The Clergyman's Daughter Read Free

enough, Jessica supposed, sighing, but how did one count the cost of love? She had given her heart without thinking, and that rash action had caused her more pain than it seemed possible for one human being to bear, she had lost her family, her good name, ultimately even the regard of the man she loved. Sometimes she wondered whether, had she known in the beginning exactly what lay ahead for her, she would have hardened her heart against Andrew’s blandishments, resisted the soft appeal of his gentle brown eyes….
    Thinking of the suffering she might have been spared, there had been occasions during the past year when she almost wished she had never been called to Renard Chase to give drawing lessons to a spoiled young girl, had never laid eyes on the Honourable Andrew Foxe. And yet—and yet, had she not met him, had she not defied the ukase of society and married him, by now she might have been forced to take a position as art mistress in some dismal, third-rate girls’ academy or, worse, have been coerced into a loveless union with one of her father’s parishioners, just to make room at the vicarage for the latest of her mother’s annual babies. At least with Andrew, she had known a few shining moments of tenderness, of passion. And because of Andrew, she now had a daughter whom she could cherish and nurture with all the love she herself had been denied….
    Willa, gingerly pulling a brick from the edge of the fire with tongs, asked suddenly, “Begging your pardon, Miss Jess, but did your letter come today?”
    Jessica stepped away from the cradle. “Yes, it did, Willa, but I forgot all about it when…. What’s wrong? Do you need money?”
    “ ‘Twould be a great help,” Willa agreed as she wrapped a towel tightly around the heated brick. “While you’ve been ill we’ve had to use extra coal, and then there was all the eggs and meat to help you keep your strength…. Here now,” she murmured, setting the brick on the floor before Jessica’s chair, “you come make yourself all warm and cozy, and I’ll pour you a dish of broth.”
    Jessica sat down again, slipping off her damp shoes and putting her feet on the warmer. For a few seconds she allowed herself the luxury of being coddled, then with a sigh she reached for the forgotten envelope. Like the similar envelopes she had received each of the past ten months, it was addressed to “J.F., Brighthelmstone,” the simplicity of its direction more than balanced by the ornate, flowing penmanship that Jessica now recognized as the hand of Mr. Haxton; Mr. Welles’s copperplate script was equally attractive, but somewhat more controlled. Breaking the seal on the envelope, Jessica withdrew the bank draft made out to “Bearer” and noted with a sinking feeling that it was for about half the amount she usually received. With a grimace she foresaw a month of porridge and meatless soup for her and Willa; then she chided herself, remembering that there had been times during the first months after she ran away from Raeburn’s domain when the pair of them would have been grateful for porridge alone…. She turned her attention to the letter.
    “Dear Sir,” it began as usual, making Jessica’s mouth curl up in a smile of sardonic amusement. She had never met the men who published her drawings, but she envisioned them both as rather short and exceedingly stodgy, and she could just imagine their chagrin were they ever to discover that their unknown satirist was a woman…. “Dear Sir,” she read again, “we were most distressed to learn of your recent illness, and we regret that your indisposition has affected the number of drawings you were able to submit to us. While the quality of those you did send was, as usual, excellent, and although the sketches of ‘Erinys’ are becoming increasingly popular—the first printing of the cartoon ‘Cornelia Weeps’ sold out in two days—we hope you will understand that we cannot pay your usual—” She skimmed the rest