Unveiling Love (7 page)

She pulled up her sleeve. "Things weren't well before I was pregnant. What if I'm not meant to carry a babe? I may never be blessed with that joy." She rubbed her temples. "I can't stand to see a doctor covering up another poor--"

 
He put a finger to her lips. His innards shredded at the agony in her voice. She shouldn't relive their baby's loss. "Don't give up on us."

"Mr. Norton, it's time to go. You'll be late for court." James's merry voice fell upon Barrington's shoulder. Horrid timing.

"I'll be down soon. Pull the carriage around." He closed his eyes as the weight of his trial load fell into remembrance.

Amora stepped away from him. "You should go. Don't be late."

"I've been remiss these past weeks missing a number of sessions, but my mentor and colleagues understand. They wish you well."

Her cheeks darkened as she repinned her gown. "Oh, I see."

"I even missed Miss Miller's debut. Gerald up in heaven will just have to understand, there's only one woman I'm concerned about."

"Concerned?" She spun toward the window. "I'm feeling better. You can go to the Old Bailey or visit with Gerald's sister."
 

Why did it feel as if he'd thrown icy water on Amora? She even rubbed her arms as if she were chilled. "Yes, Cynthia is alone. I promised Gerald as he took his last breath to watch over her."
 

"Keep your promises. Go to work." She pivoted and waved at him as if he were a stray pup. "Miss Miller or a client needs you more."

Why did she feel threatened by his responsibilities? His work was important. His clients needed him too. Beakes might've learned more about the date Smith offered on the eve of his execution. The frustration swelling in his heart threatened to explode. "Amora, you're not being fair."

"Life is not fair. Leave me. I want you to go."

The temptation to pull her back into his arms hurt, twisting his gut. Maybe he could shirk his responsibilities one more day. Would that prove his devotion?
 

She took another step away. Her countenance held no smile, just narrowing violet eyes. "Have a good day."

Gut roiling, he pivoted. Arguing at the Old Bailey would release the tension caught in his limbs. When would he get this marriage balance right?
 

He dragged to the steps. "I'll be home early for dinner."

Her face remained blank, even as she nodded.

A chill swept through him as she moved to the window seat. What if she didn't want him to get it right? What if this loss gutted her longing for their marriage, her longing for him?
 

No, he'd prove himself to her. He'd not disappoint her again.

Thank goodness for Thursday. Thursday meant newborns at the Foundling Hospital and that was a reason for Amora to pretend that she was better. Barrington and Mrs. Gretling wouldn't let her come if they suspected how low her spirits sat. Cynthia hadn't gotten Barrington's attention yet, but she would.
 

How miserable it was to wait each day for Barrington to come home filled with accusation or worse to not come home, too shamed and disgusted.

Liar.
 

Harlot.
 

Sorry.
 

Forgive me.

She rubbed her temples to force away the sounds of her mother's and Barrington's voices blending in evil pronouncements.
 

"Mrs. Norton?"

Amora blinked a few times and adjusted the babe in her arms. "Yes."

The duchess of Cheshire looked over the smallish crib in the corner. "Mrs. Norton, I am so glad you've chosen this to be your charity."

Nodding at the friendly smile, Amora rocked the orphaned boy, tucking a blanket under his chubby chin. "Yes, I can think of no greater cause than to help the defenseless."

The young woman smiled genuinely. Her lips curled up into something true and honest.

She wasn't what Amora thought of as a duchess. Not stuffy or pretentious, the duchess didn't put on airs. She used her hands for the care of children and that took a special heart. When the duchess mentioned her husband, she glowed like a new bride should.
 

Amora closed her eyes for a moment remembering when Barrington finally came for her. For a month maybe, she looked like Lady Cheshire with stars in her eyes, but stars only shine at night. And night brought bad memories. Then terror came anew.

Now it started to creep into her day, waking dreams.

"Mrs. Norton. Mrs. Norton? Are you well?"

Shivering, Amora looked up. "Yes." She waited for her rising pulse to settle and counted the babe's sniffle snores. It took over thirty for the chill in her arms to go away and for her brain to accept that she was safe in the Foundling Hospital, years and miles away from the monster.

The duchess smoothed her Sardinian blue bodice and headed for the door. "Well, I am going to start story time with the older girls. I hope to see you next week. I don't know very many people in London. I'd like to start with furthering our acquaintance. The duke thinks highly of Mr. Norton."

Amora nodded. "Yes, Duchess."

The woman began to move but stopped. "I'm perfectly serious, Mrs. Norton. I'd like to get to know you better."
 

With a final beaming smile, the duchess left.
 

A friend in London. A friend anywhere would be nice. The last time she had a friend…

What was the girl's name? Sky-blue eyes. Gold Hair. Why couldn't she remember?

Mrs. Gretling soon sailed inside wearing her satisfied smile. Things must be going well with all of her errands around the hospital.

She came close and peaked at the blanket. "How are ye doing with this tiny man, Mrs. Norton?"

"He's settled. His little lips are puckering from a little wind in his belly that tugged his gums."

"He looks very happy with ye, ma'am. But it's time to put the babe down." Mrs. Gretling's sherry eyes flickered from the door to the line of cribs. "You've had him up for awhile and we can't take him with us."

Did her abigail think Amora would run out of the hospital with the child in tow? Yes, she wanted a child, but abducting anyone was beyond the pale. "Not done showing... umm, Tomàs, the room." The babe looked like Papa, with fat cheeks and a bald head. "This one was left on the steps of St. Georges. Only a dented thimble to mark him."

"That's where the unwed deposit them. Poor creature. It's a shame when women like ye so want a child." Mrs. Gretling put a trembling hand to her mouth. She turned and drew the shabby curtains closed. "I didn't mean to remind ye."

The longing, the one that never went away, expanded within Amora's chest and crushed her lungs. Trying to relearn to breathe, she thought of Tomàs as hers, and Barrington smiling, happy with Amora for giving him a son. She sniffed a bitter portion of air. That day would never come.
 

"Sorry, Mrs. Norton."

Not wanting her loyal abigail to fret, she schooled her face, forced her dry lips to curl. "Thank you for bringing me."
 

The old woman's lanky fingers reached for a pale blue blanket from the closet. "Ye seem so happy here, and I know this one is grateful for ye here." Her thick Scottish accent made the abigail's words feel weighty, like ancient wisdom. "We won't see him next week. In the morn, the administrator will send 'im to the wet nurses in the countryside."

"Nothing like fresh air and wide open spaces for children." The Tomàs's orchards, the dark-green wilderness laced with Pippins, that's where she wanted to be now. "What child wouldn't love the country over crowded London?"

"I often think that too."

The masculine voice wasn't as deep as Barrington's, but it still held command. It made her turn toward the door.
 

A tall man with a wide grin stood at the doorway. The heart-shaped face, the walnut colored eyes. He seemed familiar. "I must go back and get my children," he said. "Just can't bear being in London without them any longer."
 

Amora tucked the babe deeper into her arms and stared at the intruder. She glanced to Mrs. Gretling. The woman looked charmed, her cheeks turning red.

He plodded inside. His top hat flopped as if it would fall any minute. A cinnamon waistcoat peeked from his dark blue coat and buff breeches. His smudged boots echoed along the floor.
 

She borrowed strength from her ancestors and drew Tomàs into a deeper, more protective clench. "Do I know you?"

When his hand landed lightly on her elbow, she jumped. "Mrs. Norton, there's nothing to be afraid of. I am Vicar Wilson, and I'm quite good with infants."

The voice. Had she heard it over her screams? Sounds and visions of her miscarriage flooded back into remembrance. The shine of the doctor's sharp knife against her forearm. The smell of iron and wetness. And some smooth hand holding hers, praying for her. The vicar?

She peered up and squinted at him. It was him. He looked better, less scary without fever tainting her vision.

"May I?" The vicar held out his palms. "My boy is just over a year."

There was a softness in his eyes. Something peaceful about the lift of his lips.
 

She placed Tomàs in the man's arms.
 

Vicar Wilson started to hum as he adjusted the babe. The tune had something to do with grace, whatever that was.

The little one looked comfortable as his bright blue eyes closed in sleep.

"See, I told you I do well with children. And on Sunday's at St. George's, I practice offering naps to the congregation."
 

Mrs. Gretling sauntered to him, took the babe, and laid him in the crib. "Mrs. Norton, the vicar is just teasin' about making the church sleep. Haven't put me to sleep yet, nor any of the ladies on Sunday."

A blush crept onto the man's lean features. "Mrs. Gretling, you've made me feel so welcome. I'm grateful. Tuesday's mutton was delicious."

He bent and kissed her hand. He seemed very friendly, maybe too friendly.
 

Her abigail turned beet red. "I need to go get your shawl, Mrs. Norton. The temperature outside has dropped. Reverend, do keep my lady company?"

"It will be my pleasure." He held the door for Mrs. Gretling. "The babe and I will keep her entertained."

Before she could object, the spry woman was out of the room.
 

With her gaze settling on the worn floor planks, Amora counted nails heads. Hopefully, Mrs. Gretling wouldn't be long.

His boots pounded. His shadow soon enveloped her, as did the spicy scent of sandalwood. "How are you, Mrs. Norton? I've been most anxious to know."

She took a step backward then gazed at his face. "I am well."

A sigh left him, as if he'd been concerned. "That is good."
 

She shook her fist at his awful tone. It held nothing but pity. That condescending tone was reserved for Barrington, no one else. "Leave me."
 

"No, I cannot. The night you miscarried, you said things. Awful things, Mrs. Norton. Things you haven't told anyone, not even your husband."

Amora shrank away until the wall kept her from retreating farther. This stranger knew her secret. "Get away from me."

 
He stood very still. "I will keep your confidence for now, but you won't know freedom until you tell Mr. Norton. Have faith in him. All will be well when he knows."

Faith? Faith in God or Barrington? Neither was enough. Neither had or would forgive her. "Mr. Norton has no time for a sick wife. His career cannot be beset with scandals."

"You have to tell him. He needs to know so he can help."

 
She plucked her gloves from her wristlet reticule. "No. No one else needs to know."

He folded his arms. His sunny disposition cleared. Grim lines, thinned lips, and a cloud of angst covered his face. "I'm going to Hampshire at the end of the week to retrieve my children. In a month, I will return. If I haven't heard from you, I will come to Mayfair and I will tell Mr. Norton that you were abducted."

"You must forget this. I'll lie. Tell him you lie."

"The truth always comes out no matter how carefully constructed the lies or the omissions. Your husband would rather hear the truth from you."

He plodded to the door. "You still suffer from the horror of it. No amount of pretense will take away your pain."

"What if he doesn't believe I was abducted? What if he just thinks that was a lie to cover an affair?"

"I believe you." Vicar Wilson leveled his hat and paced from the room. "Tell him, before it is too late."

What would her husband say, hearing the news from Vicar Wilson or Cynthia?

Her stomach soured. Barrington would hate it. And he'd hate Amora for keeping it secret.

A treacherous jade and a determined minister threatened to destroy her world. Nothing else she valued would be left.
 

Cynthia could be telling Barrington now. She took a breath and tried to find the right words to tell her husband he'd married a liar.

Amora paced out of her bedchamber into the hall. Her bare feet skimming across the silken weave of the carpet. It wasn't grass, but she felt a little like a hoyden. That's what her mother used to call her because she loved nature, and loved being in nature like her father. When was the last time she danced in the wind or even felt rain on her cheeks?

She stopped at the hall mirror and rubbed her eyes. She wished see saw a hoyden, the independent girl who knew her own mind.

Insides twisting, fighting over what words to use to break Barrington's trust, she went to the window and peered at the lonely street below.
 

From here, she'd waited hundreds of times to spy Barrington's carriage as soon as it arrived. Then she'd dash down to greet him, hear of his day, and entice him to bed. Having his arms about her kept the monster, most nights, from her dreams. Most nights. On those others, shivering against Barr's sleep warmed form made her realize she was safe and the monster hadn't taken Barrington away either as he promised.