Fairchild Read online

  Late roses climbed the trellis leading to the kitchen garden, imparting a sweet and heavy scent to the air. Sophy licked dry lips. If Bertha was to pack up the house, it was certain she was leaving. Her eyes stung. Parting from mother’s house cut sharper than she had expected, though in all her imagined futures she went away.

  Who was Lord Fairchild? What was he like?

  She hugged her knees to her chest, burrowing her face out of sight. Whoever he was, she was certainly his bastard. She tried to reject the truth, but could not. She felt unclean, different. Everything Mrs. Upton said was true.

  Her throat was thick and hot. There was nothing she could do. They might say what they liked about her and her mother now. She had no defense. It was hard enough, she thought, biting down on her quivering lip, being so utterly alone. How was she to bear it, with the shame as well?

  “Stupid,” she told herself in a stern whisper. “You may as well get used to it.”

  *****

  Timothy, the third footman, whose real name was John, walked on silent feet over the thick library carpet, bearing a silver tray with three letters. With white-gloved hands, he placed the tray onto the gleaming surface of Lord Fairchild’s desk, the noise as he set it down no louder than a heartbeat. Viscount Fairchild did not look up and Timothy withdrew as soundlessly as he had entered.

  The library at Cordell Hall was Lord Fairchild’s sanctuary. Tall windows looked out onto the east lawn. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, flooding the room with morning light and setting fire to the lone occupant’s artfully combed copper hair. His hand moved steadily across the creamy sheet of paper in front of him. Dipping his pen in the inkstand, he continued writing, each stroke precise and methodical.

  Twenty minutes later, Lord Fairchild set down his pen. He sealed and franked the letter, then picked up the correspondence waiting on the tray. Two of the letters were expected: one from his son Jasper, due to return from school for holidays, and one from his man of business in London. Reading Jasper’s letter first and setting aside the second, he picked up the third, examining the direction. Though the sender’s name was unfamiliar, the name of the village, Bottom End, arrested his attention. For five seconds he stared at the missive before turning it over and cracking the seal with unsteady fingers.

  Scanning rapidly through paragraphs of obsequious flattery and apology, Fairchild found the heart of the matter buried in the middle of the second page. His breath caught; his hand faltered. Setting the letter onto the blotter, he stared unseeingly out the window.

  Fanny was dead.

  He had heard nothing of her for more than ten years, since the arrival of a polite note informing him that she had borne him a daughter and named the girl Sophy. Every quarter in the course of going over his accounts, Fairchild saw the entry inked in by his clerk recording the sum sent to Fanny Prescott of Bottom End. The sum had never varied in ten years; if Fanny had ever asked his steward for more, he knew nothing of it. He had promised Fanny, and his wife Georgiana, that he would not attempt to contact her.

  Leaning back into the chair, he returned his attention to the letter, growing increasingly irritated with his correspondent’s meandering sentences, dancing around the matter to hand—what did he wish to be done with Sophy?

  It was a simple business. She could be brought here or sent to school. The writer—he flipped over the sheet to reread the name, a Mr. Horace Lynchem—had been bold enough to suggest a few. The presumption of the man was astonishing.

  Bristling, Fairchild knew he wanted Sophy to be brought here, and not just to snub Mr. Lynchem. He wanted to see his child. Fanny, with her smooth brown hair and porcelain skin, would expect him to do his best for her daughter, as she had for his children.

  Henrietta and Jasper had loved Fanny. Sweet and pretty, he had fallen for her too—a delirious escape during bitter, lonely days. Fanny had been delirious too for a time, but she had come back to earth first. It was guilt over the harm she was doing to his children that made her leave and confess to his wife. That and the baby.

  Georgiana would not take well to him sending for Sophy, but Fairchild viewed that as an irritant rather than a deterrent. Let her chalk up a few grievances; their current détente served well enough she wouldn’t declare open war. Rising from his chair, Lord Fairchild went in search of his wife.

  *****

  The rectory of Bottom End was some distance from the village, set in a small park. It was a comfortable house; two and a half stories of whitewashed stone. Identical dormers blinked on the slate roof like sleepy eyes. Mr. Lynchem, the rector, had held the living going on twenty years. In spite of the machinations of local widows and spinsters, he remained unmarried. His sister Euphemia kept house for him and she defended her hearth rights with vigor. She had a comfortable home with her brother, and did not intend to lose it.

  When the post came, she noted the letter from Lord Fairchild, written on heavy paper and embossed with his seal. The paper was too thick for the writing to show through when she held it up against the sunny window, so Euphemia Lynchem set the letter aside and dashed off notes to her particular friends, Miss Myra Bowles and Miss Honoria Sikes, telling them the expected missive had arrived. She could count on them to spread the word.

  Her staff—she economized unnecessarily, limiting herself to a cook and a maid—knew better than to touch the luncheon she would carry up to her brother. Euphemia had convinced him he had a delicate stomach, and that only she understood properly which morsels of food he could partake of and live. So it was her alone who laid out the poached chicken breast, the arrowroot biscuits and the dish of stewed apricots with a minuscule glass of canary wine. Placing Lord Fairchild’s letter above the rest on the tray, she sailed down the hallway and carried it into her brother’s book room.

  Horace Lynchem acknowledged her with a grunt, hunched over the tiny, splayed wings of a dragonfly, a magnifying glass in one hand and a pin in the other. The point hovered over the abdomen of a particularly fine specimen of Oxygastra Curtisii as he prepared to pierce the tiny corpse.

  “The Letter has come.” Euphemia spoke loudly in his ear, startling him.

  “What? Oh. That letter.”

  Euphemia pointed to where it rested beside his wineglass with a skeletal finger. Horace set down the magnifying glass on the blotter, frowning over the right wing of the dragonfly, now sadly mangled.

  “I wish you wouldn’t creep up on me,” he said. “Now this one is completely ruined.”

  Euphemia concealed her smile. She had read Linneus’s entire Systema Naturae, accompanied her brother on far too many tedious net-wielding expeditions, and labelled all his specimens in her elegant copperplate script. She hated insects. Horace had cases of the nasty things, pinned in precise rows, covering the walls of the room.

  She hovered, waiting to watch him open The Letter, but Horace made a show of sangfroid and reached for his glass, as if receiving a letter from a peer was no extraordinary event. Defeated, she returned to the parlor.

  When the door shut behind her, Horace set his glass down in such a hurry he nearly spilled his wine. Carefully, he pried the seal with his pen knife so it would stay intact, then opened the letter with eager haste. It was disappointingly short. Lord Fairchild asked him to have his daughter ready to travel on October first. He would send a coach for her and bring her to Cordell. His man of business would arrange for the sale of Fanny Prescott’s house and furnishings. He asserted that he was Sophy’s legal guardian and Mr. Lynchem could contact his lawyers, at the address given, if he had any concerns. The letter closed with perfunctory thanks.

  Horace hooked a thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat and leaned back in his chair, sitting in silence for some moments.

  “Euphemia!” he called. Her approach was silent as always, yet she answered his summons with suspicious haste.

  “What do you need, Horace?”

  “Ask John to bring Sophy Prescott to me.”

  Chewing a sliver of chicken, Horace re
ached for his next specimen.

  Sophy came two hours later with Bertha a step behind. Mr. Lynchem lowered his magnifying glass to look at her. Her hair had been damped down and tied back with a ribbon, but the drying strands were already regaining their unruly shape. Her cheeks were flushed and Bertha was puffing heavily.

  “Thank-you for the message, sir,” Bertha said, dipping into a curtsy. “Your John said the letter’s come?”

  “Indeed it has,” Horace said, using his pulpit voice, at slightly lower volume. He had never liked Fanny Prescott. She was too pretty for a widow—smiled too much. Now he congratulated himself on his instincts.

  “Lord Fairchild has acknowledged Sophy. He is sending for her. The house is to be sold. You will be required to make Sophy and the house ready,” he told Bertha.

  Turning to Sophy, he added, “Unbeknownst to you, child, you have lived on Lord Fairchild’s charity and sufferance. You must prepare yourself to meet him, and to show him the gratitude, meekness, and obedience that is proper. Try him too much, and he may cast you off at any moment.”

  “Where does he live?” Sophy asked.

  Horace blinked, annoyed to be interrupted just as he was finding his stride. “Suffolk. Lord’s Fairchild’s seat is Cordell Hall.”

  Bertha took Sophy’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “And don’t they say Suffolk’s a pretty place? Not so rolling as Herefordshire, but very nice.”

  “That is immaterial,” Horace said.

  “Not to me,” Sophy said.

  “You will likely go from Cordell Hall to school,” he warned. “And you had best take every advantage of the education that Lord Fairchild chooses to give you. Children like yourself must be prepared to earn their own bread. There is little place in society for your kind, black-blooded and born in sin.”

  He delivered his prepared sermon, but instead of reducing Sophy to tears as he had envisioned, she stared at him with stony, dry eyes, finally unsettling him. He stopped, faltering mid sentence like a wound-down clockwork.

  “I shall make sure Sophy is ready, sir,” Bertha said.

  “See that you do,” he said, trying to recover his dignity, but Sophy had already curtseyed and turned for the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cordell Hall

  Bertha fitted Sophy’s things into her mother’s battered old trunk. It was a small box, Sophy thought, to carry her whole life in. Together they lugged it downstairs and out to the front gate. Leaving Sophy in the garden to get her fidgets out, Bertha returned to the kitchen.

  “The removers are coming!” Sophy called after her. “Who cares about crumbs?”

  Bertha’s mumbled response was indecipherable except for the words, ‘properly clean.’

  Sophy watched the ants scurrying across the flagstone path cutting through her mother’s overgrown flowerbeds until her feet went numb from crouching. When Bertha brought out buns and tea, they ate together in silence under the climbing rose, now bare of blooms. Exhausted by her cleaning marathon, Bertha soon fell asleep and Sophy drifted through the garden, swinging a stick through the flower beds, decapitating drying poppy heads. Every few minutes, she went to peer through the gate and down the road. Bertha had predicted the coach would arrive this afternoon. Bored, Sophy finally sat down on her corded trunk, occupying herself by scraping a rut in the dirt with her shoe.

  Leaving home frightened her, yet she was anxious to go. Grief and the preparations for departure had drained her like a bloodletting. She hadn’t told a soul that she had thrown the chestnut that lodged in her mother’s throat. Every so often, the sickening guilt lifted enough for Sophy to feel fear. She wasn’t certain they could accuse her of murder, but she knew it was her fault her mother was dead.

  “Oy! Sophy!”

  Startled, Sophy turned to see Fred loping through the garden, entering through the gap in the hedge. The loose hem of his smocked shirt was gathered in one hand, the front of his shirt weighted down with apples.

  “Hello, Fred.”

  He had the last remains of an apple in his free hand, nibbled down to its’ bones. Tossing the core into the lane, he handed an apple to Sophy and sat down beside her on the trunk.

  “So – you get to ride – in a – Lord’s carriage,” he said, between mouthfuls.

  “Yes,” Sophy said, chewing slowly.

  “Wonder what the horses will be like.”

  “Dunno.” Her mother had hated it when she spoke like a farm girl. Sophy realized that wherever she was going, she ought to be more careful with her speech. Glancing guiltily at her dust-covered shoes and greying stockings, she straightened her back.

  “How long will it take to get to Suffolk?” Fred asked.

  “Mr. Lynchem said about three days.”

  Fred lifted his eyebrows, impressed.

  “Will you thank your mother and father again for me?” Sophy asked.

  “Sure. They heard you yesterday, though. And Mam’s coming with a basket. Some pies you can eat on the way.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Went to see Bertha. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.” Fred wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. His tone was matter of fact, but Sophy was surprised Fred had admitted so much.

  “I will miss you, Fred,” she said, horrified when her voice turned high and squeaky at the end.

  Fred leaned away from her, his eyes going wide.

  “Yes, well, I might write you a letter. Every now and then.”

  Sophy didn’t cry and Fred relaxed. Hurling another apple core into the road, he asked, “What do you think he’ll be like?” He didn’t need to specify who. Lord Fairchild starred in both their imaginations.

  “He’s probably all stiff in fancy clothes with a pointy nose and a disappearing chin,” said Sophy, revealing her own inventions. Speculation had filled her thoughts in recent days.

  “Like the villain in the traveling farce last year?”

  Sophy scowled, realizing the resemblance. “Mr. Lynchem says I must be good and quiet. On the journey and after, too.”

  “Hmmph.” Fred’s frown told her he doubted she was capable of this feat.

  “He gave me this to read on the journey,” Sophy said, drawing a thin booklet from the drawstring bag beside her. She passed the flimsy sheets to Fred, who flipped through them.

  “Matilda Ann,” he read. “The tale of a wicked girl cursed with the sin of ingratitude who became a match seller.” He erupted into laughter. “Think you’ll end up a match girl?”

  Occasionally, in Sophy’s dire imaginings, she ended up a starving figure huddled in a ditch, prompting brief storms of weeping over her own fate. A match girl sounded much worse. Sophy had heard some talk of cities; rife with disease, they were filled with thieves and disreputables who preyed on the unwary and weak.

  Seeing the fear in Sophy’s face, Fred tried to reassure her by punching her in the arm. “Come on. Da says you’ll be looked after proper. Lord Fairchild’s sending his own carriage for you. Why would he go to such expense just to throw you out on your ear?”

  Sophy swallowed. This circumstance had given her some confidence, but still . . .

  “There you are,” Bertha said, bustling down the walk with ferocious brightness. Mrs. Wilkes walked beside her. “Mrs. Wilkes has brung a hamper for you, love.” Sophy stood and curtsied her thanks.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Wilkes asked, plucking the booklet from Fred’s hands. She turned it over and read the title, annoyance flashing across her face. “Take this instead,” she said, handing Sophy a green cloth-covered book from the basket on her arm. “You’ll like it better.”

  ‘Nursery Tales’ was printed across the front in black letters.

  “Thank-you, Ma’am,” Sophy curtseyed again. She had seen this book at the shop in the village; it was a handsome present, and one which Fred watched her tuck into the basket with reluctance.

  Blinking and turning red around the eyes, Bertha launched into a list of instructions: Sophy was not to speak to strange persons
at wayside inns or pester the maid and coachman who were escorting her with questions. She must always wear her flannel petticoat and keep a clean handkerchief about her. “I’ve tucked two spare ones in the top of your basket, dear.”

  Four heads swiveled at the sound of wheels jolting down the rough road. Waiting with stopped breath, they saw a handsome, if dusty, carriage appear beneath the trees.

  “They’ve come,” Bertha breathed, her sigh of relief a strange contrast to her paling face. Fastening her eyes on Sophy and lifting her face in her hands, she instructed: “You write to me, Miss Sophy. Master Fred will read to me. I’ll expect to hear from you regular.” Voice a-tremble, she swept Sophy into a bone-cracking embrace.

  “How I’ll miss you, child,” she whispered, low enough for Sophy’s ears alone.

  “Good-bye Berfa,” returned Sophy, reverting to her baby’s lisp and blinking furiously.

  With unaccustomed brusqueness, Bertha set Sophy aside, questioning the coachman as he fastened Sophy’s trunk to the back of the coach. Fred gave Sophy another punch to boost her confidence, and Sophy returned the gesture with a hug that made him color and shuffle his feet. Then the coachman handed Sophy into the carriage.

  Sophy froze, surprised. Surely the elegant woman seated inside wasn’t a maid.

  The coach lurched forward and Sophy returned to immediate concerns, tugging down the window and leaning her head outside, blowing desperate kisses to Fred and Bertha, who were running behind the coach. Bertha’s trot was heavy, her arms and bosom jiggling as she ran. The sight of her waving and running, cap askew, was too much and Sophy burst into tears.

  “Goodbye!” she called, and ducked into the coach.

  *****

  Silently, the haughty woman handed Sophy a handkerchief, her face marred with a frown of distaste. Sophy lapsed into cowed silence.

  “Finished, miss?”