A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance (7 page)

“You mentioned you had suspicions.” Harry was impatient to head off unpleasantness in his domain if possible. His father had always been able to avoid problems with revenuers.

“There was a shoe print by the cellar door. A curious shoe print,
“ Gus
added.

Harry sipped his ale, striving for patience.

“Either the smuggler who left the gift at my cellar door has remarkably small feet, or he is quite young.”

Harry looked around the festivities on the village green. He noticed Katherine Brampton engaged in what appeared to be a circle of ring-around-the-rosy with some very young children. A pretty blonde maid was chatting with a red-faced, red-coated riding officer. Harry remembered her as the obliging miss who had left Katherine alone with him. A three-legged race was in progress involving a number of young lads, all of whom, Harry supposed, wore shoes that would be noticeably smaller than those of their fathers.

“More ale, your lordship?”

Harry nodded and watched a skinny blond youngster pour carefully from a jug that looked too heavy for his thin arms to carry.

Gus pushed his tankard over for the boy to refill.

“Why are you not over racing with your chums?”

“
Gotta
work, your worship.
Roof needs patching, but Sir Clive let Randal go, and he—Sir Clive—-says he won’t pay till the new bailiff says it really needs patching.
Only there
in’t
a new bailiff.
But my Pa says no Stokes ever let his family down. So I’m helping Ben Yancey.”

The lad’s scrawny chest swelled with pride.

“You’re working at the Fox and Grapes? Didn’t I see you at the King’s Arms? Is your name Jimmy?” Wharton asked.

“That’s my name, all right. I help out wherever there’s a penny to earn.”

“I must say, I am very impressed with your knowledge of your flock,” Harry admitted when Jimmy Stokes had departed to fill tankards at an adjoining table. He then watched in amazement as Gus Wharton actually blushed.
A first, as far as Harry could remember.

“Believe it or not, I take my duties seriously. How can I look after souls whose names I do not know?”

Wharton studied Jimmy as the boy continued to fill empty tankards.

“Just where my duties toward souls and my duties toward the law intersect, I am not certain, but I am concerned about that lad.”

“You think his eagerness to help his family might have lured him into criminal activity?” Harry hoped his friend would reject the idea out of hand.

Gus Wharton shrugged.

“I see him all over the parish while I’m on my rounds. Perhaps he’s too tired to be up nights running errands for smugglers. But I cannot think of another lad his age whose family seems less concerned about his whereabouts than the Stokes
are
about Jimmy’s. He merits watching,” Wharton concluded.

As Harry greeted tenants, awarded prizes to winners of competitions, ate his fill of roast pork and apple tarts, avoided both Miss Katherine and Miss Leticia Brampton, and admired Miss Summersville’s needlework, he endeavored to keep an eye on Jimmy Stokes. He liked the lad. Harry admired initiative. Perhaps he should take Jimmy aside and have a word with him. Warn him away from having anything to do with the brethren. But what if Jimmy had heard gossip from the old timers at the Fox and Grapes? What if Jimmy had been told about Harry’s and Gus’s and Charlie’s youthful exploits? Would Jimmy take Harry’s warning seriously?

Harry knew his father, Lord Cecil, would have had no problem dealing with Jimmy or any other youth who needed guidance. Lord Cecil’s life had been an example of responsibility and rectitude. Harry could not hope to match it. But he would die trying, he promised himself.

“Your lordship?”

Harry looked down into the weary face of a woman in travel-stained widow’s weeds. A small, dark-haired boy stood silently by her next to a tattered valise.

“How can I help you, ma’am?”
Harry asked by way of acknowledgement.

“My name is Bertha Haskins, your lordship.
Until recently, the wife of Trooper Haskins of the 76
^th
Foot.”

Harry expressed his condolences.

“Thank you very much, indeed, your lordship, but it’s not like my first loss. Toby Haskins was the second husband I buried in Spain. Decided to give up the military life, I did.
Going to help out in my sister’s shop in
Petworth
.
But just before I boarded the ship for home, a grand-looking Spaniard appeared. Old gentleman, he was, and looked sick—
like
to die. Came asking for anyone headed for Sussex, England. I couldn’t lie now, could I? He begged me to bring this little lad to his family. Said he’s the son of Richard Brampton. Thought I remembered there were
Bramptons
living in this parish.”

Harry crouched on his haunches before the small boy next to the widow Haskins.
Hair black as coal.
Pale beige skin Harry knew would turn golden brown with exposure to the sun. The child turned and looked Harry in the eye. Under his straight dark brows were green eyes, just like the eyes that had captivated Harry the morning of his return to Sussex.

A small group had gathered around Harry, the widow, and the child. Lizzie was among them.

“Go fetch Miss Katherine Brampton, Lizzie,” he told her.

Katherine knelt before the small figure, heart pounding, scarcely daring to believe it was possibly true—that this little boy was Richard’s—her nephew—her flesh and blood. He was looking up at Lord Dracott. All she could see was black hair and pale beige complexion—neither a Brampton trait. He did have high cheekbones. She unconsciously touched her own. Lizzie had said his name was Miguel.

“Miguel,” she whispered.

He turned and regarded her solemnly. Under straight black eyebrows, his eyes were startlingly green. Like her own eyes. Like Richard’s.

“My darling.
My love,” she said softly, smiling through tears.

“I do not believe he understands English,” Lord
Dracott’s
voice was unaccustomedly gentle. “I could try my poor Spanish, if you wish.”

“Please.”

Katherine could not take her eyes off the boy.

Lord Dracott crouched beside Katherine and addressed Miguel.

“
Esta
mujer
es
tu
Tia
Catarina
.
Es
la
hermana
de
tu
padre
.
”

“I love you more than anything in the world,” Katherine whispered to the little boy.

“
Te
quiero
mas
que
nada.”
Lord
Dracott’s
voice was almost a growl.

 “I will take care of you always. You will have a home with me always.”

“
Siempre
te
cuidare
.
Siempre
podras
vivir
conmigo
.
”
Lord Dracott translated.

“
Siempre
,”
Katherine repeated and opened her arms.

The child stepped toward her tentatively. She smiled brightly through her tears and nodded. Another
step,
and she folded him in her embrace. She felt a shudder go through his frame. Then he laid his head on her shoulder.

She was vaguely aware that Lord Dracott had stood and was telling the curious group around them that the festival was over, it was getting late, and it was time to go home.

 “Is it true? Can it be true?” Aunt
Prunella
asked in trembling tones.

Katherine looked up at the frail old lady.

“It is true, Aunt. This little boy is Richard’s son. I am certain of it.”

*****

Katherine sat by the fireplace in her bedroom, looking at the small figure sleeping in the infant cot that Lord Dracott had sent from the Hall. He also had his housekeeper, Mrs.
Lamb,
bring down a supply of children’s clothing.
Generations of Dracott mothers believed in waste not, want not.
The chests and cupboards in the Hall nursery were filled with well-mended garments waiting for the next generation’s use.

The clothing arrived just after Katherine discovered that the shabby valise containing all of her nephew’s possessions had apparently been thoroughly immersed in seawater. There was not an item fit to put on the boy until it had been washed and dried in fresh air.

She had hoped for some objective validation of her conviction that Miguel was, indeed, Richard’s son. But if any existed, the same seawater that had turned Miguel’s clothing sour smelling had all but destroyed the one document she found in the valise. It was a single page of heavy writing paper covered in smeared ink. The only legible line was at the bottom, part of a grandly executed signature:

                      
es
de
Vil

As she removed his musty-smelling clothes to wash him and put on his nightshirt, Katherine discovered a gold chain around Miguel’s neck. On it was a small crucifix—not surprising for a Spanish child—and a gold ring. It fit Katherine’s little finger, and engraved on the inside were initials “E G d V.”
Miguel’s mother?
Katherine noticed that “B” for Brampton was not included among the initials.

“His mother’s wedding ring,” Aunt
Prunella
said, dabbing at tears with her handkerchief. “She must have been a dainty lady.”

“I doubt there was a wedding,” Katherine contradicted her aunt gently.

 Katherine knew the ugly name that would be attached to Miguel and resolved to protect him from it as best she could. But creating fantasies about his origins would only make matters worse. Furthermore, if Miguel could indeed claim the Brampton name legally, he, not Clive was the new baronet. Katherine could not begin to imagine the battle that would arise if a rumor of Miguel’s legitimacy were given credence.
An expensive legal battle, far beyond Katherine’s meager financial resources, resources that would be stretched to the limit simply to provide the necessities for a growing boy and placing him in a respectable trade when he became old enough.

“I know our Richard—Sir Richard.” Aunt
Prunella’s
loyalty could be counted on to cloud her objectivity. “That document in the valise is wedding lines, I am sure of it.”

“Unless they are wedding lines signed by a priest of the Church of England, they mean nothing as far as the child’s legal status here. And I would be amazed if a Roman priest used such a grand name.”

Katherine endeavored to impress reason on her idealistic aunt.

Prunella
Summersville pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling.

“Church of England, Church of Rome, I am certain that our Blessed Lord looks on the heart and the intentions.”

Katherine was so astonished at this bit of Anglican
heresy,
she was tempted to remind her aunt to remember her responsibilities as the daughter of an archdeacon. But it took all of Katherine’s energy to refrain from laughing helplessly.

“We both are grateful for Miguel’s existence, Aunt
Prunella
. And I know we both would rather die than to expose him to speculation about his legitimacy. Do you not understand how
any
discussion of it would create problems for him?”

Katherine could see from the expression on her great-aunt’s face that she had finally struck a chord with the fiercely loyal old lady.

“I believe we must set an example by refusing to speculate about his origins other than by accepting him as Richard’s son. Surely others will do the same.”

Aunt
Prunella
seemed to see the wisdom of what Katherine had said. However, Katherine was certain that there were others who would insist upon discussing Miguel’s legal status. Sir Clive and Aunt Brampton would do all they could to disparage the idea that there was any connection at all between Richard Brampton and the little boy called Miguel. 

Katherine thanked Providence that the Oak End party had left the Harvest Home Festival early—country games and competitions being beneath them, country ale being too rough on the palate, and Lord Henry Dracott being less than attentive to Leticia. If Sir Clive had been present when the widow Haskins had asked if any
Bramptons
were available, Katherine shuddered to think of what might have happened. Certainly her newfound nephew would not now be sleeping peacefully in the Dower House.

*   *  *  *  *

The next morning, Lizzie Dracott arrived early. But when Katherine and Aunt
Prunella
tried to interest her in lessons, all Lizzie wanted to talk about was Miguel.

“I had a little brother once.”

Lizzie could be counted on to broach subjects matter-of-factly that the adults around her spoke of only in whispers.

“He’s in heaven now with my mama. Is Miguel’s mama in heaven, too?”

“I am certain she is,” Aunt
Prunella
affirmed, before Katherine could think of how to frame an answer.

Katherine glanced to where Miguel sat on the floor, examining a small toy soldier that Lizzie had brought him.

“Does he like Princess?”

Katherine explained that Miguel had not yet met Princess. She had not wanted to risk frightening him.

Lizzie found such hesitation incomprehensible.

“He must meet Princess! Is she in the kitchen? I’ll go fetch her.”

Katherine realized that keeping boy and dog separated indefinitely was impossible.

“I’ll fetch her,” Katherine told Lizzie. At least that way she could keep the eager spaniel from knocking over the little boy.

She had feared the worst, but when she carried the black-and-white dog into the sitting room, Miguel smiled for the first time. He reached out to pat Princess, and chortled when he received a doggy kiss on the nose. And when Katherine lowered Princess to the floor, she curled up next to Miguel and let him pet her.

Lizzie looked at the contented pair with satisfaction.

“I knew Miguel and Princess would be friends.” Then her face clouded. “Trinket is getting worse. She wouldn’t leave her place by the hearth yesterday to go with Papa to the festival. I hope Miguel won’t mind sharing Princess with Papa.”

“Perhaps you should give Lord Dracott time to get over Trinket’s death, when she does die. And perhaps he would be just as happy to find a replacement for her himself,” Aunt
Prunella
suggested.

Lizzie looked doubtful, but she was too intrigued with Miguel to let questions about who was most entitled to Princess distract her.

“How old is he? He looks pretty little.”

It was a good question, one that Katherine had puzzled over. Miguel was too tall for a two-year-old and he lacked the baby fat typical of that age. He was steady on his feet and used a spoon for his breakfast porridge. Moreover, Katherine had discovered to her relief that Miguel had been trained to use a chamber pot. She was fairly certain he had passed his third birthday. But it was unlikely, from his size, that he was four. She had done the mathematical calculation, blushing in the darkness of her room last night. Richard had arrived on the Peninsula in March of 1809. If he had met Miguel’s mother within six months of his arrival, it was perfectly possible…

“I think he must be about three years old,” Katherine told Lizzie.

“When will he talk?” asked Lizzie. “He hasn’t said a word. Not even to Princess. Not even in Spanish.”

That was another good question.

“He will talk when he is ready to, I am certain.”

Katherine hoped he would be ready soon.

“Mrs. Clarence Brampton,” Sally announced.

Once more, Sir Clive had chosen to send his mother as an emissary rather than coming in person.

“I could not give the stories credit,” Aunt Brampton began without ceremony. “But I see that you did bring the urchin home with you.” She glared at Miguel through narrowed eyes.

“What’s an
urch
…?” Lizzie asked.

“Why do you not take Miguel and Princess to the kitchen?” Katherine intervened. “I believe Hephzibah has some honey biscuits fresh out of the oven. Aunt
Prunella
, perhaps you might provide some supervision,” Katherine thought to add.

Aunt Brampton watched with disgust as the procession of children, old lady, and dog departed the parlor.

“You really have no concept of maintaining even a modicum of dignity, have you?” she charged.

“I was not aware that preserving one’s dignity required turning defenseless little boys out into the cold.”

Katherine had never before parried one of Aunt Brampton’s verbal assaults so emphatically. She felt an inner glow of satisfaction.

Aunt Brampton, settling back in her chair, decided to change tactics.

“I had hoped to bring Leticia for a call. She is, after all, so very eager to re-establish acquaintance with you. But given her youth and innocence, and the delicacy of the subject that would be discussed, I came alone.”

Katherine repressed an urge to laugh. Leticia Brampton had recently spent an entire season in London, a month in Brighton, and had been the guest at any number of country house parties. To suggest, after such experiences, that any young lady could be shocked by the discussion of a soldier’s natural child, was absurd.