Rescued From Ruin

‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.

Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.

‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’

Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.

She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.

‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’

‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.

‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’

‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.

Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’

Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.

‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’

We have no choice.

* * *

Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.

Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’

Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.

‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.

Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.

Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.

Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.

‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’

Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.

Chapter Three

Cecelia shifted the white Greek-style robe on her shoulders, the wood pedestal beneath her biting into the back of her thighs, the sharp odour of oil paints nearly smothering her as she struggled to maintain her pose. Pushing the wreath of flowers off her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, she sighed, wondering how she’d ended up in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio in this ridiculous position.

‘Lord Strathmore was right. You make the perfect Persephone,’ Madame de Badeau complimented from beside the dais, as if answering Cecelia’s silent question.

Cecelia shifted the bouquet in her hands, feeling more like a trollop than a goddess. Lord Strathmore wanted a painting of Persephone to complement one he already possessed of Demeter. Madame de Badeau had convinced Cecelia to pose, all the while hinting at Lord Strathmore’s interest in her. If it weren’t for the need to maintain his interest, Cecelia never would have agreed to this ridiculous request.

Her spirit drooped like the flowers in her hand, the weariness of having to entertain a man’s affection out of necessity instead of love weighing on her. Thankfully, business prevented Lord Strathmore from accompanying them today and deepening her humiliation.

‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning Lord Falconbridge?’ Madame de Badeau asked, as if to remind Cecelia of how her last affair of the heart had ended.

‘No, I have not.’ Nor did she want to. She’d experienced enough cruel gossip in Virginia to make her sick whenever she heard people delighting in it here.

‘Lord Falconbridge won Lord Westbrook’s entire fortune. Absolutely ruined the gentleman. Isn’t it grand?’ She clapped her hands together like a child excited over a box of sweets.

‘What?’ Cecelia turned to face Madame de Badeau and the wreath tumbled from her head.

‘Mrs Thompson, your pose.’ Sir Thomas hurried from behind his easel to scoop up the wilting wreath and hand it to her.

She repositioned it on her head, her hand shaking with the same anger she’d known the morning Paul had turned them out of Belle View. ‘How could Lord Falconbridge do such a thing?’

‘My dear, he prides himself on it.’ The smile curling Madame de Badeau’s lips made Cecelia’s stomach churn. ‘The losses aren’t the worst of Lord Westbrook’s problems. Now that he’s penniless, the family of his intended has forbidden the match.’

Cecelia’s fingers tightened so hard on the bouquet, one flower snapped and bent over on its broken stem. She more than anyone knew the hardships Lord Westbrook now faced. ‘Surely Lord Falconbridge must know.’

‘Of course he does. All society knows. I think it most fortunate. Now Lord Westbrook will have to marry for money instead of love. I abhor love matches. They are so gauche.’

As Madame de Badeau launched into a description of the now-infamous card game, Cecelia fought the desire to rise and dismiss her. If she didn’t need Madame de Badeau’s connections in society, she’d have nothing to do with the shallow woman. Despite being an old friend of her mother’s, Cecelia sensed the Frenchwoman would gladly push her into poverty if only to provide a few witty stories for the guests at her next card party.

Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington and all the unfinished letters she’d drafted to her since returning to London. The sweet woman had been such a comfort ten years ago, listening while Cecelia poured out her heartbreak over losing her father, her mother’s illness and, in the end, Randall’s rejection. The Dowager Countess was the only other connection she still possessed in England, though it was a tenuous one. They hadn’t exchanged letters in over eight years.

Cecelia shifted again on the dais, pulling the robe tight against the cold grief which had ended the correspondence. During her first two years at Belle View, she’d sent the Countess so many letters filled with the details of her life, from surveying her own fields to dining with the Governor. She’d written each with the hope the lady might share them with Randall and show him how far the ‘poor merchant’s daughter’ had come.

Then, after the loss of her little boy and the near loss of Daniel to the fever, all her girlish desires to impress someone half a world away had vanished.

Stinging tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of Madame de Badeau and risk the woman’s mocking laughter. Like her heartache, the sense of isolation from anyone of decency sat hard on Cecelia’s chest. She pressed her thumb into one of the thorns on the stem, forcing down the encroaching despair. She would not fail, nor give up on Theresa the way her mother had given up on her. The Season was still young. They would make new friends and meet the man who’d save them before the truth of their situation became impossible to conceal.

‘Madame de Badeau, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you a patron of the arts,’ a familiar voice called out from behind her.

Cecelia’s back stiffened with a strange mixture of excitement and anger and the sudden movement made the garland tumble to the floor.

‘Hello, Mrs Thompson.’ Randall came to stand in front of the dais, towering over her, his tan pants covering his long legs while one hand grasped the silver head of his ebony walking stick. His other hand rested on his hip, pushing back his dark coat to show the grey waistcoat hugging the trim waist underneath. With an amused look he took in her draping-goddess dress and the basket of fruit at her bare feet.

‘Lord Falconbridge,’ she greeted through clenched teeth, annoyed at having to face the man whom, at the moment, she very much detested.

He bent down to pick up the garland, his hot breath caressing the tops of her toes and making her skin pebble with goose bumps. ‘I’ve never thought of you as a muse.’

She pulled her feet back under the robe. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all.’

‘Oh, I have, many times.’ His beguiling eyes pinned hers and she shivered. ‘But more as an adventurous Amazon in the wilds of America.’