Chapter Sixteen

Her Morning Blues

I didn’t want to get up this morning.

Rainy mornings should be spent in bed, hiding beneath the covers of my pine bed.

I’d left the window open last night, so the early dawn shower sent nippy air into my room. My arm ached as it often did when the weather turned cool. The knitted bones in my forearm were stronger, but I still hated the questions the lump drew when my sleeves were short. I detested explaining.

It didn’t matter. I was grateful I could write and hold my son.

The fresh air filled my chest. Rain or shine, a soft mattress was the best remedy for being spent.

Tired beyond measure, I turned on my side and curled deeper into my favorite fuzzy blanket, a knitted piece of mint-green wool. Something Mama had made for me when I was eight. It reminded me of my old life, the simpler one above the warehouse. The softness of the well-loved wool—it felt like it knew my body. I could hide in it.

This blanket was safe and smelled of lavender. I liked lavender, but I loved Bay Rum. I slept on the baron’s cape again and let his fragrance surround me.

My new cousin, my kissing cousin. He’d been sweet to me yesterday. He was coming to see Chris today. I knew I smiled thinking of Wycliff.

He acted as if he loved me.

Adam had said he’d fallen for me fast like that. That scared me, a little.

I’d let Wycliff kiss me, and I’d kissed him.

I’d told him he did not remind me of Adam. That wasn’t quite true. He kissed like him, the way I remembered he had—passionate, toe curling, like the world would end if he couldn’t touch me.

If I closed my eyes, it was like I’d kissed my husband. I kissed Adam sometimes in my happy dreams, in those blissful half-awake, half-asleep moments.

But his arms had never felt this safe, not like the baron’s.

Wild me, kissing a boy on my street. I’d wanted Wycliff’s lips because I’d craved all the good pieces of Adam. I’d become me, that brave girl who’d talked to a boy she’d met on the docks.

Noises sounded outside my room. The day at Nineteen Fournier was well underway. Little Chris would be up soon. He didn’t understand when I grew quiet. Last night, my boy had kept asking, Mama ill? Mama ill?

Yes, I was—on cold nights, on rainy mornings, and sometimes outside.

But I was a good mother, one who didn’t want her son to be afraid.

I needed to repeat that I was wonderful as I was. I was alive. I was grateful to have Chris. I was grateful these topsy-turvy moments did not spin me so far that I couldn’t come back. I had seen girls at Madame Talease who had gone mad, crazed from their troubles.

I wasn’t mad or witless. I was good, good enough, better than good.

With a few blinks and a rub to my eyes, I started my day. The familiar blurs and shadows of my room offered comfort. Nothing in my vision had changed. That made me sigh.

My door opened.

This time the knock was Mama’s.

“Ruth, wake up, dear. You have a guest coming. This time he’ll meet your father.”

If there were ever a more dangerous statement to begin a day, that was it. My guest…meeting Papa. The shock of it drove me to shoot straight up.

I dangled my feet over the side of the bed. Stepping down, my cold toes found no slippers. The puce, deeply pink things had been moved again.

Fingers tapping on the bed table, I found my spectacles.

Mama was in the closet. The sound of her fumbling through tissue paper separating my gowns annoyed me. She was doing this for the baron. Had she forgotten that it was up to me to choose?

And she’d never done this for Mr. Marks, but the barrister had never visited two days in a row.

“Ah, Ruth look at this. It has details at the bosom and on the sleeve. It’s lively.”

The rust color was rich, made for a woman who didn’t mind being seen. Is that me? Do I want the baron’s attention?

She held the dress to my chin, then laid the heavy silk over my stiff arm. The damask silk felt cool to my sleep-warmed skin. “Yes, Mama. Thank you.”

She kissed my forehead. “Christopher is already downstairs. He’s looking forward to spending time with Lord Wycliff.”

Mama moved to the door, even clasped the knob, but turned. “I hope you are looking forward to seeing him, too. He’s quite attentive.”

I lifted my gaze from the silk to Mama.

She stood still, with her hands fidgeting at the door.

Was she lingering, to hear me agree?

Was she checking to see if my fit had passed?

Or was she hoping for something else—that smiling at a pretty dress erased four years of not being believed. No silk, no matter how bold or fancy, would hide that proof came in the form of a man and not her daughter’s words.

Stoic Mama stared back. The silence between us grew.

I waited for her to say, or even hint at, her sorries out loud. Didn’t she know the wild child was a stubborn tigress? I was quick to love, fast to offer sass, and slow to forgive. That was me.

“I’ll send up a maid. Do you need help with your hair, Ruth?”

When we were little, Mama had always done our hair. Ester was tender headed. She’d hollered something awful.

But not me. I was strong, and I welcomed the finish, the perfect braid, the hoity-toity chignon and our two faces, Mama’s and mine, smiling and shining in the mirror.

They’d survived another hairdo-ing together.

I was still her stubborn wild child, and I’d survived four years by myself. “I can manage.”

My mother nodded, then left.

The door closed. Very easy was the sound, not a slam, nothing showing finality or disapproval. Perhaps that meant she’d return and try again.

I fingered the lace on the gown’s bodice, the long sleeves. Maybe I’d welcome another try. Maybe.

But I was grateful that she’d reminded me of who I was. I needed to stop forgetting.

With Wycliff coming, I prepared myself to comfort my child if the baron looked at Chris and saw nothing of Adam. My baby couldn’t be hurt. If he wasn’t Adam’s, Chris’s paternity would be the one lie I’d accept.

My baby dreamed of a father. I’d give him one that Wycliff talked of when he described Adam—brave, loyal, loving to me till he died.

Not the Adam I knew—seductive, secretive, steeped in danger.

…

Wycliff arrived outside the Croome house. It should be a good morning for him. His uncle’s business partner, Mr. Johnson, had put out word of more cancelled shipments.

Soon the skeleton crews that ran his cargo would run out of bones. Men didn’t work without pay. Whether a farmer, a sailor, or a henchman, money made things happen.

With Wycliff cutting off their access to financing, the business of his enemies had begun to falter. Their debts were mounting. One by one, Johnson’s and Uncle Soulden’s empires would erupt like match sticks. Those debts would be called. They’d be inmates in debtors’ prison soon.

The deal he’d struck last night with Captain Steward would make the explosion happen faster. It was only a matter of time before bankruptcy. The men who had destroyed his life would spend the rest of theirs in one of the rat-infested jails—Fleet or musty King’s Bench. Perhaps they’d go to the one they’d almost sent Wycliff’s father to, Marshalsea. That one was the worst of the worst, where they charged broke prisoners for leg irons.

Wiping a hand through his hair, he stepped out of the carriage. When he donned his hat, Lawden handed him the basket.

“You don’t look happy, my lord. Every step in your plan is working. And you’ve been invited to see your lady.”

“A wounded animal is never more dangerous. Johnson and Uncle will grow desperate. If I could convince my lady to marry me today, I’d have her better protected, her and the boy.”

Lawden tweaked his cravat. “Then get in there and be convincing, my lord.”

“If I was as convincing as I was yesterday, she’d banish me for sure.”

“Faith accomplishes much.”

Faith was all Wycliff was holding on to when it came to Ruth. He didn’t have much else. Adam was the villain to her. She craved truth, and he, Wycliff, still kept his identity from her.

In the past, he’d thought his secrets had protected his father or Ruth. In the end, he hadn’t even been able to save himself.

She’d erased the Adam she’d loved from her mind. Maybe that was what he deserved. “Do you know what happened to my wife after the attack? Any new information?”

Lawden brushed lint from Wycliff’s onyx cape. “No, my lord. I can find nothing.”

“No signs of Cicely, either. I hate this. I hate not having all the information—not controlling things.”

“That would be where you turn to your faith. Believe in Mrs. Wilky. Believe in your love. Believe that all will work for your good.”

Adjusting his grip on the basket handle, Wycliff started for the entry. “Wish me luck.”

Lawden fixed Wycliff’s high collar. “You have more than luck. You have right on your side.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lord, I am. Go convince her that things have changed, except your care.”

That was what he needed to remember. Everything he did now was to fix the past. Making Ruth happy and secure, that was the greatest wrong to right.

He stopped on the top step. Perhaps he was looking at things wrong. She did willingly kiss him. A woman like her didn’t allow such liberties. Just a little more finesse, an inch of yielding, then she’d realize they were meant to be. He could taste her, she was so much a part of him.

The idea of tasting Ruth was a good one.

The door opened.

Clancy took his hat and cape. “I’ll let Mrs. Wilky know you are here.”

“I know.” Ruth’s voice floated from above. “I’ll come down for my cousin.”

Wycliff followed the echo like a happy puppy.

At the base of the stairs, he watched her descend. She wore a warm rust-colored gown with delicate silver lace banding below her bosom. The color brought out the jewel tones of her warm honeyed skin and enhanced his appreciation of her fine figure.

This was his Ruth. Bold, vibrant colors.

He almost stopped breathing.

That wasn’t difficult given the damage to his throat. Everything awakened inside when she took his hand.

No giving up. Never.

No way he could live without her in his life.

“Christopher is in the garden,” she said. “I could get him. I hope I don’t have to clean him up to present him to you. It’s muddy outside.” She poked at the basket lid. “Are we going somewhere?”

Could eyes frown? Ruth’s had. Spending time with Wycliff should not be a drudgery.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I thought we’d go into the lovely gown…garden again.”

Behind her spectacles, a mischievous glint sparked in her gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

“Many things, but we’ll start with sitting outside in the sun, close to the house.”

He led her to the doors to the garden and swept her through them before anything changed her mind.

He helped her sit at the small table on the short stone patio. “See, we can feel the warm sun, watch your son, and still be close to the house.”

Her tentative smile turned into a conclusive one. “What’s in the basket?”

“Wickedness.”

“Wickedness. You would be a Wicked Wycliff? That’s an insult to someone who keeps surprising me.”

“All depends upon how you say it, my dear. Could be an invitation.”

She smiled, and it eased his spirits.

He slid the basket to her. Ruth had always liked surprises. “Open, says me.”

“Quick with a quip, Lord Wycliff?”

“Sometimes.” He inched the basket closer. “Open it, Ruth.”

She flicked open the woven lid and giggled.

Her hands sank into the rectangular-shaped box and pulled out a crisp baguette and her favorite Cheshire cheese and dates. Sugared and pitted dates. Ruth loved those treats.

“Adam told you everything, didn’t he? Tangy, creamy, beigey cheese?”

“Maybe. But some things I shall have to discover for myself.” He put his hand upon hers. “Some things I’ll enjoy learning and relearning.”

“You sound like a suitor, not long-lost family.”

“Ruth, I have thought of nothing but our kiss. There’s more to say, but you aren’t ready for that truth.”

She broke a sliver of the bread, the crusty end, her favorite, and popped it into her generous mouth. “No, I think it might be too much. Thank you for taking care of me yesterday.”

“I’ll always take care of you.”

A little boy hopped in front of their table. He had a barrel hoop in his hand, rolling it and running. Ruth’s sister, Mrs. Bexeley, had a bundle wrapped in a dark-blue blanket. She was all smiles, chasing behind the small boy.

The young fellow turned in their direction. He ran and popped up into Ruth’s awaiting arms. “Mama, Mama. We saw a frog.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bexeley said. Her tone was low. She did not share the fellow’s enthusiasm. “A big one by the birdbath.”

This was Christopher. Gold skin. Black, curly hair, dark eyes like Ruth. Could be his.

She swaddled him for a moment and set the lad down with a kiss to his forehead. “Chris, I want you to meet—”

The boy promptly wiped his forehead then hopped and bopped and started running.

“Don’t play in the pond.” She called after him. Chris was long gone.

“He’s quite energetic, Ruth.”

“Yes, he is. If you spend time with him, you will learn that.”

“Is that permission to spend time with Adam’s son?”

“Yes. You are his cousin.”

“As Adam’s son, he’s my heir.”

Her eyes darted. “Does that mean you’re laying claim to Chris?”

How did he get showing an interest in the boy wrong? Wycliff shoved a date into his mouth. “I want to know your son. I meant no offense.”

“Sorry, Lord Wycliff. My sister has me on edge about my son’s custody. She thinks you’re a crazed lord who can appoint yourself a guardian or something.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” He put his hand on hers. “But I’ll do nothing to hurt you. You have to know that.”

She rolled her palm and clasped his hand. “Good, because Christopher is all mine. Adam didn’t live to see him birthed, to wipe his bottom, or mop his fevered brow. He’s mine.”

“Well, there’s a way to fix all of this. I can get to know my heir. You can be secure learning to love me. Marry me, Ruth. Come to Blaren House and make it in your image, make it a secure and wonderful place for you and Christopher.”

Ruth choked a little and put down the date she’d bitten. Sugar granules powdered her lips. She looked like a dessert.

Delicious.

“Those are some bold intentions. I suppose you only go slowly or fast. Nothing in between.”

“There’s more I could say, but I’ll save that for when you’ve had a chance to think about my offer. You should know how I wish to be good to you.”

“No.”

He put his hand to his throat, making sure his jaw was in place. “Such a quick dismissal, ma’am?”

Ruth looked down. “You haven’t spent time with my son. I know the barrister will tolerate him. I don’t know what you will do.”

“I’ll be a father to him, a good one. Say you’ll marry me and let me take care of everything.”

“You say you want to marry me. Why? Today is the first time you’ve mentioned my son in your plans. I don’t know what to think.”

“I was trying to win you first, before I ingratiate myself upon the son. What heartache will the boy have if he were to become used to me and then you decided you don’t want me?”

“He’s your heir, regardless of what I do. He’s Adam’s son, isn’t he?”

Why does it seem as if she’s asking me who the boy’s father is?

He took her hand. “Are you ready to dismiss this barrister in favor of me?”

“I know what I’m getting with Mr. Marks. He knows what he’s getting with me. He’s honest. He works hard, and I’ve been honest to him.”

“And he’s not here, but I am.”

“You don’t mind my weaknesses? My sight and my faltering moments? Or the fact that I might be frigid?”

There was no way that could be, not his warm, passionate Ruth. He put his hand upon hers. “I don’t think it possible. If you are trying to run me off, try something else.”

“What if I said I only wanted a marriage of convenience, nothing more? Would that be enough for you?”

Was she serious?

Did she not sense the passion burning in her? That kiss on Fournier Street had been a fire to his soul, a lamp brightening his bruised heart.

“Is that the only thing available? Did the barrister agree to this?”

“I’m asking what you would accept. Would you settle for a platonic marriage of convenience?”

He should’ve put brandy in the basket. He needed to be cold drunk to agree to worship her at a distance.

But what if that was what she wanted?

“Ruth, I’ll take what you are willing to give. As much or as little of your heart as you offer, I want it.”

“My heart is gone. Gone four years. Can you understand that?”

I’m Adam. I am Adam. I’m Adam. The confession was on his tongue. Would his truth make a difference? Would she hate him more?

He tugged at his collar but made sure it did not slip. “I’ll do anything you want, but I’ll try every day to make you so much in love with me, you can’t help but kiss me like you did on Fournier Street. I won’t resist you, Ruth. I won’t even try.”

Her tense smile turned into an easy laugh.

“I’ll try hard to be irresistible.”

She laughed more.

The knot in his throat eased. He wanted Ruth in every way, but he’d be patient. She was everything.

“I’m torn. You are sweet to me in your own manipulative way.”

“Slightly manipulative. Maybe a smidgeon overconfident, but I believe in us.”

His little heir hopped and waved. As he made another lap, she signaled to him.

“Christopher, come. This is your cousin, Lord Wycliff. Lord Wycliff, this is Christopher Wilky.”

He stuck out his hand to the boy.

“How tall are you, Wicky?”

“It’s Wycliff and tall.”

The little fellow bounced, then pointed to Mrs. Bexeley. “You’re big, but my aunt is not tall.”

Wycliff picked him up and looked at the squirming boy eye-to-eye. “I think you will grow big, big like your father.”

“Big? How big is that?”

“Hmmm. Let me think.” Wycliff glanced at the boy again. The skin coloring was right. He could easily be a blend of Ruth’s and his. The wavy bob of hair on the boy’s head could be Wycliff’s mother’s or Ruth’s father’s.

Chris put his chubby hands on Wycliff’s cheeks. “Do you know?”

Wycliff jumped and held him high. “This big?”

“Bigger, bigger.”

Leaping into the chair, he lifted the boy higher. “This size, like a giant?”

“Yes. Yes.” Christopher clapped and laughed. “You talk funny.”

“He is funny.” Mrs. Bexeley came near and tapped her short boots on the patio stone. “Put my nephew down.”

“He’s playing with his cousin, Ester.”

Ruth’s tone was lyrical.

Wycliff had done something right. He jumped down, and Christopher whooped.

“Just like a frog’s hop,” the boy said. “I saw a big one at the pond. Wanna see?”

“Come, Christopher, let’s let your mother talk. We’ll take one more turn before nap time.”

He stuck out his lip. “But I don’t like nap time.”

Ruth gave her son a hug and patted his shoulder to get him moving. “Go on with your aunt. You can show your big cousin the frog another time.”

He smiled and hopped all the way until he caught up to Mrs. Bexeley holding her baby.

Wycliff sat back down to a smiling Ruth.

“You could be good with him, my lord. I see that.”

“Who is he named after? Not your father or Adam?”

“It was the name closest to the African Chipo.”

“Christopher is not an African name.”

“No, it’s a good English name for Chipo, a gift of God. Christopher is a gift. No matter who his father is or the lack of having one.”

Ruth said the words clearly. Did she have doubts of the boy’s paternity, or was this a test of Wycliff’s commitment?

He liked tests, even if this cut a little close. “He’s a gift. He’s your son. He is a gift to me.”

“After the attack, my father found me in a brothel. Did you know that?”

Fine. This isn’t a test, is it?

He glanced at her before picking at a piece of the rich, savory cheese. “The boy’s my heir because you were married to Adam. It doesn’t much matter whose seed he is, does it? Have I passed your wicked traps?”

“I’m very tired, Lord Wycliff. I think you should leave.”

“What did I say? I did not mean to offend you.”

“You act as if you’ll care for me like Adam always promised, but you’re judging me. Your raspy words are meant to go down smoothly, lovely and sweet. But there’s control in all you do. There are secrets in your eyes, even the way you look at Chris.”

“You can see all that? Even when you avoid my gaze?”

She stood up, pushed at her chair. “I’m losing my sight. I’m not stupid. You’ll say anything to win. I’m not a possession. Please leave.”

“You’d rather I hide my desire for you or go about ignoring you like the barrister? A husband for the sunny days, never for the rain?”

He stomped to the doorway but stopped. This is not how this should go.

Clever Ruth had baited him. “I’m a passionate man, Ruth, but you are everything. I’ll do or be what you say: friend or lover. I’m not innocent. I have secrets—big ones that eat at me, but it’s all to keep you safe. I think you need safety more than anything. I can give that to you.”

A crash and then a scream sailed through the garden.

“Chris!” Ruth ran but stopped halfway.

Wycliff dashed past her, faster than a sjambok’s snap head, straight to Mrs. Bexeley.

The fish pond. The birdbath had fallen from its pedestal.

Christopher’s aunt had set her own baby down in the grass and was drenched, standing in the pond trying to keep Chris’s chin above water.

“Frog,” the boy said, taking in another mouth full of the soup, then his sobs matched Mrs. Bexeley.

Wycliff pushed into the pond. Holding his breath, he stuck his face into the water and moved leaves and flowers. The boy’s pinafore and his foot were wedged under the fallen birdbath bowl.

He reared up. “Keep his head above the water, Mrs. Bexeley.”

Gulping another breath, he knelt in the pond. Crouching down, he lifted the bowl and then the pedestal shaft and unhooked the caught pinafore. He tossed pieces of the broken bowl off the boy’s foot and pulled the sopping wet boy to his chest. “I have him, Mrs. Bexeley.”

Then he looked to Ruth. “Christopher is safe. I have him.”

He stood up straight and helped the soaked Mrs. Bexeley out of the pond.

The boy put his wet arms about Wycliff’s neck.

Mrs. Bexeley picked up her screaming baby. “I took my eyes off him for a minute.”

“Boys know how to get into trouble.” He came over and poked his wet finger at the little one. “Watch this one, too. Boys know how to scare their mothers. Christopher, let’s take you to yours.”

Wycliff looked up and started running again. Ruth was on the path to the pond but in the same spot he’d sped past her.

He put his arm about her waist. His arms were wet. He’d made her beautiful gown wet. But like a sailor paralyzed by the aftermath of a battle, she needed to move. She needed to awaken from this fog. “Your son is well, Ruth. Christopher, tell your mother you are sorry.”

“I wanted the frog, Mama. I jumped. He jumped.”

Tears streamed down her face.

Get her below, pull her to the hull, the entry of the Croomes’ house. “Come on, Christopher. Let’s get your mother back to the house.”

He towed Ruth all the way until they stood in the hall.

“I knew you’d get to him.” Her voice was muffled against his lapel. “I knew you would.”

He drew her closer and put the lad into his mother’s arms.

She sank to the floor, holding on to Chris like he’d slip away.

This moment felt private, with Ruth repeating her words of gratitude.

Could he belong to it? He truly wanted to. He had to.

Kneeling, he put his arms about them both. When he looked into the boy’s brown eyes and swooped his hand through Christopher’s fine, wet hair, he was grateful, too.

“Ruth, you need to get him out of these damp clothes. He can’t get the sniffles again.”

He lifted her to her feet and led them to the stairwell to the upper levels. “Take care of your mother, Christopher.”

He watched them go up the stairs before he headed to the door.

“Thank you for saving my son.”

Her voice was loud, bouncing off the chandelier and the neat plastered wall.

He swallowed hard, forced his throat to work. “Adam’s son. You two are my family, Mrs. Wilky.”

Tugging at his collar, he hoped she didn’t see his scars. “I need to get out of these wet clothes. I’ll visit with your father tomorrow, if he’s available.”

“Lord Wycliff, please come tomorrow. We could have tea. I’d like to have tea with you.”

With a hand to his collar to keep it from falling, he nodded. “I’ll be here.”

Ruth smiled then took her son up the stairs.

Wycliff knew battle shock. He also trusted his gut. Ruth was still suffering from their brutal attack, but did she have another villain?

Found in a brothel.

He picked up his hat and cape and stepped out of the entry. She’d said her father had retrieved her from a brothel. Could that be her aversion to a passionate marriage?

He grew sick to his stomach.

No wonder she hated Adam. Ruth had been left unprotected. Had she been forced to work at a brothel? Lawden must find out what had happened to her. Some of the bawdy houses he’d been searching for his sister, they needed to be questioned about Ruth.

His heart thundered.

Anger overtook him.

Some bawds treated their women as slaves. Could that have happened to Ruth? Is that why she didn’t know if Christopher was his?

Did he care for Ruth enough to agree to a platonic marriage?

This all had to be a test.

Tomorrow, he’d clear up everything. There was no way he could have a platonic marriage with a woman he desperately loved.