Page 14 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Interesting morning wasn’t it?” he said. “Perhaps we’ll learn something more about the child very soon.” The vicar had been speaking with all the families who’d lost sons in the war and had daughters unaccounted for. “I heard that he almost had a cat fight in his parlor between Mrs. Pownell and Mrs. Buckley.”
“More gossiping with your gentlemen friends?”
“Yes. I suppose it was that.” He smiled, but she didn’t look his way.
“I at least know who my parents were,” she said finally.
Ah. His heart skipped a beat. Fleur had found a bittersweet blessing in the poor lad’s tale.
For his part, the mystery had induced a great deal of… Unease? Was that it? War—the relentless boredom, the sudden fierce battle, the jittery realization that one had survived—all produced unaccountable unions: soldiers with wives following the drum and suddenly widowed, soldiers with local women—taboo but inevitable, and soldiers with the usual assortment of other camp followers.
“Might Cora have been wrong?” he asked. “Might that have been her sister in the miniature?”
Fleur glanced up at him. Her eyes, gray and luminous, looked as though storm clouds were gathering.
“I hadn’t seen Phyllis since she was a child. But surely Cora is right.” She chewed her lower lip. “Helena—Mrs. Bicton-Morledge—is fr-fragile.”
His Petal’s voice broke on that last word.
“Mrs. Bicton-Morledge? Do you care for her? She sent you away, didn’t she?”
Fleur studied the window of Randall Clark’s Mercantile, though he knew she wasn’t looking at the crockery displayed there. “At first… well, you know what sort of child I was. I was angry, frightened. But I came to be grateful. Dulcinea—well…”
He clutched his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to hold her, waiting as she gathered her thoughts.
“Helena spoke with me about it, seeking to make amends. She fears dying in childbirth. She w-worries what will become of her girls.” Her voice shook, and she turned away from him again.
He eyed her sidewise, thunderstruck. Meeting Sam had certainly stirred her, but this uncharacteristic display of emotion was not abouthersorrows. She’d mentioned her desire to secure not just her own future but Lady Ixworth’s as well. Now she’d be planning to include Mrs. Bicton-Morledge and her daughters in her marriage settlements.
He ought to have noticed before: she wore the same dress he’d seen her in yesterday, and the day before that, an unadorned lavender that might be half-mourning for Lady Ixton’s cousin or for her former guardian, Bicton-Morledge. Her dress, her bonnet, the twist of her hair, were all simple and unaffected. Her half boots had scuff marks that no polish could cover. Her only jewelry was a garnet cross at her neck.
Fleur’s quest for a marriage wasn’t solely about money to save herself. She would sacrifice herself on the altar of a loveless marriage to save Lady Ixton and all of the Bicton-Morledge girls as well should the very worst happen.
Touch his heart it might—and it did—but it also spelled trouble for his matchmaking endeavor. Marceau wouldn’t take in a whole passel of females of all ages, nor would the Veuve support it. The lady had barely come to tolerate him, a British officer. He didn’t fool himself that it was his charming personality; the Veuve had a mercenary streak, and he was useful to her.
“When is the babe due?”
“It ought to arrive in October. But she is grown so very big… These things are not always easy to determine.”
The child’s birth would be a day of reckoning for the household of women.
“Surely the heir won’t put her and her girls out,” he said. At least not immediately.
She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but from what she tells me about him, he certainly won’t allow Dulcinea and me to stay.”
He hadn’t written to Marceau yet. There was time. The Frenchman’s last letter had mentioned negotiations with wine merchants and the possibility of traveling to Manchester for an auction. His London host had steered him toward the best evening entertainment, and he was availing himself of the most discerning establishments for gentlemen.
In other words, Marceau was visiting every decent brothel in London, steeling himself for the upcoming nuptials. Having thought to eventually gain the Veuve’s approval of a marriage to his amour, he’d bristled at the notion of an arranged marriage to a cousin no one knew. His mistress’s tiresome weeping and the Veuve’s nagging had brought about his final agreement.
Fleur was only a year or two younger than Marceau, but she was much older in other ways. The Frenchman didn’t have the disposition for a strong wife, much less a strong wife with Lady Ixworth in tow.
A sickening feeling swept over him. Honor was important, and he’d defended his own ardently all through his young years, mostly with his fists, only once with a sword. But this… this marriage? Debt of honor or no, Marceau shouldn’t have Fleur. It wouldn’t do. He’d travel to France himself and explain all to the Veuve.
And Fleur… she could travel with him and meet her grandmother. Lady Ixworth could come as well. Neither lady would expect luxury; he could sell one of his precious bottles to pay their passage.
“That poor lad,” Fleur said, interrupting his planning, “Perhaps his father is still alive.” She stopped and frowned up at him. “Couldhe be Thad’s?”
“Unless Thad was secretly married, no.”
