The Lost Bee (2 page)

Her name came out in a whisper as his lips caressed the back of her hand. A fire spread up her arm and over her body. She should stop him. Pull away. Say something to show how him furious she was. If only she were furious.

“Mr. Baker—”

“Morgan, please. Oh, Susan.” His voice broke. “You weren’t meant to be someone’s daughter. You were meant to be someone’s woman.”

Woman
, not
lady.
She pushed the thought away as his lips found hers. She’d never been kissed before. Feelings she’d only imagined—and some she never dreamed of—raced through her. He opened the top button on her dress, and she didn’t object. He opened another button and another. Why didn’t she protest?

The breeze raised chill bumps on her breasts. He pressed her against the tree, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Useless. As if she’d lost her mind. His hair brushed over her throat and his breath warmed her skin. She heard a bell ringing in the distance.

It was like she’d come to the summit of a mountain. She could turn back now, go down the way she came, run and join Fisher with Mama. Or she could go with Morgan to the other side. Perhaps she’d been enchanted by the white lady after all. She denied him nothing.

And he took everything.

“I am a fallen woman,” she said afterwards, wonder in her voice. And yet she wasn’t sorry. She was twenty-one years old. Other girls she knew had been married four, five, six years. Some had more than one child. But
married
was the key word. “I’m...”

“Ruined?” Morgan said. “A slut?” The words hit like a slap across the face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, my love, I’m teasing you.” He laughed indulgently and chucked her chin.

She felt foolish. Unworldly. Perhaps she wasn’t as free of society’s expectations as she’d believed. It was easier to agree with Rousseau in theory than in practice.

“Our feelings are transcendent,” Morgan said. “Susan, you’re beautiful and pure. What we have is more powerful than social custom. You could never be a slut.”

He put her buttons back together, his fingers making quick work between her breasts. “You’re wrong,” she said. She wanted him to take her again.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “I have to go to Manchester on the afternoon coach. When I return Saturday, I’ll speak to your father.”

“My father?”

“My darling Susan, I want to make you mine forever. Properly. I want you to be my wife.”

All week Susan could barely keep her composure. Her feet never touched the ground. She was reborn. Morgan loved her. Of course she loved him, but she never dreamed he’d return that love. She smiled for no reason. But there was a reason. Soon the world would call her Mrs. Morgan Baker. The week’s wait was torture and bliss.

On Friday Papa was at home, and Mama was well enough to come down to supper. She sat across from Susan at Papa’s right-hand side. Her white-blond hair was neatly plaited, not a strand astray. Her pale blue eyes were clear, and there was color in her cheeks. She ate no more than one or two bites from each course, but she took a little wine and appeared to follow the conversation. It felt like a normal family meal. From time to time, Papa covered Mama’s hand with his so tenderly it broke Susan’s heart.

Oh, Mama, you’re so beautiful! What happened to make you this way?

She was lovely when she wasn’t a mess, and Papa was darkly handsome. Susan had inherited the light and the dark and come out a drab mouse with brown hair and a plain face. Her eyes were her only distinguishing feature, even lighter than Mama’s and, as Morgan had remarked, not blue at all but a striking bright gray.

“I’m touring the canal with the duke tomorrow,” Papa said. The Duke of Gohrum’s canal had been finished years ago, and now Papa oversaw its management. It was a fine arrangement, as it allowed time for other projects and Millam Cottage came with the position. “Mr. Baker won’t return from Manchester until late. He’ll be sorry to miss it.”

Susan felt her cheeks burn. “Mr. Baker is a wonderful help to you, isn’t he, Papa?” she said. “It’s a shame he had to go.”

“It couldn’t be helped. The lock mechanism is giving the navvies fits. A canal is like anything in life that is worthwhile. It’s never finished, you see. Without proper maintenance, it becomes a useless monster. Mr. Baker is the only man I trust to bring the correct replacement part.”

It made Susan proud to know Papa valued Mr. Baker as much as she did.

“No matter,” Papa said. “He’ll have his introduction to the duke and Millie—and to Baroness Branch and Sir Carey as well. He’s wheedled me into taking him to the harvest ball as my guest. I daresay he deserves it.”

That wasn’t how Morgan had told it. He’d given the impression Papa invited him to the ball unprovoked. No matter. As Papa said, Morgan deserved the attention.

When the food was cleared away Papa said, “Why don’t we have our brandy right here?”

“Let me get it,” Susan said. At first she thought Papa didn’t want to break the spell. With any change, Mama might fall back into her imaginary world. But setting the brandy and glasses on the table, Susan realized Papa was examining her closely.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” he said. “You’ve seemed agitated these last few days.”

She took a sip of brandy to delay her answer. She’d meant to hold herself back from thinking about Morgan during supper, but it proved impossible. Papa knew her too well. Of course he could see that she was in a different world this past week.

“The white lady found her.” Mama nodded knowingly and raised an eyebrow. She gave Susan a wicked smile, as if they shared a secret. But how could she know?

Susan had to think of something. She wouldn’t betray Morgan. He should be the one to tell Papa of their engagement. An idea came to her.

“Actually, I’ve decided to attend the harvest ball this year,” she said.

Yes! A wonderful plan. Morgan could announce their engagement at the ball. He’d been so happy about Papa’s invitation. He deemed it a sign of society’s acceptance. More important in Susan’s mind, it was a sign of Papa’s approval. He did say Morgan deserved the attention.

“I’m pleased you’ve decided to go to the ball this year, my dear.” But Papa didn’t appear at all pleased. “I hope it’s for your own sake, and not someone else’s.”

“Yes, Papa.” Susan stared into her brandy glass.

“You’ll need a new frock, I suppose,” he continued. “You’d better go into Carleson Peak tomorrow and order something expensive and ornamental from Mrs. Barton.” He patted her hand kindly, but his unspoken disapproval hung in the air between them.

Susan felt miserable and happy at the same time. Papa would see. Morgan would be a wonderful husband, and that would be the answer to all of Papa’s doubts.

“The white lady got to her,” Mama said. “She heard the white lady’s song.”

***

The next morning Fisher brought the bells to Susan. Mama had again escaped watch.

“Never mind,” Susan said. Nothing could bother her today. In a matter of hours Morgan would be home. She found Mama in the woods leaning against the ash tree, her bonnet on the ground nearby. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a white-gold shawl.

“Susan, did you see?” She took Susan’s hand without complaint and rose to her feet. Mama had her problems, but she was congenial. “The white lady came to me.”

“That’s very fine, Mama.” Susan rang the bell then picked up Mama’s bonnet.

“This is her favorite tree, you know,” Mama said.

They set off, arm in arm. “I used to fancy you once belonged to the white lady’s retinue,” Susan said. “Then one day you fell in love with Papa and ran away from your fairy queen to be with him.”

“I never regretted it, child,” Mama said, though unbearable longing on her face belied her words.

Susan was long past believing in fairies or special trees, but the white lady’s tree had felt special enough last Sunday. Susan closed her eyes and recalled Morgan’s hard strength pressing against her. That’s where the magic was in this world. In love. In loving.

“I might walk to the village after lunch,” Susan said.

Morgan lived at the Leopard & Grape, the inn in Carleson Peak. There’d be no harm if she happened to be in the square when the coach came in. No harm if they both happened to stop at Mr. Davies’s shop to inquire whether an ordered book was in the last shipment. No harm if their hands met reaching for the same volume on a shelf in the dark corner. They’d already done so much more.

“I will,” she said again. “I’ll go to the village later.”

“You won’t find the white lady there.” Mama chuckled as if she’d told a wonderful joke, and Susan joined in the laugh for the joy of it.

She was in love!

She loved Morgan Baker for his impudence—and his brilliance and his ambition and his industriousness. He wasn’t a gentleman, but did it matter? He was a brilliant engineer with the audacity to improve his position through study and hard work. Things were changing in the world. Good character meant as much as good lineage.

Everything was almost wonderful, and it would be completely wonderful once Papa was won over to the union.

At the cottage, the front door flew open and Fisher rushed into the courtyard after her charge. She was as thin as Mama, but they were an opposite-looking pair. Fisher was all somber wiry strength with her black hair and eyebrows and her plain dark dress. Mama was an airy will-o’-the-wisp, the white fluff of a dandelion that might fly away on a breeze.

As Fisher took Mama’s arm, Papa’s curricle—well, the one he used from Millam Hall—pulled up to the front door, but he wasn’t with the rig. Instead a footman handed Susan a note from the Marquess of Millam, the duke’s son. Miss Susan Gray’s presence was requested at the hall.

Susan frowned. She was never invited to Millam Hall. “Has my…” She glanced at Mama and lowered her voice. “Has someone been injured?”

“Not that I know of, miss,” the footman said. “But his lordship wanted me to say it is urgent.”

The hall was a mere quarter mile walk, but after the search through the woods Susan was glad for the ride. She was left in the library where she found a copy of the very Rousseau she and Morgan and Papa had recently discussed—and in French too. She made herself comfortable in a chair by the fire and opened the book on her lap, recalling their last conversation.

Ironically Papa, the gentleman, sympathized with Rousseau’s radical ideas about natural men while Morgan had so passionately defended the trappings of civilization. People never value what they have as highly as what they want, and Morgan wanted desperately to be accepted among the gentry.

Susan admired his passion. He felt deeply about so many things, including her. She smiled about her secret and fell into reading. She’d gone through two chapters when she was pulled away from Rousseau by a dog’s bark outside the room. The door opened, and a maid brought in tea.

Lord Millam appeared soon after the maid, and as Susan rose from her chair the distracted servant knocked over a cup, erupted in tears, and fled the room. Millie barely registered the outburst, but he was known as a kind man. All of Gohrumshire expected he’d be a more benevolent duke than his father.

He was near Papa’s age and quite as handsome, medium height and slender, not thin. He had brown hair and a clear complexion and sad hazel eyes. His wife and child had died of fever years ago. Perhaps that’s what made Millie aware of the sorrows of others.

It was wrong to think of the marquess as Millie, but that’s what Papa called him.

“My dear Miss Gray.” He stared into the fire. Something
was
wrong. He most certainly avoided looking at her. “Please sit down.”

Despite the fire a chill shot through her bones, and she remained standing. Her papa was hurt after all; she felt it. For weeks he’d worried about the boat lift, and Morgan’s errand had been undertaken too late.

“You must prepare yourself.”

She hadn’t noticed before, but Millie’s eyes were swollen and red.

“If you please, my lord, just say the words. I can imagine far worse than the reality.”

“I am so sorry, Miss Gray. Little more than an hour ago, your father and mine were both found dead at the canal.”