The Memory of Your Kiss (17 page)

Pilar raised her cup in a salute. “Gentlemen, we thank you.”

A week later, José returned with his and Pilar’s father and a contingent of ten Spanish soldiers in General Guzman’s command. And two days after that Zachary, his three Rangers, and the baby Lucas, along with two pack horses and a nanny goat, left the compound with tearful good-byes ringing in their ears. The baby alternately rode in a basket attached to one of the pack horses or in the arms of his father or one of his honorary uncles. Instead of crossing the Pyrenees yet again, they headed for the port of San Sebastian, where they were confident of securing passage back to England. To Zachary’s immense relief, they spent most of their nights along the way in villages with pensions or inns where servants were readily available to help with laundry and other needs one encountered in travel with an infant.

Within a month, the Rangers were all back in London, trying, with varying degrees of success, to cope with the return to civilian life.

After Easter, Sydney took her entourage back to London. She found the city ecstatic over the news of Napoleon’s defeat and abdication. News of the victory at Toulouse was only slightly tempered by the fact that that battle occurred
after
the Corsican monster had given up the fight. Wellington was clearly the hero of the day and the Prince Regent was just as clearly determined to share in the duke’s military glory. All London seemed set on a prolonged celebration, which would culminate in mid July with a state visit from Russia’s Czar Alexander, Prussia’s King Frederick, and the colorful Marshal Blücher.

As a still-grieving widow, Sydney felt she should refuse most of the invitations to balls and routs that arrived at Paxton House daily. However, she encouraged Aunt Harriet and Celia to accept any that might appeal to them, and she enjoyed listening to their accounts of their evenings. Sydney was content to take up her work with the Fairfax sisters in earnest now. Henry had never quite approved of her visits to Spitalfields, and she had respected his wishes. Now, though, she felt no such constraints.

Penelope and Priscilla Fairfax were middle-aged spinsters who had inherited a large fortune from their father, owner of a silk mill.
As daughters of a “cit,” the two had little chance of making it into the higher echelons of society—nor had they ever aspired to do so. Their home in Spitalfields, an island of gentility in a sea of degradation and debauchery, offered a safe haven to some of the city’s most neglected denizens. It was at times—and sometimes simultaneously—a home for unwed pregnant young women, an orphanage, and a refuge for abused women.

During her first stay in the city, Sydney had met the Fairfax sisters through a new friend, Lady Allyson Crossleigh, daughter of the Earl of Rutherford. One day the two young women had been out shopping with their maids in tow and a carriage driver and footman always near. As they strolled past the entrance to an alley, they heard a cry of pain and dull thumps and grunts. Both ladies instantly turned toward the sounds.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Allyson’s maid cried in a knowing tone.

“My lady, perhaps—” Maisie’s cautionary note died away.

It was too late. Their mistresses had both rushed into the alley to behold a boy of seven or eight being set on by two boys of ten or twelve. The youngest one was curled into a fetal position as the older ones kicked at him.

“Stop that! Stop it this instant!” Lady Allyson made a grab for one of the older boys.

He slipped out of her grasp with a loud yelp. “Lawks! Jamie! Fergit ’im. Come on! We got ’is blunt.”

The second attacker dashed past Sydney, who was already bending over the younger boy as he struggled to rise. Sydney helped him up and grabbed onto his shoulder when it was apparent that he, too, would try to flee.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Not so’s ya’d notice,” he said and tried to wrench away. “Ye can let go o’ me.”

Sydney tightened her grip. “I think not.”

Lady Allyson turned back in disgust. “The other two got away. I had the one and he just slipped out of my hand. Is this one hurt?”

“I believe he is only bruised.” But when she ran a hand along his side, the boy gasped and flinched. “Perhaps not,” she added.

“I’m that glad you got them two off’n me,” the boy said, “but I’m all right now so ye can let me go.” He seemed to be trying to act
grown up, but Sydney detected little boy fear beneath the calm tone. She noted that his clothing was torn and dirty and that he was painfully thin. A street urchin, she decided.

Both women ignored him.

“You have no business being on the streets alone,” Lady Allyson said. “We shall take you to your parents. Where are they?”

“Ain’t got none,” he muttered. “Now you just let me go.” Again he tried futilely to wrench himself from Sydney’s grasp.

She shook him by his shoulder. “What do you mean you have no parents?”

“I ain’t got none,” he repeated. “I get by on my own. Don’t need any.”

At this moment, Lady Allyson’s footman dashed into the alley. “My lady, are you all right? Molly said—”

“I am quite all right, Nathan. Now if you will just take this lad in hand—”

“No!” the boy yelled and kicked and then cried out in pain as the footman picked him up.

“Careful,” Sydney cautioned. “I think he may have a bruised or broken rib.”

“All right, boy. Just calm down now,” the footman said and held him more gently. It was clear the child was going nowhere.

The group made their way to Lady Allyson’s unmarked carriage. The coachman and footman had been slowly following the ladies as they darted from shop to shop earlier.

“Fairfax House,” Lady Allyson told the coachman. “Nathan, you ride inside with us to hold the boy.” She and Allyson handed the coachman the packages they had retrieved as they exited the alley. Along with the two maids, they squeezed into the now crowded carriage.

“His lordship won’t like your going to Spitalfields, my lady,” the footman said.

Sydney thought this rather a bold comment from a footman.

“He need not know of it unless you feel compelled to tell him,” Lady Allyson replied. She then explained to Sydney. “Papa has this bee in his bonnet that I need some sort of protection—from heaven knows what.”

“What she needs is a keeper,” the saucy footman muttered barely audibly, as he sat with the protesting child in his lap.

“This here’s kidnappin’! Ye can bloody well hang fer that!”

“Here! You watch your language around ladies.” The footman shook him, bringing forth an exaggerated yelp of pain. “Who’d want to kidnap the likes of you?”

The boy was clearly afraid, but he kept a sulky silence until they reached Fairfax House.

Permanent members of Fairfax House included Miss Penelope Fairfax, her sister Miss Priscilla, and three servants who, Sydney discovered later, were more like family members. Samuel Boskins, butler, footman, handyman, was an ex-soldier who had lost his right arm in a battle on the Peninsula; his wife was the cook-housekeeper; and there was a maid named Betty Lou. All had been rescue projects of the Fairfax sisters: the homeless Boskins couple from the streets and Betty Lou from a local brothel.

On this day, Sydney and Lady Allyson were ushered into the Fairfax drawing room and Mrs. Boskins presently appeared with some tea and biscuits. She reported that “the boy is settling down quite nice like—but he’ll bear watchin’.”

“Well, if we have learned nothing else in the last ten years and more,” the angular, gray-haired, and usually austere Miss Penelope Fairfax said, “we have learned that if people—even young ones—do not want our help, it is wise not to press it upon them.”

“But we do try harder with the young ones,” Miss Priscilla said. Priscilla Fairfax was also gray-haired like her sister, more open in her demeanor, more ready to laugh.

In the course of this conversation and the one later in the carriage ride home, Sydney learned the scope of the sisters’ work with the poor of Spitalfields. They not only provided “in house” care, but they also distributed donations to needy folk in the neighborhood.

“I do as much as I can,” Lady Allyson said. “I pester people shamelessly.”

“I shall be glad to join you,” Sydney replied, delighted to have found a kindred spirit.

A few weeks later Sydney had been equally glad to learn that the boy—his name was Walter, but everyone in Fairfax House called him Wally—had, indeed, settled in nicely.

“I do not know how we ever got on without him,” Miss Fairfax
said. “He is very adept at running errands for us. And he is learning to read,” she added proudly.

Now, on her return to London, Sydney was happy to lend the Fairfax sisters her support, moral
and
financial. It had, in fact, been Sydney’s idea to expand the facility by purchasing the property next door. With proper renovations and additional staff, it would allow the Fairfax sisters to serve more people. Sydney was quite sure she could bury the expense among Paxton accounts.

She regularly turned down invitations to balls and musical soirees in her efforts to abide by society’s unwritten but rock hard rules for grieving widows. She felt she owed Henry that degree of respect. However, she did make and receive morning calls. Among the regular callers at Paxton House now was Lieutenant Trevor Harrelson, late of His Majesty’s forces in the Peninsula. He had made a call on Miss Carstairs his most urgent social obligation on his return to England. Sydney tried to listen only casually, even indifferently, whenever Lieutenant Harrelson mentioned his erstwhile commander, but she could not stop the little flip of her heart at any mention of the man—nor the shiver of apprehension at the control he might now hold over her entire life.

She learned some fascinating details of Zachary Quintin’s exploits as a soldier and as an exploring officer, though she had to smile at the discretion the lieutenant employed in telling the tales in a London drawing room.

“But why did Captain—I mean Major—Quintin not return to England with you?” Celia asked the question Sydney was dying to ask herself.

She thought Lieutenant Harrelson seemed uncomfortable as he answered. “He—uh—he had to return to Spain for one last mission. Didn’t need all of us. Tie up loose ends, so to speak.”

“Oh,” Celia said. “I do hope he will return in time for the grand celebrations of the state visits.”

Sydney also refused to forego her interest in the theatre. It was one of the few interests she had shared with her husband. One night in late June she dressed carefully in a silvery gray silk gown trimmed in black to attend a performance of the famous Edmund Kean as Richard III. The theatre party, which had been planned for some
time, included Sydney’s friend Lady Allyson and her new husband, Lord Nathan Thornton, for the erstwhile saucy footman had turned out to be the younger son of a duke. Others were Aunt Harriet, Celia, and Lieutenant Harrelson. As the elegant Countess of Paxton entered her own box, she chanced to look across at persons just entering another box and found herself gazing directly into the dark eyes of Major Zachary Quintin.

S
ydney
had braced herself for this moment. She was sure she had her emotions under control.

Lieutenant Harrelson had called two days ago. Seated in the family drawing room, he had delivered to Celia and Sydney the news that Major Quintin had not only returned to England, but he had not come alone.

“What do you mean he is not alone?” Celia instantly demanded.

“Brought his son with him,” Lieutenant Harrelson said, then paused dramatically.

“His son?” Sydney and Celia spoke at once in surprised tones.

Harrelson nodded. “His son. The major married a Spanish lady in early ’thirteen.”

“And you are just now telling us?” Celia accused.

Sydney was stunned. Zachary
married
? Somehow she had never imagined him with another woman in his arms. And they had had a child? Why not? she admonished herself. He had a right to a life of his own. Still, this news came as a profound shock.

Harrelson was answering Celia. “Couldn’t tell you earlier. Had to be a secret. Army rules against it, you know. Also, they wanted to avoid the scandal broth likely when her father found out. High in the Spanish government, he is.”

“So Major Quintin brought his wife to England?” Celia clapped her hands. “Oh, this is such a romantic story. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

Still reeling inwardly, Sydney was glad to leave the conversation to the other two. Sunlight streamed through the windows and there was the occasional rumble of a carriage on the street below, but none of this registered with her.

“Hadn’t thought of it like that,” Harrelson said, “but you’re right. Real tragedy here, too.”

Celia frowned. “Tragedy?”

“The major’s wife died. In childbirth.”

“Oh, how sad,” Celia said.

“When?” Sydney asked.

“Hmm. Seven or eight months ago, I think, but the major did not know until recently. He went back to Spain after Toulouse. Found out then.”

It occurred to Sydney that Zachary had lost his wife within weeks of her losing Henry. She managed to make it through the rest of Harrelson’s visit with an occasional murmur here and there, but her mind was in a whirl. Zachary was back. Zachary, who had so charmed a much younger Sydney. Zachary, whose kiss had been so mesmerizing. Zachary, who had been a party to Henry’s duplicity. Zachary, who might now wield a frightening degree of power over the Countess of Paxton—and over her son.

When Celia and the lieutenant departed for a drive in the park, Sydney sought the privacy of her own bedchamber, where she spent a good deal of time pacing and considering dozens of “what ifs”—some wildly unreasonable, some within the realm of the possible, if not always the probable.

Finally, the ever practical Lady Paxton gave herself a mental shake. She would have to wait and see, then consider her options. But she deeply resented having to wait—being forced to react to someone else’s position instead of acting on her own. With this rebellious thought, she reasserted control over her emotions.

Or thought she had.

Until her gaze locked with his in a crowded theatre. The fact that he was dressed in his army uniform, looking very much as he had when she had last seen him, on her wedding day, added to her confusion, though she knew all Wellington’s officers were encouraged to appear in public in uniform during these days of celebration.

Now her careful control had deserted her. She felt a tightness in her chest and her knees suddenly seemed weak. She managed a slight
nod in Zachary’s direction and quickly averted her eyes as she took her seat in the front of the box, between Allyson and Aunt Harriet. She wished she had insisted on one of the rear chairs. She wished she had stayed home.

She tried unsuccessfully to keep her gaze from straying to that other box. So far it contained only two people, Zachary and a comely young woman. Less than a week in town and he already finds solace in female companionship? She immediately chastised herself for the pettiness of this thought. When she glanced again and saw an older couple enter that other box, she was more than a little vexed with herself, for she recognized Lady Leanora and her husband, Mr. Horatio Quintin, Zachary’s parents. She had met them only briefly on a previous sojourn in the city.

Drury Lane had been one of the first of London’s theatres to install the modern gaslights. Now as the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose, Sydney turned her attention resolutely to the stage. However, she actually absorbed very little of the inimitable Mr. Kean’s performance. During the interval, she noticed that two other gentlemen had joined the party in the Quintins’ box, one in civilian attire, the other in uniform.

Celia leaned closer to whisper to Sydney, “Did you see Major Quintin?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Sydney merely nodded.

Lady Allyson looked in the direction Celia indicated. “Lady Leanora is one of my mother’s dearest friends. Come, Nathan, we must pay our respects,” she urged her husband.

Celia, Lieutenant Harrelson, and Aunt Harriet all decided to “take a stroll” before the second half of the play. Sydney welcomed a moment alone. She noticed that there were now several people crowded into the Quintin box, but Zachary was no longer one of them.

A tap at the door to her own box heralded the arrival of a visitor. And there he was: the Zachary she had known in Bath, though his complexion was darker, the scar on his face faded now, and the lines around his eyes more distinct.

“Lady Paxton.” He glanced around and seemed surprised to find her alone. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“Major Quintin. No, of course not. Please. Have a seat.” She was as nervous and unsure of herself as a green girl at her first grown-up affair.

He held her gaze for a long moment, then glanced away. He took the seat Lady Allyson had vacated. As he sat, he bent forward and she caught a faint familiar whiff of his shaving soap—which did nothing to help quell the riot in her innards. She tried to calm herself by inhaling deeply. They both started to speak at once.

“I think—”

“I have only—”

He smiled and gestured for her to continue.

“I heard only yesterday of your loss,” she said. “Please allow me to express my condolences.”

He nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

An awkward silence ensued. He broke it by saying, “I wonder if I might call on you next week to discuss the—uh—duties with which Cousin Henry charged me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, adopting the same businesslike tone he used.

“Will Tuesday next give you sufficient time to have the accounts and ledgers ready?”

“Yes. They are kept up to date. I think you will find all in order.” She paused and again held his gaze for a moment. She hated this stiff formality between them. How did one bridge the changes wrought by time and events in lives lived in wholly separate worlds? She longed for the easy camaraderie of those days in Bath. But that had been a charade, hadn’t it? “Would you like me to ask Mr. Stevenson to join us for this meeting?”

“No. That should not be necessary yet.”

Just then Allyson and her husband returned, and Zachary stood.

“Zachary! I missed you,” Allyson said with bubbly gaiety; she kissed him on the cheek. “I dragged Nathan to your parents’ box specifically to make him known to you and your family. I want him to know all my childhood friends.”

Zachary grinned at her. “It’s nice to know that some people have remained the same in my absence. But Nathan and I are way ahead of you, Allie. We were at Sandhurst together. How are you, Nathan?” Zachary extended his hand, which the other man took warmly. “Congratulations on snagging one of England’s most elusive beauties.”

“Thank you. I must admit it took some doing.” Nathan smiled indulgently at his wife.

“Zachary, you must come to dinner! I’ll send round a card,”
Allyson said as the lights blinked to urge audience members to return to their seats.

Sydney wondered if Zachary’s comment about some people remaining the same had been meant for her. After all, she knew him to be a master of double entendre; she still recalled vividly his toast at her wedding. She tried to shrug it off as the others returned and the play resumed.

The Countess of Paxton gleaned as little from the second half of the play as she had the first.

As he returned to the Quintin box, Zachary was mentally kicking himself: You handled that like an infatuated schoolboy. Sydney. What was it with her? That cool, formal politeness seemed out of character for the woman who had once argued so engagingly for the rights of women. She seemed apprehensive. Afraid. Of
him
? Tuesday could not come too soon.

Between now and then, however, there were other matters dealing with Henry’s will that begged looking into. To this end, the next afternoon he climbed the steps of an elegant townhouse in the Mayfair district.

“Major Quintin to see Lady Ryesdale,” he announced as he handed his card to the footman answering the door. He waited in a marble-floored foyer cluttered with a few too many pieces of marble statuary.

Presently, an older man, obviously a butler, came to say, “Her ladyship will see you, sir. This way, please.” He was shown into a drawing room that might have been elegantly comfortable except that it, too, boasted a plethora of marble sculptures staring sightlessly at visitors. There were two women in the room.

“Lady Ryesdale?”

The younger woman stood and offered him her gloved hand. Slender with deep blue eyes and dark auburn hair, she was fashionably dressed in a lavender day dress. It crossed Zachary’s mind that Henry had had an eye for pretty women. But this one had something of a haunted look about her.

“Major Quintin. I had heard of your return. May I present my mother-in-law, the Dowager Baroness Ryesdale?”

Zachary bowed toward the black-clad dowager, who merely inclined her head in a haughty nod. “I am honored, my lady,” he said.

“You have a particular message for me, sir?” Lady Ryesdale asked as she gestured to a chair for him.

He remained standing. “Not a message exactly, but a matter I should like to discuss with you. Might I have a word with you in private?” he asked in a tone that would have been quite effective in a military setting.

“But of course,” Lady Ryesdale said in what Zachary thought might be false brightness. “Mother Ryesdale? Will you excuse us?”

“Well, I never—” the woman huffed as she rose and lifted both her chins. “I shall be just in the next room.”

The dowager left the door ajar, but Lady Ryesdale closed it firmly. Perhaps not so intimidated after all, Zachary thought. Lady Ryesdale again gestured for him to be seated and she took a chair near his.

“I assume you have some business to do with Henry?” she said quietly. “He assured me that I might trust your judgment.”

Zachary liked that she made no pretense of dissembling about possible reasons for his visit. “Yes. As you undoubtedly know, I am guardian of both Henry’s sons.” Lady Ryesdale was not the only one who could speak frankly, but, like her, he also spoke in a subdued tone. “I should like to know if you are satisfied with the arrangements made for your son.”

“I—I have not seen William in over five months.”

“Five months? Five months?
Why
?”

“When Henry was alive, it was easier.” There were unshed tears in her eyes. “He would have William brought to an inn in Richmond and we would drive down to visit him for a few hours.”

“But now?”

“The dowager and George, the elder of her two younger sons, have forbidden me to see him. Punishment, you see.”

“Punishment for having that baby?” Zachary asked.

“For that—and for the fact that their precious Ralph had to leave England. It was my fault, of course, that he was half drunk and challenged Henry to a duel.” Her tone was bitter and her voice became a bit wobbly. “George and his mother have decided that if I have anything at all to do with William, I will be forbidden any association with James—the Ryesdale heir, you know—and, at only six years, he is hardly more than a baby himself. Imagine forcing a mother to choose between her children.”

“They can do this?” Zachary asked in wonder.

“George was named guardian when Ryesdale had to be put in the asylum.”

“I know it is
legal
,” Zachary said. “I just wonder that people can bring themselves to
do
it.”

She shrugged. “I am no longer surprised at what people can do in the name of Christian morality.”

“I am so sorry, my lady,” he said. “I think Henry feared such a turn. To your knowledge, is William well cared for?”

“His physical needs are satisfied—but he needs to be loved, too. He needs to know I love him. That his father loved him.” Her tears spilled over.

Zachary stood and, still keeping his voice modulated so it would not to be heard beyond that closed door, he said, “Lady Ryesdale, I make no promises at this point, but I shall try to bring William to London so that you have at least an occasional opportunity to see him.”

“Truly? You would do that?” Hope shone through her tears as she, too, rose. She fished a handkerchief out of a pocket, and wiped her cheeks.

He held up a hand. “I shall try.”

He had barely stepped into the foyer when he heard that other door snap open and the dowager’s querulous voice demanding, “What did he want?”

“Something pertaining to a girl I knew at school. Apparently his brother has formed an unsuitable attachment.”

Zachary smiled at the Lady Louisa’s quickly fabricated lie.

The next day Zachary journeyed alone to a village in Surrey, where he located the vicar into whose care Henry’s William David has been consigned. The man served a rather poor parish and made ends meet by boarding and tutoring young boys while his wife looked after four infants in addition to her own brood of five young children ranging in age from a few months to eight years.

Zachary found the situation as Lady Ryesdale had described it. He had intentionally arrived unannounced, but he discovered the child William to be clean, well fed, and adequately cared for. Recalling his own limited experience in caring for one child after leaving the Ramirez compound, Zachary could only marvel at the couple’s handling such a large household, even with their two servants to help.