Scandal's Child Page 3

  I am so tired I could fall asleep right here.

  She longed to reach down and take off her half boots. Sitting reminded her they were too tight, and her feet throbbed, but her head felt better. After taking tea, she would nap. Dinner would be late. Right now, she needed rest more than food.

  “You seem a bit blue-deviled, if I do say so, ma’am. Your eyes are puffy, and your skin is pale. Maybe tis the black dress.” Mrs. Emory put tea in front of her, along with sugar and milk. “Drink up so you can rest before dinner. Oh dear. Your pins are everywhere.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Emory. Leave the pins until tomorrow. I will gather them myself.”

  The fire warmed her as she gazed around the cozy parlor with its overstuffed chairs and rough tables. Many were gifts from grateful patients who could not pay. Will’s books lined one wall, and his desk rested against another. She would take only a few books and his medical bag with her when she left, but would leave the rest in Mrs. Emory’s care. And in so doing, she would close this chapter of her life and perhaps open another one, equally productive.

  A little blind girl needed her. It would fill a void in her life. Suddenly Miranda found she looked forward to tomorrow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Morning light filled the little bedchamber with the promise of a warm day. The pot of chocolate on her bedside table coaxed Miranda to stretch, sit up, and reach over to savor her first sip of the warm, fragrant sweetness.

  A note lay next to the pot. Curious, she picked it up and unfolded it, hoping it was the address she was seeking. It was.

  “Will you be taking your breakfast in your chamber today, ma’am?” Mrs. Emory stood in the doorway, a stack of linens in her arms.

  “No. I shall be down shortly.”

  Miranda threw back the covers and went to her wardrobe. Pulling out a dark green muslin dress, she suddenly remembered and stuffed it back into the cupboard. Black. She must wear black for a year.

  One black dress, in addition to the one she wore the day before, lay folded in a deep drawer. She shook it out and examined it closely. Old and frayed around the hem, it would be loose in the waistline, but it would have to do. She went through her normal morning ablutions, tied back her hair with a black ribbon, and put on the dress. It was a bit low in the neckline, but a lace fichu would solve the problem. Didn’t she have a black shawl packed away somewhere? It had belonged to her mother, so it must be in the trunk with the rest of her mother’s belongings. She would search for it later.

  Taking a long look around the tiny bedchamber, Miranda thought about her wedding night and the first time she’d seen this room. The high four-poster bed with its colorful handmade quilt had drawn her attention as soon as she opened the door. A chest of drawers, hand hewn, nearly took up one wall. On top was a white ceramic pitcher and matching bowl, laid out next to a silver-backed brush and comb. She had run her fingers over the bright pattern inlaid in the handle of the brush, wondering where Will had acquired such a fine piece until she noticed the ‘M’ entwined in the design. It must have been Mary’s. She’d opened a drawer and tucked it away. She’d never used it.

  Although Will told her the room would be hers alone, she’d put on her high-necked cotton nightgown and huddled in the corner of the bed under coarse sheets and a thick woolen blanket, not knowing whether to believe him. She knew a married lady’s duty, but she’d thought of Will as a friend—a father substitute—not a lover. Not like Jeremy.

  Will lived up to his promise and had never visited her bed. And yet they’d grown close. Her husband became her confidante, her guide. Sometimes she thought she owed him her very life.

  She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with one of Will’s handkerchiefs and stuffed it in her reticule. Peering into the looking glass, she adjusted the fichu.

  The smell of rolls beckoned from the kitchen. Mrs. Emory, an apron tied around her plump form, was taking the freshly baked breakfast pastries out of a tin and putting them on a linen-covered plate. Not having other servants, Miranda ate in the kitchen with her housekeeper. Will had often been out on a call early in the morning, so the two kept each other company.

  “Did you see the note next to your chocolate?”

  “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

  “A footman from the Manor brought it.”

  “I was expecting it.”

  Mrs. Emory stopped arranging the muffins and crossed her arms in front of her bosom. “What are you up to, missy?”

  “It was an address. I’ve been offered a position as nurse-companion to a blind child.”

  “Where is this child?”

  “In London.”

  Mrs. Emory placed a roll on Miranda’s plate and another on her own. She turned her back for a moment, her shoulders shaking. Rising, Miranda walked around the table and hugged the older woman.

  “You have been more than a housekeeper. You have been my friend. I do not want to leave you, but I have no choice. Be happy the countess is allowing you to remain until a new doctor is found. I suppose you could come live with me, but how many nurse companions do you know who have their own cook?”

  “I’m goin’ ta miss you, madam.”

  “And I shall miss you. I know this isn’t easy for you. First you lost Mary, now Will. But I know you’ll be fine.”

  The housekeeper drew a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew. Stuffing it back, she took a boiling kettle of water off the grate and made tea.

  “I will be taking care of a little girl, teaching her to see with her hands and her ears and her nose, just like I did with the Morgan boy last summer. Remember?”

  “Aye. You did help the tyke improve his life. Everyone was talking about it.”

  “You see? I shall have purpose again.”

  And I’ll have a roof over my head.

  Miranda sliced the roll in half, applying lemon butter before biting into it. She felt completely at home in this cozy kitchen with the woman who had been her friend.

  Miranda finished her tea and hurried off to the parlor to compose a letter of introduction to the child’s grandmother. It wouldn’t do to just show up on the doorstep. John hadn’t told her anything about the situation. Were there other children in the household? Or was the child an orphan? When was the guardian returning? What if she did not meet his expectations?

  Finding paper and ink, she sat at Will’s desk and picked up a quill, running her fingers over the feather. Will had often stroked the feather when he was working through a problem. A sudden lump in her throat swelled and burned uncomfortably. She swallowed, dipped the pen, and began her letter, writing slowly and carefully, so she wouldn’t have to scratch out any words. This was just what she needed. She had secretly dreaded living with Papa again.

  London wasn’t so very far away. But it was another world . . . one without Jeremy in it.

  Chapter 3

  Two hundred miles off the coast of Bristol, one week later

  Jeremy Montague, fifth Earl of Longley, lay supine on the rolling deck of a frigate. His head ached like the devil, and his arm spurted blood. Spots danced before his eyes, and when they cleared, he looked up at a circle of bearded faces crowded around him. Someone shouted for the cook.

  I pray to God he knows what he’s doing.

  “’Ere, now. Move aside,” Cook said. “Don’t ye be stirring, me lord. Just lay still.” He dropped to his knees, his busy hands perfumed with the smell of onions. Taking a vial of white powder from a leather pouch, he shook it into the open wound on Jeremy’s left forearm. It smelled like gunpowder and burned like the fires of hell. Jeremy clenched his jaw while the cook bound the wound with a piece of long, white fabric that looked suspiciously like one of his best neck cloths, winding it several times and tying it into a neat knot.

  “That should do ‘er,” he muttered. “No putrefaction when I us
e me special powder. Now some o’ you louts carry his lordship to his cabin. And fetch the captain.”

  Two men lifted Jeremy from the pile of extra sails that had cushioned his fall and half carried, half dragged him below. With eyes closed, he could hear Lewis, his valet, moaning in distress.

  “Will he die? What shall I do if he expires in the night?”

  “Well, sir, I guess you'll have to dress him in his best suit before we throw him overboard.” It was the cook’s voice. “And then you can jump right in after him, seeing as you won't have a job.”

  The men laughed and tromped out of the cabin. Two remained, whispering somewhere in the room, but he couldn’t open his eyes, and their voices were growing fainter. With his head and arm swirling in a vortex of pain, Jeremy gave in and drifted into oblivion.

  When he awakened, his throat was as dry as a coal bin, and he could barely speak. “Lewis.” It was more of a croak.

  “I’m here, milord.” A damp cloth dabbed at his forehead.

  “Get me some rum. I feel like I've been run over by a coach and four.”

  “Do you want me to fetch the cook, your lordship? Unfortunately, he is also the doctor.”

  “Bring me rum or brandy, if we have any left. But bring water first.”

  “I’ll see to it immediately, milord.” Lewis jumped up, overturning the stool in his haste, and hurried out the door.

  The day was overcast and cold, and the damp sea air coming in the open porthole was fresh and brisk. Jeremy closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arm and head. The narrow bunk was hard, even though it was always made up with clean linen and soft blankets.

  Jeremy’s head pounded as he inched into a sitting position and reached up to probe the large lump on the back of his head. He felt nothing sticky in his hair, which was a blessing, but his arm had bled enough to ruin a perfectly good shirt.

  He should have known better than to climb the mast in a rolling sea, but the temptation had been too great. The pitch and roll of the deck in a freshened breeze was invigorating. It reminded him of the feel of a well-bred horse at full gallop. He was never seasick, and he had never tired of the endless water, especially when dolphins were playful or tufts of white foam skittered across the surface like balls of cotton.

  When the sail got stuck and didn’t unfurl, he should have left it to one of the crew instead of climbing to free it. A rogue wave must have pitched the ship to make him lose his footing. But what had torn his arm on the way down? He glanced at his bandage. Dark red stained it, but as promised by Cook, the bleeding had stopped.

  Lewis opened the door with his foot and came in, carrying a tray with two pewter mugs. “Sir, should you be sitting up?” He lifted the stool and placed the mugs within reach.

  “After I quench my thirst and dull this pain, I'll be fine.” He sipped the water first, and then picked up the second mug, downing its fiery contents.

  “I hope so, my lord. It’s the last brandy on board. Fortunately, we'll be at Longley soon. Your late father always maintained a nice cellar.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes and let the weight of responsibility pull him down.

  The manor might have a rotting staircase. The tenant cottages might have leaky roofs. The land might be unproductive. But by God, the cellars were always full. The late earl’s priorities were now Jeremy’s to set to rights, and it would probably require immediate marriage to some chit with a fat dowry to do it.

  Captain Smithfield strode in, his hat in hand. “I heard about your accident, Longley. What happened?”

  “A sail stuck. Your sailors were busy on the foredeck. It seemed simple enough to free, but I lost my footing and proceeded to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “Cook said it could have been bad if a pile of spare sails hadn’t cushioned your fall.”

  “Seems I have the devil's own luck. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to kill myself.”

  It was a joke, and both laughed. But Jeremy's mirth was quick and practiced. There had been a time when he wanted to die, when life had seemed so unfair he didn’t care if he took another breath. He’d been young, immature, and heartbroken.

  To chase away memories which threatened his peace, he’d worked until exhausted and drunk far too much. When he’d finally accepted that the cause of his despair was a fragile illusion, he still worked hard, but he drank less and ended his self-flagellation. In Jamaica, he’d finally grown up.

  And he hoped to never set eyes on Miranda Carlyle Comstock again.

  ~ ~ ~

  John was there to meet the ship when it arrived. Jeremy spotted his younger brother lounging on the dock as the longboat moved swiftly through the river traffic, the oarsmen coming to a halt at a ladder at the end of a long pier. The ship was anchored out and would come into the busy port later, unloading its cargo before making needed repairs.

  “The new Earl of Longley arrives at last. What happened to your arm?” John leaned down to help his brother up the rest of the way. Lewis followed with a small bag.

  “Small accident. Nothing serious. So how did you know the ship arrived?”

  “I paid a dock boy to send me word. A fisherman reported seeing the Providence enter the port yesterday.”

  They slapped each other’s backs in what might be termed a hug and walked side by side down the length of the pier to the street. The dock swayed under him. After so many days at sea, it would take time before land stopped shifting.

  “How the hell are you?” Jeremy asked. “How’s the countess?”

  “I am well. But Father’s illness took a lot out of Mother. I think she was almost relieved when he died.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In the country. She has lost her taste for town.”

  Jeremy frowned. Had it only been four months ago since he received the letter informing him he was now the earl, and he needed to return home? His father had succumbed to consumption despite the efforts of London’s finest Harley Street physicians.

  John had written that Mother had remained by Father’s bedside to the end, surprising everyone, since it was well known they despised one another. The two hadn’t spoken a civil word in years. Their private suites were on opposite sides of the house at Longley Manor, so far apart the occupant of one could be housed for a year without seeing the occupant of the other. The arrangement suited them both.

  “I’ll go there after I go to London. I want to look in on Mary Anne and the child.”

  John stopped and pointed at a sign for the Bull and Belle. “Let’s stop for a pint of ale before we get in the coach. There’s more I need to tell you.”

  Jeremy followed his brother to a rough sailor’s pub with simple wooden tables and chairs. The smell of stale beer, tobacco, and urine assaulted him as he made his way through the door to a small table near an open window. It was late morning, and the tavern wasn’t busy. After ordering their tankards, they sat looking at each other. John nervously tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Mary Anne is dead.”

  Stunned, Jeremy could only stare at his brother. Should he feel something? The woman had been his mistress long ago. He’d been nineteen and had fallen in with a wild crowd. A month later he’d introduced Mary Anne to his father, who had promptly lured her away with his experience and wealth. Jeremy had gone home to Longley to wallow in self-pity and had, instead, begun to notice the fair Miranda Carlyle, his childhood friend. They’d grown closer each summer when he’d return home from Cambridge until they were both hopelessly in love.

  Or so he thought.

  She’s Miranda Comstock now.

  He brought his thoughts back. “Was she ill? Did she have an accident?”

  “Yes. No. Who knows what really happened. The townhouse you bought for her and her child, after Fat
her tired of her, burned down. Mary Anne died in the fire. It was horrible.”

  “And Phoebe?”

  “She escaped somehow. She was found wandering the street in front of the house. Her bedclothes were on, and she was dragging a long sash someone had tied to her waist. There was speculation a housemaid or maybe even her mother had lowered her to the street to escape the flames.”

  “Where is she now?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “I rented a house in Cavener Square and called on Mary Anne’s mother, Mrs. Marlowe, to stay with the child. I know you don’t care for the Marlowe woman, so a competent nurse-companion has taken her place.” John paused. “Phoebe has an affliction.”

  “What kind of affliction?”

  “She’s blind.”

  Jeremy gulped down half his ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, not caring if it stained his coat. Poor little girl. And poor Mary Anne—beautiful, avaricious courtesan. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe she felt something for her child after all. Mary Anne had not deserved to die so horribly.

  “And you say there’s a companion there now caring for Phoebe?”

  “Yes.” John looked down and didn’t meet his brother’s eyes.

  “But you have some kind of reservation about this?”

  “No. The woman is a perfectly competent, respectable widow. She’s a fine caretaker. No problem there at all.” His brother fiddled with a loose thread on his coat.

  “Then I shall go to Longley first,” Jeremy said. “I’ll come back to London and check on Phoebe after spending a bit of time with Mother.”

  John seemed relieved and smiled ruefully. “Mother will be ecstatic. She has looked forward to your return.” He frowned. “She’s not well.”

  “She’s ill?”

  He paused. “It’s hard to describe. She’s giddy and on top of the world one minute, and cursing at the servants for no reason the next. Some days she doesn’t get out of bed. The staff changes on a regular basis.” John stopped and scratched his head. “I’ve been in town quite a bit, so maybe it’s my imagination, but at times I think she’s gone ‘round the bend.”