She wrenched her horse desperately left, then screamed as the horseman lashed her mount’s neck with his whip, and her horse reared and then she sailed over its head. Martha screamed as she fell, but then abruptly she could see only darkness.
Chapter 35
Martha became aware of light. She tried to open her eyes. There was certainly a light somewhere, blazing down on her eyelids and it made her head throb. As she thought about it, the pain became suddenly unbearable, and she moaned aloud.
“Easy, My Lady.”
Martha winced. The voice was male and caring, and it sounded distantly familiar, though she could not have said who it was. She frowned and tried to open her eyes, but the light hurt them too much and she shut them tight.
“Sore,” she murmured. And then, because she had just come to awareness of it herself, “Cold.”
She was freezing. As she woke, she became aware of different parts of her body—her arms, her legs, her nose. All of them were freezing cold.
“I know,” the voice murmured. And then, as she rolled up in a ball. “Mrs. Pickerford, please fetch more coal for the fire.”
“Right away, My Lord.”
Martha reached out a hand. She was surprised when she felt fingers close around her own and the caring voice clucked over her tenderly.
“You really are freezing. We need to get you by the fire. And you need more blankets, and some dry clothes.”
“Fell…” Martha murmured, as recollections of the incident came back to her. “Riding. Wet…”
Her mind fed her an image of the path, of her horse, running. Then everything went abruptly hazy. She could not recall what had happened, or how she had come to be here, wherever “here” was. She tried to open her eyes again, but the ache in her head intensified and she shut them again.
“Here you are, here’s a blanket. Add those coals, will you, Pickerford? And help me lift her. Could you fetch a dry nightshirt, and a maid to help her dress?”
“Right away, My Lord.”
Martha winced and sat up. Someone held her shoulders, and she felt her body relax as a bolster was slid under her shoulders. She let out a sigh of relief as someone turned her slightly, so that she was not facing the flame-light anymore. She opened one eye.
“You!” she felt delight mix with amazement as she took in the sight of the man beside her. She was lying on a chaise lounge, her head on a big cushion, and opposite her sat the Baron.
He smiled, his lined, careworn face crinkling. He looked very relieved. His hand was still holding hers, his warmth spreading into her fingers.
“It’s me, yes,” he nodded. “I had to bring you here. When I found you in the path, I was so frightened for you. You were soaking wet, unconscious in the rain, and in such light skirts, too.” He shook his head, a frown on his brow, knitting his eyebrows tight together.
Martha frowned. She remembered riding, but she had no recollection of anything else.
“You found me?” she asked.
“Yes. You were lying on the path where I take my daily walk. You were soaked through with rain. I had to fetch the butler to help me carry you…I was so worried! I would have cursed myself for a fool if anything had happened to you.”
Martha felt her lips lift in a fond grin, though moving her face that way sent a stabbing pain through her head. “It wouldn’t be your fault if it had.”
He looked away. “I suppose not. But I must admit that…well, that your visits have been a bright spot in my lonely life.” He clearly felt awkward saying that, his one hand brushing down his jacket in an uncomfortable gesture. “I don’t get many visitors up here.”
Martha felt her heart twist. She was surprised by that, and she was aware that she had grown fond of the old reclusive man. “I have enjoyed visiting you, too,” she said softly. Then she frowned. “Where is Lord Calperton?”
He had been out riding with her. She could suddenly remember that part distinctly. She wondered where the horse had gone, and why the rest of the party hadn’t looked for her.
“Lord Calperton?” the man frowned. “I don’t know who he is.”
Martha nodded. Of course, he wouldn’t. He never attended local gatherings—how would he know?
“I was out riding with a party. Do you think they will look for me? They must be worried.”
“Of course,” he nodded. His frown was deep. “They must be informed. I will send my butler to give them word. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Pickerford can help you out of that riding habit and into dry clothes.”
When Lord Redfield came back, he looked less worried. Martha sat up, pulling the coverlet up to her neck. She was dressed in a nightgown and tucked in under a mound of covers, and she felt almost hot now. Her hair was drying fast, the curls soft on her shoulders. Lord Redfield sat down across from her.
“Word has been sent. Your party should arrive to take you home soon.”
“Thank you,” she said.
They looked at each other awkwardly. Lord Redfield seemed to be feeling some deep emotion, and Martha hesitated to interrupt him.
“I am so glad I was out walking and came across you,” he said. “You could have frozen, and I would never have forgiven myself for it. I am…well, you know I have no family, and you—well, I have come to care about you, almost like a daughter. Sorry, but…well…that is how I feel.”
His voice was a whisper, raw with feeling. Martha felt her own heart twist. She stared up at his face, looking into those hazel eyes that were so full of pain and darkness and care. She felt the same way about him, and she reached out to take his hand. Her arms were almost bare, the nightgown equipped with cap sleeves that barely covered anything. She winced as the birthmark flashed out on her forearm, big and plain for anyone to see.
Lord Redfield took her hand in his. She saw his eyes widen as he looked at the mark. She cleared her throat, feeling embarrassed.
“It’s not bruising,” she said quickly, seeing his face set into a picture of shock. “It’s just, well…it’s something I was born with. A bit unsightly, I grant, but…”
She looked at him, letting her sentence hang, incomplete. He was looking at her with such absolute shock that he’d gone white. She frowned, wondering what was the matter with him.
“It’s just…” she tried to explain, lest he thought it was a sign of witchcraft, or some other horrible interpretation.
“I know,” he said. “I know what it is.” He was still staring, and Martha felt a twinge of fearfulness as he started to unfasten the cuff of his own sleeve on the left-hand side. Had he gone mad?
Just as she was about to slip off the chaise lounge and call for help, he finished rolling up his sleeve. He held his arm out beside hers.
“Look, My Lady,” he said. His voice was tight with emotion, a sort of intensity she had no idea how to interpret.
She stared. His arm had exactly the same mark as hers.
She ran a finger down his and then down the one on her own forearm, observing the curved line of it, the way the pattern looked a tiny bit like a bird of prey, stooping to strike. His was slightly more indistinct in shape, but the size and form of it were identical.
He was crying, and Martha swallowed hard.
“How is this possible? How can you have the same mark as me?”
He sniffed, and dabbed at his cheeks with a handkerchief to dry them. “It is inherited,” he said softly. “My father had the same mark. I always wondered if…if my children would have it, too.”
She stared at him. His hazel eyes looked into hers.
“You mean…I’m your…you…”
She didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, too many things made sense. Her mind reeled, but the more she thought about it, the more all the pieces came together to form a picture.
“I had a child, yes. I always suspected that was so. But Alexandra never told me and I could never ask. She forbade me to see her again.”
“Alexandra is my mother!” Martha almost shouted.
He smiled. “Yes
. And she and I were close. She could not wed me because she was wed already, but we were in love. I loved her. I gave my heart to her and she barely noticed.” He was grinning, looking into the past. His eyes were sad. He had clearly loved her deeply.
Martha stared. Suddenly, one last piece fell into place.
“The picture,” she whispered. The painting of her mother, the one that hung always in the drawing room, that she never had moved to the gallery even though it was an excellent portrait.
Martha stared at Lord Redfield. The paintings were familiar because she’d seen that style before. The way he’d painted her mother so sensitively, the look he’d captured in her eyes. The way he saw her and understood her because he loved her.
“You painted her.”
He nodded. She stared at him and knew that everything he said was true.
“You’re my father?”
He grinned, though his eyes were sad. “Yes.”
She had no reason not to believe it. She looked at her arm, her fingers tracing the birthmark, and she felt the certainty of it settle on her heart.
My father, the Earl, will be upset to hear it.
She felt a pain in her heart. Lord Weston, her adoptive father, was kind and gentle. She had always loved him, even if he seemed distant and a little absent-minded. She felt guilt for what she would have to tell him when he came back. But there was no way she could conceal this truth.
“My daughter,” Lord Redfield whispered.
She looked into his eyes. He was staring at her with wonder on his face, and she felt her heart glow with love. He smiled, a little shyly, and she reached to take his hand, shock and wonder mixing into a strange amazement she had never imagined feeling before.
“You’re my father,” she repeated. This time she said it fondly. It was amazing, it was shocking. And yet somehow it made a sort of irrefutable sense. She had always felt as if she and Amelia were so different—too different. And her mother had always treated them differently. Her offhandedness to Martha—cruel as it was—made sense.
She was always afraid that someone would know the truth.
That was why she’d hidden Martha away, sought to make her too ashamed to take her place in society. She’d been afraid that somehow the story would evidence itself.
“She never let me see you!”
She realized she’d blurted it aloud when Lord Redfield frowned at her.
“What’s that, my dear?” he asked.
Martha smiled, hearing him use the term of endearment for the first time. She flushed, and wondered what it would feel like to call him her father.
“I just realized why Mama never let me come here. She didn’t want me to see you. I think she was afraid that, if we saw each other, one of us would know.”
He looked away. “It was cruel of her. She could be cruel, your mother. Cruel and beautiful, and dark as secrets on a clouded night.”
Martha shivered. It was a good description. He said it lovingly, and she became aware again of how absolutely Lord Redfield had loved her. She wondered how her mother had felt, if she had loved him as much.
She always kept the portrait in the drawing room, even though she must have seen it as a risk to have it in the house at all.
She looked at him levelly. “I think she did not mean to be cruel,” she said softly. “And I think we will be able to resolve this in a way that does no harm. I hope so.”
She put her head on one side. Amelia would be confused, she knew—they were very close and the thought that they were not full sisters would upset her at first. But, she was sure, they would both benefit from the knowledge. After all, she could finally stop blaming herself for not being more like Amelia. And she could begin to discover her own identity, now that she finally knew the truth of who she was.
“Lord Redfield, what must we do?” she asked.
He smiled. “You don’t need to call me that, unless you want to. I understand it will be difficult—after all, you have spent your life with another man as your father. We will find a way to refer to each other that suits us both. And, to answer your question, I think we should alert your companion at once. I can’t believe someone let you disappear in the woods.”
Martha swallowed. It wasn’t Lord Calperton’s fault, she wished to say. She thought back through the events of her fall. It was all very hazy. All she could remember was the sudden rearing of her horse, her terror and the plunge. And the sound of hoofs on the ground; the swift running of a horse beside her own.
Someone pushed me.
She felt sick horror. What happened was not an accident. She could remember that now. Someone had ridden her off the path and sought to make her fall from her horse. Someone had seen her fall, and done nothing. Someone had left her lying there in the rain, and not informed anybody of her danger.
“Are you well?” Lord Redfield asked. He looked concerned, and she saw him stand and walk to the door. “I should call someone, maybe? The housekeeper? You need a physician.”
“I’m well,” she whispered. “Lord Redfield…” she frowned, feeling suddenly nervous. “Can you take me home?”
He came back to sit opposite her, and he looked at her, eyes showing fear at first, and amazement, then calm.
“Yes,” he nodded, and he squeezed her fingers briefly, then stood. “I will take you home.”
Chapter 36
The hallway was utterly silent. Martha took a deep breath. She recalled that Amelia and Alton were on the ride. The only person in the house was her mother. She glanced at Lord Redfield, who stood across from her. He was rooted in the doorway, his eyes craning up at the ceiling. Martha felt frightened, but it was nothing compared to the fear she saw on his face.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “You can come in. She’s upstairs.”
“I know,” he said, and smiled sadly at her. “I just…well, I suppose I’m scared to see her again after all these years.” He chuckled. “Silly of me, really.”
Martha smiled back, and went to stand beside him. “We’ll go together.”
She took his hand in hers and they ascended the staircase. She saw the butler, and called out to him. “Where is my mother?”
“She’s in the drawing room,” a clipped, authoritative voice called out of the drawing room. “Is she to be graced with your company?”
Martha felt the hand in hers tense, and she wondered what it must feel like for Lord Redfield, who would not have heard or seen her in over twenty years.
“She is, indeed,” Martha called back, going to the entrance. “And I hope she is ready for a visitor?”
Her mother looked up from the book she was reading. “Martha? What visitor? Why are you wearing that, child? Your hair is a…oh.”
She stared. Martha stepped away from Lord Redfield’s side as their eyes met. She took a breath. It felt as if the room stood still, as if her heart stood still—as if time stood still. Nothing moved or spoke as the two of them looked at each other.
“You.” Her mother’s voice was soft.
“Alexandra,” he said softly. Martha looked at his face and she saw he was crying—tears showed in his eyes, but had not yet fallen. His rendering of her name was as gentle as a song. “Yes, it’s me. I had to see you. We have to talk.”
Her mother stared at him. Martha thought she saw a moment of deep tenderness, and then fear. Then she turned away and looked at Martha.
“You! You went there, to the forbidden place. You did this. You want to ruin me. Now you know, don’t you? And you’ll run to tell your father, and I will be disgraced. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to punish me.” She was shouting, her face twisted with pain and fear.
Martha gaped. She couldn’t have been more shocked. She leaned against the wall and felt a tear run down her own cheek. Just when she’d learned the truth of her identity, when she’d had a shock and come to terms with it, her mother chose to attack her. Now, when she could have used the moment to resolve their differences, she chose to hide in blame?
“No,” she whispered.
She was surprised when Lord Redfield came and stood beside her. He stared at Lady Weston.
“Alexandra, that’s cruel. Martha is not to blame. I found her in the rain, half dead. She didn’t know and she wouldn’t have known. I guessed. You hid her from me. You might have told me—it would have made over twenty years of my life so absolutely different.” He took a breath. His voice was low and reasonable throughout, but at the end it fell to a whisper and he blinked back tears.
Martha was looking at him, seeing the pain and sorrow on his face. She wished she could comfort him. She reached out a hand to him and then looked at her mother. She was staring at both of them with horror on her face.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 26
