Page 68 of His Forgotten Bride
“Sukey,” Claire said, as patiently as she could manage, “do pay attention. If you cannot mind your peeling, I shall have to send you to market for more potatoes.”
Sukey jumped in shock. “Yes, my lady,” she said, and drew a sharp breath, her eyes darting as she paled. “I—I mean, yes, ma’am.”
Claire made a scathing sound in her throat and turned away. The petty rebellions amongst the staff might have stopped, but now she seemed to be as fearsome as a dragon, and still about as welcome. Once there had been a time where she could have left for the afternoon confident that the potatoes would be properly peeled and that dinner would be served at its proper time, but that was all a thing of the past now.
Doubtless they would bungle all sorts of tasks while she was out, and then she would again spend the majority of her night sorting out careless mistakes—
A tug at her skirt caught her attention. “Mama, are you ready to go?” Matthew beamed up at her, his darling face freshly-washed and his hair combed into as much order as was possible. “Papa said the carriage is waiting outside.”
And suddenly she didn’t care about Sukey peeling the potatoes down to nothing, or whether dinner would be served on time, or what tasks would be mismanaged in her absence, or even whether or not she spent hours and hours of her nights playing catch-up with whatever had been neglected.
She swept Matthew up and thrilled to the feel of his small arms linking around her neck, the way his head settled against her shoulder. “Of course, darling,” she said into his chestnut curls. “Let’s be off, then, shall we?”
∞∞∞
Claire supposed that there were small blessings to her situation—such as the fact that there was no longer a need to count her coins carefully and squirrel money away for a new winter coat for Matthew or the eventuality of a surprise doctor’s fee. Gabriel would never let his son go without.
Instead she had, for the first time, loosed her purse strings in the service of one idyllic day. She had happily paid the shilling each it had cost for them to visit the Royal Menagerie—a kind of indulgence that she had never been able to justify before. Then there had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase of meat pasties and a walk in Hyde Park while they ate, followed by a trip to a confectioner’s shop where she had readily handed over the coin for a small sack of soft, chewy caramels.
There would be a cost yet to pay that went well beyond coin. But at least they had had one perfect day.
Matthew drowsed across the seat, his head pillowed on her lap. He had been so bright today, so sunny and joyful, like a little firework pressing back the heavy shroud of winter. Every bit of the antipathy he’d shown her in the last week had evaporated like a morning fog. She stroked his tousled hair away from his forehead and sighed.
A boy needed his father in a way he did not need his mother, not past a certain age. It was so unfair—but it was the way of things, and she couldn’t keep him tied to her apron strings. Her precious boy would grow up whether she was ready for it or not.
It would be difficult, she thought, for both of them. She had grown accustomed to seeing him every day, to looking in on him at night. To knowing she was nearby if he should need her.
But she couldn’t protect him. She could scrimp and save and dash off to wherever he happened to be, and it would never be enough.
A mother was always supposed to do what was best for her child. And she had tried—all his life she had tried. But she could never provide for him the comfort and security he now enjoyed. She couldn’t give him half—a tenth, even—of what Gabriel could.
Her sweet, beloved child. Just a little boy who needed more than she could ever give him.
She set her shoulders as the carriage rolled to a stop. A moment later the coachman hopped down and the door opened, casting bright winter sunlight into the carriage. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut with an anxious murmur, curling away from the influx of light.
Carefully, Claire eased out from beneath him, gently tucking him back against the seat. To the coachman she said, “Will you please wait with him? I ought not be more than a few minutes, but I don’t want him to be frightened if he wakes and I’m not here.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The coachman drew off his cap and slid onto the seat across from Matthew. His eyes slid over her speculatively, his lips pursing as if against the urge to ask her what business she had at this address. But it was not his place to question it, and so he kept the question tucked between his lips, unspoken.
Claire drew a traveling blanket from its compartment and draped it over Matthew, dropping a kiss on his forehead. Then she closed the carriage door behind her and strode up the steps, rapping sharply upon the door of the house before her.
She drew herself up, cloaking herself in what fragile dignity she could muster.A mother must always do what is best for her child, she reminded herself firmly.
When the door opened, it revealed an aging, decrepit butler who looked as if he’d lived through at least a century and a half.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I have an appointment with Lady Westwood.”
∞∞∞
“Would you care to explain,” Westwood inquired the very moment he’d crossed the threshold of the library the next evening, “why your wife is seeking another position?”
Gabriel’s hand, curled around a decanter of whisky, gave a sudden tremor, and a measure of whisky sloshed onto the sideboard instead of into the glass. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, feeling every bit of blood leave his face.
To his credit, Westwood took one look at Gabriel’s face and let out a long, low whistle, sinking into a chair. “You didn’t know,” he said, and it was not a question. “Christ.”
Of course he had not known. How could he have known? Why would she have told him? He threw back the scant quantity of whisky he’d managed to get in the glass and relished the burn of it down his throat, then dumped a great deal more in the empty glass. “So she’s going to leave, then,” he said dully. “How didyoudiscover it?”
“She came to see my wife yesterday,” Westwood said. “Poppy’s a bit scatterbrained at the moment, what with—well, it’s no matter. Suffice it to say, I don’t keep secrets from Poppy. Apparently your wife wrote to her inquiring about a position, and Poppy was intrigued enough with your situation to grant her an interview, but let the whole matter slip her mind until last evening.”
