His daughters had been born into a rough and unsettled life, traveling with an army, but they’d thrived. They might have lived in tents and billets and slept on the ground or in the back of a wagon, but between Selina and himself—and his batman and the woman he’d hired to help Selina—they’d had a home, a home made of people and love, not bricks and mortar.
He’d missed them damnably, had thrown himself into his work to ease the ache of loss.
He pulled out the letter and read it for the umpteenth time. Short and to the point, just like Judy. We hate it here, Papa. We miss you. Please come and get us.
Judy’s writing. He settled back in the corner of the carriage, remembering her birth.
He’d been waiting outside the tent, pacing anxiously while Selina labored within, giving birth to their first child. One of the camp followers was acting as midwife. She was a burly, no-nonsense woman who’d birthed six of her own and attended the birth of many more. She’d pushed back the tent flap, saying, “It’s a girl,” and handed him a tiny, blood-smeared bundle wrapped in a towel. Then she disappeared back into the tent, saying, “Stay outside. We ain’t finished yet.”
James stared down at the tiny bundle, the little red scrunched-up face, the impossibly small starfish hand with fingernails like small pink jewels.
Holding her carefully, terrified of dropping such a small, delicate creature, he’d used the end of the towel to clean her face, wiping off smears of blood and some waxy substance. And then she’d opened her eyes.
She’d stared up at him, so intense, like an ancient, wise little soul, and he’d stared back, hardly able to breathe, and it was as if she’d reached her little starfish hand into his chest and squeezed his heart. Emotion swamped him, and he knew he would die to protect this little scrap of newborn humanity, his daughter.
And as she grew and flourished, gave him her first real smile, took her first steps, spoke her first words, the feeling only grew stronger.
He was there too when Lina was born, this time in a tumbledown peasant cottage. He took delivery of the naked, squalling, red-faced, kicking, angry baby, and this time he knew what to do. He’d bathed her, pink and slippery, in a basin of warm water, which, as well as cleaning her, somehow calmed her. And when she’d curled her soft, tiny fist around his big rough-skinned finger and stared up at him, he was gone, just as before.
He’d shown the baby, clean and pink and quiet now, to her big four-year-old sister. Judy had gazed at the little face with wonder and said, “She’s awful ugly, isn’t she?”
James smiled recalling it. He’d grown up believing that children belonged to their parents, and that was true of some. But not James: he belonged, heart and soul, to his daughters.
* * *
* * *
Alice was fast losing patience with her nephew. So far he had brought four young gentlemen to meet Lucy, none of them in the least bit suitable. Mr. Frinton—sweet boy or not—could barely get out a word in female company. After him had come Sir Heatherington Bland, a morose fellow who, far from being bland, had a distinctively pungent body odor.
Then there was Mr. Humphrey Ffolliot, who had Opinions, which he shared at the slightest provocation—in fact with no provocation at all. The country was Going to the Dogs! Too Many Blasted Foreigners! As for Women, they’d got completely Out of Hand and no longer Knew Their Place!
Lucy appeared to listen demurely to every word, murmuring a comment every now and then. It seemed to Alice that far from agreeing with him, Lucy was gently mocking him. Not that Mr. Ffolliot noticed. He informed Alice as he was leaving that her goddaughter was a Fine Example of Womanhood.
And yesterday Gerald had introduced his friend Tarquin Grimswade, a very pretty young man dressed in rainbow shades. He claimed to be a poet and an artist, but he was so self-absorbed that Alice thought for all the notice he took of other people, he might as well be performing in front of a mirror.
Lucy had behaved very naughtily and had faintly mirrored his flowing hand movements and facial expressions as they spoke. Mr. Grimswade had found her charming.
And now this evening, they were to meet prospective suitor number five. Gerald had invited Alice and Lucy to Vauxhall Gardens, where there was to be a concert, followed by a gymnastic display and then fireworks. Alice always enjoyed fireworks, and Lucy had never seen them, so they were both looking forward to the outing.
It was a lovely evening, clear and warm, with a faint breeze. Gerald collected them in a carriage. He had hired a box for the evening, and as they arrived, a stout young man in tight yellow inexpressibles rose to his feet. Number five.
Gerald introduced them. “Mr. Cuthbert Carswell,” he said. “A friend from my school days.”
Mr. Carswell bowed ponderously. “Delighted to meet such lovely ladies.” From the faint creaking sound that accompanied his bow, he was wearing a Cumberland corset, like the Prince Regent. Alice glared at Gerald. Gerald avoided her eye.
They seated themselves, a waiter instantly appeared, and Gerald ordered refreshments. Shortly afterward he spotted some acquaintances, excused himself and disappeared, leaving Alice and Lucy alone with Mr. Carswell.
Alice watched him striding away and disappearing into the crowd. Outrageous behavior for a host.
Unlike Mr. Frinton, Mr. Carswell had no difficulty carrying on a conversation. In fact, it soon became clear that, like Mr. Ffolliot, he was quite capable of carrying one on without involving anyone else.
“Did Lord Thornton happen to mention that I recently discovered that I am the presumptive heir for Lord Buttsfield, who owns a barony in Yorkshire?” He smirked at Lucy. “Lord Buttsfield is an elderly gentleman, a confirmed bachelor with no plans to marry, so it is my expectation that before very long I will become Lord Buttsfield. And when I marry”—he added in case she missed the point—“my wife will become Lady Buttsfield.”
“How exciting for her,” Lucy said.
“Yes. I fancy quite a few ladies will be setting their caps at me.”
“Naturally,” Lucy agreed coyly.
“In the meantime I have a snug little property of my own, in Yorkshire, where I am involved in conducting some very exciting developments in pig breeding.”
“Pig breeding, reeeally?” Lucy repeated with every evidence of fascination. Alice wasn’t fooled for a moment.
“Yes,” he continued enthusiastically. “I’m crossing the best of my Old Yorkshire sows with some Chinese pigs—I was after the famous Chinese Swimming Pigs, but sadly couldn’t find any reliable source. But these other Chinese pigs are well suited to my purposes,” he enthused. Without waiting for any inquiry as to his purposes, he continued, “They are small, but they mature early and put on a great deal of fat very quickly. Which is just what one wants in a pig.” He nodded in satisfaction.