Rexanne Becnel (14 page)

“Ah, yes. Indeed it does,” Lord Farley said. He lifted the basket from his horse and set it on the ground. “Come see, girls. There’s one for each of you.”

Though she was suspicious, Izzy’s curiosity was too great for her to resist. She edged warily toward the basket, lifted the lid, then cried, “Kittens!”

How quickly the girls’ mistrust fled, Phoebe thought, watching as they bent over and helped the kittens tumble free of their basket. How easily he bought their cooperation—just as he’d bought their mothers’.

She immediately regretted that thought.
Why are you being so ugly?
They might be like their mothers in some regards, but she, too, was turning out to be uncomfortably like her own. Sour and resentful. Critical. Never satisfied.

“Is the third one for Leya?” Izzy asked, clutching a gray fur ball with huge yellow eyes tight against her chest.

Lord Farley’s clear blue gaze rested for one long moment on Phoebe before he turned back to Izzy. He crouched down and lifted the last kitten, a tiny mewing calico creature that barely filled one of his large hands. “Leya has a gray one like yours, Izzy, but with green eyes. This one I brought for Miss Churchill.”

All eyes swung to Phoebe, awaiting her response. Helen’s eyes sparkled with excitement, clearly delighted by his thoughtfulness. Mr. Fairchild also looked pleased, though not particularly surprised.

Izzy’s expression was more speculative. Her eyes, so like her father’s—and not just in color—darted from the kitten to Phoebe, then to her father. What was going on in that devious little mind?

As for Lord Farley, there was no mystery about his intentions. He was trying to make peace with her, and though giving her a kitten was small solace for taking away her niece, at least he was trying.

“Thank you.” She took the kitten, trying to avoid touching him in the process. It didn’t work. His thumb grazed her palm, and the heel of his hand bumped against hers. Momentary touches both.

Yet like the click of a key in a lock, they loosened the stranglehold Phoebe was keeping on her emotions. Fury and gratitude, panic and longing. Too much; too confusing. She pulled the kitten to her chest and stepped back.

“Well,” said Mr. Fairchild. “Isn’t this pleasant. I declare, there’s nothing like a rustic holiday to refresh oneself. I say, Miss Churchill, are those goats in your shed?”

In short order she was giving him a tour of her little farm, or rather, Izzy and Helen were. For all his sophistication and impressive garb, Mr. Fairchild had an open manner that put everyone at ease. Phoebe found herself bringing up the rear along with Lord Farley.

Feeling his gaze upon her, she said, “Tell me about Leya. Is her recovery progressing?”

“She seems to be improving. Not so feverish. But the pustules are everywhere and she wants to scratch them. She’s not very happy. Any suggestions?”

Phoebe kept her eyes on Izzy who was milking Posie with natural-born ease. “All you can do is try to keep her entertained. Distracted.”

“I thought the same thing.” He paused. “It would help if you came to visit her.”

She forced down any show of emotion. “I’m sure the girls can keep her distracted.”

“Phoebe, listen.” Taking her arm, he turned her to face him. “When Izzy and Helen come home today, they’ll need you with them.”

Rattled by his touch, she shook off his hand. “You have a houseful of servants to tend their needs.”

“It’s not the same.”

She tilted up her chin. “You should have thought of that
before
you decided to take Helen away from me.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d vowed to restrain her resentment and hide her pain. But it was out in the open now. No use to pretend otherwise. She blew out a short breath. “You say you can give them a better life, but it’s plain you can’t, not if you have to rely on me for help.”

“I never denied that I’d need help,” he said into the sudden silence that gripped the new goat shed. Even the shooting sound of milk against the side of the bucket ceased. “I can’t be a mother to them, Phoebe. I’m not equipped for it and, anyway, I don’t know how. But even with my shortcomings, I can do a better job raising them than their real mothers did.”

“At least Helen’s
real
mother knew enough to leave her with me.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why I want you to live in at Farley Park and be a full-time governess to them. You could be with her every day, just as you’ve always been.”

Helen insinuated herself under Phoebe’s arm, intimidated anew by all the stormy adult emotions.

Izzy, manipulative opportunist that she was, chose that moment to align herself with her father. “I want to see Leya. I miss her,” she said, injecting a yearning ache into her voice. “Don’t you miss her too, Phoebe?”

Phoebe’s gaze went from father to daughter. What a conniving pair they were. “Of course I miss her. That’s not the point.”

“Don’t fight,” Helen pleaded, hugging Phoebe around the waist. “Please don’t fight.”

In the end it was easier for Phoebe to just resign herself and go along with them. Once Leya was well, this particular argument would no longer work, she told herself. Once Helen and Izzy were settled at Farley House with an established daily routine, her presence wouldn’t be so necessary to them. She could live at Plummy Head and they could come for lessons. It wouldn’t be the same, but at least she would see Helen every day.

For today, however, she conceded to join them at Farley Park.

Besides, she told herself as she walked alongside the horse which Lord Farley led with Helen astride, she
did
miss Leya.

Leya’s sweet, splotchy face broke into a toothy grin when she spied Phoebe. “Mamamama,” she chanted, bouncing up and down in her bed. “Mamamama.”

“Hello, sweet thing. My little funny face,” Phoebe crooned as she lifted her up. It felt good to cradle a warm, obliging baby in her arms, even one that smelled of camphor and felt suspiciously damp.

“What is this paste on her?”

Lord Farley held up a jar. “Something the cook said would hasten the healing.”

“But it’s so greasy. Something drying would be better. Izzy, Helen?” Phoebe called to the girls who stood in the open door, banned from entering the sickroom. “Have Cook prepare a pot of oat porridge and bring a big bowl of it to me. That will help dry her blisters,” she said to Lord Farley. “And tell the kitchen to send up warm water; plenty of it.”

James knew he should leave. Phoebe had matters well in hand, and besides, she didn’t want him there. But he stayed anyway—for Leya, he told himself as he watched her examine the baby—arms, legs, tummy, backside. She even checked inside Leya’s mouth, much to the baby’s outrage.

“Now, now,” she crooned, teasing Leya back into good humor. “You must be feeling considerably better if you can summon up such a strident temper.”

All during the examination Phoebe had shot sidelong glances at him, looking away when he met her eyes. And throughout, she kept up an aimless chatter to Leya until the water appeared.

But if she thought she could pretend he didn’t exist, he meant to show her she was wrong. “Here, let me help,” he said as she began to undress Leya for her bath. But what started as a perverse form of belligerence, a determination to make Phoebe react to him, swiftly became something else. Leya was a slippery little eel, plump and splotchy, and playful for the first time in days. He’d never bathed her before, never even considered doing that sort of thing for a child.

But watching Leya splash and hearing her laugh warmed James’s heart, even as the sight of the angry little blisters all over her body brought out an intense need to protect her.

That Phoebe felt the same was evident: the gentle stroking of her hands as she bathed the child; her delight in Leya’s high jinks; her very presence at Farley Park at all. She loved his children, not just Helen, but Izzy and Leya too, and that was an advantage for him.

All night he’d considered the ramifications of Catherine’s pending visit. If they renewed their betrothal, once they wed he would have the political clout he wanted and the career he’d been angling for. He had his children now too.

But that was no longer enough. He frowned at his own perversity. The fact was, he needed to fit Phoebe somewhere into his life, and the best way to do that was to keep her as the children’s governess. Given her feelings toward him, it wouldn’t be easy. But despite the damage Louise’s appearance had done to the seedling trust between him and Phoebe, he refused to accept the situation as hopeless. In time he could maneuver himself back into her good graces, and the children were the best weapon in his arsenal.

For a moment he pondered what it was he was contemplating. A wife and a mistress. Could he juggle them both?

His gaze ran over Phoebe, lingering at the sweet pale skin of her throat as she tilted her head, at the thrust of her breasts against the plain green bodice of her workaday dress, on the narrow line of her waist before it flared into perfectly rounded hips.

She was not a showy woman like Catherine—or like Louise. No, Phoebe was beautiful in a different way, a quiet, unadorned way. She was made of sturdier stuff than the frothy sort of women he’d dallied with in the past. Yet somehow she seemed sweeter than all those others.

James swallowed hard, remembering how delicious she’d been, how fulfilling. He’d had only a brief taste of Phoebe so far, but it was enough to make him know he wanted more. He’d been gorging on confections all these years, never quite satisfied. It was long past time for him to sate his appetite fully.

Phoebe teased Leya, distracting her from the oat paste drying on her widespread blisters. “I believe I’ll take my meal in the nursery with Leya,” she told Lord Farley. Anything to get him to leave. He’d been staring at her for the past hour, focused on every move she made, as if he were trying to figure her out. It was enough to rattle a girl’s brains.

He was probably just trying to learn how to handle Leya, she told herself. He had no other reason to study her so intently. Certainly there was no reason for her heart to quicken or her stomach to knot up like this. But reasoning with her emotions didn’t work.

“Shouldn’t she be ready for her nap about now?” he asked.

“I suppose.”

“Then we’ll wait lunch until she’s asleep so you can join us.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is to me.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms, as if the matter were settled.

There it was again, that steady, unblinking stare. As before, a frisson of unwonted heat spiraled through her. Phoebe set her jaw and said nothing. Meanwhile Leya took advantage of her distraction and caught Phoebe’s hair in her tiny fist. “Mamamama,” she again chanted, tugging in triumph.

“Let go, you little dickens. Ow!”

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Lord Farley said, coming away from the wall. “Here, I’ll get it.”

Unfortunately, the movement of his fingers in her hair did far more damage than Leya’s, though of a decidedly different sort. More than Phoebe’s coiffure had come undone by the time Leya relented and went eagerly into her father’s arms. To Phoebe’s relief, Lord Farley turned away from her and began to walk the baby, patting her back and jiggling her as he sang some low, soothing melody.

But Phoebe’s hands nonetheless shook as she repaired her practical hairdo. Combs on the side; a tight twist in the back. Practical and easy to maintain without the use of a looking glass. She’d worn it in the same style for years.

Unbidden Louise’s words came to her. “You’re not that bad looking, you know. If you’d just fix your hair…A few tricks with kohl and carmine…”

She frowned and readjusted one of the combs, scraping it so tightly it hurt. “Botheration!”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. Nothing except that an unrepentant rake whom she ought to disdain possessed the ability to turn her insides to mush.

Nothing except that he had fathered her sister’s child and now had taken Helen away from her.

Nothing except that she would always be tied to him through Helen. Always.

Phoebe stared out the window while he sang Leya to sleep, and all the while she brooded over her situation. It was in this room she’d succumbed to him. On that settee…

“Shall we?”

Phoebe gasped at the low voice just behind her. “No.” She whirled around, backing up until her rump hit the windowsill. “We can’t.”

Only inches away from her, Lord Farley tilted his head. “Of course we can. While Leya’s asleep I’ll have someone else sit with her so we can go down to lunch.”

Oh. Lunch.
Phoebe cast a guilty look at the settee, then away. She could not believe the direction of her own thoughts. For a moment she’d actually imagined that he was propositioning her again. Thank goodness she hadn’t revealed more.

But James saw Phoebe’s quick, furtive glance, and he knew exactly what it signified. He’d been avoiding that settee himself, avoiding looking at it or sitting on it. To remember that interlude was to want to repeat it. But he couldn’t rush her. This was not the right time. Eventually, though…Eventually the right time would come to lay Phoebe down on that sturdy little settee and make good use of it again—

It was his turn to stifle a curse.
Down, laddie
.
Stay down.
But it was a painful walk to the dining room, following the sway of those sweet, rounded hips, knowing how easy it would be to slide those combs from her hair, imagining the heady pleasure of burying his face in those fragrant waves—and in other places as well.

“Phoebe—”

She turned at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes sharp with warning. “You must not address me so familiarly, Lord Farley. I must always be Miss Churchill to you. It’s only proper. Otherwise the servants will talk.” Her brow creased in a faint frown. “By rights I shouldn’t even dine with you and your family. I’m your employee now, not just a neighbor.”

“Nonsense. You’re my daughter’s aunt. That changes everything.”

A shadow passed over her face, sad and resigned. “Yes. Your daughter’s aunt. That
does
change everything,” she agreed in a low voice that vibrated with emotion.

James stifled a curse. She was Helen’s aunt because she was Louise’s sister. That’s what she was thinking: she was his former lover’s sister. But that wasn’t the point he wanted to make. She was more than an employee because she was family now: his beloved daughter’s beloved aunt.

But she was focused on the brief fling he’d had with her sister, and she couldn’t get past that. It had been the stupid mistake of a callow youth, and though it had given them Helen, whom he knew Phoebe loved, it still changed everything for her, in ways she wasn’t yet ready to forget.

But he’d make her forget. He was getting his life back in order, and he meant to keep her in it. She started across the hall until he stopped her. “Wait, Phoebe. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor?”

“Yes.”
I want you in my bed, to make you moan and call my name and forget how angry you are with me.

He cleared his throat and tried also to clear his mind of such thoughts. He wasn’t entirely successful. “I need to hire a housekeeper. Do you have any suggestions?”

She folded her hands together at her waist, the very picture, in her plain, dark dress, of an aloof governess. “No. You might inquire of Mrs. Leake. She knows about everything that goes on in the district. She’ll know if someone suitable is available.”

“Mrs. Leake. Of course. I’ll send word to her.”

But I’d rather you take on the task, tend my children, tend my country house—tend me when I’m in residence.

Phoebe’s advice to Lord Farley haunted her throughout lunch. It was true, Mrs. Leake was the best person to consult with, for the woman had an uncanny ability to find out about anything going on in the district. No doubt she’d soon learn the truth about Helen’s real father and, therefore, about Louise’s long-ago tryst with Lord Farley.

The braised pork shanks sat like an indigestible stone in Phoebe’s stomach as she contemplated the awful gossip that surely must follow
that
revelation. Maybe if she never went into town again she wouldn’t have to suffer the censure certain to come: Louise and Lord Farley, and now her in Lord Farley’s employ. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Maybe she could hire that maid-of-all-work and have
her
do all the errands in town.

But later in the afternoon as Phoebe made the three-mile walk home, declining Lord Farley’s insistence that she take the chaise, she found Swansford’s nosiest citizen waiting for her, sitting in the store wagon right there in Phoebe’s front court.

“Land’s sake, child, where
have
you been?” Then before even climbing down from the high seat, Mrs. Leake leaned forward and added, “So, is it true?”

“Mrs. Leake. What a surprise to find you here. How long has it been since you’ve come up to Plummy Head? Three years? No, four.”

The woman had the good grace to blush, but it didn’t prevent her from pressing on. “You know perfectly well I was up for your mother’s wake just last month. Anyway, the reason I came calling today is that the talk around town is just so unsettling. If it’s not true, why, I want to quash it once and for all.” She paused, her birdlike gaze scanning Phoebe as if she might be able to detect by the fall of Phoebe’s skirt or the angle of her bonnet the truth of Helen’s parentage.

Phoebe marched to the front door, trailed by the shamelessly curious shopkeeper. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve heard, and from whom?”

“Very well. Mrs. Dickerson had it from Gladys Tinsdale that Helen—your Helen—is in fact the love child of Lord Farley. Our Lord Farley and your Louise. Is it true?”

Phoebe swallowed the bitter lump in her throat. It was pointless to lie. “I’m afraid it is.”

“Land’s sake! I can’t believe you’ve kept such a thing hidden all these years.”

Inside the cottage Phoebe turned around to face her harrier. “I assure you, I was as shocked as anyone when I learned of it. Now, is there anything else?”

Mrs. Leake paused in the midst of removing her bonnet. “You needn’t be short with me, Phoebe girl. This is none of my making.”

“Nor mine. Do you think any of this is easy for me? Do you? I love Helen as if she were my own child, and now I’ve got to relinquish her to her father because her mother says so—her mother who never once behaved as a decent mother should, and on top of that, who has lied to her family for years!”

Phoebe felt the sting of tears, angry, frustrated, heartbroken tears. She refused to cry in front of anyone, though. Especially Mrs. Leake or any other of Swansford’s nosy citizens.

But she’d been holding too much in—too much and for too long—and the tears refused to obey. As she hung her bonnet and cloak upon a peg and made straight for the kitchen, the tears gathered and rose. And when she spied Helen’s chair and Helen’s slate, and the messy bouquet of early flowers Helen had plucked and arranged in a pretty blue bottle, the tears spilled free. She sank into the nearest chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept as she hadn’t wept since she was a child.

“There, there.” Mrs. Leake fluttered around, trying nervously to console her. “Don’t cry so, Phoebe girl. You’re only going to make yourself ill.”

“What else…is there…to do?”

“It will be all right. You’ll see.” The woman patted Phoebe’s back, then unsettled by so much emotion, she busied herself building up the fire and putting water on for tea. “You mustn’t take on so, child. Helen loves you and she always will.”

“Yes. I know.” Phoebe sniffled and wiped her face with an apron folded upon the table. “I’m to be governess to them both. Well, to all three of them eventually.”

“Well, then. You see? You’ll be with her every day.” She paused. “Does that mean you’ll be living in at Farley Park?”

“No.” Phoebe straightened up. “No. I’m staying right here. They’ll come to me for lessons, and sometimes I’ll go to them. But I live at Plummy Head.”

Mrs. Leake served her a cup of tea, then patted her hand once more. “You’re a good girl, Phoebe. Nothing like that wicked sister of yours. Nothing at all.”

Phoebe wasn’t so certain about that, nor would Mrs. Leake be if she knew what had passed between her and Lord Farley. But the woman would never know, because
no one
would ever know. And it would never happen again.

As for Mrs. Leake, she had much to brood over on the ride back to Swansford. Her several cronies, aware of her visit out to Plummy Head, awaited her at the store. Once alone, with the door shades pulled down, they promptly bent their heads together.

“It’s true,” Mrs. Leake said. “Every word of it. As for Phoebe, well, she’s devastated, the poor girl. If you could’ve seen her crying, grieving like her poor heart will never heal. It’s a dreadful shame. That’s all I can say. It’s a dreadful shame the way he took that child from her. And as for that Louise!”

“Yes, but only think of the advantages little Helen shall now have,” Gladys Tinsdale pointed out.

“Well, yes. That’s true.”

“A common bastard and a viscount’s bastard, well, they’s two very different things,” Gladys said to nods all around.

“What Phoebe Churchill needs is a baby of her own to distract her from her troubles,” Mrs. Stadler chimed in. “That’s what every woman needs.”

“But not like her sister did,” Mrs. Tinsdale said. “A husband first, then a baby. That would solve all her problems.”

A husband for Phoebe Churchill. Mrs. Leake smiled as an idea formed in her head. “You know, I do believe you’ve got something there. Phoebe needs a husband and a family of her own. Besides, we can’t be too trusting of that Lord Farley. Three babies so far, and counting. Our Phoebe’s not exactly safe in his employ.”

The other women both nodded, their eyes wide and curious. So far none of them had even laid eyes on the rakish Lord Farley. Mrs. Leake went on, “I think we should put our heads together and come up with a list of men around here, good, reliable men, who are in need of a wife.”

“Ooh.” Mrs. Tinsdale smiled. “I believe I like where you’re going with this.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Stadler agreed. “You know, there’s the vicar over to Claymont. He’s been widowed two years now.”

“And the butcher’s eldest son, he’s of an age to wed.”

“She’s got land too, owned free and clear,” Mrs. Leake said. “That ought to convince any bachelor to marry her.”

Kerry Fairchild contemplated his friend over a glass of fine Scotch whisky. “I’m impressed by your skills as a parent. You’re better at it than past history would indicate.”

“My girls still need a mother.”

“I suppose they do. How fortunate, then, that Catherine has changed her mind about you.”

“Yes.”

Kerry watched as James downed his whisky with one quick flick of his wrist. He went to pour another, but the decanter was empty, so he rang for a maid, then paced from bright hearth to darkened window and back. After a few circuits he yanked the bell pull again. “Damnation, where is everyone?”

The butler arrived, still pulling on his coat. His wispy hair stood on end, and the slippers on his feet revealed he’d already been abed. He blinked his bleary eyes. “Yes, m’lord?”

James frowned. “Are there no maids up to answer the bell?”

“Well, you see, the schedule is a bit muddled, what with—” He broke off and nervously cleared his throat. “It’s a bit muddled,” he repeated. He waited, and when James didn’t say anything, again cleared his throat. “May I get you something, m’lord?”

A muscle ticced in James’s jaw. “Another bottle of Scotch, if you please. Then go back to bed. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”