The Frenchman's Widow Read online

  There was no danger here. Imogene Farrell had disappeared into the fog of time and distance. Those who were a threat to her no longer thought of her, harassing some other weak, helpless creature. That was why she had helped young girls like Ynez, Madelina and Laraine. There had been other girls over the years, ten altogether, thanks to Pierre’s help. The other seven were all settled in Paris—now dressmakers, artisans and bakers. Able to make it on their own and with adequate income. Plus, unbeknownst to them, a solicitor who oversaw their affairs so they weren’t taken advantage of again. Imogene corresponded with him monthly, now that she was no longer in Paris. With the girls more often.

  Imogene peered out the window, looking for something familiar, looking for that thing which called to her during the day and whispered in her ear as she fell asleep.

  Laraine seemed happy to do all the talking, her Frenchness making the trip seem all the more unreal.

  Imogene could see visions of them, the Farrells when they were together. Shuffling along the street, torn jackets and woolen caps. Her stovepipe hat. When had she lost that hat? And her pretty ribbon, ruined in a scuffle with Danny. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the press of coin against her leg and hear the gentle clank of metal as it brushed against her thigh.

  There was something uncomplicated about living only for your next meal.

  Hidden behind the sturdy walls of the hackney, she did feel safe from the danger the street represented.

  “Are you ready to do some shopping?” Imogene asked.

  “Oui.”

  “I do need your advice. I am terrible with colors.”

  “Non, not so terrible. Only simple. A few small changes. Some guidance.”

  Imo glanced down and frowned. She wore a nice day dress. Clean. Neat. Comfortable.

  “Ze blue of your dress does not match ze blue of your hat.”

  “Oh.”

  “It is no problem. Men will still notice you.”

  “I don’t want to be noticed.” Her words belied the truth. Pierre had hired a dressmaker, but Imo still had trouble selecting the right clothes from her wardrobe.

  “You are a woman. We all want to be noticed. You must let me select ze clothes for your day.”

  “But you always pick the most uncomfortable dresses.”

  The hackney came to a rattling stop near Burlington Arcade, which the concierge at Brown’s Hotel had recommended. The beadle opened the hackney door and assisted them out.

  “We are not to browse, Laraine. I have some very specific needs.” They visited two hosiers, the boot maker, a lace maker and two linen shops. The leather shop had just the satchel she was looking for as a gift to Charlie and it would have his initials tooled on the flap.

  Imogene picked out several fabrics which the clerk measured and cut. Imogene negotiated as shrewdly as possible and rather than insult the shopkeeper with an additional price markdown requested extra yardage instead.

  Ynez was a skilled seamstress and Imo thought, in time, she might have her own shop in Brighton. Madelina, it seemed, was doomed to be a wife and mother. She pined for a home and children of her own.

  While Imogene’s goods were being packaged, she turned to look at a bolt of soft yellow-and-blue checked muslin. It felt divine against her skin, but she could not imagine a dress made of the cloth.

  When she looked up, a smartly dressed woman stared at her. The bulge of her pregnancy was not visible with the bolts between them.

  “Do I know you?” the woman asked. A rather impertinent question since they had never been introduced, Imo thought.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, and rather than answer “Hell no!” Imogene answered politely, “I don’t believe so, ma’am.” Imogene tried to turn away.

  “No, I do know you from somewhere. The park. You were at Hyde Park the other day, talking to my husband.”

  Catherine, Lady Prescott, had gray-blue eyes that hinted of a bad day on the English Channel. Imogene had never been this close to her before. Had never wanted to speak with her.

  Jack would never have mentioned Imogene to his wife, especially not in the context of their scandalous association. Imogene was not exactly sure how to answer Catherine.

  “He said you were the sister of—”

  “Yes, Charlie Farrell. I am Mrs. Pierre LeClerc.”

  Catherine came around the table. “Where do you live? I’ve never seen you before, nor has Jack mentioned you until the other day.”

  “I have not seen him in years. Perhaps that is why.” Imogene’s temper flared. Lady Prescott’s conversation was completely without etiquette. She had not even introduced herself. Mademoiselle Favre had taught Imo etiquette until she could have passed for the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. It was polish only—she still would rather swear and spit than bow and scrape. “And if you must know, I have been living in Paris. My husband recently passed away and I now live in Brighton. But is that really any of your business?” Imogene asked.

  “I make it my business when women attempt to seduce my husband.”

  “Seduce?” Imogene laughed. “He but assisted me with an irascible poodle. Besides, I am in mourning for the husband I lost.”

  “I saw you flirt with each other. Do not deny it.” Her words were low but venomous.

  “We were discussing my brother and I was asking after a friend of your husband’s. A Mr. Shiffington. I believe you know him,” Imogene said. The meanness was a surprise to her own ears and she’d said it in a knowing way. She’d disliked Catherine just for being Jack’s betrothed. When she’d seen her with Shiffington, an everlasting hatred had bloomed. There were two villains in her story and Jack was a near saint by comparison.

  “How dare you!”

  “You have underestimated your husband, ma’am. Good day, Lady Prescott.”

  The clerk had finished wrapping her purchases in brown paper and turned to assist another client. Laraine had wandered off, leaving Imogene to wonder if Lady Prescott would bash her reticule against the side of Imogene’s head.

  Lady Prescott waddled through the door into the arcade walkway with a companion who was no doubt hearing about Lord Prescott’s whore.

  Imogene paid for her purchases, requested they be sent on to the hotel, then dismissed Laraine, since it was no distance at all to return to their lodgings.

  At the arcade entrance, Imogene watched from behind a marble pillar as Jack helped his wife into the carriage and then hopped in himself. She waited until they pulled away before she strolled down the street in the opposite direction.

  Only one thing explained Lady Prescott’s reaction—Shiffington had told tales. Oh maybe it was long ago, but a wife didn’t forget. He’d told her Jack had a mistress named Imogene.

  He wouldn’t mention the rape, of course. He would mention Imogene’s humble beginnings. He would describe her in the worst possible light. Perhaps he would imply Imogene had tried to seduce him.

  Did Shiffington know about Charlie and her other brothers? No, she didn’t think so. He wouldn’t remember a family of no importance.

  More significantly, had Jack ever found out about his wife’s preference in men?

  Imogene had foolishly believed the past was behind her, and here it was dragging her beneath its furious, beating current. She supposed there were very few people in the world as non-judgmental as Pierre.

  Further along Regent Street, Imogene stopped in front of a dressmaker’s shop and stared at the beautiful off-white gown in the window. The sleeves were elbow length, with lace at the edge and four neat ruches from the shoulder to elbow, where it was finished with lace. The neck was scooped and the bodice gently pleated into a point at the waist. But what made her happiest were the dainty embroidered leaves and flowers in the dress and the profusions of flowers along the hem. She could not tell what kind of material it was, but it appeared to be soft and pliable.

  She’d not bought a new dress since Pierre took ill. And Laraine wasn’t here to give her opinion.

  A small
bell rang as she pushed through the door. The shop was empty except for the slim woman who cut through a swatch of material on a square table in the back of the store.

  “Bonjour,” she said upon looking up.

  Imogene had only ever shopped in French stores and she was immediately at ease. The dress was removed from the shop window and Imo was escorted to a back room where she was measured and turned and fitted. All the while the Frenchwoman “oh la la’ed” and stuck Imo with pins. Fittings were easier to endure when one wore French undergarments.

  When the session was complete, the Frenchwoman pulled a standing mirror in front of Imogene. “It is beautiful, n'est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, it is,” she said quietly. She ran her finger through the soft skirting and then traced the leaf pattern.

  She would wear this dress tomorrow to the ordination and she would let Laraine help her, no matter how uncomfortable.

  “I can have the tailoring complete in one week.”

  “Oh no. I need it tomorrow.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible.” For the first time in her life, Imogene Farrell paid extra to have what she wanted—and to have it now.

  When she returned to the hotel, Mr. Thompson of Thompson, Cherry and Newville, Solicitors, waited in the lobby. It was a pleasant enough afternoon, something to fill her mind, rather than thinking of Jack.

  Mr. Thompson was happy to tell Imogene of all his accomplishments, but he was easily forgotten. She expressed her sorrow that she would not be able to meet him again as she was leaving London in three days.

  Accepting his invitation had been more about the niceties of society. Being seen, showing herself respectable, making that first step toward a future with another man. But at the end of it, she knew she would not see Mr. Thompson again.

  Imogene needed to get back to Brighton—she wanted to get back. There was so much to do.

  Once in her room, she removed her bonnet and bounced into one of the chairs.

  “Bonjour, Madame LeClerc. I nearly have everything sorted and into a trunk. But there is still room if you wish to purchase additional items.”

  “Oh I don’t know. What I would like is a spoon and a very large trifle with layers and layers of cream.”

  “I can call for ze porter.”

  “Or a peach compote. Do you remember the crème brûlée Pierre’s cook used to make?” She missed Pierre and his simple, honest ways. And his cook? Well, Imogene could not afford such a master.

  Her regret was that the other members of his family had not taken to her. They tolerated her but were only too glad when she announced she was leaving Paris. However, they regretted losing Lily—she had a way about her, worming into the coldest heart to bring warmth and light. Pierre had treated Lily as his own daughter.

  Lily believed Papa Pierre was her father. And so would everyone else. Though keeping such a secret from everyone in London rather implied she wasn’t Pierre’s daughter.

  “You can hire a cook when we return to Brighton, oui?”

  “In time.” Imogene sat up and ran a hand through her windblown hair.

  A light tap at the door caused Imo to look over her shoulder while Laraine hurried to answer.

  “There is a gentleman in the lobby to see Madame LeClerc,” the porter announced.

  A gentleman? Only one gentleman knew she was staying at Brown’s Hotel. Jack? Her belly ached, not from hunger, but from longing. This reaction, this yearning, was all the reason she needed for not staying in London. Jack was a married man and she a widow who would have clawed the eyes out of any person who had tried to separate her from Pierre.

  She would not be the other woman, more so now, than on the day of Jack’s marriage. While he had offered to keep her as his mistress, it would have been all wrong.

  But here she was, following the porter to the lobby as if she had no control. No reason.

  At the last stair step, Imogene glanced around the lobby. Jack wasn’t there, instead a tall, young man with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed hair. He held his cap, twisting it in his hands.

  “That’s no gentleman,” she said, “that’s my brother.”

  Danny smiled when he saw her and took a few steps toward her. Imogene flung herself into his arms and he picked her up in the middle of the hotel lobby and twirled her around.

  She pounded her fist against his chest, near his shoulder. “Danny! Lud, why didn’t Charlie tell me you were coming?”

  He clutched her by the arms. “This cannot be the Imogene Farrell.”

  “And what did you expect? I can put on airs now. I can curtsey before the queen.” She dipped quickly holding her skirt as she did so. She stood tall again, laughing. “It is so good to see you.” She clenched his arms, but he freed himself and hugged her again.

  “It has been too long.”

  “Where are you staying?” She gripped his hand and drew him along to the seats in the lobby. He sat next to her, their legs touching, with her hands holding one of his rough, hardened man hands.

  “At an inn near King’s College.”

  “No. You must stay here. I have a few more days and I was just wondering how I would spend the time. We can visit all of our old haunts.”

  “Absolutely not! What would we do besides muddy the hems of your fancy dresses and cause misery for your lady’s maid?”

  “And you? How are you? You look fit enough to be in the Queen’s army.”

  “I work hard.”

  “So I hear. Why didn’t you tell me Jack had helped you?”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Charlie thought it was time I know. But I wouldn’t have expected anything less from Jack. He is a good man and I always knew it.”

  Why should she pretend she didn’t love Jack when she had loved him from the beginning?

  “Imo, I know it was tough not coming home, but you did the right thing.”

  “What about you? Are you chasing some skirt you can’t have?”

  “No.” He turned five shades of red. “There’s no one special.”

  They talked until Laraine reminded them it was time to eat. Imo convinced him to stay and they arranged a room on the same floor. During supper Imo laughed until her sides ached, especially when they talked about Frank.

  When midnight rolled around, they still sat on the carpeted floor, Imogene cross-legged and Danny with his legs stretched out, playing cards with an unmarked deck and passing a bottle of French wine back and forth.

  Chapter Four

  “And why are you upset?” Jack asked. Catherine had not said a word in the carriage ride after her shopping trip.

  “Have you taken up with your whore again?”

  “Again?” Jack thought he’d been very civil in answering Catherine’s accusations over the years. If it wasn’t this woman, it was that woman. “Your charges are without merit. Have I accused you of bedding Shiffington since you promised renewed allegiance to me and our marriage?”

  “You are no gentleman. How dare you besmirch my character?” Catherine flung her purse and parasol across the bed, then plucked at her jewels and dropped them upon the dressing table.

  “Is the child mine?” He knew but something drove him to ask it; to say it aloud.

  “Get out!”

  “No. You can answer at least one question honestly.”

  “Don’t make this about me. You want her. I saw your behavior toward her. You barely keep your mind on a simple conversation.”

  He stood, guarding his reaction, as he watched his wife rant in her usual manner. Over the years, he had tried to be an honest husband. Urges came upon him with regularity; he never acted upon them. But it wasn’t fidelity Catherine wanted from him.

  “Catherine, after the baby is born, I think it best if we take up separate residences. The boys will stay with me in London. You and the babe can stay at Uxbridge until the Season begins.” Sending her to the estate at Deal would be a mistake. Danny Farrell’s name would eventually com
e up since he was the estate manger now.

  “And if I refuse?” She stood facing him, arms akimbo.

  “Think of the privacy you will have with Shiffington. You won’t refuse.”

  “She is a whore. You would throw away your reputation? Your name?”

  “Who exactly are you referring to? Madame LeClerc? A woman who has lived a quiet and peaceful life with her husband the past several years? You obviously have a misunderstanding of the word whore.”

  She slapped him, a thwack that resounded around the room.

  “I hate you.” Her chest heaved in anger.

  He ran his knuckles over his stinging cheek. “I do not wish your unhappiness, but I see we will never be compatible. We have our sons. Let us remember the joy they’ve brought to us instead of the misery we seem to heap on one another.”

  “You’re only doing this because of her.”

  “No. I’m doing this because I am tired of being your enemy, as I have been since the day of our marriage. You could have said no, Catherine, and we wouldn’t have had to live like this.” She chose to live like this because she was a countess and the earldom supplied a generous allowance to which she’d grown accustomed. Love with Shiffington would have meant a meager wardrobe and a single estate in Kent that produced a small amount of wool. The fourth son of a baron was able to mingle with the best of society. In Shiffington’s case, the wool hid the wolf.

  Jack left the room, hearing a crash against the back of her bedroom door. Catherine had been very efficient at destroying things. Hopes. Dreams. Their future.

  But Benjamin and Justin had been worth the pain of his marriage.

  When he allowed himself to think about Catherine’s infidelity, his thoughts often drifted to the paternity of his sons. As much as he could be sure, he believed they were his heirs. She’d been enceinte when they’d returned from their honeymoon and Shiffington had been in Scotland for six weeks at about the time Justin was conceived.