Reunited With Her Viscount Protector

As she’d continued to toil at the stove he had put his hands on her shoulders, moving them in a caress of encouragement before leaving. How she had longed to lean into him for his strength and comfort. But she hadn’t turned around, even when she heard the back door click shut. She had remained dry-eyed and concentrated on her task. With a steaming jug in either hand she had made the trip upstairs half-a-dozen times, knocking, then leaving the water outside the closed door. Finally crushed by it all, Dawn had sunk to the floor and stuffed her fists to her lips to silence her own scream. She’d known Eleanor was fighting for her life now it was too late to save her child. Then when it had become quiet she’d sprung up, berating herself for her weakness. She’d stumbled again down the stairs to renew her efforts with kettle and pan.

* * *

The commotion at the back door as Mansfield finally burst in wasn’t enough to stop her furious industry. She carried on, not trusting herself to look at him. But she said stiltedly, ‘The doctor is upstairs with Eleanor. He said you should go to her immediately.’

‘How dare you go against my wishes?’ Peter snapped. His face was livid with indignation and he jerked on Dawn’s arm to turn her about.

‘Go to your wife, sir, without further delay.’ Jack had entered the kitchen behind the vicar and in a single stride had soon positioned himself between Dawn and her enraged stepson-in-law.

‘My thanks for bringing me here, sir, but I don’t believe I invited you into my house,’ Peter spat. ‘The name Jack Valance means nothing to me. Now what in damnation is going on? What havoc has been wreaked in my absence, Mrs Fenton?’

Jack uttered in a voice that dripped ice, ‘Not that it matters much, but I am your new neighbour. What does matter is that you should go to your wife, sir, before it is too late.’

‘It is too late...if you wish to see her, or your son alive.’ Dr Wilson had entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked exhausted and immensely sorrowful. ‘I did all I could for her...but I was summoned here far too late.’

Peter Mansfield gawped at the doctor, oblivious to Dawn sinking slowly to her haunches, covering her face with her hands, her whole body shaking with silent sobs.

‘What? What are you saying?’ Peter roared. ‘Never tell me that I had a son at last and you’ve let him die, sirrah.’

‘No... I have not done that. The child has been dead for some time. And your wife has perished because of carrying his corpse within her for too long. You have let your wife die, sir. Had I been summoned at the first sign of her fever Mrs Mansfield might have been saved.’ The doctor was a-quiver with suppressed fury.

Dawn was aware of a heated conversation going on between the vicar and the doctor, but she understood none of it. Part of her wanted to spring up and dash up the stairs and see for herself that the awful news was true, but she felt enervated by grief, unable to move a muscle.

She felt a pair of gentle hands lifting her up, taking her away from the arguing men and into the living room. Jack eased her into a chair. A moment later she had risen, determined to tend to Eleanor in some small way. Jack urged her to sit, then squatted down close to her.

‘I know you want to go to her. But first you must take a few sips of this to steady yourself.’ He held out a brandy flask, got from his coat. When she simply stared at it, he held it to her lips. Like a child she drank, wincing as the liquor burned her throat. She allowed him to make her swallow another mouthful before she shook her head, declining to have any more. She wiped the back of an unsteady hand over her burning lips.

Jack straightened up, allowing her to rise from the chair before enclosing her in an embrace.

‘I thank God that her little daughter is asleep and knows nothing of what’s gone on,’ Dawn finally said hoarsely, burrowing against his shoulder.

‘Amen to that,’ Jack murmured. ‘Would you like me to stay? I’ll remain just outside on the lane. It would be as well to leave the house. The vicar is distraught and better not to provoke him with my unwanted presence.’

Dawn blinked up at him with bloodshot eyes.

‘I’ll always be close by, Mrs Fenton, if you need me. Remember that.’ Jack brought her fingers to his lips. ‘Remember that,’ he repeated in a velvety voice before letting her go.

Chapter Five (#u9593a350-3558-553c-a3c1-7abe38055eaf)

The bishop had come from Colchester to conduct the service, allowing the newly widowed vicar to join the mourners on the dull March day that Eleanor Mansfield, aged twenty-one, was interred in the Wivenhoe churchyard with her infant son resting in her everlasting embrace.

The funeral had been speedily arranged on the wishes of her husband, then carried out a few days after Eleanor died. Though the time elapsed was short, by then Dawn was able to contain her grief for Lily’s sake. For the same reason the fury and disgust she felt for the Reverend Peter Mansfield also went undisplayed, yet simmered, unabated, within. He had taken no responsibility for the tragedy, maintaining that he had bowed to his wife’s wishes in not summoning the doctor to fuss over her. When Dr Wilson had returned the following day to record the death, he had quizzed Peter over the marks on his wife’s arms. Those had been explained away as injuries received at times when Eleanor had collapsed. Florid in the face, Peter had made it clear that he deeply resented the implications being made. A distraught Mrs Grove had confirmed that indeed her mistress had keeled over on occasions and she had been the one to find Mrs Mansfield on the floor.

The only person who knew the truth could no longer tell it. So Dawn had no option but to give the vicar the benefit of the doubt. The physician’s face had betrayed his scepticism over what he’d heard. The only meagre comfort Dawn had was from knowing she would never again think of, or refer to, Peter Mansfield as her family. He was nobody to her. Yet she must continue to tolerate him because she couldn’t bear to lose touch with her beloved granddaughter.

She glanced at Lily, playing with her toys on the parlour rug, quite oblivious to the fact her mother was gone for ever. Of course the child had asked for her, but had seemed satisfied to know that her mama was with the angels in heaven. Yet every time Dawn answered her granddaughter’s sweetly innocent question she was sure Lily would be affected by her distress, though she did her utmost not to show it.

Presently the child danced the little doll on her lap, singing to the gift her grandma had brought her. Dawn smiled wistfully. It seemed such a long, long time ago that she had happily browsed the Regent Street shops for presents for Lily. Yet just a week had passed. And almost every minute of every hour of those days had been filled with heartache.

‘A gentleman caller, m’m.’

Mrs Grove had quietly entered the sitting room, stirring Dawn from a sightless contemplation of the greensward beyond the window pane. The woman was still haggard from constant weeping. The cook had had to be revived with smelling salts after learning of her mistress’s passing.

‘A Mr Valance asks to see you, but says he understands if you would like him to go away.’

‘No... I should like to see him, Mrs Grove.’ Had she really felt a little thrill? For days past Dawn had been numbed by grief and sure she’d never know any other emotion.

She stood up, brushing down her creased skirts. She had no deepest mourning clothes with her, but had sewn a black armband on the sleeve of her lavender gown. She imagined she looked a wreck from weeping so used her hanky on her tear-smudged cheeks, then attempted to neaten wisps of chestnut hair, tucking them into their pins. She was still conscious of Jack Valance’s appeal, she wryly realised, or wouldn’t bother readying herself to receive him.

The door opened and he came in, his grey eyes immediately locking with her dark green stare, shadowed by pain.

‘I will not stay long. I understand you might not want visitors. But I had to come to say...’ He hesitated as though unsure how to proceed. ‘I am just so sorry for your loss.’

Dawn smiled. ‘I know you are, sir. Thank you, not only for your condolences, but for all the help you gave to us.’

‘Would that I could have done more,’ Jack said vehemently. He approached and gently took her hands in his.

She allowed him to hold them, liking the feel of his warm palms wrapped around her cold fingers. ‘I was expecting you might come to the funeral.’

‘I was not invited and doubted that Peter Mansfield would wish to have me just turn up.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to come back sooner to see you. I didn’t in case I was being intrusive. I’ve not stopped thinking of you, though, for a single minute.’

Dawn hadn’t stopped thinking of him either, despite the horror of losing her stepdaughter. Dawn had wished Jack had come to the funeral, but understood his reasons for staying away. The vicar had made it clear he wanted a small, discreet affair when his wife was laid to rest. He’d intimated it was from respect for her, but Dawn suspected it was to shield himself from disapproving looks. News might have circulated about the circumstances of Mrs Mansfield’s demise.

In all, the mourners had numbered just a dozen and most of those had comprised Peter’s ecclesiastical colleagues. A few neighbours and Dr Wilson had come to the wake at the vicarage which had lasted less than an hour.

‘What will you do now? Will you return to London?’ Jack enquired.

‘Yes... I must. I cannot stand to stay here with him. Neither, I think, does he want me to. At times I feel so angry that I cannot hold my tongue so am a constant reminder of his terrible neglect of Eleanor.’ Dawn frowned, remembering the vicar’s curt good morning to her when they had passed earlier in the hall. For her part she would sooner ignore him and keep her distance. When in his orbit she felt a compulsion to leap towards him and pummel him for what he’d done. ‘Peter still blames me for interfering, even though the doctor severely rebuked him for failing to get his wife the help she so desperately needed.’ She glanced at Lily. ‘Yet... I cannot bear leaving the poor little mite behind when I return home. I wish I could take her with me and care for her.’ Her voice broke and she shielded her distress behind unsteady fingers.

Jack gently drew her into his arms. ‘Come... You have endured a tragedy, but are coping admirably with it and I know you will continue to do so.’ He paused, brushing rogue chestnut curls away from her spiky wet lashes so he might gaze into a pair of bright green eyes. ‘The most sensible thing would be for the vicar to put his daughter into your care in London, at least until he sorts out a good nursemaid to take charge of his daughter.’

‘I have already suggested to him all of that, but because he knows how much that arrangement would please me, he has dismissed it out of hand.’ She knuckled fresh tears from her eyes. ‘The child is his responsibility, he says, and must stay with him. Yet he pays Lily no heed whatsoever. He doesn’t deserve to have the dear little thing.’

‘Am I right in thinking it is not just this calamity that has coloured your opinion of Peter Mansfield?’

‘I’ve never liked him. Now I loathe him,’ Dawn admitted with unsuppressed vehemence. She clamped together her lips; she had confided too much. She hardly knew Jack Valance, yet was telling him very personal things. She had felt that immediate connection to him years ago, almost from the day they’d met. But he obviously hadn’t felt the same way about her to so easily forget her and go abroad without a word. She had allowed him liberties then...and was doing so now, standing quietly within his embrace as though it were her natural place to be. But it wasn’t; if what she’d heard was true he had a fiancée. Though she knew he was simply comforting her, she stepped away from him. Just in time, as it transpired.

‘Ah... Valance. How are you, my good fellow? My servant said you had arrived.’ Peter Mansfield strode into the room and extended his hand. His attitude was completely different to that on the day he had first met Jack. Then he had treated him as an interloper instead of a guest.

‘My condolences on your loss, sir.’ Jack shook hands.

Peter huffed a sigh. ‘Thank you. I wanted a son more than anything.’ A silence followed, but the bereaved husband made no mention of missing anybody else as he plunged his hands on his hips. ‘I have heard talk in the village that you have taken up residence at Croxley Grange, Mr Valance.’

‘It is a temporary stay. My preference is to reside most of the year in London.’

‘We had heard that a viscount had taken over the whole estate.’ Peter clucked his tongue. ‘The gossips concoct such fantastical tales.’

‘On this occasion they are correct.’