Authors: Love Lessons
Had James, by bedding her, simply been playing some sort of evil, wicked game? Had it been a crude sham on
his part? She refused to believe it; she would
not
believe it until she could confront him face-to-face.
The door opened, and a servant rudely glared at her. She was a sight, in her dark clothing and cloak, with no coach or escort and dusk approaching.
“May I help you?” the man inquired.
“I would like to speak with Mrs. Angela Ford.”
“I don’t think she’s receiving visitors. Have you a card?”
“No . . . I . . .”
The retainer
tsk
ed at this appalling breach of good manners. “Then, madam, I am quite confident that she is
not
at home,” and he commenced closing the door in her face.
“But this will only take a moment.” She added, “Please. . . .”
She sounded desperate, and she was. At her wits’ end, she could conjure no other means of proceeding. James deeply loved and respected his mother, so Abigail intended to inappropriately impose on Mrs. Ford, requesting that she convince James to attend a final meeting. A last rendezvous would allow Abigail to make verbal amends and to raise the questions that had been driving her insane, and thus she hoped to ease her guilty conscience and her aggrieved heart.
From behind the stoic houseman came a husky, fullbodied female voice, and Abigail instantly recognized it as that of Mrs. Ford.
“Who is it, Arthur?” she asked.
“ ’Tis a visitor, ma’am. With no card of introduction, so I don’t know her name.” He blocked Mrs. Ford with the door, but he glanced out, giving Abigail a chance to reveal herself, but she declined with a quick shake of her head.
“I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Ford said.
“If you’re sure?” Arthur looked overly worried, as though Abigail might do something nefarious to his employer if admitted inside.
“I’m fine, Arthur. Truly.” She stepped into view, and the servant retreated as she called to his departing back, “There are two boxes in the back bedchamber. Could you fetch them down for me?”
As she focused her attention on Abigail, Abigail was impaled by those intense sapphire eyes, and she suffered a hasty intake of breath. At the theater, in wig and makeup, it had been difficult to discern her resemblance to James, but up close, their similarities were uncanny. She was just as striking as her handsome, seductive son. More so, if that was possible.
Taller than Abigail, she was lithe yet buxom, a stunning beauty trying to hide her appeal in homemaker’s drab clothing, which was laughable. Angela Ford’s charisma was simply too blatant to disguise in a gray dress, white apron, and conservative chignon. She appeared ready to burst out of her plain costume in order to reveal the majestic person concealed underneath.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Abigail said.
“Are you here about James? Or Michael?” she queried without preamble. “If you’re wanting one of them, Michael is out of Town, and James is temporarily staying at their club.”
“I didn’t know . . .” Abigail murmured, disturbed by this turn of events.
“ ’Tis a long story,” Mrs. Ford remarked, gesturing dramatically as though she’d love nothing more than to tell it then and there. “But let’s get you off the stoop, shall we? You obviously desire a discreet discussion, so we hardly need all the neighbors gawking.”
Mrs. Ford flashed a confident, knowing smile, so radiant and full of dazzle that Abigail was temporarily paralyzed by it, but she shook herself into action as the other woman disappeared into the house, and she had to follow or lose her opportunity.
They entered a parlor on the second floor, and Mrs. Ford seated herself on a large sofa, directing Abigail to the one across. Abigail went through the motions, taking extra time in adjusting her skirts, while in reality, she was furtively surveying the well-appointed chamber. James lived here, passed his private hours here! He probably enjoyed that chair by the window, threw a log on that hearth. She savored
the moment, wanting to imprint every color, shape, and image so that she’d remember all the details after she left.
It was clearly a pleasantly decorated residence, designed for use by a robust family. The drapes and rugs were brightly done in reds and greens, the furniture overstuffed and comfortable. The walls were covered with outstanding watercolors of Paris street corners, and Abigail suffered a sharp pang wondering if they’d been painted by James’s friend Pierre, who had created his notorious collection of erotic pictures. She was dying to sneak a peek at the artist’s signature, but she restrained herself, forcing herself to concentrate on her task.
In one corner, there were several shipping crates. Household belongings were haphazardly dumped inside. On observing Abigail’s curiosity, Mrs. Ford breezily explained, “I’m moving out.”
“You’re what?” Abigail wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. She sagged a little, not understanding why, but something about the deed seemed wrong.
“Moving,” Mrs. Ford repeated. “I’ve had a huge disagreement with my sons, so I’m abandoning them. But I’m sure they’ll survive without me.” A servant came by with a refreshment tray. Mrs. Ford glanced at Abigail, but Abigail was too nervous to consider any sustenance, and the maid retired from the room. When they were alone once more, Mrs. Ford faced Abigail.
“All right, let’s have it,” she said. “Is it James or Michael?”
“James,” Abigail replied.
“Are you in the family way?” Mrs. Ford questioned bluntly.
Abigail gasped, her cheeks coloring to a flaming scarlet. In deciding to call, it had never occurred to her that James’s mother might form such a low opinion.
As she stumbled for a response, Mrs. Ford continued.
“Because if you are, I’m not sure what I could do about it. James is a grown man, and my opinion holds very little
sway with him. Besides, he wed previously after a dalliance, and it was quite horrid for him. I wouldn’t demand that he endure such a fate again, and I’d definitely never pressure him to marry someone he didn’t love.”
“I’m carrying no babe,” Abigail assured her, though a part of her wished her visit were about that very subject. She could fathom no greater miracle than to be increasing with James’s child.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Ford mused in her succinct fashion, “what brings you here?”
“James is a friend of mine.”
Mrs. Ford raised a dubious brow. “Really? I wasn’t aware that he had any female
friends
. I’m quite confident that he intends another purpose entirely for his feminine companions.”
“Be that as it may,” Abigail pressed ahead, “he is a close friend. Perhaps the best I’ve ever had.”
“Sorry . . .”—Angela shrugged casually, disbelieving—“but he’s never mentioned this purported
friendship
to me.”
“I don’t know that he would,” Abigail persisted. “Our association has been rather . . . well . . .”
“Clandestine?”
“Yes.”
“How charming,” Mrs. Ford muttered sarcastically.
“I’m very worried about him.”
“So am I,” his mother allowed. “I have been for a long while.”
Abigail was apprehensive about how much to say, but she wanted the entire, sordid story out in the open, so she started with, “I attended the theater, Saturday last, with the Earl of Spencer”—Mrs. Ford perked to attention at Edward’s name—“and I caused a row between James and his father. I didn’t mean to,” she hurried on. “One minute, James was standing before me, and I was so astonished that I behaved atrociously by pretending I didn’t know who he was, and the next, he was demanding that the earl introduce us, and then . . . then . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Ford interrupted, waving away additional
clarification, “many, many people told me all about it.” Appalled, she deduced, “You’re one of the Weston girls, aren’t you? One of Jerald Weston’s sisters?”
“I am.” Abigail couldn’t see any reason to sustain her ruse now that she’d been discovered, and she gained immense relief by admitting her identity to James’s mother.
Aghast, Mrs. Ford fumed. “You’re having a sexual affair with James?”
“We have been . . .” Abigail whispered.
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Ford groaned. “How long has this been going on?”
“For several weeks now,” Abigail acknowledged.
“Well . . . that explains many things.”
“Like what?”
“Like why my family is in such a disordered mess,” Mrs. Ford responded irascibly. “If you truly know James’s propensities as you claim, then you must be aware of his feelings regarding his father. Why would you provoke him while waltzing about on Edward’s arm? Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve wrought?”
“I never planned to hurt him!”
“But you did,” she chided, “and several others, yet I’m supposed to gather that you’ve developed a deep attachment with him.”
“I’m so in love with him that I can hardly breathe.”
“And what are
his
sentiments about this
amour
that he’s never disclosed to me?”
“He loves me, as well. Very much,” Abigail contended, but even as she finished the assertion, it seemed terribly embellished.
“Pardon me for being skeptical, my lady”—she shifted forward in her seat—“but I comprehend my son’s motives extremely well. Better than you obviously do. James does
not
fall in love, he does
not
have meaningful relationships, and he most certainly does
not
fornicate with pretty women as though there is some higher purpose behind it.”
“Don’t make it sound so tawdry,” Abigail pleaded. “There’s so much more between us than mere lust.”
“What were you thinking,” she scoffed, “embroiling yourself so recklessly in my son’s life? Have you any idea of the furor you will cause if you are discovered? You say you care for James. If so, why would you risk putting him in such a predicament?”
“I hardly know where to start. . . .” Abigail attempted to elucidate, but hastily realized that she wasn’t very convincing. “From the first moment I met him, I couldn’t resist, and with each passing day, my love for him has grown until I can’t abide my life without him in it.”
The silence was prolonged as Mrs. Ford studied her. Then she rose and went to the sideboard, pouring herself three fingers of a pungent brandy. “Would you like one?” she offered, but Abigail said no. As the older woman pensively sipped, Abigail watched, jealous of her freedom and confidence, of her ability to do something as shocking as enjoy hard spirits in the middle of the day.
Angela Ford was a female who had always lived exactly as she chose, others’ opinions be damned. She’d done things and gone places about which Abigail could only fantasize. Where Mrs. Ford reveled in autonomy and adventure, Abigail struggled with routine, boredom, and duty. She was twenty-five years old, and she could scarcely leave the house without obtaining her brother’s permission first.
How she wished she could be more like Angela Ford!
As Abigail stared covetously, Mrs. Ford tarried along the wall, sampling her liquor until the quiet became jarring, then she returned to the sofa, and Abigail couldn’t resist filling the void. “I apologize for the subterfuge. I just didn’t want to be . . . to be . . .”
“Seen on my doorstep; yes, I comprehend your dilemma. You and your bloody kind,” Mrs. Ford grumbled, though not uncharitably, as though the same criticism had been leveled at her a thousand times before. “Sorry, Lady Abigail, but I don’t understand you. You’re here, presumably, because of your concern for James, but considering the fact that you don’t want anyone to ascertain your acquaintance, I’m having a bit of trouble in generating any empathy for
you. My son is such a dynamic, fine man—”
“I know, I know,” Abigail readily agreed. “He is.”
“Any woman should be proud to be in his company. For you to be ashamed of him, to try and conceal your connection, well . . .” She swallowed down the remaining contents of the glass and set it on the small table with a resounding crack. “I don’t have much sympathy for your problem.
Whatever
it is.”
Abigail appreciated how she must appear: a snobbish, wealthy, pampered noblewoman with no integrity, no scruples, and nothing to occupy her time but immoral, destructive liaisons. As she’d recently learned so painfully, she
was
the type of despicable woman who would privately trifle with a man of lower station, but who wouldn’t speak to him in public later on, so some of the appalling perceptions Mrs. Ford had of her character were unquestionably deserved.
But I don’t want to be this kind of person
, she yearned to shout. She wanted to be more like Angela: independent, brave enough to throw caution to the wind, to impetuously plunge forth, conferring free rein to her love for James. But to what end?
Their affair would never be more than a physical diversion for him. He would never marry her, and she wasn’t foolish enough to deem such a happy conclusion as being likely. If James could be convinced to recommence with their assignations, they would continue as lovers until the terrifying day arrived when he decided he was bored and inclined to move on, and she would be left heartbroken and alone.
In the meantime, she would have been excommunicated from her family, totally shunned, cut off from everything and everyone. She would never be allowed to see her dear sister again, or the ancestral home, or the smattering of relatives around whom she’d grown up. Labeled as a female of loose morals, she would become invisible, no one would speak to her, no one would associate with her.
Perhaps a stronger woman would forge ahead, heedless
of the consequences and unconcerned over any dreadful future. Perhaps a more capable one could withstand such a fervent upheaval that would never relent or abate. For if she proceeded to her doom, then year after long year, she would suffer unceasingly for her single, rash act of loving too desperately. She’d be cast out forever, and she simply couldn’t tolerate the eventuality of passing the remainder of her days as a scorned, solitary pariah.
“I’m not the woman you perceive me to be,” she asserted quietly. “Despite how I came here, and how I appear, I’m
not
ashamed of James or what has happened between us. I honestly don’t know how I’ll persevere without him. I love him with all that I am, but I realize he’ll never marry me—”