rugby all over again.
 

The fact that the daughter in question had treated him like he carried a bad smell had not helped matters.
 

His mother was drumming her fingertips on the table beside her. A bad sign.

“We’ve done what we can for her tonight,” Tom said. “You needn’t go to any special trouble.”

“You can’t be serious. Miss Rushford is used to—she cannot be expected to—” His mother stopped sputtering and drew herself up with a long breath. “You’ll see, Tom. I can entertain her as well as any one else. She will not find fault with any of my arrangements. She shall have everything she can possibly require.”
 

“I’m sure she shall,” Tom said. Tempted to remind her that beggars couldn’t be choosers, he nevertheless held his tongue. This was going to be worse than he feared.
 

Sophy opened her gummy eyes and frowned, confused by the unfamiliar draperies above her. She was in a bed the size of a barouche, buried in a white froth of pillows. Pushing her hands into the mattress, she tried to sit, but was stopped by pain lancing deep in her shoulder. Recollecting with a groan, she sank back into the pillows and stared up at the yellow silk bed hangings. Her shoulder ached something fierce.
 

She couldn’t lay here forever. She owed some explanation to her hosts. They probably had all kinds of questions. Who she was, for one. And she should send a message to Cordell as soon as possible. Dessie would be frantic by now. Setting her chin, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and pushed herself upright with her good arm. The bed was huge. Perched on the side, her toes dangled well above the floor. The surrounding walls were decorated with painted panels of rose gardens, cherubs and a fatuous looking shepherdess ignoring her flock to flirt with an adoring swain.
It’s the Pompadour’s boudoir, transported to Suffolk
, she thought, unable to suppress a smirk.

It was an astonishing room, but over warm. The nightdress she wore clung to her back. Her teeth felt fuzzy and her mouth tasted sour. Licking dry lips, Sophy slid to the floor, stumbling on her ruffled hem. Snatching a glass of water from the table by the window, she gulped greedily.
 

“Good morning, Miss.”

Whirling round, Sophy saw that a housemaid had entered the room. Damn, this house had silent hinges! Setting the glass down with a thunk, Sophy buried her hands in the voluminous folds of the nightdress. “Good morning,” she croaked.

“Mrs. Bagshot was wanting to know what you wish for your breakfast.”

Oh. “Is Mrs. Bagshot the cook?” Sophy asked.

The maid’s face contorted into a gargoyle grimace. “No, miss.” The maid wasn’t angry, Sophy realized. She was trying not to laugh. Why?

“Mrs. Bagshot is the Missus,” the maid informed her, recovering her arch manner.
 
“If you are well enough, she’d like to see you.”
 

Sophy cursed under her breath. Small chance this henchwoman would keep her gaffe secret. Already she’d offended her hostess.
 

“Of course,” Sophy looked around. “Where are my clothes?”

“Mrs. Bagshot doesn’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable. If you permit, she’ll attend you here.”
 

Mystified, Sophy nodded and climbed back into bed. This was famous solicitude for an unwanted guest, but she felt unequal to extracting an explanation from the maid.
 

“Your breakfast?” the maid asked.

“Oh. May I have chocolate and toast and a soft-cooked egg?”

“Of course, miss.” The maid curtsied and left.
 

The door had scarcely shut behind her when it opened again, admitting the plump, grey haired lady she hazily recalled from the evening before. Her dress of shiny maroon silk strained over her bosom. A crepe in the same color would have looked much nicer, Sophy thought.
 

Sophy opened her mouth to express her thanks, but the lady sank into a deep curtsey before even glancing at her. Robbed of speech, Sophy could only stare, her mouth half open.

“We’ve been so worried for you. But you can be easy, for the surgeon’s come at last. He’ll take a look at you. Indeed, you’re looking much better today. How do you feel?”

“Better, thank-you. Are you—Mrs. Bagshot?”
 

“I am indeed,” Mrs. Bagshot said, sinking into another curtsy. “And I’ve been racking my brain trying to discover who you must be, thinking of your poor family, who must be out of their minds with worry.” She gave Sophy a confiding smile. “But I have a guess. You must be Lord Fairchild’s daughter.” Sophy swallowed. Her cursed hair!

“You are correct, Mrs. Bagshot.” She didn’t know what else to say. People were never so direct. Nor could she recall ever hearing the name Bagshot before. Who were these people? Surely she wasn’t that far from home.
 

“We will send word to your family first thing,” Mrs. Bagshot promised. “And Sarah here—” seeing that the space beside her was empty, Mrs. Bagshot called again, louder, and the maid hurried back into the room, “—will be pleased to wait on you. Sarah, this is Lady Sophy Rushford.”

Sophy coughed, hiding her shock. Mrs. Bagshot thought she was—that she was real, like Henrietta, and had then seen fit to present her to a maid. She didn’t know whether to swallow her tongue or throw back her head and laugh. Introduce her to the maid, indeed! It was plain that Mrs. Bagshot was beyond her depth. A dark suspicion took hold of her.

“Is this Chippenstone?” she asked, interrupting Mrs. Bagshot’s lengthy instructions to Sarah.

“It is indeed, Lady Sophy.” Mrs. Bagshot beamed. Sophy choked back her laughter with another violent cough, wincing when her shoulder protested.
 

“More laudanum, my Lady?” Mrs. Bagshot asked, advancing solicitously.

“No, thank you,” Sophy managed. Chippenstone was the only house of consequence in the neighborhood where Lady Fairchild did not go. It had been bought years ago, by some wealthy tradesman.
 

Of course none of the Rushfords came here, Sophy thought, seeing the room with new eyes. Mrs. Bagshot was exactly the sort of ridiculous person Lady Fairchild most detested.
 

As she watched Mrs. Bagshot’s awkward bumbling, something took hold of Sophy: some imp of mischief or some half-formed wish. Without thinking, she donned her best Lady Fairchild manner and announced, “You are addressing me incorrectly, Mrs. Bagshot. My father is a viscount, not an earl, so I am a Miss, not a Lady. It would please me if you called me Sophy. It is what they call me at home.”
 

This was perfectly true. It was not her fault if Mrs. Bagshot believed more than that.
 

*****

It took two minutes for Mrs. Bagshot to curtsey herself out of the room and for Sophy to lose her nerve. As soon as the door closed, she collapsed like an accordion and sank onto the bed. She was trembling. What had she done?