A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (16 page)

“Aye, we’re lucky to have the vicar,” Mary said, smiling softly down at the baby.

ONCE OUTSIDE, ADAM stalked past the chickens, over to the two ninnies and Mrs. Sneath, standing by their barouche.

“I think it’s safe to go inside,” he said mildly. “And there’s plenty of work for everyone. There will be for some time.”

“Did she survive, Vicar?” Mrs. Sneath sounded as somber as if he’d come to administer extreme unction.

He paused in thought for dramatic effect. Perhaps Lady Balmain’s influence was rubbing off on him, as well. “Mrs. Sneath, I’ve provided a lost soul for you to reform. Now, do you recall how you’d once hoped to witness a miracle?”

“Before I die, it’s my fondest hope, Vicar.”

“Go inside. I think you’ll find your prayers have been answered.”

Chapter 12

“YE LOOK LIKE ye’ve been tossed out of a carriage,” Henny greeted Eve. “And then you rolled down a hill and came to a stop in a ditch. Did those women take you out into the woods and steal your reticule? I didna like the looks of the big one.”

The big one being Mrs. Sneath. Henny was only partially joking. She and Mrs. Sneath had recognized something very similar in each other and had instantly treated each other with wary respect, the sort two master criminals might have for each other.

“Will you help me out of this dress, Henny? Do you think we can salvage it?”

Henny scrutinized her with an eye honed by long experience with all manner of clothes, from filmy, bawdy pirate costumes worn on the stage to the most glorious of evening gowns, including the one that had caused a balcony plummet. A triumph, that one, as far as Henny was concerned.

“And what is … did ye dance with a dog? Now that’s one thing ye never did get up to at the Green Apple theater stage. I wager there’s money in it.”

“There was indeed a dog!” Evie reminisced.

“I’ll sponge the worst of the stains now and really have a go at it on laundry day. But it may be fit for a day dress only from now on.”

Henny was one of the few people she’d ever met who enjoyed doing laundry. She ruthlessly stirred and soaked and scrubbed and slapped and squeezed and tenderly coaxed her clothing into lasting for years.

And then she studied Evie shrewdly.

“Weeellll … ye’re certainly cheerful for all that you look like the very devil, pawprints and all.”

“You should have seen it, Henny. All was chaos. Seven little children and those women sent me in on my own and the place rivaled the worst tip you’ve ever seen, and I managed to rally them. I did! Do you remember the bit with the pirates at the Green Apple Theater? Well, I had an inspiration, and it worked. We cleaned it from top to bottom, but there’s more work to do yet. We all had a wonderful time. I think I may have friends!”

Henny was watching her closely. “Mmm.”

“And the vicar brought a crew of men, and they took down the fence and built a new one!”

Made thoughtful and subdued by her new knowledge of him, Eve had watched surreptitiously through the O’Flahertys’ freshly cleaned windows as Reverend Sylvaine shed his coat and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves and gone at the fence with the three other men, all sinewy strength and shouting orders and sweat soaking through his shirt. She’d never known physical labor could be so thoroughly engrossing. She’d never known a man so unpretentious. So wholly who he was.

Maddeningly uncompromising, of course. But unpretentious.

“Do tell,” Henny said knowingly.

Evie stopped her recitation.

“What?” she said irritably to Henny.

“You’ve a glow about you,” Henny declared suspiciously. “That’s what.”

“It’s likely sweat.”

“Looks a wee bit like love.”

Evie rolled her eyes. “You really ought not to touch the liquor during the day. And besides, what do you know about love?”

“More than you, as you willna let them get near yer heart. Ye nivver fall in love, ye fall in commerce.”

Eve froze and glared terrifyingly at Henny. Sorely wounded.

Though it was entirely true.

Henny was unperturbed.

Eve stepped out of her dress and scooped it up and thrust it at her.

“And lucky for you that is; otherwise, I couldn’t pay your wages, as if you’ve ever been of any real use.”

“Ye might allow yerself to give it a try. Just fer the variety, m’lady. Everyone should feel it at least once. You’ll know then what makes life worth living.”

Evie was so surprised, she found she had no reply. Henny knew her better than anyone, but she so seldom played that hand. And she was in one of her maddening, inscrutable self-righteous moods.

And she went still, breath hitched again when she recalled the expression on the reverend’s face when she’d glanced up from the baby. Yearning shot through a ferocity bordering on possessiveness. There and gone, as if it had been a product of shifting light.

This was a man who did nothing by halves. He felt things, or he did not.

And she closed her eyes and allowed the memory of that moment to possess her: It was all light and exhilarating fear and newness. She felt, for God’s sake, like a baby bird perched on the edge of a nest. She’d never even known she had wings.

“And there is more mail for you,” Henny added pointedly. For she believe Evie’s siblings were barnacles. Charming barnacles, particularly in the case of Seamus, but barnacles nevertheless. “I fetched it from the shop. I think Mr. Postlethwaite might be sweet on me.” She said this with considerable smug satisfaction.

It wasn’t impossible. Henny exerted a certain fascination for many men—her presence was undeniably unforgettable. She’d boasted more than one unlikely conquest over the years, including a coalmonger, a butler, and the earl’s man of affairs.

Eve examined the post.

An icy little fingertip of fear touched the back of her neck.

Two more letters, from Seamus and Cora. This was worrisome. Clearly, they’d been sent very soon after the others since Evie had only just replied to their first letters. Seamus had promised he’d cause no more incidents requiring political intervention. And so far he’d kept it.

It was Cora and the children she worried about most.

My Dearest Sister,

Having a job is a wondrous thing. I’ve met a woman. She is an angel fallen to earth, and she thinks I have more money than I do. This could be because I told her that I did. I’d hoped you would make her fondest wish come true.

I jest! But she is wonderful, and I feel quite strange around her. I wonder if this might be love. Is it uncomfortable, love? Do you know? Does it itch?

Once again, I jest. I do humbly look forward to anything you wish to donate, however. Long to see you, too. Love to you and to Henny

P.S. they’re still talking about you in London. Not at all flatteringly.

Seamus was forever meeting angels fallen to earth. The fact, however, that he’d written about it straightaway was a trifle suspicious. She wondered if she ought to worry whether the next letter would announce a wife. And then a child. And then another mouth to feed.

From Cora:

Timothy hasn’t home for two nights. Elspeth is teething. The baby looks like you. Miss you. Much love.

Oh, Christ.

It was just the two nights, she told herself. Her sister’s husband could still come home.

And yet fear spread its ice into her belly.

She made “he could still come home” a prayer as she stared unseeingly out the window.

EVE’S FIRST OFFICIAL caller in Sussex arrived two days after her conditional triumph at the HMS O’Flaherty. Her footman brought the news to her.

“A Miss Josephine Charing is here to see you, Lady Wareham.”

She instantly and gratefully abandoned the embroidery she was attempting to come to terms with, sucked on a bead of blood she’d managed to pinprick into her forefinger, and leaped to her feet.

“How do I look, Henny? Presentable?”

Henny dropped the mending she’d been attending, did a swift study of Eve, then whipped a fichu from her apron pocket and thrust it at her. Eve hurriedly tucked it into the bodice of her day dress.

“I’ll go be a maid now, shall I?” Henny said, pleased for her. She hurried off.

Eve gave her shoulders a shake, straightened her spine, and turned to the footman.

“Send her in, please.”

It was some time before Miss Charing appeared, for she was placing one foot carefully in front of the other, as if the floor itself was lava, or as if she didn’t want to slip and possibly get iniquity on the hem of her dress. Her head was swiveled slowly to and fro, taking in tile and fixtures and staircase with nervous, wide-eyed wonder.

“Good morning, Miss Charing. I keep all of my paramours on the third floor, so you needn’t fear you’ll see any here.”

Miss Charing gave a start. “Oh, do you? Do they mind?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. No. I do not. The house is resoundingly empty, and I’m happy for the company.” She smiled invitingly. “Who has time for paramours when the poor of Sussex need our help?”

“Of … of course,” Miss Charing agreed weakly, after an uncertain moment. “I imagine paramours can be … demanding.” She said this almost hopefully.

“Sometimes. The wise woman knows how to manage them, however.”

She smiled warmly to make sure Miss Pitney knew she was jesting.

Miss Pitney had eyes the color of cornflowers and knew it, as the ribbon on her bonnet matched them exactly. She had soft, blunt features in a pleasingly round face, a face as comfortable as a pillow. Loose blond curls fringed her forehead.

“Would you like tea? Perhaps a scone? I believe they’re fresh.”

“Thank you, Lady Wareham, you are too kind.”

Evie nodded the request to the waiting footman.

“My mother doesn’t know I’m here. She’s not certain she entirely approves of you.” This was said as though Miss Charing herself wasn’t entirely certain whether she approved of Eve.

“Now, that is a pity. I wonder what will tip the scales in the favor of approval?”

Miss Charing missed the irony entirely.

“Perhaps when she meets you. I’m certain she will like you. There will be an Assembly in a fortnight, you see, with music and dancing, and there’s talk of inviting you.”

“Is there talk? How delightful.” More irony. Despite herself, she was charmed by Miss Charing’s faith in her appeal.

That was when they both became aware of a faint thudding sound, accompanied by a clattering and jingling sound, which grew louder and came inexorably closer.

Miss Charing went still. And then surreptitiously craned her head to look about.

“Lady Balmain … do you hear …”

Moments later, Henny thudded into the room, bearing a pot of tea and cups and a plate stacked with divine-smelling scones, and Miss Charing shrank wide-eyed into her chair and froze, the way a hedgehog might when confronted with unfamiliar predator.

Henny settled the tray down with a rattle, beamed approvingly at the two of them, then marched out again.

Miss Charing stared after her long after she was completely out of sight. Perhaps making sure she was truly gone and didn’t intend to return.

“That’s Henny,” Eve said sweetly by way of explanation. “Will you pour?”

“I’d be pleased to,” Miss Charing said weakly, politely.

They sipped in silence for a moment.

“I must confess, Lady Balmain, that there is a reason for my call today. You told Mrs. Sneath that you knew a thing or two about getting what you want. And that if we needed advice about men, you might be willing to share what you know.”

“I did indeed say that.”

“The thing is … I should … like to captivate a man.”

“An admirable goal,” Eve approved crisply. Probably somewhat heretically, she thought belatedly. Miss Charing’s mother likely had good reason not to entirely approve of her.

“I have never before captivated one, to my knowledge. How does one know?”

Eve was tempted to say, Gifts of jewelry are an excellent sign. “Well,” she began carefully, “it often depends on the man in question.”

Miss Charing inhaled at length, seeming to suck courage from the room. And then she exhaled, wringing her hands.

“It’s the … Reverend Sylvaine, you see.”

She said his name with a sort of restrained, exquisite torment. Eve suspected his name was frequently said in just the same tone all over Pennyroyal Green.

Miss Charing rushed on. “And I do think his sermon the other morning … Love thy neighbor? … Well, I suspect I may have been the inspiration. Because he always smiles when he greets me. Have you seen his smile? It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

Eve hesitated. His smiles, the varieties she’d seen so far, were very good, indeed.

“I can see how one might think so,” she allowed carefully.

“And there’s his face, of course,” Miss Charing said matter-of-factly. “One never tires of looking at it. I imagine you’ve seen your share of handsome faces in London, so perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

This was true. She’d scarcely noticed much about the vicar’s looks.

Apart, perhaps, from the dimple. And the blue eyes.

The shape of his mouth, the myriad subtle colors in his hair, the shoulders.

The forearms.

“I expect he might be considered handsome,” she agreed noncommittally.

And the thighs, she remembered vividly, suddenly. And with that she stopped breathing a moment.

“And he never fails to thank me for the work I do with Mrs. Sneath. So polite!” She said this the way another woman might say, ‘And he’s so rich!’ “But I’m not entirely certain, you see. I thought you might be able to help me know for sure.”

A number of conflicting impulses competed for her attention, none of them charitable, all of them mischievous and unworthy and really quite surprising, given that she had allegedly entirely given up on the notion of men. A habit of supremacy, she supposed: She was used to winning them.

She forced her sense, not her senses, to make the ruling on how to proceed. It was so counter to what she wanted to do that she felt nearly virtuous.

“Well … let’s have at think about this. Does the Reverend Sylvaine behave differently from other young men when he’s near you?”