Page 9 of Under the Champagne Moon
The sound of a carriage on the drive drew Fleur to the window. A landau had drawn up. Gareth jumped out and turned to help another man who leaned heavily on his arm, a cane bracing him on the other side.
“Who is it?”
Fleur hurried to the clothes press. “Sherington is here. We must get you dressed.”
“Pah” Dulcinea flapped a hand. “You go visit him. What a pity he didn’t bring his friend Ardleigh.”
Fleur whisked away the lap blanket. “Oh, Ardleigh has come along as well. And the Sherington with him is George.” She smiled. “And he’s walking.”
Dulcinea’s eyes glinted. In fact, they positively sparked. “Is that so? Well come along, gel. Don’t stand there dawdling.”
A few minutes later,Mrs. Knollwood caught them in the corridor, winded from hurrying up the stairs.
“Oh, miss, my lady, before you go down…” She paused for a breath. “News. Mr. Sherington is bringing news. I don’t know how we’ve only just heard but…” Frowning, she paused again.
“Well get on with it,” Dulcinea said.
“There’s a babe at the vicar’s. Belongs to one of the village girls as followed the drum.”
Dulcinea clucked her tongue. “Which one?”
The hair at the back of Fleur’s neck prickled and she sent Dulcinea a quelling look. Despite relishing gossip, Mrs. Knollwood was a placid soul. Fleur had never seen her this agitated.
“That’s just it,” the housekeeper said. “No one knows.”
“Phyllis,” Fleur whispered. Helena would need to hear this possible news of her daughter and grandchild. She touched the housekeeper’s arm. “Get Mrs. Bicton-Morledge dressed for callers. We’ll bring them up to her sitting room.”
“Oh, miss, Mr. Sherington barely made it up the few steps to the portico.”
“Then we’ll have James carry his mistress down.”
The housekeeper wrinkled her nose. James was not quite as sturdy as the usual footmen.
“Or Captain Ardleigh can,” Dulcinea said.
* * *
“You did not needto accompany me.” The cross tone in Fleur’s voice cheered Gareth.
He’d spent the call at Bicton Grange observing a demure Fleur chatting quietly with all and sundry and pouring tea for Mrs. Bicton-Morledge, who, with the help of Gareth’s steadying arm, had waddled down the stairs for the occasion. Her daughter, Cora, a dark-haired young beauty who must be turning heads was present as well. The other two daughters, mere urchins, popped in for cakes before being shooed back to the nursery.
Lord Barlow had called on Sherington that morning with astonishing news. A child—a mere baby had been left with the vicar by an English couple who’d been visiting Toulouse. A year or so ago, the locals discovered the newborn in a barn next to the body of his mother who’d died giving birth. Miniatures of a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl and a British soldier were likely portraits of the lad’s parents. The English couple brought him to Reabridge because of one more found item, an amulet. They’d recognized it as one given to Reabridge girls at the annual harvest festival.
Barlow had called out of concern that Thaddeus might have been the child’s father. Neither of the Sherington men had heard Thad had married. Thaddeus wasn’t likely to be the father.
As for the mother’s possible identity, Mr. Sherington insisted he must personally deliver this news to Mrs. Bicton-Morledge. Gareth had been only too happy to accompany him.
Mrs. Bicton-Morledge had taken the news with quiet composure, deeming it unlikely the boy was her daughter Phyllis’s. Phyllis’s hair had been brown, not blond.
Still, one could see sadness and worry lurking beneath the lady’s calm surface. She’d excused herself early, and Gareth had insisted on carrying her up the stairs, Cora walking alongside.
When he returned to the drawing room, Sherington was saying his farewells and Fleur was retrieving her shawl. She’d come along for the return trip to Sherington Manor with the excuse of borrowing a novel that Lady Ixworth wanted. Then, novel, in hand, she’d declined the offer of a carriage ride home.
Gareth had snatched up the book before Fleur could quick-march from Sherington Manor with it.The Monkwas now carefully wrapped in oilcloth against the possibility of rain and tucked under his waistcoat next to his heart.
He needed this time alone with Fleur. What sort of woman had she become? What experiences had she had? What did she want in her life? He needed to know her better before he wrote to Marceau with the news that he’d found the Frenchman’s prospective bride.
At least that was his excuse.
