The Bittersweet Bride
Page 9
Was that her game, to make everything that had happened his fault? Though he wanted her to own her unfaithfulness, to say it aloud, that would show his hand. He couldn’t sweet talk a woman who was set against him. He moved close and sat directly opposite her chaise, in the chair by the fireplace. “There is nothing here that I want other than to restore peace to my family.”
She didn’t move or blink or breathe. “You mean the family who haven’t been so supportive of you?” Her low tone magnified. “The one that keeps you around only when you are useful. That family?”
Maybe Pickens wasn’t the only one with a good memory. Ewan had shared his Fitzwilliam frustrations more than once during their brief courtship. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “You can understand what it means to bring peace to all sides.”
“So, for your peace, you offer to buy me off, to take the only home…to take this home from me.”
“I can make sure my father pays you enough so that you can buy another. This was my mother’s home. I remember spending yuletides in this parlor. Years and years of memories. You’ll have what you wanted—money.”
Thunder rumbled, deep and bone vibrating as the rain came down harder.
Theo looked frozen, almost doll-like. Moments passed but he dared not utter a sound.
He risked a slap, but he reached out and put his hand over hers. He sang, “Twinkle, twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are.”
Those beautiful eyes of hers widened. Her shivers slowed. All these years and she was still afraid of thunder, and his ridiculous tunes again brought her from the darkness. If she were his, he’d hold her in his arms and sing to her again. But she wasn’t his. Theo was his cousin’s widow. “The storm will pass. You are safe.”
She said nothing but picked at the plate of biscuits. Then Theo put one on a plate and handed it to him.
Surprised, he took it. He meant to set it down, but it had a deeply caramelized crust, probably the deepest brown of the pile. His mouth watered, and his heart softened further. She remembered those were his favorite. “Thank you, Theo.”
He took a bite and the crunch melted on his tongue with that sweeter-than-honey taste. He wiped his face and hands on the napkin she stretched to him. “You were always so neat.”
Another pound of thunder made her jitter on her seat, but she didn’t turn from him. “And you, Ewan, were always a hearty eater in want of a handkerchief.”
“I recall we were friends once. Can we be that again?”
“I don’t know, Ewan. You did know how to make me feel safe.” She gazed at him, her eyes soft, maybe longing for yesterday, too. “Never once did you belittle me for such a childish fear.”
“Never, Theo. You were always brave. Do what is brave now. Sell this place so my mother can have her childhood home. Restore her good memories, and we can all live in peace. I know deep down peace is what you want. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
She dipped her head and uttered no response. When the storm quieted, her voice returned. “I have memories, too. One of a man who pledged he would protect and honor me. Of reciting vows by that mantel. Of being welcomed into this house, which I shared with Mathew Cecil. My memories count.”
If she had leaped up and slapped him as she had last night, that would have stung less. Hearing her talk of his cousin, of treasuring their love, pierced. It was easier thinking her money-hungry than loving another.
She moved to open the patio doors. A breeze swept inside and her cheeks flushed, turning a deeper shade of mahogany. “I want you out of here, Ewan. Run home to your parents and tell them no. I will not be run off. I have been civil to you. Something that your people have never been to me. Even when I begged.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask Lord Crisdon how I was treated when you left.”
Knowing how vicious his father could be, Ewan balled his fist. What had she endured when he wasn’t around to make sure she wasn’t harassed? He eased his palm against his knee. “Is that why you turned to my cousin? To get even with the earl?”
“You never understood me, did you, Ewan? Why else would you be here pretending to care, as you try to buy me off?”
“I knew you quite well, Theo.”
He came close and took her hand away from clutching at her collar. Looping his finger with her fine ones he dipped his head close to hers. “Your mind is sharp. Your will is strong, but even you know that this feud with the Fitzwilliams is wrong. It won’t end well.”
Her eyes grew darker, the flecks of gold disappearing in the flames of her pupils. He could hear her heart beating. His heartrate picked up, too. “You don’t want to be the center of this conflict. You and that next lucky fool who’ll be your husband don’t want that kind of constant tension. End this for me, for what we once had. I’ll make sure they never bother you again.”
A breath crossed her lips, then what started out sounding like a sob became a full-throated laugh. “You don’t know me. Maybe you never did. If you had, you wouldn’t come here and plea to me to think of your people, your senti…sensibilities. I will not sell. I need you gone.”
He released her hand. Now she sounded like a Circe, one who would use her power to destroy the Fitzwilliams. The kindhearted woman whom he had cared for was gone. This was the earl’s work. He’d known his father to be horrible to enemies. Yet Theo, strong Theo, had bested them all. She’d won. She had Tradenwood and control of the water rights.
He rubbed at his face. Her lavender scent sat on his fingertips. “We can’t change the past, but we can set about a new future. Name the price to lease the waterway as before under your husband. The water is drying out.”
“Water lease? Drying out? I’ll check with Mr. Lester, Cecil’s former steward.”
Truth righted in his head, making his pulse race. “Perhaps, he is cutting off the water. Not you.”
The sound of gentle taps of the rain on the stone floor of the patio was peaceful, serene, like the calm before a big storm. What was Theo readying to do? “It doesn’t matter. If it was done in Cecil’s name, it is my doing.”
He came up behind her. He was close enough to hold her within his embrace, wrap his fingers in the curls in her chignon. “It wasn’t you hurting my family. You haven’t changed that much from the girl I once loved.”
“I changed, Ewan. I had to.”
“Theo, you can stop him. You can restore the peace.”
“There will be no peace, not for free. You want a number. Ten times what Lord Crisdon paid Cecil. It will cost the Fitzwilliams something. I will be well compensated for their next revenge plot.”
“Twenty thousand pounds is exorbitant. You don’t need to be so vengeful. I won’t let them hurt you.”
She glared at him, with nostrils flaring. “I don’t believe you. They’ll be no different than the man who wrote a play to hurt me. You took your gift and made it a weapon.”
He wanted to take her in his arms and shake her, but maybe he needed to shake himself. The play was his only leverage, since his charm seemed hopeless. Why wouldn’t she think him trustworthy? “I wrote it thinking you long gone from here, not married to my cousin. I can easily take your name out to protect you, if you will only be reasonable. I remember when you were reasonable. When you were quite content to be reasonable with me.”
Her lip trembled and her fists balled. “I remember believing that we would leave in the morn to marry. You changed your mind faster than I could pin up my hair. You say you’ll stay, but you’ll go away again. Then the war will begin anew. I’d rather stand my ground and collect the penalty money. When I tire of the war, when I say it is over, and go into exile, I’ll take the bulk of the Fitzwilliam fortune with me. You’ll never be able to hurt people again with your money. Do you know how many have starved because of the Fitzwilliams’s need for revenge?”
Ewan could not answer, nor did he want to count. It hadn’t mattered, for he’d wanted no part of the business. “I will be around this time. I’l
l show you. I’ll haunt you to get you to be reasonable, to be better than my father.”
She pointed to the doors. “Words. Words are the playwright’s lies. Twenty thousand pounds. Take that to Daddy.”
Thunder clapped and she shivered. Powerful and vulnerable and lovely, a Circe in the eye of his storm.
This wasn’t how this moment should go, with her hating him, pointing out all the sins of his family. It was hopeless to make her see the difference now. He’d have to prove his resolve. “I’ll be around, getting both sides to seek peace. You’ll be sick of me, Theo. You may even grow to like your good old cousin again.”
“I do know that I will never trust you. I see your flaws now. I wish that I’d known the truth while Cecil lived.”
“Why?”
“I would’ve loved him more.”
He watched her bosom heave. Waited for the knife to his gut to stop twisting. “Good day, Cousin.”
That was all he could manage without arguing and showing how deeply her words had cut into his flesh. Ewan plodded down the hall and out to his gig, wondering why a woman he was done with still made him gnash his teeth.
When he climbed into the gig, the seat was wet, but maybe the soaking would quench his fire. Theo had loved Cecil. It wasn’t his money that had drawn her. His family’s treatment had pushed her to his cousin. How could he stop her from ruining his family when he truly couldn’t blame her for hating everything Fitzwilliam? Knowing what they were capable of, he hated them, too. For believing they’d take care of her while he was gone, he hated himself.
But he was here now, and she’d see he wasn’t going away. She’d see and even rue his attentiveness. He’d make her want peace just to be rid of him.
Chapter Six
The Haunting Begins
Theodosia couldn’t pace around the parlor to the nursery to her chambers and back again, and not upset her rattled household. Her prior thirty treks surely had worn a path through the rugs and dragged scratches across the polished floors. The doctor would arrive to Tradenwood in another three hours. One hundred and eighty long minutes to wait. Then she’d know if Philip’s earache was a tooth thing or more progress in his hearing loss.
As she came from the narrow hall, Pickens stepped into her path. A grin that said caught you disappeared from his aged, battle-hardened cheeks. “Ma’am, Cook has been asking for your final approval. May I tell her you will see her after your next round of pacing?”
The festival… How could she concentrate on that after rocking Philip, hoping and praying that his tear-stained eyes would finally close in sleep? “Can… May it wait until tomorrow?”
The butler nodded. “No delay longer than tomorrow. She’ll need to inform the butcher of cuts you’ll need for the celebration at month’s end.”
Yes, festival preparation. Another thing to fret about. She wrung her hands then dropped them to her sides. “Thank you for keeping me on task. I’m not moving so fast today.”
Pickens’s brow rose. “You could outpace the fittest Olympian. You should take a drive. I’ve taken the liberty of having your gig pulled around. Visit the fields. You’ll be refreshed by the time the doctor arrives.”
“But Philip? He might need me.”
“The boy is sleeping. The laudanum will keep him out of pain until the doctor is here.” He picked up her gloves and hat, handing them to her as he shuttled her to the door. “Have a pleasant ride.”
She started tugging on one glove then the other. They were close-fitting kid gloves, soft and thin. She’d be able to feel the power of her mount. Then she could pretend to be in control of something. “I’ll hurry. I don’t want to be late and miss being needed.”
The butler handed her a knit shawl, acres of creamy stitches. “Master Cecil always said, it isn’t about speed. It’s about how you run the race.”
Pickens was a dear and he must’ve studied Mathew, for he knew how to nudge her in the way she should go. His steady force, his apt words, had helped guide her these months without Mathew.
Waving off a groom, Pickens held the reins as she took her seat. “Go, Mrs. Cecil. Enjoy your ride. We’ll see you in an hour or so.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll stick to the paths so if I need to be… Thank you, Pickens. I will run this race the best I can.”
He set the thick reins into her palm. “That’s all anyone can ask, ma’am. It’s all Mr. Cecil expected. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
He turned and went back into Tradenwood.
Theodosia closed her eyes for a moment, then whipped the leathers, forcing the gig forward. The small buggy was her favorite. With one horse, her fastest one, she could fly through the fields.
Breathing the fresh air, free of ointments and laudanum tonics, she let her heart smile. The doctor would fix Philip. He would be well. Theodosia had to hold on to that thought, as she did the reins.
Her horse, Willow, leaped over a gully, making the wheels bang hard, but Theodosia didn’t care. This was as close to freedom as she could grasp and she relished it.
She’d have to do something nice for Pickens. He was such a dear. If a platonic marriage of convenience could be had with the butler, she was almost tempted to suggest it. Pity Pickens was as old as dirt and his position wouldn’t have any sway with the Court of Chancery. Maybe she should get his opinion on the squire or the new suitor, the baron. Well, the baron hadn’t replied yet, but he might. Finding someone as understanding as Mathew or Pickens—the hope of it was all she had.
Settling into her gig, she flew over the hill and through the fields. The glass greenhouses she’d had Mathew install glistened in the sun. No one could grow more exotic plantings than Cecil Farms. Zipping up the trail, she waved to a few of the tenants still out picking.
The morning was the best time to gather the flowers, unless you were slow or sickly. Theodosia used to be good at it, and she’d get on her small gig, the one financed by her mother, and make it to the Covent Garden area to sell flowers to the ton by ten. Those harried days had been so long ago.
A smile freed her lip from being chewed, and she slowed to enjoy the contours of the blooming fields. Rows of lavender waved, alongside sweet pink roses. The air felt crisp, tingling her cheeks. The day after a storm was the best. Everything felt cleansed.
Though yesterday’s argument with Ewan had drained her, it had been good to admit to him that she’d loved Mathew and that Mathew had loved her. The poison Ewan’s family had spewed about her had to have marred his thoughts of truth. It did make her chuckle, thinking of the old earl turning beat red over the outrageous sum of money she’d asked to be paid to continue the water rights on her land. He might’ve been more outraged at that than his son wanting to marry a Blackamoor.
Sighing, she let her R’s, her numerous regrets, be overtaken by a mix of lavender, roses, even manure. The blend of scents made a rich perfume. The Cecil fields would always possess abundance. Mathew would like that. Good. The first time today she thought of Mathew and not Ewan. She needed to be in the fields to cleanse her of thinking about Ewan and thunderstorms and his little nursery rhyme songs. Or even how much her son would enjoy them if he could hear the lyrics.
She wanted to strike at her chest and banish this foolishness. She should’ve given Mathew all the room in her heart, but she hadn’t. Ewan was still in there.
Despairing, she pointed her gig to the tributaries that fed all the fields—Tradenwood’s and Grandbole’s. The main artery to the Fitzwilliam’s flowers had been dammed with limestone bricks. Ewan hadn’t lied and Lester was a bigger skunk than she’d realized.
Shutting off the water was wrong, no matter what they had done to her. Lester had no right to do this without her permission.
Driving one fist into her palm, she decided she must do something. But what?
Nothing. If she went against him, he’d take Philip. Lester was his guardian. His word would overrule hers in the courtroom of men. She couldn’t fix this until she and Philip were free.
“Coming to inspect your handiwork?”
She lifted her head and saw Ewan walking toward her. She hid her dismay behind a smile. “Morning. Needed to see this for myself. Fitzwilliams are proven liars, don’t you know.”
“That is ungenerous, Cousin.”
“Good day, Ghost.”
She turned her gig around and kept an even pace. Not slow enough to be caught but not fast enough to show fear. Ewan was a minor complication to her plans, a thorn in her floral arrangement. Lying must be contagious because now she was lying to her soul about Ewan being anything minor to her.
Willow neighed and clomped to the highest point, the place where Theodosia could see all the fields, hers and Philip’s.
Her breath froze a little in her lungs as gratitude fell upon her. These fields had saved her life. She’d met Mathew here when she’d been broken and scared. He had protected her, fed her starving body.
To prove her love, she’d protect his fields as he had protected her and Philip. No ghost or Lester would wrest this place from her. Mathew had wanted it to be Philip’s. Theodosia needed to make his last request come true, for he’d been the instrument to make her hopes true. “I’m sorry. Mathew, I—”
“Morning again, Mrs. Cecil.” Ewan’s sultry voice sounded again, heavy and soothing. “I hate to see a beautiful woman alone in such a picturesque place.”
Her heart skipped a little. Then she remembered. They were at war. He swung a walking stick as if he were on a carefree stroll. But his top hat had been smashed onto his thick black hair. He’d run to catch up with her. She almost laughed, but she didn’t know how she liked the thought of him pursuing her again.
“So what brings you here? Thinking of poisoning the Grandbole fields? Oh, I know. You are looking for that next husband. Am I interrupting a get-together?” He cupped his eyes and scanned. “Your new love is late? You must have quite a few advertisement responses to choose from not just… Who was it? Just a baron? My new wealthy cousin must have others writing to her. A duke in bad straights. Maybe a pauper prince in need of a healthy fortune?”