The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  “Hugging Philip is always a good idea,” Ester said, “but you’ve done that twice already. He’s sleeping soundly. The jerking him out of the way and crashing to the ground, made him ache.”

  “But he didn’t get an earache. And that jerking around had to be done. Mr. Fitzwilliam was the only one to risk his life for my son.”

  Dearest Ester came closer, stepping around Frederica. Her sprig muslin skirt held grass stains, as she had been the first to reach the accident. She took Theodosia’s palms. “He’s not some strange cousin, is he? I saw the look in your eyes when he came to the theater. It’s worse now. How long has something been going on between you.”

  “Six years. I knew him six years ago.”

  Frederica put her palms over Ester’s ears. “Does she need to know it was in a biblical sense?”

  Ester swatted them away. “I heard, and I’ve read all the passages of Solomon and even romance novels. You don’t have to—”

  “Stop, you two.” Theodosia wrapped her arms about herself, trying hard not to shake to bits beneath her shawl. “Yes. I knew him in every sense of the word. We were going to elope when his father convinced him to go to war. A report came back saying he’d died in the field.”

  A puzzled look crossed Ester’s brows. “Six years ago. But you were Cecil’s mistress then, right?”

  Yes and no and yes. None of it mattered. She turned again and touched the door. “It’s too quiet. He can’t be dying in there, not knowing.”

  Ester stepped to her. Candlelight shone in her eyes, as bright as her joy in finding solutions. “Not knowing what? That you’re still in love with him?”

  Bowing her forehead against the wall, Theo resigned herself. The truth burned in her throat. It needed to be freed. She’d said it to Frederica. She could to Ester, too. With a forced swallow, she nodded. “Something worse than that, but how do I tell him with the doctor, Lester, and Lord Hartwell, who is the heir Crisdon, keeping me away?”

  Frederica came to her side. She clasped Theodosia’s arm and forced her to turn the knob. “You go in and tell him. Make everyone leave, then tell him. You’re not a waif or a servant but the owner of Tradenwood. Lift your head and say your truth. A man needs to know. He needs an opportunity to claim what is his, to take responsibility, even for a few seconds, of what is his.”

  Knowing Frederica’s pain with her father, she knew her friend was right. Nodding, she opened the door. “Please don’t leave, stay here to help me put the pieces back together.”

  Ester put her palms on Theodosia’s shoulders. “Of course, we will. And Frederica is correct. You are Mrs. Theodosia Cecil, a free woman equal to any in your domain. This isn’t the public or a private box where we must hide. Go see about your guest. You are strong enough not to crumble, and smart enough to fix things, if you break.”

  She gave Theodosia a push inside and closed the door.

  The doctor, Pickens, and Ewan’s brother looked up at her then returned to gazing toward the bed. Lester paced in the corner. He didn’t glance her way at all.

  The scent of sickness, tangy, and singeing mustard filled the room. The familiar perfume of laudanum hit next, as the doctor’s fanning wafted it to her. She hated these smells—they always foretold pain and death.

  Feet feeling like cold bricks, she forced them forward. “Gentleman, I must know how my cousin is doing. I owe him a great deal. He saved…my son.”

  The doctor harrumphed. “Couple of broken ribs. He’s not breathing well. Can’t tell if a lung is punctured. So much scar tissue.”

  She came closer and saw the valley and plains of the jagged lines upon Ewan’s chest. They’d meshed about his heart and ran down half his stomach. Could they have been like iron to protect from the hit of the cart? Could they now keep him bound on this side, away from the hungry shadows of death?

  She wanted her ghost to live. Ewan must. He had to recover. She stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep the trembling fear from showing. “Has he awakened at all?”

  “He has, ma’am,” Pickens said, as he shuffled to her side. The wrinkles of his face folded into deeper lines, thick like the night Mathew had died.

  Pickens brushed her arm. “The doctor has given him a great deal of laudanum for pain. He’ll have to be a guest for the next few days. Mr. Lester objects.”

  She felt her head nodding yes before any words could come out. “Of course, he will stay. Lord Hartwell and your daughter, too. You’re welcome here.”

  Lester surged from the corner, almost running into Pickens. “No. None of the Fitzwilliams can be here.”

  He whipped past Theodosia and stood, feet apart from Ewan’s brother. “Take him up the hill.”

  The fool looked ready to fight. In her house? In front of Ewan and his brother. The viscount said nothing, only stared ahead.

  Her butler straightened his silver-colored livery and moved to the doctor on the other side of the room. “Sir, he’ll need to be a guest. He’s very ill. Repeat your prognosis, sir. Mr. Lester may not have heard.”

  The doctor moaned again as he wrenched at his back. He sat back on the chair pulled close to the bed. “This man is not going anywhere, if you want him to live.”

  Visibly wincing, Lord Hartwell came from the footboard of the bed. His face seemed blank and he seemed a little lost. “My brother is horribly injured, Lester. Surely, even you can see that moving him would have dire results. Business is business. This is different.”

  Wanting to offer a hug to reassure Lord Hartwell, Theodosia raised her hand to him, but then lowered it as she approached. He was in a bad way and having her comfort, a Blackamoor’s palm on a peer, couldn’t be done, even if she offered humanity.

  She looked down at her slippers, dusty cream kid leather with green stains, like the ones on her skirts from falling on her knees atop Ewan and Philip after the crash. Courage and fear, both demanded sacrifice. She chose courage and took a step toward him. “Mr. Lester has forgotten this is my house. My house. Mr. Fitzwilliam shall stay, if Lord Hartwell agrees.”

  Ewan’s brother lifted his chin. His light blue eyes widened as he ran a hand through his rumpled blond locks. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “No,” Lester said. “Mrs. Cecil is not thinking clearly.” He approached and manhandled the bedpost in his sweaty palms. “Nearly seeing your son hurt has addled you. You’re vulnerable. Philip doesn’t need to see you like this, so out of control.”

  The only one who sounded hysterical was Lester, but there was no telling that man anything. And his voice. So harsh, it sent her brainbox spinning with fire, but she held her anger. She needed him to comply. “Lester, I appreciate the concern,” she said, then swallowed gall. “You can stay, too. If you are so fretful.”

  “You know I leave for Holland tomorrow. I thought you and the boy would come with me. It would be good for Philip. Maybe he should come with me, since you will be busy with guests.”

  How dare he try to manipulate her when a man’s life was at stake? She stopped twiddling her finger and made sure that her bottom lip was bite-free. “No. My son will stay. If not for Mr. Ewan Fitzwilliam, my Philip would have been killed. And you know what dear Cecil said about hospitality. When I hungered, you fed me, when I thirsted, you gave me drink, and when I looked strange, you took me in. There is no more need to discuss this. Fitzwilliam shall stay until he is able to leave on his own two feet.”

  She turned again to the silent viscount. “I have more than enough room. Your daughter is now in the nursery.”

  Lester spun her by the shoulder as if she would change her mind, but she wasn’t a spinning top searching for direction. “They are our enemies, Theodosia. Lord Crisdon wouldn’t do the same for you.”

  No, Lord Crisdon wouldn’t. He’d shun her, like he had in the past, but she wasn’t that evil man. “I have been blessed by unexpected favor. How could I ever be sucked into pettiness with my Philip still alive?” Knocking his hands away, she sidestepped out of Lester’s reach. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is no
t the enemy, Lester. He’s Cecil’s cousin. Surely, my boy’s guardian can see that? Today, we are indebted to the Fitzwilliams.”

  Lord Hartwell moved near, towering over Lester. “Bear this intrusion for now. We can go back to being enemies, fighting over water rights, after my brother recovers.”

  Lester’s eyes grew big, and he looked like a cornered rat. With a shaky palm smoothing his wilting cravat, he swung his head toward the bed, then turned his glare her direction. “You have too many guests. I’ll take Philip with me until this all settles down. He can go with me to Holland. Then you can join us.”

  “No.” She stuck her hand against her bosom to keep her heart from bursting. “Don’t take him. He was almost killed. I need him here.”

  Lord Hartwell put his hand on Theodosia’s shoulder. The touch was light, comforting, everything she had wanted to do earlier but had been afraid of insulting him. “Leave the boy, Lester. My brother’s been moaning for him. He’ll need to see him safe and well when he awakens. I’m sure that viewing his little Cecil cousin will make him heal faster.”

  “This is none of your business, Lord Hartwell. You rule up the hill, not down here.”

  The large man started to laugh and slipped into the space between them, forcing her nemesis to move backward, one step closer to the door. “Lester, you don’t look the wet-nurse type. The young boy should stay with his mother, if you want the Fitzwilliams gone sooner. Unless you enjoy seeing Mrs. Cecil in distress.”

  Lester rubbed his chin, as if he hadn’t thought any Fitzwilliams would come to her or Philip’s defense. “Fine. I shall stay, too. I’ll delay the trip.”

  “Stay tonight, if you must, Lester, but this trip has to go as planned. Holland is business. The first time I trust you to gain new advances for Cecil’s fields, you disappoint me.” She stared him dead in the eyes. “You know how much it cost to arrange: ten guineas for passage, eight pounds for a new suit for you to represent the business at your best, and now you will not go? I thought that you wanted the business to dominate. I thought I could trust you. You’re costing me money.”

  His eyes darted as if she’d frightened him. “You are a mercenary when it comes to figures.”

  The man’s greed and the need to one-up all the other growers was something Theodosia had counted on, plotted for. This trip would take exactly five weeks, long enough for banns to be read or an elopement to be done with a newspaper groom before his return. Well, that had been the plan, but now she just wanted him gone. She put a fist to her hip and glared at him like her knees weren’t knocking. “You know I am right.”

  He nodded, but before she had a chance to enjoy the victory of him relenting, Lester tugged her hand, leading her to the door. His hot whispered breath scorched her ear. “Don’t sign anything and don’t forget where your loyalties lie, where Philip’s loyalties lie.”

  She didn’t push free, but she stood still and glared at him with every ounce of courage she possessed. He wasn’t stealing her son today or hurting Ewan. “Go home, Lester. All is well here. Take care of our business.”

  With a little push, he released her fingers then nodded. “You win. I sail tomorrow for our business.” The skunk stormed from the room.

  The doctor closed up the sheer curtains. “Fitzwilliam needs to rest. All of you should leave this room until morning. I’ll sit with him through the night.”

  “I will, too, once I check on my girl. Where is she, Mrs. Cecil?”

  “The governess and my friends are keeping her entertained while my son sleeps.”

  “Take me to her. I’ll tell her that her uncle is faring better.”

  Theodosia didn’t want to leave the room, but she had to aid Lord Hartwell. With Ewan unconscious, it wasn’t the time to have that private conversation about his son. She pulled the door closed once Lord Hartwell stepped through. “Funny.”

  The big man shortened his stride and walked in step with her. “What is funny, Mrs. Cecil?”

  “Your daughter, she kept saying she didn’t do it, like a small child could get that cart moving.”

  Hartwell stumbled, nearly bumping into Frederica. He recovered quickly and bowed. “Sorry. Of course, Lucy would not be responsible.”

  His brows and forehead squished together, as if he were doing math or numbering something, then he shook his head. “Again, excuse my clumsiness, Miss.”

  Frederica nodded then swept to the side. “We haven’t been formally introduced, sir, but it is Burghley and you are excused. Your exit was nothing like Mr. Lester’s exit. He almost ran into us like—that cart.” Her face seemed half ready for a laugh, half remorseful. She covered her mouth for a moment.

  So many formal rules. Theodosia couldn’t think of them all at a time like now, but she needed to consider them, as Tradenwood would be crowded the next few hours, the next few days. “Lord Hartwell, this is Miss Burghley and Miss Croome.”

  Dipping a chin to each, he relaxed his shoulders. “It is a pleasure, but I wish the circumstances were different.”

  Different? So many things should be different. Theodosia rubbed her cold hands together. “We must manage as best we can, but time is no one’s friend.”

  With wide eyes, Frederica grabbed her arm. “Is Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

  Theodosia patted her fingers. “He’s unconscious. The doctor and Pickens are still with him. It will be a long night. My lord, this way to the nursery.”

  “We’ll show him, so you can go back to the less crowded room. Right, Miss Croome?”

  Ester nodded and stuck her novel behind her back. “Yes.”

  “No, ladies,” Theodosia said. “Go settle into one of my guest rooms. You all must be tired. You’ve already done so much to close the festival for me because I was with Philip and my cousin.”

  They smiled at her with waggling brows, probably hoping she’d spill what happened in the room and why Lester had bolted like a maniac. Not now, not with Lord Hartwell eyeing each of them like he compared them to invisible notes. Well, how many rumors had been started about them by Lord Crisdon or cruel people like him?

  With a shake of her head, Theodosia started for the nursery. “This way.”

  When they entered, the governess was tucking a blanket around the little blonde girl on the chaise. “She just fell asleep,” the woman said. “Philip is still sleeping soundly. I’ve checked on him every hour. No pain tonight. I will turn in myself. Good night, ma’am.”

  The woman swept past and closed the door behind them.

  Lord Hartwell came closer to his daughter. He let his finger smooth the child’s curls. “Is it not too much trouble? Having us here? I could take this bag of bones up the hill.”

  It was a sweet sight, this large, burly man being so delicate with the tiny girl. She turned to Philip’s bed in the corner. “There has been enough trouble today, but you have to be here. Your brother may call for you.”

  “You are kindness, ma’am.”

  She’d like to think so, but fear gripped her windpipe and squeezed. Too afraid to touch Philip’s face and find him a ghost, she stared at her son. A minute or two went by. She’d counted two hundred breaths, Philip’s breaths, then heard his snore whistle. Nothing in the world was as sweet.

  With her fingers, she swiped back perspiration that the laudanum sometimes brought, then put her pinky on Philip’s cheek, his solid, warm cheek. He was a miracle, this time delivered by Ewan.

  “Your son. He’s not well?” Hartwell had moved near. He’d probably watched her show of weakness. “The governess talked of pain.”

  She bit her lip, but decided answering wouldn’t harm anything or put her more in jeopardy. “He suffers from severe ear pains, but the governess said he was good tonight.”

  He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. If there were tears in her eyes, she hadn’t noticed. She was too busy being thankful.

  “May I ask why Mr. Lester would threaten to take a sick boy from his mother?”

  “He’s my son’s guard
ian. His opinion apparently holds more weight than the boy’s mother. He also thinks you are the enemy.”

  Ewan’s brother scratched his chin. “My girls are my world. I couldn’t be parted from them if they’d had such a harrowing experience. Your cousin, Ewan, didn’t hesitate to help your son. He knows the difference between business and personal.”

  Theodosia did, too. It was the distance between safety and danger and what lengths she’d go to keep Philip well. After another swipe to her cheek, she bent and kissed her son’s brow. “Lester’s gone. And you, your daughter, and Mr. Fitzwilliam are staying. I can have tea and sweets brought up to the bedchamber.”

  Lord Hartwell smiled and turned back to his daughter. “Good. That will help the night pass.”

  Not feeling afraid to leave her miracle with Lord Hartwell, his uncle of sorts, Theodosia headed into the empty hall. ’Twas going to be a long night. Somewhere in the hours or days to come she must find a way to tell Ewan the truth.

  What would he hate more, her becoming Mathew’s mistress or not telling him Philip was his? She counted on her fingers, divided in the air but the sum came back the same. He’d hate her for everything.

  …

  Light filtered into the room, sinking into the hairline cracks that were Ewan’s eyelids. Everything hurt. It hurt to move, to breathe.

  A look to the right, he saw a balcony and doors. Was it the one he’d climbed in his youth? He was at his uncle’s Tradenwood.

  He closed his eyes again, hoping that he’d dreamed everything, six years spent away from family, losing Theo, his rights to this house, had all been a nightmare. Perhaps he awakened with the world righted.

  Yet, one push at his chest told the truth. Scars never lied. Nor did bandages and bruises.

  A cough rattled in his lungs. The sputter made things feel like they worked.

  Memories of Theo and the festival returned.

  Then Philip.

  The child, the one with crystal blues eyes—he’d saved him from the cart.

  Could the boy be his? He wanted him to be his.

  With nothing more than the raw desire to see those eyes again, those eyes like his mother’s, like his own, Ewan pushed and tugged but the bedsheets held fast. With a mighty thrust he craned up, but the pain made him flop back upon the mattress. His fingertips brushed leathery ivy.