Page 3 of The Dove
Daphne busied herself at her vanity table, unbraiding her hair and running a brush through the snarled locks. Some of the auburn strands waved softly around her face, the rest of it falling down her back in a thick mass. She’d been told the shade made her blue eyes appear darker … so dark, one might think them brown or black until they drew closer. She wrinkled her nose, noticing a few new freckles along with the others smattered over the bridge. Her mother would lecture her on the merits of wearing a hat when out of doors to keep them from spreading.
Her mother … she had not seen the woman in weeks.
Daphne had returned to London from Dunnottar to find that Lady Fairchild had taken residence in the home of her sister. She had gone to find her after leaving Bertram and her father—who lived together in a tiny flat in a questionable part of the city.
“It was not until we stood on the brink of losing Fairchild House that I confronted him,” her mother had told her over a late-night pot of chocolate. “He was always so tightlipped about our finances … always assuring me that he had things well in hand. Even when the creditors came calling and we were forced to begin selling our things and … and … oh, Daphne, he used your dowry to cover his debts, and I did nothing to stop him!”
She had broken into loud sobs then, tears wetting her cheeks, her face flushing scarlet. Daphne had set her cup aside and attempted to comfort her, patting her hand and whispering soothing platitudes.
“He would not tell me where you’d gone,” she’d continued between sniffles and sobs. “Only that I should not worry, and as always, he had things well in hand. Well, I did something I have never done before—you would have been proud. I snuck into his study while he was out at his club and went through his things.”
Despite the dire nature of their situation, she had not been able to stifle a smile. Her mother’s small rebellion might be likened to a child sneaking a cookie behind his mother’s back. But Daphne knew what kind of woman her mother was, because she’d been raised to become that same sort of woman. Quiet, demure, submissive to her father in all things, and then, after marriage, submissive to her husband. That her mother possessed the potential for rebellion of any kind made Daphne feel connected to her in a way she never had.
“I found the letter from Lord Hartmoor … that … thatcretin!”
Daphne had winced at that, certain her mother could not know the entire truth. She might have found the letter Adam had written offering her family ten thousand pounds as recompense for ruining her, but she could not know the reason for his vendetta.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Lady Fairchild had pleaded, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I allowed myself to remain ignorant of so many things, and I … I let you down.”
“It is not your fault,” she had reassured her.
Because, truly, the woman could not be blamed for being a product of her environment. The daughter of a viscount, then the wife of an earl, catered to in the lap of luxury her entire life. She was the consummate image of the pretty little bird Adam had compared Daphne to—always looking her best, saying the right thing, adhering strictly to the dictates of society, never questioning the men who ruled her life, as well as the entire world.
“I packed my things that very night and called for a hired hack to bring me here,” her mother had continued. “Your Aunt Althea has taken such good care of me. She would be happy to take you in, too, dear, and we will get on quite well together, the three of us.”
Daphne had lowered her eyes to her hands and sighed. As appealing as the offer had been, she could not retreat into the arms of her mother. Not when Adam had ensured that her ruination had become public knowledge.
“Mother, I couldn’t possibly,” she’d protested. “I am ruined now. Surely, you and Aunt Althea cannot take such a burden onto your shoulders.”
Her mother had scoffed. “What nonsense. No one need know exactly where you’ve been or the details of what I’m certain must have been quite an ordeal. It is over now, and you are home. Together, I am certain we can come up with an excuse for your prolonged absence.”
Daphne had bitten her lip, reluctant to hurt her mother by revealing the truth, but needing her to understand that they could no longer be seen together in public. It would destroy what was left of her mother’s reputation.
“News of my ruination will soon become public knowledge,” she had confessed. “In a fortnight or less, everyone we know, and everyone they know will be aware of where I’ve been and who I was with. So, you see, to live here would also invite scorn upon you and my aunt. I would never forgive myself if I caused you to become social pariahs.”
Her mother had begun to weep again, collapsing against Daphne and wailing as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. “Th-that bastard! Why, Daphne? Why would he do such a thing?”
Patting her hand, Daphne had clamped her lips shut and neglected to answer. Her mother’s independence was still too new, her freedom from her father as fragile as the first beats of a baby bird’s wings. It would destroy her to know all of it—the reasons Adam had sought to tear apart everything their family held dear.
“I do not know,” she had lied, embracing her mother tight.
After she had calmed, Daphne had reassured her that everything would be all right.
“I would be grateful if Aunt Althea would permit me to stay a few days,” she had said. “Just until I have gotten my affairs in order and procured a place to live.”
“However will you manage?” her mother had asked, still attempting to dry her dampened eyes. “What will you do, Daphne?”
“Lord Hartmoor did not settle money only upon Father,” Daphne had told her. “Suffice it to say I will never want for anything … so long as I manage it well.”
Her mother had been full of questions, curious as to why Adam would do such a thing. Daphne had simply told her that he must have felt some guilt over what he’d done. In truth, she knew he felt nothing of the sort. The man had taken as much satisfaction in ruining her as he had her father, brother, and uncle.
In the three months since she had moved into her own home, Daphne had only seen her mother a handful of times. She’d come to inspect the newly purchased townhouse and deemed it to be acceptable. They had attended the theater together, entering Althea’s private box well before the majority of thetonhad arrived and ducking out before the performance had ended—thereby ensuring they would not be seen together by anyone who mattered. While her mother still expressed concern over Daphne living alone and in a part of London not quite as lofty as Mayfair, she seemed to have accepted things the way they were. Just as she now had her own life apart from her husband and son, Daphne must tread her own path.
Coming back from her wandering thoughts, she found that her maid had dressed and groomed her while she stood about woolgathering. She wore a long-sleeved walking gown of navy blue muslin, as well as her best black boots and a pair of warm stockings. Clarice had arranged her hair into a soft, simple chignon, over which she had sat a veiled hat that matched Daphne’s gown.
She still risked coming across old acquaintances, even in her new neighborhood. It had only happened a few times in the past three months, but each encounter had left her weary. It became more and more difficult to maintain a stiff smile and bite her tongue when someone went out of their way to approach her, to make it known that they were aware of what she had become. She much preferred it when they gave her the cut direct, turning up their noses and avoiding her entirely. At least then, she did not have to be bothered with them.
The veil protected her from scorn, but, more importantly, it protected her peace. It allowed her to enjoy the brisk morning air and the pleasant brightness of a sky unobscured by fog. A soft smile curved her lips as she took in the sights and sounds of the street she was slowly beginning to think of as her own. Her residence stood flanked by several others of similar style, many of her neighbors not yet stirring to begin the day. Most of the people sharing the street with her this early in the morning were servants—scullery maids off to the docks or the market to collect goods for their cooks, young boys toting messages, stable grooms exercising their masters’ horses. A few well-dressed men staggered down the lane with tousled hair and rumpled cravats—young blades just coming home from a night of revelry, no doubt.
