Maybe if Daniel wrote her notes again and told her this she’d listen.
Mrs. Gallick came up the stairs with two mugs on a tray. She offered him one, and then sat beside him, squatting on the floor.
“Sir, there’s another letter from that solicitor, Mr. Mosey. I put it in your study.”
The gossip of their marriage would bring those devils working for the St. Maurs.
He eyed the mug and groaned. Why wouldn’t the past stay gone?
“Thank you, Mrs. G. Don’t let the countess see them. She’s taken on enough.”
“I won’t, sir.” Mrs. Gallick collected one of the cups. “That one is a natural mother. Hope will grow out of this. You just have to trust.”
The contented smile on his daughter’s face when Jemina responded to her as her mother made him happy, but something wasn’t right.
Mother?
Did Hope figure out something he’d missed?
His baby was brilliant.
Their baby was brilliant.
Had he found Phoebe and didn’t even know it? When Daniel stepped into the room at Bedlam to free Jemina St. Maur, wasn’t that what he’d hoped? Hadn’t he wished that tragic accident had become his miracle—Phoebe alive and with amnesia and falsely called Jemina St. Maur?
“Lord Ashbrook, I’m going to get more cream for my tea. Do you want anything, else? I know you don’t like my cream.”
He shook his head, and she left. His face no longer bore swelling but he had tasted enough spirits for a lifetime. “No cream.”
But Jemina was not the Phoebe described in letters. Unless her deception was greater than not telling him about her daughter. Was this a mistake of the London bankers he’d used to find a freeborn Black or mixed-race daughter of their investors in the colonies?
Innocent mistake?
Creole women of Jamaica were considered Black if they were less than three generations from Black blood. Creole mulattoes were considered white if their bloodlines were beyond three generations.
Was that it? Jemina’s diction sounded as if she’d been educated in England. The red in her skin, could she be Creole or Sephardic Jew? There was no hint of Portuguese in her tongue, just the distant slip of Jamaican patois when he teased her or she didn’t think anyone listened.
No mistake? Fraud?
Would a West Indian widow desperate to have a new start with a wealthy husband lie about her race? This explained the Dunns’ insistence that they marry by proxy before allowing Phoebe to come to London.
He knocked his head against the wall.
His housekeeper rushed up the stairs. “Sir?” She sat beside him again. “Want to talk?”
He picked up the toasty mug. The calm of the citrusy chamomile wafted in the steam. “Do I look like I have something to say, Mrs. G?
“I know you don’t want to hear this but your daughter will cry out her nightmares. Both you and Lady Ashbrook should be out here letting the girl learn to pacify herself.”
With a slurp, he let the hot liquid burn his throat. “Pacification? That’s one of the things we want, do we mean it?”
“You have it bad, sir.”
“Have what bad?”
“You’re in love and mad at the same time? I’m not sure what Lady Ashbrook did, but I think she deserves every consideration. Her heart is large, and she’s been so supportive of Hope. Not all women would do that.”
No, not all women would risk a fall on stairs for a toddler or disgrace themselves to save an earl. He rubbed his forehead and conceded to Mrs. G’s wisdom. “She’s special.”
