His Lordship's Filly (18 page)

One afternoon Aunt Sophie came upon them while Bridget was industriously helping the girls practice their stitches. Hearing Aunt Sophie’s chuckle, Bridget looked up.

“It’s just that you present an amusing picture,” Aunt Sophie said. “Short weeks ago you couldn’t do a decent stitch. And now look at you!”

Bridget grinned. “Yes, I know. Look, I’ve fitted them each out with a basket, complete with design, needle, and yarn. They’re learning fast, too.” She chuckled. “I thought being a lady was dreadfully dull, but now that I have the girls I’m almost beginning to like it.”

Aunt Sophie smiled. “You’re an unusual lady, Bridget. Many ladies have little regard for those less fortunate than themselves. Would we had more who cared like you do.”

Elsie raised her head, her face alight, her eyes shining. The needle poised in one tiny hand, she said, “She’s an angel, our lady. A real angel.”

Molly nodded, her little face screwed
up intently. “She’s good, she is. She give up racing ‘er—
her
horse.”

“Now, Molly,” Bridget interrupted. She certainly didn’t want that promise bruited about. The
ton
had enough to gossip about as it was. “That’s—”

“But lady,” the child hurried on and Bridget hadn’t the heart to stop her. “You did promise.” She looked toward her sister for confirmation and Elsie nodded. “I heard you, I did,” Molly insisted. “You told ‘im—
him—
that if you was bad and raced again you’d git outta his life.”

Aunt Sophie sat down with a thud, her face turning white. “My word, Bridget! You actually promised Andrew that?”

Seeing the children staring at each other in fright, Bridget said softly, “Yes, I promised. But it wasn’t that much, really it wasn’t—I’m tired of racing anyhow.” That wasn’t true, of course, but she didn’t want the girls to be upset by this talk. Their safety meant more than racing, even racing Waterloo.

She stopped Aunt Sophie’s reply by turning immediately to the girls. “You’ve stitched enough for now. Run off to the kitchen and tell Cook to give you milk and cookies. And be sure to remember your manners.”

Carefully the girls replaced their sewing in their individual baskets. Then they got to their feet and, hand in hand, decorously left for the kitchen.

Bridget felt her heart swelling with pride. “Aren’t they just wonderful? They’re learning so fast. You know, Aunt Sophie, I like taking care of them. I think I’m going to be a good mother.”

Aunt Sophie came erect, putting a hand to her startled mouth. “Bridget! You’re not already—”

Bridget laughed. “No, no, Aunt Sophie. Of course not.” She smiled happily. “But when I am, I shall not mind it. Not in the least.”

Aunt Sophie settled back in her chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re not
enceinte
now. I simply couldn’t cope with that at present.” She twisted her wedding ring. “You know, Bridget dear, I’ve been meaning to tell you. You’re doing very well in learning the ways of the
ton.
Why, last week when Lady Jersey came to call, you were the pattern card of perfection. You never mentioned horses to her at all.”

“I’m trying hard,” Bridget said. And she was. But from the look on Aunt Sophie’s face, maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough. Why did the
ton
have to be so particular about things? She sighed. “All right, you might as well tell me. I can see it from your expression that I’m still doing something wrong.”

Aunt Sophie sighed, twisting the ring some more. “It’s not exactly
wrong,
dear,” she said rather sadly. “It’s just— well—the way you’re raising the girls.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m raising the girls?” Bridget asked. If she was doing something wrong, she wanted to know. She wouldn’t for the world hurt those precious little girls.

“You’re raising them like ladies,” Aunt Sophie said. “And they are not.”

“I’m helping them improve themselves,” Bridget said. “Surely no harm can come of that.”

Aunt Sophie sighed deeply. “But it can. Think, my dear. You’re giving them false expectations. They cannot hope to marry well.” She frowned. “They have no dowries. And so unless they’re great beauties, they will be passed over in the marriage mart. If that happens, they’ll be fortunate to snag a tradesman. And if they’re not successful there, they’ll marry a poor man—or end up back on the streets.”

“Never!” Bridget cried. “I won’t let that happen to them.” The thought of either of them having to sell flowers again put a cold chill through her. And Aunt Sophie wasn’t just talking about selling flowers. She was talking about something far worse, something Bridget couldn’t even bear to consider.

“You won’t be able to prevent it,” Aunt Sophie pointed out unhappily. “You have no power, no funds. Too bad your father couldn’t settle a dowry on you. Something of your own.”

“But he did,” Bridget replied. “He gave me Waterloo.”

“Hardly a proper dowry,” Aunt Sophie said with a sad little smile. “But never mind. Perhaps I’m refining over much on the subject. They are both safe for now. That should be enough.”

They went back to their stitching then, letting the subject drop, but Bridget’s mind would give her no rest, presenting her with one horrifying picture after another—the girls hungry and cold, huddled in a doorway, beaten by angry men, trampled by carriage horses. A hundred horrible possibilities followed one another through her mind in terrifying progression.

Her fingers went on steadily stitching, but her heart was cold. Something had to be done. And it had to be done right away. She would not be able to sleep until she was assured of the girls’ safety.

The Lindens’ carriage pulled up at the house at the same time as Andrew’s. Too late he recognized it—too late to keep on, too late to run away, too late to do anything but pin a false smile on his face and try to look pleased to see the last people on the earth he wanted to see. He knew his smile would not convince anyone who knew him, but he did his best, determined not to give these prattling talebearers any more ammunition in their war against Bridget.

“Lord Haverly,” Lady Linden gushed, swinging around to face him and almost decapitating her daughter with her huge hat in the process. “How wonderful to see you! I was hoping you’d be at home.”

At least she didn’t know what he was thinking—that he wished he were
not
at home, wished it devoutly.

He sighed. Today she was wearing a greenish-yellow monstrosity, in a particularly bilious shade that reminded him a great deal of pond slime. Obviously the woman needed a new dressmaker, someone with some sense of style and color.

“Good day,” he said. Good breeding insisted that he work hard at being pleasant. “Come to visit Bridget, have you?”

“Oh yes, Lord Haverly.” This time it was the daughter who was gushing. Did these two never say anything in a normal tone of voice?

“Come in,” he said, the lie sticking between his teeth. “Bridget will be glad to see you.”

Inside, he waited while Purvey took their bonnets. Then he led their guests into the sitting room.

Bridget looked up from the little girls, a smile on her face when she spied him, the smile fading when she glimpsed their visitors behind him.

“Look who’s here,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “The Lindens have come to call on us.”

Bridget remained silent, reaching out to draw the little girls protectively close. He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

The girls, in turn, stood timidly staring at the monstrous bulk in front of them, their faces wreathed in amazement at such a sight.

“Good day, Lady Linden. Martine.” Aunt Sophie rose from a chair near the hearth and graciously approached the visitors. “Sorry we haven’t returned your call yet. We’ve been rather busy with Bridget’s newest altruistic endeavor. Such sweet little girls.”

“Yes, indeed.” Lady Linden’s eyes gleamed with avid curiosity. She fastened her gaze on the little girls, who shrank back against Bridget. “Blond, the both of them,” Lady Linden said, shifting her gaze pointedly to Bridget’s auburn curls.

When Bridget didn’t answer but drew the girls closer still, Aunt Sophie spoke again. “They’re very good girls. Bridget has done wonders with them.”

“Like a regular little mother,” Lady Linden observed, in a tone that conveyed much more than the words.

Andrew restrained himself, but he wanted to shove his fist down the prattler’s throat, to hit her over the head with a blunt object. Anything to shut her big red mouth and wipe that look of growing aversion off his wife’s pale face.

Aunt Sophie sent him a calming look; probably she could tell how close he was to erupting in outraged anger. “Yes,” she said calmly, soothingly. “Bridget will make an excellent mother—when she is ready to begin her family.”

Martine paused in her circuit of the room. She set down the Sevres shepherdess she was examining and snickered, but before she could make any comment, Bridget smiled lovingly at the little girls. “Mrs. Purvey will be waiting for you. Go now for your lessons.”

“Yes, lady,” the little girls chorused. Thank God, Andrew thought, that she hadn’t encouraged them to call her Mother! What the Lindens would make of that!

He watched them go, watched Bridget turn back to the visitors, a patently false smile on her face. “I hear that Farrington’s Folly has a learned pig,” she said, in an obvious effort to change the topic of conversation.

Martine put down a fragile vase with a thud that made him wince and almost reach out to rescue the
objet
from destruction. “Yes,” she said, with a superior smirk. “I’ve seen it. It’s nothing special. There’s a trick to it, of course.”

One look at Bridget’s face told him she was near losing all patience. And no wonder. His own patience was fading fast. “What is the trick?” he inquired, rather more sharply than he wished. “Explain it to me.”

Martine pursed her thin mouth in disgust. “How should I know what the trick is? I just know no animal can be that smart. It’s just ridiculous to think they can function like humans.”

 That did it. He saw Bridget’s mouth opening. He was surprised she’d contained herself this long. “Animals are very intelligent,” she insisted. “And if it is a trick, well, the pig has to be smart to learn it. Horses are very intelligent. I know that.”

Martine snickered even louder. “Horses again. With you it’s always horses.”

Bridget straightened, her mouth firming into a grim line. “Yes, horses.”

Lady Linden smiled, a smile so false it practically curdled his blood. “I hear that you are a great racer,” she said to Bridget.

“Oh yes, I like to race,” Bridget replied. “Feeling the wind in your face and a swift horse between—”

“Yes,” Andrew interrupted hastily. “But you can get the same effect with a good fast gallop.”

“Not exactly,” Bridget said. “In a gallop there’s no competition. Competition heightens it.”

“It must be most exciting,” Lady Linden cooed, clapping her hands gleefully. “Why, I know several people who’ve said they’d love to race you and your wonderful Waterloo.”

He held his breath. How would Bridget respond to this, this almost dare on Lady Linden’s part? Should he interfere?

He decided in favor of keeping his mouth shut. Bridget had made a promise. And he would trust her to keep it.

She shrugged eloquently. “Racing is fun, but I no longer race. I—”

“No longer!” Lady Linden cried, clasping her hands to her ample breast in exaggerated dismay. “Oh, Lord Wichersham will be most disappointed.”

“Wichersham?” Bridget repeated, her voice rising.
“He
wants a race with me?”

“Indeed yes,” Lady Linden continued. “Why, the man can speak of nothing else.”

It was time to interfere, Andrew judged, before Bridget forgot she was a lady and said something she shouldn’t. “Speaking of horses,” he said, pulling out his watch and glancing at it, nonchalantly he hoped, “surely, Bridget, you haven’t forgotten that we’ve promised to meet Peter for a ride in Hyde Park? And the hour is rapidly approaching.”

He looked at her, hoping by a warning wink to keep her from starting in surprise at news of this appointment he’d just made up. He was grateful to see realization dawning on her face. “Oh yes,” she cried, almost gaily, glancing at the mantel clock with a smile. “We don’t want to keep Peter waiting. He loves our rides so.”

“Then you’d best run along and change into your habit,” Aunt Sophie said, getting into the game with her best smile. “I’m sure our guests won’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Lady Linden agreed, turning her bulk toward the clock. “My, it is late. Later than I thought. Martine and I must be going, too. So many calls to make. And so little time.”

Of course, he thought, she’d gotten what she’d come for. More gossip to carry about the city.

When she hoisted her bulk to her feet, Bridget rose, too, sending him a half-anxious glance.

“Go along and change,” he told her. “I’ll just see our guests out.”

* * * *

It wasn’t till bedtime that Bridget had the opportunity to speak to Andrew. When he opened the door from his room and came in wearing his dressing gown, he was smiling. “Well, we’ve survived another visit from the Lindens. And you handled yourself very well.”

She managed a rueful smile. “You know that I wouldn’t have received them if they’d come a little earlier—or a little later. Not with you. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why anyone speaks to them at all. They’re such terrible people.”

“I know,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “But it’s over now.”

Of course he would say that, not mentioning that they would be back. People like them were always out there, ready to harm the girls. “Andrew?”

“Yes, my love?”

She leaned against his chest, relishing his closeness. There was such comfort in his arms. “I want to ask you something.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck. “Then ask away,” he said, running a trail of more kisses down to her shoulder. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m worried about the girls.”

He drew back, looking down at her from dark troubled eyes. “They look fine to me. Just fine.”

“I know, but we were talking earlier today, Aunt Sophie and I. And she said some things about what will happen to the girls when they grow up. They have no family, no portions, no dowries. If something happens to us, they won’t be safe. And that troubles me greatly.”