by Royal, Emily
The two girls skipped out of the room.
“Shall I ring for tea, Mr. Trelawney?”
“Later, perhaps,” Ross said.
“I can ask Hawthorne to join us. He’s in his study, and I’m sure he’d wish to see you.”
“No,” he said. “It’s you I came to see. I’m concerned for your welfare.”
“I’m quite well.”
“But are you happy? Let me be frank. We’re friends, are we not? Since you returned to London with Georgia, Amelia has come out of her shell. And your company has helped me, also.”
“I can’t see how.”
“You understand, as most women don’t, that there’s more to life than society. They see you as inferior, but they’re wrong. You’re so far above them, they are not even fit to tread the ground you walk on.” He took her hand. “That’s why I must speak the truth. My friend acts like a cad toward you.”
She snatched her hand away. “Mr. Trelawney…”
“Can you not call me Ross?”
She shook her head. “I won’t use such familiarity with you. Neither will I let you disrespect my husband. You know what I did to him. You were there when I left.”
“So, you’d let him continue to punish you for it? How many years will you endure it? Ten? Twenty? The rest of your life?”
His words ripped her open and exposed her deepest need—the need to be loved. But she had long ago sealed her fate by destroying the man she loved.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “My priority is my daughter’s happiness.”
“What about yours?”
“Georgia makes me happy,” she said. “I treasure each day with her, the day she learned to walk, her first word, her first tooth. If she’s happy, then so am I.”
Admiration shone in his eyes.
“Frederica, don’t you know I long for your happiness?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t say something you’ll regret later.”
“I can’t keep it to myself anymore.”
“Please, no!”
“I love you, Frederica. Don’t you know, I love you?”
*
Hawthorne’s blood froze at his friend’s words, and his fingers curled around the door handle.
Giles gave a nervous cough. Curse that bloody butler! Always appearing where he wasn’t wanted.
She let out a cry. “Why could you not have left it unsaid?”
“Because you deserve to be loved!”
Treacherous bastard! While Ross had comforted Hawthorne on the return of his wayward wife, he’d been seducing her behind his back.
Ross spoke again. “Why do you endure his treatment of you, Frederica?”
Frederica, indeed! How dare he!
“Please, Mr. Trelawney,” she said, “you must go.”
“Not until you answer me!” Ross cried. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“Stop it!” she cried.
“Why?” he roared. “I saw de Blanchard with his hands all over you, and so did Hawthorne. But he accused you of seducing the man! Ye gods, he almost offered you to him! Do you value yourself so little?”
A sharp intake of breath made Hawthorne look round. Giles stood behind him, disgust lining his features.
“Why?” Ross’s voice reverberated through the door. “Why subject yourself to such treatment?”
“Because I love him!” she screamed. “I know he’ll never forgive me for leaving, but I did it for him. Everything I do is for him!”
She gave a cry, and Hawthorne heard a scuffle and splintering china. He pushed through the door to find his wife struggling in Ross’s arms, a broken vase at their feet.
“Get your hands off her!” He leapt forward, curled his hand into a fist, and smashed it into his friend’s face. Ross released his grip on Frederica and fell back.
“On your feet, and fight me like a man!” Hawthorne roared.
“No!” Frederica pushed him back. “Let him go.”
“Get out of my way, woman,” he snarled.
“Will you strike me as well?” she asked. “Go ahead. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve already done.” She opened her arms as if in offering. “In fact, I’d welcome it.”
His anger left him. Dear God, did she think he’d hit her?
“Mr. Trelawney is misguided,” she said. “Let him go, and I’ll have nothing more to do with him.”
Hawthorne nudged Ross with his foot.
“Get up,” he said. “Be thankful my wife pleads your case.”
Ross stood and wiped his nose. He held his hand out to Frederica, but she refused it with a shake of her head.
“Just go,” she said. Her voice was cold, but Hawthorne knew her too well. Her body vibrated with distress.
“Giles,” Ross said, “be so good as to find my daughter. I’ll wait in the hall.” The butler nodded, and the two men left.
Frederica remained, her body trembling, as if holding a storm at bay. Hawthorne moved toward her.
“Are you all right?”
She lifted her gaze to him, her eyes red-rimmed.
“Frederica, what can I do?”
“Nothing,” she said coldly. “There’s nothing you can do which will hurt me any more than you have already.”
She picked up the pieces of the smashed vase. She gasped, and a droplet of blood appeared on her hand.
“Here.” He held his hand out. “Let me take care of that.”
“No!” She pushed him away. “You’ve done enough. You have exposed me to the derision of the world. Good men like Mr. Trelawney see me as a creature to be pitied. Others, such as de Blanchard, think I’m easy prey. With none to protect me, I must fight for myself. Even if that means fighting you, Hawthorne.”
Guilt burned his insides. He’d wanted her to suffer as he had suffered. To teach her a lesson. But that didn’t make him a man in search of justice.
It made him a monster.
She was his wife to love, honor, and keep. Yet, he’d been neither loving nor honorable. He’d used their child as a weapon to cow her. She had every right to hate him, but she could never hate him as much as he hated himself. To hear Ross’ words, his friend’s declaration of all of Hawthorne’s sins against her laid bare…
The look of disgust in the butler’s face as he heard every word, paled into nothing compared to Hawthorne’s own self-loathing.
He reached toward her, but she blocked him with her hand.
“Leave me alone.”
Her footsteps disappeared up the stairs, but before Hawthorne could follow her, Giles placed himself in his path.
“Let her go, sir,” he said. “I’ll send Jenny up with a brandy later.”
Giles was right. The least Hawthorne could do was give her some space.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Frederica dipped her brush in the water. The paint dissolved, turning the liquid a soft shade of peach to match the color of Georgia’s skin.
“You can move now, angel.”
Frederica had learned to capture her daughter with quick sketches, but there was nothing more fulfilling than the deep observation from painting a portrait.
The child stretched and reached for her doll. Hawthorne had bought her all manner of dolls, each one more elaborately attired than the last, and Frederica encouraged her to play with them in his presence. But when the two of them were alone, Georgia always reached for her old doll, which Frederica had bought with the proceeds from the sale of her first painting. The material was a base cotton compared to the fine silks of her other dolls, frayed around the edges and faded through years of washing. But Georgia loved it just the same.
Georgia chatted to her doll while Frederica cleaned her brushes and tidied up her sketches. She opened her paint box, and a piece of cloth fell out. She picked it up and brought it to her lips, inhaling to savor the faint scent. Hawthorne’s discarded necktie. Her daughter would, one day, find a husband and home of her own, and would have no more need of her. But this small, inanimate
piece of cloth would stay with her forever.
She folded the necktie, placed it in the box, and shut the lid.
“Papa!”
She jumped at Georgia’s excited squeal, her heart racing with anticipation. Hawthorne liked to spend time with their daughter late in the day, before Miss Jones readied her for bed. He rarely ventured into the parlor this early, when he knew she’d be there.
“Mama has been painting me!”
Frederica stood and reached for her sketchbook.
“Don’t leave on my account.”
A hand rested on her shoulder. “May I see?”
“Of course.”
He moved beside her and ran his finger along the edge of the painting. “You’ve captured her likeness well.”
“Thank you.”
She remained still, waiting for him to leave or to tell her to move. But he did neither. His shadow stretched across the table, silent and unmoving. At length, he traced the rest of the outline of the painting, then took her hand.
Her body jolted at his touch, her skin pricking with the sensation. She swallowed and remained still, tensing.
“Shh.” His whisper touched her like a soft caress, and he turned her hand over and ran a fingertip across her palm, over the callouses she’d gained through years of hard work. He sighed, then traced a path across her palm and stopped at her wrist where the scars from her childhood had faded, but would never disappear.
“Papa, what are you doing?”
She snatched her hand away.
“Did you see the marks on Mama’s wrists?” Georgia asked.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Do you know how she came by them?”
“She told me she played a silly game and cut herself.”
His gaze focused on Frederica. “Is that so?”
“I thought it a good lesson for Georgia,” Frederica said, “on the folly of childish games.”
He reached for her sketchbook. “Is this the sketchbook you had as a child?”
“The very same.”
“May I look inside?”
“Papa!” Georgia laughed. “You need no permission!”
“I rather think I do.”
He flicked through the pages, leafing through sketch after sketch of studies of hands and poorly-executed likenesses. Further into the book, her accomplishment began to flourish. He paused at a drawing of Papa, then continued through the book until he reached another sketch. The edges of the paper were frayed, so often had she looked upon it. He ran a fingertip across his likeness before moving on. Sketches of a baby came next, each one depicting Georgia’s development into the child she was now. He gave a gasp in acknowledgement of the memories he’d missed.
The next few sketches were of Mrs. Beecham, followed by blank pages, until he reached the final sketch on the last page of the book. He ran his thumb over the date.
November 1815.
She had drawn it from memory a year after she’d left London.
His features had matured from her earlier sketch, but the likeness was still there. The eyes looking out from the page were filled with warmth. The mouth, upturned in a smile, drew the observer in. It was the face of a man the world could trust. The face of a good man, a man in love.
“It’s you, Papa!” Georgia cried.
“Aye,” he said, “but it’s been drawn with too sympathetic a hand.”
He closed the sketchbook. “I always believed artwork said more about the artist than the subject.”
“Perhaps Mama will give it to you.”
“No, little one,” he said, smiling. “I think your Mama should keep it.” He lifted Georgia up and kissed her on the forehead.
“Be a good girl for your Papa and run along,” he said. “Miss Jones awaits you in the schoolroom.”
The child kissed him back and ran to embrace Frederica before leaving the room. Frederica rose from her seat.
“If you’ll excuse me…”
“No.”
She froze at his soft command.
“Will you stay and take tea with me?”
“Very well.” She moved to ring the bell, but he caught her hand. “I took the liberty of asking Harry to bring us some.”
As if he’d been eavesdropping, the footman appeared, brandishing a tray. As soon as he left, Hawthorne poured a cup and handed it to her.
“I can’t make fine speeches, Frederica,” he said. “I never could, not in relation to myself. But I find I miss your company.”
A spark of hope flared within her.
“I don’t see why we can’t be civil to each other. For Georgia’s sake.”
“For Georgia?”
He sighed and sipped his tea. “No matter what I do, she’ll always be seen as a bastard.”
She flinched at the hateful word. “How can you say such a wicked thing?”
“It’s true, nonetheless,” he said. “Whoever her father may be, the law will never view her as legally mine, because she was born out of wedlock.”
A flare of anger ignited in her at his veiled insult. “Whoever her father may be?” she cried. “Surely you don’t think…”
“What was I supposed to think, Frederica? You abandoned me the night before our wedding, straight into the arms of Markham!”
“I did not!” she cried. “I hated him. I still do!”
“So, where did you go?”
She closed her eyes, reliving the memory, the hot, thick summer air, the blisters on her feet from running, the greed in the pawnbroker’s eyes as his fingers curled around the sapphires. And the inn—the drunken laughter, the stench of horse manure, and the dingy little room where she’d hidden to wait for the coach.
“I took the first coach to Falkirk.”
He leaned forward and his demeanor changed into that of the magistrate facilitating a cross-examination. As countless witnesses must have done before him when trying to prove their innocence, she straightened and met his gaze unflinchingly.
“I pawned the necklace, then waited at the Saracen’s Head for the Falkirk coach.”
“Which pawnbroker?”
She fisted her hands. “Am I on trial? Shall we continue our discussion in your courtroom?”
“Of course not,” he said, “but you owe it to my mother’s memory to tell me the truth about her necklace.”
“What about my father’s memory?” she challenged. “Did he deserve to be forever known as a murderer, vilified in death and buried in an obscure little graveyard in London, away from his true home, lest his reputation taint the Hampshire air?”
A flicker of guilt crossed his expression, then he looked away and sighed.
“It was a Mr. Wilson, on Drury Lane,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied. “Why did you go to Falkirk?”
“Papa took that coach when he conducted business in Scotland. And it seemed like the best place to go, as far away as possible from…”
“From me?”
“From him,” she said. “But I was never free, was I?”
“You were free, Frederica,” he said, “free to marry me or leave me. You chose the latter. I would have protected you from him. I wanted to protect you.”
“You wanted to own me,” she said. “We live in a world where a woman is considered her husband’s property. If she defends herself, he can correct her with a stick. If she seeks freedom, she’s branded a harlot because a woman’s reasons for flight must always be due to her desire to leap into the arms of the next man. Yet her husband is at liberty to offer her to others with no damage to his reputation. How do you rate your choices, Hawthorne? Will you take me on the morning room floor, or will you whore me out to your friends?”
He flinched and shook his head.
“I’m sorry for being so cruel,” he said. “I wanted to hurt you, to make you feel some of the pain I endured. But it was wrong of me. In future, in public I shall treat you as befits my wife.”
He took her hand, and a shock of recognition rippled through her at his touch, ig
niting hope and desire.
“We must bury the past,” he said. “I wish to focus on the future—my work and my daughter. As her mother, I want you to be part of that. From now on, I promise to protect you as a husband ought. I feel nothing but shame for taking you the night we returned from the ball.”
She curled her fingers round his. “Hawthorne, that night was…”
“It was a mistake,” he interrupted. “I lost control, but I assure you, I’ll not do so again. And from now on, I will protect you from the attentions of others.”
His next words crushed her hope.
“I promise, that while I have breath in my body, Frederica, no man—I or any other—shall touch you again.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Hawthorne helped his wife out of the barouche and almost missed her quiet word of thanks.
Summer was coming to an end, and the trees in the park had entered into that brief phase of brilliant color before shedding their leaves. It had always been Frederica’s favorite time of year, her artist eyes able to capture the reds and golds which dressed the landscape.
Georgia ran ahead with her governess. A bird flew out of a nearby bush, and Frederica shrank back. Hawthorne held out his arm, and she took it, giving him a lifeless smile.
“I wonder if you might indulge me with a painting, my dear,” he said. “I recall your skill at capturing the colors at this time of year.”
“Thank you.” Though polite, her tone was flat.
But bland civility was all he’d offered her. How could he expect more from her? They continued along the path, their stiff, overly-polite bodies in sharp contrast to Georgia’s excited movements and animated voice. The rays of the morning sun picked out the shades of red in her hair. It was as if he saw his little changeling darting through the woods once more.
More visitors appeared as the morning wore on, mostly couples taking an early stroll, but the occasional, solitary man, perhaps making his way home after a tryst with his mistress. The Serpentine ran parallel to the path, and a pair of swans glided along the water, seemingly effortless. Hawthorne knew beneath the water’s edge they propelled themselves forward with a frenzy as if, like Hawthorne, they understood the need for a calm exterior to conceal the turmoil within.
