The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(56)

Perhaps Oriana knew why. The vicar lectured his congregation on the meekness and servitude of virtuous women from a two-book volume written by Dr. Fordyce. “I imagine the Seatons and Mr. Pickering have differin’ views of Fordyce’s Sermons after Lady Adele and her husband married at Pendrim.”

“Aha!” Mrs. Pickering pointed a playful finger at her. “I knew you’d understand, my lovely girl. My husband has exasperating opinions on the fairer sex. Suffice it to say, five of the Seatons are bachelors intent on dipping their feet in the water.”

Mrs. Crispin, the Pickerings’ maid, entered the room, her arms laden with a silver tea service. “Tea is ready, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Pickering stood abruptly as another thump on the wall made her jump. She fastened her gaze on the courtyard outside. “Thank you, sweet Crispin, but I’ve decided we shall take tea in the courtyard today. The weather is divine, and the floral scents will be invigorating as we read Evelina.”

“My pleasure, Ma’am.” Crispin nodded, curtsied, and left the room.

Mrs. Pickering clasped her hands. “I do hope you don’t mind, my dear. You look absolutely fetching today. Have I told you so? And I wouldn’t dream of allowing what is happening in the study to spoil our mood.”

“But what is happenin’ in the study?” she asked, feeling oddly disconcerted.

“La! When is my husband not bothered about some such or other?” She waved her hand in the air, easily dismissing Oriana’s concern, as she sat back down. “Let the men handle their affairs. You’ve come to see me and worn your Sunday best. May I ask the occasion?”

Oriana forced back tears as she put on a feeble smile. She couldn’t tell the woman the truth. “I can’t explain”—because that would entail revealing personal details about last night, as well as this potentially being their last tea together—“but when I awoke this mornin’, I wanted to look my absolute best when I shared my news.”

“News? Now I am intrigued.” Mrs. Pickering leaned forward and clasped Oriana’s hands. “But first, it’s not like you to put on airs. I suspect your appearance has something to do with a certain fisherman, does it not?”

She swallowed hard, struggling to find the words to explain her relationship with John. “I—”

“Oh! Please tell me someone has struck your fancy at last!” She gave Oriana’s hands a squeeze.

“Shh. Someone will hear.” Heat rose in Oriana’s cheeks.

“Would that someone be the man helping Nicholas outside?” Mrs. Pickering asked, eyes wide.

“I only know—” She paused, fighting back her unease. “May I be frank?”

“Always. I have insisted on that very thing all these many years, my dear.” Mrs. Pickering disengaged their hands, grasped Oriana’s chin, and inclined her head. “I have always thought of you as my own daughter, Oriana.” A heartwarming smile lit up her gentle, stately face. “You can speak freely. You know you have nothing to fear from me.”

Except what my death will do to ye.

“Ye have many lost children,” Oriana stalled. “I should hate—”

“And all were important to me and the vicar, I assure you. But you . . .” She patted Oriana’s hands and rose from the settee as energetic as a bee. “You are special, my dear, though I don’t see how this vein of conversation applies to the man outdoors.” She walked over to the bookcase and grazed the old leather-bound books with her finger. “How long will he be staying?”

She furrowed her brows. “He said until his fish come in.”

“Which means you have at least a fortnight to become better acquainted.” Mrs. Pickering pulled a book out of the case. “Ah, here we are. Evelina!”

But Oriana didn’t have two weeks to spend with John if what Charles had threatened to do came to pass.

“As I explained when last we met, Oriana, Evelina is a story about blundering decisions and wit, and how a woman rises above it all.”

Oriana swallowed back tears as Mrs. Pickering’s soft, clear voice faded in her mind. Oh, how she wanted to confide to Mrs. Pickering before tea was over, to be fed assurances that all would be well, even if they would only be lies.

Ye cannot escape the past.

“Wait,” she said, feeling an urgency sweep over her. “Before we begin readin’, I have somethin’ for the children.”

Surprise flooded Mrs. Pickering’s face. “You’ve given more than enough, my dear. I fear anything else would leave you destitute.”

“As I said, Old Bailey and Samuel Toak brought in a big crowd. Over twenty pounds’ worth.” She rose from the settee, reached for Mrs. Pickering’s hand, laid the velvet purse in her palm, and folded the woman’s fingers around it. “I want the children to have it.”

Mrs. Pickering glanced down at her gift, eyes brimming with tears. “I cannot accept this.”

“Aye. Ye must. It’s the last thing I can give the children.”

Her head snapped up, and her sharp, intelligent eyes bore into Oriana. “The last thing? What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Pickering held Evelina in one hand and clutched the money purse to her breast. “Your words scare me, child.”

In that moment, the weight of Oriana’s burdens came crashing down. “I’m sorry . . . I lied to ye, Mrs. P., and I cannot leave without tellin’ ye the truth.” She retrieved the parchment from her reticule. “Charles sent me another note. He’s comin’ back.”