Unconquered (29 page)

M
IRANDA
D
UNHAM’S SON WAS BORN AT SIX MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
on April 30, 1813. He was, according to both his mother’s and doctor’s calculations, two and a half weeks early. Nevertheless, he was a lusty, healthy infant. The London season was only two-thirds over, but the current high-waisted fashions had allowed Miranda to be social until her time. In fact it was the doctor’s disapproving opinion that Lady Dunham’s busy life had been responsible for the slightly premature birth.

“Fiddlesticks!” snapped his patient. “Both the boy and I are in excellent condition.”

The doctor had gone his way shaking his head. Young Lady Swynford, he privately declared, was a much better patient than her sister. Although her child was not due until the end of June, she had wisely retired from society at the end of March, a full three months prior to the birth.

Both sisters had giggled behind the good doctor’s back, and to the horror of the wet nurse they had undressed the baby in the middle of his mama’s bed, exclaiming over his perfection. His toes and fingers, the tiny nails, his thick black hair, his miniature genitals all elicited exclamations of delight.

“What are you going to call him?” asked Amanda one day when her nephew was a week old.

“Would you mind if I named him after Papa?” said Miranda.

“Lord, no! Thomas is a Dunham name. Adrian and I have decided if our baby is a boy we shall call him Edward. If it’s a girl, Clarissa. What does Jared say?”

“Jared! Oh! He agrees. The child will be Thomas. I intend asking Adrian to be the baby’s godfather, and Jared’s older brother, Jonathan, will also be godfather. Jared will have to stand in for his brother at the christening, as Jon cannot possibly come here from America. Will you be my Tom’s godmother?”

“Gladly, dearest, and you will be godmama to my child?”

“Of course I will, Mandy,” promised Miranda.

Thomas Jonathan Adrian Dunham was christened in mid-May at the small country church in the village belonging to Swynford Hall. If Lord Palmerston had heard from Jared, he had not communicated any message to Miranda. In fact, he had gone out of his way to avoid her at the social gatherings they attended. Not knowing how much he had told his mistress, Lady Cowper, Miranda could not even beg Emily to intercede for her. The situation was becoming intolerable.

Little Tom’s birth had been a relatively easy one, and yet Miranda was tired suddenly, and felt more alone than she had in months. Jon, of course, had been with her during her ordeal, sitting by her side wiping her wet brow with a cologne-scented handkerchief, allowing her to squeeze his hands until she thought she was going to crush them, giving her strength. When she thought of Jared, and briefly wanted to give up, looking at Jon had helped. Jon understood the way of a woman in childbirth.

What distressed Miranda most of all was the knowledge that Jared didn’t even know there was to be a child. He didn’t know she had borne him a strong and fine son. Lacking any real knowledge of her husband, her imagination played havoc with her postpartum nerves. Jared had not been celibate before their marriage, and now, separated from her, what was to prevent him taking a mistress in St. Petersburg? She alternated between tears and fury as she imagined
her
Jared with another woman writhing beneath him. Another woman receiving what should rightfully be hers! She would weep with frustration, hating herself
for doubting him, hating him for putting patriotism before his wife.

If Jared had but known her thoughts they would have pleased him immensely, for shortly before the new year he had become a guest of the Tzar. His new home was a spacious two-room apartment in the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. He was currently under the Tzar’s protection, and not allowed to leave. He chafed at his imprisonment and another woman was the furthest thing from his mind. The only woman he thought of was Miranda, and he thought of her often. He had made her a woman, his love had given her confidence, and now he imagined her being pursued by every sensible gentleman within the ton, dazzling society with her wit and unusual beauty.

Impotent fury coursed through him. What if that damned royal satyr, Prinny, took it in his head to seduce Miranda? Could she avoid him? Would she want to? Despite his girth, the Prince Regent was a most charming and fascinating man. Jesus! He’d kill the bastard if he had touched Miranda! Oh, Miranda, he thought, for all your intelligence, you are so innocent of the world. You see only what you want to, my darling, and no more. Jared Dunham paced angrily and restlessly back and forth within his quarters, calling himself every kind of a fool for leaving his wife.

As if to mock his black mood, St. Petersburg was experiencing a rare bright and sunshiny winter’s day. Beyond the ornate twisted bars and glass on the apartment windows, he could see the blue sky and the bright sunshine. The city was white with snow sparkling brightly from the rooftops and onion-domed churches. Below him the Neva was frozen solid, and the aristocracy amused themselved by holding races, their sleighs racing down the river at breakneck speed. He could imagine the thunder of hooves, and the shouts of participants and spectators alike. Up here in his small world the only sounds were those made by himself or Mitchum.

He thought of London, of the social season now just beginning. He wondered if his brother, that staunch New England Yankee Jonathan, was adjusting to being an Anglo-American lord. He chuckled, tickled at the idea of his sensible, plain-living brother forced to wallow in the lap of luxury, as would be expected of Jared Dunham.

Jonathan had actually settled quite comfortably into his role as the wealthy Yankee lordling. He had his club, and he had a pretty mistress, a little opera dancer, in London. While in London he rode daily with Adrian, gamed quite successfully, visited Gentlemen Jackson’s gym to box, and squired his opera dancer to all the places a gentleman might be seen with his light-o’-love. Prior to the Dunhams’ and Swynfords’ departure to Worcester he had bid the lady farewell and gifted her with a showy necklace, earrings, and bracelet of pale-blue Brazilian aquamarines. He did not expect to see her again, and chuckled with glee at the possibility of Jared running into her someday.

Once again they were to spend the summer and autumn seasons at Swynford Hall. The baby, Tom, was housed in cheerful rooms that had been redecorated in anticipation of his cousin’s arrival. They would, Amanda declared, be almost like twins. The nursery staff set about spoiling the new heir to Wyndsong Island, and Miranda hardly saw her child except for a brief time in the morning, and again just before his bedtime.

Jon spent a great deal of time away from her now, and Miranda realized with shock that he genuinely cared for a young widow in the village whom he had met last winter. Mistress Anne Bowen was the daughter of the previous rector of Swynford Church, now deceased. She had been married at eighteen to the younger son of the local squire, but her husband’s family had expected their son to marry an heiress, not the daughter of the local minister, and Robert Bowen was cut off without a penny.

Fortunately, he had been a scholar, and his family had educated him. He opened a small penny school to teach the local children their letters. They lived in the vicarage, for his father-in-law was a widower, and with the blessing of a roof over their heads, the kitchen garden that Anne tended, and his small living as schoolmaster they were comfortable.

In the ten years of their marriage, a boy and a girl were born to them. Then two years before, both the vicar and his son-in-law had been killed when out walking late one fine autumn afternoon. They had been trampled to death when the London-Worcester mail coach had careened around a bend in the road, completely out of control of its drunken driver. Only the shouts of its terrified passengers had managed to stop the driver, who was pulled from his perch and beaten to a pulp by the angry farm
laborers who ran from the nearby fields, outraged at the deaths of both their beloved minister and the kindly schoolmaster.

Anne Bowen was, in an instant, bereft of both her father and her husband and reduced to a state of poverty. Had it not been for the kindness of young Lord Swynford, Mistress Bowen would also have found herself homeless and in the workhouse once the new minister arrived. Adrian saw that she was given a stone cottage in good repair on the edge of the village, rent-free. The young lord of the manor could not afford to pension the widow and her two orphans, but he did see that she had butter and milk daily from his creamery. With her vegetable patch and a small flock of chickens, ducks, and geese, Anne Bowen was assured that she and her children would not starve.

The children were growing fast. Young John Robert needed to be educated, as his father had been. He was already eleven, and should have been at Harrow by then. And what would happen to Mary Anne? She was too well bred to marry a farmer, yet there was no dowry. In desperation Anne appealed to her in-laws, and was firmly rebuffed. Anne Bowen loved her children fiercely, and because she did she humbled herself. “I ask nothing for myself,” she pleaded, “only for the children. They are your grandchildren. I can feed and house and clothe them, but I cannot afford to educate the boy or dower the girl. Please help them. They are such good children!”

Brutally they informed her that they did not recognize her alliance with their son, and then she was coldly shown the door. She did not allow herself the luxury of tears until she was near the gates, but then they came, and she stumbled blindly along.

“Pssst! Missus!”

She turned to see a woman in the garb of an upper servant.

“I’m Thatcher, the young missus’s maid. She don’t approve of how the squire and his wife is treating you. She can’t do nothing, but she wanted you to have this.” A handkerchief was stuffed into her hand. “She says she wishes it was more.” The woman turned and hurried back into the bushes along the edge of the drive.

Slowly Anne Bowen undid the linen square, and found within two gold sovereigns. The kindness of her unknown sister-in-law caused the tears to flow faster during the seven-mile walk back to Swynford village. The next day she let it be known that she
was available as a seamstress, and those wishing more elegant garb than they could make themselves availed of her services.

Two years passed. She was so busy keeping her little family that she did not realize how lonely she was. And then one day Mary Anne’s new kitten got itself stuck in the apple tree. The kitten was but another mouth to feed, she had thought when her daughter brought it home. But seeing the desperate look in the child’s eyes, she sighed and agreed that, yes, the kitten would be a valuable asset to the household. Poor Mary Anne had so little.

“Damnation!” she said softly, staring up at the little gray and white animal. How on earth was she to get him down? Mary Anne wept beside her.

“May I be of some assistance?” Anne whirled around and saw an elegant gentleman dismounting from his horse.

Recognizing Lord Swynford’s brother-in-law, she curtseyed. “You are most kind, m’lord, but I would not have you soil your clothes.”

“Nonsense!” he replied, swinging into the tree and handing the kitten down to Mary Anne. “There, youngster, keep that imp safe now.”

Mary Anne’s tears vanished, and she scampered away, the kitten clutched to her little chest.

Jon leaped lightly down from the tree, brushing himself off, and Anne Bowen smiled shyly. “Thank you, m’lord. My daughter would have been devastated if anything had happened to the kitten.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.” He inclined his head then mounted his horse and rode off.

For several Sundays he bowed, tipped his hat, and said “Your servant, ma’am,” as they left church. His wife had been with him every Sunday and Anne thought how beautiful Lady Dunham was. She envied her the fashionable clothes.

One day, several weeks after their first meeting, he had stopped at the cottage to inquire after the kitten’s health. After that he took to coming by at least twice a week, and Anne Bowen found herself looking forward to his visits.

Occasionally he brought sweetmeats for the children who, never having money for such luxuries, devoured them in a twinkling. Then late one afternoon he had appeared with a rabbit, skinned and ready for the pot. She politely asked him to supper,
fully expecting him to decline her humble invitation, and was quite surprised when he accepted. She had never entertained in the cottage. Her neighbors held her in awe, for though she was far poorer than they, she was still “vicar’s lass.” Only occasionally would they even venture over her doorsill.

He sat by the fire in the one good chair, and watched her set the table. She drew from the linen chest a lovely snow-white Irish cloth, which she spread over the oval table. From the Welsh dresser came her mother’s bone china, and pale-green glass goblets. The utensils were well polished steel with bone handles, and the candlesticks were pewter. The children brought some greens from the garden to decorate the table. The rabbit stew bubbled, sending a savory odor through the cottage.

The children were ecstatic. They saw meat only rarely. Anne nearly cried at their delight in the fluffy dumplings she made from her precious hoard of white flour. She added a dish of new lettuce and, for dessert, baked an apple tart—thankful that Lord Swynford’s generosity made heavy cream possible. Jon noted everything, the children’s eagerness over the rabbit stew, Anne’s quiet pride and soft flushed cheeks. He realized that they did not usually eat this well, silently cursing himself for having accepted her invitation and depriving the children of an extra meal.

She was a marvelous cook, and he couldn’t help but eat ravenously, which brought a smile to her lovely face. “It’s good to see a man eat again,” she said quietly.

“I’ll bring you another rabbit tomorrow,” he promised, “and I’ll not ask to stay to dinner this time.”

“You really mustn’t. You have been too generous already.”

“There are too many rabbits on the estate as it is. After all, my offer is an honest one. I’m not poaching.”