The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2 (14 page)

"Sir, don't doubt my dedication," her tone softened, almost absorbed in the ocean of marble lining the entry. "Though the late duke visited often, I thought you'd be more like your father, and seldom come."

To be like him was a curse William wanted no part of. "Mrs. Wingate, I know you will do as well for my family as you did the late earl."

She nodded, and her gaze rose to the top of the stairs as Mary's cries ceased. "What else may I do, Your Grace?"

Absent the blackmailer's head on a platter, nothing. He sighed, thankful his child had calmed. "You will guide us with grace through the transition."

A smile peeked for a moment then disappeared in the aging crinkles of her heart-shaped face. "Should I get a doctor for Lady Mary, my lord?"

"No, she is healthy; physically healthy." What was the best way to ask? He studied the quizzing brown eyes glaring at him. The woman had to know there was a problem with his daughter. "Is there any in the village familiar with caring for a child... with difficulties?"

She looked down at the show table and picked at a pleat on her apron. "The Telfairs; their youngest can now speak, even talk with his hands. With so many daughters, one might need the position of a companion or governess. The quiet one, the one who minds the boy, she definitely has the makings of a governess."
 

Communicating with hands? That would be better than nothing. He tapped his chin. "Draft a note to start introductions, but, Mrs. Wingate, I'd like to be the final say on any position instructing Mary. And make it plain that my only desire is a governess, not a sly companion hoping for elevation. I'm not looking for a wife."
 

She nodded, but a wide frown thinned her lips. "Of course, my lord; the quiet one is the one you want. Her hopes couldn't be for more."

There was something ominous in her words, but he'd let the notion fall away. Mary was the only female he needed to puzzle out. In matters of running the house, the stern housekeeper was knowledgeable, but not with concerns to his baby. He marshaled to the stairs to check upon Mary, but pivoted. "Did any correspondence come today?"
 

"The usual invitations, Your Grace." Wide eyes framed the woman's portly face. Her chin lowered as if to hide them. Those windows to her soul were the only things showing a measure of compassion or feeling from the stoic woman.
 

Surely she recognized a devoted father. His fingers tightened on the banister. "Anything from Mr. Stelford?"

"None, sir." She brushed at the mud stain on his glove. "Been a quiet day until now."

No word from his confidant?
 

Or the blackmailer?
 

William took a cleansing breath; another day of borrowed peace from the blackguard threatening to expose his late wife's infidelity.
 

He should fall upon his knees and thank God for this respite, but he and God weren't on the best of terms. Maintaining a truce with the Holy Father must be best.
 

He smoothed his damask waistcoat, splaying its silver button between his fingers; might as well resign himself. "No, I think it will be another late night for me in the nursery." He plodded up to the first landing.
 

Before he could take a step, a fever-pitched sob descended, bellowing.
 

Mrs. Wingate didn't flinch, as if immune to the child's misery, but a father's heart could never be so hard; at least not
this
father's heart.

"Will you have anything to eat, sir?"

How could he, with Mary suffering? "No."

"But you can't sit up with her again. You'll wear yourself thin, catch all manner of ailments. You should let her flail and outgrow this." Mrs. Wingate picked up his hat and coat and headed toward the kitchen, her dark skirts flapping behind her.

He rubbed his jaw. He'd forgive the woman's cruel advice. When Mary felt secure, she'd not be so easily upset. Trudging the final stairs to the nursery, he tried to soften his boot heels, but they banged against the treads. The drumbeat further soured his mood. Except for his father's strict rules, Devonshire with its greenery and rugged coast meant escape, a sanctuary created by God. Mary should love it here.

The babe was all he had left of his wife, Elizabeth. He must do everything in his power to keep the little girl safe from the evils of this world. If he'd kept better care of his wife, given her a reason not to stray, things would've been different. He rubbed his temples.

The babe's shrieks vibrated the threshold, warbling the grain. It was almost as bad as the bellows of dying men on the fields of Zadorra. Images of the river of death, the battle of Vitoria he fought, filled his head. Yes, no one should pray for more wars with France.

He shook his head. Those memories woke him up at night, but what would make a child of four scream in terror? Why would a God in Heaven make her mute, except for these cries? Where was His mercy?

The late Reverend St. Landon would preach his son's fate, widowed with a hurting child, was judgment. Why not, after disappointing his father and his wife? William straightened his shoulders and pushed open the door to the darkened room. Reaching at the top of a chest of drawers, he lit a candle.

As her incompetent nurse paced back and forth, screeching shushes at his daughter, Mary stood in the middle of the crib, tears dribbling down her chin, her face cherry-red. She must've caught sight of him, for she held her arms up.

Rushing to her, he shuttled across the thick puce carpet, the noise of his heels absorbed in the padding. "You are dismissed, woman!"

The nurse backed from the room, half-curtsying, half-running. The door slammed on its hinge.

Mary leapt at his embrace and wound her chubby arms about his neck. Her moans subsided when he snuggled her close. What an unthinking nurse to let this precious girl scream.
 

He stroked her sandy-brown curls and wiped tears from her sea-green eyes. This little bonbon held his heart within her tiny palms, perhaps the only person to love him unconditionally. "Papa's here. You're safe. We're both safe."
 

With the child clinging to his lapels, he moved to the rocking chair in the corner of the buttercream-colored nursery.
 

Mary burrowed deeper into his arms and played with the buttons of his waistcoat. What he wouldn't pay to hear her voice given to words and not terror.

He lifted his legs to the child's chestnut trunk and scanned the carved duck and other small toys on the oak bookcase of the glazed-pear cultured room. "Isn't this a pretty place? I had all your things put in here, just as they were in Cheshire."

The little girl knocked two buttons together, as if they were a gong.
 

Loosening the metal from her fingers, he held her palm. His wide thumb covered the small soft middle. "Would you like to hear of how I led my forces in the battle of Assaye? My regiment spread across the plains of India."

Wide-eyed, she grinned a toothy sigh.
 

"Say 'Papa', as you once did."

She smiled again and grabbed his nose.

He hugged her tight to his breast. With everything he had, he'd keep the mother's sins quiet. None of the ugliness would fall on Mary's head. No one would question the child's paternity and ruin her chances.

If someone had prayed for his marital happiness, he'd never have wedded Elizabeth, but then he'd never have this joy. "Rest assured, my girl, I'll keep the nightmares at bay."

A short knock assailed the nursery threshold.
 

Mrs. Wingate entered. "This just came by post," she waved a letter in her hand.
 

It wasn't written on paper cream, so it wasn't the blackmailer's handiwork. He released a pent-up breath.

Without another word, Mrs. Wingate set it on the dresser, curtsied, and left the room.

Benjamin Stelford's large garnet seal seemed to glow on the blue tinted stationary. It was unmistakable, even at this shorter distance. If William's friend hadn't discovered the blackmailing blackguard, hiding in Devonshire wouldn't conceal the horrid scandal.

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Excerpt
Madeline's Protector

Chapter 1
 

    
Shropshire, England, Iron Country, August 5, 1821
 

"Stop, thief!" Madeline St. James grabbed the coarse sleeve of the man who stole her guineas, but he shook free and dashed away.
 

"Give those back, this instant." Mouth open, pulse racing, she stopped her pursuit. A scream bubbled in the pit of her stomach, but she pursed her lips. A St. James never made a public scene or conceded defeat.
 

The thief reached the other side of the vacant courtyard, well ahead of a wagon rumbling up the cobblestone lane. He shot her a toothless grin and traipsed to the main building of Tilford Coaching Inn.
 

The dray and its lumbering horse team swerved closer, but if she waited one more second, the thief would escape her view. Another man would've taken advantage of her. Not again.
 

Picking up her weighty skirts, she sprinted onto the slick rocks of the road. The silver hem of her long carriage dress slapped at the mud. Better to be dirty than a victim. Cupping her palm to her eyes, she scanned for the thief.
 

The man bounded up the stone entree. He'd vanish like her driver, amongst the sea of gaming travellers.
 

She lengthened her stride to intercept him.
 

One high step too many, her boot heel caught in the sagging silk, tripping her. The air pushed from her lungs as she fell flat. The soggy earth saturated her layers to the shift and petticoat. Her injured elbow stung anew.

Wheels squealed. Hooves clomped the cobbles. Soon the horses would be on top of her, stomping and kicking.
 

A couple of tugs and yanks couldn't fish her boot free. No escape this time.
Abba Father
,
forgive.
She turned her head and braced for the onslaught.
 

A band of iron gripped her stomach and hauled her from the muck. She went limp, sprawled against the hard chest of a rescuer. He pulled her off the lane and under one of the overhanging galleries of the inn.
 

Wind slapped her cheek as the horses swept past. No one held the reins. The wagon swung wide, crashed into the inn's main building, and flipped to the ground. Ejected barrels hit the whitewashed wall and sprayed foamy liquid.
 

Madeline's breath came in heaves, and she clutched the titan arm sheltering her.
No fainting. No need to lose more dignity.
 

One of the draught horses loosed from its tether and galloped to the emerald pines scalloping the surrounding hills. The other roan remained with the wreck, lifting its crooked leg. Poor lame creature.
 

An old man rushed out of the inn and cut at the horse's strap. "Bring my gun. This one needs to be put down."
 

With an awkward hold on her middle, her rescuer spun her, perhaps to keep her from seeing the cruelty. He needn't be concerned.
 

The past two weeks had numbed her to violence. Yet, God kept her as He did again today. "Thank you, Providence, but please…spare the roan."
 

"You're welcome, but it's Devonshire, Lord Devonshire." The low voice kissed her ear, heated the pulsing vein along her throat.
 

How could this man sound calm? They both could've died.
 

He flung open the door to an onyx carriage and eased her onto the floorboards. "Are you injured, miss?"
 

"No." She rubbed her arms and gazed at her rescuer. He was very tall, enough to make her feel dainty even at her Amazon height. With broad shoulders and a solid chin, she couldn't have sculpted a more perfect hero. "The horse, sir? Can you help it?"
 

"Stay put. This mere mortal will see what can be done." He grabbed his top hat from the seat and marched away. His elegant form, straight posture, disappeared into the growing crowd.
 

It didn't matter she sat on the floor, chilled in her clothes, imposing demands of a stranger. Even against this errant horse, Death shouldn't win. She'd seen its victories too often, with Mama's passing seven years ago and Cousin Thomas dying this past spring.
 

She squeezed her throbbing elbow. Falling aggravated the sprain.
 

A quick shake of her foot didn't release her trapped kid boot but tore the lace trim on her gown, Mama's carriage dress. A lump formed in Madeline's throat. She missed Mama so much.
 

A few choice words shouted from the crowd and a round of loud snickers interrupted her woolgathering.