Fairchild (13 page)

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon, mother?”

“Yes. Miss Sophy slept and I looked over some magazines.”

“How nice.” He grinned and the conversation died.
 

Miss Rushford leaned back into her chair as a footman cut up her meat. It did not please her, having to be tended like a child.

“And how was your afternoon, Mr. Bagshot?” she asked.

“Profitable.” He wasn’t going to pretend to be something he wasn’t. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to conclude all the matters demanding attention, but I made a good start.”

“That must be satisfying,” she replied, unperturbed. “The sauce on this sole is excellent, Mrs. Bagshot. I must commend your cook.”

But by the time the third course was brought in, she was drooping in her chair, shadows etched under her eyes.
 

“Are you in pain? Would you like to retire now?” his mother asked. “We mustn’t fatigue you.”
 

She rallied, though her answering smile was wan. “It’s not seven o’ clock yet. I ought to at least make it till nine.”

“I’m an early sleeper, myself,” his mother confessed. “Come, let’s return to the drawing room. We’ll take tea, and we can fetch you a book.”

Sophy agreed, and Tom stood, preparing to bow and watch them leave.
 

“Give Sophy your arm, dear,” his mother said, ruining that plan. He walked her to the drawing room, seated her on the divan and fetched her shawl, but his mother wasn’t done yet.
 

“Will you read to us, Tom?” she asked. “I think that would be nicest. I’m a little tired, myself.” He couldn’t refuse. He nearly always passed his evenings at Chippenstone reading aloud until his mother fell asleep. She had always read with difficulty, having only a scanty education.
 

“Of course,” he said, crossing the room to retrieve her book.
 

“Oh no,” she stopped him, turning pink. “Why don’t you fetch something new from the library? Marmion, perhaps.”

Sophy missed nothing. “What is it you’ve been reading?” she asked, and Tom saw his mother writhe under all her lace.

“Just some novel,” she explained.
 

“Which one?” Sophy asked.

Tom lifted up the book, ignoring his mother’s unspoken protests. “It’s called
The Wicked Duke
.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” his mother said.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Sophy said. “And I cannot take you away from your own book, ma’am. There is nothing more exasperating.”
 

Tom deposited himself in a chair, while his mother tried to assume a calm face.
 

“Please begin,” Sophy said, waving a limpid hand. Lord, her airs were infuriating. And yet, he had seen his servants respond to her with palpable relief, looking sideways from her to his mother as if to say,
See? This is how it should be done.

Tom opened the cardboard cover, clearing his throat and removing the ribbon that marked his mother’s place.
“Cassandra awoke in a cave, dark and damp. She couldn’t move, and her hands and feet were bound to a heavy chair, upholstered in velvet. There was a fluttering noise behind her. Bats, she decided.”

“Really, Miss Sophy . . .” His mother was paralyzed, her mortification growing with every word. Tom cursed himself for giving her such an ill turn, for humiliating her in front of Miss Rushford. Making him do the pretty did not make it right for him to act like a bear.
 

“Please stop, Mr. Bagshot,” Sophy said crisply. Tom glanced at her, surprised she would call halt, though his mother’s distress was plain.
 
“I would enjoy this story much more if you read with feeling. You make it sound like Cassandra is trimming a hat.” She gave his mother a warm smile. “I don’t think your son has any sensibility ma’am. He had best give the book to me.” She stretched out an imperious hand.
 

“You like this kind of story?” his mother asked faintly.

“Absolutely,” she said, and his mother relaxed in her chair.
 

Stunned and not a little grateful, Tom handed Sophy the volume and returned to his chair. She could not possibly—and yet there was a gleam of genuine enjoyment in her eyes, a spark he hadn’t seen before.

“Marvelous,” Sophy said, scanning the lurid page. Then she began.

“From the velvet blackness came the sound of footsteps, booted heels crunching the gravel like a giant grinding bones. In vain, Cassandra tugged at her bonds. Helpless, she stared in horrified fascination after the sound, listening to the sinister footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.
 

Her plea for help died in her throat as Roberto stepped into the guttering candlelight.
 

“Have mercy!” she gasped.

A cruel smile crossed his face. His eyes glistened like polished stones, barely visible under the wide brim of his hat.

“So! You are caught at last!”
Sophy jumped to her feet, throwing herself into her role, tottering as she nearly stumbled over the hearth rug.
 

“Careful,” Tom said, starting forward in his chair. With her injured arm bound in the sling, she would have trouble catching her balance.
 

“I’m fine,” she said. “At last my Italian lessons will be useful.” Adopting a gruesome accent, perfect for the villainous Roberto, she resumed reading, pacing across the drawing room, making wide theatrical gestures with her good arm. She was a rather astonishing actress, and his mother settled in to enjoy the performance.
 

“I have you in my power,” Sophy said, gloating and waggling her eyebrows, still playing the part of Roberto.

Mrs. Bagshot choked on a laugh.
 

“What? You mock me, Madame?” Sophy stiffened and threw Mrs. Bagshot a look of disdain. “I shall force —” she glanced down at the page “— thees Cassandra to wed me tonight, or I will drown her in the river! And her brodder too!”

“Not her brother,” Tom interjected. “Her true love.”

“You interrupt! But you are correct,” she said, checking the book again. “Eet eez ze lover I will drown. I do not permit you to distract me again.”
 

Meekly, Tom promised not to interrupt.

“With mincing steps he crossed the cave,”
she read, suiting action to words and approaching Tom’s chair,
“surveying his fainting prisoner from all sides. ‘You shall never escape. No one shall hear your screams. You are mine.’”

Standing right over him, she thrust the book under his nose.
 

“It is your line, sir,” she whispered.
 

His raised eyebrow didn’t deter her. Grimacing, he cleared his throat. “Never!” he squeaked in falsetto. “You dastardly coward! I’d fight you, if I was a man!”

A curious sound, like a strangled sneeze, escaped Sophy’s lips, and she smoothed her face, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Much better,” she whispered.

His mother chortled, swiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m like to split my seams, if you two keep this up. But don’t stop,” she added, seeing Sophy hesitate.
 

Perching herself on the arm of his chair, she held the book between them. “You can see?”

He nodded. Her arm was close to him, her veins a faint blue line running up her arm from her wrist to the hollow of her elbow. Her hair was as bright and alive as the fire crackling beside them. She was quite beautiful, he realized with a pang, and averted his eyes. He shouldn’t stare at her, though her performance was captivating.
 

“Let me hold the book,” he said, lifting it from her hand without touching her fingers. She only had the use of one arm after all, and would soon tire, though the volume was not heavy. And it was easier for him, without her arm intruding in his space.
 

They kept reading, and Cassandra escaped her bonds, burning through the rope with the candle Roberto unwisely left behind, escaping into the forest. Wading through dense plotting and gothic prose, Tom looked up and saw that his mother’s head had fallen back against her chair. She was asleep. Stopping mid-sentence, he blushed like a boy.
 

“My mother tires early,” he offered apologetically. “She falls asleep most evenings while I read, but since tonight’s reading is more lively than she’s used to, I didn’t expect—”

“I’ve been watching sleep steal over her for the last two pages,” Sophy said, but without mockery. “You didn’t notice?”

Tom grinned. “I didn’t dare give this performance less than my best.” Setting the book aside, he watched his mother, lost in sleep. “Do you wish to retire now?” he asked Sophy.

She straightened away from the wing of his chair, where she had been leaning, and frowned, moving her left shoulder in little circles. “After they bring the tea tray. I would like a cup before bed.”
 

He felt his ears grow hot. “Of course. I’m afraid mother forgot to ring for it.”

Striding across the room, his hand hovered over the bell beside his mother’s chair. No, better not to wake her. She would be embarrassed enough as it was. “I think I’ll let her sleep,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
 

He found Sarah in the hall and asked her to bring up tea. When he returned, Sophy was back on the divan, watching the fire.
 

“I’m afraid my mother’s never gotten used to late evenings,” Tom said. “Much of her life was spent rising early and working hard.”
 

“What was her work?” Sophy asked.

Since she seemed disinterested, as if it hardly mattered, he decided to tell her. “Her father was an innkeeper.”
 

She was watching the fire, not him. “I’ve stayed at inns twice. Both were busy places.”
 

“You travel so little?” he asked.

“I don’t travel at all,” she said. “I haven’t left Cordell Hall in seven years.” Seeing his stare of disbelief, she added, “I dine within the neighborhood, of course. And go to Bury St. Edmonds and Newmarket for the shops.”
 

He looked up as Sarah entered the room with the tea tray.
 

“Don’t wake my mother,” he commanded. “Set the tray by Miss Rushford. Do you think you are able to pour?” he asked as Sarah withdrew.

“I believe I am up to the task, sir.”

“I can do it if your arm pains you,” he said, realizing it would be an awkward task for her, one-handed.
 

“I shall be fine.” She lifted the teapot with care, keeping her face and movements smooth. He watched her make up the tea, but she showed no difficulty or discomfort. She was different from the girl who had played Roberto twenty minutes past. She looked very much a lady.
 

“Do you take sugar?” she asked.
 

“No.”

She brought him a cup, her feet silent on the carpet. “You read very well,” she said. “Once you have been properly encouraged. What do you like to read?”
 

“This and that,” he shrugged. “You?”

“My lessons. The books Hen—Henrietta sends me. My older sister.” She glanced at the mantel, where he had carelessly left a book. “You are reading Thaddeus of Warsaw?”
 

“Re-reading it,” he admitted. “It’s a favorite.”
 

She sipped her tea, inquiring further by lifting her eyebrows.
 

“I first read it on HMS Leander, in the North Atlantic,” he said, remembering.

“You’re in the navy?” she frowned. “I thought your family was in trade.”
 

He gave a precise nod. “I am. But I spent a year in the navy. When I was fifteen I sailed with one of my father’s partners to Lower Canada. On the voyage home, a party from the Leander boarded and eleven of us were pressed. Ships carrying mast timber, like ours, are supposed to be protected from having their sailors pressed,” he explained. “But in practice, the regulations don’t stop His Majesty’s Navy from taking who they want. The October I was on the Leander there was rioting in Halifax over the press gangs the navy sent into town.”

She frowned thoughtfully, setting aside her spoon. “And you are no longer with the navy?”
 

“No. My father got me out, but it took a year. During that time, the Leander was based out of Halifax. We captured four ships—American merchantmen, carrying goods to France.”

“What was it like?” She seemed rather startled.

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “You can see worse in London’s slums. The navy might ignore everyone else’s laws, but they keep their own. Still, it’s the only time in my life I’ve had to fight to survive.” Which was not quite true. There had been those dreadful years at school.
 

“In the actions against other ships?”

Tom barked a laugh. “That too. No, I was thinking more of crewing the Leander. It’s hard work, and the lash rules. Seeing the skin stripped of a man’s back isn’t a pretty sight. Life on the Leander was very different from my father’s ship.”

Remembering the tea in his hand, Tom took a sip.
 

“But you were released?”

“Yes. My father’s partner lodged a complaint in Halifax and my father took action on the London end. I was home the following spring. I can’t say I regret the experience. Captain Talbot was a fierce man, but a good captain. He forced discipline on me that I had resented from my father. And there’s no place like the sea to contemplate God, for there you truly depend upon providence.”
 

At sea, his bitterness had blown away. He had been content with who he was then, an able seaman and part of a hardworking crew. His mates had respected him, not caring who he was. Matters were not so simple off the Leander.
 

She set down her cup. “What are the colonies like?”

“I didn’t spend much time on shore, but I’ve never forgotten what I saw. You can’t imagine so much wild land, such dense and sprawling forests. The St Lawrence River is like its’ own sea. I’ve been back to Lower Canada twice since then. The last time was four years ago, before my father sold out of the shipping business.” After his death, Tom had bought back in.