Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  A spark of pain crossed her expression.

  He sighed. “I must apologize for what I said last night, what I called you.” What the devil was he doing placating her?

  “Given that you’d run off with a lover,” he added, “I had good reason.”

  She shriveled under his words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her lips barely moved, but her quiet whisper penetrated his mind as surely as it had penetrated his dreams for the past five years—dreams which always ended with him waking in a cold, empty bed.

  He opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. An apology was almost always followed by a statement of absolution. But she deserved no such consideration.

  He gestured around the room. “This is a very pleasant parlor. The windows let in plenty of sunlight. It must get very warm in the summer.”

  Ye gods, was this what he’d been reduced to? Small talk? The devil on his shoulder propelled him forward. “Your patron must be very generous.”

  Her eyes had darkened with anger, and she set her mouth into a hard line.

  “It may astonish you to know, I’m able to support myself. Every penny I earn is through honest work.”

  “And what’s your definition of honest work?” His conscience twitched, but he had to know who she offered herself to, who she desired more than him.

  “Cooking and cleaning, serving dinner,” she said. “Lately, I’ve earned a little money from my paintings.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “The winter months can be hard, but we set a little aside in the more prosperous months.”

  “And that’s enough for you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Though I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “What about the money you inherited from your father? You left it untouched.”

  The chink in her armor widened, and she looked away. “I don’t want it. You keep it, in lieu of the necklace I took.”

  “The necklace?”

  “Aye,” she said softly. “It’s plagued my conscience ever since I took it.”

  “The necklace?” he growled, rising from the chair. “Is that your only regret?”

  The door opened and he sat back, fighting to control the anger vibrating through his bones. The servant girl set out the teacups while Frederica closed her eyes.

  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Anna,” she said quietly. “But tell me if Mrs. Beecham wakes…” she hesitated, “…or Georgia.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl disappeared again. Frederica opened her eyes as soon as the door closed. For a moment, he saw nothing but raw pain reflected in them before she blinked and looked away.

  “I care nothing for the necklace,” he said. “It was a gift to you. But I’ll make arrangements to have your fortune released. At least it would elevate you from your current situation.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?” she said, passion coloring her voice. “A fortune would leave me prey to suitors who’d squander it and seek to own me. I have no desire to be a prisoner again. Here, I have independence. I’m free.”

  “Free? In a hovel, working as a servant?”

  “You’ll never understand the value of freedom, until it’s been taken from you.”

  Before he could respond, the door opened. A child burst into the room in a whirlwind of excited chatter, followed by the maid.

  “Little mistress! You shouldn’t be here. Your mama has a guest.”

  “I want to see him!”

  The child crossed the room and leapt onto Frederica’s lap. Frederica wrapped her arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Little angel.”

  The child turned her gaze on Hawthorne. Warm brown eyes captured him with frank, honest appraisal. As if she sensed his hostility, she shrank back against Frederica.

  “You have a child,” he said quietly.

  Frederica tightened her hold on her, and the angry resolve in her expression dissolved, replaced by a crippling fear.

  Hawthorne held out his hand.

  “Come here, child,” he said, using the tone which elicited testimonies from the most frightened witnesses. The truly innocent had every reason to trust him, for he was a champion of their plights.

  The girl wriggled in her mother’s lap.

  “Be still, angel,” Frederica whispered.

  “No,” the child said petulantly, “I want to see him!”

  “Let her come,” he said. “I won’t harm her. You should know that of me, if nothing else.”

  She released the child who surged toward him, and he lifted her onto his lap. She turned her gaze to him, and a shock of familiarity coursed through his body.

  “Do you live here alone with your mama?”

  “And Mrs. Beecham,” she replied “Mrs. Beecham is teaching me my letters. Would you like me to show you?”

  “Angel, Mrs. Beecham is resting,” Frederica interjected. “We mustn’t disturb her.”

  The girl’s smile disappeared. Hawthorne bounced his knee, and the smile returned.

  “What about your papa?” he asked.

  Frederica gave a sharp intake of breath.

  The child wiped her nose. “Papa is gone.”

  Frederica gave a low cry. “Please…”

  Ignoring her, he bounced his knee again. “Do you miss him?”

  The child leaned toward him. “I never knew him, but Mama misses him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She cries for him at night.”

  Frederica leapt to her feet. “Leave her alone! You have no quarrel with her.”

  Whatever sins Frederica had committed, the child was innocent. He stroked her hair and gave her a reassuring smile. She rewarded him with a smile of her own.

  “Such a pretty child,” he said softly. “What’s your name?”

  “Georgia.”

  “An unusual name. Did your mama choose it?”

  “She named me after Papa,” the child said proudly, sitting upright as if proclaiming herself to the world. “Georgia Hawthorne Ford.”

  Frederica let out a cry. The child turned her gaze on him once more, and recognition slid into place. The deep-set, brown eyes which looked at him so thoughtfully. It was as if he were looking at himself.

  The child in his arms was his daughter.

  Chapter Thirty

  Icy fingers clawed at Frederica’s insides. Hawthorne had grown still, his forehead creasing as he studied the child on his lap. He lifted a hand to Georgia’s face and stroked her cheek.

  “Georgia…”

  Doubt glittered in his eyes while he scrutinized her as he must have examined countless witnesses over the years. At length, he dipped his chin and buried his face in her hair. His chest rose and fell in a sigh, then he composed himself, lifted his head, and looked directly at Frederica.

  The frost in his expression tore into her heart.

  “Hawthorne…” she croaked, her throat dry with guilt.

  “Did you know?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Did you know you were carrying my child when you…” he hesitated before his expression hardened further “…when you betrayed me?”

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered, but he raised a hand.

  “Spare your words, madam.” He took Georgia’s chin in his hands and tipped her head up. His expression softened from betrayed suitor into loving parent.

  Georgia took his hand, and tears pooled in Frederica’s eyes at the love in his eyes.

  “Are you my papa?”

  He kissed Georgia’s forehead and glared at Frederica in challenge.

  “Yes, angel,” she whispered. “He’s your father.”

  The child wrapped her arms around Hawthorne’s chest. “I prayed you’d come!”

  He held her tight as if his life depended on it. Years of grieving for a child he’d never known vibrated throughout his frame.

  Guilt ripped through Frederica at the
sight of what her abandonment had done to him. She’d run away to protect him, so he could fulfill his ambition. But, instead, she had broken him.

  She crossed the room, unable to bear his pain any more. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he stiffened.

  “Hawthorne…”

  He jerked away.

  “Leave me be.”

  Georgia clung to him while he caressed her hair, telling her he loved her more than the world, that his life was empty without her. He spoke of his joy on finding her. Settling his gaze on Frederica, he told the child he would not abandon her, that he would do everything in his power to ensure he was never parted from her again.

  His words of love and comfort to the child were, to Frederica, a warning.

  The door opened, and Anna appeared.

  “Is everything all right, ma’am? The noise has woken Mrs. Beecham.”

  “Yes, Anna,” Frederica said. “Leave us.”

  “No!” Hawthorne commanded, the force of his voice making Anna stop. “Go to my carriage, girl, and tell my man to come in.”

  Anna hesitated and glanced at Frederica.

  “Now!”

  She jumped and rushed out of the room. Not long afterward, she returned with a liveried footman.

  “You wanted me, sir?”

  Hawthorne nodded. “See if you can find a trunk in this house. I want their belongings packed and ready to leave by this evening.”

  Panic rose within Frederica, and she took a step toward him. “What are you doing?”

  “Giving my child the life you denied her.”

  “No, you can’t!”

  “I think you’ll find I can,” he said. “This child is mine, and the law is on my side.”

  “What should I pack, sir?” the footman asked.

  “Whatever you deem of most value,” Hawthorne said. “I doubt it will take long. I would rather my daughter forget the squalor she’s lived in.”

  Fury boiled in Frederica’s blood.

  “How dare you, my daughter’s had love!”

  “I’m capable of loving, as well you know,” he said, “but I am more discerning now.”

  “A child needs a mother’s love,” she pleaded. “Don’t take her from me.”

  “She needs a father,” he growled, “and she has one. One you denied her. Given that Stanford took you in despite your origins, you, of all people, should understand your cruelty when you abandoned me.”

  “I thought only of you,” Frederica said.

  Still in his arms, Georgia looked from one to the other, perhaps unhappy with the way they talked to each other.

  “No, madam,” he hissed. “You thought only of yourself and continue to do so by trying to deny what’s mine by right. But I’m not so cruel as to deny the child her mother. You shall remain with us while the child has need of you.”

  Relief rippled through her, fighting the fear of returning to London.

  “Thank you.”

  Ignoring her, he addressed the footman.

  “Start packing immediately. If she tries to run, you’re at liberty to restrain her. Use any force you deem necessary.”

  “What’s all this, lass?”

  Frederica froze at the voice from behind.

  Mrs. Beecham stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane. Her intelligent eyes flicked between Frederica, Georgia, and Hawthorne. Years of almost constant pain had taken their toll on her, and she looked more tired than usual. There was little the doctor could do for her, though he was kind enough not to charge Frederica the full amount for his services.

  “It’s him, isn’t it, lass? I see the likeness with your bairn.”

  Hawthorne scrutinized the old woman with his piercing stare.

  Georgia leapt off his lap.

  “Mrs. Beecham, Papa’s come! We can all be together, now.”

  “No, child,” Hawthorne said. “You’ll need to say your goodbyes to this woman.”

  “Hawthorne, please…” Frederica whispered, “I cannot leave Mrs. Beecham here alone with just Anna to care for her. She’s ill and has no money.”

  “You seek to manipulate me by inciting sympathy?” he scoffed. “In the interest of my child, I’ll suffer the company of the woman who bore her, but I’ll not waste my resources on every ragtag stray in Scotland.”

  “Papa, please!” Georgia wrapped her arms around his leg. “I love Mrs. Beecham! She has nobody else to take care of her.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Very well.”

  “Thank you,” Frederica said. “Please, don’t concern yourself about money. I have a little put by I can use for her…”

  He cut her off with an angry word. “Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for my daughter.”

  He took Georgia’s hand and bent to kiss her forehead.

  “Papa will return soon, sweet one, then we’ll go home.” Her lip wobbled, and he stroked her face. “I promise, you’ll be happy with me. Nobody loves you more than your Papa.”

  The child sniffed. “You’re leaving?”

  “I have a few arrangements to make, then I’ll come straight back. I want to make sure your room at home is all ready for you. Do you like dolls?”

  “Oh, yes!” A broad smile illuminated Georgia’s face, the smile which, over the years, had given Frederica jolts of recognition, as if it were Hawthorne himself. But he would never smile at her again.

  “I will have the finest doll in London ready and waiting for you.

  Georgia’s eyes widened. “London?”

  “You’ll love it,” he said. “You can ride in a carriage every day and wear the most beautiful dresses a loving Papa can give his daughter.”

  Georgia clapped her hands with excitement.

  Hawthorne nodded to the footman. “Get on with it. I want to be away from here as quickly as possible.”

  Without another glance at Frederica, he swept out of the room, the front door banging behind him.

  *

  “Ye always knew he’d find you sooner or later, lass.”

  Mrs. Beecham was right. She was the only soul in the village who knew Frederica’s history. The childless widow of a parson, she’d taken Frederica in when she was nothing but a homeless, pregnant woman fresh off the coach from London. She had comforted Frederica when her nightmares plagued her and nursed her through her confinement. It was out of respect to Mrs. Beecham that Mr. Campbell had given Frederica employment. Mrs. Beecham had come to fulfil the role of the mother she’d never known. The small stipend afforded to her by the church had dwindled to nothing, and both she and Frederica needed each other.

  Georgia lay curled up in the armchair. Across the room, sat the silent footman. True to his word, he’d watched Frederica constantly while she packed her trunk. But it wasn’t his presence that compelled her to do as Hawthorne bid. The agony in Hawthorne’s eyes had clawed at her heart. She owed it to him to ease his pain and give him what he demanded, no matter how much he hated her.

  “I can stay here, ye know,” Mrs. Beecham said. “He’s your family.”

  “I couldn’t bear to leave you, Mrs. Beecham,” Frederica said, “and Georgia loves you as much as I.”

  “Mr. Campbell would take me in. You know I’m not long for this world. You need to get to know him again, lass, and a sick old woman would only get in the way.”

  Frederica choked back the tears. “He hates me, Mrs. Beecham. It’s Georgia he wants.”

  Thin, bony fingers interlocked with hers. “How many times have you told me of his kindness, his devotion to justice? Such a man could not harbor hatred forever.”

  Frederica sighed and looked at the trunk in which she’d packed her most precious possessions—her art materials, sketchbook, and Georgia’s favorite dress and doll. Hawthorne would likely discard Georgia’s things in favor of something more befitting an earl’s daughter. But to Frederica, they were worth more than anything his money could buy. She had worked hard to afford them. She reached into her reticule and fingered the frayed piece of cloth inside, rubbing her fin
gertips along the fibers. His necktie had given her comfort over the years. His masculine scent had long since dispersed, but if she closed her eyes for long enough, the memory of it always softened her pain.

  The main door rattled, and Hawthorne strode into the parlor, magnificent in a dark coat, cream breeches, and polished black boots. A top hat and cane under his arm, he looked every part the aristocrat, a world above Frederica.

  He barked an order at the footman, who leapt to his feet and dragged the trunk outside, then he approached Georgia and gently woke her. The child rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and a smile brightened her face.

  “Papa!”

  He kissed her hand. “Come, little angel. Your new life awaits.”

  He carried Georgia outside, not bothering to check whether Frederica followed.

  *

  The carriage had only been moving for a few minutes when it stopped. Hawthorne climbed out and motioned to Frederica.

  “Get out.”

  Georgia’s eyes widened at his harsh tone.

  “Papa?”

  “Sweeting, stay here while your Mama and I conclude our business.”

  He pulled Frederica out of the carriage, and her stomach churned with fear.

  “Are you to abandon me on the road?”

  He said nothing, but tightened his grip, and pulled her toward the nearest building, the village church.

  The creak of wood on metal echoed through the church as he pushed the door open. The afternoon light shone through the windows, leaving a trail of colors on the floor of the aisle. At the end stood the parson, accompanied by two men, Mr. Campbell and the village blacksmith.

  She tried to break free, but his grip was too strong.

  “Be still!” he hissed. “Do you want the witnesses to think you unwilling?”

  “I can’t marry you!”

  “Are you already married?”

  “No, but don’t you have to secure a license?”

  “We’re in Scotland, my dear, where one has no need to wait.”

  “But…”

  “Enough!” he said. “If we return to London unwed, society will call our daughter a bastard. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  Her resolve crumbled. He knew he had her cornered. However, much she disliked the idea, she must put Georgia’s needs first.

  “Very well, I’ll do as you ask.”