The Bittersweet Bride
Page 11
“The Mistress of Tradenwood is stubborn. I do remember that. It is still sort of galling to call her that, knowing how my mother, Lady Crisdon, wanted this estate.”
“Your uncle chose not to leave it to her, but to Cecil. Now, Tradenwood is the widow Cecil’s. Hers and her heir’s.”
Heirs? Could that be it? Was this sickness and doctors about Theo being with child? If so, she hadn’t been devoted to Cecil any more than she had been to him. Had she hopped into bed with the next fool and was now with child? That had to be why she needed a new husband—to hide a pregnancy. “Her heirs?”
“Yes. Cecil didn’t want the extended family to harass his wife.”
The concern Ewan had started to feel for her was for naught. She hadn’t changed her ways, despite the teasing fun of dancing with her or the warmth her claiming his hand in the fields had generated. His insides sickened, twisting with new frustration. “So much for hoping she’d changed. Good evening, Pickens.”
That furrowed brow of the old man rose. “I hope she doesn’t change. Never was a kinder or gentler soul. Good day, sir.”
The door thudded closed.
Ewan walked away. Anger pressed on his lungs, making him pant as he paced. The lecture from the butler maligning his family was probably true. The fact that Tradenwood was Theo’s, that was true. The jealousy and angst he felt over Theo, of not knowing of her health or if she carried another man’s child, was true.
The reason for his current misery—unfinished feelings for Theo—that had to be a lie. If only he could convince himself that he was as over her as he had in writing his play. He took a few more steps and fought the urge to return, to find that tree, and see if it would hold his weight. He needed to stop lying to himself. He wasn’t finished with Theo. That was his truth.
Chapter Seven
Pranks & Prose
Ewan stormed to his bedchamber door at Grandbole Manor, swiping at the cold liquid dripping from his face. He’d visited Tradenwood several more times in the past week only to be turned away by Pickens.
Theo didn’t want to see him. He had no way of knowing if she were sick with an illness or suffering from the sickness that came from the changes pregnancy brought. He dabbed at his forehead, which felt sticky and ridiculous and blue.
He was wrong to expect the woman he had tried to buy off and scandalize in a play to tell him anything of a personal nature.
But that didn’t stop him from wanting to know. It also didn’t stop him from remembering the feel of her in his arms. Why did she still wind him up so tight? And who had Theo become these six years—the landlord whom all her tenants and servants loved? Was she the frugal business woman who knew all the figures? Was she an honorable widow?
The way she had forgotten herself when they’d danced—had she felt as he did, excited, wistful, or lonely? He swiped at his sticky fingers and tried to stop thinking about her heirs. Had that sense of isolation made her break her customary twelve months of mourning? Had it caused her to take a secret lover? She didn’t look as if she was going to pop, so a new birth would be well beyond the time a child could be claimed as Cecil’s.
Only a legitimate child could inherit. Lord knew, his mother and the earl would protest. Why would she be so reckless? He put a hand to his eye, his blue hand to his blue, now stinging, eye. He’d created a complete story for Theo without any shred of facts. His playwright mind needed to slow. And his face needed to stop stinging.
“Uncle?”
Blinking, Ewan turned toward the low, squeaky voice. “Yes, Lucy.”
She fingered her snowy dress, which had indigo droplets on the hem and ribbon-trimmed bodice. “Are you much hurt?”
“No. You and your sisters didn’t kill me this time.”
She looked down and held her arms behind her back. “Does this mean you won’t go away?”
There was a sad quality to the voice. Someone that small should be dancing to angel music. He stooped low to catch her gaze. “I have a place in the city. But you haven’t frightened me so much that I will be gone forever.”
A smile burst between two cherry cheeks. “I don’t want you to go. No one visits anymore since Mama left and Lady Crisdon won’t come back.”
His playwright mind didn’t need to write this story. It was obvious. The children were lonely and misbehaving for attention. In true Fitzwilliam style, their fits could be extremely pain-filled and somewhat lethal. “Come here, little one.”
He offered a hug and she held tightly, even if he were squishy and blue. “Your uncle is pretty tough.”
He released her and she now had indigo splotched all over. “But don’t keep trying my patience. Let your sisters know.”
The moppet nodded. “At least you are not frowning. Your lips have been sad for a week.”
He stood up straight. “Well, sometimes being an adult is sad.”
“Then I want no part of it.” She swung her head side to side, her blonde locks bouncing as she walked away.
Maybe Theo was as sad at this adult business as he. Maybe this love she claimed for Cecil was an act or a very good exaggeration. Would her pride let her admit it? Well, a baby for the widow would be a statement to the contrary. That made Ewan chuckle. Finding humor at her predicament was wrong, even if it proved Ewan right. No, he wasn’t good at this adult thing.
What would it take for her to confess her regrets? Just one. And if she did, would that change the war between the families, or his feelings about her?
As surely as the muck drenching his collar, he couldn’t take another day not knowing the truth. Maybe he should be more like a ghost and stop asking permission to haunt.
He grabbed the doorknob but stopped. The girls could’ve set another trap. He bucked up his spine, refusing to be terrorized by children, and females at that. He’d been to war, taken a bullet and metal shards to the chest. Yet, here he stood, as anxious as a rat in a field of wild cats. What if a pail of dye or dung awaited on the other side to drop upon him?
Shaking his head, he threw the door open, waited a minute, then barreled inside.
“Brother?”
Jasper’s voice startled him and Ewan spun with fists raised to see the man sitting in his window with his feet up. “I needed to talk with you in private. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
“No, you have your daughters for that.” Ewan moved to his basin and dipped his hands in the water until they were clean. “So you are sitting in my room waiting. I mean, this room Lord Crisdon has let me use?”
Jasper rolled two pieces of sealed paper between his large fingers. “Yes. I hold a message from Mr. Brown. He’s waiting to see your play today. He sent a rather impatient note. Is there a reason for your delay?”
The theater manager. Ewan had forgotten about that, so involved with Theo and the water wars. “I could see him today, but not blue. I’ll need to change and borrow your gig again, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. If you are willing to return, you can borrow it as much as you like.” The big man chortled with too much glee. “With your enhanced coloring, it’s no wonder if my children’s behavior doesn’t push you out the door.”
Ewan walked over to the chest of drawers looking at his choices in shirts, ones the earl had made for him. “Your girls are a handful. Aren’t they supposed to be, as Southey said, made of sugar and spice, not antics?”
His brother chuckled as he picked up a glass that sat near his hip and took a sip. He waved the second letter as if his brow had fevered, then took another hungry gulp from his crystal goblet.
More liquor? And so early in the morning?
As if Jasper could read his thoughts, he put down his drink. “You mean Southey, the poet laureate. Ah, you and your love of poets. The girls are trying to get your attention. They will settle down once I’ve secured a stepmother for them.”
Pulling off his ruined coat, Ewan shrugged, then untied his cravat. “Seems to me they need your attention or discipline more. Have they had it?”
“I’ve noticed…” Ewan wanted to say “drink,” but couldn’t, so he softened and started again. “You disappear a lot. Maybe they act out to get more of your time.”
Putting down his brandy, Jasper harrumphed then slapped a hand on the sill, the movement causing the folded note to jostle. “You’ve deduced this after two weeks? Your attention to family care doesn’t speak well. Not sure I should be taking advice from someone who’s been away almost six years. You don’t know them.”
Ewan wanted to say something ungenerous, such as, his brother didn’t seem to know them very well either, and he’d been here the past six years. Instead, he pulled his shirt over his head and said, “I’m merely wondering at their behavior. Their pranks could hurt someone.”
His brother took another long drink. Then he slammed down the nearly empty glass. “Didn’t you snicker when they swapped Father’s sugar for salt? The man blanched over his ruined tea.”
“Their antics were amusing, at first. Who doesn’t love seeing the earl turn beet red? And it was a joy seeing you move at the speed of a fleet stallion to prevent another Fitzwilliam prized Wedgwood from falling to the ground.” Ewan pivoted away from his brother whose lips formed a droopy frown.
Reaching into the closet, Ewan smoothed his fingers over the nap of a smartly cut jacket and matching waistcoat of dark blue. “Lord Crisdon has fine taste. His bribes are the best.”
“He wants you to be comfortable as you stay. He also wants to know if you’ve made any progress in your negotiations with Cecil’s widow.”
Ewan spun, his shirt barely clearing his head. “He knows I’ve been trying to see her. Has she sent any papers for the water lease?”
His brother’s grin returned, making him the happy-go-lucky fellow everyone knew. “She hasn’t sent anything. And Father hasn’t said anything of a meeting. But your willingness to stay at Grandbole and the now-missing lavender package set my conspiratorial mind to work. A lucky inquiry to the merchants at the Burlington Arcade, the ones who sell that particular type of lavender soap, produced a familiar name, Cecil. I took a guess that you returned the parcel to Widow Cecil, our family’s nemesis.”
Jasper’s eyes narrowed as if he were trying to see through him.
Then Ewan realized, with his shirt askew, the ten-inch nest of scars to his chest were visible. He started to yank the linen down as if covering nakedness, but he stilled his hand. He was half dressed, decent enough for a brother. “Yes, I returned the package. We spoke several times. Now she’s refusing to see me. She’s stubborn.”
“Those look terrible.”
The wounds from the field surgery were horrid, jagged, and bulbous. He’d grown used to them but not to how others reacted. Must be a shock for Jasper to see the aftermath of war. Probably more so for Theo. He’d pressed her finger to them, and she’d known his chest to be smooth.
It was days ago, but the anguish in her voice at his pain nested in his chest, alongside his wounds. She had truly thought him dead. But none of that sentiment would matter once a rich man caught her eye. They mattered even less with her new predicament, or she’d allow his visit.
“They are terrible, Jasper. All scars are.”
His brother nodded and raised his glass in an invisible toast. The sun through the window cast amber diamonds onto the deep chestnut-stained floors, sad rainbows on the gray walls. “Sorry, Ewan.”
Tying a new, starched cravat, Ewan stood straight. “Rather terrible than dead. Brother, why do so many pickers and tenants rave about Cousin Cecil? And his widow?”
Jasper set down the empty goblet, then shifted his feet along the floor. “Father is all about business. Cecil gave better terms to lease, and he also allowed women to pick his fields at advantageous terms. And those glass hothouses they’ve installed, well, they outdo us with exotic flowers available all year ’round. They’ve even grown pineapples in there.”
Being better at business didn’t answer all Ewan’s questions. It certainly didn’t explain all the love that seemed to shroud Theo now. Maybe being married to a demi-god had made her one, too? How would she fare with all her secrets exposed? “It seems to be more than that.”
“Perhaps. But why don’t you tell me how you know Mrs. Cecil other than a happenstance meeting at Burlington Arcade?”
Ewan put his back to his brother and finished dressing. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one with all the good guesses and conspiracies.”
Something tugged at his collar, righting it. A scent of brandy took possession of the air. His brother now stood behind him fussing and pulling at Ewan’s borrowed jacket. From the smell, Jasper had been drinking a lot, but he still seemed steady.
“So what is she to you, Ewan? An old acquaintance?”
“For a big man, you’re light on your feet, even when sotted. I’ll have to remember that.”
Jasper settled a large palm onto Ewan’s shoulder, but not a chuckle sounded. “I was away with Maria’s laying-in for Lucy. They say you became involved with a low woman. Is Cecil’s widow that Jezebel?”
Whatever Ewan thought of Theo, he didn’t like Jasper calling her names. He gripped his brother’s hand hard and flung it away. “She wasn’t low when I knew her.”
He turned and caught Jasper’s brow cocked, one eye raised. “Ewan, she’s a Blackamoor. From all accounts, illegitimate, with no money or connections at the time you were involved with her. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking. Not a thought about you, the heir in-waiting, or of anything Lord Crisdon held dear. I thought about me, about someone valuing me and what I wanted. And it didn’t matter her origin or her connections. Only her love. Well, I thought it was love.”
Jasper’s lips parted then closed. He nodded and stepped backward. “I see. And she knew you were without fortune?”
“Yes. Not a dime to my name. Just a play to peddle. She didn’t seem to care. We had a silly notion of building a life together, once I returned from war.”
His brother went back to his perch in the window, picking up the folded letter by the edge, as if it were too delicate to sit upon, and leaned back. He eyed his empty glass as if it was the goblet’s fault that it sat drained. “What happened?”
“Like everything else. The announcement a month after deploying that I had died set off the actions that changed everything—the loss of Tradenwood and her. She didn’t mourn me and seems to have become Cecil’s mistress before news of my living could spread. You’d think she’d have grieved a month or two, the way she appears to mourn Cecil.”
Scooping up his ruined shirt and jacket, he sighed again. “I left her to go to the war. She didn’t wait for me to return. This isn’t a new story for a soldier, even if I am a Fitzwilliam.”
“You must ask her why.”
Dropping the clothes back onto the floor, Ewan locked his arms behind his back. “It doesn’t matter her reasons. She found a rich man, my cousin, who made her wealthy.”
He gazed at Jasper, hoping the man would stop. He could be as bad as their father when hunting for information. Ewan moved to the mirror at the edge of the canopy bed and whipped a hand through his hair to right his blue-tinged locks. “Hopefully, the theater will be dark tonight. I’d hate to lose this opportunity because of stained hair. But I’ve done my mother’s bidding; I asked for a price to sell Tradenwood. Mrs. Cecil won’t. I’ve also asked for a new lease. She’s come back with 20,000 pounds per annum, a ridiculous amount. I suspect once my play is purchased, she’ll see the light. She won’t want her good name ruined.”
Jasper slapped his knee and leaned on the window as he erupted in laughs. “She’s in your play? You’ve written her in as one of the hilarious characters? Oh no. She’s that Cleo, no Theo the Flower Seller. Oh, what a clever form of blackmail. Lord Crisdon will be proud. He’ll pay for the theater, maybe even handbills
, to watch her disgrace.”
Ewan rubbed at a spot of paint on his knuckle, dabbing it with a handkerchief. “Don’t say anything of her being in my play. Let him know I will get her consent. If she agrees to my terms, I want to live up to my end of the bargain. I am a man of my word. The earl would still want to ruin her name.”
“True, but I’m surprised you care. You still do care, don’t you?”
Not wanting to search too deeply into his scarred soul for the answers, he scooped up the letter. “I suppose you need my help with a new marital prospect from the newspaper. Your matrimonial chase continues. Another woman to court?”
“No, the same one. The one we sent our rhyme. Seems she’s had time to respond.”
Oh, no. Theo had responded, giving Jasper new hope. If his brother found out this advertisement was Theo’s, his spirits would be crushed. Ewan should tell him straightaway, but the look in his eye—slightly desperate, slightly hoping—would become more troubled. That could not happen. He’d find a way to spare Jasper any more pain. “So what does the mystery woman say?”
“Go on, open it.”
Ewan did. The letter wasn’t a short few sentences. It was three paragraphs. “Well, it seems our advertisement bride has answered with a resounding yes. She loves children and details how they need good, moral examples.” That is rich coming from Theo. “She sounds like she liked our little rhyme. I’ll take credit for that. She admires that we would even take a child’s needs into consideration.”
Ewan stumbled at the third paragraph. It pierced his jaded heart.
Jasper rocked and coughed, as if to draw Ewan’s attention. “What else does she say?”
“She talks of the sacrifices that one should make for a child, especially a sickly child.” If Theodosia wasn’t pregnant now, then those doctors were for her heir, a child who lived now, out of the womb. So maybe she wasn’t scandalous but a blasted dutiful wife and mother? Had Theodosia borne Cecil a babe? And was that child sick?