Fairchild (4 page)

“Go on,” Liza said.
 

Taking the hand, Sophy stumbled down the coach steps, which today seemed absurdly high above the ground. She had removed her bonnet in the carriage; now, she squinted in the bright sunlight. Glancing up from the gloved hand in her own, she saw the man’s face was expressionless as a carving of a saint. He wore a pristine powdered wig and a long blue coat trimmed with gold. Could this be him?

Spinning smartly on his heel, he marched up the steps into the house.

“Why are you waiting?” Liza hissed. “Go!”

The hall inside was dim and bigger than the chapel back in Bottom End. Sophy’s footsteps echoed on the shining tiles. Another man, dressed identically to the first, silently closed the door. They were alike as a pair of bookends. Clearly neither was Lord Fairchild. She followed the first up a wide stairway and along a gallery lined with looming paintings and towering doors. The man opened one and led Sophy into the room, halting four paces inside.
 

“Miss Prescott,” he announced and withdrew.

Eyes fastened on the carpet, Sophy sagged into a curtsy, willing her legs to straighten again instead of crumpling under her as they seemed likely to do. She succeeded and rose. Fighting the urge to flee, she glanced up.

A man, long and thin, his shock of red hair tamed with moderate success, sat in a huge armchair, his fingers steepled before him. His shirt and cravat were brilliant white and starched as stiff as pasteboard. A lady sat across from him, holding an embroidery frame. She was fair, her silvery blond hair coiled round her head with a few ringlets falling down her neck, smooth as tapered candles. His wife, surmised Sophy, her stomach lurching. The lady set her embroidery aside, her gown rustling as she moved—the sound of a serpent gliding over dry leaves. Sophy glimpsed the stitchery forming a fantastical bird in jewel bright silks with cruel eyes. She couldn’t look away.

A stifled laugh made her turn. Leaning against the wall stood a young man, perhaps sixteen or so, negligently dressed compared to his parents, but sharing his mother’s silver blond coloring.

“Don’t laugh at Miss Prescott, Jasper,” chided Lady Fairchild.

“Forgive me mama,” he replied. “It amuses me that she looks more like father than either of us.”

Lady Fairchild pursed her lips as Lord Fairchild cast a quelling look at his son. There was another person—a girl—sitting in the far corner of the room, but Sophy had no time to study her, as her attention was immediately reclaimed by Lord Fairchild, who beckoned her forward.
 

“Come here.”

Feet dragging in the heavy pile of the carpet, Sophy stepped closer. She did look like Lord Fairchild. She had his sharp nose, his dark pointed brows, his bright red hair. Taking her hand, he pulled her alongside the arm of his chair and lifted her chin with his free hand. His skin was too soft, Sophy decided, bridling at his touch. He smiled ruefully, turning her chin to the side and back again.
 

“Jasper’s right. I’m sorry Georgiana.”

Lady Fairchild sniffed. “It can’t be helped. Certainly now, I agree she must stay. Impossible to pass her off as a distant relation.” Lifting one finger, she beckoned her children.

“Jasper, Henrietta, come meet Miss Prescott.”

They both stepped forward, bowing and curtsying in turn.
 

“
M. Lynch a écrit que tu parles français?
” Lady Fairchild inquired, arching her brows at Sophy.
 

“
Oui, madame
.”

The questions continued, in French, but Sophy held her ground. Yes, she knew her sums and her psalms, and had been taught to draw. She did not admit that she only memorized psalms because Bertha rewarded her with gingersnaps, or that her sketches had long been a source of amusement and despair to her mother.

“Henrietta’s governess will teach Sophy,” Lord Fairchild interrupted. “It’s obvious her task is well under way.”

Lady Fairchild fell silent with an acknowledging nod.
 

Sophy waited, feeling unspoken conversation pass between them, while Jasper watched his parents with a malicious grin. Though her gaze was friendly, Henrietta’s open scrutiny brought a stain to Sophy’s cheeks. Setting her teeth, she focused on the wall. Her mother had always told her staring was rude. At last Lady Fairchild commanded Jasper and Henrietta to show Sophy to the nursery.
 

“You will have it to yourself,” Lady Fairchild said. “Jasper and Henrietta left it long ago.” Sophy’s breath loosened.
 

“Someone will bring you supper,” Lady Fairchild finished. Sophy filed after Jasper and Henrietta in an orderly procession until they passed into the gallery. Jasper closed the door, then he and Henrietta flanked Sophy on either side. Shoulders twitching, she was conscious of their advantage in height, in years, in everything. She did not like climbing up the narrow stairway with them so close beside her, unable to trust them.
 

Halfway up the stairs, Henrietta caught Sophy’s eye and smiled, stunning her with pink and blue and gold prettiness. It was a disarming smile. “We never knew we had a bastard sister,” Henrietta said, eyes twinkling. “How exciting!”
 

*****

As the door shut behind Sophy, William pushed to his feet and crossed the study to pour himself a brandy. Lady Fairchild watched him, but his hands were steady.
 

“Can I offer you anything, my dear?”

She declined with a shake of her head. When her husband was again seated, she picked up her embroidery. She wouldn’t work on it here long—she found the chairs in this room uncomfortable—but she felt the need of a prop. Though William appeared calm, surely he was as surprised as she. The girl’s resemblance to William was striking. It was an unexpected blow. Lady Fairchild had imagined her as a miniature Fanny, but only her diminutive size tied her to her mother.
 

The child would become her husband’s ward, and while no person of breeding would think to say more—at least in her presence—Lady Fairchild did not like it. But she could not prevent William from keeping the girl here, since it was his whim to do so. Her best defense was to accept the situation with equanimity. She was not the only lady in her acquaintance called on to tolerate her husband’s by-blows, and complaining about the child would only stir up more talk. There were some things, though, that she would not accept.

Rolling her needle between her fingers she looked up at William, who was watching her carefully over the rim of his glass. “You’ll expect me to look after her, I suppose?”
 
She failed to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “I must count myself grateful she’s the only one.”
 

William smiled tersely at his drink, denying her the satisfaction of confirming her last statement. “I don’t expect you to concern yourself with Sophy, or do anything that displeases you. You haven’t with my other children. I said we’d keep Henrietta’s governess and get a new nursery maid.”

Henrietta was fifteen; they had planned to dispense with the governess in two or three years.
 

“Miss Frensham may object,” Lady Fairchild said, ignoring his complaint and piercing the silk in her frame with delicacy and precision. “I chose her for her impeccable morals.”
 

“Not her hatchet face? It’s no matter.” Lord Fairchild brushed a non-existent speck from his sleeve. “For thirty pounds a year she can keep her objections to herself.”

“Sophy seemed well brought up,” she conceded. “And I detected no fault in her education.”
 

“You did hire her mother to educate your children,” William said laconically.

Lady Fairchild did not rise to the bait, placidly re-threading her needle with a skein of emerald silk. “I would not prevent you from doing your duty to your child,” she said, making a neat stitch. “But I will not let you make her Henrietta’s equal.”
 

“Such was never my intention,” he said.

“Thank you.” As she relaxed, he spoke again.

“I do intend to settle an independence on her. If something were to happen to me, I must see she is provided for.”
 

Lady Fairchild felt her hackles rise, but she didn’t allow her needle to falter. She had years of practice at containing fury. William wouldn’t take anything from Jasper. “Her independence is to come from Henrietta’s portion, then?”
 

William rose again and walked to the window, apparently in deep study. Out of his sight, she let her mouth twist.

“Henrietta’s portion is sufficiently large you will have a hard time fending off the fortune hunters. And she has your looks. She will not be lacking suitors,” he said. His accusation was unspoken; he did not trust her with the girl.
 

“Very well,” she said. A few thousands would not make a difference in Henrietta’s prospects. Still, she would not give up Henrietta’s money cheaply.
 

Watching her husband silhouetted against the window, she stitched with martial calm, letting her displeasure fill the room like smoke. Breaking the silence, he returned to her, bowing and bringing her hand to his lips.
 

“You are very good to me, Madam. I know this is an imposition. Thank you.”
 

Lady Fairchild packed up her embroidery frame once he left. She might have to take in the brat, but she had driven William from his library, letting him know he would pay for her compliance.

*****

Normally Lord Fairchild did not trouble himself to walk softly, but he did now, climbing the nursery stairs. He was not accustomed to feeling nervous.
 

Sophy had hardly dared to look at him the whole interview. He knew nothing about her, but the arch of her neck and her frail shoulders, bravely squared, reminded him of Fanny and brought an ache to his throat. For one instant, he had been tempted to seize Sophy, as if only clutching her could assure him she was real. He had let the impulse pass without betraying himself; it would have frightened her and infuriated Georgiana.
 

Heart thumping, he paused outside the door. Jasper and Henrietta were still with her, the murmur of their voices seeping into the hall. Henrietta laughed. What did they make of her? Georgiana’s icy distemper he had anticipated, but he had given no thought to how his other children would react. They sounded friendly enough.

Henrietta burbled on, punctuated by breezy asides from Jasper, who’d acted the bored sophisticate since he was eight. Sophy’s own words were rare and scarcely audible. He would have to wait. He couldn’t ask her about Fanny in front of Henrietta and Jasper.
 

Georgiana had staked her pickets in his library, so he went outside. A ride would take too long, so he paced between the parterres in the garden for three quarters of an hour, questions tumbling through his mind.
 

The second time he mounted the nursery stairs he found Sophy alone.
 

She was hunched in a straight back chair, her bread and milk untouched on the table beside her. The floor creaked under his foot and she spun around, a battered book in her hand.
 

“Miss Fairchild said I might look at the books,” she said, setting it on the table.
 

“Who?” he asked. “Do you mean Henrietta?”
 

She nodded.
 

“Her name is Henrietta Rushford,” he explained. “Fairchild isn’t my name, you know, just my title. My name is William Rushford.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, she turned her eyes away from him to the window.
 

“I’m sure Henrietta no longer wants the books,” he said. “They are yours now.” She said nothing. “You aren’t hungry?” he asked, his eyes flicking to her untouched supper.
 

“No.”

“You must be tired, after such a long journey.”

“Not really,” she said.
 

“May I sit down?” he asked, after an uncomfortable pause. He didn’t know how to begin.

Crimson rushed into her cheeks and she gave a tight nod. There were two large chairs by the fire, but he wanted to look at her, hoping being near her would help him cross the distance he felt stretching between them. Unsuccessfully, he tried to fit himself into the other child-sized chair at her table. He turned the chair backward and sat astride it, folding his arms over the back.
 

“Do you . . . Is there anything you would like me to get for you?” he asked.
 

“No, thank you.” There was no sign of her baggage. The maids must have put it all away.
 

“Why do you not send me to school?” she asked. Her hands, brown and freckled, twisted in her lap.
 

The question surprised him. “I want you here. Surely you will prefer Cordell.” Seeing that she didn’t, he faltered. “Here, you may learn to ride, and . .” What else did small girls do? “There are dolls for you to play with.” He swept one hand wide, indicating the shelf where Henrietta’s discarded toys lay.
 

The toes of her boots were scuffed. Though he looked at her with open curiosity, she studied him covertly, never meeting his eyes. “I have often wondered about you,” he said. “How you and your mother were faring.”

Sophy blinked and met his eyes. “She always told me my father was dead.”

It hurt that she had known nothing about him. He wished Fanny had told her his name at least. “The truth must have come as a surprise.”

She nodded, her half-undone hair ribbon swaying with her copper curls.

“You were well, living in that village?”

Another silent affirmative.
 

“Was your mother well?” he asked.

“Until she died, sir.”

“How did it happen? Was she ill?” Why had Fanny not informed his man of business? He would have paid for doctors and treatments.

Sophy’s throat contracted. “No, sir. It was an accident.” He waited for her to continue. “She—she choked on something.”