Page 8 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Nevertheless…” Helena took in a shallow breath. “Oh heavens, I can barely breathe with this girl kicking me. You are kind, Fleur. And should I not make it?—”
“You will.”
“But should I not, it does my heart good to hear you say you’ll help my girls. I fear my husband’s cousin will be as ungenerous as Dulcinea’s cousin’s heir.” She shuddered. “Jedidiah Morledge pounds his bible prodigiously, but when he came for my dear husband’s funeral… He insisted on speaking to the doctor about my condition. Mr. Sherington hadn’t yet fallen ill, and it took his intervention—acting as Justice of the Peace and guardian to my girls—as well as that of our solicitor who’d come down from Manchester, to convince Jedidiah he must wait until this child is born to claim ownership and evict us.” Helena’s hand shook around her teacup. “Poor, dear, Sherington. We almost lost him, too. What would I have done?”
“Mr. Sherington seems to have rallied,” Fleur said.
“Thank goodness. Now, we must not worry, my girls won’t be entirely penniless either after their new sister arrives. And I know Sherington and our solicitor won’t fail them. My dear, don’t let your concern for them keep you from marrying.”
“Why, Helena,” Fleur said, “that wee one kicking you might be a boy. And you’ve borne five healthy children before; you will come through beautifully, providing you keep your strength up. Please do eat, or Cook will fret.”
“Cook will always fret. I believe I must bestir myself and attempt to go downstairs for dinner tonight, if only to keep her from leaving us like the butler did.”
Fleur stood. If the worst should happen, the very worst, she’d write the Bicton-Morledge girls into any marriage agreement she made. A husband who wouldn’t help care for orphans was no man at all, at least not a man to suit her.
“Don’t go just yet,” Helena said. “I want to discuss the plans for the Harvest Festival. I intend for Bicton Grange to participate as we always do with biscuits and cakes for the parish booth, and the girls will take part in the fun. Coramustattend the ball that night—she has an admirer in Mr. Haskell, you know. And then,” she squeezed Fleur’s hand, “let us review the list of available bachelors for you in Reabridge.”
* * *
It wasafter noon when Fleur found Dulcinea settled into a chair by the waning fire in her bedchamber. “And where have you been, gel? I had to wait for the kitchen maid to carry away my dishes.”
With her back turned, Fleur rolled her eyes, and fetched an extra shawl from the bed. Dulcinea had been in to chat with Helena after Fleur left, so she knew perfectly well Fleur had visited the nursery, helped in the still room, and accompanied the lone footman, James, delivering the harvest crews’ meat pies, another tradition that Bicton Grange would keep up. The harvest had begun in earnest, and she would be lucky if she wasn’t asked to grab a pitchfork and help.
And that would be alright. The talk with Helena that morning had unsettled her. Keeping busy meant she didn’t have to think.
Avoiding Dulcinea’s bright gaze, she settled the colorful cloth over the older lady’s legs and went to poke at the fire.
“Hah. Squash your lips together like that, gel, they’ll stay that way permanently and no man will want to kiss you.”
If she kept to her plan and captured an old man, not being kissed would be just fine.
“Not speaking, are you? You said little enough at the Sheringtons’.”
That was a lie. She’d been all that was polite toward old Mr. Sherington. It was Laurence and Gareth she’d ignored.
Dulcinea twirled her quizzing glass. “You’ll not win Sherington by mere fussing, you know. He always fancied the gels with some spark. When he was younger… What a man. What thighs.” She shivered. “That horse-faced son must take after his mother. But the other fellow, Ardleigh made me wish I was forty years younger.” She laughed. “Or twenty years. After Ixworth died, a young man with fine legs like his?—”
“Yes, yes,” Fleur said. “You ought to have turned your flirting on Ardleigh and given me more of a chance with Mr. George Sherington.”
“Softening him up for you, is all. He and I…” She sighed and a dreamy look came over her. “There was a ball, oh some thirty years ago?—”
“Oh, do spare me the talk of your conquests, my lady,” she teased. Dulcinea had been a beauty in her youth, and she was still quite comely, with a trim figure and skin she’d guarded well from the sun. “Shall you set your cap for him, then?”
“Heavens, no. Play nursemaid to an old goat in his dotage? In a Bath chair? No, no, he’d have to break that up for kindling.” She glanced toward the cheery flames, her lips quivering into a small smile. “Though there was a time when he was like a prime stallion. Times were different then.”
“Perhaps you can, er, revive him,” Fleur said. “He clearly favored you over me. Mrs. Bicton-Morledge has promised to help me meet Miss Farnham, whose widowed father is sure to be nearby.” Miss Farnham kept house for her father on a very fine manor in lower Reabridge. The presence of the spinster daughter might pose an obstacle to matrimony, but Fleur wasn’t greedy. If he would but provide a small cottage for Dulcinea, she would do her duty by everyone and when the time came, would settle for a small income upon Mr. Farnham’s passing. All else might go to the daughter.
“Will you come along on this call?” Fleur asked.
“And if young Sherington and his friend call tomorrow?”
“There is no guarantee they’ll call, and I must be about the business of securing the future.”
“With an old man.” Dulcinea shook her head. “It is a good plan, sensible, and yet I cannot truly like it for a spirited girl like you. Are you sure this will answer? There was a spark in Ardleigh’s eyes when he looked at you.”
“Ah yes, the spark. You’ve always told me to beware the spark.” She bit her lips to keep from smiling. “Ardleigh is a younger son, and likely has no income, or next to none.”
Dulcinea harrumphed.
