Lady Dearing's Masquerade (20 page)

“And what would you have me say? That you’re throwing your life’s work away by associating with a scandalous widow? Very well, I apologize. Next time I would tell you, but I trust there will be no next time.”

Jeremy’s mood blackened at Bromhurst’s blunt reproof. Lord, could the fate of nameless unborn children truly be affected by a stupid, pernicious bit of gossip?

“Have there been any problems? Withdrawn pledges?”

Bromhurst scowled. “Nothing so serious. But several persons, including old Cranshaw, have asked me if there is any truth to the rumors. I told them there was not. I don’t need to tell you not to make a liar of me!”

“I shall not. There is no chance that I will become Lady Dearing’s lover at any time.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I suppose your opera party last night was part of the scheme to quell the rumors.”

“Yes, and I think it may have done the trick,” Bromhurst replied gruffly.

Jeremy rubbed his temple. “You did not . . . ask Lady Dearing to attend for the same reason?”

“I did not. But although I saw it displeased you, I could not help but think it fortuitous that she and Arlingdale appeared together.”

The ache in his head deepened to a throb. Had she put on that performance with Arlingdale just to protect
him
? Did she care about his reputation and work so much that she denied her own wishes, too?

“She is a lovely and good-hearted woman,” said Bromhurst in a softened tone. “It is natural that you should feel an interest, and perhaps some pity for her. But it would not do to have this go any further.”

Jeremy lifted a hand to try to loosen his cravat, feeling as if he were strangling again, denied the air he needed to live. Being told it was poison. But perhaps Bromhurst was right. It was driving him mad to remember how close they had come to rapture last night, and still not to know how deeply her feelings for him ran, whether she was merely protecting her own way of life, or whether she rejected him for his own sake.

He had not unmasked her, after all.

* * *

Livvy held Mary’s hand tightly as they walked down the long corridor toward the Committee Room. In a few minutes, she would see Jeremy again.

She’d not expected to see him again so soon, just two weeks after she had turned him away at the Pulteney. But earlier in the week, Mary had announced that she had something she wished to tell all of them. The girl had specifically asked that Jeremy be present, since what she had to say might affect other children at the Hospital.

Once again the child was bringing them together. He might still be angry with her, but she was sure he would master his feelings, for Mary’s sake.

A moment later, they entered the room. Livvy pressed Mary’s hand again, painfully aware of Jeremy sitting beside Mrs. Hill, the matron. As he rose from his seat and bowed, she drank in the beloved sight of him: the broad chest, his easy, athletic movements, the glimmering depths of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the hint of a cleft in his chin. But there were new furrows in his brow, around his mouth. He looked as if he’d not slept well in . . . two weeks.

Neither had she.

Somehow, she managed to exchange polite greetings with Mrs. Hill and Jeremy, though his deep, velvety voice penetrated her heart sure as a knife. Strangely, there was no anger in his eyes, only regret and yearning.

She’d been forgiven. It was cold comfort.

Perhaps now he knew why she had behaved as she had that night and accepted that nothing more was possible between them.

She sat down beside Mary on the other side of the table and took Mary’s hand back in hers. She’d managed to keep the children shielded from her misery this far, and Mary needed
all
of her now.

“Dearest,” she said softly, “Mrs. Hill and Sir Jeremy know why we have come. Remember that each of us cares for you very much and that will not change, regardless of what you have to tell us.”

Mrs. Hill and Jeremy murmured their agreement, and Mary nodded, looking a bit pale and nervous, but oddly composed.

“Tell us from the beginning,” she prompted.

Mary looked toward Mrs. Hill. “Do you remember the day I cut my hand?” she asked.

“Yes, lambkin. I sent you to Mr. Oldham—our apothecary, your ladyship—to have him bind it up.”

“Mr. Oldham was not there that day,” said Mary.

Mrs. Hill’s face puckered. “Oh yes, it was that feckless lad Simon Pratt.” Looking from Livvy to Jeremy, she explained further. “A sixteen-year-old lad whose father, also an apothecary, had asked Mr. Oldham to take the boy on as an assistant. But Pratt proved unreliable. He was untidy, rude and careless of following Mr. Oldham’s directions. We were obliged to turn him off after a month’s trial period.”

“He’s not here anymore?” Mary asked warily.

Livvy tightened her grasp on Mary’s hand, willing herself to be patient, not to blurt out hideous conjectures that, if untrue, would only frighten the girl.

Mrs. Hill merely nodded. “No, dear child. I think he went into the army or the navy since, but it’s a good riddance if you ask me. We don’t need anyone here who won’t carry his weight.”

“What did he do?” Jeremy asked. His voice was soothing, but the agonized tautness in his face proved he shared Livvy’s fears.

“While he bandaged my cut, he—he said he had been watching me while I sang in the choir. And thought me a very pretty bird,” said Mary, staring down at her lap.

“What happened?” Livvy spoke softly, despite the dread twisting her insides.

“He hugged me, and I tried to pull away. He . . . held me and asked me for a kiss. He said if anyone saw us or I didn’t do what he wished he would tell everyone
I
had tried to kiss
him.
”

Livvy bit her lip, forcing down her anger so it would not frighten Mary. The muscles in Jeremy’s jaw flexed. Mrs. Hill had reddened with outrage.

“What happened next?”

“I ran away, and he let me. But he laughed. He said he would be watching me. He kept watching me, and later he said if I didn’t start doing whatever he wished he would say horrible things about me to everyone. He said everyone would believe him rather than the daughter of a—of a—”

“We can guess what he said.” Livvy edged her chair closer and put her arm around Mary’s shoulder. “It went no further, did it?”

Mary shook her head. “You took me to Rosemead Park with you. You were so kind . . . you don’t
know
 . . .”

Livvy held the girl close as Mary hid her face in her shoulder for a few moments. She began stroking her pale hair, cursing the absent Pratt, appalled that one so young would not hesitate to take advantage in such a vile manner.

“Mary,” she murmured, continuing her stroking. “I have enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with you. You are a dear girl, and you are not to blame yourself for any of this. Do you believe me?”

Mary raised her head and nodded doubtfully.

“So that is why you did not wish to sing anymore, poor lamb,” said Mrs. Hill. “You should have told me about it. I’d have had the young snake out of here in a trice.”

“If any of the Governors had known about this, Pratt would have been severely punished,” said Jeremy, the horror in his eyes belying the gentleness of his voice. “You do believe me, Mary?”

The girl nodded again.

“I know how difficult it must have been, but I wish you had told us sooner.” Livvy patted Mary’s shoulder. “No one would have believed Pratt.”

Mary finally looked up. “I know it was cruel of him, but was he not right? That my mother was a—was a—whore? What does that mean?”

Mrs. Hill reddened. Jeremy gave Livvy a direct look, silently communicating his belief that she was the right one to answer, that he trusted her to handle this properly.

“A whore is a woman who allows men to kiss her and—and touch her—for money,” Livvy said. “It is wrong, but some women are reduced to it by poverty. But the fact is that most women who bring their children here are servants who have been imposed on by their masters or fellow servants.”

“Indeed, Mary, your mother may have been a lady,” said Mrs. Hill. “Someone paid a hundred pounds to make sure that we took you in, and left half of a very fine lace collar as a token.”

“I have seen it myself,” Jeremy confirmed.

Mary looked confused.

“Whatever your mother’s situation,” Livvy added, “she loved you enough to make sure you were brought here, to be fed and clothed and educated.”

Mary looked between them all, her light blue eyes wide.

“Pratt said I was begotten in sin,” she said hesitantly. “Because my parents weren’t married? Is that right?”

“Whatever the circumstances of your birth,” said Jeremy, “you are precious to us and in the eyes of God. Always remember that and you will make us all proud of you.”

A faint color tinged the girl’s face. She seemed pleased, though too embarrassed to reply.

Livvy risked a grateful look toward Jeremy. His beautiful dark eyes glowed back in shared relief.

She’d never loved him more.

Mary straightened up, disengaging herself from Livvy. “Could I—would it be possible—may I see the collar?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Hill kindly. “I can take you to the Records Room and show it to you. It will allow Sir Jeremy and Lady Dearing a chance to talk about your future.”

Livvy’s heart turned over; she’d not been expecting a private interview. She turned to Mary and saw the girl’s gaze flicker nervously between her and Jeremy.

“Do not be afraid, Mary,” he soothed. “I know the best place for you now is Rosemead Park. However, I should like to speak to Lady Dearing about the other children. I hope you have a pleasant journey home, and I look forward to our next meeting here.”

Mary rose with Mrs. Hill, looking more cheerful. “Will you come to visit us again at Rosemead sometime, sir?” she asked unexpectedly.

He’d arisen to bow them out, but now he froze. Livvy hardly dared read the emotions running across his face.

“I should like to, very much.”  He smiled at Mary before directing a burning look at Livvy. “But it will depend on  . . . circumstances.”

A pang shot through her. He had not abandoned hope, which meant she might have to wound them both all over again.

As Mrs. Hill and Mary left, Livvy sat at her side of the meeting table, praying Jeremy would not stray from the safe subject of the children.

“Thank you,” he said after the others had left.

Unstrung, she looked up at him.

“For everything you have done for Mary,” he explained. The lines around his jaw deepened. “What a horrible experience for a child. Thank God it went no further!”

“Yes.” She drew a ragged breath.

“I wish we could bring Pratt to justice somehow,” he continued. “I shall talk some more with Mrs. Hill, to make sure Pratt did not impose on any of the other girls and discuss measures to prevent anything like this from happening again.”

She nodded. “It would be wise.”

He frowned for a few moments; she longed to say something to smooth his worry lines away.

“It troubles me that Mary was so susceptible to his harassment,” he said finally. “The foundlings are often reminded of their base birth. It is meant to accustom them to a lowly station in life, but it seems to me that it may make them easy victims for scum like Pratt.”

“Mary is improving every day. The more she learns that she is valued, the more she will learn to value herself.”

“I hope so.”

His eyes, dark with worry and longing, sought hers.

She lowered her gaze to her hands. “On our way over here she expressed an interest in learning to play the pianoforte. I think it a very good sign.”

“Yes. Thank you for telling me.”

His voice was low, even painstakingly gentle, as if he wished to prove to her he was not angry over her rejection.

“Perhaps it is time I rejoined Mary. We have a long drive home,” she said.

“Not yet. There is something I must ask you,” he said quickly, before she could even rise.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, glad to have the expanse of wood between them. “Oh Jeremy—”

“Livvy . . . did you appear at the opera with Arlingdale because of that piece in
The Morning Intelligencer
?”

She stared at him. So he’d heard the rumors.

“The truth is in your face.” His eyes shuttered. “I wish you had not, but what is done is done.”

“Were there any repercussions? To the Foundling Hospital, I mean?” she asked.

“Lord Bromhurst had to reassure some of our benefactors, but I believe that we have staved off the gossip. I promise you I did not know about that piece until the next morning. I am so sorry to have ranted at you as I did. I had no idea you were there on my behalf.”

“It is of no consequence,” she said flatly.

A sense of horror gripped Jeremy at her resigned attitude toward injustice. It was the same feeling that had been growing in him throughout all his long walks, following his seemingly futile attempts to understand what exactly lay behind her rejection.

Her face paled; her eyes grew enormous, and he realized she was looking at his hands, clenched into fists before him on the table.

He unclenched them. “I am sorry, Livvy. I am not angry with you. I am angry with circumstances. At hypocrisy and lost chances. It is wrong for you to live secluded from society, wrong to deny ourselves happiness just to appease a pack of gossips.”

She would not look at him, but her mouth trembled.

“You do care for me, don’t you?” he asked.

Still she would not look up. But a slow blush betrayed her. He had his answer.

“Look at me, Livvy. I think you do love me.”

Then she glanced up, her eyes huge and pleading. If he needed any more proof that she was suffering as much as he was, he had it in the tears she was struggling to hold back.

“Don’t you think we deserve to be happy?”

“Has not that wretched article convinced you that it is hopeless? My reputation is soiled beyond repair and will soil you as well.”

“I am a champion of lost causes, remember?” he coaxed, pouring every drop of hope he had into his voice.