Nine
The next day, Caitlyn dressed with as much care as she had the night before. All the time she was doing so, she berated herself for being so concerned about such an inconsequential matter as her appearance. She was further annoyed with herself for caring even the least bit about how Trevor might see her. After all, had he not deserted her when she needed him most?
Nevertheless, she donned her favorite day dress, aquamarine muslin trimmed with just a touch of white lace here and there. Polly arranged her hair in a popular style with carefully casual curls. Looking in the glass, Caitlyn turned her head this way and that.
“Hmm. Yes. I like it,” she told the maid.
Polly beamed. “You want I should add a touch of rouge to your cheeks, ma’am? You seems a mite pale.”
“I think not,” Caitlyn said, pinching those offending bits of her physiognomy.
“You look right pretty, ma’am, if I do say so.” Polly bent to straighten the hem of the dress.
“Thank you, Polly. I need to feel pretty today.”
A few minutes later, when she entered the drawing room, she was surprised to find Aunt Gertrude already entertaining guests, several of whom had attended the Bathmoreson ball the previous evening. Vultures sensing a kill, Caitlyn thought, but she smiled brightly and greeted each with some semblance of warmth.
Seeing Bertie among the guests, Caitlyn breathed a sigh of resignation. But the sight of two other male guests raised her spirits considerably, for their conversation was sure to prove diverting. Sir Willard Ratcliff, who would one day inherit the prestigious Ratcliff Farms, had made a name for himself among horse breeders and trainers. His animals were known for both speed and stamina. She also welcomed the presence of David Graham, whom she had met at a salon she attended with Aunt Gertrude. Mr. Graham was an intimate of William Wilberforce and had supported the older man’s efforts to outlaw England’s participation in the slave trade several years earlier. Both Ratcliff and Graham were rich landowners and, though neither had ever behaved in any but the most proper manner, both had engaged in mild flirtations with Caitlyn.
Bertie immediately, and with little regard for subtlety, established a position near Caitlyn as she stood talking with Graham and another couple. When these three moved off to visit with others, Bertie took Caitlyn’s elbow and steered her to a window alcove.
“I promise not to desert you, my dear,” he said softly.
She gently but firmly disengaged herself from his grip. “Bertie, you go too far. I never gave you leave . . .” She wanted to scream at him, but she kept her voice low and even managed to smile for the benefit of anyone who might be observing. Looking around, she caught Ratcliff’s eye, and he strolled toward them.
“I say there, Latham. Never think you can steal Mrs. Jeffries away from the rest of us. You must share, you know.”
“Thought nothing of the kind,” Bertie muttered.
“Oh, Bertie,” Caitlyn said. “I would dearly love a glass of lemonade.”
Bertie was not best pleased at this request, but he had little choice but to fetch her the drink.
When he had gone, Ratcliff asked, “Was I correct, then, in thinking you were a damsel in need of rescue?”
“Actually—yes.” Caitlyn smiled.
When Bertie returned with the lemonade, Ratcliff was deep into his favorite topic—his stable of race horses. Two other gentlemen had joined the discussion, and Bertie was no longer able to monopolize Caitlyn’s attention. Which was just as well, for her attention kept wandering, though it focused on the drawing room door with each new arrival.
“—do they not, Mrs. Jeffries?” A man named Harrison, along with his wife, had joined the conversation.
“I . . . I beg your pardon?” Caitlyn felt slightly embarrassed. “I am afraid I was not attending.”
“We were discussing the racing meet at Brighton later in the summer,” Mrs. Harrison explained patiently.
“Oh—”
“Do the Jeffries Farms not have some three-year-olds that might be entered?” From Harrison’s tone, she knew he had asked the question previously.
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“Yes? Perhaps? Either they are or they are not ready. Will you be entering the race?”
“I . . . uh . . . That decision has not been made yet.” Caitlyn hated sounding so vague. The Brighton Race Meet had long been a dream for her—but now that Trevor had returned, would he scotch their participation?
“What about the earlier meet at Newmarket?” Harrison persisted. “Surely you will show your stock there.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure we will have teams to show at Newmarket. After all, we have done so for three years.”
“And shown to good advantage every time,” Ratcliff observed.
“Thank you, Sir Willard. How kind of you to say so.”
Harrison cleared his throat noticeably. “You may find the competition a bit stiffer this year. I’ve a pair of chestnuts that are prime goers.”
Caitlyn made an appropriately polite response, then excused herself to circulate among other guests. She was deep into discussing support for a local parish school when she felt rather than heard the room go silent. Even before she turned toward the door, she knew. Trevor had arrived. At least half the room had been awaiting his entrance.
“Oh, there you are, Trevor.” Aunt Gertrude called to him discreetly just as though his appearance were the most natural thing in the world. His aunt took his arm and maneuvered him into her conversational group. “Margaret—Lady Thurston, that is—and I were just discussing the ball the Prince plans for the newest duke in the realm.”
Bless Aunt Gertrude, Caitlyn thought, though she was aware of several sets of eyes shifting their gaze from her to her husband and back. Good manners reasserted themselves and the buzz of conversation resumed. Soon, guests began to drift away, though Caitlyn thought some did so reluctantly. Well, they have new grist for the gossip mill, she told herself.
Trevor had not expected to find his wife and his aunt entertaining such a number of callers. He was also surprised at the makeup of the group. True, there were several members of what he thought of as “Aunt Gertrude’s reformers,” but there were also members of the sporting crowd. Nor was Latham the only guest with pretensions to stylistic grandeur.
Carefully keeping up his end of conversations in the next half hour, he was nevertheless intensely aware of where Caitlyn was in the room and with whom she talked. More than once her throaty laugh caught his ear, producing twinges of annoyance at his being on the outside of her merriment. He was not pleased at seeing that she commanded so much male attention.
Well, what did you expect? he asked himself contemptuously. A beautiful woman draws men as flowers draw bees. He wondered how many bees had tasted the nectar of this flower. A blast of sheer rage assailed him at this thought.
But why? Was that not what he had assumed during his absence? Had he not long ago resigned himself to the fact of Caitlyn’s betrayal? All that remained was to extricate himself from this farce of a marriage. That was why he was here, was it not?
He tried not to be too obvious in observing which men commanded Caitlyn’s attention. Viscount Latham hovered near her at all times. Trevor smiled grimly to himself at the glares young Latham sent his way. He was not surprised that Caitlyn seemed to welcome Latham’s protectiveness. After all, Latham had been her first choice as a husband. Now that his father was dead, Latham might cast his lures into whatever waters appealed to him. However, Trevor was taken aback by the ease his wife enjoyed among the Ratcliff lot. Trevor knew Ratcliff well, the two of them having been drawn together in an earlier day by their mutual interest in horses. Ratcliff sought him out now.
He offered Trevor his hand. “Jeffries. Glad to see you back safe and sound.”
“Thank you, Willard. I . . . uh, may I say how sorry I was to hear about your wife?” Trevor had attended the Ratcliff wedding some years before.
“Thank you. It has been over two years now, though. Childbirth is a hazardous bit of business for women. We thought the second time would be easier.” He brightened as he added, “But Mary gave me a fine son earlier.”
“Oh.” Trevor’s tone was polite approval, but he could not quell the unbidden thought that Caitlyn had faced that hazard alone.
“Quite a boy, my Robbie,” Ratcliff went on. “He is not yet five, but sits a saddle better than many an adult.”
“Is that so?” Trevor feigned interest. Was it their children that Caitlyn and Ratcliff had in common?
Ratcliff shifted the topic. “Don’t suppose you saw much in the way of prime racing stock in the Peninsula?”
“Not much. There were occasional races. Impromptu affairs meant to relieve the boredom between battles.”
“Ah, yes. Well, now that you have returned to home soil, I expect you will be giving me some real competition.”
“Not on the racecourse.” Trevor deliberately employed a note of finality.
“You must be joking.”
Ratcliff’s tone annoyed Trevor. “No, I am not.”
Ratcliff gave him a penetrating look but said nothing more on the topic. Shortly he excused himself, took his leave of the hostesses, and departed. Others began to follow suit. Among the last to leave was Viscount Latham, who rather rudely engaged in a whispered colloquy with Caitlyn at the door.
Trevor heard her say, “I appreciate your concern, Bertie,” as she ushered him out.
While other guests took their leave, Trevor wandered to a window. The house Caitlyn had rented was a modest one, rather narrow with four floors besides a basement and an attic. This much he had seen from the street on his previous attempts to visit. Now he saw that the drawing room covered the entire back of the first floor and looked down into a charming garden.
Seeing movement off to the side, he caught sight of a child playing. A child in this house had to be Caitlyn’s—living proof of his wife’s deception. A woman he presumed to be the nurse sat on a bench nearby. He smiled absently as the little girl carefully laid a doll in a miniature pram and tucked in the covers around it. Then she looked up at the window and waved.
Trevor drew in his breath. This was the child of the park. Until now, he had been able to think of the situation between him and Caitlyn in abstractions and legalities. Here, he beheld the face of another victim—indeed, the real victim—of that damned wager. Had Caitlyn never given a thought to what the child might suffer when she brazenly tried to pass off another man’s by-blow as Trevor’s?
He suddenly became aware of Aunt Gertrude standing next to him returning the little girl’s wave. The silence stretched out until Trevor finally spoke, keeping his voice carefully neutral and his eyes on the scene below. “Caitlyn’s daughter, I presume.”
When Aunt Gertrude did not immediately respond, Trevor turned to look at her. Her voice was gentle as she said, “And yours.”
“She bears my name. I suppose that makes her mine in some eyes.”
“Oh, Trevor. Look at her.” Aunt Gertrude tapped the window, and the little girl looked up again with a happy smile.
“Oh, my God!” The words were wrenched from him.
“Yes. She is the very image of Melanie at that age. You cannot see it from here, but she even has that very slight overlap of one front tooth over the other that Melanie has. You recall that family portrait that hangs in Timberly’s great hall?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded bleak even to his own ears. An image of that portrait flashed across his mind. The child below might have posed for it. What Aunt Gertrude was suggesting, though, could not be true. He tried to recall what had been said about Caitlyn’s child in the infrequent letters from his family. Nothing. After that terse postscript from his mother, the subject had never come up. There had to be some reasonable explanation.
“Yes,” he repeated. “But surely you do not believe this child is mine. It is not unknown for entire strangers to look alike. Why, we had a fellow in our regiment looked exactly like Wellington. Caused no end of confusion.”
“Trevor,” his aunt said, and again her voice was very gentle, “I was there when the babe was born on a cold day in February.”
“February?” He mentally ticked off the months. “Are you sure it was not January—or even December?”
“It was the seventeenth of February.”
“I cannot believe—”
“Oh, Trevor. Think.” Aunt Gertrude sounded impatient now. “Had things been as you were told, Caitlyn would have to have been gone with child six weeks and more when you married. The babe would have come much earlier. Surely young men of today know that much of the procreation process.”
Before he could respond, Caitlyn returned, having seen the last of the guests on their way.
“And what do you two find so interesting in the garden?” she asked with what seemed to be forced gaiety. She came to look, and Trevor heard her sharp intake of breath. “Ashley.” The color drained from her face and she turned fear-filled eyes to Trevor. Time—the world—seemed to stand still.
“I . . . uh . . . I believe I shall leave you two to sort this out between you,” Aunt Gertrude said, gliding out the door and closing it softly behind her.
“Why?” he fairly croaked the word. “Why in bloody hell did you not tell me about this child—which Aunt Gertrude assures me is mine?”
She took a step backward from the fury he knew himself powerless to quell. “I—I—”
He ignored her squeak as he grasped her shoulders. “How dare you keep something like this from me?”
He could see the fear intensify in her eyes, but then he saw rising anger as well. She wrenched away from him.
“I did tell you.” She fairly spit the words at him. “I wrote you as soon as I knew a babe was coming. When I had no response, I knew you believed the gossip about me and the babe. But despite nary a word from you, I also wrote you again of her arrival. How dare you come marching in at this late date laying accusations at my door?” She ended on a sob but quickly recovered herself, her hands clenched at her sides.
“You wrote me?” His disbelief was in itself challenging. “How? Where?”
“The only way I knew of contacting you was through your father and that odious Gerald.” She seemed to be recovering some of her spirit. “Had you bothered with me beyond that ever-so-tender note of farewell . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He ran his hand through his hair. “I cannot believe my family deliberately withheld such information from me.” But he was beginning to think they might have.
“To their credit,” she sounded grudging, “they may have seen themselves as protecting you.”
“Perhaps.” He thought it more likely that the precious Jeffries family name was their primary concern.
“Even now, they do not acknowledge me—or Ashley.”
“Ashley? That’s her name?”
“Ashley Gertrude.” The look she gave him seemed to seek his approval, so he nodded. “Aunt Gertrude has tried to tell them. They refuse to hear her. I think Melanie knows the truth, but of course she and Marcus have been out of the country almost as long as you have.”
“Still—I cannot believe you did not make more of an effort to inform me.” He was reluctant to give up his anger.
“Would it have mattered? I doubt you would have been any more willing to believe me than members of your family were.”
“It might have mattered,” he said, hesitant.
“Oh, Trevor. Admit it. You would not even think of believing me now if Ashley did not bear such a strong resemblance to Melanie.”
“Well . . .” He hated the defensive note.
“You still think I was party to some grotesque hoax.” Her voice was laced with sadness and disgust.
“I just do not know.” He ran his hand through his hair again. He was trying to be totally honest. He was surprised to find he truly wanted to believe her incapable of such a nasty trick, but he had long harbored another view.
Nearly five years ago, he had thought himself a gullible young fool, ripe for the plucking by a conniving female and her accomplices. His embarrassment had turned to anger. At some point during those years, the anger had turned to—what?—acceptance? Complacency? Whatever it was, on his return to England, he had thought to put it all behind him.
Was he being gulled again? No. That could not be. Aunt Gertrude would never be party to such a scheme.
Realizing that neither of them had spoken for a time, he said slowly, “I find all this difficult to absorb at the moment. No . . . no.” He put up a hand in protest at the militant look he saw in her eyes. “I am not denying what you say, but . . .”
“But you just do not believe it.” There was a certain dead neutrality to her voice.
“That is not what I said. I . . . I need time to think.”
“All right, Trevor.”
He sensed both resignation and apprehension in her.
“If I may, I shall call again tomorrow,” he said, holding himself stiffly.
“Of course.”
As Trevor left the house, a maelstrom of emotions assailed him. He was inclined to believe his wife and his aunt. Believing them, though, meant disbelieving both of his parents and his eldest brother, people he had known far longer than the wife he had truly known for only a few days five years ago.
Moreover, these were people who professed to love him. Surely they would not have withheld such vital information from him. But he knew they had—however much he wanted to believe otherwise. Anger and regret vied in his ponderings.
If Aunt Gertrude was right about those dates—and Trevor saw no reason to doubt her—the child was very likely his. His family had actively conspired to hide that possibility from him. And just how hard had Caitlyn tried to get word to him?
Trevor wandered the streets for some time, unaware of his surroundings. Finally, he came to a decision of sorts. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, but he hailed a hackney cab and gave the driver his mother’s direction. He found the countess in her private sitting room reclining lazily on a chaise longue.
“Oh, Trevor, darling.” His mother greeted him with a falsely bright mixture of welcome and regret. “You catch me at an inopportune time, my dear. I was just about to change for a ride in the park with Lord Staunton.”
“Have Heston tell Staunton you are indisposed. I have something important to discuss with you.”
The countess was obviously taken aback by his authoritative demand and grim expression. She gave him a questioning look, but called in the butler and did as he said.
“All right. Now. What is it?” Only his mother could sound simultaneously bored and curious.
“I visited Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude today.”
His mother lifted an elegant eyebrow. “I do hope that tiresome girl is not going to continue to be difficult.”
Trevor ignored this comment and plunged in with his own question. “Why were Caitlyn’s letters not sent on to me?”
“Her letters?” His mother’s evasiveness was telling.
“Letters. Caitlyn informs me that she wrote of the babe before and after the birth. She sent them to my loving family to be forwarded. I never received them.”
“Well, of course you did not, darling. What possible interest would you have had in missives from a woman you intend to divorce? One who carried another man’s child?”
“So you did deliberately keep those messages from me.”
“Your father and Gerald thought it wisest there be no communication between you. I merely agreed with them.”
“Did you, indeed?” He could not hide his bitterness. “Did it occur to none of you that I might have had some say in that?”
His mother looked uncomfortable, but her tone was dismissive. “Well, darling, it is water under the bridge now, is it not?”
“Not quite.”
She seemed startled as she asked, “Whatever do you mean?”
Trevor did not respond directly. “Why have you never visited Caitlyn or seen the child?”
“Good heavens! Lend countenance to her false claims? I think not!”
“What if her claims are not false?”
“Oh, Trevor, what has that dreadful woman said to you? You cannot have changed your mind about being rid of her.”
“I cannot turn my back on a child which is almost surely mine.” Now he was being evasive. Was the child truly his only concern?
“What makes you suddenly believe that it is?”
“Her appearance. And Aunt Gertrude firmly believes it to be so.”
“Gertrude!” His mother’s contempt flashed in her eyes and tone. “Lady Gertrude has merely found a new cause. How wonderful for her that it proves an embarrassment for me.”
He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to be patient. “Mother, this is not about you.”
“Well, it certainly concerns me. I will not have that . . . that woman—either of them—besmirching the Jeffries family name.”
“I rather think we can manage that on our own.”
His irony was not lost on his mother, for she gave him a look of annoyance.
“Trevor,” she said sternly, “I hope this conversation does not suggest you are having second thoughts about freeing the family of ties to that—that—person.”
“Perhaps I am really thinking for the first time.”
“Hmmph!” She gave an unladylike snort of contempt. “Your thinking may be directed by some part of your anatomy other than your head.”
“Mother!” Trevor was truly shocked at her coarseness.
“Well . . .” She colored up and became more conciliatory. “I only meant to say I have seen her, and she is a comely wench—if you like that unkempt, out-of-doors brassiness. And many men do, you know.” This last was added as a snide afterthought.
He rose. “This conversation is going nowhere.”
“You are going to convince her to agree to a quiet divorce, are you not?” The countess sounded worried.
“I do not know, Mother. I simply do not know at the moment.”
“You owe it to the family.”
“The family,” he said blankly, thinking that his “family” obligations had lately taken a very different turn than his mother envisioned.
That night he slept intermittently, dozing off now and then, but by morning he had reached a decision. Come what may, Trevor Jeffries would assume control of his life. His carelessly following the Corinthian crowd had led to the death of his brother and their friend. His guilt had then made him vulnerable to the manipulations of Fiske and Fitzwilliam. A misplaced sense of family obligation had led him to desert his wife and child. He had been as a puppet whose strings others controlled.
But no more.
The next day when he presented himself, Caitlyn received him alone in her small but cozy library and study. She feared this encounter more than she had ever feared anything in her life before. She had not slept well and knew the strain showed in dark circles under her eyes. She had even resorted to a bit of rice powder to erase them.
Caitlyn had been standing, staring unseeingly through the window at traffic on the street when the butler announced Captain Jeffries. Taking a seat on one of two barrel-like chairs at a small table, she motioned him to the other one.
They stared at each other for a moment, and despite her fears for her child, she felt comforted by his gaze. She noted fine lines around his eyes—from squinting into Spanish suns, she thought incongruously. She abruptly turned her thoughts to the topic at hand.
“Have you . . . uh . . . come to a conclusion?” She had not intended to sound so tentative.
“Yes. Several, actually.”
His tone, firm and commanding, increased her tension. “And . . . ?”
“I am willing to believe Ashley is my daughter.”
Caitlyn breathed a sigh of relief, despite the reservation she heard in his voice. She could not help herself. She had to ask the next question.
“That is not precisely the same as saying you do believe it. You still think I wronged you, do you not?”
“Caitlyn, what I believe or think is irrelevant. What matters is the welfare of the—our—child.”
“On that, at least, we can agree.”
“I want to meet her. Now.”
“I will not have you upset her.”
“She should know her father,” he asserted.
“Only if you intend to be a father to her.”
“I can do that only if you allow it.”
She looked at him questioningly; then comprehension dawned.
“Do you mean that? Do you really mean that?” she asked with growing wonder.
“Of course. What else—”
“Oh, Trevor. I was so very afraid . . .”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“That . . . that you would take her away from me if you believed she was yours.”
Trevor seemed confused. “I . . . I suppose that makes sense to you, but I confess I do not understand what you mean.”
“I . . . I feared you would take her and never allow me to see her.”
“Good God, Caitlyn. It that what you think of me? That I would keep a child from its mother?”
She took a deep breath. Her words tumbled over each other. “Lord Lennington divorced his wife and took her children and never allows her to see them, and the poor woman cries for them all the time, and I would just die if I lost Ashley.”
“I am not Lord Lennington.”
“No, of course not.” For the first time, she gave him a feeble smile.
“Well? Am I to be allowed a role in my daughter’s life or not?”
Hearing the words “my daughter” on his lips sounded strange to her, but she felt a certain reassurance at his use of them. Her smile deepened.
Then she sobered. “Wha—what role do you visualize?”
“I . . . I am not sure. This is pretty new to me. I . . . I want to spend time with her, get to know her.” His voice became increasingly assertive.
She took a deep breath. She was embarrassed, but determined. “You must know that there has always been a great deal of talk about Ashley’s parentage,” she began.
“Fueled, no doubt, by certain members of my family.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“My mother never had an idea in her head that did not pop out in company.”
Caitlyn was briefly amused at this, but quickly turned her thoughts back to what was on her mind. “Since . . . since your return, the gossip has renewed.”
“I see.” He did not sound as though he did see, but he waited for her to go on.
“Because you . . . Well, because you are staying elsewhere.”
“When I arrived back in England, I did not even know you were in town. Later, I had no idea of what my reception might be.”
“Well—now you do.”
There was a long pause during which she gazed into his eyes and felt warmth rising in her cheeks. She broke the eye contact and twisted her hands nervously in her lap.
“Let me understand this. Are you—are you inviting me to live here—with you?”
Her gaze shifted back to him. “Not . . . not with me precisely. Only as Ashley’s father.”
“Ah. I see.” He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze, making no attempt to hide her apprehension and doubt. He nodded. “All right. That seems reasonable. It will establish Ashley’s claim to the Jeffries name. Regardless of what might happen later.”
“Thank you, Trevor.” She reached out to touch his arm, and the brief physical contact sent a bolt of awareness through her. Did he feel it, too?
“Now. May I meet my daughter?”
Caitlyn went to the bellpull and spoke quietly to the servant who answered. A few minutes later, there was a gentle rap at the door and Ashley came in clutching her doll.
“Thank you, Adams,” Caitlyn said to the nurse, dismissing her.
Ashley stared at this strange man and sidled nearer her mother, apparently sensing something extraordinary. Caitlyn knelt beside her, put her arm around the child, and spoke softly. “Ashley, love. You remember I told you your papa went to be a soldier?”
The little girl nodded knowingly. “Uh-huh.” She looked at Trevor. “My papa is a brave soldier in the ’ninsula.”
Caitlyn was disconcerted by Ashley’s revelation, but Trevor would at least know the child had a positive view of her absent father. “Well, darling,” Caitlyn said, “your papa has come home.”
“Really and truly?” Ashley’s eyes widened in delight.
“Really and truly,” Caitlyn responded with this catch phrase between the two of them. “This is your papa, darling. He has come especially to see you.”
Trevor knelt before the little girl and opened his arms. He seemed surprised when Ashley came into them immediately and slid one small hand around his neck, the other still firmly clutching her doll. He hugged her little body to him and kissed the top of her head.
“Are you really and truly my papa?”
He gazed into eyes that were a mirror image of his own. “Yes, poppet, I am.”
He hugged her even more tightly, and when his gaze met Caitlyn’s over their daughter’s head, she saw that she was not the only one whose vision was blurred by tears.