Elisabeth Fairchild (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Patience divulged the whole, words flowing from her mouth in a quiet, halting stream.

Richard listened, head bowed, a pucker forming between his brows. He stood close, that she might keep her voice low, until she had finished her explanation, and then he paced away from her a few steps, the trees throwing splashes of light and shadow across his brow. He blinked, squinting into the sun—or did he glare in Will Defoe’s direction?—as he said angrily, “I never should have taken you there, to the gardens. It was foolish of me. Most irresponsible.”

“You must not blame yourself, Richard,” she protested. “You cannot. I insisted we must go to see Pip. Remember?”

He paced back and forth before her. “But I need not have answered your wishes, taken you there. Put you in harm’s way.”

“You brought me here, too.”

“What?” He stopped his pensive motion, turned to look at her with ageless eyes, his gaze dark with doubt and self-recrimination.

“Are you not surprised to see me here?”

The pucker at his brow twitched. “Yes. Whatever gave you the idea?”

“You did.”

“Me. How do you figure?”

“Pip told me about your orphans.”

“Ah.”

“I made him bring me to see for myself.”

“Pip brought you?”

“Yes. He told me of turkeys and Lady Wilmington’s teas. And, oh, I almost did forget—the Defoe livery again. We saw it when we first arrived here, a young woman weeping, with a baby, wearing the same green livery I saw in the park.”

He considered this a long moment, his expression thoughtful before he asked her, unexpectedly, “Pip spends time with you, then?”

“Since the funeral he has been ever so attentive. I think Chase’s death, and Wilmi’s following right behind, have made him rethink some of the pursuits to which he has devoted much of his life.”

“And Sophie Defoe?”

“I have not heard him mention her of late. And I have not asked.”

“And so you may get your wish after all.”

“What? That he will not marry her? I earnestly hope so, for I am convinced neither she nor her stepbrother are quite what they appear to be, and Pip openly admits he does not love her. He deserves far more in marriage, dear Pip.”

“Are you still in love with him?” He asked lightly, as if he assumed she would say yes, and yet there bloomed a look of mingled hope and sadness in his eyes that gave her the impression he considered her affections a hopeless cause.

Resistant to any pity he might feel for her, and yet no longer certain what it was she felt for Pip, Patience said only, “I wish him happy. Myself as well.” And when it looked as if he meant to say something more, she blurted, “You said once you knew someone you wished to introduce me to.”

He paused, mouth half-open, as if she had caught him completely off guard. “Given up on childhood dreams, then?”

She gave it thought. Had she? “Dreams change,” she said.

He dropped his head, chin to chest, as if this saddened him. “Some do,” he admitted.

She said, her voice low, “What of you? Do you still depend on childhood dreams?”

He lifted his head to look at her with ageless agate eyes. “One.”

His answer surprised her. She had never imagined practical, sensible, dependable Richard to be the type to dream.

But before she could ask him what that dream was, they were interrupted by two of the female guests who frequented the teas, a Lady Harwood and her daughter Judith. They wished to speak to Richard, whom they had not seen since the funeral, and whom they were certain must know how they might go about making a sizable donation to the poor cherubs at the foundling home, for while they had drunk their fill of tea, they did not care for any of the paintings, and yet they wished to do something.

“We shall speak again later?” he suggested to Patience.

“But of course,” she agreed, and watched them drift away. She went back to overseeing the tea tables, and every time she looked up Richard was surrounded by guests, women who had never shown much interest in him before. Women with daughters of marriageable age.

It was strange to view Richard as a grand catch, but that was what he had become with Chase’s death, no denying it. It bothered her to think some pushing young miss might come between them, might turn his head. She had come to depend on Richard always being there, her closest friend and confidant, her dear, dependable Richard.

He made a point to speak to her once more before he was swept away again by a flock of females all vying for his attention, smiling and fluttering their lashes and making a great competitive chatter, like the sparrows that swept down to compete for the cake crumbs in the grass.

“The gentleman we spoke of . . .” he said. “Shall I arrange a meeting?”

She hesitated a moment; then, with a feeling of finality, a feeling that matched the empty cake plates, the dregs of tea leaves, the drift of visitors away from the trees, she nodded. “Yes, please do.”

***

It was not Richard who arrived upon the doorstep two days later, breathless with news. It was Pip.

“I have broken it off,” he announced, his eyes alight with an unusual fire, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I am on my way to see Lady Wilmington and wondered if you wished to come along.”

“Broken off what?”

“My engagement to Sophie.”

“What?” She was stunned, shaken to her very core. He was not to marry Sophie Defoe? He was free to marry another?

“Come. I’ve the landau waiting. Ask your mother if you may go. I will tell you everything on the way.”

Patience’s mother was quite happy to have her go, given such auspicious news. “Broken it off, has he?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Well, my dear, hope springs eternal. Go and change your dress. The blue or the wine-colored wool look very nice on you. You will need something warmer for an open carriage.”

Patience dressed herself in the warmth of wool and hope that day, a reserved level of hope. News that would have once thrilled her did not send her heart to the flights of fancy she might once have expected. She was not the same young woman who had come to London so many months ago. Her real thoughts and feelings for Pip did not match those she had conjured from childhood dreams. He was not the man she had imagined.

That he would break off his engagement to Sophie Defoe was a dream become shocking reality. It did not seem real or possible that Pip might now marry another, certainly not her. She had little enough time to consider the matter, though, for Pip was impatient with her delay in changing clothes, and swept her into the landau as soon as she reappeared downstairs.

What amazed her the most, however, was the fact that Pip insisted she make room for him beside her on the seat rather than plopping down across from her, as was his habit.

“Something I must talk to you about,” he said when she raised her brows. “Something I would prefer was not overheard.” He dipped his chin in the direction of the coachman’s back.

Her heart thumping with the sudden, unexpected potential of the moment, Patience slid into the corner, arranging her skirts so he would not be obliged to sit upon them.

With the landau in motion, the great rumbling of its wheels on the street precluding their being overheard, Pip turned to face her. Earnestly taking her hands in his, he said, “Do you remember the first time we went to Richard’s foundling home?”

The words took a moment to sink in. This question, of all questions, was not at all what she had expected him to ask.

“The young woman with the baby?” he pressed.

“I remember.”

“More important to my story . . .” He gave her hands a squeeze, his eyes alight again with the banked embers of emotion this story kindled in him. “She”—he leaned forward—“wore Defoe livery.”

Patience tried to stay focused on what he said rather than the heat and pressure of his hands. “What has she to do with your jilting Sophie?”

Again he glanced over his shoulder. “Not jilted. At least I would not have her labeled as such. She has chosen not to marry me.”

“But—”

“I had a private word with the maid, you see.” He turned her hand, palm up. “Lavished her palm with a bit of silver.” He demonstrated with imaginary coin, the movement of his gloved fingers against her gloved palm dizzying her. “I mistakenly assumed she would be in dire need of it, and then I begged her to tell me who the father was.”

He released his hold on her, brow furrowed. “Told her I had my suspicions, and that I would make the fellow regret having abandoned the child.”

He stopped, sighed, watched the passing houses with a frown.

“Was it Will Defoe’s child?” Patience demanded.

He rubbed at his forehead, impatiently. “No. No, I’ve still no notion who the father is. She surprised me—the maid. Said I had better ask who was the mother.”

Patience sat silent a moment, confused, and then she gasped. “No!”

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, his face set in lines of regret. “Of course I could not credit such a claim without confirmation. To take the word of a maidservant who might bear a grudge against the Defoes—who might have reason to lie—went against the grain.”

Patience sat frozen, unspeaking, hands clasped tightly in her lap, knowing what must come next, dreading it, for poor Sophie Defoe’s sake.

“But then I considered all that I knew, and realized that Sophie had gone away to the country at the time the babe would have been born, and her father has been most anxious to sign paperwork for the betrothal, the settlements, and her stepbrother . . . the way he looked at me, as if he were ready to laugh out loud, ready to laugh at me. I cringe to think of it now, to think how close I came to great unhappiness. And you have saved me!”

He beamed at her with deepest affection, both his claim and the loving focus of his smiles completely unexpected.

“
I
saved you? How have I done this?”

He laughed, and gleefully clasped her by the shoulders, and said breathlessly, “Because, after much deliberation, I took my suspicions to Richard, and he told me what you had seen at Vauxhall.”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry, Pip.”

“No need to be sorry, my dear. You have saved me from a match destined to fail. And for that I must kiss you.”

And with no more warning than that, he leaned forward abruptly and smacked his lips to her forehead, and Patience did well not to gasp.

As quickly as he had leaned forward, Pip leaned back, blue eyes shining with affection, and all of it for her. “Such dear friends I have been blessed with,” he said, and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

They sat in silence the rest of the way to Wilmington’s estate, and she basked in the memory of his lips to her forehead, and his words rang again and again in her ears: “You have saved me from a match destined to fail. And for that I must kiss you . . . kiss you . . .”

When they arrived at their destination, and Pip helped her down with no abatement to his smiles, his hands seeking hers for a companionable squeeze as they walked to the door, they discovered Melanie already had a visitor.

It was Richard.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“He is in love with you, you know,” Patience said.

She and Melanie sat beneath the trees, at a little table beside the trout stream that had kept Lord Wilmington occupied many a languid hour. At water’s edge, Richard and Pip were skimming stones across a still pool in the bend of the stream.

Such a peaceful setting. It lent itself to confidences, to the unburdening of secrets.

Melanie stared at her a moment without speaking. “Is it so very obvious?” she said at last, rather wistfully.

And so she knows
, Patience thought,
and would not have the world privy to their feelings.
A turtledove sailed through the trees toward the water, with a flash of banded tail and a throaty call. “I have known him all my life,” Patience said. “Perhaps it is easier for me to recognize.”

Melanie sighed. “You must be right. I thought we had been most discreet.”

They squinted at the backs of the two young men skipping stones, one dark, one fair, the sun bright in their eyes, hands raised to shield their gazes.

“Wilmi knew, of course,” she murmured.

“Did he?” Patience was shocked.

Melanie did not look at her. She seemed to know such a revelation required a moment’s contemplation.

“Oh, dear, yes,” she said evenly. “I could not carry on behind his back. Never that. He even approved. You might say that in his own way he fostered the relationship—contrived opportunities that we should find ourselves alone together.”

“He didn’t!”

“Oh, but yes. A prince among men, my Wilmi. He was not unaware of the vast difference in our ages, you see, and he wanted a son. In name if not in fact. He knew his health was hateful, that he could never outlast me, that his current heirs would take everything, and cast me out of the house.”

Patience looked toward the great, winged Georgian pile that Melanie referred to. It was no longer the widow’s. She would soon be asked to vacate, if she had not been asked already.

Melanie sighed, waving her hand in the direction of the stone throwers. “From the start he allowed me certain freedoms, always with the understanding that he did not want to endure gossip, or public censure.”

Patience felt herself unused to the ways of the world, uncomfortable with such careful arrangements. It seemed so very improper, so completely at odds with all she knew of dear, dependable Richard. She could not fathom such an arrangement, could not picture it, any more than she could reconcile the idea of a baby, or bare legs under the trees at Vauxhall, with Sophie Defoe. “Did Richard know Wilmi knew?”

“Richard?” Melanie seemed surprised by the question. “I do not think so.”

“Indeed, I think he might be quite shocked,” Patience allowed her thoughts voice. Once said, the words sounded foolish and naive.

But Melanie met them without censure. “Such a fine young man, our Richard. Such exemplary sensibilities. I would prefer he did not know.” She reached out to touch Patience’s wrist. A butterfly touch, there and gone.

“Of course. I quite see why.”

“I can depend upon your discretion, then?”

“Absolutely.”

Melanie regarded the gentlemen again. One in particular, Patience was quite sure.

“I knew I might. He is so very fond of you. I just knew you could do nothing to hurt him.”

Patience studied Richard’s tall silhouette, watched the strain of bone-colored buckskin across buttocks, thigh, and calf as Richard bent to fetch up another stone. Fabric strained in a similar fashion across the shoulders of his coat as he swiveled and threw another skipping stone. He laughed—how good to hear the sound. “He has suffered too much already.”

“Yes, of course. Poor Chase. Richard will find himself the object of much soothing attention now—a great deal of female attention.”

Patience thought of the women at the foundling home.

“Chase warned him of it,” she said.

“Did he? Poor man. How difficult it must have been to face the consequences of his impending demise.”

“Difficult indeed.”

“I am so very glad Wilmi went the way he did—quickly, no suffering, no real curtailment of the joys of his life, no lasting debilitation.” She touched a single elegant fingertip to the corner of her eye. “But enough of that. I will grow maudlin if I continue in this vein. We were speaking of Richard, and women.”

“Were we?”

“Oh, yes, Pip and I were discussing the change in his circumstances only yesterday.”

“Were you?”

Two days in a row Pip had visited Lady Wilmington? How good of him to comfort her. How kind.

“Oh, yes. We spoke of many things.” A shout from the water’s edge drew their attention.

“Seven skips!” Pip crowed in admiration, clapping Richard on the back. “A fine throw!”

“He is in love with you, you know,” Lady Wilmington said with a smile, her graceful head inclined toward the pair.

And thus her words were echoed back to her exactly, Patience thought. She stared a moment in disbelief at Pip, her fair Pip, who had kissed her in the carriage. “And for that I must kiss you,” he had said. Her throat tightened, choking off her reply. Could it be true? Her dream come true? “Did he tell you so?” she asked hopefully.

Melanie tipped her head, to look at her with a coy smile. “Not in so many words, no. But one has only to catch him looking at you in odd moments. His affections are quite clear. Do not tell me you were not aware?”

“Not at all,” she said breathlessly, heart thundering.

“Pip said he had yet to tell you—said he had been afraid to tell you these many years.”

Pip afraid! Of her? Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Oh, my dear Melanie! You’ve no idea how happy this news makes me. I thought there was no hope. I never dreamed he felt for me what I have so long felt for him.”

“You mean to say you harbor feeling as well?” Melanie said gleefully. “I would never have guessed it.”

“I do.”

Richard returned at that moment. He smiled in response to her smiles. “What do you?” he asked brightly.

“Love you,” Lady Wilmington said.

Patience was happy enough to agree. “In this moment,” she said with happy spirit, “I love the world.” And when he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, puzzled, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, and said, “We may all be happy now.”

“I have been meaning to tell you,” he said with a mischievous smile, “I have arranged a meeting with the gentleman we last spoke of.”

“Your mysterious friend?” She smiled back at him and shook her head. “No need.”

He frowned. “But?”

She gave his cheek a pat, shared a conspiratorial chuckle with Melanie, and told him, “You were right. Dreams do come true.”

He shot a confused look between the two of them, and his brows rose as they were wont to do, and he asked hopefully, “Do they really?”