gloomily. “The child will grow up thinking it natural to spend time with you and will be forever hanging on your skirts. Best to get her a good nurse and then leave her upbringing to the servants.”
Which, Laura thought, probably accounted for the dislike in which her niece and nephew seemed to hold their parents.
She picked up the framed charcoal drawing of Hattie that stood on the chest of drawers and studied it for a moment. Hattie was smiling, all round pink cheeks, tiny rosebud mouth and tumbled black curls. She did not look like Dexter. She had Laura’s hazel eyes and Laura’s grandfather’s coloring, but apart from that Laura thought she resembled no one in particular. She was her own person.
Laura’s heart eased slightly. Perhaps Dexter would not even recognize Hattie were he to see her in the village. Why should he, when she did not resemble him? Perhaps, Laura thought with a flash of bitterness, he would not believe Hattie to be his even if she did tell him. Since he thought Laura herself to be a faithless wanton he would think Hattie’s father could be one of any number of men.
But even so, she could not risk it. She would not hide Hattie away, of course, for people would notice that and talk, but she would have to be very careful.
She was so deep in her thoughts that she missed the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the stair. A moment later the door of the room burst open and Hattie flung herself on Laura, a sticky, stripy piece of candy clutched in her hand. Judging by the way her cheeks were bulging, Laura suspected that the rest of the sweet—a rather large piece by the looks of it—was already in her mouth. She bent and scooped Hattie up in her arms.
“Mama, Mama! Candy!”
“So I see,” Laura said, smiling over her daughter’s curls at the nursemaid, who had followed Hattie up the stairs and was standing in the doorway. “Have you had fun, darling? I hope you were good for Rachel.”
“Mr. Blount gave Lady Harriet some sweets, ma’am,” Rachel said. “I hope you do not mind. And Mrs. Morton gave her some lilac ribbons for her hair and a little scrap of lace to make a doll’s dress. Very generous, people are.”
“Yes, they are.” Laura kissed Hattie’s bulging cheek and smoothed a hand over her soft curls. She knew most of the shopkeepers in Fortune’s Folly pitied her the lack of a husband and her straitened circumstances, but because they felt uncomfortable giving a duchess charity they would always slip Hattie presents instead. Almost all of Hattie’s clothes were made from off cuts from Mrs. Morton’s gown shop and Hattie was likely to develop a very sweet tooth as a result of the grocer’s generosity, for scarcely a day went past without him leaving a small bag of sweets for her, or a packet of biscuits or a new cake recipe he was apparently trying out. Mrs. Carrington, who acted as cook housekeeper for Laura these days, grumbled that she was quite capable of making her own cakes, thank you, but she said it quietly because she knew as well as everyone else that without the generosity of their neighbors the household would in all probability starve.
“Mr. Wilson gave me two turnips,” Rachel said with a giggle. “He said Lady Harriet would enjoy making a lantern from one for Halloween and Mrs. Carrington can turn the other into soup.”
“That sounds delicious,” Laura said, “though I do not know how you managed to carry everything home.” She smiled at Hattie. “Will you enjoy making a lantern, darling?”
“Yes,” Hattie said, wriggling to be freed. Laura put her down and she turned her face hopefully toward Rachel. “ Can we make it now?”
“Not now, milady,” Rachel said firmly. “It’s time for nuncheon.”
“Don’t tell me,” Laura said resignedly. “Mr. Blount also gave you some hot-cross buns.”
“And some oaten biscuits and strawberry jam,” Rachel said. “He said it would only go to waste if I did not take it.” She held out her hand to Hattie. “Come along, madam. Time to wash all that candy from your fingers.”
“I can do it myself,” Hattie said with dignity, spurning her helping hand, and Laura smothered a smile.
“Proper independent, she is,” Rachel said. “You mind, madam. She’ll be walking into the village all on her own one of these days if we give her half a chance. Strongminded, she is, the poppet.”
Laura listened as Rachel took Hattie off to the closet to wash, her daughter chattering all the while about making the turnip lantern and wheedling a promise from Rachel that if she was a good girl they would go down to the water meadows to play. Laura listened with half an ear, tidying and folding Hattie’s clothes as she did and feeling a mixture of contentment and a strange poignancy that she could not quite place. Strong-minded, Rachel had said. Little Hattie, independent and bold and happy, with her ebony curls and her fearless nature…Pride and a kind of astonishment rose in Laura that she had produced such a miracle as her daughter, that she and Dexter together had created something so exquisite and extraordinary. She doubted she would ever stop feeling that sense of awe.
Guilt stirred in her. Dexter was denied the pleasure of knowing his daughter and of seeing her growing up. She was denying him that right and she wished she did not have to do so, but she had no choice. Never for a single moment could she risk Hattie’s future, her happiness and her security.
The echoing jangle of the doorbell broke her thoughts.
“Hello?” A feminine voice wafted up the stairs to her. “Laura? Are you at home?”
Glad of the distraction, Laura hurried down the stone stair and out into the hall. Carrington was nowhere to be seen. Yet again he had not heard the bell. Laura sighed. There was no point in bemoaning the shortcomings of either her butler or her housekeeper since she had deliberately kept them on to save them from an uncertain future. The health of both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington had been ruined in the last few years by the constant and excessive demands of the new Duchess of Cole and Laura, guilty that she had left her servants to Faye Cole’s mercy, had subsequently offered the Carringtons a new home. After a year, however, she was reflecting that it would have been better to employ servants to wait on them. Both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington were broken, shadows of their former selves.
Miss Alice Lister, Laura’s neighbor from Spring House, a neat villa whose garden bordered Laura’s own, was standing in the hall and peering through the door of the drawing room. She had a straw bonnet on her corn-colored hair and was clad in an extremely pretty cream-and-yellow-striped muslin gown with matching pelisse.
Laura liked Alice very much. Miss Lister had been ostracized by most of village society, especially those who were keenly aware of rank and status and were appalled that a woman reputed to be a former maidservant had come into money, bought herself a fine house and come to live amongst them. Such events went much against the natural order and the good ladies of Fortune’s Folly were not prepared to give Alice countenance. Then Laura had arrived, the biggest fish in the small pool of Fortune’s Folly, and she and Alice had become friends immediately. Laura liked Alice because she was neither servile nor ingratiating and she told things exactly as she saw them whether speaking to a duchess or a stable hand alike. Laura, surrounded by toadies for much of her life, found it refreshing.
“I did knock,” Alice said. “I thought perhaps you might be down by the river this afternoon—” She stopped. “Oh! You have been in the river.”
“How did you know?” Laura inquired.
“You have a strand of pond weed in your hair. What happened?”
Laura
