Chapter 6

They all turned to the girl. "You're not leaving me here with him, are you?" the dirty-faced child exclaimed.

The woman's arching brows knit together and she shot a suspicious glance at James. "Shouldn't I? He is your father."

"Because..." The child met James' baffled expression with a hateful glare. "Because he beats me."

"I do no such thing! I've never once laid a hand on her," James swore to Mrs. Churchill. "Though I've been sorely tempted to," he added, advancing on Clarissa.

But his neighbor stepped directly between them and with a suspicious look she said to Clarissa, "What do you mean by 'he beats me'?"

"I don't beat her!" James bit out.

"He does! He does!" Like a chameleon Clarissa changed from accused thief to pitiful victim — and right along with her Mrs. Churchill turned from irate neighbor to protective mother.

She crouched in front of Clarissa. "Has he hurt you?"

"I have not hurt her!" James protested.

Mrs. Churchill stood and rounded fiercely on him. "Be quiet, Lord Farley. Just be quiet and let me handle this." Then once more she turned her back on him.

James almost choked on his rage. By damn, but he was sorely tempted to throttle the gullible, interfering wench!

"Now Izzy," she said, as if he weren't even there. "Tell me exactly what occurred."

James could not believe this was happening. His guttersnipe child, whom he'd saved from a wretched fate, was accusing him of treating her badly. Clutching her puppy, the other little girl stared wide-eyed at him, as if he were a demon complete with horns, a tail, and cloven feet.

"He hit me with a strap," Clarissa lied, sending him a resentful glare. "An' he wouldn't give me any supper, nor any breakfast neither."

"You certainly are thin," the woman commiserated with her.

"She has a kitchen full of food," James said with barely controlled temper. "Anything she might want."

Mrs. Churchill held up a hand to silence him, but her gaze remained on the child. "I'll bet that strap must have hurt."

The child nodded, the very picture of desolation. "It was terrible; just terrible. I cried and cried, and begged him to stop. Only he wouldn't."

"I never—" James begun.

"The bruises must be awful," Mrs. Churchill went on.

"Yes, and they hurt something fierce—" The girl broke off mid-lie. At that moment James realized where Mrs. Churchill's line of questioning was headed.

He studied he woman with grudging respect as she smoothed a hand over the child's head. "Let me see those bruises, will you?"

Frowning now, the girl shrugged off. "I don't want to."

"Why not?" Mrs. Churchill stared steadily at the now scowling child. "Could it be that perhaps you're making this up?"

Judging by the mulish expression on her face, James was sure Clarissa would maintain her lie, but she was nothing if not unpredictable. Without warning she spat, "Bugger off!" and started running up the hill towards Farley Park.

For a moment he just stared after her. At least she was running towards her home and not away. But the confrontation depressed him anew as he recognized the magnitude of the task he'd set himself. Clarissa hated him. She fought him at every turn and he didn't know what to do about it.

Beside him, Mrs. Churchill cleared her throat. "We'll be off then," she said when he looked over at her. "I meant what I said when I invited her to visit me. I hope you'll let her come."

He nodded. "Of course. And thank you." He hesitated, and then went on. "I want you to know that I've never laid a harsh hand on her. Never."

She gave a faint smile, just enough to make him study her more closely. "I know," Then her smile faded. "The fact remains, however, that she doesn't seem to like you very much. Not at all, in fact, and I have to wonder why."

Then not allowing him time to explain the situation, she turned, took her daughter's hand, and left.

James stared after her noticing almost too late the details he'd not seen before. Her straight, slender back as she marched down the hill, the curve of her hips and the hidden length of her legs wading through last year's knee-high meadow grass. Her hair was a rich brown hue, streaked red by the strengthening midday sun.

Her eyes had been, what? An amber-brown, flashing with temper, he recalled. Not a beautiful woman, but striking all the same, and memorable. Especially when she smiled.

Only the reminder that she was married with a child of her own made him look away from her departing form. But even that took an act of strong self-will. It was dallying with too many women that had landed him in his current situation; he couldn't afford to resume that sort of activity here, especially with the entire countryside watching his every move.

Then again, if he didn't find some sort of outlet for the frustrations besetting him, God only knew when and where he would explode.

Meanwhile, there was his hooligan daughter to deal with.

Muffling a curse, and feeling far older than his thirty-four years, he collected his grazing animal, heaving himself into the saddle, and started after his child.

"Was that Himself?" Helen asked when they were halfway down the hill.

Lost in her own thoughts, Phoebe was slow to respond. "Yes. But his proper name is James Lindford, Viscount Farley. If he should ever address you, you must curtsy to him and say 'my lord, ' and use your very best manners."

Helen digested that as they wended their way down the hill. Ahead of them crickets, gnats, and other buzzing creatures sprang up in an insect cloud, while the dried stalks of last year's grass swished against their skirts. "His girl, that Izzy girl, she doesn't use very good manners. And she's a liar, too, isn't she?"

"I'm afraid so. But I think she only acts that way because she hasn't been taught any better."

"Does that mean her father isn't a very good father?"

It would seem not. But all Phoebe said was, "I'm not sure what the situation is between them." She was curious enough, however to want to find out.

"I wonder her mother is?"

Her mother, who was not Lord Farley's wife; so far as anyone knew, the Viscount was still a bachelor. And yet he freely claimed Izzy as his daughter. That meant Phoebe's first guess was right; the girl must be natural born.

Like Helen.

Phoebe's sympathy for the unhappy little girl immediately increased. Given her wild appearance and appalling behavior, could it be that the child had not been a part of Lord Farley's home until recently?

To Helen she said, "Judging from her accent, the girl and her mother probably lived in London."

"In London? Oh, maybe she knows my mother!"

Phoebe reached down and gave Helen a hug. Her niece's ever-present longing for her absent mother was a constant source of pain for them both, and it fomented a simmering resentment in Phoebe's chest. She would never understand Louise's utter neglect of her daughter. Never. "I'm afraid it's not likely they knew one another, sweetheart. London is a huge place, you see, as big as a hundred Swans fords. Maybe even a thousand."

"A thousand?"

Phoebe nodded, "Say, how about a piggyback ride down the hill?" Phoebe offered, anything to distract Helen from the subject of London and a mother who never came to visit.

Izzy didn't come for apple tarts the next day, much to Phoebe's disappointment.

"I'm glad she didn't come," Helen said as she licked the sweet residue of a tart from her fingers. "She's mean and I don't like her."

"What she did was mean. But I'm guessing she's not always mean. It's probably just that she doesn't have any friends around here."

"I don't have any friends and I'm not mean."

"You have me."

Helen giggled. "That's different. You're my aunt." Then her face puckered in a thoughtful frown. "I wonder if she has an aunt like you."

Phoebe shrugged as she finished off her own tart. "Izzy seems like a very lonely little girl. Maybe all she needs is a friend or two."

Helen wrinkled he nose. "Not me, though."

Phoebe let the matter drop, but the idea did not go away. Izzy and Helen were alike in more ways than one, both natural and likely to suffer for it at the hands of other children. Though the children of Swansford only repeated the words they heard from their parents, they were words with the power to hurt a sensitive child like Helen, and to continue hurting her long after they were said; that's why Helen hated going to school in Swansford, and why Phoebe had taken over educating her.

Two motherless girls, scorned by their peers; despite the fact that one had grown up too tough and the other a little sheltered, they might each be precisely what the other one needed.

Perhaps she should approach Lord Farley on that matter, she thought as they made their way to Swansford the next morning. It was a misty day with fog hunkered down in the hollows and low spaces between the hills. As they passed Nester Hill, Phoebe stared down the road that led to the three-story limestone edifice at the center of Farley Park. But the memory of the viscount's stern face put an immediate end to that foolish idea. With an effort she turned her attention to the widening path before her. She was better served staying strictly out of Lord Farley's way. No doubt he had a proper governess or nurse, or some other personage to attend to Izzy.