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Having made her purchases, Dawn headed towards the exit, keen to get home and wrap her gifts in colourful paper.
‘Mrs Fenton?’
His voice hadn’t changed even if his appearance had...but she’d been Miss Dawn Sanders when last they had spoken. So he knew she’d been married... Perhaps Emma had spoken about mutual acquaintances yesterday evening when they’d dined together. These thoughts whizzed through Dawn’s mind as she slowly turned about with an admirable show of surprise at seeing him. In fact, she was a trifle alarmed as she’d not been conscious of him entering the shop, let alone approaching her.
‘Why...Mr Valance. How are you, sir? I had heard that you’d returned from overseas.’
‘I know. Your friend Emma said you were aware I was back. I have to say I’m disappointed that we didn’t see one another yesterday evening. You declined to dine with us, I was told.’ Jack’s eyes discreetly studied her. The dark bonnet brim was shielding her complexion, but he knew that beneath it was a face of rare beauty. On first glance Dawn’s features might appear rather severe, yet on finer appraisal were undoubtedly exquisite. Her green eyes were fringed by lengthy black lashes and topped by delicate brows that looked as soft as sable. Her nose was thin, her mouth asymmetrical with a lower lip that was fuller than the curving cupid’s bow on top. She was petite, her smooth peachy cheek barely reached his shoulder, but her figure was generously curvaceous in all the right places. He hadn’t forgotten a single thing about her in all those tormented years they’d been apart.
It might have been a long while since she had lain with her husband, or even been kissed, but Dawn could recognise the signs that a man found her attractive. She had seen the same smouldering intensity at the back of predatory gentlemen’s eyes when they propositioned her. But none of those fellows had managed to neutralise a tense situation, or his lust, as it seemed this man could.
‘You missed a fine dinner,’ Jack said, patting his stomach. ‘I’m still feeling the effect of too many courses.’
‘Emma is a wonderful hostess, but I’m afraid I was too busy to attend. I have a trip to Essex to prepare for to see my family. I’ve had a lot of packing and shopping to do and so on.’ Dawn indicated her parcels. Had she detected something in his tone? Subtle amusement because he believed she’d deliberately avoided him? She had, although she’d never admit to it.
‘Well, no matter, when I saw you walking on Regent Street I hoped I’d have a chance to say hello.’
So he had been aware of her presence all along. Dawn felt her complexion starting to glow as she realised he’d probably observed her spying on him.
‘You go to Essex bearing gifts.’ His slate-grey eyes dropped to the parcels in her arms.
‘Of course...but I have left choosing them to the last minute as usual.’ Her eyes discreetly flitted over his shoulder, seeking a sign of his companion. The young woman was at a counter with a pile of merchandise mounting beside her. He, too, had been buying gifts, she imagined, even if he didn’t get to choose them or decide what they cost. The blonde appeared to be too busy inspecting gloves to come and claim her beau.
But other people...women...were watching them. Indeed, Dawn understood why. His travels and the acquirement of riches had transformed him from an attractive gentleman to a devilishly handsome one. But it was more than good looks and expensive tailoring setting him apart from his younger self: he had an air of sophistication and distinction. Jack Valance had gone away years ago with his pockets to let and come back with a rather startling self-assurance. Yet Dawn had liked him as he was...modest and familiar. On the few occasions they had met she had marvelled at how at ease she felt with him after so short an acquaintance. He had amused yet excited her and on the day they parted she had felt upset enough to cry in private. But months and months had passed and she’d received not a single letter from him. Her hope that he intended to renew their acquaintance had withered; she recalled feeling foolish for having almost begged him to keep in touch because she liked him very much. And then Thomas had asked her to be his wife and a dilemma had been forced upon her: wait longer for Jack, or marry Thomas. The right decision it had been, too, to accept his proposal. She might have been infatuated with Jack Valance for almost a year, loitering in the hallway with bated breath for the post every day, but to him she’d been just a passing fancy, soon forgotten.
‘I believed your father still resided in Marylebone,’ Jack remarked. ‘Where in Essex do your family live?’
‘My father and stepmother have now moved to Shropshire. I am going to visit my late husband’s family in Essex.’
‘I see. I was sorry to hear about your husband’s accident. Emma told me you’d been widowed.’
‘Yes...some time ago now.’ Dawn dipped her head and stepped away. For some reason she didn’t want his pity, or to speak about her short marriage to Thomas. ‘It is nice to see you, sir, but I must get on. I haven’t yet finished packing for my trip.’
‘Where does your stepfamily live in Essex? I might know of it as I have a house there.’
She turned back. The demand in his question had made her bristle and feel tempted to tell him it was none of his business, but she didn’t, although she was again reminded of how very different this gentleman was to the languid fellow she had known all those years ago. But she was determined not to appear flustered by his company. ‘My stepdaughter and her husband live in Wivenhoe,’ she said, then with a fleeting smile and a small bob she made for the exit, conscious of the weight of his hooded grey gaze on her back.
* * *
‘Do slide up a bit and give the lady some room.’ Mrs Broome’s country brogue broke the quiet as she directed an order at her daughter seated beside her. Both mother and daughter were broad of beam and had left Dawn very little room, squashed as she was into the corner of the mail coach. But she was grateful that at least she had some air and a mist of sleety rain blowing on to her face from the open window.
‘The weather’s been warm for early spring recently. I’m glad it’s back to normal now or we’d be sweating buckets,’ the older woman cheerily announced while fidgeting on the seat.
Dawn murmured an agreement, the only passenger to politely respond. Indeed, the vagaries of the March weather had caught her out. The prematurely mild air of last week had now acquired a feel of frost that stung the cheeks. The roads that had been dry and dusty had been churned to a bog in places by coach wheels.
The tweedy farmer opposite jiggled his brows, then closed his eyes, making clear he desired no conversation directed at him. The two thin young women seated either side of him turned their heads in opposite directions to gaze out of their respective windows into the gloomy afternoon. They looked to be servants, perhaps travelling from London to visit their families back home. Dawn used a hanky on her rain-spattered brow while hoping that the coaching inn would hove into view so they could all escape this cramped, musty environment. More than that, she wished she had the wherewithal to keep a small conveyance of her own so she wouldn’t need to travel in such discomfort when visiting her stepfamily. Even when Thomas had been alive, the most the Fentons had possessed in the way of transport had been an ancient carriage that he had inherited from his father. His trusty contraption as he had called it had been his downfall. He had known it needed repairs. But his insurance business had been floundering beneath heavy shipping claims and purchasing new springs and axles had been last on his list of expenses.
At their country cottage they had kept a pony and trap to get around. Thomas had taught her to drive it so she could be independent when he was in town on business. The cottage and the pony and trap were gone now...luxuries she could no longer afford on her widow’s pension.
The blast of a bugle curtailed Dawn’s reflectiveness and made her offer up a prayer of thanks that they were approaching a watering hole. All the passengers stirred into life as they anticipated stretching their legs and partaking of some refreshment.
‘I’ll have a beef pie if they’ve got such a thing. My stomach’s fair grumbling.’ Mrs Broome gave Dawn a nudge. ‘You’ll be glad to get down and tuck into something, won’t you, my dear?’
‘Indeed, I will.’ Dawn peered through the window as the coach passed beneath the swinging sign of the Cockerel Tavern into a busy courtyard. She’d no appetite for a pie; a snack would suffice. By nightfall she would reach her destination and hoped to have a good dinner waiting for her. Although the Reverend Peter Mansfield tended to parsimony, he usually provided a hearty evening meal as he always joined them at table then. Other than that, his work kept him abroad for most of the day...and that arrangement suited Dawn very well.
* * *
‘What can I get for you then, ma’am?’ The landlord hovered at Dawn’s elbow.
‘A pot of tea and a plate of buttered crumpets, thank you, sir.’ Having given her order, Dawn sat back in her chair and untied her bonnet strings while the fellow moved off to attend to other weary passengers. A log fire was blazing in the grate, spreading a cosy ambience throughout the low-beamed taproom. Dawn removed her hat and ran her fingers through a tumble of untidy chestnut curls in an attempt to neaten them.
Mrs Broome and her daughter joined Dawn, sitting down without a by your leave. Immediately the landlord reappeared with pencil and paper ready.
Having given her order for pies, Mrs Broome turned on her daughter an old-fashioned look. ‘You can stop giving him the eye, miss!’ She smacked the girl’s hand, idle on the table-top. ‘The sooner this one’s wed, the better it’ll be.’ Mrs Broome rolled her eyes.
Dawn gave the blushing girl a glimmer of a smile. She was a pretty brunette of about fifteen and had been sliding sly glances through the window at a strapping stable lad toiling in the courtyard.
‘So...I recall you said you’re visiting relations, Mrs Fenton.’ The older woman crossed her arms over her chest, hoping for a gossip.
‘I am...’ Dawn confirmed. ‘I’ll be glad to get to journey’s end and to my bed tonight. It’s been a long day.’
Mrs Broome jiggled her aching shoulders. ‘Indeed, it has. My bones are fair creaking. But I was determined to go to London to see my father laid to rest. So did his granddaughter, wanting to pay her last respects.’ She frowned at her daughter who was still batting her eyelashes.
‘Oh...I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’
‘As I am to know about yours,’ Mrs Broome said sympathetically. ‘How long are you widowed, my dear? La...and you so young and pretty, too.’
‘Oh...some years.’ Dawn’s lavender gown had given the game away that she was in the latter stage of mourning.
‘Who are you visiting?’ the girl piped up.
‘Betty Broome! Mind your manners,’ the girl’s mother scolded. ‘Inquisitive little thing,’ she half-apologised before taking up where her daughter had left off. ‘Local people, are they, these relations? Or are you travelling on further?’
‘I’m going on to Wivenhoe...’
The Broomes’ questions reminded Dawn of Jack Valance’s interest in her family’s whereabouts. Not that she needed much to prompt her to think of him. For the duration of the journey, with nothing to do for hours on end but gaze into drizzle, she had found it difficult to banish him from her thoughts. She had been going over their brief conversation in the drapery and rueing that she hadn’t looked at her best that afternoon. It was too late now to wish she had dressed with more care when sallying forth to do her shopping. And why should it matter? Jack Valance was getting married. But Dawn knew why it mattered. She had seen desire in his eyes; once he had thought her beautiful and she was woman enough to hope he still did, fiancée or no fiancée. More than that, now they had met again and exchanged a few words, perhaps, just perhaps, he might rue not having kept in touch with her. He hadn’t sought her out in the shop just to be polite. He wasn’t indifferent to her, of that she was sure. She’d seen a spark of some emotion at the backs of his eyes...
‘Do you know that vicar, my dear? The one who is staring at you?’ Mrs Broome nudged Dawn to gain her attention, then jerked a nod at somebody outside.
Dawn gave a soft gasp of surprise. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I am on my way to his house. It’s my stepdaughter’s husband.’ She glanced at her companions. ‘Please excuse me, I should go and speak to him.’ She got up with an inaudible sigh. She had certainly not been expecting to see the Reverend Peter Mansfield until she reached Wivenhoe. And from the expression she’d glimpsed on her stepson-in-law’s face she guessed he’d been equally taken aback to spot her. Donning her cloak, she hurried outside, tweaking forward her hood to protect her face from the sleet.
The fellow who had been talking to the vicar had disappeared and Peter had headed towards the tavern to meet her beneath the shelter of the porch. He was a dark-haired man of medium height and build who, despite being her stepson-in-law, was her senior by five years.
‘Mrs Fenton...’ Peter removed his hat, securing it beneath his arm. ‘This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you until this evening, at the vicarage.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you yet either.’ She paused, sensing that his attitude was false and that this premature meeting was as unwelcome for him as it was for her. ‘Have you business in the area, sir?’
‘A clerical meeting...nothing too important. Now, I insist that I take you the rest of the way to Wivenhoe in my gig.’
Dawn hesitated in replying. Oddly, she knew she’d sooner make the rest of the journey squashed in the coach with the Broomes than have his company. But how to refuse without giving offence?
‘My luggage is stowed on the coach. It will be a bit of a commotion to swap vehicles and only a few more hours of travel. It would be as well to carry on as I am...’
‘I insist, ma’am. My wife will be glad of your company as soon as may be and happy to let you occupy the child so she might rest.’ He patted her arm to quieten her. ‘I shall speak to the coachman, never fear. Everything will soon be arranged.’
‘Very well...’ Dawn dipped her head in agreement, forcing a smile. She raised a hand to acknowledge her friends in the taproom. Mrs Broome was indicating with sign language that her crumpets had been placed on the table.
‘I ordered something to eat...’
‘Oh...go to it, ma’am,’ the vicar urged solicitously. ‘I will speak to your coach driver and have your bags transferred. I need no refreshment myself, but will wait for you.’
Chapter Three
‘Oh, Eleanor! Why did you not write and let me know you have been poorly? I would have come far sooner to care for you.’ Dawn felt a pang of guilt, wishing she had responded to her stepdaughter’s letter promptly. But she had preferred to spend time with her friends in Mayfair than take up her invitation to visit her stepfamily in Essex.
Eleanor made a feeble gesture from the bed upon which she was resting. ‘You have your own life to live in town, Mama. It is nothing too bad...just a little breathlessness making me feel giddy. The babe is probably lying in the wrong position, but will surely soon move and give me some relief.’
Dawn wasn’t convinced about that. Her stepdaughter didn’t look as though she were merely suffering discomfort, but a proper illness. Eleanor’s complexion was greyish, yet spots of scarlet were on her cheekbones and a film of perspiration beaded her hairline.
Dawn wished she had some experience of childbirth to draw on. She hadn’t been present at Lily’s birth. After being advised of the happy news she had travelled to Essex a week later to see the new arrival. On that occasion Eleanor had looked quite perky, telling her that a midwife had attended her and all had gone as well as was to be expected. ‘Have you been like this for a while? Might it be the baby coming early, do you think, my dear?’ Dawn picked up a hanky from the nightstand and dipped it in the water jug, then cooled her stepdaughter’s brow with it.
‘I felt more myself last week. I doubt it is the baby.’ Eleanor frowned. ‘It is over a month too soon and the pain seems different.’
From the moment Dawn had entered the house and been advised by the vicar that his wife and child were napping and shouldn’t be disturbed, Dawn had sensed something wasn’t quite right. Peter had carried on to say, in a way that seemed to brook no refusal, that Dawn should also rest after her journey. He had ushered her up the stairs and carried her bags for her to deposit in the guest room. But she sensed he was being dictatorial rather than solicitous. Once she’d spotted him from her window, striding along the cinder path in the direction of the church, she had hurried to find her stepdaughter.
A first glimpse of Eleanor’s ashen face and dishevelled appearance had made Dawn’s heartbeat accelerate in alarm. Her stepdaughter might not be a beauty, but she was pretty enough and had always taken pains with her appearance. But it wasn’t just her lack of grooming—the young woman had a look of sadness and defeat about her, too.
‘Has Peter sent for the physician to attend you?’
‘He says there is no need for the doctor to be summoned and that it is a natural ailment to be expected close to a woman’s confinement. I don’t recall feeling so feverish last time, though, Mama.’
Dawn picked up her granddaughter as she tried to climb on to the bed to lay beside her mother. She jigged Lily in her arms to quieten her as she grew fretful. ‘I have some presents for you, young lady. But first you must promise to be good. Will you be?’
Lily solemnly nodded her head, becoming still. She was bright as a button and had remembered that her grandma brought her nice things from London when she visited.
‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t up to greet you,’ Eleanor wiped a tear from the corner of an eye. ‘What a feeble sort of woman I am turning into.’
‘Don’t say that! Of course you are not.’ Dawn guessed that her stepdaughter was repeating criticism. It sounded like the sort of snappish remark Peter Mansfield might make.
He had been impatient with her earlier. At the Cockerel he had not waited outside while she finished her meal as he’d said he would. He had come to find her and made it clear he was ready to set on the road immediately now her luggage had been transferred to his gig. His bullying had been polite, but Dawn had felt under pressure nevertheless to say an immediate farewell to the Broomes and go with him.
Thereafter he had driven at reckless speed, bouncing over ruts on the road to Wivenhoe, with little conversation passing between them. That had suited Dawn. She found little to say to him at the best of times. Yet on that journey of almost an hour he hadn’t once mentioned his wife other than to give a throwaway answer to Dawn’s question of how her stepdaughter was. Eleanor at times felt a little under the weather, he’d said.
‘I should get up now,’ Eleanor said, struggling to rise on her elbows.
Dawn gently pressed her back down. ‘You must rest. And, whatever Peter says, I think the physician should attend you,’ she added firmly. ‘Sometimes women have more of an intuition about these things than men do.’ She gave Eleanor a smile of encouragement. Her stepdaughter was loyal to her husband, but he needed to be overruled on this. ‘A professional opinion is needed. If Peter is right and I am wrong, then I shall feel so much better for having worried over nothing.’ Dawn approached the door of the bedchamber with her granddaughter still in her arms. ‘I saw Peter go out some time ago, but he might have returned. If he has, I shall speak to him about fetching the doctor. Would you like some tea...or something to eat, Eleanor?’
‘I’m thirsty...some lemonade would be nice.’ Eleanor put out her hand for her daughter. ‘You can leave Lily with me. She will be good now she knows you have some treats for her.’ She gave her little daughter a fond smile.
Dawn went quickly downstairs, hoping Peter had returned because she was determined to make the daft man see sense and immediately go in his gig to fetch the doctor. Or she would go herself into the village and find the fellow.
‘Do you know if the vicar is due to return soon, Mrs Grove?’ Dawn had looked into the downstairs rooms, and knocked on the door of Peter’s study, but found no sign of him. She had headed to the kitchen in the hope of discovering his likely whereabouts from the cook. They had met before when Dawn had made previous visits, and Dawn had always thought her a pleasant woman.
‘He’ll probably be up at the church, Mrs Fenton, or he could have gone into Wivenhoe.’ Mrs Grove carried on rolling out pastry. ‘I expect you’d like some tea, wouldn’t you, m’m, after your journey?’ She wiped floury hands on her pinafore. ‘I would’ve brought a tray up to your room, but master said as to leave you to rest after your journey.’
‘I would like tea, thank you,’ Dawn replied. ‘And I’ll take Mrs Mansfield a glass of lemonade.’
Enid Grove avoided Dawn’s eyes at the mention of her mistress.
‘For how long has my stepdaughter been feeling ill?’
‘For too long,’ Enid replied pithily. ‘The poor lass needs a doctor looking at her.’ She slipped a glance at Dawn from beneath her lashes. ‘I’m that glad you’ve come, Mrs Fenton.’
‘And so am I,’ Dawn replied in a heartfelt way. ‘Why has the doctor not examined her?’
‘Why indeed! I told the master my feelings on it and was told in return to mind my own business.’ Enid shook her head. ‘’Course polite fellows don’t use those words, but I knew his meaning. I’ve done what I can for the poor lass, to ease her discomfort, but now that the day girl doesn’t come I’m run off my feet trying to cook and clean and nursemaid the little ’un.’ She sighed. ‘I’m turned two score years and ten and that Miss Lily needs a young pair of legs to keep up with her.’ Enid blew a defeated sigh. ‘Truth of it is, m’m, I’ve had enough and shall soon give notice. I don’t want to leave the mistress, but I’m feeling so fagged out that I might end up ill in bed myself and what help can I be to Mrs Mansfield then?’
Dawn had listened in amazement. None of the letters she’d received from her stepdaughter had hinted at a crisis. ‘I had no idea that things had got so bad.’ Dawn frowned. ‘What on earth has happened since my last visit?’
‘Not my place to say, m’m...’ Mrs Grove turned away and busied herself with rattling the crockery and boiling the kettle.
‘As things are serious I think you must speak up or how will I know what to do to help?’ Dawn said bluntly.
‘What is it you wish to know, Mrs Fenton?’
Dawn’s stepson-in-law had come into the kitchen, unseen and unheard. She noticed at once that Mrs Grove looked nervous. The older woman turned away and busied herself with the tea things.
‘There is so much that I wish to know, sir, that our conversation will be lengthy and better conducted upstairs,’ Dawn answered firmly. His lips had grown thin. She hadn’t pleased him with her outburst in front of his servant. But Dawn didn’t care for coddling his ego. Eleanor and Lily were the only ones that mattered. ‘I shall just take your wife her drink, then join you in your study, if that is convenient.’
‘It is not,’ he said on a sigh and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I am sorry to sound too busy to properly welcome you, but I’m due to meet a parishioner at the church. We can converse later on when we dine.’ He would have left the kitchen, but Dawn stepped after him.
‘Just a moment, sir. One important thing must be said now. Please fetch the doctor with you when you come back. Your wife is very ill.’ She knew vicars led full lives administering to their flocks and had imagined that he must be too preoccupied to fully appreciate how sick Eleanor actually was. Dawn had hoped her concern might rub off on him, making him feel guilty and neglectful.