The Improper Wife (7 page)

A sudden storm capsized their boat and swept them under the cold gray water of the Severn River, the same river that had taken the man she’d thought was her husband.

The carriage jerked and tilted, jolting Maggie back to the present. She blinked her tears away and sniffed as quietly as she could. The baby wiggled in her tired arms, and she feared for a moment she’d awakened him. His little face puckered and reddened, but with a reflexive movement of his mouth, he settled back into sleep.

She’d named him Sean, after her father. Lord and Lady Caufield had raised their eyebrows in unison when she’d announced her choice of a name. Maggie supposed the Irishness of it gave them pause. She could always say the baby’s father had been Irish. She could say anything she liked about the baby’s father. Anything would be preferable to the truth.

She stared into little Sean’s tiny face, eyelids fringed with feathery black lashes, a nose no bigger than a button, but lips as perfectly shaped as an adult’s. He was her family now, and through him flowed the blood of her mother, father, and brother. His father’s blood also flowed through him. Perhaps that would make up for his father’s loss of life, too.

Maggie could not precisely remember what her false husband looked like. His image was fading from her memory. She could easily recall the dark hair, full lips, and steely gray eyes of Captain Grayson, however.

Lord Caufield rode up to her window. “We’ll be changing horses soon. There’s a posting inn up the road. Is Tess sleeping?”

“Yes,” answered Maggie. “Both she and the babe.”

His face softened. “She always sleeps in the carriage. I suppose you’d better wake her.” He trotted off.

By the time they’d reached the inn, Maggie had woken Lady Caufield and helped her straighten her bonnet. Little Sean was in full wail, and their descent from the carriage was accompanied by Lady Caufield calling orders to whoever would listen. The innkeeper hurried them into a private parlor, no doubt to protect the other patrons from the assault of a baby crying with a lung power truly remarkable in such a tiny body. Lord Caufield quickly excused himself, ostensibly to procure them some refreshment, but Maggie suspected it was to avoid the noise and allow her the privacy to nurse. As she’d learned that day in the parlor with Captain Grayson, her breasts ached when the baby cried. She could never tell when the milk might flow unbidden, embarrassing her once more.

Putting the baby to her breast, she remembered the stunned look on the captain’s face when he saw her dress stained with milk. It was the last she’d seen of him.

No, not the last. He’d stood outside the townhouse when she came to the window, holding the baby. He’d stood a long time.

Little Sean was more fussy than hungry, but his little stomach won the war with his need for protest. Maggie held him against her shoulder after nursing him until he emitted a satisfying burp, another sound unexpectedly loud for such a little creature. Maggie placed him in the small cradle Lady Caufield had bought for him. She held her breath lest he wake, and tried to quiet the queasiness in her stomach left over from the constant motion of the carriage.

Soon a serving girl carried in food and drink. Lord Caufield peered in cautiously. Seeing the baby was no longer at her breast, he entered.

“Harry, darling.” His wife raised her hand to her husband as if she’d not seen him in an age. “I declare, I must have slept the whole morning. Did I miss much of the countryside?”

He leaned down and kissed her hand soundly. “No sights you’ve not slept through before, love,” he replied, regarding her fondly. He turned to Maggie. “How have you fared, my dear?”

“Not too ill when the baby slept.” Maggie’s voice came out sharper than she’d intended and she bit her lip. She did not wish him to think she complained.

“He’s a lusty little lad, that is sure.” Lord Caufield sank into a chair next to his wife. “This is the last leg of our journey. We shall arrive in less than two hours.”

The serving girl placed the dishes on the table and, with a curtsy, left the room. Maggie’s companions, always loquacious beyond measure, lapsed into a tense silence.

“I am curious to see Caufield House,” Maggie said with a try at polite conversation. “I imagine it is a lovely place.”

“Oh, it is,” exclaimed Lady Caufield a little too brightly. “It is indeed lovely.”

The silence descended again, and Lord Caufield busied himself buttering a biscuit. His expression was uncharacteristically stern. Lady Caufield quickly dipped her head and poured a pitcher of cream over a dish of raspberries. Maggie gaped at them from across the table.

Lord Caufield lifted his knife, butter still clinging to it. He pointed it toward Maggie and opened his mouth as if to speak. He shut it again, sighed heavily, and placed the knife crosswise on his plate.

“We are not arriving at Caufield House today.” He spoke with slow deliberation, as if imparting important news to a very slow child. “Caufield House is another day’s journey.”

“I see,” said Maggie, though she did not at all see why this information should be accompanied by so serious a face. “Where is it we are bound, then?”

Lady Caufield choked on a sip of lemonade. She sputtered and coughed. Her husband patted her back, fussing and cooing over her. Maggie grasped her hands tightly in her lap, waiting somewhat impatiently for his solicitude to run its course.

His wife restored, Lord Caufield folded his hands and rested them on the table’s edge. He turned his attention back to Maggie. “We are bound for Summerton Hall.”

This meant nothing to her. “Summerton Hall?”

“Summerton Hall,” echoed Lady Caufield.

Maggie stared at them without comprehension.

“Gray’s home,” Lady Caufield said.

The captain? It might prove embarrassing to visit his home, that was sure. Had he family there? she wondered. A wife, perhaps? That thought unexpectedly disturbed her.

Lord and Lady Caufield both regarded her expectantly. She looked from one to the other.

Finally Lord Caufield leaned toward her. “We realize it was not well done of us to conceal this from you, my dear, but we thought it for the best.”

Maggie still failed to comprehend their concern. “I assure you, sir, I would not protest wherever you wish to visit. I am too indebted to you for your kindness. Whatever would I do if you had not invited me into your home?”

Lady Caufield made a high-pitched sound.

Her husband clasped and unclasped his hands. “That is just the thing, my dear. We are not taking you to Caufield House. We are taking you to Summerton Hall.”

“But, why?” Maggie blinked in confusion.

Lady Caufield moaned.

Lord Caufield cleared his throat. “Tess and I decided that it would be best if you stayed at Summerton. It is the logical thing, you see.”

Maggie spoke carefully. “I fear, sir, that I am unable to comprehend the logic.”

Lady Caufield wailed, “It is my doing. I should not have looked in your portmanteau.” She reached across the table and grasped Maggie’s wrist. “I assure you, I had no idea what I would find and I was only trying to help—”

“She was only trying to help—” interjected her husband.

“What else could we do? We are so fond of Gray and, indeed, have come to love you as well—” she went on.

“—for your own good and his, you see,” he added.

“Wait!” Maggie threw up her hands.

The Lord and Lady Caufield went wide-eyed simultaneously.

“Stop.” Maggie made her voice less harsh. “Please explain yourselves. What did you find, and why does it matter?”

“Why, the paper saying you are married to Gray,” Lady Caufield said.

Maggie felt the blood drain from her face. “But I am not—” she began, but clamped her mouth shut. To disavow marriage to Captain Grayson would require explaining about the man who had used his name. The baron was just the sort who would insist on making inquiries. She suspected Lord Caufield could discover the mystery of her husband’s identity, but if he did, no doubt the knowledge would send Maggie straight to the gallows.

Lord Caufield looked at her with a kind expression. “Now you need not tell us why the secrecy, or what the difficulty is between you and Gray. That is none of our concern.”

“Unless you’d care to—” began his wife. He put a stilling hand on her arm.

“But,” he continued with an indulgent glance toward Tess, “we do believe it best that you live with Gray’s family. Of course, if they will not have you, you must come to Caufield House with us, but we think Lord Summerton will thaw when he sees the child, no matter his present feelings toward Gray.”

“Which are perfectly conciliatory by now, I am sure,” added his wife helpfully.

What kind of coil would encircle her now? Maggie’s heart sank so low she was certain she would be unable to stand. “I shall yield to your judgment, of course,” she managed.

The baroness smiled happily, and the baron’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Baby Sean wailed and Maggie was glad for the distraction. His nappy was soaked, as was his dress and the bedding in the cradle. She grabbed the small cloth bag that contained the baby’s things and busied herself changing the linens and the infant.

If going to Summerton Hall was what she must do to care for her son, then that was what she would do.

Four hours later, Maggie stood in the foyer at Summerton Hall, near one of the wooden pillars painted to look like white marble. She’d come down the elegant curved stairway past the mural of classical scenes that gave the illusion of wandering about ancient Greece. She paused, unsure of where to find the parlor, or more accurately, afraid it might be the room from which she heard voices raised in anger.

“Whose maggot-brained idea was it to bring them here?” one man shouted. “Was it his? I’ll be damned if he can just send any doxy he fancies to be housed and fed at my expense.”

That voice belonged to the Earl of Summerton, Captain Grayson’s father. Upon their arrival, she’d met him briefly, before the earl closeted himself with Lord Caufield. The earl might have once been nearly as tall as his son, but now he was stoop-shouldered, with one lame leg.

She heard his walking stick pound sharply on polished wood floors. “I won’t have it, I tell you!!”

Lord Caufield’s milder voice responded, “Now, Uncle, I told you,
I
am asking this of you. Not Gray. I thought it best.”

“You thought it best!” came the older man’s retort. “This is my house and I decide what is best. She’s no wife, and that baby’s naught but a bastard.”

“No,” Lord Caufield said. “She’s his wife, all right. I don’t know why . . .”

The voices became muffled. Maggie took a step closer to the door, but still could not hear. Or perhaps she had heard enough. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the column, which was almost as cool as if it had been marble. She hoped the baby would be all right. She’d insisted he be put in the same bedroom as she, not sent down one of the cavernous hallways where an old nursery would have been located. A round-faced, cheerful-looking maid was dispatched to look after him while Maggie attended dinner. She’d made the maid promise to send for her immediately if the baby should cry.

“He has a frightful temper,” someone whispered. Maggie’s eyes flew open. The earl’s daughter-in-law, the young Lady Palmely, stood a foot from her. Had this wraith of a woman been wearing white, Maggie would have thought she was a spirit, but she wore a shapeless gray gown that hung on her thin body.

Maggie glanced at the doorway from which the angry voices persisted. “I shall not stay.”

Lady Palmely did not change expression. “You will stay. He will not pass up the opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

The wraith almost smiled. “To punish him through you.” Lady Palmely drifted away, almost floating as if she were indeed a spirit. She hovered by a door near the room from where Lord Summerton’s and Lord Caufield’s voices could be heard. She turned to Maggie. “Come into the parlor. The earl will soon be ready for dinner.”

Maggie followed her into the room.

A gentleman with thinning blond hair and dressed in riding boots and wool jacket stood to greet Lady Palmely. Who was he? He’d been among the seeming multitude of people who’d materialized when they first arrived. Most had been servants who quickly scattered in the wake of baby Sean’s ill-timed display of temper and the earl’s confused orders. She and Lady Caufield had been whisked above stairs by the housekeeper where a battle soon broke out regarding the nursery. Bless Lady Caufield for taking her side, unfashionable though it was. Maggie could barely endure this present separation, let alone the distance a nursery would entail.

The gentleman walked over to her. “Mrs. Grayson, please sit down and be comfortable. I suspect the earl will be along directly.”

As if on cue, the earl’s voice, raised in a furious roar, carried in through the open windows. Maggie flinched, though she did not know if it was from the earl’s anger or the enormity of realizing she was truly parading as Mrs. Grayson.

The gentleman inclined his head toward the sound, taking Maggie’s hand. “Pay him no heed, my dear.”

This man was like the eye of a storm, a calm place around which wind, rain, and thunder raged. Part of the storm was inside her as well. She raised her gaze to his calm eyes. “I have no wish to upset the earl. I must not stay.”

“Nonsense!” the man said, escorting her to a chair next to Lady Palmely, who sat staring absently at hands folded in her lap. “This house has seen a lot of sadness. Perhaps you and your son will cheer it up.” He glanced at Lady Palmely briefly before smiling toward Maggie again.

It was a kind thing for him to say. In truth, she’d met with more kindness than trouble since Captain Grayson had opened his door and delivered Sean safely into her arms.

Maggie smiled. “Forgive me, sir. I have forgotten our introduction.”

He gave a little laugh. “Well you should. I’m afraid your entrance was a bit more hectic than grand. I am Sir Francis Betton and my place here is in the capacity of old family friend. My property borders Summerton, you see.”

Maggie extended her hand and he clasped it. “I am pleased to meet you. I’m sorry if I gave you any slight at first.”