“I will excuse your passion on the grounds that you appear to have suddenly recognized that Lady Godwin is your wife,” Mayne said with precision. “Although you have given very little sign of that in the past few years, and I believe you discovered it too late.” Then he walked out.
Helene had to admit that it was a magnificent exit line. “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded of her husband. “You told me—”
“I know I told you to take a consort,” Rees bellowed back at her. “I didn’t tell you to spawn a child with one!”
“You know that I’m—how do you know that?” she cried.
“Your friend Esme was kind enough to inform me.”
Helene felt a red-hot blaze of fury go up her body. Esme—Esme—had betrayed her? Esme, her closest friend in the world?
“I came to tell you that I won’t allow it,” Rees stated.
“You won’t allow it,” she said slowly.
“No. I won’t allow it. You can’t have thought clearly about the fact that any child you carry would become my heir. I can’t allow that. Tom, or Tom’s son, once he has one, will become the earl when I kick up my heels. I couldn’t let a cuckoo take over the estate before Tom’s child. It wouldn’t be right.”
“You’re got nothing to say about it,” Helene managed. Alarmingly, the fact that Esme had betrayed her was making her feel rather teary.
“I certainly do.” Rees strolled over and locked the door. “I’d rather that people don’t walk in on us at this moment, if you don’t mind.”
“I can’t see that it matters,” Helene said. Why had Esme done such a thing? She had been so close to having her baby, so close to success!
Rees was sitting down. “What are you doing?” she asked with patent scorn.
“Taking my shoes off,” he said.
Helene’s mouth fell open. “You cannot possibly think—”
“I certainly do. If I understood Lady Bonnington’s message appropriately, you came to this ball precisely to find a man to act as stud for you. I’m as available as any other man in London, and a hell of a lot more in your style than the Earl of Mayne.”
He pulled down his pantaloons and threw them to the side.
Ten
In Which Salome Begins Her Dance
The Yard at the Pewter Inn
Stepney, London
Reverend Thomas Holland, known as Tom to friends and parishioners alike, hadn’t been in London for years, but it looked just the same: dirty, crowded, and wretchedly poor. It was early afternoon, but it might as well be stark night for all the sunlight that made it through the sooty air. He got off the mail-coach and stretched his limbs, ignoring the ground-shaking thumps near him as stableboys pulled pieces of luggage from the top of the coach and tossed them to the ground. Shrieks echoed off the wooden walls of the Pewter Inn as passengers protested the ramshackle treatment of their belongings. Tom didn’t care. He was mostly carrying books, and they wouldn’t break.
Someone tugged on his coat and he turned.
“Would you like to buy an apple, mister?”
She couldn’t be more than five years old. She had on a grimy pinafore but her face was clean, and the little collection of apples she carried in a basket seemed to be clean, too. “Where’s your mum?” he asked, squatting down before her.
She blinked. “Would you like to buy an apple?” she repeated.
“Yes, I would. Shall I give the money to your mother?” He took the apple. “How much is it?”
“Tuppence,” she said, holding out a small hand for the payment. There was a bruise on her wrist.
This is why he didn’t come to London. He simply couldn’t bear it. “Damnation,” Tom muttered to himself. “Where’s your mother, Sweetheart?”
She looked away again. But Tom had some practice talking to children in the village; he took her hand and said, “Take me home, please.”
She didn’t move. “I don’t go places with men.”
“And you’re absolutely right,” he said, dropping her hand. “Going home is not the same as going places, though, is it?”
She thought about this for a moment. She had a sweet, rosy little face, although her eyes were terribly serious. Tom had a familiar feeling, as if his chest-bone were pressing into his stomach.
“I don’t go home until I sells all my apples.”
Tom got out four pence, for which he received two more apples. There was almost a smile in her eyes: almost. Then she started walking away, so he tossed all three apples to a stableboy and asked him to keep an eye on his luggage. She didn’t head out into the series of twisting little streets that surrounded the Pewter Inn, but straight around to the back and into the kitchen.
“I’ve told you not to come back in here until you’ve sold them all!” he heard someone say, as he pushed open the door.
A red-faced, middle-aged woman was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, scowling down at the apple-seller.
“I did sell them all,” the little girl said, giving the woman her money. “To him.” She pointed at Tom.
The woman swung around and her face changed instantly from irritated to menacing. Tom almost took a step back, as she reached behind her and palmed an enormous rolling pin, as long and wide as his arm. “You get out of here,” she ordered. “I’ve had your kind around here before, and we don’t hold with them.” She grabbed the girl and pulled her behind her apron. “Meggin is not going anywhere with you, no matter the money you offer!”
“I’m a vicar,” Tom said, loosening his traveling cloak so that his collar showed. “I was merely worried about little Meggin being by herself in the posting yard.”
“She’s not by herself. The posting yard is safe enough.And I never heard that being a vicar stopped nobody from being wicked.” Mrs. Fishpole had heard enough stories about the roguery of men in black to distrust the very sight of a collar.
“I’m not one of them, Madam. I’m from the North Country, though, and not used to seeing children as small as this earning their living. But obviously you are taking excellent care of Meggin, and I apologize for disturbing you.”
Mrs. Fishpole narrowed her eyes. He was a good-looking man, for a vicar. Nice eyes, he had. “Whereabouts in the North Country?”
“Beverley, East Riding,” Tom said cheerfully. The odd tightness in his chest was easing. “I’ve a small parish there. I’m only in London to visit my brother.”
A huge smile spread across the woman’s face. “Beverley, eh? I’m Mrs. Fishpole, Reverend, originally from Driffield meself, though I haven’t seen it in years. So you must be in the Minster, isn’t that what it’s called? My dad took me to Beverley once when I was a youngster and we delivered a load of sand to the Minster. It’s a beautiful church. I’ve never forgotten it. I do think that it rivals Paul’s.”
“Perhaps the sand was used when they were refurbishing the west transect,” Tom said. “I’m actually not the reverend of the Minster, but of an adjoining parish, St. Mary’s. Reverend Rumwald is the vicar of the Beverley Minster.”
“Lord Almighty, is old Rumwald still alive, then?” Mrs. Fishpole’s whole face had softened. “He taught me my catechism, he did. He used to come over to Driffield once a month, seeing as we didn’t have a parish priest. Too small, we were.”
“I’ll give him your best,” Tom said. “I’ll tell him of your happy situation here, as cook in this excellent establishment. And about your lovely daughter as well.” He smiled at Meggin but she looked away.
Mrs. Fishpole pursed her lips. “Meggin isn’t my daughter. And she doesn’t earn her living with these apples, either. I have to feed her from the servants’ scraps.”
“Meggin isn’t your daughter?”
“No,” Mrs. Fishpole said, pushing Meggin out from behind her skirts now that she seemed to be in no imminent danger. “Her mum was no better than she should be, I’ve no doubt. We found her here one night, all but set to have the child on me own kitchen doorstep. The poor woman didn’t survive
the birth, God bless her soul.”
“In that case, Meggin is doubly lucky to have you,” Tom said. “I shall have to congratulate Reverend Rumwald on how well he taught you the catechism.”
But Mrs. Fishpole was looking at him like a dog that’s found a string of sausages on a street corner. “And what if you had found Meggin in a bad situation, Reverend? What was you planning to do next?”
Tom hesitated. “I’m not certain.”
“I expect you know of them charities, though, don’t you?” she demanded.
“Something of them,” Tom admitted, thinking that most of what he knew about London charities wasn’t very cheerful.
“You take her!” Mrs. Fishpole said, giving Meggin a little push. The girl gasped and tried to dart behind her skirts again.
“What?”
“You’d better take her. She’ll be better off in East Riding than here in London. We looked after our little ones, back home. Here, it’s all I can do to keep her out of the way. And she’s getting bigger, don’t you see?”
“Yes, but—”
“You’ll have to do it,” Mrs. Fishpole said decisively. “I can’t keep her safe anymore. She sleeps there, you see—” she nodded toward a heap of rags in the corner. “But she’s getting on towards five now. I don’t know how much longer they’ll let her stay in the corner, and the older she gets, the more worry I have, to be honest.”
Tom could see the truth of that.
“I’ve done my best with her. I’ve taught her thank you, and she’s learned to say please as well. She knows the difference between right or wrong. I didn’t want her turning out like her mum. So you can tell Rumwald that I did my charitable duty with her.”
Meggin made another concerted effort to get behind Mrs. Fishpole’s skirts and hide from Tom.
“It’s not that I won’t miss you,” Mrs. Fishpole said, putting the rolling pin down on the counter and pulling Meggin around before her. “Because I will, Meggie. You know I will. You’re a willing little girl, and you’ve always been cheerful.”
Meggin was blinking very hard. “I don’t want to go nowhere.”
“You’ve never carried on and screamed the way some of them children do. But I can’t keep you here, Meggie. It’s not safe. And you know I can’t take you home.” She looked up at Tom. “Meggin used to live with me, but Mr. Fishpole died three years ago, and I went to live with my sister-in-law. Her husband doesn’t want to take in an orphan, not given the circumstances of her birth and all.”
Tom nodded and held out his hand. “Meggin, would you like to come with me to visit my brother? And then after a visit, we’ll go home to my village, and I’ll find you a family of your own to live with.” And between now and then, he swore to himself, I will not even glance at the children sweeping the streets.
“No!” Meggin wailed, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t go home with no men, I don’t! I belong with you, Mrs. Fishpole.” She ran at the cook, butting her head against her legs and wrapping her arms around her skirts, just as a hosteller burst into the kitchen shouting something about a sausage and fish pie.
Mrs. Fishpole ignored him, kneeling down on the none-too-clean floor. “I’ll come see my old da in East Riding, and I’ll see you as well. But I can’t let you sleep in the kitchen anymore, Meggie.”
“No one will see me,” Meggin wailed. “I’ll stay so small. And I didn’t talk to him, I didn’t! I’ll sell all my apples to ladies after this.”
“We needs more sausage pies,” the hosteller broke in. “You don’t want as Mr. Sigglet to have to come here. You know he doesn’t like the brat.”
Mrs. Fishpole picked up Meggin and held her against her chest for a moment. Her jaw was set very firmly, and Tom had the impression she would never recover from the mortification if she let a single tear fall. “If I’d had a daughter, Meggie, I’d want her to be just like you,” she said. “Now you go with the Reverend here because he’ll keep you safe. I can see it in his face. I want you to grow up to be a good girl.”
“I won’t!” Meggin cried. “I wants to stay here!”
Mrs. Fishpole handed Meggin to Tom. “You’d best go,” she said roughly. “She’s the most biddable girl usually.” For a moment her face crumpled and then she spun around and screamed at the hosteller: “Go on then! Fetch me a sausage pie from the pantry. What are you, crippled?”
Tom held the struggling little body close and walked out of the door to the accompliment of a howl of despair from Meggin, who was holding out her hands and struggling to get free.
“I don’t want to go!” she cried. “I don’t want to be a good girl. I want to be a cook, just like you, Mrs. Fishpole!”
And then, heartbreakingly, “Please?”
After listening to the pounding on the front door for a good ten minutes, Lina decided that Leke must have given the servants the evening off. Finally she traipsed downstairs dressed only in a French negligee, hoping that it would be one of Rees’s more prudish acquaintances so that she could watch him dither with embarrassment.
She carefully arranged her negligee so that the lace bits showed off all her best assets and pulled open the door with a flourish.
But it wasn’t anyone she’d seen before. A man dressed in a dusty black cloak was standing on the doorstep, clutching a sobbing child and accompanied by a sulky ostler with two boxes on his shoulder.
“Who the devil are you?” she demanded, knowing exactly who he must be. Rees only had one relative in the world, after all, and the man had Rees’s nose and mouth. But Rees never said that his oh-so-proper brother was married, nor that he was encumbered with a child. And he certainly never mentioned that the man was paying them a visit.
“Thomas Holland,” he said with a bow. “This is Meggin, and these are my boxes, as I’ve come to stay with my brother. More to the point, Madam, who are you?”
At that moment, the child, who had been eying Lina’s negligee with her swollen eyes, said in a choking wail, “I knows who she is! She’s the Whore of Babylon, she is! Mrs. Fishpole told me all about her. You’s lied to Mrs. Fishpole, and taken me to a house of sin!” She started screaming as loud as she could and kicking Rees’s brother in the leg.
Lina raised an eyebrow. This looked as if it might be a most complicated situation. She opened the door further and stepped back. “I gather the vicar is returning home,” she said sweetly. “If I’m the Whore of Babylon, wouldn’t I be dressed in scarlet and purple? Let me see…if I’m the Whore of Babylon, wouldn’t that make you John the Baptist?” She giggled and turned to go upstairs. “I suppose you can choose whatever bedchamber you wish, although I have to tell you that they are not as clean as one might wish. And I haven’t any idea about the condition of the nursery.”
She kept walking as she climbed the stairs, raising her voice above Meggin’s howls. “Rees will return sometime this evening, and until then you shall have to entertain yourself.”
“Where are the servants?” Rees’s brother asked, sounding desperate.
Lina ignored the question, pausing on her way up the stairs. “I may not be dressed for the part, but I just realized that I do know what the Whore of Babylon would sing. Popish hymns, wouldn’t it be? That’s what my father would have said. Alas, I don’t know any, so this will have to do.” And she burst into a magnificent rendition of O God Our Help in Ages Past.
Tom stared up at her, stupefied. Even Meggin stopped crying. The music rolled off the walls. She had the largest voice that Tom had ever heard, a gloriously rich, velvety, dangerous voice. At the very top of the stairs she paused and grinned down at him, looking the picture of a godless wench, her body softly gleaming through peach-colored silk, hair rippling past her shoulders, ruby lips laughing. “This is my favorite verse,” she announced. “Do pay attention. A thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone. Short as the watch that ends the night, before the rising sun.” She turned and kept singing, the words falling to them like silken rain as she walked away down a cor
ridor.
“Blimey!” the ostler muttered. “There’s a cracked-brained one, for you. Bedlam, this is.”
Tom stood absolutely still, staring up the stairs. He felt as if he’d been poleaxed. He could feel Meggin pulling at his hand, and he was aware that the ostler wanted to be paid for tossing his boxes to the ground. But the only thing he could think of was that girl’s rosy mouth, and the way she laughed, and the way her voice flew all the way to the rafters of the dusty antechamber, and (God forgive him) the way her hips swayed in that peach-colored negligee.
Eleven
Marital Consummation
“Well, for God’s sake, Helene, it’s not as if you’d be doing it for pleasure. At least I won’t give you a disease which, let me point out, is entirely possible if you dally with a Frenchman. Everyone knows that Frenchmen have the pox.”
“Not Mayne,” Helene said weakly. But in truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what the pox was. It didn’t sound pleasant.
Rees was down to his smalls now. “You get the pox from sleeping with the wrong sort of women,” he said, quite as if he weren’t unbuttoning his most intimate undergarments in Lady Hamilton’s music room.
“I will not do this with you!” Helene hissed.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to!”
“You can’t tell me that you were looking forward to doing the deed with Garret Langham,” Rees said reasonably. “He may be a very pretty man, but you and I both know that your body isn’t really suited to this sort of thing, is it?”
To her utter fury, there was no way to interpret his look but as honest sympathy.
“I’m sorry that Fairfax-Lacy went off and married Beatrix Lennox,” he continued. “But can you honestly tell me that you two were happy in bed?”
Helene swallowed. There was something even worse about being comforted by one’s husband than there had been in failing as a lover to Mr. Fairfax-Lacy.
“It’s the devil and truly unfair,” he was saying. “But don’t you see, Helene? If you’re that eager for a child, we might as well do the deed now and get it over with. At least it will be my child that inherits my estate. I couldn’t make Mayne’s child into an earl ahead of Tom’s son.”