Mel’s gaze had narrowed on him, as direct and assessing as that of her grandfather when he and Fitz had spoken in private.
“It was damnably foolish of me. I knew it when I did it, but I felt… responsible, in a way, that he’d squandered everything.”
“Everything?”
“Sophie—Lady Glanford—brought a fortune into the marriage. And yes, everything.”
“I see.” Her lips firmed. “You beggared your family’s estate to help a scapegrace friend. You were being honorable… for the sake of his wife? His children? But why then… Lord Loughton, I was told that you neglected his sons. Your wards. Or… was that information false? Was that simply a vile rumor?”
A trickle of perspiration slid down his back. In the twelve months since Glanford’s and Alice’s deaths, he’d not visited his wards once or followed up on the arrangements a guardian ought to make. He’d given only a cursory attention to the business correspondence with Glanford’s steward and solicitor. Since his return home Christmas Eve, he’d been over this with Mother, and George, and Sophie. Confronting his neglect hadn’t eased his shame or the pain that went with it.
“It’s true.” He could see in Mel’s eyes it was another strike against him. “I saw the boys after Glanford’s funeral. I’d planned to stay long enough to see to matters there, but then news came that my late wife had gone into labor.”
Three months early, or so he’d thought. The shock, the anger, the grief had been paralyzing, and all of it renewed after Father’s death and the confirmation of his worst suspicions.
Mother had been right to send George for him and to invite Mel.
“With all that has happened, I’ve been negligent, Mel. It’s true. But I assure you, I’m on good terms with the lads, and will continue to be so.” Thank heavens, the boys were resilient. “Sophie is as intelligent and sensible as you. We’ve agreed she’ll see to the management of the estate and the boys’ education, and consult with me if needed. And my equally sensible brother George will soon be their stepfather. Artie and Ben will be well cared for.”
“I see. You’ve turned your responsibilities over to their mother and your brother.” She folded her arms at her waist. “I suppose that’s wise.” Head tilted, her scrutiny was relentless. “What more aren’t you telling me?”
Her dark eyes gleamed with perceptiveness and determination. He loved that she was direct, not missish or coy. But this matter…
Outside the clouds shifted, darkening the room, and a shiver traced its way through his spine. He turned away, remembering the child he’d hoped for with such joy, the child whose conception he thought meant his marriage was finally as it should be, the dead babe he’d cradled in his arms, a big bruiser of a lad. Not premature at all, Mrs. Astrop, the midwife had whispered to him. Alice had thrashed about, mumbling what sounded like sorry before slipping into oblivion.
He’d been in London, and she in the country when that child was conceived. A dead friend, a dead wife, and a dead child—who wasn’t his. It was after Father’s funeral that a chance remark by an acquaintance in his cups confirmed which friend had betrayed him.
A knock at the door saved him from answering. He wrestled his fall and waistcoat into place and went to the door.
“I beg your pardon.” Biggs averted his gaze from the untied neckcloth. “One of the Cruikwork lads is below asking for you.”
The Cruikworks had been long-time tenants. The older son had gone off to war and returned with two stepchildren and a troublesome bride whose temper ran as hot as his own to join his parents and youngest siblings in the cottage they all shared. The arrival of more babies, the death of his father, the post-war depression, and the scars of battle he carried increased his burdens. As did Fitz’s incompetence. The family’s holding needed upkeep from the landlord, upkeep that he’d had to defer.
A head poked through the door. “You must hurry, me mam says, else they’ll kill each other.”
“I’ll be right along.” He turned back to Mel. “I have to go.”
She glanced at young Harry Cruikwork and then back at Fitz. “Is he beating his wife?”
“Unless she’s taking a turn at thrashing him,” Fitz said.
She reached for his elbow and nudged him to the door. “I’ve been with my father when he intervened in soldiers’ domestic disputes. I’m going with you.”
Alice would never engage with the tenants, except as the lady of the manor bringing a food basket. Nor would he have encouraged her to do so.
But Mel was different. She was ever straightforward with him, and he wanted to be so with her as well, at least as much as he could be. It was risky, but let her see what the burdens of Loughton were like. “Fetch your boots and meet me at the stables.”
Perhaps while he tackled the husband, her good sense could tame the beast in Jilly Cruikwork. Because the last thing he wanted to do was turn the man and his family out.
Mel rode along next to Fitz, the horses picking their way through snow and in some places muddy slush. She hadn’t had time to change into a riding habit, but the generous cloak Fitz had flung over her covered her well, shielding her from the cold wind as she listened to his tale of the troubled family.
“Are you the Justice of the Peace?” she asked.
“Father was. I haven’t taken up the mantle yet.”
“What do you mean to do with…”
“Cruikwork”
“Cruikwork. Yes. Will you put him out?”
“No,” he said. “Cruikwork served for years in the Peninsular campaign.”
His firm answer unaccountably cheered her—unaccountably because it was probably a terrible business decision if the tenant was wreaking havoc.
On the other hand, Father had tolerated much from his men, as long as they performed on the field of battle. He’d used the lash as needed, of course.
She wondered if Fitz had a lash? Probably not. And locking the man up for a few days might only increase the family’s hardship.
But the wife might be the one causing trouble. Women often did, of course. Not aristocrats or gentry perhaps, but she’d seen women in the camps tumbling about engaged in fisticuffs, usually fighting over a man, Papa had said, though it was likely more about what the man in question could provide in the way of food or security.
It put her in mind of Lady Susan and Miss Pritney at Lady Clitheroe’s house party. Both of them had set their caps for Fitz. Fortunately, his friends had sniffed out their plans. On the ride to Grandfather’s, she and Fitz had laughed over Lady Susan’s planned snare involving meeting at the folly, and Miss Pritney’s plot to push Fitz into the stream, jump in behind him, and then rip open the drop-front on her gown. Mel had advised him to tell them both to go to the devil, but his gentlemanly senses wouldn’t allow it. How ironic that Mel had saved him from them, and trapped him for herself. Unintentionally, of course.
She glanced his way and saw that he was gazing ahead with a pensive stare. He was concerned about these tenants, but that wasn’t all. They hadn’t finished their conversation. She must ask him again about that Glanford business. Something about it was troubling him.
A screech pierced the quiet of the snow-laden elms, and Fitz kicked his horse into a faster pace. A cottage came into view, the roof draped here and there with ragged oil cloth, the chimney bricks missing mortar in various places. Out-buildings sagged around items blanketed in melting snow—debris or farm equipment, she couldn’t be sure.
Dismounting quickly, they approached the open cottage door—another scarred, sagging item.
“Be done with you, you she-wolf,” a man bellowed.
Fitz shoved Mel behind him, blocking her view.
She was peering around him when he suddenly ducked, taking her down with him. Crockery sailed out through the open door, making a soft landing in the muddy snow.
“Well done, Fitz,” Mel said, choking back a laugh.
“You will stop this instant, Mrs. Cruikwork,” Fitz said in a drawl, the lazy tone cloaking an iron will.
Gaping mouths greeted them, and Mel saw immediately one of the problems. There were entirely too many people crammed into the small cottage, all but three of them children.
“You see, Jilly.” The lone man in the group puffed up his chest and preened.
“Cruikwork,” Fitz said sternly, “Why is your wife sporting a swollen eye and a bloody lip?”
Mel moved up beside Fitz and surveyed the room more closely. Pots, buckets and pans stood in strategic locations collecting leaks; broken dishes and tipped over chairs littered the room, and—she did a quick count—eight children of various ages plus an older woman with a babe in each arm hovered in the corners. The tall lad who’d come to fetch Fitz wasn’t here. He would make number eleven.
Good heavens. They were like the Lovelace family, a hardy lot whose children had survived.
The woman, Jilly, wore a clean but threadbare apron over a simple gown, and her hair had sprung loose from whatever restraints she’d imposed on it. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, she stood defiant and fearsome, for all she was a head shorter than her equally sturdy man. Pine boughs and holly decorated the mantel for the festive season. A cauldron of what looked to be some sort of porridge simmered upon the jack over a peat fire, and the sideboard held loaves of cooling bread, a dish of butter and possibly the remains of a Christmas ham. If their dwelling place needed repairs, and their clothing was worn, at least they all appeared to be eating well enough. And what a job it would be for the women and girls in this family to keep this lot fed.
The man Cruikwork hung his head and shifted, teetering.
He took a step back, and she saw the twinge of pain that spoke of more than mere wounded pride. Fitz had said Cruikwork returned from the war with a wound that continued to plague him.
She could help Fitz. She could help these people. For today, anyway.
“I’m Miss Parker.” Mel skirted around the table and debris on the floor and crossed to the astonished young wife. Two doors led off this main room which seemed to be kitchen and sitting room both. She and her parents had shared a cottage like this for a short while in Portugal. She signaled to a girl of about twelve. “Fetch me a basin of hot water and a flannel, if you please. Come with me, Mrs. Cruikwork, and I’ll see to your injuries.”
She glanced at Fitz and felt the warmth of his regard. The young girl, however, stood frozen with her mouth agape.
“Quickly, Sarah,” Fitz said. “I’ve sent for the midwife, Mel, but I thank you for taking charge.”
She eyed the woman. “You’re with child?”
“The midwife is the only medical help available right now,” Fitz said.
Oh, yes. She remembered. Hermione had shared that tidbit of information.
“Cruikwork, you and I will step outside.” Fitz ushered the man to the door.
“Sammy,” the older woman said, “grab a broom and you and your sister clean up these broken dishes.” She handed off the bigger of the two babies to an older girl and juggled the infant on her hip. “I’ll just get the kettle going and fix a warm broth.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mel nudged the younger Mrs. Cruikwork, toward a door.
“Not that one.” The young woman still spoke with a surly edge, but some of her steam had blown off.
A bed filled the middle of the cramped room they entered. A tall, well-polished clothes press, a washstand and mirror, and a worn armchair pressed the walls, along with a well-padded cradle. There was no fireplace or grate, and only a small window. It was a cozy squeeze for a married couple, but if they cared for each other even a little… No wonder there were so many children here.
No wonder her mother had detested that cottage in Portugal. She’d had to share a room like this with Papa.
“You will sit,” Mel said.
“No, miss, I—”
“For heaven’s sake. Be seated.”
With a heavy sigh, Jilly lowered herself onto the chair with some grace. Was she perhaps of gentry stock, a woman who’d married down?
The young girl entered with her burdens, and Mel quickly rescued the pitcher and bowl, and took the flannel the girl had tucked under her arm.
“Will you be all right, Mama?” she asked.
Jilly clasped the girl’s hand and sent her a wisp of a smile. “Yes, love.”
Mel touched the water. It was merely lukewarm. Remembering the struggles to keep a good fire in the various cottages where she’d lived, she smiled at the girl and said, “well done.”
“Run and help your gram with the broth,” Jilly said.
With a credible curtsy, the girl scampered off, sending a long look over her shoulder before slipping out.
“She’s lovely,” Mel said. “Is she your eldest?”
“Yes.”
She carefully wrung out the towel and dabbed at the blood drying on the woman’s swelling lip. “How many children do you have?”
“Two by my first husband, Sergeant Jones, two that lived, that is, and four by Cruikwork.”
“You followed the drum?”
“Yes. Jones fell at Toulouse, and then Jem took us on.”
A woman alone on the Peninsula, with children? It had been a marriage of necessity likely, at least on Jilly’s part. Despite their quarrels, maybe they’d grown to care for each other. Living in their current hardship would make anyone waspish. Yet Jilly hadn’t barred her Jem from her bed. Perhaps it was only the more privileged classes who pushed marital separations that far. Couples like her own mother and father.
“We followed the drum for a time, my mother and I. My father was Major Parker. Mama disliked the discomfort.” Though her mother had relished the attention she’d received in a world filled with so many lusty men. “We were lucky to have the means to return to England.”
Jilly let out a long sigh. “’Twas in part why I married Jem. He’s not a bad sort when the children behave, when his back isn’t paining him, when he’s not worrying himself over the roof falling in and the crops failing. ’Tis been a bad twelvemonth, and even worse since the old lord’s death.”
Mel’s hand paused and the young woman’s one good eye widened. “Not meaning to criticize the new lord.”
It was said with a complete lack of conviction and a great deal of irony. The urge to jump to Fitz’s defense overwhelmed her. She didn’t care to hear him criticized by his tenants, no matter how much he might deserve it. “I won’t tell him what you said, though even if I did, I don’t believe Lord Loughton is the vindictive sort. But, Jilly—may I call you that?—do you often have disputes that require intervention by the local Justice of the Peace?”
She held her breath, wondering if Jilly would argue that Fitz wasn’t the local JP.
Instead, Jilly bit her lip and tears welled in her eyes. She dipped her head. “I have a temper, miss.”
A temper and the heart to admit it. Jilly was not irredeemable. “Where are your people?”
“Sussex. If you can believe it, my father was a respectable farmer. But I fell in love and ran off with a soldier. My mother is gone. A cousin holds the house and land now, and we were never close.”
“There,” Mel said, lifting her hand away. “You’ve long stopped bleeding. Shall we see about something hot to drink?”
Before she could approach the door, a small older woman entered. She set her bag on the bed, announced herself as Mrs. Astrop, the midwife, and tsk-tsked over the young woman’s injuries. “I shall have a word with that man of yours, Jilly, and I won’t be as soft as young Lord Loughton. He ought to take a horsewhip to Jem.”
“I fear I hit Jem first with the fire poker.”
Mel swallowed a gasp. What might he have done to deserve that?
“Even so. He’s a strong man, and you’re a woman. The lady here has done a fine job cleaning your wounds. Miss Parker, is it?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“News travels fast in a village like this.”
A quick knock brought the older Mrs. Cruikwork carrying a tray with two steaming bowls.
Mel’s stomach fluttered.
Mrs. Cruikwork beamed a gap-toothed smile. “The neighbor just brought it. Said her son caught enough gudgeon for a good chowder to share. Though I’m guessin’ she was nosin’ a bit.”
Fish chowder. The smell wafted up, quickly filling the small space, sending Mel’s stomach from flutter to frenzy. She set her hand to her mouth and backed against the clothes press.
Jilly began a fierce gagging.
“Take that away.” Mrs. Astrop aimed a finger at the door.
“Feed it to the little ones,” Jilly said, catching her breath. “Go on, mam.”
The midwife handed Jilly a cloth. “Come. Get yourself outside for some fresh air.”
While Jilly stumbled to the door, Mel eased herself down on the chair and pulled the cloak over her nose. It smelled of horses and Fitz, and some of the nausea eased.
When she looked up, she was alone with the midwife, who was eyeing her shrewdly. “Are you all right, Miss Parker?”
Surprisingly, she had been, until the soup arrived. She waved a hand. “An aversion to fish, is all.”
The older lady settled herself on the edge of the bed.
“You are engaged to his lordship, I hear.”
“Was engaged. I’ve broken it off.”
“Is that wise?”
“Wise? I beg your pardon.” She didn’t need to be questioned by an inquisitive midwife. Let her just catch her breath and join Jilly outside.
“I’m told that you arrived at Loughton Manor with a terrible stomach. And that you’ve been tossing up your food for the past couple of months.”
Mel’s back stiffened. “Who told you that?”
“I met your cousin, Lady Hermione, today when I dropped off my grandchildren for the party.”
She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Hermione had consulted the midwife about her.
Her cousin had started in October, prying, asking questions, dropping not-so-subtle hints about Mel’s continued indigestion. But she hadn’t known about Fitz’s visits to her bedchamber at Lady Clitheroe’s… they’d been discreet.
Furthermore, how could anyone possibly be certain of anything until there were definite signs? Should there be any of those, Mel wanted to be well away, shut up in her cottage in Durham. If Mother dared to venture there, she wouldn’t find her until spring, and if the worst circumstances occurred, she’d at least be saved from Lord Starling’s nephew, who would surely turn and run from a marriage to her.
A thin hand settled over hers. “He is a confoundedly handsome fellow, is Master Fitz. I’ve known him his whole life. Charming and goodhearted to boot. He deserves some happiness with a wife who’ll limit herself to carrying his child.”
Mel blinked. Had Hermione shared tales with the midwife about Mother? Mel would never play Fitz false. She would not be the cause of that sort of unhappiness.
The hand squeezed hers. “Shall I examine you?”
Mel jumped to her feet. “Examine me? No…Fitz…Lord Loughton… will be looking for me. I must go and join him.”
“He’s not here. He’s taken Jem and gone off to find supplies for the roof repairs.”
He’d left her alone, with the midwife paying a call. Had it been purposeful?
He deserves some happiness.
Hadn’t Fitz been happy with Mary’s mother?
“Now, let us start with some questions about your last courses.”
No. No, absolutely, she would not be examined this day by a busybody midwife who’d known Fitz his whole life and implied things about…
“What do you mean about a wife who’ll limit herself to carrying—”
“Just that is what I meant. Now, this is his doing, is it not? When were your last courses?”
She plopped down onto the chair, remembering.