Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(2)

Cleo nodded, hugging the body close as she endured Hollis’s rot-toothed smile. It made her ill that he always appeared happy to see her on these occasions she knocked at his door. As if this was a social call and not the grim, heart-wrenching task that had fallen to her yet again.

“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you would bury him alongside the others.”

The others. Three stillborns. And eight-month-old Rosie, two-year-old James, three-year-old Lottie, and seven-year-old Helen. It seemed only right that they had each other in death.

Her family was a regular factory of death. Truthfully, it was the same with many of the families in her small fishing village. Children left the world as easily as they entered it.

“Well, give it here, love.” Hollis took the babe from her. She clung for only a moment, thinking of the cold grave awaiting it. No ceremony or rites for the lost life. The halfpenny was barely enough to cover the meager burial on consecrated soil; it couldn’t pay for the reverend’s time.

Hollis’s pasty-cold fingers brushed the back of her hand in a deliberate, lingering stroke. She slithered free, releasing the brother she would never know into the caretaker’s grasping hands.

He held the cloth-wrapped bundle with little care, like a small sack of grain tucked beneath his arm. She clenched her jaw and looked away, backing from the door, feeling the need to flee. Run. Only there was nowhere to go except home. And she knew what awaited her there.

“See you next time,” he called.

She froze for the barest moment. A chill scraped her spine because she knew he wasn’t mistaken. He’d see her again. She’d be back. The next time. Her mother would give birth again. Another would die. Perhaps even her mother.

She spun around and rushed into the night. The caretaker’s grating chuckle followed her as she fled the churchyard, doing her best not to glance at the chalky-faced tombs and headstones. The baby left behind would receive no such marker. A wooden cross was all to be expected, lost to wind and time before the season passed into the next. The fact that he’d been born at all would be wiped from memory.

Except she would remember. She’d always remember.

Every life. Every death. They were etched upon her soul.

As she neared home, she noticed the dark shape of a carriage in front of her house. Unusual, given the late hour.

She entered warily, hoping she was not walking in upon a lender harassing her stepfather. Not tonight of all nights. Even more surprising than the carriage out front was the sight of her mother sitting in a chair near the grate, wrapped in a blanket, her face leeched of all color.

Cleo rushed to her side, heedless of the others in the room. “Mama, why are you not abed?”

Each birth took its toll. She doubted this one was any different. She pressed the back of her hand to her mother’s clammy brow. “I’m getting you back in bed.” She cast a glare over her shoulder at her stepfather. “What could you have been thinking—“

“Please, Cleopatra,” her mother interjected, using that dreadful name.

“Watch your tongue, girl,” her stepfather blustered, his face ruddier than usual as he glowered down at her. He tossed a self-conscious glance at their guest, doubtlessly trying to look manly and dominant in his presence. “You’ll not speak to me that way. Not beneath my own roof, hear me?”

Cleo rolled her eyes, undaunted. He never did more than raise his voice at her. For the obvious reason—he feared she would leave. He needed her. When her mother fell ill—which was frequently—she managed the household. As long as he wanted the children tended, clothes washed, and his meals on the table every day, he dared not offend. He needed her and he knew it.

“Come, Mama.” She slid an arm beneath her mother’s arm, determined to help her back up the stairs. Roger didn’t require her presence while he entertained his guest.

Her mother seized hold of her wrist, the fragile fingers around her surprisingly strong. “We have a guest.”

With a sigh, Cleo straightened and turned, following her mother’s stare. Her gaze collided with the stranger. He looked like a gentleman, if his manner of attire were any indication. Most of the men in her village made their living on the sea and went about without a jacket and cravat.

“Who are you?” she asked with no thought to civility. Her mother had just given birth to a stillborn child. This was an ill-timed visit to say the least. Civility could be cast aside.

Her mother’s eyes, still glassy from the pain of her ordeal, shone anxiously. “Your father sent him.”

Cleo blinked again, pulling back as if physically struck. “My father?”

Her mother nodded swiftly. Something that dangerously resembled a smile graced her bloodless lips. “I always knew he’d come for you.”

“Did you? Interesting, as I’ve never thought that to be likely at all.” Truthfully, she’d never thought about it. Ever. Dreaming of her father rescuing her was as useless as dreaming of a knight in shining armor riding into her life. “Nor did I know you were harboring such hopes.”

“I’d always hoped. For you . . .” Her mother’s voice faded, the implication clear. She never thought her lover would claim her . . . just their illegitimate child.

“Miss Hadley,” the stranger began. “Your father has hired me—”

“Miss what?” she interrupted, swinging around and pinning her attention on the stranger.