The Clergyman's Daughter (11 page)

Flora shrugged meaningfully. “The woman Willa has on several occasions made journeys into the village, ostensibly as recreation for her half holidays, but at intervals far more frequent than is usually granted for domestics. This in itself might be due to no more than the regrettable indulgence of a too-lax mistress, except that Willa Brown has also been observed carrying packets to the shop that serves as receiving office for the mail, and once or twice she appears to have picked up letters that were waiting there.”

“The wench is a Londoner,” Raeburn said shortly. “Perhaps she has family she writes to.” Even as he spoke, he realized how lame that explanation was. The girl had never had anyone except a gin-soaked monster of a father who had sold her to the flesh peddlers for the price of a few bottles of Blue Ruin. Now she had only Jessica, for whom she would readily have sacrificed the tattered remnants of her soul….

“But, Graham,” Flora added triumphantly, “according to the shopkeeper, the letters come directed to”—she made a significant pause—“ ‘J.F.’ ”

Raeburn’s wide mouth tightened grimly. “I see, Aunt. I had no idea you were so well informed. Dare I ask whether the shopkeeper also made note of the destination of Willa’s mysterious parcels?”

“There was no name, but the address was somewhere in Clerkenwell.”

“Clerkenwell?” Raeburn repeated, puzzled, as he wondered what attraction there could possibly be for Jessica in a drab district of London notable only for an indifferent school, some print shops, and a jail. Perhaps, he thought wildly, with her penchant for attending the downtrodden, she had begun corresponding with convicts? He blinked, ruffling his fair hair with his fingers, and when he looked up at Flora, he was appalled to find her watching him intently, her bristly upper lip curved into a smile of undisguised gloating. Damn the old tattlemonger, she had always hated Jess, he realized now; jealous, no doubt, of her youth and beauty and the deference she received as his brother’s wife. Even when Andy was alive, Flora had tried to undercut Jessica’s position in the household—always in the guise of following Raeburn’s wishes—and thinking back, he was sure that it must have been Flora whom Jessica had overheard that last night plotting to get rid of “the upstart drawing teacher.” It sounded just like her.

His deep voice spelling dismissal, Raeburn said curtly, “Thank you for telling me of your concern, Aunt. I shall deal with the matter personally.” He nodded toward the door, and for once Flora had sense enough to take her leave immediately.

After the door had closed behind the woman, Raeburn turned to the window again. In the distance, halfway across the frosty meadow, he could see the dogcart wending its way back from the forest, laden with baskets of Christmas greenery. From the color of their cloaks, Claire’s blue, Jessica’s a deep rose, bright as butterflies against the dingy dead grass, Raeburn saw that Claire was driving the small buggy while Jessica clung to a great bundle of holly and ivy piled beside her on the narrow seat. He noted with mild displeasure that the groom who had accompanied the two girls to the forest was riding his hack directly alongside the cart, rather than at a discreet distance behind. Squinting slightly, Raeburn identified the man as one fairly new in his service, O’Hara or O’Shea or something like that, a good-looking broth of a lad whose line of Irish blarney struck the earl as just a trifle forced. The man seemed to know horses well, and his references had been good, but Raeburn had a suspicion that those engaging blue eyes concealed the soul of a revolutionary…. In the morning when Tomkins, the head groom, came for instructions, Raeburn would suggest he keep a careful watch over the new man.

* * * *

Sometime later Raeburn heard the girls’ voices wafting up the grand staircase as they came in at the front of the house. The butler must have been on hand to take their cloaks, for Claire gushed, “Thank you, Barston. Lud, it’s freezing outside, but just wait till you see what we got for you to decorate the house with! We found
bushels
of holly and ivy, and enough mistletoe to make a dozen kissing boughs—”

As he approached the landing Raeburn heard Barston interrupt with the familiar indulgence of an old family retainer, “Now, Lady Claire, you’d best get His Lordship’s permission before you make plans for that sort of thing.”

Jessica agreed, a smile audible in her voice, “Yes, Claire, you know how Graham—”

“Oh, don’t be such a prig, Jess,” Claire retorted without rancor. “I’ll bet by the time my precious big brother was my age, he’d kissed half the girls in the county!”

“By no means, little sister,” Raeburn declared, his voice booming down from on high. “Just what do you take me for?” Jessica and Claire glanced up, startled, their eyes wide as they watched his descent. When he reached the foot of the stairs, he said with a grin, “When I was seventeen, I am sure I must have kissed at least three quarters of the girls in this county—and the next!”

Claire launched herself at her brother, squealing, “Oh, Graham, you are the most impossible tease!” and Raeburn gathered her close against his broad chest.

As he hugged his sister, above her red curls his gray gaze traveled across to where Jessica was exchanging her bonnet and damp cloak for a paisley shawl that the butler held out for her. As Raeburn watched her drape the triangular wrap over her thin shoulders and knot it at her breast his eyes darkened at the way her pink wool gown emphasized her bosom. Although the earl expected his women to be fashionably dressed at all times, he had never allowed them to succumb to the absurd and dangerous affectation of wearing only wispy, transparent muslin even in the dead of winter, unlike certain ladies of the
ton
who were willing to risk possibly fatal pneumonia in their quest to be thought desirable. Even Daphne, usually the most sensible of women…. Gazing at Jessica, he couldn’t help thinking how unconsciously provocative and mysterious she managed to look in her modest, utterly opaque day dress. He wondered where the couturiere who designed her new wardrobe had found those fabrics that, while warmly appropriate for the season, somehow flowed and clung like silk around her willowy figure….

Jessica glanced up suddenly, meeting the unspoken question in his gaze. “Yes, Graham? You wanted me for something?”

“For…something,” he muttered under his breath as he released Claire, but aloud he said, “I wonder if you will do me the favor of coming to my study? A matter has come up that I think I ought to discuss with you.”

Claire interrupted, “Oh, Graham, we were just about to have some hot chocolate, to warm us. Can’t you wait to—”

“No, Claire,” her brother said sternly. “You go ahead with your own refreshments, but Jess’s will have to be sent up to the study. It is imperative that she and I speak now. Privately.” His emphasis, on the last word was subtle but unmistakable. After a second, Claire nodded and shrugged.

Puzzled, Jessica ventured, “I did plan to go up to the nursery for a few moments, Graham, if you don’t mind?”

Raeburn sighed with resignation and signaled in the general direction of the upper stories. “Of course I don’t mind, my dear. Come back to the study when you can.” When Jessica smiled her gratitude with bright green eyes and turned to trip up the gleaming staircase, Raeburn watched her ascent thoughtfully. He tried to remember if she had ever smiled at him before.

* * * *

By the time Jessica knocked quietly on the door of Raeburn’s study, a maid had brought up a tray with pots of both chocolate and coffee on charcoal warmers, and after Jessica was settled comfortably into a plump armchair, Raeburn asked her to pour. He shook his fair head when she offered chocolate; grinning amiably, he said, “No, I’ve never acquired the taste, except possibly for breakfast. I much prefer coffee.”

Jessica declared, “Oh, I love chocolate! To me it tastes like—like luxury. I’d never had it at all until after Andrew and I were married; now I think I could drink a dozen cups a day. It’s probably just as well that I can’t afford to, else I’m sure I’d be quite fat.”

“My dear girl,” Raeburn said, frowning slightly, “if you wish, you are welcome to have two dozen cups of chocolate a day. No one is keeping accounts on your food and drink.”

Jessica felt her cheeks warm. “I know, Graham. I’m sorry if I sounded ungracious. It’s just that—that I cannot grow unaccustomed to the necessity of practicing economy.”

The line between his brows deepened. “Is that why you ask for so little, why you make no demands? Two full months have passed since you returned to Renard Chase, and in all that time I can think of nothing you have required of me. Even the clothes on your back were a gift—and one I frankly admit I expected to have to force upon you. I was…most pleasantly surprised when you gave me no argument.”

She thought about the day her beautiful new wardrobe arrived at the house, her indignation, her furious flight up the marble staircase to confront him. She remembered with self-deprecating amusement how certain she had been that her new garments were part of some devious and convoluted plot to take Lottie from her and turn the child into a household drudge. She was fervently thankful that something had stopped her before she made that wild and unforgivable accusation.

With a wry shake of her head, Jessica wondered if she could have been suffering from some temporary brainstorm that day, or if her depression of the past few months had been deeper than she had ever imagined. To conjure up such a fantasy about this man who was proving to be the kindest of guardians for her infant daughter, her mind would have had to be…troubled. She knew now that the unresolved conflicts between her and Raeburn—and whether he chose to acknowledge them or not, many still remained—would not derive from his treatment of Lottie. Regarding him through the thick curtain of her black lashes, Jessica said wryly, “Oh, I was fully prepared to argue with you about the clothes—but then I decided it would be wasted effort to do so. You are not an easy man to oppose, Graham.”

“I’m aware of that, Jess. What astonishes me is that you are willing to admit it.” He studied her in pensive silence. After a moment he inquired again, “Why don’t you ever ask for anything, Jess? Even though we have lived very quietly since coming down from London, there must be things you need, things you want? Claire is forever pestering me for some trifle or another, and even Aunt Talmadge—”

I
ask for nothing because I don’t want to be burdened with obligations when the day comes that I must flee this house again,
Jessica thought silently, but aloud she said, “Claire is your sister, and Flora Talmadge has a definite, useful occupation in this house. I have neither blood nor purpose that gives me the right to make demands of you.”

“Jess!” Raeburn exclaimed irritably, setting aside his coffee. “Don’t start that again. I thought we had agreed that you and Lottie belonged here.”

With a wistful smile she shook her head slowly. “No, Graham. I never agreed to any such thing. You insisted that Andrew’s daughter belonged in his ancestral home, and because I happen to be her mother, you have allowed me to accompany her. I suppose I’m grateful for that consideration, but I do not delude myself that it means I am needed here. You have employed an excellent nursery staff who give Lottie constant care and attention, better than I would be able to provide on my own. Were it not for the fact that she is not yet weaned….”

Jessica hesitated, choosing her words carefully before she continued. In a small voice she said, “When you brought us to Renard Chase, Graham, I fully expected you to—to insist that Lottie be turned over to a wet nurse. I thought you planned to force the issue, just as you forced me to put away my mourning clothes…. I—I am grateful that I was wrong. Thank you. The closeness I share with my child is very important to me; it gives me a sense of—of purpose.”

His fair brows came together. “This…’purpose’…seems to be very important to you,” he observed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I understand why. Claire has no more occupation than you do, and she is happy enough.”

Deciding that now was not the time to tell Raeburn that his little sister was chafing at the thought of another year of enforced girlhood, Jessica pointed out drily, “Claire is seventeen years old. In case you had not noticed, I am not.”

One long finger rhythmically stroked the bridge of his hawkish nose for a moment. “Oh, I’d noticed,” he drawled.

Jessica’s green eyes flew up to meet his gray ones, and the languid insinuation she saw there made her blush suddenly with a strange new heat. Quickly she dropped her head so that the black hair framing her face like ravens’ wings covered her hectic cheeks, masking that feverish glow. She was becoming altogether too aware of him, she realized in dismay; she was looking at her overbearing brother-in-law in a new way that was neither appropriate nor—nor wise.

She could not remember feeling quite this way before. When Raeburn had galloped into her life on that bright spring day, she had been un-awakened, old enough to recognize the man’s overwhelming sexual aura, but not yet capable of responding to it. But since being married…. Compared to most couples, the nights she and her husband had spent together had been few in number, but they had been sufficient to ripen her body from that of a dreamy adolescent to a woman, to imbue her flesh with a woman’s needs and secret desires. The first year of her widowhood had been too traumatic, too occupied with providing for her family the basic necessities of survival, such as food and shelter, to think about other more personal but equally basic needs—but now that Raeburn had relieved her of the burden of responsibility, her body, exulting in its restored health and spirit, was demanding relief of another kind…. She had but to look at him when no one was aware of it, and the sight of his broad shoulders, that large but surprisingly lithe body…those powerful thighs…made her breasts tauten, and there stirred deep inside her a nagging, twisting ache that she had no wish to feel again—certainly not for the Earl of Raeburn.

She supposed that his image had somehow become fixed in her mind because he was the first presentable man she had encountered since Andrew died, but whatever the reason, she knew she had to vanquish this appalling fixation at once, before it betrayed itself in some humiliating fashion. No matter that Raeburn had once told her he “wanted” her; he would not thank her if she embarrassed him in return, especially now that he was betrothed. She must get away, and soon. The situation was not healthy.