The Mayfair Affair (40 page)

Rather than accompany them to the school, Addison, after a quick conversation with Raoul, had gone to make further inquiries about Molton and his late brother-in-law, Madison.

Raoul handed Laura down from the carriage. He had to content himself with a quick squeeze of her hand, but she did take his arm as Molton led the way up the steps. The hall a manservant admitted them to was swept clean and carried the smell of cheap soap and tallow candles. Nothing to give one chills, save that it had the vague, sterile sense of a place that wasn't a home. The sitting room the man servant conducted them to at Molton's instruction was, in contrast, rather overdone, filled with imitation Hepplewhite furniture, dubious oil copies of old masters in heavy gilt frames, and the scent of violet potpourri. The sort of room meant to soothe the guilt of parents and guardians hiding away an inconvenient by-blow or a poor relation.

They sat. Molton fell silent again. Laura sat bold upright, hands locked together. This was her story, and Raoul had merely entered it late, as a secondary character. He'd waited in Les Carmes Prison during the Reign of Terror, with his fellow prisoners taken away every day in a tumbrel. Wounded in a cottage during the United Irish Uprising, cut off from escape and knowing British soldiers circled ever closer. This should be as nothing. But however sure he was that they had reached the end of their quest, those few minutes scraped at his nerves.

At last the door opened to admit a thin, sharp-featured woman gowned in the sort of anonymous, high-necked dark gown that was the mark of the teaching profession. The woman's face told of several decades spent in that often-thankless pursuit. His Republican sympathies should have been roused, but instead he found himself wondering if anyone ever hugged Emily.

"Miss Simpkins," Molton said, and proceeded to introduce them.

Miss Simpkins's brows rose. "I didn't realize Emily had family."

"She does," Laura said, with a look that dared Miss Simpkins to question her. "We were separated due to circumstances beyond my control."

"I see," Miss Simpkins said, in a tone that implied she didn't see at all but that her suspicions were decidedly scandalous. She looked at Raoul. "And you are—"

"A family friend." Raoul gave a smile intended to be a withering dampening of pretensions. Years on the fringes of the British aristocracy had their uses.

"I believe Emily is in the schoolyard," Miss Simpkins said. "I'll send for her."

"No," Laura said.

Raoul looked at her in surprise, then realized the thought of meeting her daughter under the gazes of Molton and Miss Simpkins was intolerable. "That is, I don't want to overwhelm her. I'd rather go out and meet her in the schoolyard."

Miss Simpkins raised her brows as though at the odd starts of the aristocracy. Odd how a name could move one about on the social divide. "As you wish."

She led the way back down the hall and out into a narrow garden that sloped down to a schoolyard. A blue-gowned woman who seemed to be a teacher stood watch. Miss Simpkins went to speak with her, leaving Raoul and Laura a blessed moment to observe the children who filled the yard. A swirl of blue and brown kerseymere, flashes of white petticoat and shirt collar, girls' plaits flapping with the exuberance of play, boys' hair flat and gleaming in the sunlight. Shouts and laughter and the occasional cry filled the air. The adrenaline surge of a release from lessons. Children knew how to make the most of the present. When did one lose the talent? Raoul wondered.

Laura's gaze moved over the throng with equal parts urgency and trepidation. Raoul touched her arm. "There. Sitting with the book under the tree."

Laura's gaze swept the yard. "How do you know?"

"The hair. And something about the angle of the head."

Laura's gaze fastened on the girl again. She had gone still, like a creature turned to ice in one of young Colin's storybooks from Vienna. Raoul squeezed her elbow. "You're a teacher. You know the only way to acquire knowledge is to investigate."

Her gaze shot to his face. Some spark of warmth seemed to get through to her, from his words or his look or his touch. Enough to thaw the paralysis. Unbidden, his hand lingered on her elbow. He tightened his grip for a moment. "This is your chance. I'll handle Miss Simpkins."

She hesitated, taut as a bowstring.

"Remember. You have a lot to offer."

Laura's smile was dry but real. Her hand came up to squeeze his fingers, and he had to subdue every impulse to kiss her. Then she pulled away and started for the trees. He watched her walk down the slope of ground. Into a world to which he could not follow her. A world from which he had excluded himself by his own choices.

When something has seemed so out of reach for so long, it is a strange feeling when the reality comes to pass. As Laura walked down the hill, even though Emily was before her, it still felt as though she was in the old world, where even a glimpse of her daughter was a possibility scarcely to be dreamt of.

And yet there she was. Knees scrunched up to show a white muslin frill beneath a dark blue skirt not so different from Laura's own. Dusty scuffed shoes. Head bent over the book on her knees, plaits falling forwards over her shoulders. Her hair was much paler than Laura's now was, but it had a rose gold gleam. Difficult to remember oneself as a child, but Laura's own hair had probably been a similar hue.

She'd felt her kick, felt her first shifts and stirrings, but she'd never seen her. Until this moment, a part of her had never really believed she would. The baby she had known as a flutter in her womb was now a person in her own right. How on earth—

Laura's foot crunched down on a dry twig. The girl looked up. Her eyes were a gray-brown. His eyes. A smattering of freckles danced across her nose. The pose with the book had appeared grown-up, but it was the face of a girl just emerging from toddlerhood. She was only just four, after all. Wherever Laura had been in the world, she had always been conscious of her child's age. And the features were unmistakable. Even Laura could see the likeness to her own face in the wide cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and pointed chin. No wonder the Moltons had noticed.

"Are you looking for someone?" the girl asked.

Laura swallowed. "For a girl named Emily. Emily Saunders."

"I'm Emily."

The breath froze in Laura's throat. Despite all the signals, despite the resemblance, a part of her still hadn't really believed it. "My name is Laura." Though she'd been calling herself Lady Tarrington, that seemed the obvious name to use. As close as she could get to the real her. She dropped down beside Emily at the base of the tree. Not too close. It was too soon to intrude. "Laura Dudley."

Emily's gaze moved over her face. The curiosity of childhood, tempered by the wariness of one who has learned adults aren't always to be trusted.

Laura's heart twisted. "You didn't want to play with the other children?"

"Not exactly. I was playing tag with Molly and Sally but then they decided they wanted to have a big-girl game. And I like my book. I know almost all the words."

She held out the book. It was a picture book, of the sort Laura used to teach Colin his letters.
Cinderella
. "Very impressive for four," Laura said.

Emily's eyes widened. "How do you know I'm four?"

Laura hesitated. "I knew your mother."

Emily's eyes widened. "Truly? I've never met anyone who actually knew her. She died when I was born."

At least Emily didn't think her mother had abandoned her. And she didn't have anyone living she thought of as a mother. "What have they told you about her?"

"She was stubborn. Like me."

"Are you stubborn?"

"Miss Simpkins says so. Was my mama stubborn?"

"Your mama could be determined, when she set her mind on something. She wasn't always sensible about what she set her mind on. I imagine you're much more sensible."

"That's not what Miss Simpkins says."

"What does she say?"

Emily screwed up her face. "That I'm difficult."

Laura drew up her legs and linked her arms round her knees in a mirror of Emily's posture. "Sometimes people are called difficult when they don't do what's expected of them and think for themselves. That can be a good thing."

"Is that what my mama did?"

Laura fingered a twig, brittle in her fingers. "Your mama thought for herself. She didn't always make the best choices, but then I have yet to meet anyone who does."

Emily shifted to the side to face Laura. Some of the wariness had slipped from her face. "What else do you know about her?"

Laura was used to choosing her words with care, but even in the midst of the Elsinore League's intrigues, she had never so felt that she was walking over shards of glass. "She looked like you."

Emily fingered the end of one of her plaits. "I have carroty hair."

"Does Miss Simpkins say that?"

"No, Timmy Hutchins does."

Laura let her shoulders sink back against the tree. "Well, your mama's hair was very like yours, only not quite so bright, and a number of gentlemen thought it was quite lovely."

"Including my papa?"

That, as Colin would say, was a poser. "I believe so. What have they told you about your father?"

"He died in a carriage accident. My mama was with him, and I started to come after the accident. Then she died."

A surprising amount of truth. But then Trenchard had understood that the best cover stories are grounded in truth. "Emily." Laura touched the little girl's hand without thinking. "Your mama died because of the accident, not because of you. You understand that, don't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Your mama was very excited that you were coming. She told me more than once that you were the best thing that ever happened to her."

"But I didn't happen. I mean, she died before I did."

"Even the idea of having you made her happy."

Emily screwed her face up. "I wish she'd seen me."

"It"—Laura struggled for mastery before she could get the words out. "It would have meant a great deal to her."

"Probably she would have played with me."

"I'm sure she would have." Laura reached beneath her pelisse and unfastened the thin gold chain round her neck. The locket her father had given her for her tenth birthday dangled from the chain. She rarely took it off. Dangerous, she knew, to have kept it, but by keeping it round her throat she could be reasonably certain it was safe from search. "I've been keeping this for you. It was your mother's."

Emily touched the shiny gold heart swinging from the chain. "What's inside?"

Laura undid the catch. "Those are pictures of your mother's mama and papa. Your grandparents."

"My grandparents?" Emily seemed to sound out the unfamiliar word. She stared at the pictures. "Did my mama look like them?"

"Yes, but she looked more like you." Laura fastened the delicate chain round Emily's throat. Emily touched her fingers to the heart. "I've never had anything of my mama's. Is it truly mine to keep?"

"Truly."

Emily adjusted the gold heart against the dark fabric of her dress. "Where do you live?"

"In London."

Emily's eyes widened. The color might be Trenchard's but the shape, Laura realized, her daughter had inherited from her. "You came all the way here from London?"

"Yes, I drove down yesterday."

"To see me?"

"To try to learn where you were. I was very excited to find you were here."

Emily tugged her skirt smooth over her knees. "Ellie Wilton's father has only been to visit once, and he lives in the next village. Of course, we're not supposed to say he's her father." Emily looked towards the school. Raoul had gone to speak with Miss Simpkins and the teacher. "Is that your husband?"

It was an obvious question. It shouldn't have rattled her as it did. "No, that's my friend. Mr. O'Roarke."

Emily inched a little closer to Laura as though looking at Miss Simpkins made her nervous. "How long can you stay?"

"Emily." Laura stared at the sky, bleached white by clouds with only flashes of blue showing through, as she searched for the right words from what seemed a landscape of quicksand. In the end, perhaps the simplest choice was best. "Would you like to come with me when I leave?"

Emily's eyes widened. "For how long?

"I'd like you to live with me."

Wonder filled that wide hazel gaze. "In your house?"

"In the house where I live. There are two other children there, Colin, who's half a year older than you, and Jessica, who is about three years younger."

Emily digested this new information. "Are they your children?"

"No, it's their parents' house. I'm their governess."

"Would you be my governess?"

Laura swallowed. Unspoken words burned her tongue. "You'd do lessons with Colin and Jessica, but I'd be more like your mother." In for a penny.

Emily stared at her. For a moment, Laura thought she had gone too far. "Truly?"

"If you want me to be."

Emily regarded Laura with a wide, steady gaze. "Most of the children here don't have mothers. Or they don't see them very often."

Laura swallowed, throat raw, hope trembling within her. "I don't know much about being a mother, but I promise you'd see me very often, indeed. Every day."

"You don't know me."

"You don't know me, either." Laura held out a hand, squelching every impulse to touch her daughter. "I'm willing to risk it, if you are."

Emily considered a moment longer, then put her hand into Laura's own.

Warmth. Small fingers curling round her own. And perhaps the beginning of trust. "I shall try very hard not to disappoint you," Laura said.

Emily released Laura's hand and hugged her arms over her chest. "What if the other children—Colin and Jessica—don't like me?"

"They're very agreeable children. Of course, it can be hard to share things, but I think you'll get on well."

"Probably we'll have fun. I'm used to sharing. Shall I call you Miss Dudley?"

Amazing they had got this far. And amazing how much more she wanted. "Colin and Jessica call me Laura. Why don't we start with that."

"Laura." Emily tried the name out.

Laura held out her hand. "Let's go talk to Miss Simpkins and collect your things."

Emily shrank against Laura. "Maybe she won't let me leave."

"She can't stop you, sweetheart. I promise."

Emily clung to Laura's hand and consented to walk with her, though she leaned closer the closer they got to the other adults. Heartbreaking and understandable that she so feared having happiness snatched away. But Laura could not deny the warmth that curled through her at the realization that she was already a source of comfort.

Raoul took a step forwards to meet them, as though sensing Emily's fears. His gaze met Laura's briefly, before he crouched down in front of her daughter. "You must be Emily. I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Raoul."

"You're a friend of Laura's."

If Raoul was surprised Laura hadn't told Emily she was her mother, he gave no sign of it. "Yes, and I'm glad to be your friend as well. I've just been arranging things with Miss Simpkins. We need only collect your things and we can be on our way."

Emily smiled. "I don't have a lot of things." It wasn't a complaint, it was a statement of fact.

"All the simpler, then," Raoul said.

For someone with no acknowledged children, he was remarkably good at talking to them. At times like this, Laura was reminded that he had been closer to Malcolm Rannoch growing up than either of them tended to acknowledge.

Raoul got to her feet and offered his arm to Laura. "Shall we? We can be in Berkeley Square in time for dinner."

Emily's head flopped against Laura's arm. Her soft breaths stirred the merino of Laura's pelisse sleeve and reverberated through the carriage. She was asleep, Laura realized. They had played backgammon for the first stage of the journey with the Rannochs' traveling set (the carriage was fitted with every convenience), with Emily turning to the window in between games and asking questions about everything she saw, from trees to cows to a farmer's cart to a troop of soldiers. Then quite suddenly she'd gone silent. A few minutes later she slumped against Laura's arm with a trust that took Laura's breath away.

Don't make too much of it, she told herself. Small children could be exuberant in their affections. Jessica would fling her arms round the legs of new-met acquaintances, and even the more reserved Colin would hug a new friend goodbye when they left the park.

She looked up to find Raoul watching her in the soft light of the interior lamps. "She hasn't lost the ability to enjoy life," he said. "Or to form bonds. She's already started to form one with you."