by Royal, Emily
“I said, get out!” Hawthorne cried. A murmur rippled through the onlookers, and he whirled round to face them, the cream of society who would no doubt relish the opportunity for gossip. Vultures and scavengers the lot of them.
“Leave!” he roared. “All of you! There’ll be no wedding tomorrow. Now, get the fuck out of my house!”
Cries of shock burst from the ladies’ lips. Ross pulled him aside and barked orders to the footmen who scurried about the hallway, fetching coats and cloaks in their desperation to dispatch the guests as quickly as possible.
Ravenwell took charge, ushering the others out. Before the door closed behind him, he cast a quick, concerned glance over his shoulder, nodded at Ross, then followed the rest outside.
The footmen needed no instruction. As soon as the door shut, they disappeared.
Bitter tears stung Hawthorne’s eyelids, but he wouldn’t succumb.
Ross touched his arm. “Would you like me to stay?”
“No.” he said coldly. “Forgive my outburst, but I’m well now. It was for the best.”
“You can’t mean that, Hawthorne. I know how much you love…”
“Don’t say it, Ross, or I’ll throw you out as well.” Hawthorne forced a grim smile. “I would have been miserable had I shackled myself to her. I should thank her for releasing me from the obligation at so little cost to myself. She only took a necklace. Other than that, I’ve lost nothing of any real value.”
“You can’t mean that.” Ross offered his hand.
Hawthorne slapped him away. “Get out.”
Ross sighed. “I’ll return in the morning.”
“If you intend to mention her name again, don’t bother to return at all.”
After the door slammed behind Ross, Hawthorne crossed the hall to his study. Hands trembling, he picked up the decanter and filled a glass, the amber liquid splashing over the desk. He tipped the glass and drained the contents, spluttering as the liquid burned his throat.
“Curse her!”
He threw the glass against the door, and it shattered on impact. But the whisky served its purpose. The pain had lessened. With luck, it would disappear completely, deaden his heart, and obliterate the memory of her. He took another glass, emptied the decanter into it, drained it, then rang the bell for Giles. His cellar was well stocked. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Airth, Scotland
1819
“Mrs. Ford!”
The innkeeper stood at the end of the corridor, waving a note in his hand.
“Good news,” he said. “Another painting sold.”
Frederica wiped her hands on her apron. “Who bought it, Mr. Campbell?”
“Mr. MacDonald, the merchant who wouldn’t stop talking about his children. He said it was a present for his wife. That’s five this month. You’re getting quite the reputation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Thank you. My fortunes changed for the better the day I hired you. Not even my Morag, God rest her soul, worked as hard.”
He wiped his eyes, and a rush of sympathy blew through Frederica’s veins. Mr. Campbell had given her employment when nobody else would, mainly out of fondness for old Mrs. Beecham. But nonetheless, a woman with no background was a risk for anyone to take on. Frederica owed him her livelihood. As for Mrs. Beecham, she owed the woman her life.
“Och, forgive me, Mrs. Ford,” he said. “The melancholy threatens to overcome me, particularly when I’ve enjoyed too much of our wine.” He nodded. “Which reminds me, I wondered if you could help us tonight? We’ve two gentleman guests having a private dinner. They’re returning to London after a shooting party and have broken their journey here. They’d appreciate someone a little more ladylike than wee Isla. With your knowledge of wine, you’re the best person to serve their burgundy.”
“I don’t know…”
“But I do,” he said, his tone kind, but insistent. “I’d like to give them a good impression in case they come here again. You’re good with the patrons, Mrs. Ford. The men who stay spend their days talking to their colleagues and their nights being talked at by their wives. They appreciate a little quiet attention, not the idle chitter-chatter of girls like Isla. I’ll pay double.”
“You pay me enough as it is.”
“Then consider it a little extra for Mrs. Beecham, or wee Georgia.”
“Very well.”
“Good, lass!” he said. “And I have something for you. Yesterday’s copy of the Times. Mr. MacDonald left it in his room. You can read it while you have your tea. It’s waiting for you in the parlor. Isla’s had hers, so you’ll have a bit of peace.”
After pouring her tea, Federica slipped off her shoes to ease her aching feet. She dropped a spoonful of sugar in her tea and sipped it. Though she wrinkled her nose at the sweet taste, the sugar provided much-needed energy. As did the cake. Isla might be a gossip, but she baked an excellent fruitcake.
She opened the paper, drawn, as usual, to the society pages. The accounts of balls and parties had thinned now the London season was coming to an end, but births, marriages, and deaths still filled the page. Last year, she’d read of the death of the old Duke of Markham but had felt nothing. Over the years, her fear of discovery had dwindled.
As for Hawthorne, her heart tightened every time her eyes lingered on the account of the marriages. Had he married? Not Louisa Wilcott, she’d married a duke less than a month after Frederica had settled in Scotland. He must be married by now. Perhaps she’d missed the notification. Mr. Campbell didn’t always manage to procure a copy of the Times.
Elsewhere, she’d read accounts of his success as a magistrate and his reputation for fairness. The Regent had commended him on his prowess. Revered and admired, he had achieved his heart’s desire.
But was he loved?
She folded the newspaper and set it aside. Work was the best remedy for memories. She had others to live for now, and once she’d served the dinner guests, she could return home to them.
*
Frederica stood outside the dining room door, holding a tray laden with two portions of steak and a bottle of wine. She nodded to Isla, and the girl knocked on the door, then opened it after a voice hailed from within.
Two men were in the room. One stood by the window, almost hidden in shadow. The other stood facing the wall, where a number of her paintings hung. Perhaps she’d make a sale tonight.
She placed the tray on the table and picked up the bottle.
“Your supper is ready, sirs. Shall I open the wine?”
The man admiring the paintings turned, and their eyes locked. A jolt of recognition coursed through her, and the bottle slipped from her grasp. He darted toward her and caught it.
“I thought I recognized the paintings.”
“Mr. Trelawney…”
“I’d know your style anywhere,” he addressed his companion. “Didn’t I say so?”
The other man stepped out of the shadows, and her chest tightened, forcing the breath from her lungs. Eyes focused on her, eyes which had once been full of warmth and love, were now black and cold.
“Hawthorne…”
He advanced on her.
“Ross, get out,” he spoke so quietly, she almost thought she’d imagined it.
“No,” she said. “I’ll go. I mustn’t keep you from your dinner.” She moved toward the door.
“I’ve not given you leave to go, madam.”
“Hawthorne, please…” Ross said. “Surely this can wait.”
Frederica twisted the door handle.
“Stop!”
Her body froze at the force of his voice.
“Are you employed here?” Hawthorne asked.
She nodded.
“In which case, you must do as you’re bid.” He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him. “Where’s your lover?” he hissed. “Did you tire of him, too?”
The door opened behind her.
“The meal is satisfactory, I’m sure,” Hawthorne said, “but I find the service somewhat lacking. I didn’t know you were in the business of employing harlots.”
Mr. Campbell’s eyes narrowed. “Unhand Mrs. Ford, if you please.”
“Mrs. Ford?” Hawthorne eyed the innkeeper with a sneer. “Are you her husband?”
“She’s a respectable widow, and I’ll thank you to take your hands off her.”
“Hawthorne, for pity’s sake!” Ross cried.
Hawthorne winced and relaxed his grip.
“Come along, my dear,” Mr. Campbell said. “Let’s leave these gentlemen to their meal.”
“I’d like a word with Mrs. Ford,” Hawthorne growled.
“I think not.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Campbell,” Frederica said. “He can’t hurt me.”
“If you’re sure?”
She nodded, and the innkeeper slipped outside. “Call me if you need anything, my dear.”
Hawthorne waited until the door closed.
“So, you’re a widow?”
“I…”
“Did you drive him into his grave?”
She shook her head, and he moved closer, body vibrating with anger. “Perhaps you’re spreading your legs for the innkeeper? Is that how you earn your keep?”
The force of his hatred sliced through her heart. Is this what she’d done to him? By setting him free, had she turned him into a monster, a man without compassion?
“No,” she whispered.
He shrugged, gesturing with casual indifference.
“I was merely curious. It matters not who you’re fucking.”
Bitter pain burst within her at his words, and she flew out of the room.
Mr. Campbell looked up as she raced into the kitchen.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Ford?”
“It’s time I went home.”
“Are you in trouble, my dear?”
“No,” she said. “But I must go.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll see to the guests. I’m sorry you had to deal with their rudeness. Sometimes I wonder what state our country is in if that’s how gentlemen behave. Och, perhaps it’s why London is so degenerate. But dinnae worry. They’re leaving tomorrow and need never bother you again.”
“Thank you.”
“Here.” He held out a slice of cake wrapped in paper. “Take this.”
She bade him goodnight and slipped outside, praying Hawthorne wouldn’t follow her. At all costs, the one she loved most in the world must be protected.
*
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Hawthorne?” Ross reached for a slice of toast and spread marmalade on it. He bit into it and sighed with relish.
“Don’t lecture me.” Hawthorne pushed his teacup aside, the liquid long since having turned cold. He motioned to the manservant to clear his place. Other than lifting his eyebrows at Hawthorne’s untouched breakfast plate, the man complied in silence.
How could Ross take such enjoyment in his food? Last night’s supper had tasted like dust, the wine turning to acid on his tongue. Fate had delivered a cruel blow, reopening wounds she’d inflicted, wounds which refused to heal.
And he’d tried. Weeks of searching had proved fruitless. Months of drinking had lessened the pain at first, but it always returned tenfold. Were it not for Ross and Ravenwell, he would have descended into oblivion—another nameless sot who lived only for drink and opiates. But his career had given him a purpose. With the magistracy to satisfy his ambition, he was able to muffle the cries of his heart and soul.
But the sight of her eyes widening in recognition and fear had threatened to pierce the armor he’d fashioned around himself.
Reason told him he should forget her and continue his journey to London with Ross. But he needed to confront her, to understand why she’d abandoned him. The truth would set him free, rid him of her once and for all.
Ross set his cup aside. “Do you wish me to wait while you conduct your business?”
“No. You go ahead. I’ll follow once I’m done.” Hawthorne reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of coins. “This should be enough for a mail coach.”
Ross pushed the money across the table. “Keep it.”
A young woman, barely out of childhood, entered and began clear the table.
“You there,” Hawthorne said. “Do you know Mrs. Ford, the woman who works here?”
“Aye.” The girl’s Scottish burr almost obscured the words. “But ye’ll no see her today.”
“I wish to speak with her,” Hawthorne said. The girl’s eyes widened, and he softened his voice, “to purchase one of her paintings.”
“Oh!” the girl said. “Mr. Campbell can arrange it. I’ll fetch him.”
“I’d rather speak to Mrs. Ford directly,” Hawthorne said. “I wish to offer her a commission.”
He avoided Ross’s gaze. The knowledge that he lied was only partly tempered by the knowledge that his deception paled into nothing compared to hers.
“She’ll be delighted,” the girl said. “She’s in the cottage at the edge of the village, just beyond the smithy. You can’t miss it, there’s roses lining the front door. Old Mrs. Beecham keeps them ever so bonny.” Doubt crossed her features. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you.”
“You’re a good and clever girl,” Hawthorne said, and the girl blushed. “But don’t tell Mr. Campbell. I wouldn’t want to cause trouble for Mrs. Ford, or you, with your employer.”
The girl bobbed a curtsey and slipped out of the room. Ross rose and picked up his gloves. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I won’t fall for her wiles again, Ross.”
“Be careful, my friend,” Ross said, a tone of warning in his voice. “I’ve no wish to see you in the state you’d fallen into after she left.” He hesitated and looked away, as if contemplating something before resuming. “I’d also suggest you listen to what she has to say.”
“You can’t expect me to forgive her.”
“Five years is a long time to remain angry,” Ross said. “Her circumstances have been reduced to servitude. Is that not punishment enough?”
“Punishment!” Hawthorne scoffed. “The bastard daughter of a servant cannot be reduced further.”
A pang of guilt twisted in his gut even before he finished uttering the words. Try as he might, his hatred never burned as fiercely as he wished.
“You go, Ross. I’ll settle the account here. With luck, I’ll overtake you on the road, and we can spend the rest of the journey together.”
As soon as Ross left, Hawthorne went in search of the innkeeper to secure his room for another night.
Frederica would not escape justice this time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The cottage, though tiny, looked well-kept and loved. The roses surrounding the door were neatly trimmed.
As Hawthorne climbed out of the carriage, he spotted movement at one of the widows. He’d barely knocked on the door when it opened to reveal a dark-haired girl in a servant’s uniform.
“Are ye lost, sir?”
“I’m come to see Mrs. Ford.”
“Is she expecting ye?”
“I rather believe so.”
The girl hesitated, then stepped aside.
“Let me take you to the parlor while I fetch the mistress.”
The furnishings in the parlor were threadbare, the wood stained and blemished, but it looked clean and tidy. He took an armchair beside the empty fireplace and waited.
A table beside the window was laden with art materials, an earthenware pot full of brushes, smaller jars and boxes, and a threadbare sketchbook. A landscape hung over the fireplace. It depicted a lake with an expanse of heather in the foreground, the land beyond dotted with deer. In the background, a large mountain stood over
the land like a giant sentinel, its jagged edge pointing toward the sky.
He stood to inspect it, his eyes drawn to the detail in the foreground. The flowers had been portrayed with sensitivity, their delicate purple hue mirroring that of the lake. His gaze moved to the left where a small creature foraged among the grasses, bright blue-black eyes peering out, a soft brown face and a rotund body covered in prickly spines.
Despite himself, his lips curled into a smile at the memory of the little woodland creature he had once picked up, the creature she’d defended with such courage.
The door opened, and he jumped back, guilt warming his cheeks as if he were a young lad caught with his fingers in the sweetmeats.
“Madam, your guest is…”
The girl’s voice was cut short by a cry, and he came face to face with the woman who’d almost destroyed him.
Her face was paler than he remembered, perhaps due to the shock of seeing him in her home. Small lines creased the skin around her eyes. He recognized the air of a prisoner standing in the dock through no fault of their own, the unfairly accused, the dispossessed, prisoners of their own suffering. He’d seen that look too many times. But he brushed it aside.
“Earl Stiles,” she addressed him quietly. The girl at her side gasped and dipped another curtsey.
“Mrs. Ford,” he replied, saying the false name.
“Anna,” she said, “would you be kind enough to fetch some tea?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl scuttled out of the room as if being chased by wolves.
Frederica gestured toward an armchair.
“Please, sit.”
Despite her calm exterior, he noted the way her hands shook, his ear registering the tremor in her voice. She moved toward a chair and into direct sunlight. Her beauty still captivated him. She turned her head toward him, her pupils contracted to pinpricks in the light, and the green of her eyes vibrated against the color of her hair.
“Are you, are you well?” The musical notes of her voice threatened to deceive him once more.
He leaned forward, and she shrank back, as if aware of the inanity of her question.
“Is it any business of yours if I am?”
