Courtney Milan - Unclaimed

Today was a beautiful day, every color chosen from a jeweler’s display case. Mr. Tatlock was undoubtedly fishing, and Mark had decided to fetch his own post. He’d had a beautiful, peaceful walk to town.

“Here you are,” Mrs. Tatlock was scolding, “the knight of the town, and you’re fetching your own post as if you were a servant. It’s not fitting!”

Mark swallowed a sigh. “Truly, it’s no hardship to walk.” And besides, he had a suspicion that his charwoman was sneaking glances at his correspondence. The last time she’d brought him a letter, the envelope had come unsealed. The woman had waved it off, claiming that one could never trust that newfangled paste to stay in place. Mark, however, remained dubious.

“Besides,” he continued, “the exercise is good for me. I shouldn’t like to become slothful.”

Her face softened. “Nobody would ever accuse you of sloth.” She closed the drawer before her and handed over two letters. “But we do worry that you’re not taking care of yourself. Only the two servants to do for you, and those not even in residence. Sir Mark, that would be a proper arrangement for a gentleman come down on hard times. But you’re a knight of the realm. The brother of a duke. It’s scandalous, the way you’re living. And if those London papers heard of it, Shepton Mallet would never live down the shame. To act as if we are so countrified that we can’t do for you…” She shook her head at him mournfully.

And yet they hadn’t done for him, decades past. It felt the height of decadence just to live in his mother’s house and have new bread. He’d come back here to recall that time, not to bury the memories in luxury.

“Nonsense,” Mark said. “The papers will just chalk it up to my eccentricity.”

She sniffed. “Eccentric? You? Not likely, that. You’re not the one who’s decidedly out of place—that is to say, I won’t speak any ill. Unlike some others.” She sniffed, and when Mark didn’t ask her to elaborate, she immediately broke her own dictum. “Unlike the other newcomer,” she said carefully.

Mark set his hand, palm down, on the table before him, keeping the gesture as casual as possible. There was only one other newcomer. He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye, drenched from the downpour, her hair sliding out of its pins.

But, no. He wasn’t one for gossip. He didn’t need to ask. He wouldn’t even let himself think of her.

“Ah?” he said.

Ah, he decided, was not asking.

But Mrs. Tatlock understood. “Mrs. Farleigh.” Her voice crept low, the syllables rounding out in warm west country tones. “Mrs. Farleigh, she writes letters every week.”

Mark felt his chin twitch in the barest of nods.

“Regular, like the crow of a cock, she does. Sends out two or three every time she stops by.”

“Ah.” The syllable escaped again.

“But does she receive anything in response?”

Mark’s hand curled against the wood of the counter. The missives in his pocket felt suddenly heavy. He’d known the letter would be waiting for him, had known that his brother’s wife would have penned a thorough response—never mind that she was a busy duchess. Just as surely, he’d expected his other brother’s reply—fewer in pages, but no less caring. If the letters hadn’t come, he would have worried that something had gone amiss.

Mrs. Tatlock smiled grimly. “Well,” she said slyly. “She hears from her solicitor.”

“Perhaps the letters are written to an invalid,” Mark suggested.

“Perhaps. It’s the other letters that go unanswered.” Mrs. Tatlock shuffled in the mailbags behind her and came up with two envelopes, both stamped with penny reds. The direction was written in a fine, strong hand; no curlicues or spidery lines from Mrs. Farleigh. It was addressed to a Mr. Alton Carlisle in Watford. Mark had heard of the town; he thought it somewhere closer to London, although his memory was vague. The other was addressed to an Amalie Leveque, in London proper.

“She brings these letters by every few days. And every day, it seems, she asks if she’s had any replies.” Mrs. Tatlock shook her head. “I do wonder who she’s writing to. A Frenchwoman, by the sound of it—and we know precisely what sort of people they are. No morals to speak of. And no doubt the other’s a lover, and one that’s scorned her.”

Mark thought of that flinch, of that spark of…of something he’d seen in her eyes two evenings before. He could almost hear her speaking, even now. I did it because I hated you.

“No,” he said softly, “I don’t believe she’s pining after a lover.”

He’d met women on the hunt for a lover before. She’d made a fair facsimile of one at first—the glances that dared him to draw closer, the state of undress she’d so carefully engineered. But there had been something…something brittle about her come-hither. He couldn’t imagine that she was sending letters to a lover in desperation. No matter what she’d tried to do to him, the thought of her sending out letters and receiving no response…it made him want to comfort her.

Mrs. Tatlock snorted. “What, you think she has more than one lover, then?”

He drew himself up and looked down his nose at Mrs. Tatlock. “Do you have intimate knowledge of her situation?”

“I— Well—”

“I’ve heard a great deal of gossip about Mrs. Farleigh since I’ve arrived, and yet nobody has presented any proof.”

She’d presented her own form of proof, true. And if he were the sort of tale bearer who delighted in ruining reputations, he could have destroyed hers by simply recounting the facts of their encounter. He wasn’t.

“But, Sir Mark—”

“Don’t ‘Sir Mark’ me. I consider it just as shabby to ruin a woman with talk as with action.” Mark leaned on the counter and glared at her.

“Sir Mark—I didn’t intend— I truly thought—”

“You thought? You thought I would want to see a woman ostracized and left without friends, simply because she had the misfortune to be prettier than usual?” His words slowed. He could almost feel the music of the Somerset accent, forgotten since childhood, pulling at his tongue. “Or did you think I would enjoy making sport of someone who wasn’t here to defend herself? Don’t ruin a reputation on the basis of simple gossip. Not in my presence.”

Mrs. Tatlock took a step back. Her eyes were wide; her hands clutched the gray of her skirt. “Oh, my.” She spoke slowly, her voice rising half an octave. “I hadn’t thought— I had assumed— No. Perhaps I’d let myself forget entirely. You are Elizabeth Turner’s son, after all.”

Elizabeth Turner’s son. Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t deny it, not really. He was her son—heir to both her best and her worst qualities. Her goodness. Her zeal. Her excess.

His brother, and the rise of dark waters.

He took a step back from Mrs. Tatlock. He took a step back from himself, seeing suddenly his own image superimposed on hers: cruel and unthinking and kind, all at the same time. Even though his hands clenched in denial, he let out a breath.

“Well,” he told her, “gossip about that, then. At least what you say about me happens to be true.”

MRS. TATLOCK, apparently, had not chosen to spread rumors about Mark’s defense of Mrs. Farleigh—at least she hadn’t by the time the ladies of the church arranged the picnic in his honor. Upon his arrival, he was hailed with good cheer and humor. The commons where they held the event had been emptied of all livestock except a flock of chickens, who squawked in complaint in the corner. But the sheep were not the only undesirables they’d kept hidden; they had succeeded in keeping away the less fortunate members of the community by hosting the event on a Wednesday morning. The common folk were all laboring: in the mills, in the fields, or simply doing the spinning in their own homes. The only laborers present were the servants who danced attendance.