Page 8 of A Christmas Love Redeemed
Fabien hitched up his coattails and drew a chair up to his sister.
‘What do you know of her?’
‘Maxwell?’ Marie frowned. ‘Ah, I recall! She is the chaperone of that silly girl, Sophie Westhall. I believe her husband, Sir Simon Maxwell, left her nothing, and she must earn her living as a companion or a chaperone. But why should she concern you? She is a woman of no great consequence, certainly not your usual preference.’
Marie’s careless shrug added emphasis to her words, dismissing Lady Maxwell from consideration.
But Fabien did not hear the last remark. Hope sparked in his chest.
‘Maxwell is dead?’
‘I believe so. Were you acquainted with Sir Simon?’
Fabien rose to his feet and paced the room again as the memories came flooding back.
‘It was so long ago …’ He turned to his sister. ‘Do you recall when that stupid drunken sot of a captain sailed the Marguerite into English waters?’
‘Of course, mon chere. How could I forget? You were a prisoner of the English for how long?’
‘Eighteen months, but that is not the point. There was a girl called Hannah Linton who saved my life. She and her mother tended my wound and cared for me, before I was captured.’
‘Hannah Linton?’ Marie’s eyes widened. ‘Surely not this Lady Maxwell?’
His silence gave Marie the answer she sought. She rose to her feet and patted his cheek as only an older sister could.
‘Fabien,’ she said. ‘That was nine years ago. In the circumstances, any tendresse you may have felt was just infatuation. I must remind you that you have a great future in the new France and any woman you choose must be of the first order, not a shabby little English widow.’ She laughed. ‘Tiens! She has probably forgotten you.’
Fabien turned his back on his sister and crossed to the window. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked out on the busy street scene below him, seeing not the carts, pedestrians and flower sellers, but the rugged cliffs of Dorset and an angel with chestnut ringlets and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
‘Of course you are right, Marie. You always are,’ he said.
Chapter Four
DORSET COAST, 21 DECEMBER 1807
It had been unsurprising that the wounded man developed a fever. For a worrying time, the Linton women feared they might lose him, but on the fourth day, Fabien’s fever abated, and on the sixth day, Mrs. Linton permitted him to rise from his bed and sit beside the small fire in his room.
Invalid status irked Fabien, but he had to admit that he had the strength of a kitten and the wound in his side needed time and patience to heal, so he did as he was told. He struggled with reading English, but the selection in the little bookshelf was limited and obviously belonging to one of the Linton women. Hannah he suspected. He selected Gulliver’s Travels and settled down to read.
A knock on the door gave him the excuse to set aside the book with a grateful sigh, and he smiled as Hannah Linton entered. After the sharp-tongued Bet and the brisk efficiency of Madame Linton, Hannah’s pretty face and ready smile would be a welcome distraction.
She glanced behind her and shut the door.
‘My sea sprite,’ he said.
‘I thought I was your Angel of Mercy?’
He nodded and spread his hands. ‘You are both, cherie. I owe you and your mother my life.’
Hannah drew the stool closer to the fire and sat down, warming her hands. ‘What are you reading?’
He held up the copy of Gulliver’s Travels.
‘That was my brother’s,’ she said.
He studied her face. ‘You miss him.’
She nodded. ‘More than I can say. It all went wrong when he died.’
