His Lordship's Filly (19 page)

She heard Andrew’s deep deep sigh. “You want me to give them dowries, is that it?”

“Would you?” she asked, daring to raise her gaze to his. “Would you do that for me? It would relieve my mind no end.”

He was frowning fiercely, and she held her breath, waiting for him to tell her he wouldn’t do it, that he had reached the end of his patience about these girls.

She couldn’t really blame him. He’d been most generous.

She would have to think of something else, find some other way to help them. She had very little money. What else was there that was her own? Nothing but Waterloo. She couldn’t give him up, but the girls—

She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “You said, you said that Waterloo was mine. I’ll give him—to you. If—” She had to try twice to get the words out over the great lump. “If—If you—have to—sell him—to get enough—”

Andrew held her off at arm’s length, his expression incredulous. “My God, Bridget, stop it!” He shook her lightly. “You should know I’d never sell your horse! The horse you love!” He pulled her to him. “What kind of monster do you think I am? If the girls mean that much to you, I’ll see to it that they’re taken care of. I promise you.” He smoothed her hair, dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll go tomorrow to my solicitor—and have a trust set up for them.”

“And guardians?” Bridget asked anxiously. “I have to be sure they’re really safe.”

“Yes,” he said, “guardians, too. Aunt Sophie and Peter both. Will that set your heart at rest?”

She reached up to kiss him soundly. “Yes, Andrew, it will. Thank you. You’re a good man. Very good to me. I love you, you know.” And she proceeded to show him how much.

Chapter Twenty

The days passed, bright beautiful summer days that Andrew enjoyed like he’d enjoyed no others he could remember. And one August afternoon he met Peter at White’s.

“There he is,” Peter said, looking up with that devilish smile of his. “The man who lives in Lady Haverly’s pocket. Or so all London whispers.”

“So that’s what they’re saying.” Andrew grinned. “I don’t really care.” He opened his arms wide, so happy he wanted to embrace the whole world. “Look at me, Peter, just look at me!”

Peter whistled speculatively. “I’m looking. What am I supposed to see?”

Laughing, Andrew settled into his chair. “You see before you the happiest man in all London.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Indeed! If my memory serves me right, you used to be the most notorious man in all London. Busy with this lady and that, this not-lady and that. And now—now you’re the most besotted of men.” He grinned again. “Besotted, of all things, with your own wife! So, tell me, what has occasioned this marvelous transformation?”

“You know,” Andrew said, conscious that he was grinning foolishly. “It’s Bridget. I have a beautiful wife—the most beautiful woman in all London.”

“You’re right about that,” Peter said. “I’ve always believed her beautiful.” He raised the other eyebrow. “Your marriage appears to be flourishing. And I take it the little girls are behaving themselves well.”

Andrew smiled. “I can’t believe I made such a fuss about her taking them in. They’re sweet little things.”
He
laughed sheepishly. “You don’t know what it’s like, my friend, to have two little girls hanging on your every word, looking at you adoringly like you were—were—”

“God?” Peter inquired devilishly. “You forget, I’ve been there at the house with you. I’ve seen them adoring you. Yes, I think God fills the bill.”

Still feeling foolish, Andrew laughed again. “Well, almost. But seriously, my friend, fatherhood is beginning to look to me like a rather interesting business.” He sighed expansively. “You know, I believe I shall actually enjoy it.”

Peter nodded. “Well, it certainly sounds like life is treating you well.”

“It is,” Andrew said. “Very well. And Bridget has even kept her promise.”

“What promise is that?” Peter inquired innocently, helping himself to some more wine.

Andrew extended his glass to be filled. “Oh yes, I didn’t tell you. When we took in the second child, she promised me she would never race again. And she has kept her promise. Kept it admirably. Oh yes,” he repeated. “I am a fortunate man. Life could not be better.”

Pouring his wine, Peter frowned. “I hesitate to say this to a man in your obvious state of euphoria, my friend, but when life cannot be better, you’d best beware. It inevitably gets worse.”

Andrew sipped slowly, refusing to feel concern. “Come now, Peter, you’re getting to be a crotchety old man afraid of the dark. Bridget loves me. I love her. What could go wrong?”

* * * *

Andrew recalled their conversation the next afternoon when the letter arrived from his steward in Scotland. He didn’t want to leave Bridget—actually he hated to leave her, to be away from her at all, but from the tone of McFarland’s letter his presence there at the estate was just about a necessity.

So, sighing, he went to find his wife. Mrs. Purvey told him she was in the sitting room with the little girls, directing their stitching. He watched them from the doorway for a moment—the very picture of familial bliss. Perhaps one day before too long there would be a babe in a cradle. His babe.

“Busy, are you?” he asked cheerfully. All three of them looked up, smiling when they saw him.

“Andrew,” Bridget cried happily. “Come in. We’re stitching again. The girls are doing so much better.” She shifted her gaze to the letter in his hand. “Have you news there?”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, from McFarland. I told you about him—my steward in Scotland. I’m afraid it’s not particularly good news either. There’s some land of problem and he writes that he needs me there.”

Her smile slowly faded. But his heart lifted to see it—this physical indication that she didn’t want him to go away, even for few days. “Does that mean you must go?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.” He paused. “Why don’t you come along with me?”

Her growing smile made his heart beat faster. “To Scotland, you mean?”

“Yes, you know I hate to be away from you.”

He could almost see her thinking, considering all the ramifications of going with him. She glanced down at the girls. “But if I go, what about them? Can they come along?”

Andrew frowned. Much as he wanted her with him, he had to tell her the truth. “It’s a long journey, Bridget. And it’s hard on children—even good children like these,” he smiled at the girls, “to be cooped up in a carriage for hours on end like that.”

When the little girls moved closer to her, as though fearing her departure, Bridget sighed. “I’d like to go with you, Andrew, but I suppose I’d better not. It wouldn’t be good to leave them so soon.”

She looked so forlorn he couldn’t bear it, so he hurried to reassure her. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll make it as fast as I can. I shouldn’t be away more than a week. While I’m gone, you can make plans to finish redecorating your bedchamber.”

Bridget nodded. “That’s true. So many things keep interfering that I’ve hardly had time to look at materials. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. When you get back, we’ll have all our choices made.”

* * * *

The first two days that Andrew was gone passed so slowly that Bridget thought each one as long as a year. It was dreadful the way she missed him. But she spent even more time with the girls. There was so much to teach them. So much they needed to learn.

And she engaged them and Peggy in the enjoyable task of viewing fabric swatches for the new bedroom furnishings. Though it was fun, it was hard to keep her mind on redecorating. She kept wanting Andrew—to hear his voice, to see his smile, to touch his hand.

The second afternoon, she was closeted with the girls, discussing bed hangings, when Purvey appeared in the doorway, his usually bland face perturbed. “A man, your Ladyship, an Irishman. He says he’s your father.”

“Papa?” Bridget got to her feet. She’d been neglecting him shamefully since the girls came; she hadn’t been out to the stables for days. Was that what had brought him here? “Show him in,” she said.

When Purvey left, barely keeping himself from shaking his head, she turned to the little girls. “You’re going to meet my papa. Remember I told you about him?”

Elsie nodded, but her eyes looked worried. “You said he’s nice. He don’t—he doesn’t beat you.”

“That’s right,” Bridget said. “You mustn’t be afraid of him.” She gave them each a hug. “He talks loud, but he won’t hurt you.”

“All right, lady,” Molly said, “if you says so.”

When Papa came in, his face looking worried, Bridget left the girls and went to hug him. “Papa! It’s so good to see you! I’m sorry I haven’t been out to the stables lately. I’ve been terribly busy with the girls.”

He returned her hug. “Never mind that, Bridget, me girl. I understand. So, these here are the little ones ye sent word about.” He looked down at the girls who had come to hang onto her skirts.

“Yes, Papa. This is Elsie and this is Molly. Aren’t they wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” Papa repeated, smiling down at them. “And pretty, too.” The girls smiled at that—and when he reached in his pocket and pulled out two pennies, pressing one into each of their hands, they actually giggled. Then he turned to her. “Bridget, girl, I need to talk to ye. Alone, if ye please.”

When he looked like that—his eyes so worried, his face all wrinkled up in a great frown—it was serious. “Of course, Papa.” She turned to the girls. “Elsie, Molly, why don’t you go out to the kitchen to Mrs. Purvey? I think it was about now she was going to teach you about making bread.”

“Yes, lady.”

She watched them go, shut the door softly behind them, and turned anxiously to him. “All right, Papa. Tell me what it is. Is there something I can do to help you?”

Papa pulled his pipe from his pocket. “Kin I smoke in here? Will Andrew mind?”

“Of course not.” She swallowed. She didn’t like the sound of this. Something must be terribly wrong. “Sit down, Papa.”

He shook his head. “Thanks no, girl. I think better on me feet.” He filled his pipe, tamping it firmly. “ ‘Tis a hard thing I’ve come to tell ye, a real hard thing. And ye see, I just don’t know how to go on about it.”

And then it struck her! Her heart pounded in her throat. Her hands went all sweaty. “Andrew! Dear God, something has happened to Andrew!” Shaking, she reached out. “Papa, please, what is it? Tell me!”

“No, no!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Bridget, girl, stop it now! ‘Tis nothing about Andrew I’ve come to tell ye. I haven’t seen Andrew these many days. This thing— ’Tis about me.”

The breath left her lungs in a great whoosh of relief. “Papa, please! Whatever it is, then, just tell me! Tell me now.”

He lit his pipe, puffing till it was going well. “I’ll tell ye, girl, but ‘tis shamed I am by it. Real shamed.”

She sank into a chair, pleating her hands together anxiously in her lap. “Papa, no matter what you’ve done, you know I love you.”

He sighed. “I know, girl. I know. ‘Tis a longish story, so bear with me while I tell it.”

“Yes, Papa.” She tried to lean back in the chair, tried to look patient.

“I got to go back some, to before the race.” He clutched his pipe. “Wichersham came out to the stables. You ‘member the day?”

She nodded. “Yes. I was working a colt. I heard you yell, ‘No,’ but that was all I could hear.”

Papa scowled. “He made me that angry, the rotter! He had me IOUs. Lots of—”

She stared up at him. “So he was the one! Andrew told me he paid your debts, but he didn’t say it was to Wichersham.”

“Aye,” Papa said. “Wichersham bought up me vowels.” He swallowed. “Andrew told me ye knew ‘bout the IOUs, but not who bought them.” He sighed. “Well, it were like this—he had me vowels and he said he’d take the stallion in exchange.”

“Waterloo?” She thought she would faint away. “Papa, you couldn’t! You couldn’t give Waterloo to that horrible man!”

Papa nodded. “Course I couldn’t! I know ye love that animal—more ‘an life itself, I’m thinking.”

She swallowed, trying to get calm. There must be more, else why was Papa there? “Papa, what else did Wichersham say to you that day?”

He avoided her gaze. “I didn’t want to tell ye. I couldn’t. The bounder—he wanted the stallion—or— or—” He puffed furiously.

She kept her gaze on him, waiting, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
“Or what? Go on, Papa. Tell me all of it.”

“He wanted—” Papa cried, his face gone scarlet. “He said he’d take ye instead of the blunt. Make ye his—his—oh Lord, girl, I can’t say it!”

“Oh, Papa!” Leaping to her feet, she hurried to his side. “Oh, that horrible man! How could he?”

Papa’s scowl got fiercer. “He ain’t got no heart, that’s how. Ye can always tell a bad ‘un from the way he treats his stock. And you know how bad he were to
them.”
He frowned. “I’d of gone to prison, but I had to think about ye. I couldn’t be sure what’d happen to ye—and the horse.”

Bridget backed off. That explained the whole curious thing. “Papa! The race!”

“Aye,” he said, his face reddening even more in embarrassment. “That race with Sable, it were fixed.”

“Fixed!” She could hardly believe her ears. Her own father doing such a terrible thing. “Papa, how could you?”

“I had to save ye,” he said stubbornly. “The both of ye. And that were the only thing I could think of.”

“So you set up the race—and the wager,” she said, still hardly believing it.

“Aye.”

She stared at him—her own father cheating. “I wondered why Waterloo lost that race. I couldn’t understand it.”

“ ‘Twas all I could think of to do. I knew his Lordship,” Papa went on. “He’d been coming out there long enough fer me to trust him. I knew he’d do right by ye.”

She took a deep breath. As always Papa had done his best for her. “And he has,” she said. “It’s all right, Papa. We’re both safe.”

“Aye.” Papa sighed deeply. “I thought so at the time. I thought I done right. But it weren’t enough. Ye ain’t safe.”

Her heart began to pound again. Oh no! This sounded even more frightening. “Oh, Papa, now what?”

“Wichersham, what else?” Papa cried, letting go with a string of curses that burned her ears. “He’s got his hands on some more of me notes.”