The Foundling (Rags to Richmonds #3)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

W inter gradually began to loosen its cruel grip; snowdrops littered the roadsides, and the sunshine, though it contained little heat, was regularly as bright as a summer’s day. Frederica delighted in the early promise of spring and was pleased when the opportunity arose one February afternoon to walk into Bicester while the blackthorns were still in blossom. Mr Patterson had recovered from his indisposition and returned to the schoolroom, freeing her from her temporary role as schoolmistress. Thus, wrapped up in her warmest clothes and abuzz with anticipation, she fairly skipped into town.

It was busy; people dashed impatiently between shops, and carriages and carts rolled past in both directions. With only one or two errands to run and no reason to rush, Frederica meandered through Market Square, stopping first at the stationer’s and then at the bookshop. Upon exiting the druggist’s, she noticed some manner of commotion across the way .

An ornate chaise-and-four had stopped on the corner of Sheep Street, and whomever it conveyed was attracting a good deal of attention. People all around the square had paused to crane their necks and whisper to each other in animated voices. One or two proprietors had come to stand in the doorways of their shops; several more could be seen rearranging the wares in their windows to better advantage.

Smiling at their fascination, Frederica hitched her skirts and stepped over a puddle. Her next and last errand was at the draper’s, on the same side of the square as the carriage. Her approach gave her a clear view of the family that stepped down from it. First to exit, with the help of a footman in elaborate livery, was a woman of middling years, whose attire, though handsome, did not seem fine enough to match her conveyance. A domestic of some sort, then, Frederica deduced. This guess was borne out when the woman turned to lift a young child of perhaps three or four from the carriage and set him at her feet. The footman then passed an even younger child—a girl—from the interior of the carriage into her arms. With the girl propped on her hip, and the little boy’s hand firmly grasped in her own, the woman—who must be their nanny—stepped back from the carriage door.

Frederica stopped mid-stride when another occupant stepped down onto the pavement—this one with a child of perhaps a twelvemonth in his arms. She better comprehended the townsfolk’s excitement now, for she had never heard of the Duke of Penrith coming into Bicester to shop before. She frowned as she attempted to make sense of the grouping—and then gave a small gasp at the flash of sorrow that accompanied her dawning understanding. Mr Mulligan had told her the duke was a widower; he had not mentioned that he had children.

She had not thought Penrith old enough to be father to three. He must have married uncommonly young. As it always did, the intelligence that any child had lost their mother tugged at her heart, though she was gladdened to see the duke engaging with them. He seemed, if not wholly at ease with the task of toting a wriggling infant, at least not embarrassed to be doing so in public. It was most unusual for a man, and a nobleman at that, to go out in society with his young children. Still, a duke could do as he pleased and to the devil with convention, she supposed.

“Miss Child!”

Frederica started. She had been staring for so long, the duke had noticed. Mortification flooded her cheeks with heat—she would never have presumed to impose upon his notice deliberately. Yet now that he had seen her, she could hardly ignore him. She curtseyed deeply and, when he gestured for her to approach, did so.

“You are not out to collect more children, I hope,” he said solemnly.

“No, Your Grace. I am happy to report that we have not been required to take any more children since Tom and Lucy Baxter—and they have settled remarkably well.”

To see the nanny’s expression, one would have thought she had uttered a string of expletives. What had the woman expected—that someone of Frederica’s station would be too dazzled by the duke to answer him fully? She suppressed a smile at the thought.

“I am pleased to hear it,” he replied. “It is serendipitous that we should see you here.” He indicated the tearoom with a glance. “We are come to sample some of the delights you told me about when we last spoke.” His face abruptly clouded, and he looked at his infant son. “The children needed some diversion.”

Aware that she had recommended the tearoom as an antidote for grief, Frederica was heartily sorry for them all, but it could not outweigh the pleasure she felt to see a father do such a fine thing for his children. She smiled brightly. “You will not be disappointed. Mrs Tulley’s cakes can remedy all manner of woes. Might I recommend some of her tried and tested cure-alls?”

The nanny looked on aghast, but Frederica paid her no mind.

Penrith appeared momentarily surprised before a more contented sentiment suffused his face. “That would be appreciated, I thank you. Allow me to introduce everybody.” He reached down to touch the shoulder of his eldest. “This is William, Marquess Ryde.” Stroking the cheek of the toddler in the nanny’s arms, he said, “This is Delphine.” Shuffling his youngest forwards as though showing off a trophy, he concluded, “And this is Felix. Oh, and this is their nanny, Mrs Coombs.”

Frederica curtseyed. “An honour to meet you all.”

Lord Ryde looked up at his father with endearing confusion .

“This is Miss Child,” Penrith told him. “She is going to show you which cakes are the best.”

The boy lit up with glee and all but pulled his nanny into the shop. Within, poor Mrs Tulley stood dumbstruck behind the counter. Frederica greeted her, then turned her attention to Penrith’s children. Lady Delphine was sucking her thumb and staring wide-eyed at the array of cakes on the counter. Lord Ryde was peering up at Frederica expectantly.

“Did your mother like flowers?” she asked him.

He nodded uncertainly. His father, on the other hand, looked absolutely shocked, and his nanny sucked in her breath sharply. “Madam, I do not know what you think you are about—” But her objection was cut short when Lord Ryde piped up in the sweet, over-enunciated diction of all children still in leading strings.

“And she liked honey. She put it on her toast.”

His sister pulled her thumb from her mouth with a wet pop and announced triumphantly, “Honey!”

Frederica beamed at them. “Then I know just the treat for you. Mrs Tulley, do you have any of your delicious lavender and honey cakes?”

Mrs Tulley looked between her and the duke in confusion and stammered an answer in the affirmative.

“Then we shall have two, if you please,” Penrith interjected. “And for the baby, Nanny?”

Mrs Coombs hesitated, running her eyes over the confections on display.

Despite the duke’s epithet, Frederica could see now that the boy was nearer two than one—certainly old enough for an oat biscuit. She suggested it, adding, “They are a favourite with the younger children at the orphanage.”

Mrs Coombs nodded her grudging approval, and it was settled. While Mrs Tulley hastened to oblige them, Penrith said quietly, “Miss Child, that was…” He grimaced slightly. “I have not heard Ryde speak about his mother for months. I began to think he did not remember her.”

She smiled ruefully. “I find that children invariably want to talk about their mothers, even if they cannot recall a thing about them. And I love to hear it, for I cannot remember mine, either. I was a newborn when I was orphaned—too little even for a name, for I had not yet been christened. My name was recorded as ‘Female Child’.” Noticing that Lord Ryde was listening, she said her next words to him, making them as playful as she could. “It stuck, and I am still known as Miss Child today. Is that not funny?”

The little boy grinned and nodded, but the duke had reverted to being sombre and was regarding Frederica with a small frown. Comprehending that she likely had now overstepped, she backed away from the party.

“I ought to be going, Your Grace. I thank you for the honour of meeting your charming family.” She curtseyed and left the shop, a powerful feeling of warmth lingering in her breast at the unexpected encounter. She cherished the company of all children, but the duke’s young family had been especially delightful. Being herself an orphan and working at an orphanage, paternal affection was not something she often had the privilege of witnessing, yet Penrith’s concern for his children’s happiness seemed to her everything a father ought to feel. She smiled tenderly to herself as she entered the draper’s shop and waited to be served. Indeed, her feeling of quiet pride in the duke was such that it kept her smiling all the way back to Taverstock.