Bed of Flowers Page 10

  Bonny didn’t dare open the note in front of her family, because someone (most likely her appallingly perceptive mother) would surely notice and ask questions. For the same reason, she couldn’t risk lighting a candle in her room at night, so she waited until the next morning to read the note.

  It was brief and discreet, to Bonny’s relief.

  Miss Reed,

  I believe you wish to speak to young Charles Dunaway who lives at 18 Crescent Court. He is seven years old.

  All best in your inquiries,

  Mrs. Rhodes

  Bonny burned the note, then didn’t do anything about it for several days. Why bother? The child, apparently, was real. Lord Loel had been right, and Charles Gavin had fathered a bastard.

  Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about the fatherless child. She began sewing a present for Charles Dunaway in the evenings, a small stuffed dog with a patchwork coat. He must have been named after his father, but why? Was it a sign that the relationship between Mr. Gavin and the mother had been a tender one, with affection on both sides?

  Her first impulse was to talk to Cordelia. But she knew exactly what Cordelia would say. What’s more, she knew how Cordelia would react if Bonny refused, again, to call off her engagement.

  Lord Loel would have made a better confidant. After he’d finished gloating, she knew that he would listen and take her concerns seriously. The eagerness with which she grasped at this excuse to seek him out told her she ought to stay far, far away.

  People made mistakes. If Mr. Gavin had taken responsibility for his, if he’d fulfilled his obligations to mother and child, then Lord Loel might have told her the truth but been wrong in all the ways that mattered.

  Bonny decided to visit the boy. She hoped to find a happy child, loved and cared for despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth. Of course, given his high standing in town, Charles Gavin had kept the child a secret. She couldn’t blame him for that.

  In fact, she appreciated this window into her fiancé’s true self, the deeds he committed when he thought no one was looking. It could easily turn out that, at the end of this investigation, she thought better of Mr. Gavin than she had before.

  Her destination at Crescent Court was a neat, well-kept cottage. Prosperous looking, on a quiet street with chicken scratching in the new grass and a shaggy pony sharing space with squawking geese in a large pen.

  If the people inside were half as wholesome and charming as the home they kept…

  She knocked on the door and asked the footman who answered if Charles Dunaway was at home.

  “Charles Dunaway?” The footman appeared affronted. “What are you here for? Go around the back.” He squinted. “What’s your business with him?”

  “Oh, a friend of the family knew I’d be in the neighborhood and asked me to give him a little present.” Her stuffed dog, in addition to being adorable, made an excellent pretext.

  “Friend of the family?” repeated the footman, voice rising in astonishment. “Do you have a card?”

  A few and she didn’t like to give them out, as they came dear, but she handed one over.

  “Miss Bonny Reed.” The footman’s skeptical expression slowly transitioned to one of understanding and curiosity. “Come in. I’ll send the boy up, but you mustn’t take much of his time; he’s not meant to be upstairs.”

  Bonny’s heart sank as the situation came clear. She wasn’t meant to use the front door, the boy wasn’t meant to be upstairs—he didn’t live here, he worked here.

  The salon was lovely, like the rest of the house. Tasteful and lived-in, with personal touches scattered all about. Bonny paced back and forth, thinking of excuses. At least little Charles Dunaway had been placed in a good home instead of someplace worse. That was something.

  But he was seven! Of course some families couldn’t help but send their young children out to work, but Charles Gavin was a wealthy man. He ought to be providing for the mother of his child, making sure his boy could go to school.

  A handsome child slipped inside and shut the door gently behind him. He was too thin, though she wasn’t sure if that was because he was malnourished or simply because growing boys shot up at such a rate. With his strong cleft chin and liquid brown eyes, he bore a remarkable resemblance to his father.

  He huddled by the wall, wide-eyed and afraid. “You wanted to speak to me, miss?”

  “Are you Mr. Charles Dunaway?” Bonny asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll only keep you a minute.” She offered him the little present, wrapped in colored paper and tied with a ribbon. “This is for you, from…” She’d planned to say that his father had sent it but considering his situation, she thought better of it. “A friend.”

  “Oh.” He took the packet. “It’s very pretty.”

  “You can open it, if you like.”

  “There’s something inside?” He shook the box curiously and then his expression tightened. “What do you want for it?”

  “Nothing at all,” Bonny said indignantly—and then, on second thought, “Though I’d be grateful if you’d answer a few questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Simple ones,” Bonny assured him. “For example: How long have you been working here?”

  He counted on his fingers, mouthing the names of the months as he tapped each one. “Five months now.”

  “And do you see your mother very often?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about my mother.”

  Bonny’s heart cracked. “Why not?”

  “Because this is a decent house for decent people.”

  “I see.” Bonny smiled sadly. “What about your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “I don’t know anything.” His little brow furrowed. “And that’s the truth even if you want your present back.”

  “The gift is yours,” said Bonny. “Would you like to open it?”

  He began to pick at the present, careful not to rip the paper. He opened up the box and lifted out a little stuffed dog, made from bits and pieces of scrap—a brown nose made from wool that she’d used to sew a coat for her father, floppy ears of soft velvet left over from the cuffs of a gown for her sister, the body a masculine paisley print that had once been a waistcoat. She’d even added little leather pads to the paws.

  “Oh, look.” Charles Dunaway began petting the stuffed dog’s soft ears. Her gift was so small, so inadequate to the situation, and yet the boy’s tenderness brought tears to Bonny’s eyes. “Oh, wow.”

  “Do you like it?” Bonny asked.

  He looked up, his eyes as wide as saucers. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m glad.” Bonny bent and received a careful kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Dunaway.”

  The boy tugged on her skirt before she could leave.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you know who my papa is?”

  Bonny’s heart dropped into her stomach. “I do,” she admitted. “But if your mother hasn’t told you—”

  The boy’s expression turned sullen.

  “I believe she knows what’s best,” said Bonny, devastated by her own words.

  She left feeling sick at heart—not only had Mr. Gavin fathered a child out of wedlock, he’d abandoned the boy. It was heartless.

  She started in the direction of home, walking at a pace that would have suited Cordelia at her most intransigent. She felt sick and… and… scared. After Loel had warned her about Mr. Gavin, she’d gone searching for the truth, but all she’d really wanted was peace of mind. She’d wanted to go back to thinking of Mr. Gavin as a good man and worthy husband.

  Instead, her peace of mind had been shattered.

  Because it turned out that Charles Gavin was neither good nor worthy. He was loathsome. And without the rosy glamour of romanc
e, she saw their relationship for what it was: a mercenary exchange. Her beauty in trade for his money, her happiness as payment for her family’s comfort.

  She’d always known that money was part of Mr. Gavin’s allure, that she admired him for his looks and his charm and his fortune. But so long as wealth had been one element that she weighed along with the rest, that hadn’t seemed so wrong. Now she felt guilty and ashamed.

  A warm hand landed at the small of her back.

  Bonny instinctively turned into the touch. It must have been the smell that cued her, a blend of wood chips and wet stone and the gentle perfume of flowers uprooted from distant homes. Lord Loel had found her.

  And she was glad.

  Chapter 9

  Loel had wandered from stall to stall at the Sunday market, a basket under one arm. Most shopkeeps in New Quay refused to sell to him, but the Sunday markets attracted vendors from across the county. They came with their fruits and vegetables, their flour and salt, and they didn’t care who he was, so long as his money was good.

  He could only imagine how he would have reacted if, as a boy, someone had told him that in the future, he’d have to do his own marketing. That he would care whether the onions he tucked into his basket had brown spots or know which merchants hid rotten salad greens beneath fresh ones and tried to sell them all as good.

  Not well. That was certain.

  And then Bonny Reed had walked by, and he forgot about produce or anything else at all. She wore pale green today, a dress he’d seen before. It flattered her—or she flattered it, more like, giving a simple gown more glamour than it had any right to.

  She’d thrown a shawl over her shoulders for warmth, its tassels swaying in rhythm with her skirt, and a bonnet of some filmy fabric decorated with fresh flowers.

  Someone knocked into Loel’s shoulder, breaking his trance. Loel braced himself for an insult, but it wasn’t anyone he recognized. Just a passerby who’d energetically sidestepped a sticky-fingered child, running circles around his mother and brandishing a treat that oozed honey. Loel accepted the man’s quick apology and let his attention swing back where it wanted to go.

  But in the process he saw that half the men in the market square had stopped what they were doing to watch Miss Reed. It was like gravity. Everywhere Miss Reed went, her heavenly body became, briefly, the center of their universes. Loel’s attraction wasn’t special—it was dull as dirt. What could be more boring than a man’s dogged fixation on a beautiful woman? Nothing.

  But something about her posture nagged at him. She walked with chin down, not meeting anyone’s eyes or looking about to greet her neighbors. Her shoulders drooped, her cheeks were damp—

  Good God. She was crying.

  And all alone. He made another quick survey of the square, but no one—male or female—had gone to her aid. With a muttered curse, Loel hurried to intercept her.

  He touched the small of her back as he drew close, murmuring, “Allow me to escort you, Miss Reed,” so that she wouldn’t be startled.

  “Lord Loel?” She wiped at her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  Loel raised the basket hanging from his elbow a few inches, drawing her attention to it. “It’s market day.”

  “You do your own marketing?”

  Loel sighed. “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Miss Reed blinked and sniffled. Her lashes were wet and dark and clumped, stark black against pallid cheeks. The contrast made her hazel eyes glow.

  And he was admiring her appearance again.

  Ashamed of himself, Loel looked away. “Will you allow me to keep you company until you reach your destination?”

  “Oh, certainly. You may take me right to the end of the earth, and then drop me off it.”

  Her tone was tart, but he could tell she was angry with herself, not him. He offered his arm. “We can walk but perhaps not so far. Are you sure you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

  She slumped, a gesture of defeat or—perhaps—relief at being able to unburden herself. He suspected the latter since she immediately hooked her arm around his elbow and leaned into him.

  “You might be the only person I can tell.”

  “Oh?”

  “You were right,” she said. “Mr. Gavin has an illegitimate child. A boy named Charles. He’s young and healthy and handsome—just like his papa. The resemblance is startling.”

  “You can see a resemblance already?” Loel counted in his head. He’d acquired this bit of gossip from Charles Gavin’s own lips, only a few months before the fire. The girl that Gavin had dallied with—a maid, if he remembered correctly—had only just fallen pregnant.

  Loel had been a newly minted eighteen. In those days, his yacht brought him into town quite often. He moored her in the harbor and, twice a week, took sailing lessons from a local. He’d usually ended a long day on the water at the pub.

  Charles Gavin, only a few years older but infinitely more worldly-wise, had already acquired the habit of holding court at the Lion. He discoursed on hunting, husbandry, newspaper headlines… but mostly women.

  In retrospect, it was clear that Gavin embellished most of his stories. Invented some out of whole cloth, twisted others to flatter his vanity. But at the time, Loel had been enthralled. Gavin seemed to have a new tale of debauchery every week, each more exciting than the last to a randy virgin who didn’t know any better.

  Loel remembered, vividly, an evening when Gavin had boiled over with real fury because a woman he’d dallied with had fallen pregnant. He’d taken the woman’s condition as a deliberate insult, a malicious act of betrayal.

  His rage had made such an impression that Loel walked away with a highly inaccurate understanding of human biology. It had taken Jacob Benjamin to set him straight—like any true scientist, nothing about his field of study embarrassed Benjamin. He was a naturalist who could describe a woman’s monthly cycle as calmly as if he were discussing the weather.

  But that had been later. Loel had left New Quay without hearing any additional news about the child. He hadn’t been sure if it had survived its birth, if it had lived past its first year. So many infants didn’t. And bastards had worse luck than most.

  “The child should be seven or so,” said Loel.

  “Yes, that’s right. The eyes are just alike.” Miss Reed touched her own eyes, which had gone blank as her vision turned inward toward the memory. “The shape of his mouth, his complexion… I wish I could find some cause to doubt, Lord Loel, truly I do, for the boy’s been put to work.”

  Her voice had gone high and plaintive, a sure sign that she’d seen something awful. But he still asked, “What kind of work?”

  “A houseboy. I’ve seen children set to harsher labor—but nobody hires such young children out unless they have to. Mr. Gavin obviously isn’t supporting his son at all. He ought to make sure the boy goes to school, see him set up in a trade—at the very least!”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Reed looked up at him, expecting more, but he didn’t know what else to say. She was right. Charles Gavin was a paltry semblance of a man, and his child deserved better.

  She searched his expression and then looked away, blushing. With shame, he imagined. She hadn’t said a word about ending the engagement.

  She cleared her throat. “You said you hadn’t told me the worst of it.”

  “Of Mr. Gavin’s flaws, you mean?”

  Miss Reed nodded.

  “I was mistaken. What you’ve just discovered is worse than anything I might tell you.”

  They continued on toward the sea. Loel migrated toward an empty stretch of the quay, with the low tide lapping against the embankment and seagulls wheeling overhead.

  After a long silence, Miss Reed spoke. “For years my family has given me a little more of everything because we all understood that, once I was married, Margot would have her turn. They’ve sacrificed for years without complaint. Shouldn’t I be willing to do the same for them?”

  “Of course,” Loel answered. “
So long as there aren’t any better choices.”

  “Better choices!” She shoved away from him. “You are a cruel man, Lord Loel.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve taught me to hate the man I am engaged to marry,” Bonny cried. “But have you stopped to consider what happens next? If my father’s warehouses had never burned, I might have a great many excellent suitors to choose from.”

  Loel flinched.

  Miss Reed pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “But they did burn. And I don’t have so many choices. If you’d shown me a man who could provide for my family, I might have thanked you. Instead, you’ve stolen away all the illusions that made me happy and gave me hope for the future.”

  “Miss Reed,” he said hoarsely. “I am sorry.”

  “You’ve said that to me before.”

  She hadn’t wanted to hear it then either.

  “I’m not angry,” she said. “In fact, I’m sorry that I was ever angry at you. But you knew what I’d discover here. You knew it would be awful, you knew how much it would hurt, but you chose to tell me. It was no accident. Why?”

  He thought back to the moment he’d decided to warn her, wondering if he’d harbored ulterior motives.

  The denizens of New Quay uniformly preferred to be spared the sight of him. To the extent possible, he obliged them. He knew a few people who would disagree—Mrs. Bailey at the Black Lion, for example—and it was true that he couldn’t avoid the town entirely.

  But he kept his distance. If not literally, then figuratively. He’d been strongly disinclined to involve himself in Miss Reed’s problems—her mistakes, he might have called them.

  So he hadn’t said anything on her first visit. She hadn’t endeared herself to him by damaging his most valuable orchid. Or shaking in her boots at the mere sight of him, like Goldilocks caught plundering the three bears’ porridge.

  He’d changed his mind after her second visit, when she came to apologize. He’d refused, of course. She owed him nothing. Nothing she could do would ever put her in his debt. Just the thought of her wearing out the soles of her only boots when it was his fault, frankly and directly his fault, that she didn’t have a dozen dainty pairs, not to mention a carriage at her disposal… it infuriated him.