The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  “You know, I introduced Jasper to his wife. God rest her soul. Maria was a dear. I only want you to be as happy.”

  “He was happy, but happiness is fleeting. It seems Grandbole is gloomy with her loss and now yours.”

  She picked up the pot of tea and poured him a cup. Mint floated to his nose, beckoning. Another distraction.

  Mother set the silver service down. “Jasper won’t let me introduce him to another lady, one with a bigger dowry than Maria’s. I can do the same for you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not hunting for a wife or a dowry. And you haven’t asked how I know Grandbole is dull.”

  “Jasper told you. He doesn’t lie. He’s nothing like your father.”

  “I know. I saw them both last night.”

  Her lips thinned. Perhaps she was trying to think of another street to take him down, but he wouldn’t be swayed. He needed to hear from her lips about Theo possessing Tradenwood and why his own mother thought him too weak to know. “Mother, why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to see the earl until Yuletide. I have him considering wintering in Town.”

  “Jasper convinced me I needed to see Grandbole and Tradenwood.”

  She tossed her handkerchief onto the table. “Then I suppose you know.”

  “Mother, I’ve seen you once a week for the past three months. You lamented over your brother’s passing, told me of Tradenwood going to a distant cousin because Uncle rewrote his will, thinking I’d died.” He paused as his voice rose, almost shaking with the injustice rocking his windpipe, his soul. He’d lost everything—Theo, a fortune that would’ve funded his pursuit of plays—gone because of that false report from the battlefield. It had hit him hard, harder than he thought, seeing Tradenwood. Knowing another man had possessed Theo’s curves, the henna-bronzed loveliness Ewan had thought only for him.

  He took a breath and forced his tone to lower. “We’ve sat through dinners, or private moments like this, and no mention of my cousin’s bride.”

  “It wasn’t important. Tradenwood was lost to us. Nothing else mattered. Nothing could be done.”

  “The fact that I nearly eloped with this woman is not important?”

  “No. No, it isn’t. I don’t mention her. The usurper who led you astray now has my Tradenwood.” Her face twisted as tear-stained eyes drifted to the right. “I was raised in that home. I left for my come-out from those grand steps. Your father proposed on that patio. That she-devil and your cousin put up a trellis on my patio.” Mother shivered, as if the covering were horse leavings. “Tradenwood should never have left the family.”

  “Technically, it’s still in the family, in a distant cousin’s hands. Well, now his widow’s. How did that come about? Was she grieving me? Does grief make strange bedfellows?”

  The crystals in Mother’s eyes shattered, shaking in fury. “You can joke of this? That harlot made you wild, and you almost paid with your life.”

  Ewan chuckled to himself, for Mother didn’t know wild. Wild was what he called his stint away. He’d been a dutiful soldier on the field, but he and his fellow officers had caroused, finding comfort in the towns and villages they’d encamped in Spain and the West Indies. Lots of willing arms had seemed to be enticed by his bright red regimental.

  His mother’s voice became more harpy-like. “The marriage should not have been allowed to happen. She’s not worthy of Tradenwood.”

  “Their marriage was not legal?”

  “That’s not what I mean. Cecil’s widow is a slut. A Blackamoor whore.”

  Ewan sat back and spun his teacup, covering the punch the slur made to his chest. “If she were a white harlot, that would be better?”

  Mother leaped up with fists shaking. “That loose woman should be cleaning the floors, or cargo on a slave ship, not making menus and being hostess in that great manor.”

  Anger makes people do or say things they shouldn’t. Yes, that would be the excuse he’d make for his mother. He’d coddle her stupidity as she’d always coddled him. He caught her hand and tugged her back toward her chair. “It must’ve been hard grieving me, then Uncle, then the loss of your family home. I am sorry. Don’t let grief push you into saying cruel things. I’m making peace with the past. You must, too.”

  Shaking and nodding, lace fluttering, she dropped to the seat. “It wasn’t fair. My baby, my only baby was gone. You went to war because your father made you—because of her. He should’ve made her go. Then all would have been right. You’d own Tradenwood, not that harlot, Theodosia Cecil.”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper, but made his tone firm, resilient in Mother’s tornado winds. “If I had stayed, her name would have been Theodosia Fitzwilliam. Would you have supported me or would you have called her names and torn down our love?”

  “She wouldn’t have loved you, never like you deserved. The creature is incapable of it. Hopping from bed to bed, gaining deeper pockets with each leap.”

  “Well, she didn’t have a matchmaking mama to point her to the right pockets. But you are right. Mine are not as filled as Cousin Cecil’s.”

  “You keep making jokes. You write funny plays, but it hides your pain. How can you stand to see her traipsing in your fields? Letting her heirs inherit it, not us.”

  It wasn’t easy, but nothing changed the past. He closed his eyes and drank the mint tea, hoping to get his gut to utopia so it would match the noise of forgiveness he was about to utter. “It doesn’t matter. She’s the new owner of Tradenwood. It’s lawfully passed to her.”

  “It doesn’t make you angered that it’s not yours? I could help you make it great again, like when it was my home.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her it was great and well-manicured. Theo had not, in any way that he could see, dishonored it. But nothing would console Mother from thinking she’d been cheated, just as when she realized most of his father’s courtship of her had centered on her large dowry and the hope of getting closer to Tradenwood. Gut settling, he took a final sip of the cool mint. “You’ve always wanted that house. I’m sure it’s a great loss. I suppose welcoming her to the family is out of the question. That would resolve the watering rights issue that has the earl all worked up.”

  “Your father has tried to buy it for me, but his offers are too cheap. Maybe you can work on him.”

  “Weren’t you happy with my not seeing him?”

  “I didn’t want you distressed over being reminded of what going to war cost you. You’d have had Tradenwood. You’d never want for anything. You could write all the plays you wanted.”

  “Well, I will make my own way, by writing all the plays I want.”

  “I’m sure you shall, but head back to Grandbole. Convince Crisdon to get Tradenwood for me. Tell him I’ll return, if he does.”

  “I’m not going to get in the middle of your spat.”

  She pouted and frowned.

  Feeling guilty at causing her pain, he nodded. “But I’ll mention it to him. If there is a price at which the Widow Cecil will sell, he’ll find it.”

  “Tell Lord Crisdon I regret our argument. I realize that there is no sacrifice greater than Tradenwood.”

  Overly dramatic as always, Lady Crisdon wasn’t going to be the route to find information about Theo and Cecil. No, he’d have to get that from the source, his new cousin, the widow Cecil. He rose and kissed Mother’s hand, but she leaned up and clung to him, as if she was again sending him to war. Well, maybe she was. He marched from the drawing room to return to Grandbole, readying to battle his difficult father and an ornery widowed cousin-by-marriage.

  Chapter Five

  The Cost of Revenge

  Theodosia waited for Frederica to climb into the carriage. Ester was already tucked inside, probably with her eyes stuck in a book she’d found in Mathew’s collection.

  Clutching her bonnet, Frederica popped inside then stuck her head out. “We meet two weeks from now at the theater. Don’t make me come back here to ret
rieve you. Theodosia Cecil is good to her word.”

  “Yes.” That was all Theodosia could muster. That and a wan smile.

  Frederica nodded then took her seat.

  The carriage started to move. The onyx vehicle with the Duke of Simone’s golden crest jerked and jostled down the long drive. Two pairs of handsome horses headed them back to London and Theodosia’s heart dropped. Saying good-bye to her friends felt so final this time. It shouldn’t, but it did. Maybe that’s why fleeing stayed on her mind.

  She pushed at a curl falling from her mobcap and took a huge breath of air. The sweet aroma of roses overtook her, cheering her spirit. She hugged herself and that feeling of being unprotected and alone fled. Her friends said they would stand with her. She’d believe in them until she couldn’t.

  Like she had believed Ewan would marry her, until he didn’t.

  Clutching her elbows as if that would latch in her courage, she looked up into the darkening sky and saw a streak of light. Then the sound that always brought dread pounded through her. Thunder. Fear filled her heart. It pimpled her skin all the way to her ankles. She couldn’t have a panic in front of her pickers or tenants. The Court of Chancery would not look kindly on a mother so fearful of a storm. She would not be considered a good choice to raise a boy independent of his male guardian. No better than a harlot would.

  As that feeling of again losing someone she loved swelled inside, the need to hold her son overcame her. She bolted for the portico.

  Pickens held the door open for her, as if he’d been watching and had seen her panicked stride.

  She ran on, lifting her heavy ash-colored skirts, and made it inside before the rain began to fall.

  “Ma’am.” The butler’s voice made her stop and stand up tall.

  “Yes, Pickens?”

  He closed the door, shutting out the sound of the approaching storm. “Your letter has been sent to the Burlington Arcade.”

  Though he may not know what was on the inside of those sealed papers, he surely knew how important they were. She nodded to him. “Thank you.”

  In six years, Theodosia had learned the ways of Tradenwood, the roles and responsibilities. Yet, it always felt daunting. Thank goodness, Pickens was a stalwart butler who had served generations of Mathew’s extended family. The staff Mathew had hired were all good people to her, ones who wouldn’t cheat her and who knew how to help without making her feel ignorant. “I’ve lived here six years and I still feel lost sometimes.”

  “You do fine, ma’am. You are quite capable.”

  She didn’t feel capable, especially when thunder boomed. It reminded her too much of growing up in the harshest parts of London, trying to see the beauty of roses from the papered-up windows of a brothel. Again, she wrapped her arms around her and went in search of her son, her happiness.

  Philip always made her happy, like the fluttering big-winged butterflies in the fields. He must’ve seen the door open or heard her slippers with his good ear, for he turned to face her. He lifted his arms and came to her. She picked him up and swung him around until his little face exploded with giggles, silent ones at first, then full belly-jiggly ones.

  And Theodosia lost her cares and laughed, too.

  “Mrs. Cecil. It is time for Master Philip’s lessons,” said the governess. The spinster lady with dull red-and-white hair sticking from her cream-colored mobcap clapped her hands. “Master Philip?”

  Theodosia pulled his little body close and completed three more turns. His little palms were about her neck, and she kissed “I love you” on his forehead. “Ready, Philip. School time.”

  Putting him down, she kept his hand within hers and walked to his governess. “Here’s your student.”

  The woman smiled and pointed the boy to his shiny maple desk that she’d retrieved from a deep closet. “It is time to begin.”

  Philip pulled at his pinafore and made his way to his seat. He fingered the book laid upon his table. The governess went to him and kneeled close to his right ear, his good one, and read the page, sounding out each animal’s name.

  When Theodosia heard Philip’s pitchy squeak reciting the word “chicken,” a tear welled. She straightened her shoulders, approached, and kneeled to their left, like a pile of gray silk.

  “H-o-g,” said Philip, and her heart skipped a beat. Swine had never sounded so good.

  The governess had been highly recommended to work with children with difficulties. She was worth the thirty-three pounds in wages, almost twice what she would pay a good housemaid. Philip needed someone to pack as many words into him before his right ear gave out, like the doctors said would happen.

  “Is he doing better?” Theodosia asked when they finished the repetitions.

  The governess looked over her glasses at Theodosia, as if she spoke in a foreign tongue.

  Stopping the impulse to chew her lip, she tried again. “I mean, is he learning?”

  Shoulders drooping, the woman’s gaze lowered. If her head bent any further, it might fall off and roll around like a cabbage. “I don’t want to get your hopes up. He’s good at mimicking. I’ve gotten him to write his name, but it’s hard. He’s not like the other students I’ve worked with. He doesn’t hear my questions sometimes. He can’t—”

  “Try using the mimicking more. If he follows what you do, that will be helpful. I know he’s copied my figuring on paper, when I balance my ledger books.”

  The woman nodded and kneeled closer to Philip. She popped her chin atop the crown of his shiny black hair. “I’ll try, Mrs. Cecil. That is all I can promise.”

  Theodora picked herself up, as if the governess had kicked her in the teeth. She backed up to the entry, waving and getting that last silent smile from Philip. Closing the door, she let her forehead bang upon it. Something had to help. Something had to get him to learn. He couldn’t start in this world ignorant, as his mother had.

  Her guilt shook her over the hurts she’d caused this sweet child by her choices.

  A noise sounded from the hall. Her butler’s voice alerted her of a guest arriving. It couldn’t be her friends back this soon. She smoothed her hair, putting her lacy cap in her pocket and hoped her eyes weren’t as red as the guilt rotting in her gut.

  Then she saw him standing in her threshold in broad daylight. The ghost.

  “Good afternoon, Cousin Cecil,” Ewan said. His smirk was wide. He dipped his chin. “I’m sorry to appear without a note, but I am here to see about family.”

  As steadily as she could, she managed to come down the steps without falling. “Pickens. Can you show Mr. Fitzwilliam into the parlor?”

  The butler’s smile bloomed, a ready harvest of charm. “And bring a tea service?”

  Ewan wasn’t worth the shilling for the ounce of leaves. How could she politely ask to bring some that had been used two or three times? There wasn’t a way, especially for someone announcing he was family. “Yes, Pickens.”

  She followed the men into the parlor, hoping this haunting would be brief and stay contained to the lower level. Philip’s lesson did not need to be interrupted, especially from evil men or liars. Which category Ewan fell into, she wasn’t sure.

  …

  After leaving London, Ewan purposed to come to Tradenwood, not slinking around in the dark, but as a man given to ending all the trouble Theo had caused.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  Not liking the wariness in her dark teak-colored eyes, he turned to the fireplace and poked the log. Orange and red embers danced along the wrought iron stick. He fanned the raindrops from his coat. The shower outside had slowed enough for him to leap under Tradenwood’s portico. “I came for a number. You are very good at numbers, from what I remember. Good at a lot of things.”

  When she looked away with darkening cheeks, he knew she wasn’t immune to his jokes or their good memories.

  The door to the parlor opened and Pickens came in with a tea service. After the cup he’d drunk with his mother, Ewan had had his fill, but
he’d partake with Theo. Keeping this meeting more social might move Theo more than bullying. He hoped.

  “Thank you,” she said to the old man, and with her graceful long fingers she pointed to the low table. “You brought biscuits, too? I don’t think Mr. Fitzwilliam will be staying that long. He’s no doubt needed up the hill at Grandbole.”

  “It’s cousin now. Right, Pickens? And I’ll take a cup filled to the brim. I intend to enjoy Madam’s time.”

  The butler raised a furrowed brow. “Sir, do you still take only sugar?”

  “Yes.” Ewan couldn’t help but smile. Pickens hadn’t forgotten him. And maybe he hadn’t forgotten that Tradenwood belonged more to the Fitzwilliam side of things than to the usurper flower seller. “It’s good you remember.”

  Pickens moved close to the door, and he seemed to stare through Ewan. “Ma’am if you need anything, do not hesitate to pull the bell.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for everything.” Theo smiled, maybe the first one he’d seen on her face since he’d returned. Deep brown skin, crinkling eyes, full kissable lips. She was a beauty when she wasn’t fidgeting or sad. That charm had swayed his cousin and the butler, too. It had disarmed him once, but now he needed her to be relaxed, so he could act as if they weren’t enemies.

  Pickens left, closing the door with a thud. Ewan circled her as she sat calmly looking toward the patio doors and the falling rain. “I’m glad to find you about today. A woman with late night visitors might be inclined to lie around, becoming lazy.”

  Her gaze stayed fixed on the patio, not on him. “Why are you here? Skunks hunt at night. Pigs, too.”

  He stepped in front of the golden curtains, hoping to force her to look at him. “I need a number to take back to my father. What will it cost for you to sell Tradenwood?”

  She laced her fingers together, creased gray cuffs enveloping her slender wrists. “Your play must not be any good.”

  “What?”

  “You’re already back here with a change of plans. A new scheme to coerce me, Ewan? It hasn’t been a day and you’re already altering plans. Oh wait. That is what you do.”