Shock held him still.
There was a painting in the downstairs hall of himself at about this age and she could easily be an exact copy for him in spite of her dark hair and brown eyes. Except she was more intent and focused than he could ever have been. She seemed to study their reflection and form her own conclusions, one he sensed wasn’t flattering.
Dread coupled with an inexplicable excitement. This was not what he wanted. Oh, no. Not him. And yet, he had to know.
Mars pulled off her shoe, then tugged on the stocking. He found five perfect toes. He reached for the other foot and did the same, and his breath caught.
The left foot was not perfect. There were five toes but they were not aligned. The toe before the little one looked a bit deformed and appeared to be growing out of the toe beside it—just like his father’s had, and his grandfather’s, and all the Eddingtons before him.
Just like Mars’s own.
It was proof that one was a true Eddington.
This was his baby.
His daughter.
To his surprise, a sense of wonder filled him.
He’d created her. She was a new soul in this world, in his life. This little being with a silly name. He had family.
Deep within, something shifted, opening him in a way he’d never thought possible. It was the two of them together in the face of a world that was unrelenting when it came to the weak. She needed him. He was her protector, her parent, her guardian.
And he didn’t know what to do with her.
He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to call her Menadora. “Dora,” he said, testing the name. He liked it.
There was also no doubt the cloth covering her tiny bum needed to be changed. Mars could smell it. It was also damp against his chest. She had wet herself through her dress.
He looked to the doorway where Gibson and Nelson watched him with confused alarm. “Did Deb leave a bag? Or supplies?”
“No, my lord,” Gibson answered. “She left nothing.”
Mars held Dora away a bit. He wasn’t good with foul smells. He also didn’t have the slightest inkling of a child’s needs and wants.
Then, as if reading his mind and realizing she was in trouble, Dora opened her lungs—and this time, she wouldn’t stop, no matter what he tried.
Chapter Two
Men are beasts. I know. I am one of them.
—Book of Mars
Just as she feared she could not take another step forward, Clarissa Taylor arrived in Maidenshop.
Her journey had been exhausting. She had worn these clothes for three days straight as she’d struggled to find her way home from London by the Post, a farmer’s cart, and her own two aching feet.
She dropped her valise, overwhelmed by the familiar sight of St. Martyr’s stone walls and the neat and tidy cottages of the village. She wore a gray cambric frock that was very serviceable, good sturdy shoes, and an olive-toned sarcenet pelisse that one of the women in this village had given her as a castoff. Her straw cottage hat had also been a gift. The village matrons had given it to her along with their good wishes before she’d left for the position as a gentlewoman’s companion that was supposed to change her life.
There were some people busy and about at this hour of the day but they hadn’t noticed her. Not yet.
And even though she recognized them, after all, she had grown up here . . . she felt a stranger. She viewed them as if there was a pane of glass separating them from her.
In many ways there was, except the divider was called Life. When she’d left Maidenshop, it had been mid-spring and all was hopeful and perfect in the world.
Now the garden flowers were peaking and would too soon be overtaken by autumn and then winter—just as London had overtaken her.
If she’d had any pride, she would not be here, except, the village was very dear to her, even if she was returning in disgrace. She had nothing to her name, not even a farthing. It had taken all that she owned to bring her back home.
The side door to the church opened. Mrs. Summerall, the minister’s wife, came out of the building. She glanced Clarissa’s way and stopped, a foot poised in the air. She stared as if uncertain she believed her eyes.
Then she took a step forward and then several more, picking her way through the gravestones surrounding the church. “Miss Taylor?”
Clarissa’s throat tightened. She couldn’t speak. And so, she did the only thing she could do. She burst into tears.
Mrs. Summerall rushed to her and wrapped her thin, long arms around Clarissa. “Dear, dear, dear,” she repeated. “Please, it is all right. Whatever it is, it is all right.” Finally, she said, “Let’s go see Mrs. Warbler.”
Clarissa nodded.
Elizabeth Warbler was the widow who lived in the center of the village. She was one of the doyennes of the Matrons of Maidenshop and had been a good friend to Clarissa over the years since her adoptive parents, the Reverend Taylor and his wife, had passed away. She’d always been able to help Clarissa make sense of the insensible. And if all else failed, there would be sherry. Mrs. Warbler was known for her sherry bottle.
“Here now, Landon,” Mrs. Summerall called to a boy who had just come out of his cottage. “Please carry Miss Taylor’s valise for us.”
“Miss Taylor?” the lad repeated. He stared at Clarissa as if she was an oddity. “Good to see you, Miss Taylor. How was London?”
Clarissa’s answer was a hiccupping sob.
“The valise, Landon,” Mrs. Summerall said, sounding a bit desperate. She linked an arm with Clarissa’s and the two of them walked down the road to Mrs. Warbler’s two-story stone home. It was located across the road from The Garland, a tea garden and specialty shop owned by the woman who had stolen the future that Clarissa was supposed to have.
No, that wasn’t true. Gemma hadn’t truly connived her way into Ned Thurlowe’s heart. It had not been intentional.
And Ned would have married Clarissa if she had insisted. He was an honorable man. He’d made a promise and he would have honored it. She was the one who had cried off.
In fact, once Clarissa realized she was clinging to Ned as her only hope, she had been rather excited to go out in the world. With Mrs. Warbler’s help, she had accepted a position as companion to the wealthy Mrs. Emsdale.
But that had all been back in the spring.
Clarissa took a moment at the foot of Mrs. Warbler’s step to swipe at her eyes with her dirty gloves. “She’ll be disappointed in me.”
“Nonsense. Elizabeth will be as happy to see you as I. Isn’t that right, Landon?”
“Everyone will be happy to see you, Miss Taylor,” the boy said dutifully, although his side glances indicated he was ready to discharge his duties.
Though she feared Mrs. Summerall was only being polite, her kind words caused Clarissa to release the breath she’d been holding.
It turned out Mrs. Summerall had been right.
Mrs. Warbler swept Clarissa into the house. She was silver haired, energetic, and, in the past, had worn purple in memory of her husband, the colonel, but that had changed over the summer as well. Today, she wore a dress in a lovely shade of rose. Matching ribbons decorated her lace cap and her hands sported ivory lace fingerless mittens.
“Clarissa,” she said as if delighted. “I’m happy to see you. Do you need a moment to yourself? Jane,” she called to her maid, “prepare a basin of warm water for our guest.” To Clarissa, she directed, “Now, you take as long as you like to freshen up. Jane! We shall need cheese and some of the bread you baked this morning. Clarissa appears as if she hasn’t eaten in days.”