The Foundling (Rags to Richmonds #3)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

F rederica hugged herself against the cold as the carriage sped through the night. There had been no time to wait for hot bricks or blankets. There had not even been time to say goodbye to all her family. In the rush, Penrith had only been able to find Adelaide, to whom Frederica had apologised for leaving and given her jewellery for safekeeping. She hoped the others would understand when the situation was explained to them.

She sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut. What had happened? “Tell me again, Rupert. What exactly did Tom say? Why has he done this?”

Rupert’s horse—or rather, Mr Mulligan’s horse—had been left to recover in Cedarvale’s stables, thus here he sat with her in the duke’s carriage, looking every bit as miserable as she felt. “Same as he’s been saying for weeks,” he replied glumly. “That he couldn’t bear to have his sister taken away from him as well as his ma and pa. ”

“But she was not going to be taken away—I was in talks with Mrs Beard for her to take both of them.”

Rupert shook his head. “She didn’t want both of them, Fred. She told you that, but you wouldn’t listen, so she went to the governors.”

“What?”

“Mulligan waited ’til you were away, so you wouldn’t kick up a fuss. The family came for Lucy yesterday afternoon.”

“No!” Frederica wrung her hands together and stared out of the window, trying in vain to see how far they had travelled. “Poor, poor Tom. He must have been absolutely desperate.”

“Desperate?” Rupert sneered. “The boy’s not right in the head. No sane person does this to their little sister.”

Frederica shuddered to consider what Lucy must be suffering. Her terror and confusion notwithstanding, it was after one o’clock in the morning; she would be freezing. For, in his distress, Tom Baxter had apparently dragged his six-year-old sister to the roof, barred the door behind him, and was threatening to push her off unless somebody promised they would not be separated. Of course, the promise had been made, but Tom had not been convinced. They had attempted to force the door, only to stop when he shoved Lucy so far over the parapet that she grew hysterical. At midnight, Mr Mulligan had sent Rupert to Cedarvale to fetch Frederica back. She was their last hope.

“I should have been there,” she said into the night. The silence that followed was devastating, for it was the sound of Rupert agreeing with her.

“You looked like you was enjoying yourself,” he said at length.

His words drove the shard of guilt deeper still into Frederica’s gut. She looked at him in dismay, only to find him looking sullenly at the sliver of ball gown that was showing through the opening of her cloak. She tugged the edges together to conceal it. She had felt like a princess wearing the gown earlier; now she felt like a charlatan.

She had been enjoying herself—it had been the happiest night of her life—but at what cost? While she had been draping herself with jewels at Avonwyke, Mrs Beard and the governors had been conspiring to separate two children who only had each other left in the world. While she had been playing with Penrith’s children, Tom had been dragging his terrified sister to the roof. While she had been dancing with the duke—while she had been kissing him—Lucy had been dangled over the parapet like a rag doll. Self-reproach made her gorge rise so violently, she thought she might choke on it.

“There’s the gates,” Rupert said, sitting forwards in his seat.

Frederica could scarcely catch her breath for dread as the carriage pulled into the drive. As soon as it reached the house, Rupert threw open the door, and with a hastily shouted word of thanks to the coachman, the pair took off towards the back of the house.

What happened next remained too much of a blur for Frederica to remember clearly later. She was certain Tom had recognised her. She knew she had called out to him, because she remembered telling him everything would be well, knowing full well it was a lie. She was sure—although recollections from everyone present varied—that Tom had lifted his hand only to wave at her. Lucy had certainly called her name, though whether before or after she fell, Frederica could not recall, no matter how many times the magistrate had insisted that she try. The sight of Lucy falling was her only clear memory, and she saw it over and over again as she sat by her bedside in the sickroom, mopping the poor dear’s brow while she groaned in agony.

They had caught her—the schoolmasters and some of the older boys had been standing at the foot of the house with a tarpaulin stretched taut between them for hours, apparently. Yet, though it had broken her fall and undoubtedly saved her life, it had not prevented her from making some contact with the ground, and both of her legs were broken. Whether she would ever walk again, only time would tell.

Mrs Beard had withdrawn her offer of adoption, unwilling to take on a crippled child. Against Frederica’s every heartfelt argument, and despite her every desperate plea, Tom had been taken to the gaol in Oxford. Frederica thought her heart would break whenever she pictured him there. It was unthinkable—a child of ten , imprisoned with ruffians and criminals of every age and persuasion, his only crime the desire to remain with the last surviving member of his family. The worst of it being that, one way or another, he had surely lost her forever now.

“This was my fault,” Frederica whispered, her voice breaking on a sob. If only she had agreed to let Lucy go when Mrs Beard first enquired, she would never have been hurt. She and Tom would have survived the loss of their family, as every child at Taverstock always did—as Frederica herself had done! Yet, therein lay the rub. It was her own situation that had led her astray. After a lifetime alone, she had been reunited with her brother and sisters, and she had been so wrapped up in the wonder of it that she had not been willing to countenance another family being torn apart as hers had been. Only, she had forgotten that life was not a fairy tale, and as a result, she had let Tom and Lucy down in the worst conceivable way.

Just as she had let Penrith down. What a cruel thing to have done, to let him love her, when she could never consent to be with him. His expression when she insisted that she must go, refusing all offers of assistance except for the loan of his carriage and coachman, was the only other thing she remembered with any clarity from the long night. That and his kiss. She was glad of that memory at least, for it was the only kiss she would ever receive from him now.

The apothecary returned the next day to check on Lucy and administer a tincture which at last allowed her to cease writhing and fall into a deep sleep. Frederica was vastly relieved to see it. She had not left the girl’s side since the accident other than to change out of her gown and boil some water with which to tend to her. She had dozed occasionally in her chair, but it was hard and uncomfortable, and she had preferred to keep her eyes open in any case, so as not to be plagued with painful remembrances. All there had been to do was watch the little girl suffer.

A short while after the apothecary left, Daisy came to the sickroom. “There’s another visitor downstairs, miss, but he can just as well wait for Mr Mulligan as you. You ought to get some rest. I’ll sit with Lucy for a bit.”

Frederica was too tired to refuse. She stroked Lucy’s hair and whispered a promise to return soon, then made her way down the stairs to the first-floor landing. She hesitated before going down the next flight upon hearing a ruckus coming from one of the schoolrooms and the sound of Mr Carnegie’s raised voice. She walked quickly to his door and knocked. Such a racket emanated from within that she was not surprised nobody heard her. She entered and immediately comprehended why there was so much noise. All the boys were crammed into this room, as they had been when Mr Patterson first took ill.

“Mr Carnegie, is there a problem?” she called over the din.

“Indeed there is!” he replied angrily. “Mr Milliard has not turned up to teach his lesson today.”

“Good!” Benjamin said from one of the seats nearest Frederica. “Might be as none of us gets a hiding, in that case. ”

Mr Carnegie admonished him to be quiet, but the boy’s remark cut through the fog of Frederica’s fatigue like a knife. “What do you mean, Benjamin?”

“Miss Richmond, I must object—” the schoolmaster began, but Benjamin spoke over him.

“Mr Milliard’s pretty happy with his fists, miss.”

“And his belt,” another boy offered.

“And his boot,” said a third.

Frederica looked at Mr Carnegie in alarm.

“Settle down, boys,” the schoolmaster said firmly. He had reddened, though Frederica knew not where his anger was directed—at Mr Milliard, the boys, or her.

“Reckon it were ’im what sent Tom over the edge,” Geoffrey said defiantly. “He was terrified of Mr Milliard.”

“That is enough! I will have quiet in my classroom,” Mr Carnegie warned, but Frederica was unable to stop herself.

“Geoffrey, I heard Tom with my own ears admit that he had never seen Mr Milliard punish a boy.” He told me he would never lay a finger on a child!

At the back of the room, Bertie snorted. “He might not have seen it, but that don’t mean he didn’t know it was coming. He’s got a right temper on him, has Mr Milliard. Who do you think gave me this?” He stood up and lifted his shirt to reveal a huge dark bruise on his side.

Frederica stared at the mark in horror.

“Master Campbell, if you do not desist, you will have a darned sight more than a sore rib to complain about, now sit down !” Mr Carnegie shouted. “Miss Richmond, if you please ! I shall have enough difficulty keeping the boys in check after the events of last night, without them being whipped up about something new.” He gestured firmly for her to leave.

She nodded numbly and exited the room, pulling the door closed with a quiet click behind her and standing motionless on the landing. Did he truly see nothing untoward in this? None of the schoolmasters baulked at using the cane, she knew—but a fist, a boot, a belt ? Surely Mr Carnegie did not condone outright brutality?

It did not seem possible that Mr Milliard was capable of it. He had always seemed so friendly. A small sound escaped her—a sob, or a groan, or an efflux of disbelief, she knew not what. She only knew she felt sick to her stomach knowing that Tom had faced losing his sister and being left alone at Taverstock with a violent schoolmaster terrorising him—and that she had not been here to protect him from either.

She drifted down the stairs and across the hall in a daze, unsure what she ought to do. Her instinct was to speak to Mr Mulligan when he came later, but Mr Carnegie’s response had made her uncertain. Would the governors who had sent a young boy to be incarcerated think Mr Milliard had done anything wrong? Was she a fool to have believed that Taverstock was a kinder place than this?

Such was her distraction that she did not notice somebody was there until they put their hands on her arms to stop her dreamlike progress across the hall. She gave a yelp of surprise and then felt a rush of the most profound relief to see that Penrith had come. She had forgotten Daisy’s mention of a visitor. Yet her elation was short-lived, rapidly subsumed by the deepest despair as she contemplated what must follow.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you, but we almost collided.” He removed his hands, and in her mind, Frederica cried out for him to put them back. “Are you well?” he asked gently.

Oh, how she wished he would not be kind to her! His gaze was full of concern and love, and it hurt her heart to look at it. She nodded when what she really wanted was to weep. “I am so very sorry I had to leave.”

“Think nothing of it, I am only sorry I was not at liberty to accompany you. Were you able to resolve the matter?”

She shook her head. “She fell. She has broken both her legs.”

“Good God! What has become of her?”

“She is here. The apothecary has been again this morning. He was a little more hopeful about her prospect of recovery on this visit.”

“That is a relief, but I shall nevertheless send to London for a physician.”

Frederica wanted to hug him, though whatever it was inside her that was already hurting so terribly then twisted tighter at the realisation that she would never again feel his arms around her. She thanked him, but her voice was weak with fatigue and sorrow, and she did not think it conveyed a tenth of her true gratitude .

“What of the brother?” Penrith enquired.

“He has been sent to the gaol in Oxford.”

“Gaol?” Penrith asked disbelievingly. “Surely not.”

“He did not push her, she fell, I am sure of it, but after threatening to, he was never likely to be believed. The governors summoned the magistrate, and he deemed the boy guilty. I tried to stop them from sending him there.” Frederica swallowed hard. “Gaol is no place for a ten-year-old boy.”

“Absolutely not. Who is the magistrate here?”

“Lord Humboldt.”

“Leave it with me. This will not stand.”

Frederica veritably sagged with relief. What a pleasure it was to have another to share the burdens that too often felt like hers alone. “You think you will be able to have him released?”

“I shall certainly try. I am not without influence amongst the judiciary, and whilst I am patron of this orphanage, no child housed here will be punished for a crime he did not commit.”

Frederica felt as though a vast weight had been lifted from her chest—and in the space of one beat of her heart, wretchedness had flooded in to fill the void it created, for she knew she must repay Penrith’s kindness with rejection, and it was almost too much to bear. “Again, I thank you,” she said weakly, “from the bottom of my heart on behalf of both children, for it is more than I shall ever be able to do for them.”

There was a pause that was horrible to Frederica’s mind. She stood still, waiting, wanting at once to throw herself at Penrith, to beg him to leave, and for the ground to open and swallow her. Eventually, the thing she dreaded came to pass.

“Frederica, I must talk to you in private. We were interrupted last night, but I think you know I had not finished saying what I took you into that room to say.”

“And you must not finish it.”

“What?”

“You must not say it. I…I cannot do it.” The pain in her heart was even worse than she had anticipated. She brought a hand to her chest in a vain attempt to press it away.

“You cannot…what do you mean? Cannot do what?” His confusion was awful to behold.

“Leave. I am sorry. I should never have even entertained the idea of it. I live here . I am needed here . I cannot leave. Ever.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then said, in a voice that was evidently intended to be collected but which sounded anything but, “It is I who must apologise. After we…I was anxious that you would not think I had dishonoured you—for you to know I intended to…” He began to make a gesture with his hand but instead clenched it into a fist and pressed it against his thigh. “But it was thoughtless to come so soon after what you endured last night. I did not consider…I ought to have waited longer.”

“It would not have made any difference,” Frederica said miserably. “My answer would have been the same. The events of last night have not affected me in the way you think—I am not out of my senses. I have only had my eyes opened. I see, now, what damage I have done with my foolish notions of becoming a lady. None of this would have happened if I had been here, where I belong.”

Penrith frowned. “You cannot blame yourself for what has happened.”

“But I do!” Had she only been present more often, instead of away, playing at being highborn, she could have prevented Tom from living in fear, protected Lucy from being injured, and stopped Mr Milliard from hurting anybody . She had always known whenever Mrs Woods or Mr Patterson lost their temper—the children had always used to run to her to avoid a punishment from them. She could not even say when that had stopped happening—she had not noticed!

She took a ragged breath, her guilt mingling with her heartbreak to steal her breath away. “The children need me. I will not abandon them again. This is my home, and it always will be.”

Penrith did not appear able to speak. He opened his mouth again and again, but nothing came out. Frederica wished he would go, for she knew not how much longer she could withstand the pain of watching his heart break, knowing that it had only just begun to heal.

“Please find someone who can love you better than I can, someone who will have no reservations, no regrets. You deserve that. You deserve that and so much more. I cannot give you what you need. I am sorry.” She swallowed a sob, but her tears came regardless. She had let so many people down, but of all the people she had hurt, Penrith’s anguish cut her the deepest. Had the poor man not suffered enough? She could not bear it.

“Please go,” she begged him. The plea made, she could no longer suppress her misery and was overtaken with weeping.

The duke looked utterly bereft as he nodded and bowed to her in farewell. “I wish you well, Miss Richmond. More than you can know.” Then he left, and Frederica thought her heart would tear in two.