Chapter Eleven

London—April

B yron went through the morning post Paulson had delivered. In it, he found a note from Caleb Strong. The Shadowcrest steward had enclosed a brochure about crop rotation. He glanced at it and set it aside for later, wanting to read the letter instead.

Dear Lord Bridgewater –

I hope this finds you well. I decided to send this letter to your address in town since I know the Season will be starting soon, and you had mentioned you would travel to London for it.

Again, I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your visit to Shadowcrest. Hopefully, I will one day be able to come and see you at Bridgefield. I would enjoy seeing your estate, as well as the new ways you are implementing the farming techniques we discussed.

I have wondered if you have made any progress in your search for a new steward and hope that is the case.

Please extend greetings to my family for me when you see them. I have written of your visit to His Grace, and he is eager to meet you. Both he and Her Grace have been busy with their two shipping companies, but they will ease back on the reins and allow others to manage a bit more so that they might enjoy the full slate of social affairs during the Season.

If you will remember, my cousin Mirella will be making her come-out this spring. I hope you might show her a bit of kindness and claim a dance with her. Do me a favor and dance a number with her for me. Mirella is the best dancer in the Strong family, and we have taken many a turn on the dance floor at the local assemblies held in the nearby village.

My best to you and your family.

Sincerely,

Caleb Strong

He folded the letter, happy to have heard from the Shadowcrest steward. Not only had he learned a good deal from Strong during his week-long visit to Shadowcrest, but Byron had also forged a friendship with the man. He had come close to confiding to Strong about the child Dawson had sired but held back at the last minute, not wanting to be that candid.

Placing the letter atop the brochure, he handed it to a footman, asking that he take it to the study.

Then he looked to Mama. “Do you have any plans today?”

“I have a fitting at the modiste’s,” she replied. “Madame Dumas has been quite busy this Season.”

“Are all your gowns ready?”

“A good number are,” Mama said. “I will still need to return for those still being sewn. I need to schedule another fitting for next week.”

He idly wondered what Lady Mirella would wear to tomorrow night’s opening ball.

“Are you daydreaming, Bridgewater?”

Byron started. “What?”

“I asked you a question, but you seemed somewhere else,” Mama complained.

He and his mother were still trying to forge a new relationship. Though he had been the Marquess of Bridgewater for a good while now, things were still uneasy between them. It seemed Mama even favored the memory of Dawson over the living Byron.

Aunt Flora cleared her throat, giving her sister a look that had Mama gazing meekly at her toast. His aunt and uncle had come to town, as promised, and he was happy they had accepted his offer to stay at his townhouse since they had no place of their own in London. He had told Uncle Hugh it would be ridiculous to rent a house when he had more than enough room for them all.

Byron noticed Aunt Flora still gazing at Mama, who now played with her eggs, spreading them across the plate and then sliding them back together again. Their relationship was more one of a mother to a sister than two sisters. Aunt Flora was more than a dozen years older and had taken on the role of mother to her younger sister when their mother died in childbirth. He couldn’t help but wonder about Mama never traveling to Grasmere to see Aunt Flora and Uncle Hugh. She blamed it on the great distance between there and Bridgefield and how she would get sick in the carriage. She hadn’t experienced any nausea on the way to town, however, as she had always claimed she did. He wondered if she had used feeling ill when in a coach as an excuse not to have to go to Grasmere.

“And do either of you have plans?” he asked his aunt and uncle.

“I am visiting a friend today,” Aunt Flora said. “She is sending her carriage for me this morning.”

“I am going to Tattersall’s with a friend of mine in an hour,” Uncle Hugh said. “He is in the market for a new set of carriage horses and wants my opinion.”

Glad that his entire family would be busy, Byron decided he would not put off the inevitable any longer.

Today, he would go and meet Mrs. Smithson and her daughter.

As arranged, Pilsbury had continued to fund the household, doubling the money sent, as Byron had requested. He knew it wasn’t necessary to meet the woman whom Dawson had impregnated, but he believed he owed it to her, if only to apologize for his brother’s actions. Then again, her child was his niece. He couldn’t help but be a bit curious about the girl. Did she favor Dawson or her mother more?

He decided he would make the one visit—and that would determine if he ever returned or merely continued funding their needs.

“I will be in my study if anyone has need of me,” he said, rising and leaving the breakfast room.

Byron stayed there for a good hour, reading the material Caleb Strong had sent, and going through the stack of invitations which his mother had responded to for them. He could not believe the sheer volume of events which he would be attending. He had made certain not to call upon Lord Hampton and his sister, wanting to wait and reacquaint himself with Jacinda Bowles beginning tomorrow night.

Since his mother had taken the carriage to her modiste’s appointment, he left the square and walked two blocks, finding an available hansom cab. He gave the cabby Mrs. Smithson’s address in St. John’s Wood, and the driver gave Byron a knowing look. He had learned from Pilsbury that the area, while nice, was heavily populated by mistresses of men in Polite Society. This cabby must assume that Byron was off to pay a call upon his mistress. The thought was laughable.

Especially because the only woman he wished to call upon was Lady Mirella Strong.

He viewed the opening ball tomorrow night with equal dread and anticipation. Though he was eager to finally see Lady Mirella after so many months, he doubted she wished to see him, especially the way things had ended between them at Benbrook. Still, he would do as his new friend instructed and try to find a way to place his name on her dance programme.

Byron had had to take dance lessons himself with a woman in Bridgehampton, the nearby town named for his family and Lord Hampton’s. He would never have thought to do so until his mother mentioned something about him dancing, telling him if he were looking for a bride this Season, she simply must be a wonderful dancer, because it told quite a bit about a woman.

Since his own mother had never seen to any dance instruction for him, Byron had gone into Bridgehampton after speaking with his butler in confidence. Jarrod had given him a name, and he had approached the woman, asking for private instruction. She had willingly tutored him in numerous dances, all for a hefty price. It had paid off, though. He knew he would be comfortable on the dance floor when he partnered with others from Polite Society, surprised that he had a natural skill for dancing.

The hansom cab began to slow, and he looked about him, seeing the neighborhood was composed of neat, cozy houses. The vehicle came to a stop, and Byron paid the driver.

“Shall I wait, my lord, or will you be a while?”

He did not like the insinuations in the man’s tone and decided to put no more coin into this driver’s pockets.

“No, thank you,” he said, moving up the pavement to the door. He waited for the cabby to drive off before knocking.

His knock was answered moments later by a short, stout man dressed in a butler’s uniform.

“May I help you, my lord?” he asked, eyeing Byron with interest.

“I do not have an appointment, but I would like to see Mrs. Smithson.” He paused. “Tell her it is the Marquess of Bridgewater calling.”

The butler’s eyes went wide. “Yes, my lord. Please, come in.”

He was shown to a small parlor, and the butler left. Before he returned, a woman entered.

“Good morning, my lord. I am Mrs. Bell, housekeeper to Mrs. Smithson. My husband has gone to speak with Mrs. Smithson. I thought I would ask if you would like some tea.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bell. That would be much appreciated.”

He decided both he and the woman he visited might be a bit nervous in one another’s company. Having something to do with their hands would be nice.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Smithson entered the parlor. Byron rose, quickly taking in her appearance.

She was pretty, with golden ringlets and pale blue eyes. He doubted she was but five feet in height. She came toward him, giving him a timid smile.

“Lord Bridgewater? I am Mrs. Smithson.”

He bowed and didn’t know whether or not to take her hand, so he didn’t.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Smithson,” he said politely.

The door opened again, and Mrs. Bell entered, supervising a maid who rolled in a teacart.

“Oh, tea!” Mrs. Smithson declared. “How lovely for you to have thought of it, Mrs. Bell. Place the cart here, Anna. Yes, thank you.”

The maid and housekeeper waited for instructions, and finally Mrs. Smithson seemed to understand the need to dismiss them. Something told Byron this poor woman never had visitors, which greatly saddened him.

“I will ring if we have need of anything else. Thank you.”

The servants departed, and his hostess asked how he liked his tea.

“Just tea in a cup. Nothing added,” he told her.

She poured out and handed him his saucer and cup. He waited, allowing her to add a healthy dose of sugar to her own tea and stir before he spoke.

“I suppose you are wondering why I am here,” he began.

“Let me speak first, Lord Bridgewater,” she said quickly. “I must thank you for your extreme generosity. Before you substantially increased the monies being sent to me, I had neither butler nor housekeeper. I managed the cleaning with Anna, the maid you just met. Thanks to you, I have hired adequate help, along with another servant, Ella, who serves as both a maid and nursery governess to Amity.”

“I am sorry you were having to take on the cleaning, Mrs. Smithson,” he apologized.

She looked at him—and burst into tears.

Byron set down his saucer, unsure what to do. Then he slipped an arm about her shoulders and simply let her cry it out. It took several minutes before her weeping subsided.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, slipping a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes. “I have not cried like that in a long time. Not since I found out... well, a very long while.”

“We should speak openly, Mrs. Smithson,” he told her. “There are things which must be addressed.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right.” She picked up her saucer and took another sip of tea. “Cold already. Should I ring for a fresh pot?”

“No. It is not necessary,” he assured her.

“Call me Verity,” she said, surprising him. “I am Verity Truman, my lord. Not Mrs. Smithson. Your brother suggested I do so when he set me up in this establishment. I understand it is to save face, pretending that a Mr. Smithson existed at one time, but we should be honest with one another.” She hesitated. “How much do you know?”

“I have the basic facts. That Bridgewater got you with child and then told you of his betrothal to Miss Bowles.”

She shook her head. “I was such a fool. Bridgewater was handsome and quite charming. So very confident. I... did things with him. Things I should not have done. Amity is the result of my actions. I cannot say I regret what I did because my daughter is the light of my life, my lord.”

“I know how convincing my brother could be. And you did not do these things alone, Miss Verity. Bridgewater was also a partner to... the events,” he said delicately. “He was older. You were na?ve. Do not solely blame yourself.”

“It is hard not to, my lord. I went from a girl in love, stars in my eyes, to one who would give birth to a bastard,” she said, no trace of bitterness in her tone, for which Byron admired her all the more. “Your brother explained how his father had arranged the betrothal to a neighbor’s daughter, one who would not be making her come-out for years because of her tender age.”

She took another sip of tea. “I know now that I was but a plaything to Bridgewater. Frankly, even if he had been available, I am not quite certain that he would have offered for me, even knowing the condition I found myself in.”

That remark cut Byron to the quick. Because he believed it to be true. The brother he had worshipped had simply not been a very good man. He felt in his gut that she was right. Bridgewater would never have owned up to his responsibility. The fact that he could use his secret betrothal was a convenient excuse.

“Mr. Pilsbury told me that your family has abandoned you.”

Tears welled in her eyes again. “Yes. If it were only Mama, she would never have done so. We would have retired to the country and lived a quiet life. Somehow, Mama would have found a way to adopt Amity into our family so that I could raise her.”

She frowned. “Papa tells Mama what to think, however. In truth, she is terrified of him. I... I think he is... cruel to her. I have seen... bruises.”

Anger welled inside Byron, but he did not interrupt her story.

“Papa berated me for hours once he knew, telling me how ashamed he was of me. How I had disgraced the Truman family name. That he simply could not acknowledge me or my babe, much less have us in his house, sitting at his table.”

He could not imagine being so young and in her shoes.

“He gave me one week to make arrangements and leave his house. He forbade Mama from helping me. I told Lord Bridgewater of the circumstances. That is when he agreed to set me up here, in this house, with a cook and maid. I left my parents’ house and came straight here.”

She shook her head. “You cannot imagine the pain I felt when I read of my supposed death in the newspapers.” She took a deep breath and expelled it. “Actually, Verity Truman is dead to Polite Society. I became Mrs. Smithson and will always be her.”

“Is it true that Bridgewater never saw you again? Never came to see his child?” he asked, needing to verify that information.

“Yes. He had nothing more to do with me, other than sending the money. It was never enough. Oh, I know how ungrateful I must sound, and I do not mean to be, my lord. At least I had a roof over my head and food to eat. But thanks to you, I no longer have to scrub pots and floors and hang the wash out to dry.”

He reached and took one of her hands, turning the palm face up, seeing the calluses still there. Rage filled him. If his brother were still here, Byron would have knocked him into tomorrow.

Releasing her hand, he said, “Miss Verity, you never need worry again about money. And if you find you need more, please send word to me through Mr. Pilsbury. As Amity gets older, I am certain she will need more than she has now. You mentioned one of your maids also serves as a kind of nursery governess. When the time comes, we shall hire a proper governess for Amity.”

Verity burst into tears again, flinging her arms about him, burying her face in his chest. He could feel the wetness soaking through his waistcoat and shirt, but he merely stroked her hair.

She sat up, brushing the tears away. “Forgive me, my lord. Oh, I do seem to continually apologize to you.” She paused. “Would you care to meet Amity?”

Anticipation filled him. “I most certainly would.”

“I will be back with her in a moment.”

Verity Truman left the parlor, and Byron sighed. He liked her quite a bit and hated the situation his brother had placed her in. She was between places. No gentleman in Polite Society would ever have her, due to the bastard babe she had borne. Others would feel her above them, so he doubted she would ever wed and have other children. To live in that kind of limbo, with no family or friends, must be terribly depressing.

Byron determined to continue to visit her—and come to some kind of solution.

She returned, holding the hand of a girl who was Verity’s mirror image, only years younger. Amity had the same golden ringlets and blue eyes. Where her mother was timid, though, this girl had an eagerness about her and smiled at him.

“Do as we practiced, Amity,” her mother urged.

The girl came to stand in front of Byron and made her curtsey to him. He remained seated, not wanting to loom over her, and offered his hand. She took it, and they shook.

“I am Amity Smithson,” she informed him. “I am five years old. And who might you be? Mama said someone was here and wanted to meet me.”

He wanted to be called Uncle Byron but thought that might be too confusing for the child, so he said, “I am Mr. Byron.” He hoped sometime in the future she would call him Uncle Byron. This would be a start.

“Hello, Mr. Byron,” she said. “Thank you for coming to see us. No one ever does. I see people when we go for a walk. Other children playing in the park, but Mama doesn’t let me talk to them.”

“I am very happy to come and visit you, Amity.”

“Will you really come back?” she pleaded.

“I most certainly will,” he promised.

The girl stayed a few more minutes, singing Byron a song and naming as many animals as she could, along with voicing the noises that they made. She had him laughing, something he had not done in a long time.

A servant slipped into the room, and he decided this was Ella, the maid.

“Miss Amity, it is time for you to eat.”

The girl frowned. “Do I have to go, Mama?”

“Yes, my darling,” Verity said, slipping an arm about her daughter. “Mr. Byron has to leave now.”

“But I will be back to see you,” he reminded the girl.

“Soon?” she asked.

“Soon,” he responded.

The servant took the girl away, and Verity looked to him. “You do not have to come again, my lord. I do not expect it.”

“She is my niece,” he said simply. “I must come back.”

Her mouth trembled. “Then from the bottom of my heart, I do thank you, my lord.” She studied him a moment. “You will make for a much better marquess than your brother ever did.”

“I am trying my best, Verity. And since I will be a frequent visitor, you must call me Byron.”

When he left the house a short while later, he knew it had been the right thing to come and meet both Verity and Amity.

For now, he would keep these visits a secret from his mother, who had no idea the pair existed. He thought he might tell Aunt Flora and Uncle Hugh, though, thinking they would sympathize with Verity’s situation.

Byron also hoped that Jacinda Bowles would be understanding and accompany him on these visits once they were wed.