“Yesterday, when you rode the horse, you did very well. His Lordship likes you. And—And we want you to come live with us.”
“Live?” Elsie frowned. “Live?”
“Yes,” Bridget said. “We want you to come to our house to stay. And you can have bread and meat every day.”
“Every day?” Elsie’s eyes grew bigger. “But, lady, what about me sister?
Me Molly?”
Bridget swallowed. Why hadn’t she thought about Molly?
“Well, she’ll have more to eat if you’re not there. And— And I’ll send her bread and meat. Every day, I promise.”
Elsie looked down at the basket by her bare feet. “Me flowers? What’ll I do with me flowers?”
“Leave them,” Bridget said.
“Oh no!” Elsie’s little face wrinkled in horror. “Can’t do that. Molly, Molly’ll get beat. ‘E’ll beat ‘er, ‘e will.”
Oblivious to the dirt, Bridget gathered the child to her. “Don’t cry, Elsie. Please. We’ll—We’ll take your flowers to Molly’s corner. And we’ll tell her you’re coming to live with us. So she won’t worry about you.”
Elsie wiped at her tear-stained face with grimy hands, leaving streaks in the dirt already there. “All right, lady.”
They found Molly on her corner, a smaller edition of Elsie—complete with dirty face, bare feet, and grimy hands. She stared at Bridget from awe-struck eyes. “Yer Elsie’s lady? The one what brings us the meat?”
Bridget nodded. “Now listen carefully. Elsie’s coming to live with me.”
Molly’s face screwed up into tears. “She won’t be coming ‘ome with me?”
“No,” Bridget said. “But there’ll be more bread and meat for you.” She swallowed hard. “And— And I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you can come to the house, too.”
“Me?” Molly was clearly amazed. “Me live with a lady?”
“Yes. You be a good girl now and I’ll be back.” How on earth was she going to talk Andrew into this?
She swung up on the horse and gave Elsie a hand up behind her. “Hold tight now.”
As Elsie’s little arms closed around her, Bridget heard a sob and looked back over her shoulder. Molly was standing, bravely holding out her flowers, but the tears were flowing down her cheeks. Bridget’s own eyes filled with tears and she clucked to the horse.
* * * *
By the time they’d reached the house, Elsie had stopped crying. Bridget went first to the kitchen to dispatch Ned with more bread and meat for Molly. Then she took Elsie to Mrs. Purvey. “This is the child I spoke to you about. Her name is Elsie.”
Mrs. Purvey’s round face broke into a delighted smile. “My, you’re a pretty little thing,” she said. “Come, we’ll have you a bath first. And then I’ll show you where to sleep.”
Elsie stiffened. “I—I sleeps in the corner. With Molly. I ain’t never slept by meself.”
Mrs. Purvey extended a hand. “It’ll be all right, child. I’ll have a cot put in with one of the maid’s. You’ll like it here.”
Elsie’s fingers clutched Bridget’s so tightly she could hardly pry them loose. “You go with Mrs. Purvey, Elsie. And when you’re all clean and in your new dress, she’ll bring you to me.”
“Dress?” Elsie asked, sniffling, but looking interested. Mrs. Purvey nodded. “And shoes and stockings.” Elsie released her grasp on Bridget and put her little hand in Mrs. Purvey’s. But she turned a worried face to Bridget. “Molly?” she said. “You won’t forget me sister Molly?”
“I won’t forget,” Bridget said, conscious that Mrs. Purvey’s smile had turned to a frown. She was worried, too, but she didn’t want Elsie to see.
“You be good,” she repeated. “And I’ll see you later.”
Chapter Eighteen
Two afternoons later Andrew entered White’s and joined Peter at a table. “So,” Peter said, “how is Aunt Sophie working out?”
Andrew sighed. “She and Bridget get along famously. Too famously, perhaps. But that’s not the newest.”
Peter took a sip of wine. “Tell me.”
“Bridget made me another wager.”
Peter grinned. “Don’t tell me you lost it.”
“I did,” Andrew said. “She claimed that horse of hers doesn’t like males.”
Peter shook his head. “And you didn’t believe her—so you lost the bet.”
“Right.”
Peter’s eyes gleamed with devilment. “And that means?”
“She brought a waif off the street—a girl who sold flowers—to live at the house.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “To live?”
Andrew nodded. “That’s right. A wide-eyed little waif.” He sighed, trying to be fair. “She’s a good enough child. Quiet. Well-behaved.”
Peter took another sip of wine. “So?”
“So I just heard that there’s a rumor going around.”
Peter put his glass down. “I heard it, too.”
Andrew frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I would have in a few minutes.” Peter smiled. “Of course it may be a different rumor.”
“God forbid!” Andrew cried. He dropped his head into his hands. “Tell me what you heard. And from whom.”
“I heard it from Conigsby who had it from Drayton who had it from Linden who had it from Wichersham.”
Andrew raised his head. “Wichersham!”
“Yes,” Peter replied. “He said he had positive proof that this child is actually Bridget’s bastard.”
Andrew groaned. “Isn’t that ridiculous! Bridget’s only nineteen. The child’s at least eight.”
Peter put out a comforting hand. “Don’t worry, old man. No one will believe it.”
“Perhaps not,” Andrew said. “But they will still talk—and talk. I tell you, Peter, this is driving me mad. If Bridget doesn’t stop, I’ll end up in Bedlam.”
Peter chuckled. “You sound like a Cheltenham tragedy of the worst kind. The
ton
always talks: it has no other such enduring pastimes.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You never let it bother you before. Why now?”
Andrew contemplated his wineglass. “I’m not sure. Before Tom’s death, when I wasn’t the marquess, I didn’t give a damn what they said about me. But now, somehow, it’s different. Since my mother’s gone—and I have Bridget—I don’t want Bridget to be talked about, to suffer from all this gossip.”
Peter traced a wine stain on the tablecloth with his fingertip. “I still think you’re refining too much on the subject. You love Bridget. Don’t be embarrassed. Yes, I know you love her.” He laughed. “Everyone knows that.”
Andrew straightened. “I’m certainly not embarrassed by loving her. Nor by Bridget’s parentage.” He frowned. “It’s just that she doesn’t behave properly and—”
Peter shrugged. “Properly? Who’s to say what’s proper?”
Andrew didn’t smile. “You know very well that the
ton
says. So Peter, what do you suggest?”
“Well, if you must do something, do this. First, put Aunt Sophie to work whispering about Bridget’s altruistic leanings—the true story might help there. Second, you might accompany your wife whenever she rides, and smile and look proud when she talks horses.”
Andrew sighed. “I suppose I can do that. With some effort.”
“And,” Peter said, looking him straight in the eye, “when she races, you can be there to cheer her on.”
Andrew groaned. “You expect me to cheer her on when she races in those godawful breeches?”
“Yes,” Peter said with infuriating cheerfulness. “I do. What Bridget does isn’t so unusual. The
ton’s
had its female Jehus before, you know. We survived. So did they.”
“Yes,” Andrew said dryly. “Well, thank you for your advice.”
Peter chuckled. “Advice you don’t mean to follow.”
* * * *
Several afternoons later Bridget sat at her stitching. Aunt Sophie had gone calling—a tiresome task Bridget had gladly evaded. The fire screen she was needlepointing was beginning to look almost presentable. She was holding it off, admiring it, when Aunt Sophie came in.
“I am absolutely exhausted.” Aunt Sophie sank into a chair, fanning herself with a limp hand. “This afternoon I have made some two dozen calls.”
Bridget looked up from her yam. “Two dozen? Aunt Sophie! Whatever are you making so many calls for?”
Aunt Sophie twisted her wedding ring and said nothing.
“Aunt Sophie?”
Aunt Sophie frowned. “Well, he didn’t actually say not to tell you.”
Bridget frowned, too, her stitching forgotten. “Who? Who is this
he?”
“Andrew, of course. He sent me out to make these calls.”
It all seemed very strange. “Whatever for?”
Aunt Sophie sighed. “Because the
ton
is talking about Elsie.”
“Elsie? Why should they talk about her?”
Aunt Sophie avoided her gaze. “Actually, they’re saying that she’s yours.”
“Mine?” Bridget repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re whispering about that you are Elsie’s mother.”
Bridget gasped. “Who started such a monstrous lie? And why didn’t Andrew tell me?”
“I suppose,” Aunt Sophie said, answering the last question first, “he didn’t tell you because he knew you’d be upset.”
Bridget swallowed. “He didn’t—he didn’t believe it, did he?”
“Of course not. That’s why he sent me out to spread the true story about town.”
Bridget stared. He couldn’t have said—”You mean the
whole
story, that Andrew couldn’t ride the horse? That he was thrown?”
“Yes,” Aunt Sophie said, “the whole story. He felt that only the truth would quell the rumors.”
“But Aunt Sophie, they will laugh at him. They’ll laugh at Andrew.”
Aunt Sophie shrugged. “I guess he didn’t care about that. At least not as much as preserving your good reputation.”
Bridget shuddered. “This is horrible. He’s such a proud man. This will be degrading to him.”
She leaped to her feet and began pacing the carpet. Suddenly she stopped and whirled. “Tell me, who was it? Who started this filthy rumor?”
Aunt Sophie patted her forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. “We cannot be sure, of course. But the Lindens seem to be spreading it. And Wichersham.”
Bridget cursed. “That bastard! He’s always lying about me. Just because I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t let him—”
“Enough,” Aunt Sophie said. “Every age has men like that.” She straightened, arranging her skirt. “We can do little except evade them.”
Bridget swore again. “If I were a man, I’d kill him.
Or
at least beat him to a bloody pulp!”
Aunt Sophie smiled complacently. “If he keeps this up, Andrew is apt to do that very thing.”
* * * *
The next morning Bridget awoke to find Andrew still beside her. He turned to her. “Shall we ride together today?”
“Yes,” she said, smothering a little smile. She’d been hoping for this—hoping and praying.
The ride was uneventful, but as they turned back through the city, Bridget’s heart rose up in her throat. “Andrew,” she said, “there’s something I’d like to show you.”
“Very well.”
He guided Sable after the stallion, stopping as she did in front of Molly. “I buy my nosegays from her now,” she said.
Andrew nodded, reaching in his pocket for coins.
She forced herself to go on. “Andrew, this—this is Molly, Elsie’s sister.”
Andrew’s eyebrows came together in a huge frown. “Bridget!”
“Flowers, milord?” Molly asked, her voice trembling. “Thank ‘e, milord, fer helping me sister.”
“You’re welcome,” Andrew said, obviously surprised. “Do you always work here?”
“Aye, milord. I sells me flowers. Every day ‘ere, on me corner.”
Bridget swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Please, Andrew. She’s so little. And all alone.”
“Bridget.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. He was very angry, but she had to go on. There were bruises on Molly’s thin arms, bruises like those Mrs. Purvey had reported finding on Elsie’s skinny body. She couldn’t leave the child to be beaten. She just couldn’t.
“Andrew, please, let me take her home. To her sister.”
He scowled at her in utter disgust. “Bridget, be sensible. This city is full of orphans. You cannot possibly take them all in.”
“I know, Andrew, I know. But Elsie has been very good. And Mrs. Purvey says it’s all right.” She swallowed. “If you let me take her, I will do whatever you say, promise whatever you ask.”
He paused. “Whatever?”
She swallowed again. “Yes. If you wish, I won’t ride in the mornings or—”
“No,” Andrew said, “not that. You may ride.” His face grew even more serious. “But if I let you take her, will you give up racing?”
Bridget looked down at the child whose great dark eyes were fastened on her in an agony of hope. It was a hard thing Andrew was asking her, to give up the excitement of the race. But she would have to do it. She couldn’t leave Molly here.
Bridget looked into Andrew’s eyes. “I’ll give up racing,” she said. “And I’ll go further. If ever I race in public again, I—” She had to swallow over the hard words. “If ever I break my word and race again, I’ll get out of your life forever. I promise.”
“Agreed,” Andrew said, extending his hand as he would to a man.
She shook it. Then she dismounted and drew near the child. “Molly, do you want to come home with me?”
The child nodded, tears trembling on her lashes. “Yes, milady, I does.”
“Good.” Bridget looked around. “Now, is there someone you can give your flowers to? You won’t need them anymore.”
Molly gulped. “Over there—the old woman. She be nice to me.” She looked down at her bare feet. “Sometimes I shares my meat with ‘er.”
Bridget lifted the basket and, with Molly close beside her, carried it to the black-shawled old woman crouching in the corner of a doorway.
“Here,” she said. “Molly’s leaving these with you. She won’t need them anymore.”
The old woman raised her head, peering from watery eyes. “Yer the one, the one what took Elsie.”
“Yes.”
“And now yer taking ‘er sister?”
“Yes.”
“Praise the Lord! God bless, lady. God bless.”
Bridget pressed a coin into her shaking hand and turned to the waiting child. “Come, Molly. We’re going home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Several weeks passed uneventfully. Bridget, engrossed in the little girls, spent most of her time helping Mrs. Purvey teach them. The girls, still incredulous about their good fortune, crept about the house like two clean and quiet little mice.