Lady Vixen (3 page)

There
was such forlorn dismay in Nicole's voice that for a moment Mrs. Eggleston's
resolution wavered. She had known the child would be upset and had deliberately,
cowardly, put off this last meeting. Nicole's reaction had shaken her more than
she cared to admit, but smiling determinedly Mrs. Eggleston said, "My
dear, as much as I would like to remain and as much as I shall miss you, I
simply cannot stay here in Beddington's Corner any longer." Her faded blue
eyes almost pleading for understanding, Mrs. Eggleston continued softly,
"We all have to do things occasionally that we would rather not, and this,
I'm afraid, is one of those times for me. Believe me, child, I would give
anything not to have to leave you at this time, but it is impossible for me to
continue to live at Rosehaven."

"But
why?" asked Nicole, the huge topaz-brown eyes wide with appeal, the
unmistakable sheen of tears not far away.

Feeling
even more wretched, if that were possible, Mrs. Eggleston stared at Nicole,
wishing she could give some crumb of comfort. Poor child, she thought
compassionately, remembering the way the light had died out of the little face
when the news of her parents' death had been given to her. A light that had, as
yet, never come back. Deliberately, Mrs. Eggleston refused to think about the
Markhams and what they were doing to the child, and it was only by sternly
reminding herself that she could do nothing to help Nicole that she was able to
continue the conversation.

"My
dear, I know things are very difficult for you just now, but in time perhaps it
won't seem so terrible. Why in a few years you'll be a grown-up young lady
attending balls in London and this will all seem like a bad dream."

It
was an unfortunate choice of words, for with the dream of how it had been still
fresh in Nicole's mind, the tears she had held back this morning in her bedroom
suddenly spilled over, running down the thin little cheeks. Mrs. Eggleston felt
her own eyes fill, and with an inarticulate murmur she clasped Nicole's shaking
body next to her own. "Oh, my dear, do not cry so!
Please
do not!
In a moment I too shall be wailing and it will accomplish nothing."

Fighting
to control herself, eventually Nicole brought the tears to a stop, her breath
coming in rapid little hiccups. Forcing herself to step away from Mrs.
Eggleston, she said almost inaudibly, "I am sorry for acting like a baby.
It is just that I never thought you would leave me."

Her
heart twisting, Mrs. Eggleston murmured softly, "Nicole, my dear, it is
not the end of the world, you'll see. I shall write and you must promise to
write me back. We shall continue to know how the other is doing, and while I
know it is not the same as seeing one another whenever we wish, it will
suffice. You'll see that I'm right."

"Oh,
how can you say so! You know that my aunt begrudges every penny I ask for—I can
just see her paying the shocking cost of mailing a letter to Canada,"
Nicole said vehemently, a little spurt of spirit returning.

Mrs.
Eggleston bit her lip. What Nicole said was true. The house, the lands, and the
fortune were all Nicole's, yet the Markhams, moving in with their son with
indecent haste, did act as if Nicole were some unnecessary encumbrance with
which they had to live. More than once Mrs. Eggleston had seen Agatha order the
girl about as if she were some thieving waif who had inadvertently strayed into
her hallowed presence. And Edward, Edward made no bones about disliking his younger
cousin, treating her with a callous spitefulness that dismayed Mrs. Eggleston.
As for William, Agatha's husband, Mrs. Eggleston's little bosom swelled with
indignation—he was forever making disgustingly vulgar remarks and it seemed
always pinching Nicole's cheeks or nipping her arms, laughing about their
little benefactress.

Looking
at the slender figure in the white muslin gown, it seemed incredible to Mrs.
Eggleston that the thin little girl with the wan features and dull eyes
standing so dejectedly across the room from her could possibly be the same
Nicole that had romped so happily the day of the garden party. Would the child
ever regain that air of gaiety, ever sparkle with happiness again?

Reminding
herself that she could do nothing to change the unhappy situation, Mrs.
Eggleston firmly closed her mind to more distressing thoughts. Realizing that
to prolong this sad little interview would be painful to them both, she said
with forced cheerfulness, "Well, write to me when you can, my pet. And now
I fear I must be off."

It
took a great deal of resolution to leave that lonely little figure, yet knowing
she could offer no alternative, that she was, in fact, in a worse position than
Nicole, for at least Nicole had a roof over her head, Mrs. Eggleston walked
briskly from the room, but her heart was heavy in her breast.

The
heaviness in Mrs. Eggleston's breast was not all for Nicole. Mrs. Eggleston
herself had troubles, a great deal of trouble, but not for the world would she
have let anyone know—certainly not poor little Nicole, the child had burden
enough as it was.

Colonel
Eggleston's unexpected death of an inflammation of the lung had been a shock,
but an even greater one had awaited his widow—it was discovered that not only
had he left no fortune of any kind, but that he had been deeply in debt. The
gracious home, Rosehaven, where Mrs. Eggleston had lived for over twenty years,
was to be sold as well as every item of value that had been gathered throughout
the forty years of her marriage. She was to be thrust penniless into the world
at a time when she should have been looking forward to a safe, sedate future.

No
one, least of all Nicole, knew of the disaster that had befallen her, and with
a gentle, stubborn pride, she intended that no one ever would. To her friends,
and there were many, she told with a bright smile that there were too many
memories at Rosehaven—it was such a big house for one old woman and anyway she
wished for a change, saying to those who asked that she was going to live with
some distant relatives in Canada. In reality she had been most fortunate to
gain employment as a companion to an elderly French emigre lady who was leaving
England for Canada. And as Mrs. Bovair planned to sail on Wednesday, this was
Mrs. Eggleston's last day in Beddington's Corner.

She
returned to Rosehaven and spent the remainder of the morning packing. She would
be staying the night at the Bell and Candle, Beddington's Corner's only inn,
leaving the following morning for London. And so, depressed and sad, she folded
what clothes she felt would be most suitable for her new role in the stoutest
valise that she possessed. Afterward there were still a few hours before the
carriage would take her into Beddington's Corner for this, the last trip, and
she wandered through the empty rooms of her home for the final time.

So
many memories, she thought wistfully, some sad, some happy. She stopped before
a bay window that overlooked a curved fishpond, and as if it were yesterday,
she could see Christopher Saxon, laughing, his young face dark and the thick
blue-black hair giving him the appearance of some wild brigand, as he fished a
screaming four-year-old Nicole from the shallow depths of the pond.

What
had happened to that shining youth, she mused with regret. She hadn't thought
of Christopher in years, for it was a painful memory, and she wondered if the
boy were even alive. He had been so handsome that spring nine years ago—tall,
his smooth skin a dark tawny of bronze, with eyes such an incredible gleaming
amber-gold —it seemed impossible to think that such a vibrant young spirit
could be dead, or that he had been capable of doing the terrible things they
whispered about.

Christopher,
like Nicole, Mrs. Eggleston had known from childhood, and he too, like the
twins, had once been a frequent visitor to her home. With a wry smile, she
acknowledged that it appeared to be her fate, always to be drawn to children,
yet to have none of her own. But Christopher had been almost like the
grandchild she would never have, and she still could not bring herself to
believe the stories about him. Shrugging aside the unhappy thoughts, she
scolded herself—there was no use crying over spilt milk. Decisively, she turned
away from the fishpond, but yet, remembering what had happened the last time she
had left Beddington's Corner, she hesitated. If she hadn't gone with her
husband to Spain that summer, perhaps Christopher would still be here, a young
man of twenty-four and not, if he were alive, heaven knew where and in
disgrace! She dreaded leaving Nicole, knowing the child was in an unfortunate
situation. But knowing there was nothing else she could do, Mrs. Eggleston told
herself that just because she had left Christopher and he had come to grief was
no indication the same fate would overtake Nicole. Surely not!

And
yet, unbeknownst to Mrs. Eggleston, her departure from Beddington's Corner
would indeed be the start of a new life for Nicole—a life fraught with
deception and peril. Her leaving had in some way awakened Nicole from the
almost apathetic state that she had fallen into since her parents' death, and
it was in an extremely thoughtful and introspective mood that she joined the
Markhams and their son, Edward, for lunch.

After
lunch Edward, his blue eyes gleaming with unkind mockery and his blond handsomeness
spoiled somewhat by the slightly malicious cast of his lips, said nastily to
Nicole, "Poor baby, now you're all alone. Oh me, whatever shall you
do?" His eyes narrowing at Nicole's lack of response, he went on,
"Well, now that old 'Eggie' is gone, maybe we'll have some peace in this
house and not be constantly tripping over her. And maybe now you'll be a little
more friendly to me—won't you, dear cuz?"

Nicole
flashed him a glance of disdain. Most times he could taunt her into losing her
temper, smiling smugly when his parents scolded her for her apparent lack of
control. But today Nicole was too distressed by Mrs. Eggleston's departure to
rise to his bait.

Edward,
seeing that she would not provide him with any sport, shrugged his shoulders
and left the dining room, presumably in search of more lively company than his
cousin.

With
a beaming fondness, Agatha watched her only child saunter from the room, her
plump features still retaining a modicum of prettiness. The faded blond hair
was skillfully arranged in a cluster of curls that would only have been
suitable on a girl half her age, and the gown she wore, while stylish, must
have been made for a woman several pounds lighter than Agatha. Watching her
aunt's ample bosom swell with maternal pride as Edward walked out the door,
Nicole stared, fascinated at the way the seams strained almost to the breaking
point yet managed not to burst.

When
Edward had gone from the room, Agatha picked up the letter she had been reading
to William. It was from a particularly close crony of hers in London.

"Oh,
listen to this, William! Beth writes that she has met Anne Saxon!" And
with that Agatha began to read aloud.

"I
was most fortunate last week to meet some neighbors of yours. Didn't you say
that Ashland was near Baron Saxon's estate? I'm sure you did. Well, my dear,
there I was in Hookham's Lending Library and who should I meet but young Anne
Saxon! She is truly a beautiful girl with all those blond curls and blue,
blue
eyes. She is here for the season, I understand, and the gentlemen are already
calling her the "incomparable." They say that they are even betting
that she will be engaged before the season really begins.' "

Laying
down the letter, her aunt shot Nicole a pettish look. "Did you know Anne
was to be in London?"

Nicole
sighed. Her aunt was most ambitious to join the ranks of the
ton
and she
had been mortified and angry when it had been rather forcibly thrust on her
that while every door was open to orphaned Nicole Ashford, the same doors did
not necessarily swing wide to her less wellborn aunt and uncle.

Consequently,
not wishing to be subjected to one of her aunt's frustrated tirades about the
unfairness of "certain" people, Nicole replied quietly, "No.
Anne is eighteen, she is almost grown. Why should she tell me that she was
leaving for London?" And deciding it was wise to shift the attack into her
aunt's large lap, Nicole asked curiously, "Why are you so interested in
what Anne does?"

Throwing
her a look of displeasure, Agatha snapped, "You keep a civil tongue in
your head, miss!"

William,
his full face flushed from the effects of several glasses of wine served with
lunch, said heartily, "Now, now, pet, mustn't ring a peal over our little
Nicole, remember how much we owe to her. I expect when she is a little older
she will be more interested in all the scandal broth that is so dear to your
heart."

For
once Nicole was grateful for her uncle's intervention, but that didn't make her
any fonder of him. She kept her eyes lowered to the table and wished for the hundredth
time that she, too, had been on the sloop that terrible day. She hated these
constant scrabbles that erupted over nothing and her uncle's patronizing
defense was sometimes worse than her aunt's scolds.

Agatha,
still not entirely satisfied, muttered, "I doubt it! She is the dullest
child!"

Placidly,
William soothed, "Don't fly up in the boughs, my love. When Nicole has her
season, she will change. I have no doubt."