Riding became much more natural for Cecile over the next few days as Nathaniel showed her around the vast estate. The rolling lands and dark woods, the stone-fenced fields and the charming little town of Covington made a fascinating world, each part dependent on the others. The farmers grew the crops that were the base of the local economy. The village stores supplied all imported items needed for daily life, and the woods and wild lands were home to game everyone depended on for food.
Nathaniel’s job was to oversee everything. If his tenants had problems, they weren’t afraid to come to him for a solution. Cecile was impressed by his down-to-earth, friendly manner with everyone they met during their rides and long walks. Generations of tradition ensured that none of the people would ever view him as an equal, but the local folk clearly respected and loved the younger Covington brother.
“As you can see, the irrigation system is antiquated. I have plans for updating the method of getting water to the plants during dry spells, but lack the necessary funds to implement my idea.” Nathaniel rode beside Cecile, pointing out all the improvements he’d like to make based on more modern views of land management.
“It seems to me you’ve done the very best you can given your limited, ah, resources.”
“Which is a polite way of saying I’m broke… One of many aristocrats living on a family name with no money to back the title. This feudal system is as outdated as the field irrigation.”
Cecile nudged her heels into Persia’s flanks as the mare lagged behind Jackdaw. The old horse trotted forward. “It’s most unusual for a gentleman to speak of reform.”
“I guess I’ve never quite fit into society’s strictures. Maybe I should consider moving to America, try my hand at making a capitalist fortune and let Ronald throw this place to the dogs as he appears intent on doing.”
She shook her head. “You couldn’t do that. You love both the land and the people too much. I can see that.”
“Sir!” a voice called from on the road behind them. “Sir Nathaniel.”
Nate reined in and turned in the saddle. Cecile coaxed Persia to a stop several paces beyond and looked back, too.
A plump man with very red cheeks chugged down the road toward them. Cecile assumed he’d come from the thatch-roofed cottage on the other side of the low stone wall that bordered the road.
“Sir, I thought you’d want to know that Agnes Cuthbert is very ill, perhaps on her deathbed. A fever of some sort.”
Nate dismounted to face the red-faced man. “How long has she been sick, Bert?”
“I guess a few weeks.” The man looked at the ground and gripping his hands together. Cecile imagined if he’d had a cap, he’d be twisting it between them. “And, you might want to know, the boy is with her. Neighbors have been stopping by with food and taking shifts tending to her, but the boy… Well, when she passes, he’ll be on his own.”
Nate frowned. “I thought there were other relatives. Has no one sent for them?”
Bert shook his head. “None that anyone knows of, sir.”
“Then where did… Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Of course, I’ll stop by immediately. Thank you for telling me.”
The farmer nodded and turned to walk back through the gap in the wall and into his garden. Nate turned and mounted Jackdaw, gathering the reins and urging the horse forward. His expression was unreadable. One emotion after another chased over it, and all Cecile could tell for sure was that he was upset.
“I’ll see you home and then I must tend to this,” he said shortly.
“Please, Nathaniel, you don’t have to escort me back. I’ll go with you.”
He looked at her, his brows still knit in a scowl, and for a moment she thought he’d refuse, but then he simply nodded. “Very well.”
The ride to the Cuthbert cottage was only about a quarter mile, down the main road and then on a rough dirt path that led up a hill. The little home looked much like all the other stone cottages on the estate with a small garden in front, a shed, chicken coops and rabbit hutches on the side and the bronzed, autumn grass stretched out behind it.
His face tense and his mouth a grim line, Nate dismounted and looped the reins around a post in the yard. He forgot to help Cecile from her horse, but she was now able to do it alone, sliding a little awkwardly to the ground. As she followed him through the overgrown garden to the cottage door, Cecile guessed Nate had some connection to this Mrs. Cuthbert beyond that of landlord to tenant. Could the sick woman be related to his one-time love, the serving maid Fiona? Perhaps she would soon learn more of the story of the young lovers’ thwarted affair.
Nate knocked on the door. There was a long pause before it opened. Both their gazes dropped to meet the eyes of the young lad who’d answered the door. He stared at Nathaniel with wide eyes. “May I help you, sir?”
Surprisingly, the boy’s accent was not the local burr, but the precise tones of an upper crust schoolboy. Cecile took in his gawky length, his wrists sticking out of his shirt cuffs and ankles visible below the hems of his pants. Then she focused on his vivid blue eyes again. There was no mistaking the resemblance. Another piece of the puzzle of Nathaniel’s past clicked into place.
Another pause went on long enough to become awkward before Nate cleared his throat. “Yes. I’ve heard that your grandmother, Mrs. Cuthbert is ill. I thought I’d stop by and check on her. I’m Nathaniel Covington and this is my guest, Madame Lambeaux.”
“I know who you are, Sir Nathaniel. Everyone does. Please come in.” The boy bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement then stepped aside, holding the door open for them. His manner was deferential yet at the same time had a gracious quality—as if he were a young lord welcoming them to his estate.
The interior of the cottage was dim. It smelled of cabbage soup and sickness. There was a kitchen and a sitting area. Near the low-burning fire in the grate was a bed with blankets heaped over a shapeless lump. A whistling wheeze came from the shape, which looked almost too small to be an adult woman.
“My name is Peter,” the boy said as he led them across the small room. “Granny is getting better I think. The doctor gave her something to ease the coughing and she’s sleeping now.”
Nate and Cecile stood at the bedside, gazing at the still, paper-white face of the old woman lying there. She looked dead already. Only her chest rose and fell rhythmically like a bellows blowing with no hand to pump it.
“How long has she been like this?” Nate asked.
“She’s had a cough since before I left for the last school term, but it was only recently that it became so bad.” Peter straightened the covers, making sure they were drawn up over the woman’s shoulder. “She’s cold all the time now, which is why I have the fire going even on such a fine day as this.”
“You’ve been taking care of her all by yourself?” Nate’s voice was tight. He almost sounded angry.
Peter glanced at him, frowning slightly, and if Cecile had had any doubt about the boy’s paternity, it evaporated at the familiarity of his expression. “Neighbor ladies come with meals and to help with keeping her clean, but mostly I look after her. It’s no trouble.” His gaze was challenging and his voice as tight as Nate’s.
Cecile swallowed the turmoil of emotion inside her and smoothed her own expression into one of unruffled calm. “I’m sure you’re doing an admirable job, Peter, but perhaps you’d like a short break. If you want to go outside and get some fresh air, maybe take a walk, we’ll be happy to sit with your grandmother until you get back.”
The boy’s forehead creased even deeper. He looked uncertain about surrendering the care of his granny to a pair of strangers.
“I’ve nursed ill people before,” Cecile assured him. “I’ve quite a bit of experience with it. If anything changes, I’ll send Sir Nathaniel to find you.”
Peter glanced at the square of light in the open window and at his grandmother, then he studied Nate and Cecile as though assessing their characters. “All right. I’ll be at the river. I’ve some fish traps I should check, anyway.” He went to the door, but before he left he turned and gave a formal bow. “Thank you.”
After the door had closed behind him, Cecile looked at Nate. He stood for a long moment gazing at the closed door and then faced her. “So that’s Peter. I…I’d never seen him before.”
“He’s your son,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.” Nate turned and stared at the old woman on the bed then past her into the fireplace. He walked over to it, picked up a poker and prodded the log, waking the dying flames. “I suppose it’s time to tell you the rest of the story.”
“I’d like to hear it, but only if you care to talk. You don’t owe me any kind of explanation.” She smoothed her hand over the old woman’s shoulder, feeling her frail bones and slow breathing. Was this the time and place for Nate to tell the tale? She’d heard that the dying lost their hearing last of all and those who came out of unconscious states were sometimes able to relate word for word conversations that took place in their presence. Would they upset the old woman with stories from the past?
“I didn’t learn about the boy’s existence and Fiona’s death until recently.” Nate stood in profile to her, still staring into the fireplace with the poker clenched in his fist. “Fiona had disappeared off the face of the earth as far as my ability to find her, and then, as I told you, I entered the military. After training, I was stationed one place or another for eight years and only came back here after my father’s death last year.”
He drew a deep breath and stared at the cheap china figurines perched on the mantelpiece, a poorly painted shepherd kissing a shepherdess with a crook.
“How did you find out?” Cecile prompted him when it seemed he wouldn’t go on.
Nate laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “His will. Peter Cuthbert was one of father’s beneficiaries. The boy was bequeathed a stipend and the continued cost of his education. My father’s way of expiating his guilt, I suppose.” He hung the poker back on the fireplace and turned to Cecile. His eyes were two chips of blue ice. “You see, the boy may be mine or he may be my father’s.”
Cecile’s stomach did a cartwheel, but years of practice made it easy for her to remain expressionless. She didn’t want Nate to think she was horrified or to feel any shame about a situation that had clearly not been of his making. “I see,” she said calmly.
“I’d been naïve and ignorant. Never realized Fiona was no virgin, never knew my father had had his way with her and other serving maids over the years. I imagined that kind of thing happened in other peoples’ houses, but not in ours. Ronald is the one who had to explain all this to me, laughing at my stupidity all the while.”
“You weren’t stupid, but innocent,” Cecile said. “It wasn’t your fault or Fiona’s. I’m sure she loved you, but what could she do, given the situation she was in?”
“Or she learned she was pregnant after my father had lost interest in her and clung to me in hopes I’d take her away from Covington to start a new life.” His hands clenched at his sides. “That’s what I’ll never know. That, and whether the boy is mine.”
Cecile inhaled slowly, choosing her next words carefully, as she continued to stroke Mrs. Cuthbert’s fragile arm. “Nathaniel, does it matter?”
“What?” He took a step closer, facing Cecile across the narrow bed and the old woman’s prone body.
“In your heart, I think you know Fiona loved you, so you can lay that worry to rest. As for Peter’s paternity, whether he is your son or your half brother, he’s still family. He’s also a young boy with no father who needs more than financial support. He needs affection and guidance and very soon, it looks like he’ll need a place to live when he comes home on school holidays. He needs family.”
Nate stared back at her, saying nothing. Her heart raced. She’d said too much. This was not her concern, and he hadn’t asked for her advice, but she knew all too well what it was like to be that young child with no real home or family. Her own history had spilled out in her fervent plea on Peter’s behalf. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“No.” He held up a hand, stopping her apology. “You’re right. The boy is innocent in all this. He deserves to be cared for better than I’ve been doing. Yes, his school costs have been paid, but an anonymous benefactor sending him to school is hardly sufficient to replace a real father.”
Nate gazed down at the old woman’s face, her slack mouth and closed eyes. “I’ve been selfish, wallowing in my own emotions instead of thinking about him. I didn’t go to his school to meet him, and didn’t even know he was home now. I suppose I realized that seeing him would force me to make a decision about acknowledging him.”
“You feel hurt and betrayed. It’s understandable.”
“What’s bothered me the most isn’t the fact that my father kept this secret, but that Fiona did. Why didn’t she simply tell me what had happened, what he did to her?”
“She was afraid if she told the truth you wouldn’t love her anymore.” Cecile spoke from the heart, feeling Fiona’s emotions because they were her own. “She couldn’t stand to see disgust in your eyes. She was afraid you’d despise her.”
“I wouldn’t have. I would’ve forgiven anything, done anything, given up my name and my inheritance to be with her. What if my father simply offered her a better deal? Instead of living penniless with me, her son’s future would be ensured if she broke off her relationship with me and left town?”
“What happened to Fiona?” Cecile asked gently. “How did she die?”
“A fever, Ronald said. When Peter was five years old. They’d returned to Hillshire from wherever they were hidden some time after I’d begun my military career. The lad remained in his grandmother’s care until he was old enough to attend boarding school. I’m surprised my father saw his duty through, but then I guess I shouldn’t be, considering the man was rabid about the family bloodline. A bastard Covington is still a Covington.” Nate’s tone was as acidic as vinegar. His anger could be a fearsome thing, Cecile thought, and she dreaded having it directed at her.
The old woman suddenly drew in a deep, rattling breath, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, before resuming her shallow wheeze, in and out.
Cecile marshaled her scattered thoughts and tried to give Nate what comfort she could. She knew how much it must mean to him simply to have someone hear his thoughts and feelings at last. She’d often been Meredith’s confidante during the dark years with her vile husband, the Comte. “I’m sorry you’ve suffered through this, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive Fiona and even your father. It is for your own benefit, you know. One’s heart lightens without the burdens of regret and anger.”
Nate plucked at a thread of the blue quilt covering the bed. “I believe that’s true, but I’m still having trouble with this, maybe because I haven’t been able to decide what to do about the boy. I’ve known about him for almost a year now and haven’t even tried to see Peter. It’s unforgiveable—a cowardice worthy of my father.”
Cecile shrugged. “A year is not so long to let go of anger and move forward. Sometimes, I wake from a nightmare filled with rage at those who murdered my family, and that was well over twenty years ago.”
He looked from the bedspread up to her face. “Cecile, you—”
His thought was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, the knocker opened the door and strode into the cottage. “Peter, I’ve brought… Oh my goodness, your lordship!”
The woman in the doorway dropped a curtsy and nearly dropped the basket she was carrying. “I’m sorry sir. I just came round to check on Mrs. Cuthbert and to bring the boy a little dinner. I’d no idea you were visiting. I’ll come back later.”
“No, Mrs. Andrews. Please come in.” Nate moved around the foot of the bed and beckoned the woman forward. “Young Peter should return soon. He’s gone to check his fishing traps. We were just biding with Mrs. Cuthbert until his return.”
“The poor old dear. Her time is at hand.” The round-faced woman shook her head and clicked her tongue. “And what will become of the poor child, then?” Her eyes widened and she went beet-red as if she’d suddenly realized to whom it was she spoke. Mrs. Andrews’ reaction left no doubt in Cecile’s mind that all the locals were well aware of the bastard Peter’s lineage.
“My goodness, I’ve lost my mind and my manners. I’ll just leave the basket here and…” She backed toward the door, bobbing another curtsy. “I’d forgotten that I’ve some bread on the rise I should…”
“Please, Mrs. Andrews, stay.” Nate’s voice stopped her babbling and she froze near the door. “I’m sure the boy could use some help with nursing his grandmother. I’d be happy to pay you for your time and effort.”
“No need, sir.” The woman’s voice was suddenly stiff and her obsequious manner ended abruptly. “Agnes Cuthbert has been my neighbor all of my life. She and my mother were great friends since they were wee girls. She was with me when my mum passed. I wouldn’t take payment for tending her in her time of need.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just want to make sure the boy has all the help he needs. I’ll have one of the maids come and help out for a while and tell cook to send some meals.”
“I’m sure that would be much appreciated, sir.” The woman’s demeanor didn’t warm much, and Cecile could almost hear her thinking, We can take care of our own and don’t need your charity. For although it was a time-honored tradition for owners of great estates to look after their tenants in both large and small ways, it must gall the locals to accept this noblesse oblige.
Mrs. Andrews took off her shawl and hung it on a peg by the door. “I’ll be here when the boy gets back if you want to leave now.”
Summarily dismissed by her polite yet pointed suggestion, Nathaniel gave a small bow. “Thank you for your care of Mrs. Cuthbert and…her grandson.”
Once outside the small, stuffy cottage, Cecile breathed a great draught of fresh air. She’d spent much time in her youth working in an infirmary. It had been part of a complex of Catholic-run charities like the orphanage where she’d lived. The facility was used by local people for all their ills from chest colds to fatal diseases and Cecile had hated every minute spent ministering to the sick and dying. The smell of carbolic acid never left her hands, and the bodily odor of too many people enclosed together haunted her long after she’d left to make her way in the world.
Nate seemed to be drawing deep breaths as well. “Ach, I handled that badly.”
“No you didn’t,” she assured him, reaching out and taking his hand. “You offered help as was right.”
His hand wrapped around hers and squeezed lightly. “I can’t believe how much he looks like… It’s so strange. And I wish I’d known about him a long time ago, that I’d seen him as a baby. He must be eleven or nearly twelve now. So much time lost.”
Nate let go of her hand to unfasten their horses from the hitching post. “And even so, I’m not ready to see him again. Not right now. Let’s go before the lad returns home.”
He gave Cecile a boost into her saddle and mounted Jackdaw. Together they rode silently across the wild lands then up the road toward the manor. Cecile didn’t ask any more questions. Nate had a lot to think about and didn’t need the distraction of her company right now. In fact, he might prefer she end her visit while he dealt with this delicate family matter. She should offer to leave—but if she did, her fantasy holiday would be over. Madame Lambeaux the aristocrat would disappear never to be resurrected and Cecile would return to her old life.
When that happened, would Nate look for her as he had for his lost Fiona? Would he ask Meredith what had become of her visiting friend, while Cecile hid upstairs in her room? Would Meredith tell him she’d returned to France, and what if Nate asked for an address? What lie would she give him then?
Abruptly the lunacy of the entire charade hit home. This fabrication was as delicate and flimsy as spun-sugar filigree on a cake and as poisonous as strychnine. Cecile felt sick at the web she’d spun, especially knowing how another net of lies had once ensnared and damaged Nate. If she told him the truth now, would it be too late? Would he hate her for having betrayed his trust like the long ago Fiona?
As they neared the turn off to the great drive leading to the house, Nate reined his horse to a slow walk and turned to Cecile. “I want to thank you for being there with me today. It made it easier, having you beside me. You helped me put some things into perspective. As you say, it’s not the past I should dwell on, but the future and what is owed to the boy.”
She felt her cheeks tingle at the unexpected compliment. “I’m glad you let me come along. Peter seems a polite and kind boy.” She wanted to add how difficult it must be for him living with a foot in two worlds—educated beyond the village lads yet probably not accepted by the snobbish sons of gentry at his school. One whiff of the term “bastard” could make a child’s life hell. But she’d already voiced her opinion far beyond what it was her right to say.
They spurred their horses and resumed riding up the broad drive under the arching oak branches. Only when they rounded the curve did they see the activity taking place at the manor house. Several carriages had arrived and their occupants were being discharged before the door. A number of riding horses were milling about on the front lawn as well, trampling the grass and threatening the flower beds rather than staying on the gravel drive.
Gentlemen in London’s finest couture and their equally well-attired ladies lingered before the house. Servants took the reins of the gentlemen’s mounts and led them away, as the men boisterously laughed and bantered.
A frisson of fear made the hair on Cecile’s nape rise. She hadn’t counted on her interlude with Nate being interrupted by outside guests. The London set would quickly see through her ruse. She would display her ignorance of the intricate social connections within the ton or make some other faux pas. They would recognize her as an outsider, who didn’t belong in their set.
Once more Nate pulled Jackdaw to a stop. “Good Christ! The last thing I needed to deal with today. My brother, Ronald, has arrived home.”