The Foundling (Rags to Richmonds #3)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

F rederica knew before she opened her eyes that she had woken late. She sat up with a start, but when she looked around the still-shadowy chamber, she experienced a moment of disorientation. This was not her room, and there were no sounds of children running amok in her absence. Then she groaned and flopped back into the mattress. This, then, was what it felt like to wake up in a strange place. She must have slept deeply to have so thoroughly forgotten she was at Avonwyke—and no wonder, for the bed was unfathomably soft.

Her thoughts leapt instantly to the children. Judging from the faint glow of dawn around the edge of the curtains, she guessed they would be awake by now. She hoped Geoffrey had not cried in the night or, if he had, that Mrs Woods had been forbearing. God forbid he had wet the bed again, for she dreaded to think how the crabby schoolmistress would respond to that. A jolt of panic assaulted her at the possibility that the stomach pains of which Jennifer had complained the day before had heralded the onset of her courses. That would present a far greater humiliation than a wet bed. She tried desperately to recall when the poor dear had last been indisposed and kicked herself for not reminding her where the rags were stored before she left.

“This will not do, Frederica!” she berated herself a moment later. She had made the decision to come; there was no sense in torturing herself while she was miles away, and there was nothing to be done about any of it. “It is but one night.” She sighed happily as memories from the previous evening crept into her mind. “One heavenly night.”

The food had been delicious, the company sparkling, the wine—oh! She had drunk too much wine! Oakley and the twins had shared many, many anecdotes of their childhoods, flooding her head with pictures to fill the blank of the past twenty years. Kem and Worthe had added their stories of more recent times, evoking gales of laughter from everybody with their versions of Adelaide’s and Scarlett’s courtships, which differed hilariously from the twins’ own accounts.

They had danced! Frederica had never so much as performed a jig in her life—indeed, she was not sure she could say that she had now, for she knew no steps and none of the music. But with accompaniments from Scarlett at the pianoforte, Kem on the violin, much laughter, and no shortage of teasing, her brothers and sisters had shown her the rudiments of a simple reel. And then ? —

Something fluttered powerfully in her stomach, and she pulled the coverlet up with both fists to cover the silly grin that had spread itself across her face. Then , Penrith had danced with her.

Over and above all the delights of the evening, it was his presence that had made it extraordinary. All night, he had been attentive and engaging, always seeming to know when to speak and when to listen. Occasionally, in their excitement, the others had forgotten that Frederica was new among them and not familiar with their ways or party to their jokes. Being not of a disposition to put herself forth with any authority, those moments might have run long were it not for His Grace. More than once, he redirected the conversation to include her—deftly, unobtrusively, but unfailingly effective. He had even shared some tales of his own, which Frederica was overjoyed to hear, for it gave her hope that despite his pain, he was learning to take pleasure in his memories of the past.

She had already been quite under his spell by the time he took her hands and led her patiently through the figures of the reel. Afterwards, she hardly knew what she felt—only that his beautiful, elusive smile was etched on her mind, and the feel of his warm, sure grip was impressed upon her palms.

She tried not to think about it overmuch as Adelaide’s maid helped her dress for the day. She dared not, for as she was reminded by the unfamiliar reflection looking back at her from the mirror, this was not her natural sphere. Soon, she would give this fine gown back to her sister and return to plain work clothes; she would leave this sumptuous bedchamber and take up once more in her small room at the orphanage. She had no business imagining herself to be of any interest to a duke.

She waited an hour before going down so as not to put anybody out, but when a footman directed her to a bright saloon at the back of the house, she discovered that she was the last to arrive. It surprised her; she had assumed she would be the first to rise.

“No, they are all horribly early risers,” Oakley complained. “And I was unceremoniously shaken from my pit at goodness knows what time to join the party.”

“You should not have drunk so much brandy, man! I daresay you would not have needed shaking if you’d had less of a thick head this morning,” Kem said, shoving Oakley’s chair leg with his foot and making him jerk in his seat.

“It has nothing to do with how much brandy I drank and everything to do with you all keeping such unfashionable hours.”

“The perquisites of a life in service,” Adelaide said with a smirk.

“That does not explain everyone else’s jauntiness. What is your excuse, Your Grace?”

Frederica felt excessively conscious at the duke being drawn into the conversation, despite being aware nobody could know how it had made her insides jump. She felt a good deal more conscious when he fixed his eyes on her and answered, “I did not wish to miss the party either.”

“Quite right,” Worthe said. “But look, it is a fine day. What say we go for a walk before breakfast? ”

Thus, despite Oakley’s good-humoured objections to being obliged to rise early and exercise his legs, a stroll about the park was agreed upon—though, when a servant was summoned to fetch the ladies’ coats and walking shoes, Adelaide excused herself from the activity.

“I am afraid I am feeling a little delicate myself this morning,” she admitted, her hand on her midsection to emphasise her meaning. “Do not concern yourself,” she added when Scarlett expressed concern. “It will pass. Aunt Louisa assures me I ought to feel more robust in a few weeks. In plenty of time for the Season, according to her.”

“ Will you go to London this summer?” Scarlett enquired cautiously.

“Will she allow me not to?”

“In this matter, your aunt will have no say,” Kem said firmly.

Adelaide smiled at him affectionately. “Of course, we shall do whatever is best—though it is possible to be in town without partaking in the Season. I managed it every year while I worked for the Grishams.”

Kem only rolled his eyes at her, but Scarlett pressed the point. “It might be safest to stay in the country. I fear if you are in town, Aunt Louisa will want you to attend a few balls, at least. You know how she is.”

“Prepare yourself, Frederica. It will be you in her sights this Season,” Oakley said, laughing. “You had better brush up on those dance steps, for my mother will have you whirling about with every eligible man this side of the Channel come May. ”

Frederica felt the now familiar stirring of panic in her stomach at his easy mention of spending extended periods of time away from Taverstock.

“I think you might find it is you she has her sights on this year, old boy,” Worthe retorted. “You are getting a bit long in the tooth to be dithering about as you are. Her ladyship would be pleased to see you settled, I am sure.”

Oakley stopped grinning and pointed at the double doors to the garden in a disconsolate gesture for them to begin their walk. “I have decided to cry off women,” he said as he stepped out into the warm spring morning. “Every one I ever thought was worth two straws has chosen a different fellow over me—and they are always such fellows, too! I shall never comprehend Bess plumping for that lobcock, Beamish.”

“Well she had no choice, did she?” Scarlett replied. “Not after that horrid Miss Holland loosed her tongue about it.”

“Mrs Marshall chose you,” Kem said with exaggerated innocence.

Worthe snorted. “Amongst others.”

“Very droll,” Oakley replied glumly.

Frederica followed them onto the path, unable to join in with the others, for she knew neither Bess, nor Miss Holland, nor Mrs Marshall—nor any of the other women about whom they went on to tease him. She felt a gentle touch to her arm and looked around to where Penrith walked ever so slightly behind her. His serious gaze was somehow vastly comforting; she smiled and slowed her pace to match his .

“Might I be so bold as to enquire what is troubling you?” he asked quietly.

“Is it that obvious that anything is troubling me?”

“To me it is.”

That was more comforting still. With a sigh, she admitted, “I am only anxious to return to Taverstock. I worry how some of the children will have fared in my absence.”

“Your concern for them is truly commendable, but I am sure they will be well. Remember what you told me—children are exceedingly resilient creatures.”

“That is true, they are. I suppose I just wish none of them were ever required to be resilient.”

“Spoken like a true mother.”

She looked at him in confusion, dismayed at the notion that he meant to ridicule her, but it seemed he was sincere.

“I meant it as a compliment. Margot used to despise leaving the children when we travelled. But we did occasionally leave them—as I left them again last night. No harm ever came to them.”

Frederica was about to protest that the situation was entirely dissimilar but stopped herself, for regardless of the duke’s wealth and probable retinue of help, his children had still lost their mother. To them, the situation no doubt felt exactly the same. There were nevertheless still salient differences. “Your children have the benefit of a safe, happy home.”

“As do Taverstock’s children, thanks to you,” Penrith replied. “They will be well for one night. ”

“One night, perhaps—but what if I were to be absent for longer?” It was his turn to look confused, and she added, “I thank you for your assurances—truly. I have tried my best to make Taverstock a home, and it means a great deal to me that you should think it a success. But I worry what would happen were I to be away for more than one night.”

“Is that a pressing concern?” Penrith enquired.

Frederica hesitated, tried several times to frame an answer, then gave up with a sigh and a shake of her head. “I ought not to say anything. My family has been so very welcoming. I should hate for any of them to think I do not appreciate it.”

Penrith stopped walking and turned with great deliberation to face away from the path the others had taken. Holding his arm out for her to take, he said, “Your family are exceedingly good people. But sometimes what a person needs is a friend, not a brother or sister. Nothing you say to me will go any further.”

Feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude, Frederica nodded and took his arm. It was solid and warm and exactly the crutch she needed. It was an effort not to cling to it too tightly. He led her onto a narrower path that led into the wooded copse around the lake. He said nothing, only waited with his inimitable stately poise for her to speak. She was obliged for his patience, for her thoughts were so muddled, it took her an age to order them into any sort of coherence.

“I thought I knew what the future held for me,” she said at length. “I have always believed I was born to a life dedicated to others. I was perfectly content—more than content, I was happy with my lot.”

She huffed a small laugh and gestured to the woods, the lake, and the house beyond. “Now, I have all this at my fingertips, and I like it just as well—only a fool would not. And I very much like being a Richmond. My sisters, Oakley, all of them are so wonderfully agreeable. I have rarely enjoyed anything as much as I have enjoyed getting to know them these past few weeks. I could never forsake them now; they are my family.”

“But Taverstock is your life,” the duke said gently.

“Exactly! Oh, you do understand!”

He winced wryly. “Yes, I know perfectly well what it is to have the future you assumed would be yours altered in the blink of an eye. If I could have held on to my old life in that moment, I would have—with every ounce of my strength.”

It was a humbling observation. Frederica grimaced in chagrin. “Forgive me. The alteration of which you speak came hand in hand with tragedy, and here I am, complaining at the prospect of comfort and riches beyond my wildest dreams. You must think me absurd.”

He cast her a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised as if in challenge. “I think you are unlike anybody I have ever known. There are few people who, upon discovering that they were of noble birth, would not have immediately left Taverstock. To choose a life in the service of those less fortunate than oneself shows true nobility.”

She smiled self-consciously and was relieved when he directed them onto a bank that sloped away from the path and down to the water’s edge, for it gave her somewhere to look other than at his penetrating gaze.

“I do not mean to suggest that one ought to be afraid of change,” he continued presently. “My old life may be gone, and I may mourn it every day, but that is not to say that my future must now be devoid of happiness. Indeed, I am coming to believe—with a little help—that it is possible for unexpected and wondrous new beginnings to arise even from change born of tragedy.”

Frederica had not the courage to meet his eye and scarcely knew whether she hoped or dreaded that she might be the source of the happiness to which he alluded—which rather helpfully illustrated the crux of her dilemma. “I had convinced myself that I could have both—my old life and my new one. But no matter what my family avow, I begin to see that the two are not compatible.”

If she had disappointed him with her evasion, he showed no sign of it, answering without hesitation, “You refer, I suppose, to their talk of the Season just now.”

“Yes, that is one example—the ease with which they speak of me leaving Taverstock to attend parties and balls.”

“You do not like balls?”

She grinned at him. “I have never been to one, so I could not say. I do not object to them in principle. Indeed, if they are as much fun as the dancing was last night, I think I should enjoy one very much. But one ball is not the problem—it is what comes afterwards.”

“And what is that? ”

“More balls, more parties, more time away from the children. If I am absent from the orphanage often enough, the governors will simply replace me—they will have to. And if I spend enough time in high society, people will expect me to fit in there. I cannot be somebody who dances with dukes and marquesses and then goes home to an orphanage at the end of an evening. It would never be tolerated.”

They reached the water’s edge, and she slid her arm from his and stood, looking out across the lake, one hand shading her eyes from the glint of the sun on the surface, the other wrapped around her waist. There was a breeze this close to the water; it whisked her hair against her cheeks and her skirts against her shins. “Did you happen to notice the necklace I was wearing last night?” she asked.

“I did,” he replied softly. “You looked remarkably well in it.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from Lady Tipton. I ought to be grateful, do you not think?”

“I take it you are not.”

“It is only that people who live in orphanages do not wear jewels. It confirmed to me that I will have to choose at some point.” She lowered her hand and turned to face him. “I feel as though I am on borrowed time.”

Penrith’s perennial sadness swam back into his eyes, although Frederica had the strongest sense of it being for her on this occasion. “I wish I could tell you that you were wrong, but you are too sensible to credit it,” he said. “I believe you have the measure of the situation. ”

She deeply appreciated his candour. It was a truth she needed to hear.

“But you do not have to choose yet,” he added lightly.

“I might have to choose sooner rather than later. My aunt has repeated her invitation for me to go to Chiltern Court. She suggested I stay for a week. I do not think I can refuse again.”

“I see. Well, a week is not so very long. And it might help you determine what you want. One cannot make an informed choice without all the facts, after all. I give you my word that nobody at Taverstock will be replacing you in that time. I believe as a patron, I have at least that much authority.” A glimmer of playfulness sparked in his eyes. “Would it help if I promised to call there once or twice in your absence to keep an eye on the children’s welfare?”

“You would do that for me?” Frederica said in surprise.

He gave her a somewhat incredulous look and then, unusually for him, he chuckled. “Miss Richmond, that is the very least I would do for you. You have been an invaluable friend to me these past few months. Assisting you in any capacity would be my honour.”

Frederica was heartened to know that she had helped him. He continued to look at her intently, piercingly, beseechingly almost, until his offer to help seemed suddenly more significant. “You could tell me what you think I ought to do,” she said quietly.

He bestowed her with another smile—this time a wry, helpless sort of smile that made him look ten years younger and accentuated every fine feature of his countenance. “Would that I could.”

He unexpectedly lifted a hand to her face. Frederica froze, not knowing what to expect, and watched with a racing heart as he tenderly unhooked a strand of hair that the breeze must have blown into the corner of her mouth. The backs of his fingers grazed her cheek and traced her jaw in a featherlight touch, and he leant towards her by the smallest fraction.

“But you must follow your heart.”

She was sure he would kiss her—and she was sure she had never wanted anything as badly in her whole life—until he lowered his hand and stood tall. Then she was as relieved as she had ever been in her whole life that he had not, for that would have forced a decision upon her that she was not ready to make. She knew with certainty that he understood as much—just as, in that moment, she knew with certainty that she loved him.

“I will,” she said, and it felt like a promise.

He took a deep breath and exhaled it heavily, then held out his arm for her once more. “We ought to be getting back. The others will be wondering what has become of us.”

Frederica suspected they knew perfectly well what had become of them, for none of them felt the need to enquire upon their return to the house, and there were plenty of expressive looks directed her way throughout breakfast. She did not oblige them with answers, even after Penrith departed. She was able to distract them instead with a request for a pen and paper with which to write a letter, accepting her aunt’s invitation to Chiltern Court. Penrith was right; she had much better find out whether she could bear to be away from Taverstock before she decided whether she could bear to be away from him.