by Royal, Emily
She turned her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes forward, jaw firm.
“Please, Hawthorne. Can’t we begin again?”
For a moment, the pain in her heart was reflected in his expression, then his eyes hardened.
“It’s too late for that.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Hawthorne jolted awake as the carriage hit a rut.
They were nearing London. Beside him, his daughter lay asleep, her hair fanned out over his lap. In the light of the setting sun, he could discern traces of red. Her features were delicate, with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped mouth. The image of her mother, except for her eyes.
He relaxed back and watched his wife. She sat opposite him, eyes closed, the old woman next to her. Though she had grown thin, her body hummed with resolve, as if years of hardship had strengthened her will to survive. His little changeling had undergone a transformation. Doubtless she’d resist him at every turn. But he had the one thing that would defeat her.
Her child.
How often had he wanted her at his mercy? But instead of triumph, he only felt regret.
The old woman let out a moan. Frederica opened her eyes, took the woman’s hand, and spoke to her in a low voice. He held his breath while she knelt at the woman’s feet and adjusted the blanket around her legs, the act of tender devotion touching his heart.
“Are you in pain, Mrs. Beecham?” he asked.
The woman nodded.
“Forgive me,” Frederica said. “The laudanum ran out yesterday. When we reach London, I’ll…” She glanced in Hawthorne’s direction, then lowered her voice. “I’ll ask permission to buy some. I’ve enough money to keep you comfortable until…”
“Until I’m gone?” the old woman said. “Dear, sweet child.” She took Frederica’s hand and sank back, her face twisted with pain.
The child stirred, and Frederica returned to her seat. Holding the old woman’s hand, she stared out the window and kept still, as she had done all those years ago in an attempt to appear invisible.
As the journey wore on, she rubbed her wrists, the precursor to her nightmares. But each time the old woman whispered to her until she grew calm. Memories of her screams swirled in his mind along with another memory—her unconscious form abandoned on her father’s doorsteps while he’d slunk away like a coward.
Had she told the old woman the part Hawthorne had played in her childhood nightmare?
The sound of the hooves changed to the familiar clatter over stones as they reached London’s streets. Georgia woke, and he lifted her to a sitting position. Frederica grew quiet. By the time the carriage drew to a halt outside his townhouse, her knuckles were white as she gripped her companion’s hand.
He fisted his own hand, fighting the instinct to protect her. The carriage door opened, and he climbed out, the child in his arms.
“Mama!” she said excitedly, “are you coming?”
Frederica followed him out.
The servants had lined up to greet their master. Though he’d sent word ahead, only the upper servants knew who he brought with him. Whispers rippled down the line until a sharp word from Giles silenced them. Several pairs of eyes focused on the child. They couldn’t fail to recognize who she was; the likeness was unmistakable.
The woman behind him attracted more than mere curiosity. A bolt of shame threaded through him. His servants had witnessed his disintegration after his search for Frederica had proven fruitless. Many of them had tended to him while he’d lain ill from the effects of drink and afterward, when he’d fallen into the Thames amid rumors that he wanted to end his life.
Dark days and painful memories. He could withstand her company, but not his servants’ pity.
Near the end of the line, a young woman leapt forward and took Frederica’s hand. The compassion in her eyes threatened to melt his heart, but it was Frederica’s soft cry which clutched at his soul.
“Oh, Miss! I was so worried about you!”
“Forgive me, Jenny,” Frederica said, her voice thick with pain. “I never meant to harm anyone.”
Giles cleared his throat, his meaning plain. The wife of an earl shouldn’t be seen acting in such a familiar manner with her servants.
“Jenny, that’s enough,” the housekeeper snapped.
Frederica straightened and glared at her. Hawthorne recognized her act of defiance for what it was. His little changeling would always champion the cause of the disadvantaged, those with nobody to fight for them.
His conscience stirred, but his resolve crushed it. The servants needed to know her betrayal would not go unpunished. Handing his daughter to the governess Giles had hastily employed, he took Frederica’s arm and hissed in her ear.
“You must show proper decorum now you’re a countess.”
She let him lead her into the house where he dropped his hand as if she burned him.
He nodded to the footman. “Harry, take the old woman to her chamber, then see my wife’s belongings are unpacked.”
“I want to go with Georgia,” Frederica said. “Please.”
His instincts yearned to grant her request, to ease the pain in her voice. But he must be strong. “Our daughter is tired. You may see her in the morning.”
“But…”
“Enough!”
She flinched at the force of his voice.
“As my wife, you pledged to obey me. She is tired, and we must place her needs before our own.”
Silently, she let him lead her toward his study. He stopped at the entrance to the room next door.
“You’re at liberty to move around the house, with one exception. You are not permitted to enter this room.”
“What is it?”
“It’s where I conduct my business as a magistrate and preside over some of my cases.”
“You think my presence would taint the course of justice?”
“Nobody in my household or in my employ is permitted to enter other than those directly involved in each case.”
“Then I pray I never fall foul of the law,” she said. “I would prefer not to find myself on the receiving end of your justice.”
Ignoring the brief flare of rebellion, he led her into his study and gestured toward a chair. She sank into it, her body crumpling under fatigue.
“Before I permit you to take your rest, I feel it appropriate to clarify what I expect of you.”
She lifted her gaze.
“The gossips have long since exhausted their tales of your flight, but you must nevertheless behave appropriately, both privately and publicly.”
He’d expected her to react, but she remained still.
“Your behavior around men will come under particular scrutiny.”
She straightened her back. “And your behavior around women?”
“You question my behavior when you’ve spent the past five years indulging in your own selfish desires?”
“You have no idea how I spent the past five years.”
“Whose fault is that?” he asked.
Her eyes glistened with tears, and he fought the knot of anger unfurling in his gut. If he wasn’t careful, he’d succumb to the need for her which he’d spent years battling. But he had a weapon to use against her.
“I trust you’ll stay away from Roderick Markham.”
The blade hit home, and she gave a low hiss and closed her eyes. He ignored the guilt in his need to hurt her as much as she’d hurt him.
“We may come across both him and the duchess on social occasions. I trust you’ll behave as befits a countess and not…”
“…his bastard sister?”
Had he blinked, he would have missed the brief flash of fury in her eyes.
“I’m thinking of our daughter,” he said. “In the eyes of the law, she’s illegitimate because we were unmarried when she was born.”
“Then why marry me at all?”
“It gives her some respectability, though not as much as she deserves.”
He moved to sit beside her,
then thought better of it. The invisible bond between them couldn’t be severed, no matter how hard he’d tried. His body quivered with the need to be near her.
“I will not demand much of you,” he said. “I presume you’ll take responsibility for the old woman. I’ll grant you a small stipend to care for her needs if she requires medicine.
Gratitude flickered in her eyes.
“You’ll have no other duties,” he said. “You only need present yourself in public as befits my wife when the occasion demands.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice cold. “May I be excused now?”
“Yes. Go.”
She rose and turned away from him. After the door closed behind her, soft footsteps faded into the distance.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I’m glad to be doing this again for you, ma’am.”
Nimble fingers set Frederica’s hair in place, and Jenny placed a hand on her shoulder.
Since her return to London, she had never been lonelier. Georgia had a governess to occupy her, and Mrs. Beecham, her health failing, spent much of her time asleep.
It almost broke her to see the man she loved reduced to a cold shell. But he treated their daughter with love and reverence. Each time he looked at Georgia, it was as if he struggled to believe she existed. He’d lift her into his arms and call her his precious child while she squealed in delight.
With all the love he indulged on his daughter, there was none left for his wife.
Jenny helped her to stand and led her to the staircase where Hawthorne waited at the bottom.
He looked up, and his eyes widened. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the kind of expression he’d once bestowed on her, then he blinked, and the frost returned. Her hopes of an ally at the ball tonight died as he led her into the carriage, then remained silent for the entire journey.
*
Voices whispered around Frederica as she crossed the ballroom. She clung to Hawthorne’s arm, drawing comfort from his presence, though he remained unresponsive.
Ladylike titters accompanied the harsh notes of the violinists tuning their instruments. Hawthorne’s fingers tightened their grip on her as Ross Trelawney approached.
In the weeks since her return to London, she’d grown to like Mr. Trelawney. A faithful friend to Hawthorne which, in itself, recommended him, he was also the one person of Hawthorne’s acquaintance who viewed her with compassion. During her five-year absence, he’d endured his own share of heartbreak. He’d married shortly after Frederica left, but lost his wife in childbirth a year later. Widowed with a young daughter, he’d told Frederica his history without a shred of bitterness.
“Countess, how delightful to see you.” Mr. Trelawney proffered his arm. “Would you do me the pleasure of joining me on the dancefloor?”
“I don’t intend to dance,” she said.
“Let me persuade you otherwise, if your husband permits it.”
Hawthorne, who relinquished his grip, bent his head as if to kiss her cheek, but whispered harshly in her ear. “Do not disgrace yourself tonight.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Ross said, coldly.
Hawthorne shrugged and crossed the room where he was soon joined by a tall woman dressed in dark blue silk, her honey-blonde hair shimmering in the light of the chandelier.
“That’s Lady Holmestead,” Ross said. “She’s not averse to a dalliance, but I have it on good authority she avoids married men.”
He nodded toward a couple joining the line of dancers. Frederica recognized the man. Lord Ravenwell, now the Duke of Westbury, and his wife. The duchess looked out of place among the stone-faced ladies in the ballroom. Her natural smile was as outlandish as the curves of her body, emphasized by the cut of her gown. “Westbury’s a case in point,” Ross continued. “He was well acquainted with Lady Holmestead, but as soon as he married, she turned her eyes elsewhere. Of course, nobody watching them could question whether Westbury loves his wife.”
“Are you making idle conversation, Mr. Trelawney?” she asked. “Or do you seek to assure me of my husband’s fidelity?”
His expression grew serious as he watched Hawthorne cross the floor.
“Forgive me, Countess,” he said. “Let us discuss something more pleasant. Is your painting complete yet?”
“Almost. There’s some finishing touches to make to the foreground.”
“I must call on you tomorrow to encourage its completion,” he said. “Amelia is anxious to see Georgia again. I can’t say how grateful I am to you for permitting my daughter to play with Georgia. Amelia needs companions her own age.”
“And I’m grateful for Georgia’s sake,” Frederica said. “For too long she’s had only myself and Mrs. Beecham for company…” She broke off, a needle of guilt stabbing at her.
Ross gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She may have been the cause for her daughter’s isolation, but Ross was too kind to mention it.
A group of ladies nearby let out a laugh, their eyes on her.
“Pay no attention to them,” Ross said.
“Is my husband the laughing stock of society?”
“You ask for him, but not for yourself?”
“I brought about my situation.”
“I’m sure you had good reason,” he said, “and it’s time my friend honored you as you deserve.”
“Please…” She tried to release herself from his hold, but he only held her more firmly.
“It must be said, Frederica. Someone must teach Hawthorne the folly of his ways.”
“You’re in no position to judge.”
“Am I not?” he asked. “A man should savor every waking moment he has with the woman he loves. He never knows whether it will be the last.”
The woman he loves…
How could Ross be so mistaken? Every time she looked into Hawthorne’s eyes, she saw the expression of a man no longer capable of any feeling toward her but the bitterest hatred.
Yet, still she loved him.
She wrenched herself free. “Forgive me, Mr. Trelawney. I cannot…”
“Frederica?”
“Leave me be!”
She crossed the dancefloor toward the balcony doors and slipped outside, only then succumbing to despair. Hawthorne would never forgive her. Tonight had not been about introducing her into society; it was about Hawthorne publicly affirming his contempt of her.
Had she hurt him that badly?
Music filtered through the doors, punctuated by an owl hooting. A dark shape circled the garden. Images of wings beating at her swirled in her mind, and she shut her eyes against the night.
“My dear, are you all right?”
A woman stood before her, head to one side as if scrutinizing her. At such close quarter, the bright orange color of her gown looked even more outlandish.
“Leave me alone,” Frederica said. “I’ve endured enough for one night.”
“Which is why I’m asking.” The woman held out her hand. “You’re Countess Stiles, aren’t you?”
“And you’re the Duchess of Westbury,” Frederica retorted. “I detest titles.”
The woman laughed. “So do I, which makes us both contradictions, considering we both married titles.” She lowered her hand. “Please, call me Jeanette. Your reputation precedes you.”
“My reputation?” Frederica asked.
“As an artist, which is the only reputation I’m interested in.” She folded her arms. “Ladies who indulge in gossip can go to the devil.”
“Should you say such things?”
“If a woman seeks gratification from venting her spite at others, she must accept the consequences. I prefer to evaluate each case on its own merit. I’ve heard much of your skill as an artist.”
“You flatter me.”
Jeanette laughed. “If you knew me, you’d realize I have no talent for flattery. My husband often admonishes me for my directness. I had the pleasure of seeing one of your paintings in Mr. Trelawney’s morning room. I found it a refreshing
change from the bland efforts of society ladies who deem painting a mere accomplishment. A work, whether portrayed by the medium of paint or music, only has value if it speaks to the observer.”
“And what did my painting say to you?”
“It spoke of pain and loss.” The duchess turned her gaze on Frederica. Her eyes were a similar shade of green to Frederica’s own but deeper and punctuated by gold flecks. They were the eyes of a woman who’d known pain herself. “It also spoke of redemption,” she continued. “The longer I looked at it, the more detail I could see, glimmers of hope dotted about the landscape.”
“Do you paint?”
Jeanette laughed. “I have a singular lack of talent for it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate talent in others. I’ve tried in vain to draw a likeness of my youngest son.”
She paused as if in thought, then a broad smile crossed her face.
“Would you be so kind as to draw his likeness? My husband is indulgent enough to praise my efforts, but my son possesses the delectable honesty of a child and is my severest critic. I believe he’s a similar age to your daughter. You could bring her with you when you come.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please say yes. I’m sure your daughter would enjoy making a new friend.” She took Frederica’s hand. “Perhaps you might appreciate a friend also. London might be full of people, but it’s the loneliest place in the world. I would very much like to further our acquaintance.”
Frederica shook her head. “If you knew my history.”
“I know a great deal,” Jeanette said. “As I said before, I value only that which deserves to be valued.”
Unable to speak, Frederica wiped her eyes.
“That’s settled, then,” Jeanette said brightly.
The door opened, and a tall figure stepped into the moonlight. Cold eyes focused on Frederica before he turned to Jeanette.
“My love, I’ve been looking for you. The next dance is about to start, and Oakville’s waiting inside to partner you.”
“Henry, I…”
“Now, Jeanette.”
“Oh, very well.” Jeanette dipped a curtsey to Frederica and slipped back inside.
