Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  Two men were in the room. One, so familiar, sat on the bed, holding her hand, grounding her body which yearned to drift back into nothingness. The other sat more formally in a chair, back stiff with the demeanor of a paid professional, a neat black bag on the table beside him.

  “Doc…doctor…”

  “Hush.” Hawthorne squeezed her hand. “Doctor McIver’s been tending to you.”

  He leaned over and brushed his lips against her forehead.

  “When…”

  “You’ve been here two days.”

  Something dark lurked in the back of her mind. A memory of tears and pain, just out of reach.

  She pushed herself into a sitting position, and a wave of nausea rippled through her.

  “I feel sick…”

  The doctor leapt to his feet. “It’s to be expected under the circumstances,” he said. “I have a tonic for you.”

  “Frederica,” Hawthorne said. “May I be the first to say how sorry I am?”

  The memory sharpened into clarity. A broken body lying on the floor of a cold, soulless house, while his assailant had looked on in triumph.

  Papa…

  He pulled her to him, and she stiffened. She had given herself to him, and it had been the first step to her ruination, and to Papa’s death.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  “No, Frederica, I…”

  “I think ye’d best do as the lass asks,” the doctor interrupted. “Give her some space.”

  Hawthorne sat back, and the doctor approached, a glass in hand.

  “Will ye drink this?”

  “What is it?”

  “A tonic to settle your stomach,” he said. “Nothing more, I promise.”

  His eyes showed kindness, but she hesitated.

  “Let me,” Hawthorne said. He moved toward her, and she shrank back.

  “Leave her be!” the doctor said, his voice sharp.

  “But…”

  “Miss Stanford might be your ward now, but, first and foremost, she is my patient and as such, her welfare comes before your wishes. Stand aside.”

  The doctor sat beside the bed and held out the glass. She took it and drained the contents.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Would you permit me to continue to call on you until you’re recovered?”

  His demeanor reminded her of Papa, and she nodded. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Your host has employed me to tend to your every wish until you’ve made a full recovery. Send for me if you have need of anything.”

  “I wouldn’t want you, or Lord Stiles, to go to any trouble, sir.”

  “It’s no trouble, lass.” He glanced at Hawthorne. “You could always visit my premises, if you prefer privacy. When in town, I share a small practice with a colleague, on Harley Street.” He rose to his feet. “And now, I must be going. Take care of her, Stiles, won’t ye?”

  Not long after showing the doctor out, Hawthorne returned.

  “Little changeling, I…”

  “It’s Miss Stanford,” she said.

  He sighed and sat on the bed, which dipped under his weight. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “It’s my fault,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “It’s mine. I should never have taken advantage of your naiveté.”

  “My naiveté?” she asked. “You see me as a child?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “What, then? An object of seduction? You and Markham thought nothing of Papa when you devised your little game, did you? Do you consider yourself the victor because you were the one to succeed? Did you never think how I might have felt? Or Papa? Were we worth so little to you?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “We played no game, Frederica. I despise Markham. Your father was a good friend. I admired him very much. As for you…”

  He took her hand and drew her to him. “You mean a lot to me, Frederica. It pains me to see you hurt.”

  “What shall I do without him?” she said.

  “I’m responsible for you now. Your father was very particular about that in his will.”

  “Can’t I return home? To Hampshire?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “You must remain here with me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. For a brief moment, she dreamed that he loved her. But he only wanted her for his own gratification.

  The man who loved her was dead.

  “No!” She struggled to break free. “Let me go home. You can’t want me here.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “Very much.”

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why can’t you let me go and be rid of me?”

  His voice rumbled in her ear, his breath a warm caress. “Because you’re precious, Frederica. And my world would be poorer without you in it. You must promise me not to leave.”

  “But I’m nothing to you,” she said, shaking her head.

  He remained firm, his hold both unyielding and protective. “Frederica, a bond was forged between us the moment you entered the world. Did you think I never noticed the little red-headed sprite who followed me everywhere and darted into the depths of the forest when she thought I’d spotted her? You were like the magical faerie who’d grant a mortal man his dearest wish if he could capture her. I have you in my arms now, and hope you will grant my dearest wish.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To have you trust me.”

  “Then I promise, I’ll not leave you,” she said.

  “You swear?”

  “On my father’s life.”

  “Then,” he said, “in turn, I promise to do everything in my power to earn your trust.”

  Her soul swelled with hope at his words, but her heart cautioned her not to fall prey to them again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Will we be meeting your new ward today, Stiles?”

  Ross drained his teacup and placed it on the saucer, his nose wrinkling. Gentlemen rarely enjoyed tea. Ross, like Hawthorne’s other visitors of late, had one purpose for today’s visit. At least he didn’t bother to conceal his curiosity. It had been a fortnight since Hawthorne had taken Frederica in, and a week since he’d buried her father in a quiet ceremony where he’d held her in his arms while she sobbed. Since then, she’d shown a marked improvement, even venturing out into the garden of his townhouse.

  On returning from her father’s funeral, she had asked for her watercolors and began to paint again, not the dark images he’d last seen on her canvasses, but rich, warm colors to match the blooms in his garden. Her work grew brighter with each piece she produced. Perhaps, in time, the girl he had fallen in love with would come back to him.

  Her nightmares had returned, though. Every morning the housekeeper gave him reports of her waking during the night, with tales of black wings, ropes, and her father’s body. But, according to the young chambermaid Hawthorne had sent for from Radley Hall to tend to her, they were growing less, both in frequency and intensity.

  All he need do now, was keep her from reading the newspapers until the gossipmongers had better stories to share, and her recovery would be complete.

  The worst of the reports had told of a murderer’s daughter, prone to madness. The gutter press may not have mentioned her name, but society gossips were all too willing to fill in the missing pieces. Hawthorne had managed to limit some of the damage by persuading Markham to publish a second report of an accident. But, for all that had cost him, the rumors of murder still circulated.

  He set his cup down, untouched, and addressed his friend. “Are you here to beat your rivals in the race for the first glimpse of the subject of so many salacious stories?”

  “So, you’ve read the papers, Stiles.”

  “Read and discarded,” Hawthorne said. “And I’ll thank you not to mention them in my presence. The last report was over a week ago, and the gossip is already lessening. Miss Stanford must never know what they’ve been saying. It’s the last thing she needs.”

  “And the last
thing you need, my friend, is to be known for harboring the daughter of an attempted murderer in your home. It can only damage your reputation as a magistrate.”

  Hawthorne sighed. “What would you have me do, Ross? I’m partly to blame for what happened.”

  “How so?” Ross asked. “By all accounts, Stanford turned up at Hackton House with intent to kill, and Markham’s been sporting a bandage on his arm ever since. Is it true Markham raised a lawsuit against Stanford’s estate before he changed his story and said it was an accident?”

  Hawthorne looked away, lest his expression reveal his anger. “I persuaded him against it.”

  Understanding crossed Ross’s expression.

  “The report in the papers about it being an accident, that was your doing? How did you get him to comply?”

  “With cash, of course,” Hawthorne said. “He agreed to it for five thousand.”

  “So large a sum?”

  “A small price to pay for her peace of mind.”

  “Not to mention your career prospects.”

  Hawthorne picked up his teacup and drained it, wishing it contained brandy instead. Never had he felt so impotent. The magistrate’s objective was to uphold the law and further the cause of justice. But this was the first time where the two were in direct opposition to each other. Society would always side with one of their own. In their view, Stanford was the aggressor by virtue of his birth, even though he died at Markham’s hand.

  “However much it cost,” Ross said, “you did the right thing, relating the story about an accident.”

  “How so?”

  “An accident provides little entertainment for society compared to anything more salacious. Interest in the events at Hackton House has already diminished. I’m sure their curiosity in your guest will fade also, once you’ve settled the more delicate matter of courtship.”

  “Courtship?”

  Ross smiled. “I saw Miss Wilcott on your arm in Hyde Park yesterday.”

  “What of it?”

  “Ravenwell told me she was overly forward in displaying her dance card at the Strathdean’s ball last week, and he couldn’t fail to notice you were engaged to her for two sets.” Ross let out a laugh. “Yet another lady seeks to incite jealousy in prospective suitors in order to further her marriage prospects. I should pity her. It’s her fourth season, and rumor has it her father’s desperate to get her off his hands because he cannot afford a fifth.”

  “Then why don’t you offer for her?” Hawthorne said bitterly. The last thing he wanted was a spurned heiress parading her indignation around London in an attempt to coerce him into matrimony. Dear God, with that materialistic, characterless creature in his home and bed, even with his renowned prowess, he’d struggle to produce an heir.

  Not that he wanted any woman in his bed except…

  His body hardened as the faint scent of her drifted into the air and the door opened.

  “He’s in here, miss…” A young girl in a maid’s uniform recoiled as she caught sight of the two men.

  “Begging your pardon, my Lord, I didn’t know you had company.”

  “No matter, Jenny,” Hawthorne said. “Bring Miss Stanford in.”

  The maid moved aside to reveal the young woman standing behind her.

  Though clad in a simple white muslin gown, vivid colors assaulted Hawthorne’s senses. Expressive eyes widened, tones of blue and green glittering as the sunlight from the window caught her face. Coppery hair contrasted with the color of her eyes.

  Jenny had learned much since Hawthorne had brought her here to tend to his charge. Her skilled hands had piled Frederica’s hair into a becoming shape, which emphasized the length of her neck. A cascade of tresses curled either side of her face, giving her the air of a Grecian goddess.

  A goddess to worship. Had she been wealthy and titled, she’d have been the triumph of the season, a prize among the dull heiresses who swam in the seas of society—mere minnows compared to such an exotic creature.

  Hawthorne stood, as did his friend.

  “F–forgive me.” She shrank back as her gaze fell upon Ross.

  “Frederica, come here.”

  Her body stilled as his command reverberated around the room. Even Ross raised his eyebrows at the dominant tone. But a firm hand was the only way to control her, an untamed filly who needed the security of her master’s hand.

  She drifted toward his outstretched hand, and cold little fingers entwined with his.

  “There’s someone I particularly want you to meet, Miss Stanford. My best friend, Ross Trelawney.” Hawthorne turned to Ross and issued a silent plea with his eyes. “Ross, may I present, Miss Frederica Stanford?”

  Ross bowed and took her free hand, lifting it to his lips, but not quite touching.

  “It gives me great pleasure to see you again, Miss Stanford.”

  “Likewise.” Her fingers tightened on Hawthorne’s hand, and Ross glanced at him.

  “I trust you’re well,” Ross said warmly. “I cannot begin to understand how you must feel since losing your father, so I’ll not insult your intelligence by offering the condolences society seems to think are adequate. But I hope my friend is taking good care of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Miss Stanford and I are to take the air in Hyde Park,” Hawthorne said, giving Frederica’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Perhaps you’d care to join us, Ross?”

  She shrank away, but he held her firm. If she were to overcome her fear, she needed to face it.

  “Ross is my friend, Miss Stanford,” he said. “I’d trust him with my life. Wouldn’t you prefer two champions escorting you today?”

  Ross held out his arm. “I’m at your disposal, Miss Stanford.”

  Her lips curled in a quick, tight smile, and she took his proffered arm. Perhaps there was hope for her recovery after all.

  *

  The ripple of laughter caught Hawthorne unawares. He’d lagged behind Ross and Frederica, on the lookout for the one man who must be avoided at all costs. It wouldn’t do for her to come face to face with Markham.

  Ross proved an adept champion, a knight in armor who’d understood Hawthorne’s plea and drawn her into conversation. Not the vapid remarks between soulless members of society, but a discussion among equals of intellect.

  Ross’s heart might still be broken from Miss de Grecy’s rejection, but he was better off without her. Perhaps Ross and Frederica might heal each other. They were of the same social class, and he seemed enraptured with her explanation of how she painted landscapes when there was insufficient time to sit outdoors before the light disappeared.

  “Tell me, Miss Stanford,” Ross said. “If you are unable to paint an exact likeness, what is the purpose of art?”

  “To capture the essence of the subject.”

  “You mean its soul?”

  “If you like.”

  Hawthorne joined them, and her face colored, as if she knew she’d revealed too much of herself.

  “I would like to view some of your paintings, Miss Stanford,” Ross said. “Too long have I been subjected to the accomplishments of ladies who consider themselves artists simply because they present a tree in perfect proportion as if it’s been forced to conform to the aesthetics of society.”

  “You prefer flaws to perfection, Mr. Trelawney?”

  “What is a flaw, if not a mark of experience as we travel through life? That which society deems to be perfect, I find rather dull.”

  Such as Miss de Grecy.

  As they rounded a corner, the lone figure of a woman came into view, staring at the Serpentine. Golden hair shone in the sunlight and pale blue eyes widened as they approached.

  “Alice?” Frederica’s smile broadened as she spotted her friend.

  “Perhaps we should turn back,” Ross said. “I wouldn’t want you catching cold so soon after your recovery. Miss de Grecy will be much occupied with her betrothed, and I’m sure they’d prefer not to be disturbed.”

  Frederica
stiffened. “She’s engaged?”

  “Mr. Trelawney is right,” Hawthorne said. “If you wish to see Miss de Grecy, I’ll issue an invitation.”

  He took hold of her arm and pulled her toward him. “Trust me, little changeling.” Ross arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Miss de Grecy, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting!”

  Frederica’s body stiffened at the familiar voice.

  “Oh, I say, it’s Lord Stiles. What a pleasure to see you!”

  In a few quick strides, Roderick Markham was upon them.

  “I trust there are no hard feelings between us, Trelawney,” Markham said. “Miss de Grecy is perfectly happy in her new situation. I believe it turned out for the best.”

  Ross’s body stiffened. “I beg your…”

  “Come, come, Trelawney,” Markham said. “Let’s shake hands. I’d be honored if you attended our wedding next week.”

  “Of course.” Ross bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you so happily settled at last, Miss de Grecy.”

  The vapid creature cast a quick glance at Markham, then nodded.

  “And you, of course, Stiles,” Roderick said smoothly, turning his gaze to Hawthorne. His smile had broadened, but his eyes glittered with ice.

  “And your new ward! I wish you success in finding a suitable husband for her, given her status.”

  She dug her fingers into Hawthorne’s arm. “My status?”

  “Of course,” Markham said, “I understand why your guardian was keen to protect his reputation by circulating stories of an accident, but we know different, do we not?”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Hawthorne met Markham’s gaze, and the blackguard had the nerve to smile. “That’s enough, Markham,” he growled.

  “Come now, Stiles,” Markham said. “Our little bird deserves the truth.” He lowered his voice. “You have my sympathies, Miss Stanford, on the occasion of your father being declared a murderer. I cannot begin to understand the effect that must have on your reputation, fragile as it is already.”

  A small gasp left Alice’s lips, and Markham squeezed her hand. “Quite so, my dear,” he said. “I believe it’s time we moved on. It’s most ungentlemanly for a man to make the woman on his arm stand while engaging in conversation, when that woman is a lady.” He wrinkled his nose and looked at Frederica. “Of course, Stiles, you’re in no such danger, given the company you keep.”