A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess. Helen Dickson
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let her waste one moment of her precious life loving him or waiting for him, and so he had ended it, telling himself that he had done the right thing, the noble thing. But nothing had prepared him for the days and nights of missing her, of the sweet softness of her in his arms.
‘Delphine, I have to ask …’
‘The child is yours,’ she uttered forcefully. ‘Never doubt it. There has been no one else. No one was good enough—after you.’
He bent his head over her hand. ‘Dear sweet Lord, this is the cruellest thing you have ever done to me. Why did you not write and tell me? I would have come to you, Delphine. I would not have let you endure this alone.’
‘I am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I—I thought you might hate me—that you would turn me away—but I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t go home and I had to do something, which was why I came to Belgium—to find you.’
‘You were afraid of me?’ His voice was soft with compassion. ‘You were afraid to tell me? Am I such an ogre, Delphine?’
‘No …’ She trembled and clutched his hand, a great wash of tears brimming in her eyes.
Lance felt his heart jolt for her pain. He would give anything to know how to comfort her, to reassure her that he would not leave her. He was an arrogant bastard, he knew that himself, a man who liked, demanded, his own determined way, but the emotion this woman aroused in him, the sweetness that flowed through him from her, could be matched by nothing he had ever known before.
‘Don’t cry, my love,’ he murmured. ‘I’m here now. You’re safe with me and always will be.’
‘Go and look at your daughter, Lance. You will see she is yours.’
Lance did as she bade and went to look at the flesh-and-blood evidence of the result of their loving. His heart began to beat against his chest wall. The wet nurse pushed away the cover shielding the infant’s face. This was his child and he was almost too afraid to look at her because he did not know how he would feel when he did. He forced himself to look at the babe’s face, compelled by some force he did not recognise. As he looked she yawned and turned her face towards him, before settling herself to sleep against the woman’s breast.
It was his mother’s face and his own he saw, the line of her brow with the distinctive widow’s peak, the way in which her eyes were set in her skull, the black winging eyebrows, and the tiny cleft in her round chin. On her head her hair swirled against her skull, a clump of curls, coal black like his own, on her crown.
Turning from her, he went back to the bed. ‘She is a fine girl, Delphine.’
‘Yes, a fine baby girl. I’ve named her Charlotte—after my mother. As her father you will—look after her, won’t you, Lance, be responsible for her—care for her and protect her? She has no one else.’
Lance nodded, a terrible constriction in his throat, for she was so weak, so defenceless against what was to happen to her. He damned all the fates that prevented him from righting the wrong he had done her by casting her from him, the cruel fates that prevented him from having this warm and lovely girl in his life once more.
‘You have my guarantee that she will be supported in a manner suitable to her upbringing. But—is there anything I can do to ease your suffering? Anything at all?’
‘You could do the honourable, gentlemanly thing and marry Miss Jenkins, sir,’ the clergyman suggested stoutly, almost forcefully. ‘The child is a bastard and the stigma of being born out of wedlock will follow her all the days of her life. As your legitimate daughter her future will be secure.’
Lance was momentarily lost for words. Before this it would have been impossible, unthinkable to take her for his wife for he had a position to consider and a wife such as Delphine would not have been tolerated, but, by heaven, this changed everything. Lance knew a man’s rightful claim to being a gentleman was not something one could inherit. Compassion, honour and integrity were just three of the characteristics. Certainly a man had a responsibility and an obligation to protect those who were close to him, those who depended on him, from the cruelties of the world. Looking from Delphine to the child, never had he felt the weight of that responsibility as he did now. He could not in all conscience and honour cast Delphine aside along with their child like something worthless.
Without any visible emotion, he said, ‘Is this what you want, Delphine?’
She nodded, a tear trickling out of the corner of her eye and quickly becoming soaked up in the pillow. ‘For our daughter’s sake. I am dying, Lance, so I will not be a burden to you and you will be free to go on as before. It won’t be long. Will you do this—for me?’
‘I shall be proud to make you my wife, Delphine,’ Lance said hoarsely. He looked at the clergyman. ‘Very well. Get on with it.’
After summoning the farmer and his wife to bear witness to the proceedings, they spoke their vows, the infant beginning to wail lustily when the clergyman pronounced them man and wife.
Delphine smiled and closed her eyes. ‘You can go now, Lance. There is nothing more to be done.’
That seemed to be so. With a final sigh her head rolled to one side.
Lance stared at her, unable to believe this dear, sweet girl—his wife for such a short time—was dead. Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus, he prayed as he bent his head, the agony he felt slicing his heart to the core.
The clergyman went to Delphine and placed his head to her chest. Straightening up, he shook his head solemnly. When he was about to pull the sheet over her face, Lance stayed his hand.
‘Wait.’ He looked at her face one last time, as if to absorb her image for all time. It had taken on a serenity absent before death, so calm and untroubled he felt his throat ache. The eyes were closed, the lashes long and dark in a fan on her cheek. The skin, no longer the almost grey look of the dead, had taken on a soft honey cream.
Not one to show his emotions, after taking a moment to compose himself, Lance signed some papers and then handed the clergyman some money for the burial, telling him to have Delphine interred in the graveyard of the local church. His face stony, his eyes empty, he turned his attention to the woman holding his child.
‘You are English?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What are you called?’
‘Mary Grey, sir. My own baby died—six days now—and the midwife who attended your wife asked if I would wet nurse your daughter.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I have no husband, sir. My man died before I gave birth.’
‘I see.’ He thought for a moment, considering her. At least she was clean and quietly spoken. ‘Will you continue to wet nurse the child and take her to an address in England? You will be well paid for your trouble. I will send someone to accompany you—along with a letter for you to give to my mother.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The clergyman moved from the bed. ‘Don’t feel you have to remain, Colonel. I will take care of things.’
‘Thank you. I do have to return to my regiment. Battle is imminent. Tomorrow many will die. Your services as a priest will be needed, too.’
The child began to whimper. He looked at it and quickly looked away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, trying to defend himself against the rising and violent tide of anger directed against this tiny being—this infant whose entry into the world had taken the life of its mother. Angry, relentlessly so and unable to understand why he should feel like this, his face absolute and without expression, without a backward glance Colonel Bingham left the farmhouse.
Mary Grey had noted the look on his face and recognised it for what it was. He blamed the child for its mother’s death, this she understood, but she was confident it was a problem that would solve itself. But in this she was to be proved wrong.
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