The Clergyman's Daughter

As Jessica Foxe stepped out of the receiving office into the freshening October breeze, she heard the bells begin to ring, announcing the arrival in town of some person of importance. Despite the watery sunshine the afternoon was chill, the salty air damp and heavy with the promise of fog by nightfall, and she wondered idly what notable had chosen to grace Brighthelmstone with his presence so long after the Season had ended. By now the members of the
ton
—who during the summer had flocked like tropical birds to the sleepy little seaside village for a few raucous weeks, turning it into a glittering carnival known familiarly as Brighton—had all migrated once more, this time to their winter habitats, there to garner their waning energies as they awaited the “Little” Season of Christmastide. During the cold months, when the sand on the beaches was damp and clammy and mist lay like a shroud in the streets, the town was home only to fishermen and their families, a few tenacious shopkeepers, pensioners, and cast-off mistresses—people like Jessica, who had nowhere else to go.

A gust of wind whipped around Jessica, fluttering her long black veil. She caught it impatiently and adjusted the folds so that once more it hung smoothly from the deep brim of her somber bonnet that was covered with inky crepe the color of her hair. Shivering, she pulled her pelisse tighter about her slender shoulders, trying to ignore the cold that pierced the thin fabric like a bodkin. Clutching her newspapers and the familiar envelope from Mssrs. Haxton and Welles, Engravers and Publishers of Clerkenwell, London, she quickened her step. When she left the house earlier in the afternoon, she had thought that if her monthly letter had indeed arrived, she would go directly to her bank to deposit the draft it contained. But instead, before she could reach the receiving office, the fickle sun had lost its warmth, and bleak, threatening clouds loomed on the horizon. She could feel a cough growing with burning insistence deep in her chest, and she knew she needed to go home.

She hurried along the plank sidewalk, heedless of the occasional eyes that turned appreciatively to watch her progress. With the Peninsular War apparently doomed to go on forever, with politicians squabbling and Canning and Castlereagh actually fighting a duel over the best way to end it, the sight of women garbed in deepest mourning was increasingly less uncommon, but even the anonymity of her weeds could not disguise the womanly curves of Jessica’s slim body or the youthful grace of her step. When the Brighton season had been at its height, Jessica had been careful never to venture out without Willa, her maid and companion, firmly at her side, to discourage the importunings of any bucks, young or otherwise, who might have been disinclined to respect her bereavement. Now that the gentry had gone elsewhere in their never-ending search for amusement, Jessica knew the townspeople would leave her unmolested. Her only wish was that she had had the good sense to borrow Willa’s cloak to wear over her rather threadbare pelisse.

Willa had suggested the loan, but just then the feeble sunshine had looked so inviting to Jessica through the shuttered windows of the cottage, and her maid had already been so voluble in her disapproval of Jessica’s going outside at all when she had only just recovered from a debilitating cold, that as usual Jessica’s hackles had risen alarmingly at the first sign of opposition and she had refused to heed anything Willa said. “I
must
get out of here for a while!” Jessica had snapped irritably, gesturing around the dark interior of the modest parlor, “I’ve not been abroad for over three weeks, and if I don’t get some sunlight soon, I’ll probably come down with a green sickness!”

Willa, dandling the baby on the settle next to the fireplace, regarded her mistress with outward calm. At nineteen, two years Jessica’s junior, Willa Brown had an extensive and practical knowledge of human nature, and as she studied the other woman’s set features, slanting emerald eyes wide and intense in a pale, shadowed face, she knew that further objections would only bring on another outburst. “Aye,” she said quietly, “I’m not questioning your wish to walk out a bit. That’s understandable enough, but please remember, if you take a fever again, your milk will dry up”—Willa’s work-hardened hands delicately stroked the infant’s red curls—“and then what will become of this little one?”

As Jessica had gazed down tenderly at her daughter, cradled lovingly in Willa’s arms, her hands had risen to cup her rounded breasts in an unconscious gesture of protection, as if guarding the vital fluid that filled them, the palpable link that still connected her to her child, and through her, to her husband. “I’ll take no chances, Willa,” she had reassured firmly. “I’ll be back long before Lottie’s next feeding. You know I’d never do anything that might hurt my baby. Besides, I’m certain the weather will remain quite mild….”

Mild,
she thought ironically. She pressed the newspapers close against her bosom, relishing the tiny bit of extra protection they afforded her against the sharp breeze that assailed her. She forced her tired feet to move still faster as cold air licked at her ankles. By what right did she, a child of the Midlands, dare to offer opinion on the state of the climate here at the seaside? She had seen sailors raise their craggy faces to the sky and comment sagely on the shape of clouds and the color of the setting sun, predicting with uncanny accuracy a storm that might not arrive for several days. When she looked to the sky, she saw its beauty as depicted by painters she admired, the turbulence of Turner or the serenity of Constable, but its mysteries remained hidden from her. In the year and more since she and Willa had fled from Renard Chase, absconding with the precious secret she had carried undetected beneath her heart, Jessica had learned about despair and anger and self-sufficiency, but nothing of the sea.

Behind her, the sound of hooves fast approaching and the high-pitched rattle of some light rig, utterly different from the low rumble of the heavy carts the draymen drove, caught her attention, and she glanced back curiously, assuming this was the arrival the bells had announced. From the far end of the street a sleek curricle raced toward her, drawn by a matched pair of geldings so lathered and mud-spattered that their ebony flanks looked dingy gray. Behind the shelter of her long veil Jessica sneered with disgust at such wanton mistreatment of a pair of beautiful animals. Since moving to the seaside, she had learned that the London-to-Brighton-and-back circuit was a favorite challenge among young Corinthians, and more than once she had seen a team driven almost to death by a so-called nobleman who considered some paltry wager of greater consequence than the well-being of his horses. In fact, one of Erinys’ earliest cartoons had dealt with just such an incident….

Aware that the inclement weather made racing hazardous for the driver as well as his cattle, her green eyes narrowed as she peered beneath the folding calash of the chaise to see if she could identify him. During her abortive introduction to the
ton,
Jessica had learned to recognize many members of that restricted group on sight, although few had deigned to acknowledge her in return—a small loss, she was inclined to think. Her veil obscured her vision somewhat, and as the curricle drew ever nearer at first she had only an impression of size and power, a massive figure cloaked in a many-caped riding coat, large hands gripping the reins tightly, intent features shadowed by a high-crowned beaver hat pulled low over his wide brow.

Then, just as the curricle pulled abreast of Jessica, a gust of wind caught under the edge of her veil and lifted it upward, clearing her vision. The newspapers slipped through her fingers and fell unimpeded to the sidewalk as, rigid with shock, she stared into the harsh, set face of her brother-in-law, Graham Foxe, the fifth Earl of Raeburn.

Perhaps it was the flutter of the loose papers, she thought later, that made him look in her direction as he raced past her, that or the weird, scraping cry of a seagull overhead—or, more likely, the mischievous prank of some bored demon—but just in that fraction of an instant when her face was uncovered, Raeburn lifted his gaze from its intense scrutiny of the road before him, and as Jessica gaped at him from across the expanse of the damp, rutted roadbed, his gray eyes stared directly into her white face.

As quickly as it had happened, the moment was past. The curricle roared on, headed for the beachfront, and Jessica’s veil fell in place once more, covering the mittened hand that clamped tightly over her quivering mouth, holding back the strangled cry that threatened to issue from her lips. Clumsily she scooped up the newspapers and the precious envelope that tumbled end over end along the planking, then she stumbled backward, into the shelter of a shopfront doorway. After a breathless moment she peeked furtively around the corner to gaze after the receding vehicle. She fully expected to see him likewise peering back at her as he reined in his horses, but relief flooded her slim body as she realized that the chaise had not veered from its breakneck course, nor had it slowed. He must not have recognized her. For yet a while longer, she and her child were safe…. Clutching her load over her pounding heart, Jessica slipped around a corner and hurried the rest of the way to her cottage along back streets.

By the time she reached the welcome shelter of her home and at last could escape the wind that whipped ever stronger through the narrow streets, carrying with it the dank odor of the gray water of the Channel, Jessica was chilled and coughing. She stumbled into the overheated atmosphere of her little kitchen, where Willa knelt before the fire to stir a steaming kettle, while with her other hand she tried to rock the squawling baby in her cradle. When Willa saw Jessica, she exclaimed with relief, “You’re back! This little lady has been screaming ever since—” She choked back her words as her mistress dumped her bundle onto the scoured tabletop. Jessica yanked off her bonnet and veil and collapsed into a chair, her face pallid under the pleated edge of her black widow’s cap.

“Good Lord, what’s happened?” Willa gasped, dropping her spoon onto the hearth with a clatter and rushing to Jessica’s side. “You look like death. What have you done to yourself?” Jessica shook her head helplessly, trying to find her voice. Willa’s rough hand touched Jessica’s forehead experimentally, while with her other she chafed her cold fingers. “You’re feverish, and your hands are like ice, and after I warned you so particular about—”

Hoarsely Jessica croaked, “Raeburn’s here.”

The baby’s hungry cries almost drowned out her words, and Willa, uncertain she had heard correctly, asked, “What did you say?”

“I said—” Jessica began again, louder, but she broke off when she saw her daughter’s tiny fists wave indignantly in the air. “Here, you’d better give Lottie to me,” she said as she quickly unbuttoned her bodice over her swollen breast. Willa handed over the swaddled baby, whose famished wails soon changed to slurpy sighs of infant contentment. Distracted by that first moment of communion with her child, Jessica smiled lovingly at her, stroking her small perfect head and shaping a soft coppery curl around the tip of one fingernail. But when she looked at Willa again, who had returned to the hearth, her green eyes were apprehensive. Coughing slightly, Jessica repeated, “I saw Raeburn.”

Willa glanced at her sharply. Beneath the voluminous mob-cap, her plain round face was wary. “Did he see you?”

Jessica shrugged in confusion. “I don’t know. He could have.” She tried to remain cool, but by the time she had sketched the details of that chance encounter to her friend, she was trembling. “Oh, damnation, why he had to come today of all days, the first time I’ve been out of the house in weeks—”

“Miss Jess,” Willa reproved sternly, consciously trying to soothe the agitation her usually sensible mistress displayed whenever she mentioned the earl, “we’ve always known there was a possibility he might find you again. It was a risk you accepted when you ran away…. If you want my opinion, you’ve been lucky not to be spotted before this. England’s not so big a country, not like, say, America or—”

“That’s what I should have done,” Jessica said jerkily. “I should have emigrated. Things would have been different in America. Andrew and I used to talk about—”

“Miss Jess!” Willa snapped, banging the spoon on the edge of the kettle. Jessica jumped at the noise, blinking hard. “Miss Jess,” Willa repeated, more softly, “compose yourself. You’re not thinking right. You’re sinking your boats when you don’t know for certain that His Lordship even recognized you. If he passed you on the streets as quick as you say, then truly, he probably paid you no heed at all; ‘twas but an accident that made him seem to look in your direction.”

Jessica coughed again, disturbing the baby, who fussed for a moment and then bit at the nipple with greater force. Grimacing, Jessica said quietly, “I’m sorry, Willa. You’re right, of course. It’s just that—you know how that man that addles me—”

“More likely, you’ve not yet recovered from your cold,” Willa pointed out, relaxing when she saw that Jessica had regained her composure once more. “The mind can’t work when the body’s not right…. If you’ll finish tending to the little one there, as soon as she is tucked safely back
in
her cradle, I’ll fix a hot brick for your feet and a bowl of the restorative broth I made yesterday. When you’re warm and settled, you’ll be more in a state to think calmly.”